To veer from my normal introspective ramblings, it brings a smile to my face when I see 13-year-old kid watching Showgirls on VH1 while on the treadmill at the gym.

I'm a sick human being sometimes.

Funny how small things always manage to kickstart the brain into ponderous musings on the nature of life.

Recently, one of my coworkers passed around that little catalog that you get when you’re in elementary school. You know the one. The kind with all sorts of holiday doodads, kitchenware, household decorations, candles, etc. My coworker was playing the role of good mama and passed this sucker around to everyone in the office. Naturally, everyone being a reasonably good person bought something, not wanting to sleight such a cute kid.

So, seeing as how I had just recently gotten my own place, I decided to look for some swag for the cradle. I say “cradle” because it’s not quite a “crib,” yet. I think to officially be dubbed a “crib,” some “honeys” are required. And since the catalog didn’t offer any of those cute little honey bear bottles, it shall stay as a cradle until there is some sort of honey-esque interjection.

Anyway, I came across a Bonsai tree, and thought it’d be nice to get some life into the cradle. I’ve always had a certain affinity for plant life and botanical types, so I figured, “why not?” The one hitch to it all… the little sucker had to be planted. Sonuva…

Now, I have no experience whatsoever in caring for plants, animals, myself, or living things in general. That said, I knew this was gonna be a challenge. I mean, me not only having to take care of a living thing, but having to practically birth it? You’d have a better chance of finding honesty in the Bush Administration. Nevertheless, determined to at least give it a shot, I ordered the sucker. And about four to eight weeks later, my order came. When I opened the package, I was given maybe half-a-dozen seeds, soil and a small pot. I wasn’t even given anything to put under the pot. Seeing as how there’s a hole to sop up excess water, I was forced to nab an ashtray from my parents’ place.

The directions were brutally simple and painfully ambiguous: “place seeds about one inch apart, water regularly.” How regularly, motherfucker? What, like once a day, twice a day, hourly? Define regularly, you fuckwit piece of paper!

You can almost foresee a disaster in the making as you read this, right? Well, I stuck it out and watered this tiny pot of soil daily. Just enough to keep it good and moist. I have no botanical experience whatsoever as I mentioned, so I just kinda made sure it was a regular thing in my daily diet of to-do’s. After more than a month, I had all but given up hope on this sucker ever sprouting.

Then one day just a week or so ago, I noticed two small green tendrils emerging from the soil. Whu…? You mean to tell me that I actually succeeded in caring for a plant? And not for nothing, but my mother is a gardener of the alpha variety, so she knew I was up against a wall with this thing, and told me point blank that I had wasted my money in buying them. I was beginning to believe her, too, until I saw it blossom with my own two eyes.

In honor of the classic Karate Kid, series (pre-Hilary Swank, of course), I named my beloved Bonsai-in-progress “Miyagi.” Perhaps it was fate that just one day after he sprouted, Pat Morita passed away. I’m happy to report that little Miyagi continues to grow noticeably each day.

Where am I goin’ with this? I’ll tell you where.

It’s taken me a page and a half worth of writing to rip a page from my life as an illustrative metaphor that pace is essential to the life we lead, people. Now little Miyagi, he had to grow at his own pace in spite of his father’s impatience and ignorance as to the inner workings of plant life. He couldn’t be rushed, no matter how much water or sunlight he received, and at the end of the day, I feel much better in knowing that I’m able to watch him grow from seed to sprout to proud Bonsai when I could’ve just gone to Costco or any generic Asian kiosk in the mall and bought a full-grown Bonsai.

The equation here is simple, my pretties… the more steady the pace, the better the quality of your life. If the pace is accelerated, the likelihood of disaster is amplified. We lose sight of this quite frequently in life due to the nature of the society in which we live, because our culture doesn’t permit a steady pace. Everything has to be expedited: faster, more efficient, able to process quicker, etc. We move so fast, naturally our lives feel empty, less than complete, like we’re missing something. It’s because we’re not moving at a healthy pace, plain and simple.

I have noticed that within the context of my job, when I am rushed to get things in on short deadlines, more often than not mistakes are made. I would say that no compromises should be made for timeliness, but it’s par for the course around my office that I’m not the only one making such errors when pressed that way. Having said that, I don’t believe there should be a trade-off between accuracy and punctuality, but the saying does apply: “You can have it done fast, or you can have it done right.”

Pick one.

I’ve also come to realize that my pacing with my workouts has slowed and become more intent, more focused. And yeah, I’ve noticed results. That focus also applies to meditation, a highly enriching practice that requires one to keep the pace slow… to not get caught up in the high impact world in which we live. Needless to say this is another practice that I have adopted and grown to love.

Moreover, I feel that my pace in terms of relationships has improved dramatically. Following my last relationship, I’ve slowed things down considerably, taken a good amount of time to and for myself, and just enjoyed life without having to endure the pressures of having to be with someone. And for what it’s worth, I’ve felt better over the last four-plus months than I have in ages.

