THE FAUX PAS PRESS #9
A Weekly Thought
By JASON SCOTT CHAMBERS
28 SEPTEMBER 2009
The Shaka
This is a symbol used in the Hawaiian Islands that has found its way into popular culture, mostly printed under the title Hang Loose. It is also a water slide in the shape of a half-pipe skateboard ramp at Wet N’ Wild Amusement Park on the West side of Oahu. I have had the privilege of knowing both intimately, knowing them with all the stupidity and cultural faux pas of a snotty kid from North Dallas suburbia.
I’m not afraid to admit it. I throw the shaka at most people in Hawaii, most every native who looks like they might whoop the shit out of me. Survival is a key component in my life right now. So, I run around this island wearing a wife-beater and board shorts expecting at least a little credibility. I throw the shaka whenever I can – not only because I want to fit in and I am a hopeless fake with shifting morals but because it is down right useful.
“Have pity on my drunken friend. He’s not culturally sensitive as I am, sir.”
I normally receive passive disdain; maybe even a prayer that I and others like me will leave this island soon, leaving all that is still pure as I shut the door behind me. Most don’t seem to mind about the Wet N’ Wild though, which, I happen to know, is an import from my home town. As I have previously stated, Hawaii has loaned the shaka to this amusement park in the name of good commerce, and I am a paying customer.
(Well, I use the annual pass of a Blackfoot Indian friend of mine, a guy that I call the Wolf. He loans me his season pass because we have a striking resemblance. I give him a cornucopia full of sundries, pumpkins, and cranberry sauce in return. I also apologize for what my white ancestors did to his people. A chorus falls from the heavens, and we embrace.) As always, I am thankful, thankful all the time – no need to slaughter a perfectly good bird to prove it. I prefer using the shaka at random.
So, I drive to Wet N’ Wild on Saturday with my friend Kyle and a mortal enemy of mine that I call the Korean. (We’ve decided to look past our differences, historical and physical, for an afternoon of fun after a night drowning these differences in club music and shots.) This is the second weekend in a row that we’ve hung out, but I swear to you that he is my mortal enemy. Also, you might assume that we have more important career or familial obligations to attend to and you would be right. My wife and I are expecting a daughter next month. What better way to prepare for the arrival of a new-born than with a test drive of the local water park? What’s that? I’m a grown-ass man, you say? You might just be a boring-ass person, I reply? The rides are a lot of fun, the weather is great outside, and a day here reminds me of joyous summers from my childhood – peeing in the wave pool, heckling lifeguards, and getting kicked off rides. Not much has changed in my life.
So, we’re waiting in line for The Shaka, the half-pipe taken by a two-man tube. Now, despite our various differences and enduring hatred for each other, the Korean and I decide to ride together. There are two kids in front of us.
“Are you scared of The Shaka?” I ask one of them.
“Me? No, I’m not scared, but I know that he is.” He is pointing to his timid, chubby friend named Zach.
“No, I’m not,” he spouts.
“I am,” I say, “the last time I rode The Shaka, I not only urinated but I shat myself, leaving a smear of good cheer for the next rider.”
Both kids are speechless. The Korean nods his head as usual without commenting. (Perhaps, he has so many people commenting on his life that he never has a chance to say what he must.) He affirms my claim.
The moment of truth arrives. Young Zach has now decided that he climbed to the top of the ride only to make his way down the stairs again. His friend and my enemy shake their heads in disgust. They decide to go without him as I’ve decided to go and convince Zach otherwise.
The victorious ending is that Zach decides to engage and enjoy his present, The Shaka, even though he is scared, intimidated, and unsure. Young Zach has taught me something. You either choose to engage and enjoy your present or you will be scared for the rest of your life, move into the moment you’ve chosen or drown yourself in the past until you meet your death. I am impressed to say this week, offer a thought that asks you to choose your happiness. Engage the ride you’ve chosen at the water park and hit it, even if it means admitting your angst or squirting in your pants.
