The response is usually an explanation about what subject or nuance I am preoccupied with at that very moment. However, all is not lost. I had a professor, who made an astute analogy. While commenting on French author (and pilot) Antoine de Saint Exupéry’s book, “The Little Prince” he said that meaningful writing often takes an appreciation in the same way that good music takes an appreciation you must develop, and hence why so many like pop music, and why so few people read things like “The Little Drummer Boy”. Pop music is easily consumable.

Hopefully I haven’t lost you yet. The heart of the issue is that like people who choose “People” Magazine over Saint Exupéry, I often find myself drawn to pop music. I don’t know if it’s the catchy lyrics, the catchy tunes, or the unbelievable outreach it has: into the car, into the club, and into movies but I find myself easily taken in by it’s spell, regardless of how ridiculous the song is. For the most part, I’ve always had the fall back of being able to blame a talented person for drawing me in.

However, in the last couple of years things have started to change and I’ve been unable to blame a talented person. A new technology called Autotune has burst onto the market in a big way. Autotune was perhaps most notably popularized by Cher’s “Believe”, her 1998 hit single. You can watch it here to refresh your memory.

Phonographs Wont Autotune

Autotune has been a polarizing force in the music community. Jay-Z wrote a song called “Death of Autotune”, and Seattle band Death Cab For Cutie started a campaign against auto tune they they launched at this year’s Grammys. Meanwhile, others have capitalized on the trend. T-Paine developed an iPhone Application that lets you sing along karaoke style to his songs, while the phone uses Autotune technology to make you sound like him as your confessing how much you like the bartender.

My beef with Autotune is that it takes away from the artist. The unfortunate plight of pop music is that the person must usually be just as marketable as the music. Take for example Miley Cyrus, she’s a talented young lady for sure, but she possesses a marketable quality that the masses absolutely eat up. Now suppose we have a highly marketable person, but with no talent. That’s OK! We can use Autotune to turn her into the star we can sell. What’s the problem with this? Well, what is there to strive for if we can synthesize talent and skills? I’ll tell you what: A rocking pair of tits, some bleached blond hair, and an ass that won’t quit. Autotune is very quietly creating a generation that strives not to be better, but hotter. Autotune is a toxic inflation to the economy of talent and hard work.

So while yes, I’ve been known to like certain auto tuned songs, I don’t think I can continue to ideologically support the institution that is pop music anymore.

Am I off my rocker? Should I have my ringtone as “Lollipop” and own every one of Kayne’s albums? Let me know in the comments.

While I was doing so, I noticed that she was sweating. Not like she was on trial for murder or anything, but just enough to be shiny. I looked at my hand where I was holding it on her waist, and it was just a little slick. For whatever reason, I found it attractive.

As I rubbed my fingers together, I got this overwhelming feeling that we’re nothing but animals. Meat. It was horrible. I couldn’t help but feel hopeless in the fact that we’re all just slaves to chemicals. I didn’t like knowing rationality can go out the window with the right compounds at the helm.

The only reason I found this girl attractive was some compound moving from one spot of my mind to another. She smelled good. Her perfume (chemicals) went up my nose and released more chemicals to tell me that I find that attractive.

I’m nothing but one big fucking chemistry experiment walking around. I couldn’t help but feeling overwhelming despair at this powerless existence. I was at the control of a greater force. Likely, it was the same force that has ensured our survival for the last million years. It was my body assessing some kind of “carnal compatibility” with the evolutionary specimen in front of me, for the good of the race.

And as I danced, this girl dancing all over me like a common whore, I had the notion that our youth is fleeting. This girl will never be as hot as she was today. In 10 years, I most likely wouldn’t give her a second look if she passed me on the street. The same is true for me. I’m sure. But this is nature’s plan. Our genes have it all figured out for us. It was at this point I realized my fate was not something outside of me, but inside of me.  That my fate was little more than just another science experiment bouncing around in my genes.

I’m extremely troubled by “Genetic Destiny”. Not sure if that’s a real term or not, but it is now.

Atheism tells me that God doesn’t exist. Though I am the result of others, my decisions largely control my path in life. Even though every decision I make is the result of someone else.

We’re all interconnected, and everything we do, or decide, is because of someone else. Still, we’re free to make decisions based on these situations. If you have any doubt about the fact that you reading this very sentence right now is the result of other people, consult your belly button. It’s an artifact of your helplessness to the actions of others. I’m the winner of an impromptu swimming race 23 some odd years ago.

Today, I find myself bothered by genetics, and how un-atheistic it is. Genetics would say that you don’t have a choice in what happens to you. In every cell of my body there is some cryptic order of cells that determine everything about me. How I smile. How I sound. How I learn. And most troubling, hopefully, what will kill me.

Whats bothering me about it most is the lack of choice. My hair was brown before I had hair. I was tall and skinny before I could walk. These are the pages in the book I can read thus far. Maybe I’m dead of a heart attack? Or a stroke? Can’t say yet.

The problem with it all is that their is literally a “book of life”, to borrow from the jews, written for me. And I fucking hate that.

I choose not to smoke cigarettes on the basis that it’s bad for me and will probably give me cancer. However, if I smoke, there is a chance I’ll die from something totally unrelated. Stomach cancer. I don’t know. So I have to live as if my decisions make a difference, because even though I have a “destiny” it was not figured out for me by some benevolent force looking down on me from a cloud. I’m merely the most recent permutation of thousands of generations.

This is what dancing does to me.

Usually, I’ll try to count the seconds I am able to hold it, however sometimes I do it just to do it. I have a theory that counting makes you aware you’re not breathing and psyches you out into holding your breath for a shorter time.