Imagine that, huh?

This is the thing: no matter how hard we push, no matter how badly we want something, we cannot force it to happen. If we attempt such a feat, we ultimately push whatever it is we want to the brink of ruin, because either we will have gone too far and pushed it to its limit, or once we attain it, it simply won’t seem as special as we had hoped. That’s because we yearned for it and worked for it so hard that when we get a half-assed end result, it’s extremely dissatisfying.

No, my friends… it is better for us to keep the pace of ourselves and our lives as moderate and controlled as possible. This is how the battle is won, and it’s taken me 25 years to come to that conclusion. Maybe I’m a little late in the game as far as coming to terms with it, but I operate at my own steady pace, and better to learn now than not learn at all.

I’m sure lots of this sounds like Zen mumbo jumbo, but trust me when I tell you, the quality of my life has improved tenfold, and the fact remains that whatever it is I’m working for will come in time. That’s not to say I shouldn’t work for it, but in keeping the pace at a comfortable level, it will come to me in time.

I’d imagine the same holds for you. Just watch.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

And then, there was but one.

I was in the midst of writing a fairly lengthy, Zen post when I found out that yet another of my longtime heroes died. It always saddens me deeply when people in the public eye that I truly admire pass away, particularly because there are very few individuals who fit that bill in full. Yet over the last few years, I’ve seen more and more of them buy the big ticket (Johnny Cash, Eddie Guerrero, etc.). It’s rare for me to see someone that has the ubiquitous “celebrity” sticker attached to their person that I genuinely respect… most of them were long gone before I was born (Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X… I was only three weeks old when John Lennon was killed, so I guess he doesn’t count, but you get the idea), so it’s always a letdown when one of the few that are still standing bids us sweet ado.

The two most beautiful words in comedy passed away yesterday, leaving behind a history that is certain to be completely unique, irreplaceable, and will never be replicated by any other comedian, black or white. The opening line of this post is in reference to a comment Jon Stewart made several years ago when hosting an HBO special honoring George Carlin (who, as you probably know, is another of these rare heroes to me). Stewart alluded to the Comedian’s Holy Trinity: George Carlin, Lenny Bruce, and Richard Pryor. Lenny died a long time ago, and now Rich is gone, too. Carlin is the last one standing.

One of the reasons that I respected Pryor as much as I did was that despite his battle with multiple sclerosis, he still did stand-up on occasion. Despite the pain that permeated his existence on a daily basis, he stuck by his convictions and what he believed in… so much so to the point where he was still somewhat active in the stand-up community.

But the infinitely greater reason that I admired him so much is basically the same reason I respect the other two gods in the Holy Trinity: he thumbed his nose at conformity and challenged all precepts of what should be. Pryor was the “Anti-Cosby.” While Bill was up there talking about his kids and Fat Albert decades before pushing pudding pops down Theo’s throat, Pryor was spewing it like he saw it about race relations in the world and the way things really were. Race, drugs, sex, nothing was off-color to him. Bruce set the tone for challenging authority in the world of comedy, and Carlin and Pryor each took that fundamental groundwork and ran with it, putting their individual spins on it.

In doing so, they each set the stage for comedians to follow. While there is certainly overlap in their influence throughout the stand-up world, there are many cases where you can directly link their work to present-day comics. Carlin managed to open the floodgates for raunchy, sociopolitical comics like Stewart, Dennis Miller and Lewis Black. Pryor, needless to say, broke ground for the African-American comics, and I think anyone would say that without hesitation. Eddie Murphy, Chris Rock, Dave Chappelle, all have cited Pryor as their primary influence, and it’s easy to see why. He said what others were thinking, but scared to speak on.

Challenge the norm. Set the precedent. Thumb your nose at authority.

That soon became the mantra for comics from all walks of life. But Pryor’s accomplishments as a controversial black comic will likely never be replicated. Eddie Murphy has fallen into the cinematic hell that is kid-friendly family films, Chris Rock has gained too much mainstream success to be as influential as his hero, and Dave Chappelle has, in many ways, opted for a more personally enriching existence as opposed to playing off of the success of his show. I hate saying that, because each of these individuals is tremendously funny under the right circumstances. But none of them are Richard Pryor, plain and simple.

It came as no surprise to me that when Comedy Central listed their top 100 stand-up comics last year (one of the few top 100 lists I was not only able to watch and stomach, but actually enjoy thoroughly), numbers one, two and three were Pryor, Carlin and Bruce. It almost seemed academic in some ways (kinda like listing the Beatles as number one on the top 100 bands ever), but it was also the most accurate top tier you could envision. Those three have demolished so many glass ceilings, they have made life almost too easy for comics today. The comment was made by many of the comics on the panel that they are spoiled, simply because they don’t have to endure the kind of controversy and blackballing that the Trinity did. Particularly Pryor.