I like thinking of Victor Frankyl, writer and holocaust survivor, who describes his discovery of happiness in literal hell. If he can engage his present surroundings and choose happiness living in a fucking concentration camp then, surely, you can do the same – in Orange County, or Dallas, or West Phoenix, or Oahu, or even in the scariest moments of your life. Happiness is not only your right, it is your responsibility.
Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good,
Jason Scott Chambers
www.fauxpaspress.com
P.S.
Here is an open invitation to enjoy the 21st Birthday of the amazing talent, Tyler Boright, both on Tuesday, September 29th at The Yard House in Waikiki at 7:00pm and this weekend in Chinatown for Honolulu’s First Friday. See you there.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The Faux Pas Press #8: Vietnamese Vegan Lady
THE FAUX PAS PRESS #8
A Weekly Thought
By JASON SCOTT CHAMBERS
20 SEPTEMBER 2009
Vietnamese Vegan Lady
Sometimes, when I’m alone so no one can tell I’m crazy, I consider all that I am. I consider that, perhaps, I knew or was someone important in a previous life. Maybe, I knew Moses or that guy who played Captain Nemo in the first 20,000 Leagues under the Sea movie. Is it possible that I sowed bountiful seeds that have paid sonic dividends, planting and harvesting the soil of this Earth? Did I make miracles with my own Grandfather Chambers on the Pacific Ocean during World War II? Was I someone important? Maybe, I was worthy of all the intensity of this Universe like my Great-Grandfather Christiansen. He worked diligently on a plot of land in Southwestern Minnesota all the days of his life before he was buried in the soil he’d known so well. Or, what if I only had the use of one eye like my Grandfather Carroll? The swelling question in my heart, even as I write this, is what I have done? All of my weak attempts at immortality will, at some distant point at least, come to not. Also, why do I deserve the intense goodness of this Universe? And what makes my life worth a damn? The questions consumed me this week.
So, I ran into this messenger, a Vietnamese Vegan Lady. This was a visit to a local whole foods store called Down to Earth. (Didn’t you know? I’m totally Vegan now. I know. It’s crazy. Maybe I’ll decide to be Vietnamese next. I don’t know. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see how the vegetable binge works out first. We’ll try a new nationality after a few weeks of the new diet – not too many changes at once.) Actually, I just really enjoy eating good, clean whole food in between a regular diet of carbs and fast food. So, I’m wandering around the amazing store looking for eats, but what I’m really looking for is a kindred spirit to teach me something. I’d like a visitation from the resurrected version of Michael Jackson but a friendly messenger will do. The questions of my own existence are ever-present, and I am thinking. I look at a salad bar filled with pleasant things. I think some more, and then, it happens. I’m taken into what my people call a vision, and not to some far, surreal time and place like when I get steamed on Diet Pepsi and do a ton of sit-ups. No, not like a drunken voyage with Bob Rose where I wake up on someone’s kitchen floor wearing nothing but a toga.
The year is 1992, and I’m 12 years old. The Chambers Family lives together in North Dallas suburb of Richardson. I have a 14 year-old brother, a 4 year-old sister, and a reputation to uphold, that of being young, athletic, and annoying. I’ve got a cast of friends whose reputations require effort and hopeless desires for importance. I see a hard-working father who is often away. I see a mother who seems stressed and annoyed for no reason. I see them apart more than together. I see the aforementioned cast, a popular kid named Stephen and his sidekick Shake. They’re both in our family’s living room both enjoying the benefits of snacks from a loaded pantry (a common staple for any Mormon family preparing for the end.) My father comes home on this day from his first job and is preparing to go to a second one, a job as a security guard shift worker. I’m embarrassed. In the mold of North Dallas expectations, income levels equating a person’s importance, I’m embarrassed in this moment. My own father is a security guard, and wouldn’t you know it, Stephen’s dad owns a paper company, and damn it, that is really important.
