The Faux Pas Press #17
A Weekly Thought
30 November 2009
Roaming Through the Butter
By Jason Fresh
Most nights I dream. Most nights I wait for an epiphany of some kind, a magical visitor from the beyond, something other than dreams about being eaten by giant donuts perhaps. And like most people I disregard the substance of these wayward visions, these psycho illusions. I cast them off as indigestion, too much lard in my diet, or maybe the residual effect of 8 or 9 diet sodas through out the day. But I know one thing; I know that dreams can become tangible, the real substance of the wayward existence. You just have to wade through the fat. You must roam through the butter to get the bread, and when you eat, you shall never hunger again.
Most nights I also bask in nightmares, demons of the past. I shake off the numbing effect they have on me, the numbing sting left deep in the nervous system. After these nightmares I have no compassion left, no thoughts for the less-fortunate, no prayers for change; I am vacuous and alone, lying in tubs of melted butter.
There are memories too. I see dead people. (Yes, I can pay homage to M. Night if I want, player.) The woven fabric of my past brings to the forefront a barrage of enemies that I have yet to conquer, and if left unaddressed, will manifest yet again.
So, I take up this pen and I place it to this paper. And begrudgingly, do the one meaningful thing. I write.
This short month has passed by so quickly. I think about my daughter, Lola. I think about my wife, Liz. I consider that the gods have been kind to me as I have been kind to them. I know now that I may never become a fixture in the mind of Americana, the New Capital Experiment, but I am convinced that I am still living the dream. And when I say this, I don’t mean that tomorrow I will really, in living color, encounter the thoughts of my astral cortex. I don’t mean that I will be eaten by some over-sized Danish women determined to make me hers. What I mean is that I have faced my demons, and I will face them again tomorrow. I have wondered through the smoke in the mirror, sifted through it all. I mean to say that I have waded in the fat long enough. I have surrendered my life to the gods, to the great and abominable muse, Parley Angerbliss. I have taken a bath, washed myself clean from the tub of butter. And now, I address you.
I mean to keep it short. I pray that there is no pretension. My thought: You must stop roaming through the butter. You must get to the bread if you want to live.
Green Lights,
Jason Fresh
www.fauxpaspress.com
Monday, November 30, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
The Faux Pas Press #16: The Fresh Me
The Faux Pas Press #16
A Weekly Thought
By Jason Fresh
16 November 2009
The Fresh Me
“You had better make sure you talk to somebody. You can’t walk around this world doing what you want, Jason. Sometimes you just have to do what is right.”
These are poignant words, I guess – depending on who ask and what church they attend, what beliefs control their lives. Have you considered that the investment you need to make is in you? It is not an investment in someone else’s behavior or in some cockamamie scheme?
“So, Jason, what’s up, man? Where have you been? We have not seen you around here in a while?”
Pablo Solano asks me this question because there is permanence in me, a messianic, visionary purpose that makes slaves a little uncomfortable. He is a guy, working for the Man, a guy who might even be called the Man. I don’t know, but what I do know is he smells like someone else, looks like someone else. I look like me. He is a conglomeration of everyone who has known him, his over-paid public teachers, his Sunday school administrators, and his warrior buddies who like to get drunk and break shit.
What is interesting is that Pablo Solano has had numerous conversations with me about the most recent, monumental events of my life.
Have you ever had a conversation where you thought that someone was really listening to you only discover that they were thinking about a tee time?
I distinctly remember describing, in detail, what the months of November and December would look like for me; there would be a baby, a little princess named Lola, a wife coming here, a class to take, and little else. I might have even described my work-out routine to this guy, but the details of my dance on this planet are pretty bland, I guess. Maybe they are not that interesting.
My time is better spent talking to a wall or this Veggie Delite sandwich in front of me. There are jalapenos on this thing at least – they spice things up for me – they don’t listen to me, but I’m beginning to believe these peppers do more for me than most well-adjusted, functioning adults. Who said you can’t talk to vegetables? I might have to start. In two months of working with a person, they can’t remember the single most important event of my life?
“I just got back from California, remember? My wife and I had a baby. I’m pretty sure we talked about that. Were you thinking about your World of Warcraft character?”
