My car got stuck in the mud and David Bowie is dead

This is a post that will end with me complaining about a commercial radio station, but the most important takeaway is a lesson I learned from the original Star Wars trilogy.

I learned about David Bowie's death from my wife while I was going pee this morning at ~7:08AM. About 18 hours earlier I got our car stuck on the rain-soaked lawn of her boss's house. It was her job's annual holiday party, which was being held on January 11th for some reason. I was missing playoff football whilst ruining the grass of rich people. I wasn't embarrassed. I think I feigned embarrassment as the expected default emotion. It was my wife who parked on the grass anyway. I was only trying to right this wrong in the role of brave husband. They should have instructed us not to park there in the first place. This was actually all their fault. I was merely a conduit for the errors of others like a highway is the landing strip for catching dinner in the eyes of the red-tailed hawk.

David Bowie released ★ last Friday, an album which will almost certainly go down as one of the greatest artistic statements in the history of man. The music didn't necessarily have to be that good or interesting for this to be so. That it is is a testament to Bowie. Artist catches cancer, constructs concept album about death in secrecy, releases album on his 69th birthday and dies two days later. That is the artistic statement and it is perfect before you even

In the children's playroom at the rich people's house during the holiday party––religious statements scrawled on the chalkboard-painted wall (Luke x:xx, something like that)––the younger of the two kids who lived there put on a show of absurd entitlement. She was only four, but had already honed her selfish persona so perfectly it felt as though we were extras in the beginning of a movie. This was the setup. We wouldn't be sticking around for the redemption plot. We got our car out of the mud. Her lawn is ruined now but that point doesn't factor into the plot of the movie.

It's a God-awful small affair
To the girl with the mousy hair
But her mummy is yelling no
And her daddy has told her to go

But her friend is nowhere to be seen
Now she walks through her sunken dream
To the seat with the clearest view
And she's hooked to the silver screen

But the film is a saddening bore
For she's lived it ten times or more
She could spit in the eyes of fools

–David Bowie, "Life on Mars?"

I've never paid much attention to lyrics. But I will read the hell out of ★'s songbook. This art is owed as much. That's what I've just decided. Yesterday I committed to reading books again for the first time in probably three years or more. I'm not sure if I've finished a book during the lifespan of the spoiled brat mentioned earlier. I downloaded the Kindle for iPhone app and uploaded a pirated copy of Tao Lin's Eeeee Eee Eeee.

INTERLUDE: i'm at work right now and my boss is in the kitchen area.
i only come here on mondays and i work in a cubicle. i'm the only one
out here; everyone else has an office. my boss is making grunting
noises in the kitchen and i can't look to see what he's doing. he's
cleaning something? i just can't. i love him though. i love everyone.
this will all be over soon.

The most important lesson from Star Wars is the idea that you must never give into hate^. This might be the most important lesson in life on the whole and it's definitely the most important lesson ever to be inserted into a billion-dollar movie franchise. It's such a simple notion but I found it so impactful and, frankly, touching. I hadn't watched the original three movies since I was a kid. There's nothing to gain in being an "Angry Young Man" because you'll eventually be an angry old man (I think that's the point of the song^). You'll be Darth Vader. And, though it may be ambiguous what actually kills you, you will need to die to redeem yourself. There are bridges you can't cross back after a certain point.

I'm 34. I've lived almost exactly half of my life (if I live as long as David Bowie). I have an anger in me that breeds hate and contempt. So much of me and the idea of "me," which I've long spent time––many conscious and unconscious hours––crafting, wants to hate that religious family, their greed and selfishness. Wants to hate all THE MEN who came out from the party to 'help' pull my stupid Honda Fit out of the muck, wants to hate what that stands for: the need to be a part of the manly activity, the mainly concern, to give their $0.02 on the manly topic of getting a car out of the mud. I couldn't care less and I was behind the wheel.

The Powerball Jackpot is over a billion dollars. They draw the six numbers this coming Wednesday night to determine the winner. Only they've been trying to determine a winner for weeks now. They literally can't give this money away. I hope they never find a winner and the jackpot gets so large that it becomes a monetary sum which is basically unquantifiable. I'm not sure what that number is, though. Most people are probably way more creative than me when it comes to capitalism.

Capitalism is, by nature, a hateful system. Wanting is hateful. Constantly comparing your life to the life of others is hateful, a form of self-hate. I'm trying to ignore the lottery. I just took a picture with my laptop's webcam and photoshopped it into the Powerball logo (see above). That is my contribution to LotteryFever™. I made it seem like I am the "A" in Jackpot. "Old Paz. He really put the 'A' in 'Jackpot'." That's what people say about me, or maybe that's what they'll say about me after I'm dead. Shalom.

(I really hope this content is going OK. I know it's all over the place. I woke up about exactly at 4:59AM and couldn't get back to sleep this morning. PS That was the time they announced David Bowie had died, FYI. I was having a dream about Bill Murray guest-starring in an episode of 30 Rock, which it turns out, he never actually did. I woke up with a weird upper back pain. Eventually, I started reading Eeeee Eee Eeee on my phone in bed, which is a book you don't really read so much as 'let the series of disparate sentences wash over you'––I highly recommend this book re sufferers of sleepless stupors. Oh well. That alliteration just now was annoying, wasn't it? I've now spent almost two hours writing this thing. I should probably mention the bit about the radio. I really did see a red-tailed hawk on the highway. Yesterday, in fact. Coming home from the party. My spirit animal. I bought sunflower seeds at Rite Aid before I got to work.)

I was flipping around the radio dial on my drive from Philadelphia to Princeton this morning. I felt it was 'important' that any rock station––and certainly any classic rock radio station––only play David Bowie songs today. XPN 88.5 in Philly did a phenomenal job, broadcasting a 100% Bowie mix of deep cuts and hits. I was most put off by WMGK 102.9, Philly's biggest commercial classic rock station. They were doing a dumb morning zoo money giveaway, and the next time I checked they were playing Boston.

I understand about indecision
But I don't care if I get behind
People livin' in competition
All I want is to have my peace of mind

– Tom Scholz, "Peace of Mind"

I love Boston's first record. It's perfect.