What is the problem? What is it within the heart of society that mocks another’s valiant efforts? And why do we strive for importance at another’s expense? In this vision, I see clearly. I know that I am not the roles I play and that no one owes me a damn thing. My father is not a title, he is not a security guard, he is not a computer programmer, he is not the president of a paper company, and shit, he really is not even my father. Nope. He just IS – just like the red onions I had been staring at during my visitation to 1992.
Vietnamese Vegan Lady is smiling at me, holding out a sample of raspberry sesame tofu salad dressing for me to try. She is not a grocery worker. She just IS. She wants to know why I’m crying, but I just take the salad dressing and smile back. She assumes the worst about me – probably on drugs.
Have you ever seen the Presence, an angelic messenger? (Does it make you uncomfortable that I speak of angels? Not a problem I’m too concerned with.) I have. And she wasn’t important to speak of, she wasn’t a manager; she was stillness. She was not Vietnamese, she was not a Vegan. She was Aphrodite, a goddess in human form. She was not her job, not a grocery worker, not her products; she was a smile that, for a moment, showed me how small I am, and I am grateful.
This week’s thought comes with an ugly assertion. Listen. She says, “There is no need to explain yourself to anyone – what kind of job you do, why you do it, or why you matter, no need to feel ashamed for working at Taco Bell or that you clean up shit for a living, no need to feel great that you speak 12 languages or that you wrote a book.”
So, remember this thought the next time you consider listing failures, the next time your embarrassed by someone’s integral efforts or feel great about your accomplishments, the next you feel like explaining your failures away. Remember. You are not your job, you are not your rank, or your income tax bracket. You just ARE and that is enough.
A Weekly Thought
By JASON SCOTT CHAMBERS
20 SEPTEMBER 2009
Vietnamese Vegan Lady
Sometimes, when I’m alone so no one can tell I’m crazy, I consider all that I am. I consider that, perhaps, I knew or was someone important in a previous life. Maybe, I knew Moses or that guy who played Captain Nemo in the first 20,000 Leagues under the Sea movie. Is it possible that I sowed bountiful seeds that have paid sonic dividends, planting and harvesting the soil of this Earth? Did I make miracles with my own Grandfather Chambers on the Pacific Ocean during World War II? Was I someone important? Maybe, I was worthy of all the intensity of this Universe like my Great-Grandfather Christiansen. He worked diligently on a plot of land in Southwestern Minnesota all the days of his life before he was buried in the soil he’d known so well. Or, what if I only had the use of one eye like my Grandfather Carroll? The swelling question in my heart, even as I write this, is what I have done? All of my weak attempts at immortality will, at some distant point at least, come to not. Also, why do I deserve the intense goodness of this Universe? And what makes my life worth a damn? The questions consumed me this week.
So, I ran into this messenger, a Vietnamese Vegan Lady. This was a visit to a local whole foods store called Down to Earth. (Didn’t you know? I’m totally Vegan now. I know. It’s crazy. Maybe I’ll decide to be Vietnamese next. I don’t know. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see how the vegetable binge works out first. We’ll try a new nationality after a few weeks of the new diet – not too many changes at once.) Actually, I just really enjoy eating good, clean whole food in between a regular diet of carbs and fast food. So, I’m wandering around the amazing store looking for eats, but what I’m really looking for is a kindred spirit to teach me something. I’d like a visitation from the resurrected version of Michael Jackson but a friendly messenger will do. The questions of my own existence are ever-present, and I am thinking. I look at a salad bar filled with pleasant things. I think some more, and then, it happens. I’m taken into what my people call a vision, and not to some far, surreal time and place like when I get steamed on Diet Pepsi and do a ton of sit-ups. No, not like a drunken voyage with Bob Rose where I wake up on someone’s kitchen floor wearing nothing but a toga.