“Oh, that’s right? Did you just get the laser eye surgery too?”
I am wearing sunglasses so I give him points for noticing. I ponder for no more than a second; I recall that I have actually borrowed eye drops from this guy when I had run out. (Are you serious?)
“No, actually, that happened in September. It is now November.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah…”
I stare at the bewildered Pablo, wondering if he is, perhaps, from another planet, sent here to fuck with me. No, that would make too much sense. I’ve encountered my fair share of extraterrestrials, and they at least remembered my name and serial number. Is this guy a regular space case or apparition from the beyond? (As it stands, I’m pretty familiar with both.) The truth hurts, but it is a good hurt in this case, like a shot of vodka with a truth wedge, lighting up the canals of my digestive system and soul.
He staggers a few steps and mutters another inconsequential nothing. “Oh, your baby came,” I am walking away from the impending stupidity at this point, “How is he?”
Yeah, so, I can handle the truth. I can accept the fact that the world revolves around the Sun and not around the individual, I can accept my insignificance in the scheme of things, but what the hell?
“She is fine, Pablo Solano from San Luis Potosi, Mexico or where ever you guys came from. I’m not sure, I don’t remember. You didn’t explain it to me 3 times even though I heard it the first. Yeah, I don’t remember talking to you about how we are both from the same state, how we both love the Mexican food in San Antonio, and how my Spanish proficiency scores are better than yours. Yeah, I guess I’ll have to not remember your son’s due date at the end of December, you asshole. Yeah. Where did you say you were from again? Thanks. She’s dandy. Thank you for remembering and fuck you for not.”
So, I’ve decided that people don’t care - Can you guess? - don’t care about me. So, that having been said, I am officially announcing the new, artistic manifestation of me in this thought. My given name suits the government world I work in just fine. My given name suits my wife, it suits my real friends, my real supports, my family, my daughter, the Collective, and the blazing Renaissance Cartel, but I am new. The new and improved me, the fresh me, a real fresh – not like these canned jalapenos on my Veggie Delite.
I’m not asking for suggestions. I am the impetus of my own life. I am the force and I am the fury, the fold in the fabric, and I most certainly am the frequency. I’m new, and I’m fresh - Jason Fresh. Dip a tortilla chip into that. Or don’t. You’re life so freaking spicy anyway, right?
The Faux Pas Press is alive and well – ready to spice up every Monday. ¡Disfruta! Here is the thought: No one can be a better you than you – you just have to know who you really are. (I’ll let you know each week as I discover who I am.)
Green Lights,
Jason Fresh
www.fauxpaspress.com
A Weekly Thought
By Jason Fresh
16 November 2009
The Fresh Me
“You had better make sure you talk to somebody. You can’t walk around this world doing what you want, Jason. Sometimes you just have to do what is right.”
These are poignant words, I guess – depending on who ask and what church they attend, what beliefs control their lives. Have you considered that the investment you need to make is in you? It is not an investment in someone else’s behavior or in some cockamamie scheme?
“So, Jason, what’s up, man? Where have you been? We have not seen you around here in a while?”
Pablo Solano asks me this question because there is permanence in me, a messianic, visionary purpose that makes slaves a little uncomfortable. He is a guy, working for the Man, a guy who might even be called the Man. I don’t know, but what I do know is he smells like someone else, looks like someone else. I look like me. He is a conglomeration of everyone who has known him, his over-paid public teachers, his Sunday school administrators, and his warrior buddies who like to get drunk and break shit.
What is interesting is that Pablo Solano has had numerous conversations with me about the most recent, monumental events of my life.
Have you ever had a conversation where you thought that someone was really listening to you only discover that they were thinking about a tee time?
I distinctly remember describing, in detail, what the months of November and December would look like for me; there would be a baby, a little princess named Lola, a wife coming here, a class to take, and little else. I might have even described my work-out routine to this guy, but the details of my dance on this planet are pretty bland, I guess. Maybe they are not that interesting.
My time is better spent talking to a wall or this Veggie Delite sandwich in front of me. There are jalapenos on this thing at least – they spice things up for me – they don’t listen to me, but I’m beginning to believe these peppers do more for me than most well-adjusted, functioning adults. Who said you can’t talk to vegetables? I might have to start. In two months of working with a person, they can’t remember the single most important event of my life?