I’m not sure their are any health benefits to holding your breath. In fact, I can’t really think of any real application for this skill. Maybe my car is sinking into a large body of water? Perhaps I need to rescue someone in a pool? Not very likely. However, I have a new personal best.

I have such random weaknesses.

And here is the video where she treks around the world all hot like:

• Doesn’t weigh 12 million pounds
• Makes good use of color
• Very Comfortable
• Doesn’t encourage people to make incorrect assumptions about my sexuality.
• Durable enough to hold up to the many asses I kick. (I have a similar requirement about pens I use to be able to hold up to all the names I take, but I digress…)
• Not Lame.

I don’t think this is an unreasonable set of demands for something I have to wear for the better part of my waking life for a while. In fact, I think that’s pretty easy going. Regardless, a trip to the mall had me reeling in disgust.

For the record, I’m not a professional motocross rider. I’ve never made any claim to be one. However, it seems that pretending you ride freestyle motocross is the newest hippest fad along with pretending you’re an ultimate fighter. If you’re looking for 20 of the same shoes, slightly tweaked to prevent idiots from seeing they’re all essentially the same, consult your local mall. Pictured Top Right, is pretty much what I was confronted with at every single store: Black and white with black and some squiggly black or white highlighted with black. Or white.

What’s a guy to do? Call bullshit on the myth that “Well, I can’t do any better”. I bought a pair of White Vans for 30 bucks, broke out my airbrush (A Badger 155 Airbrush), and held up the finger to conformity. I did some planning in photoshop (Pictured Right) but once the paint started flowing, creativity took over a little bit. Below are some pictures I took while painting my new kicks. If you have any questions, don’t be afraid to leave them in the comments. Click to see the larger version.

The shoes turned out VERY vivid and bright. Not really how I envisioned them looking, but I made them, they’re EXACTLY what I want, and they cost me 1/3 of what “The Man’s” shoes would have cost, and if I want, I can still go pro with my freestyle motocross riding.

This year, I made reservations at my favorite dive bar, Iguana Macks. How can you go wrong attending any establishment with “Mack” in the title? The 3 days prior to my birthday, it rained. It rained all day on my birthday, but luckily just hours before I was to go to my reservation, it magically stopped. It was perfect..well as perfect as it could be, it was still as cold as a mother fucker. I use the term “Cold as mother fucker” in all relativity of course. It is Arizona.

I had 5 or 6 close friends drinking with me. I like to drink Coronas. They’re my all around stand by. However, on special occasions, I like to mix it up. Mix it up I did. My friend John, the only other guy I know in the world with a “boca” (the ability to talk) like mine, insisted that I try “Soco and Lime”. I, after some coaxing, agreed. Our waitress, the quintessential blond, brought us these very brown, very large shots.

“John, These soco shots look and smell an awful lot like Tequila…” I said somewhat suspiciously. Alcohol makes me a skeptic.

As I suspected, even in my somewhat drunk state, they were tequila. We told her she brought us the wrong shot, and she apologized and scampered off to make it right. She brought us back our limey drinks, and we drank them. Much to my chagrin, they were good. Then, a few minutes later she came back with the tequila shots. I kidded with with her, “The bartended didn’t have a funnel to pour them back in the bottle?” She blushed slightly. The kind of blush that made me think she hadn’t thought to try and use a funnel.

These were damn close to triple shots. Served in a cocktail glass, about 1/3 of the way full. I like to use the term “raunchy” to describe them. We cheersed to something drunken but celebratory. Free tequila will have that effect on people. I watched as Brooke, the beautiful 110 pound girl across from me, slammed down her glass in victory, followed by several other. I found myself still drinking, my top lip totally submersed. This was a lot of tequila.

I finished, but felt very sick. I stood up just in case I needed to make a dash somewhere. Shooting tequila is fine. Drinking it like water on a hot day is not. My friends, knowing me very well, knew that I was sick. Apparently I have ‘a look’. Someone, and it’s only because I was trying to not spew that I do not remember, suggested I just “mosy to the bathroom and come back when I feel better”. However, I persevered and totally impressed everyone by sitting down 2 minutes later, totally composed again and drinking a beer. Sometimes, I do feel like a rockstar.

Unfortunately, after that moment, things start to get hazy. They had an awesome wood burning stove that kept everything really cozy. The next morning, our clothes smelled like a campfire. It was a great birthday.

“These actions give solace to the chef unsure of her guests fondness for dishes from the Shetland Isle. ”

Say it aloud a few times.

Somehow, there is nothing romantic about using one’s own ID. Nothing romantic about being able to go wherever I want.  Even though I don’t really like drinking that much, I’m kind of excited. I like margaritas. They’re good.

I feel old. What the hell have I been doing since I turned 18? Playing with airplanes? Has it really been three years?

How to celebrate… I thought about having a party… but that seems so bourgouis. I could have parties when I was under 21. This birthday, time to hit the town.

Ah. Scattered thoughts today. Not my normal organized musings.
Joshua Ziering

That’s actually not entirely true. I’ve been given my 15 minutes of fame, and appeared on national network television. I still haven’t written about it.

I’ve been to Vegas, California, Ohio, Oklahoma, and New York. Lots of traveling has transcended. I’ve met all kinds of crazy different people. I’ve gained a lot of perspective in the past year. Enough perspective to know I have to go back to school. Not sure why. Not sure for what, but I start Chandler/Gilbert Community college Jan 15. I turn 21 in a week. So in many way, I’m living the “last days of freedom”. I dont entirely feel that is true, because I think school will enrich my life. It’ll give me direction and purpose. This way I wont end up fixing computers or whoring myself out equally degrading.

Joshua Ziering