The year is 1992, and I’m 12 years old. The Chambers Family lives together in North Dallas suburb of Richardson. I have a 14 year-old brother, a 4 year-old sister, and a reputation to uphold, that of being young, athletic, and annoying. I’ve got a cast of friends whose reputations require effort and hopeless desires for importance. I see a hard-working father who is often away. I see a mother who seems stressed and annoyed for no reason. I see them apart more than together. I see the aforementioned cast, a popular kid named Stephen and his sidekick Shake. They’re both in our family’s living room both enjoying the benefits of snacks from a loaded pantry (a common staple for any Mormon family preparing for the end.) My father comes home on this day from his first job and is preparing to go to a second one, a job as a security guard shift worker. I’m embarrassed. In the mold of North Dallas expectations, income levels equating a person’s importance, I’m embarrassed in this moment. My own father is a security guard, and wouldn’t you know it, Stephen’s dad owns a paper company, and damn it, that is really important.
What is the problem? What is it within the heart of society that mocks another’s valiant efforts? And why do we strive for importance at another’s expense? In this vision, I see clearly. I know that I am not the roles I play and that no one owes me a damn thing. My father is not a title, he is not a security guard, he is not a computer programmer, he is not the president of a paper company, and shit, he really is not even my father. Nope. He just IS – just like the red onions I had been staring at during my visitation to 1992.
Vietnamese Vegan Lady is smiling at me, holding out a sample of raspberry sesame tofu salad dressing for me to try. She is not a grocery worker. She just IS. She wants to know why I’m crying, but I just take the salad dressing and smile back. She assumes the worst about me – probably on drugs.
Have you ever seen the Presence, an angelic messenger? (Does it make you uncomfortable that I speak of angels? Not a problem I’m too concerned with.) I have. And she wasn’t important to speak of, she wasn’t a manager; she was stillness. She was not Vietnamese, she was not a Vegan. She was Aphrodite, a goddess in human form. She was not her job, not a grocery worker, not her products; she was a smile that, for a moment, showed me how small I am, and I am grateful.
This week’s thought comes with an ugly assertion. Listen. She says, “There is no need to explain yourself to anyone – what kind of job you do, why you do it, or why you matter, no need to feel ashamed for working at Taco Bell or that you clean up shit for a living, no need to feel great that you speak 12 languages or that you wrote a book.”
So, remember this thought the next time you consider listing failures, the next time your embarrassed by someone’s integral efforts or feel great about your accomplishments, the next you feel like explaining your failures away. Remember. You are not your job, you are not your rank, or your income tax bracket. You just ARE and that is enough.
Monday, September 14, 2009
The Faux Pas Press #7
The Faux Pas Press #7
A Weekly Thought
By Jason Scott Chambers
PRK and Matt Barkley
I begin writing this week's thought with a pen that I don't normally use and eyes that have just undergone refractive laser surgery. I soon discover that my eyes are not too helpful right now. They are going in and out of focus - all part of the healing process after PRK. This is what I'm told at least. For all I know, I could have actually just taken the first monumental step down a road that ends with a pair of sunglasses, a walking stick, and a small tin can that has a handle and rattles change around, but as it stands, I'm enduring the usual. It is quite crazy really, a remarkable realization of a life-long dream. I mention this because my whole life, from painful childhood to almost famous teen years to misunderstood adulthood, has been hindered by poor sight. If my memory serves me, I got glasses in the first or second grade, and my prescription at the time of surgery was about -4.75, a case which, unaided, was only capable of perceiving hues of primary color and seeing general form. I have a theory that people who suffer from vision this bad also have a hereditary predisposition to overindulgence and pathetically small penises, but that is neither here nor there. On the subject, I will further say that I feel bad for the caveman who strived to squeeze out a meaningful existence with eyes like mine and without options like glasses. His remains are probably at the bottom of the La Brea tar pits - which is where I would have been. Obviously, I would not have survived as a caveman with both poor vision and a small penis - a poor hunter and lover, come on. My being born in this age is proof that we live in a loving Universe.