“I just got back from California, remember? My wife and I had a baby. I’m pretty sure we talked about that. Were you thinking about your World of Warcraft character?”
“Oh, that’s right? Did you just get the laser eye surgery too?”
I am wearing sunglasses so I give him points for noticing. I ponder for no more than a second; I recall that I have actually borrowed eye drops from this guy when I had run out. (Are you serious?)
“No, actually, that happened in September. It is now November.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah…”
I stare at the bewildered Pablo, wondering if he is, perhaps, from another planet, sent here to fuck with me. No, that would make too much sense. I’ve encountered my fair share of extraterrestrials, and they at least remembered my name and serial number. Is this guy a regular space case or apparition from the beyond? (As it stands, I’m pretty familiar with both.) The truth hurts, but it is a good hurt in this case, like a shot of vodka with a truth wedge, lighting up the canals of my digestive system and soul.
He staggers a few steps and mutters another inconsequential nothing. “Oh, your baby came,” I am walking away from the impending stupidity at this point, “How is he?”
Yeah, so, I can handle the truth. I can accept the fact that the world revolves around the Sun and not around the individual, I can accept my insignificance in the scheme of things, but what the hell?
“She is fine, Pablo Solano from San Luis Potosi, Mexico or where ever you guys came from. I’m not sure, I don’t remember. You didn’t explain it to me 3 times even though I heard it the first. Yeah, I don’t remember talking to you about how we are both from the same state, how we both love the Mexican food in San Antonio, and how my Spanish proficiency scores are better than yours. Yeah, I guess I’ll have to not remember your son’s due date at the end of December, you asshole. Yeah. Where did you say you were from again? Thanks. She’s dandy. Thank you for remembering and fuck you for not.”
So, I’ve decided that people don’t care - Can you guess? - don’t care about me. So, that having been said, I am officially announcing the new, artistic manifestation of me in this thought. My given name suits the government world I work in just fine. My given name suits my wife, it suits my real friends, my real supports, my family, my daughter, the Collective, and the blazing Renaissance Cartel, but I am new. The new and improved me, the fresh me, a real fresh – not like these canned jalapenos on my Veggie Delite.
I’m not asking for suggestions. I am the impetus of my own life. I am the force and I am the fury, the fold in the fabric, and I most certainly am the frequency. I’m new, and I’m fresh - Jason Fresh. Dip a tortilla chip into that. Or don’t. You’re life so freaking spicy anyway, right?
The Faux Pas Press is alive and well – ready to spice up every Monday. ¡Disfruta! Here is the thought: No one can be a better you than you – you just have to know who you really are. (I’ll let you know each week as I discover who I am.)
Green Lights,
Jason Fresh
www.fauxpaspress.com
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Faux Pas Press #15: The Annoyance
The Faux Pas Press #15
A Weekly Thought
By Jason Scott Chambers
09 November 2009
The Annoyance
Would the world be a better place if you were not in it?
I know.
“Jason, how could you ask such a question? Of course, the world would not be better if I were gone.”
Really? How could you ever know? But to put aside the asinine notion that there is virtue in self-extinction, let me submit that it would not be. Everyone, every single soul on this planet has an ingredient. I feel this inside of me.
At the end of my freshman year, the spring semester of 98’ at Montana State University, I was forced to encounter the death of a family member. And consequently, I was forced to ask myself whether or not it really mattered.
It was sometime in April or May – right around the time that I was to take my final exams as a film major. A grueling semester included the production of my first short film, a project entitled 9mm Blues, it included a long and heated dance with Mormonism (a dance that continues on), and finally, it included a fulfilling finish to a year worth living, full of challenges, my first successful year of college. This encounter with my uncle’s death was unexpected. I knew that he had painted his life red with experience, but I wondered if he wanted stay here or not, whether he had chosen his moment to go. Looking back – I was actually kind of annoyed.
“Jason, how could you say such a thing? Death is serious business.”
You see, I believe that each man chooses his life. Each person decides what they are here for, what they will do with the time they have. Furthermore, I believe that we choose when to go. Ignorance and naiveté talking? Search your heart. You will find the same message screaming at you.
So, I was annoyed with my uncle’s choice. Actually, this is one of the first times I can remember being annoyed. You know, I had planned an entire year of happiness, a year of fulfilling endeavors, the fullest life that I could have imagined. No where in my plan did I include going to a funeral to mourn a man who cursed me and spent his waking hours disregarding his body. No where in my plan was there time blocked out for a funeral. Selfishness? Well, that depends on whether or not you believe that each man has the right to pursue his individual happiness. Not to mention, this was a guy who literally basked in negativity in the four or five years before his life ended.
If you plan on dying just to get some attention – don’t – I certainly won’t pay you any more or less attention that I do now. The only person worthy of my undying attention is Lola and that is because she is cuter that anyone I know. Don’t interrupt the good choices of others with your poor ones.
I love my kid and my wife. They are cool and supportive. They encourage me to spend my time writing and giving birth to the ideas that will become our brand and livelihood. They know how to get positive attention out of me – they live happily – for their sake and their sake alone.
Those who strive for negative attention will not only not get what they are after but they will probably end up getting roasted on The Faux Pas Press. (Not that anyone reads The Faux Pas Press, but I'm just saying.) Look out. I mean, I’m the kind of guy of that will roast my own uncle post-mortem for interrupting a good year with the residual of his poor choices.
(Don’t worry. I won’t expect you to throw me a death party either. You’ll want to. I’ll be jumping off the Chrysler building at the ripe age of 100. It will be broadcast around the globe, and I promise, you won’t want to miss it.) When I leave this world do not mourn me. Don’t put on black tuxedos (unless this is what you normally wear), don’t call everyone you know expecting some sympathy for free, and please don’t insult me with a funeral. If you do anything besides drop my corpse off a cliff, I would like to be filled with explosives – a cherry bomb and some bottle rockets – and then I would like to be fired out of a canon into the loving arms of the Pacific Ocean, explosions hopefully lighting up the night sky. Then go to O’Toole’s Irish Pub in Honolulu. Drink a pint, smile, and grab a stranger to make-out with. You feeling sad won’t make me any more alive, but I am willing to bet that you being joyful certainly will. I promise. I won’t interrupt.
We write the drama. We become so obsessed with the human drama that we forget we are writing it – writing it with our thoughts, our words, and our uninspired, senseless attachment, the illusions of death. Now, I’m no heathen; I’m not saying that you have 100% control over your life. No, no, no. But if you did, how would you write it?
I know. I know. “But I’m not God, Jason. Neither are you.” Of course not. But if you were, what kind of crazy dreams would you put into place for yourself.
“But it is not that easy, Jason.” I know. But if it were, what would you do?
You will not get my attention unless you’ve asked yourself these questions. Please live your life happy – for you. Here is my thought: Don’t interrupt the good choices of others with your poor ones.
“It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.” – Jiddu Krishnamurti
Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good.
Jason Scott Chambers
www.fauxpaspress.com
A Weekly Thought
By Jason Scott Chambers
09 November 2009
The Annoyance
Would the world be a better place if you were not in it?
I know.
“Jason, how could you ask such a question? Of course, the world would not be better if I were gone.”
Really? How could you ever know? But to put aside the asinine notion that there is virtue in self-extinction, let me submit that it would not be. Everyone, every single soul on this planet has an ingredient. I feel this inside of me.
At the end of my freshman year, the spring semester of 98’ at Montana State University, I was forced to encounter the death of a family member. And consequently, I was forced to ask myself whether or not it really mattered.
It was sometime in April or May – right around the time that I was to take my final exams as a film major. A grueling semester included the production of my first short film, a project entitled 9mm Blues, it included a long and heated dance with Mormonism (a dance that continues on), and finally, it included a fulfilling finish to a year worth living, full of challenges, my first successful year of college. This encounter with my uncle’s death was unexpected. I knew that he had painted his life red with experience, but I wondered if he wanted stay here or not, whether he had chosen his moment to go. Looking back – I was actually kind of annoyed.
“Jason, how could you say such a thing? Death is serious business.”