I know that the gods do favor man in his desires - good or bad. The laws of physics that move subatomic particles in and out of cellular form are valueless. I say, the natural world is fierce and unbiased, but we? No, we are not. We pump our desires out into the Universe like we pump petroleum into our cars. We plan, we intend, and we create the experiences that we see. Consequently, we also get to label these experiences as good or bad. Gravity does not place value on our use or misuse of it. We choose, and the gods conspire on our behalf.
I would like to compare my story, the quick and intentional realization of a life-long dream, to USC freshman quarterback, Matt Barkley, and a historic win over the Buckeyes of Ohio State. A stretch? Perhaps, but I was inspired. And when the Muse speaks I must listen attentively. So, I have wanted and visualized the hell out of this idea, me with perfect vision. I've used self-hypnosis and I've really meditated deeply on this desire. (I watched and loved The Secret. Kill me.) Two years ago, I claimed this reality. I joined the service and had heard something about the military paying for eye surgery. As it so happens, this was actually one of this first questions I asked my Recruit Division Commander at Basic Training.
"When do I get the free Lasik?"
To which she replied, "When you finish being a worthless, 27 year-old pussy, recruit."
I wasn't sure if she would let me know when that happened or not. Did she have an alarm that would sound when my balls dropped? Anyway, I simply wrote down this reality, FREE EYE SURGERY, in my journal and packed it away, offering my vibrant life as a solicitation to the gods.
Now, how does this relate to Matt Barkley and the USC Trojan's 18-15 victory over the #8 Buckeyes on Saturday? Alright, here's my attempt. So, here's Matt Barkley, a 19 year-old freshman, leading the Trojan's in their final drive. They are behind by 5 points, and there are a record 105,000 fans in Colombus, Ohio. This is a stadium filled to the brim with voices opposing his own. I like to think that he wrote down something like BEAT OHIO in his journal. Maybe he didn't, but he sure did beat Ohio. In a 14 point charge ending in a touchdown and 2 point conversion, the Trojans beat the motherfucking Buckeyes.
I think the comparison is timely, (or maybe i just like pairing my name with the names of winners.)
Voices, mainly ugly, irrational voices, had appeared to detour me from a dream, a dream that made me weep as a child, wishing that God would grant me perfect sight. These are voices, people running their fucking yaps against a worthy goal, these are black magicians as Don Miguel Ruiz calls them. These are 105,000 screaming Ohio State fans praying, singing, having orgasms against your aim, the aim of anything praiseworthy or of good report. They do this because it gives them something to fill their empty lives with. They are every person who has ever doubted your dream, and they shut right the hell up when Matt Barkley and Joe McKnight scored and converted for two points. Silence. I fulfilled a life-long dream of laser eye surgery on Thursday. Silence. This week's thought is timely and simple: When the voice inside of you is louder than the crowd, you will hear silence.
Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good,
Jason Scott Chambers
www.fauxpaspress.com
jason@fauxpaspress.com
A Weekly Thought
By Jason Scott Chambers
PRK and Matt Barkley
I begin writing this week's thought with a pen that I don't normally use and eyes that have just undergone refractive laser surgery. I soon discover that my eyes are not too helpful right now. They are going in and out of focus - all part of the healing process after PRK. This is what I'm told at least. For all I know, I could have actually just taken the first monumental step down a road that ends with a pair of sunglasses, a walking stick, and a small tin can that has a handle and rattles change around, but as it stands, I'm enduring the usual. It is quite crazy really, a remarkable realization of a life-long dream. I mention this because my whole life, from painful childhood to almost famous teen years to misunderstood adulthood, has been hindered by poor sight. If my memory serves me, I got glasses in the first or second grade, and my prescription at the time of surgery was about -4.75, a case which, unaided, was only capable of perceiving hues of primary color and seeing general form. I have a theory that people who suffer from vision this bad also have a hereditary predisposition to overindulgence and pathetically small penises, but that is neither here nor there. On the subject, I will further say that I feel bad for the caveman who strived to squeeze out a meaningful existence with eyes like mine and without options like glasses. His remains are probably at the bottom of the La Brea tar pits - which is where I would have been. Obviously, I would not have survived as a caveman with both poor vision and a small penis - a poor hunter and lover, come on. My being born in this age is proof that we live in a loving Universe.