You see, I believe that each man chooses his life. Each person decides what they are here for, what they will do with the time they have. Furthermore, I believe that we choose when to go. Ignorance and naiveté talking? Search your heart. You will find the same message screaming at you.
So, I was annoyed with my uncle’s choice. Actually, this is one of the first times I can remember being annoyed. You know, I had planned an entire year of happiness, a year of fulfilling endeavors, the fullest life that I could have imagined. No where in my plan did I include going to a funeral to mourn a man who cursed me and spent his waking hours disregarding his body. No where in my plan was there time blocked out for a funeral. Selfishness? Well, that depends on whether or not you believe that each man has the right to pursue his individual happiness. Not to mention, this was a guy who literally basked in negativity in the four or five years before his life ended.
If you plan on dying just to get some attention – don’t – I certainly won’t pay you any more or less attention that I do now. The only person worthy of my undying attention is Lola and that is because she is cuter that anyone I know. Don’t interrupt the good choices of others with your poor ones.
I love my kid and my wife. They are cool and supportive. They encourage me to spend my time writing and giving birth to the ideas that will become our brand and livelihood. They know how to get positive attention out of me – they live happily – for their sake and their sake alone.
Those who strive for negative attention will not only not get what they are after but they will probably end up getting roasted on The Faux Pas Press. (Not that anyone reads The Faux Pas Press, but I'm just saying.) Look out. I mean, I’m the kind of guy of that will roast my own uncle post-mortem for interrupting a good year with the residual of his poor choices.
(Don’t worry. I won’t expect you to throw me a death party either. You’ll want to. I’ll be jumping off the Chrysler building at the ripe age of 100. It will be broadcast around the globe, and I promise, you won’t want to miss it.) When I leave this world do not mourn me. Don’t put on black tuxedos (unless this is what you normally wear), don’t call everyone you know expecting some sympathy for free, and please don’t insult me with a funeral. If you do anything besides drop my corpse off a cliff, I would like to be filled with explosives – a cherry bomb and some bottle rockets – and then I would like to be fired out of a canon into the loving arms of the Pacific Ocean, explosions hopefully lighting up the night sky. Then go to O’Toole’s Irish Pub in Honolulu. Drink a pint, smile, and grab a stranger to make-out with. You feeling sad won’t make me any more alive, but I am willing to bet that you being joyful certainly will. I promise. I won’t interrupt.
We write the drama. We become so obsessed with the human drama that we forget we are writing it – writing it with our thoughts, our words, and our uninspired, senseless attachment, the illusions of death. Now, I’m no heathen; I’m not saying that you have 100% control over your life. No, no, no. But if you did, how would you write it?
I know. I know. “But I’m not God, Jason. Neither are you.” Of course not. But if you were, what kind of crazy dreams would you put into place for yourself.
“But it is not that easy, Jason.” I know. But if it were, what would you do?
You will not get my attention unless you’ve asked yourself these questions. Please live your life happy – for you. Here is my thought: Don’t interrupt the good choices of others with your poor ones.
“It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.” – Jiddu Krishnamurti
Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good.
Jason Scott Chambers
www.fauxpaspress.com
Monday, November 2, 2009
The Faux Pas Press #14: Breast Fed
The Faux Pas Press #14
A Weekly Thought
By Jason Scott Chambers
02 November 2009
Breast Fed
A daughter was born last week. The days of this life are a gift and ought never to be cursed, ought never to be cursed by your mouth or mine. To curse this day is to curse every day because this is the only day we’ve got.
I would like it to be known, here and now, that men are not capable of breast feeding their young. This is true. On Thursday of last week I actually tried it. Lola was disgusted to the point of hyperventilation. She, and by she I mean her and her volatile temper, went from 0 to 60 in 5.2 seconds. The pediatric nurses had to be called in to settle her down. One nurse who reminded me of the cartoon mouse, Gus, from Cinderella slapped me across the face and put me in the Time-out Corner. After which I returned to my wife’s side and watched her breast feed the right way. (This is not an easy task. It is a practice like yoga or the Jedi’s use of the Force.)