I know that the gods do favor man in his desires - good or bad. The laws of physics that move subatomic particles in and out of cellular form are valueless. I say, the natural world is fierce and unbiased, but we? No, we are not. We pump our desires out into the Universe like we pump petroleum into our cars. We plan, we intend, and we create the experiences that we see. Consequently, we also get to label these experiences as good or bad. Gravity does not place value on our use or misuse of it. We choose, and the gods conspire on our behalf.
I would like to compare my story, the quick and intentional realization of a life-long dream, to USC freshman quarterback, Matt Barkley, and a historic win over the Buckeyes of Ohio State. A stretch? Perhaps, but I was inspired. And when the Muse speaks I must listen attentively. So, I have wanted and visualized the hell out of this idea, me with perfect vision. I've used self-hypnosis and I've really meditated deeply on this desire. (I watched and loved The Secret. Kill me.) Two years ago, I claimed this reality. I joined the service and had heard something about the military paying for eye surgery. As it so happens, this was actually one of this first questions I asked my Recruit Division Commander at Basic Training.
"When do I get the free Lasik?"
To which she replied, "When you finish being a worthless, 27 year-old pussy, recruit."
I wasn't sure if she would let me know when that happened or not. Did she have an alarm that would sound when my balls dropped? Anyway, I simply wrote down this reality, FREE EYE SURGERY, in my journal and packed it away, offering my vibrant life as a solicitation to the gods.
Now, how does this relate to Matt Barkley and the USC Trojan's 18-15 victory over the #8 Buckeyes on Saturday? Alright, here's my attempt. So, here's Matt Barkley, a 19 year-old freshman, leading the Trojan's in their final drive. They are behind by 5 points, and there are a record 105,000 fans in Colombus, Ohio. This is a stadium filled to the brim with voices opposing his own. I like to think that he wrote down something like BEAT OHIO in his journal. Maybe he didn't, but he sure did beat Ohio. In a 14 point charge ending in a touchdown and 2 point conversion, the Trojans beat the motherfucking Buckeyes.
I think the comparison is timely, (or maybe i just like pairing my name with the names of winners.)
Voices, mainly ugly, irrational voices, had appeared to detour me from a dream, a dream that made me weep as a child, wishing that God would grant me perfect sight. These are voices, people running their fucking yaps against a worthy goal, these are black magicians as Don Miguel Ruiz calls them. These are 105,000 screaming Ohio State fans praying, singing, having orgasms against your aim, the aim of anything praiseworthy or of good report. They do this because it gives them something to fill their empty lives with. They are every person who has ever doubted your dream, and they shut right the hell up when Matt Barkley and Joe McKnight scored and converted for two points. Silence. I fulfilled a life-long dream of laser eye surgery on Thursday. Silence. This week's thought is timely and simple: When the voice inside of you is louder than the crowd, you will hear silence.
Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good,
Jason Scott Chambers
www.fauxpaspress.com
jason@fauxpaspress.com
Monday, September 7, 2009
The Faux Pas Press #6
The Faux Pas Press #6
A Weekly Thought
By Jason Scott Chambers
QI or the One
QI is a Chinese character, and if I had any interest in writing it for you, I would. Among approximately 19 other things, this is a word that symbolizes an ancient Chinese dynasty that ruled with an iron fist for centuries. You might assume, given the shallow depth of my life experience, that I learned this character from the History Channel or by watching lots of ánime, but this is not the case. Along with other languages I study Mandarin Chinese, which I began studying at the government’s renowned language school somewhere along California’s Northern coast. (Now, here in the context of this weekly meditation, I won’t mention the inefficiency of this language school in the hands of long-standing bureaucracy. I also won’t mention how I only got through the Chinese Program as an exercise in self-will, with the help of some loyal teachers and friends, and by selling my soul to a demon named Parley Angerbliss. No, I won’t mention budget misallocations and other misdeeds executed on behalf of the American people. I also won’t talk about how corrupt bureaucrats camp out with greasy palms while our young, our righteous, and our victorious fall to their deaths on desert sod. No, not here, but stay fucking tuned.)
I learned this week’s thought from a Zen Master I met while living in Monterey, a Chinese Instructor who doubled as a Pebble Beach Golf Pro. His name is QI LAO SHI. (Again, if it suited my thought, you would have tone marks and characters.) I, however, have come to know him as the One. I also expect all who have had the pleasure of knowing him to address him as such. He is a small man with a large energetic mantle, and history will remember the One if I have anything to say about it. I have a friend who recorded his teachings in a red composition book. Here is just one of them: Your critics are not worthy of you. They may be loud but they are not your enemies. No, (submit your name here), your greatest enemies are within you. That blew my arrested development. Your greatest enemies are within you.
The One and I used to circle the Presidio’s historic Soldier Field as he would impart the most profound teachings to me, and for these teachings, I am eternally grateful. I have been fortunate enough to know and am grateful for my many teachers. The One taught me ideas that have proven useful – particularly this week.
As I have stated in previous thoughts, I am a runner. I do this for enjoyment, for the expansion of the Self, and to finally claim the elusive six pack. I do not run long distances to vanquish foe, but on rare roads I have crossed opponents who esteemed themselves to be my enemies. Well, with exception of Elizabeth, I have no enemies that can’t be defeated. She always wins, but this guy, this one fucking guy; we’ll call him Pistol Pete O’Toole. I won’t use his real name, mainly because I want to avoid altercations with a gang of ex-boy band members. But this guy, this guy loves creating enemies for himself, making goals out of running faster than slow people, not on simply being his best. What’s the difference? Well, for me, running means presence of mind and body. It means putting in my 25 miles per week like I’ve promised the gods and pushing myself. For Pistol Pete O’Toole, it means finishing in front of me while I’m exercising. (Really, I’m honored). It means being the fastest, best guy in a group full of novices and continuing down a road of douche-baggery ending in a painful discussion with a mirror. The mirror says, “You only thought you were kick ass.”
Here is what I have to say about Pistol Pete O’Toole: 1) He is not worthy to be your enemy, 2) Be careful about becoming a slave to the power you seek, 3) Images are hard to keep up, especially if you have enemies pacing right behind, and 4) Your greatest enemies are within you. (So, maybe, I manifested Pistol Pete O’Toole. I mean, you listen to enough 98 Degrees and look what happens.)
I dedicate this thought to the long and productive life of Staff Sergeant Jeff Hopkins and to the immortality of his book Broken Under Interrogation. I supplicate the gods on his behalf this week as he heads into the sand box. (Broken Under Interrogation is available at Amazon.com or wherever bad-asses push print.) I am grateful to him for his support and consider it an honor to call him a friend. I also ask you to send him safety and swift return. Jeff, I send you green lights and galactic pulsars of good, blessings be upon you and your posterity through all generations of time and trough out all eternity.
Thanks also to the One, QI LAO SHI. Thank you also to our young, our righteous, and our victorious.
Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good,
Jason Scott Chambers
fauxpaspress.blogspot.com
A Weekly Thought
By Jason Scott Chambers
QI or the One
QI is a Chinese character, and if I had any interest in writing it for you, I would. Among approximately 19 other things, this is a word that symbolizes an ancient Chinese dynasty that ruled with an iron fist for centuries. You might assume, given the shallow depth of my life experience, that I learned this character from the History Channel or by watching lots of ánime, but this is not the case. Along with other languages I study Mandarin Chinese, which I began studying at the government’s renowned language school somewhere along California’s Northern coast. (Now, here in the context of this weekly meditation, I won’t mention the inefficiency of this language school in the hands of long-standing bureaucracy. I also won’t mention how I only got through the Chinese Program as an exercise in self-will, with the help of some loyal teachers and friends, and by selling my soul to a demon named Parley Angerbliss. No, I won’t mention budget misallocations and other misdeeds executed on behalf of the American people. I also won’t talk about how corrupt bureaucrats camp out with greasy palms while our young, our righteous, and our victorious fall to their deaths on desert sod. No, not here, but stay fucking tuned.)
I learned this week’s thought from a Zen Master I met while living in Monterey, a Chinese Instructor who doubled as a Pebble Beach Golf Pro. His name is QI LAO SHI. (Again, if it suited my thought, you would have tone marks and characters.) I, however, have come to know him as the One. I also expect all who have had the pleasure of knowing him to address him as such. He is a small man with a large energetic mantle, and history will remember the One if I have anything to say about it. I have a friend who recorded his teachings in a red composition book. Here is just one of them: Your critics are not worthy of you. They may be loud but they are not your enemies. No, (submit your name here), your greatest enemies are within you. That blew my arrested development. Your greatest enemies are within you.
The One and I used to circle the Presidio’s historic Soldier Field as he would impart the most profound teachings to me, and for these teachings, I am eternally grateful. I have been fortunate enough to know and am grateful for my many teachers. The One taught me ideas that have proven useful – particularly this week.
As I have stated in previous thoughts, I am a runner. I do this for enjoyment, for the expansion of the Self, and to finally claim the elusive six pack. I do not run long distances to vanquish foe, but on rare roads I have crossed opponents who esteemed themselves to be my enemies. Well, with exception of Elizabeth, I have no enemies that can’t be defeated. She always wins, but this guy, this one fucking guy; we’ll call him Pistol Pete O’Toole. I won’t use his real name, mainly because I want to avoid altercations with a gang of ex-boy band members. But this guy, this guy loves creating enemies for himself, making goals out of running faster than slow people, not on simply being his best. What’s the difference? Well, for me, running means presence of mind and body. It means putting in my 25 miles per week like I’ve promised the gods and pushing myself. For Pistol Pete O’Toole, it means finishing in front of me while I’m exercising. (Really, I’m honored). It means being the fastest, best guy in a group full of novices and continuing down a road of douche-baggery ending in a painful discussion with a mirror. The mirror says, “You only thought you were kick ass.”
Here is what I have to say about Pistol Pete O’Toole: 1) He is not worthy to be your enemy, 2) Be careful about becoming a slave to the power you seek, 3) Images are hard to keep up, especially if you have enemies pacing right behind, and 4) Your greatest enemies are within you. (So, maybe, I manifested Pistol Pete O’Toole. I mean, you listen to enough 98 Degrees and look what happens.)
I dedicate this thought to the long and productive life of Staff Sergeant Jeff Hopkins and to the immortality of his book Broken Under Interrogation. I supplicate the gods on his behalf this week as he heads into the sand box. (Broken Under Interrogation is available at Amazon.com or wherever bad-asses push print.) I am grateful to him for his support and consider it an honor to call him a friend. I also ask you to send him safety and swift return. Jeff, I send you green lights and galactic pulsars of good, blessings be upon you and your posterity through all generations of time and trough out all eternity.
Thanks also to the One, QI LAO SHI. Thank you also to our young, our righteous, and our victorious.
Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good,
Jason Scott Chambers
fauxpaspress.blogspot.com
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