It is no secret that I was not breast fed as a child. This has been pointed out to me on a numerous occasions by several different people. One stranger sitting next to my wife in an Indian Restaurant eyeballed the mountains on her chest that I have since dubbed K2. The stranger was impressed. He did not wink at me, buy me a beer, or use another accepted signal of the Man Cave to show his approval. He held out his hand, gently caressed mine and said, “I know. I wasn’t breast fed either.” I began to cry, and we exchanged phone numbers. This has been a mountain for me to overcome, but don’t misunderstand me. It is not a hindrance. No, the mountains we have to climb are not a handicap. It is our blessings that can prove to be the biggest obstruction if we are not grateful.
I have a daughter who was born on 28 October 2009 at 7:04pm. Her name, a name chosen by her mother, is Lola Isabella Chambers. And I am excited. I am excited about watching her encounter this world and watching the world encounter her. I am excited for her, to see her go to school for the first time, run her first race, or dance her very first dance. But I am also excited for me. Now, that I’ve done It, the big It, the measure of human existence, essentially the creation of a new world, I have power to decry social injustice. I will never have to quiet down in a conversation when some bigoted nobody becomes an expert in an instant. “Well, do you have kids?” they will ask. “Well, actually, motherfucker, I do,” I will respond. I’m not to become a new Leo Tolstoy or Brigham Young, spitting my seed wherever I can find a hole, but at least now I have earned the right to speak on behalf of the children, call out parental neglect where I see it (even in myself), and offer a child all the support that I can. I have earned the right to acquire the title of Father. I say acquire because Fatherhood must be applied for, earned, and mourned over. It must come in an acceptance letter sent by your child, your judge and executioner. They are the Dean of Admissions – not you. They decide who gets accepted, and I get to sit by the mailbox waiting for the acceptance letter at your side. These are the mountains that we must climb. We hope to reach the summit but unless we press on, there is no reward. And there may never be a reward. We are only entitled to our labor not the fruits of our labor.
I anxiously waited outside the O.R. on 28 October 2009 at around 6:30pm. We’d already spent close to 18 hours in labor and had faced several complications. Elizabeth was tired and scared, and I had a chance to see my whole life – right in front of my ugly face. I looked at the hospital scrubs that I had been instructed to wear and began to cry. “Is there anything worth a damn in my life besides what is in that room?” I consider all the works of my hands vanity, as the Preacher spoke, vanity, and I know that this experience is on loan. “What I am about to witness is a gift and I will need to spend the rest of my life living worthy of it,” I say to myself, even now as I write, because I know that every hack who picks up a pen could be called a writer, every horny sailor who wasn’t breast fed who has had a few too many could be called a father, but I know that both pursuits are really mountains. (And I’m not talking about my wife’s breasts either.) The writer borrows the attention of the reader, striving to please, to provide an unquestionable reflection. At the very least, the writer wants to give birth to a piece that speaks the truth. The Father hopes for the same, but you don’t jump into the V.I.P. Room with Tolstoy, Shakespeare, Rand, and Dostoyevsky just because you wrote a poem about love or death. A Father takes his place in the bleachers knowing that he is on borrowed time.
I will never forget the honorable place that I took next to Elizabeth at the operating table. She prepared for emergency surgery. She faced the brutal sting of death, looked him right in the face and did not faint. There are tears racing down our faces. You know, I have seen great things in this life. I have climbed mountains of sizeable altitude – probably a result of seeing my mother’s mountains and not being able to climb those bad boys. I have esteemed myself to be in great company for the miles I have gone or the new languages that I have learned, but I have never in my life, not in all the years in university lecture halls, or among the religious, or at great music shows, or in the greatest books of history, not in the best restaurants, or at the coolest pubs, ever seen greatness like this. I have never in my life seen greatness like that of my wife in her scariest, her darkest, and her finest hour. I am so happy to know her and look forward to climbing mountains with this family.
The One, Qi Lao Shi, among other Chinese teachers, taught me a valuable Chinese proverb around the time that I met Elizabeth Danielle Hart in Monterey, California. Here is this week’s thought, reminding you that even after you’ve done shit – you ain’t really done shit: Beyond this mountain there is another.
Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good.
Jason Scott Chambers
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