And I love a lot of the comics that are out there right now. I think Dane Cook is fast becoming the best stand-up out there. I have always loved guys like Lewis Black and Dave Attell. But there will never be three finer comics like the Trinity, nor will there be any more influential individuals than they. In a way, it makes be sad, because it is now painfully obvious that there’s not much more that can be done in terms of originality or groundbreaking stand-up. But at the same time, while I can listen to Harmful If Swallowed or Retaliation and adore it, I will always gravitate back toward stuff like Was It Something I Said? and SuperNigger. And I will walk away from those albums and stuff like Carlin’s Class Clown and AM/FM with a greater sense of satisfaction and appreciation for what a true art form stand-up comedy really is.

Sometimes you just know when you come across greatness. And it makes me sad that greatness has just left us. The ripple effect that stems from Pryor's work is simply immeasureable, and besides that, he was just so Goddamn hilarious. Almost makes me want to sit through Superman III just for his lines. Almost.

A few years back, there was a tribute to Rich entitled I Ain’t Dead Yet, Motherfucker! I’m still not convinced he is.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

Fuck 50 Cent.

Yeah, I said it. I know he’s a physically rock solid, tried and true O.G. But you know what? He is a completely untalented physically rock solid, tried and true O.G.

Now, as many of you know, hip hop is not my forte when it comes to my musical preferences. However, my tastes do vary more so than the moods of a bipolar penguin with seasonal affective disorder and a one-way ticket to Bermuda, so I actually do have some block-rockin’ beatz on Kilgore.

Kilgore is my new iPod. Devastator had to be put to bed.

Devastator was my first iPod, in case you didn’t pick up on that.

If people can name their cars, computers and cocks, I can name my iPod, dammit.

As I was saying, I do like some hip hop, and I have my few favorite artists that I’ll gravitate to. I’ll always appreciate trendsetters from the early days like Run DMC and to a lesser extent, the Beastie Boys. I’ll always appreciate the raw and complex social commentary offered up by the likes of Public Enemy and Tupac Shakur. I can even appreciate the lyrical abilities of cats like Biggie Smalls and Eminem.

But 50 Cent doesn’t have an ounce of skill (or skillz) in his million dollar body when it comes to rap. The most memorable part of his debut affair, Get Rich Or Die Tryin’ was the downbeat to “In Da Club.”

And that’s it. Seriously, that’s the only part of that entire album that I find listenable/tolerable. He doesn’t rhyme with the proficiency of an Eminem or the fire of a Tupac. In fact, most of his songs sound the friggin’ same to me simply because of that dull, monotone voice of his that never seems to change it’s tone.

And yet, the man has still somehow managed to pop up everywhere. Since his release of The Massacre earlier this year (which, to my understanding, is aptly named since the album is massacring a potential art form), he has managed to cross over into nearly every other branch of mediart (my term) save for literature. Not surprising since I doubt a book would cater to most of his audience. But he has managed to parlay Get Rich into a lackluster cinematic hack that many consider to be a rip on Eminem’s 8 Mile. And if it is not a full rip, it is, at the very least, attempting to recreate the success of said movie.

Then there was the mind-blowing atrocity that sparked this post in the first place… the man released a video game bearing his name, voice, music and image. 50 Cent: Bulletproof recently hit the shelves. Like everything else Mr. Jackson has done, it tries to dovetail off of a precedent already set… in this case, the freeform, ultra-violent, socially bankrupt phenomenon in gaming started by the popular GTA series. I suppose it’s no surprise that with San Andreas being as huge a success as it was, developers everywhere have tried to cash in on the whole “gangsta” image perpetuated by the game’s early 1990’s setting. That being said, based on the reviews, this came appears to fail miserably. As a “passable” affair, this game should be a rental at best.

Imagine my horror when I found it to be the number one selling game at one of my local game stores. And that seems to be the norm everywhere.

Why? Why is this the number one game in the nation? Can it really be just because 50’s face is plastered all over it? Is he really that dominant a force in the hip hop world? Doesn’t a lack of talent stand for anything in this sick, sad world anymore?

Here’s the thing about hardcore gamers, folks… they are loyal to the bone, but in smaller droves than the average moron. However, word travels fast in the gaming world, and hits and misses are oftentimes quickly dignified as such, sometimes even before the plastic wrap is torn off the case. So if this game really is as piss-poor as we are being led to believe, then there really is no hope for humanity, and style has officially slain substance.

Look, here’s the bottom line… 50 made it for two reasons. One, he has a great look. He’s in great physical shape, which is huge with the ladies, and his thugged out threads only endears him to would-be gangbangers. Two, he is a legitimate tough guy. You don’t get shot nine times and survive without earning yourself some serious street respect (or “cred,” if you will).

But he is not talented.

He never was talented.

Please for the love of God, just go away, 50… You don’t know how bad “Candy Shop” makes me want to go to the liquor shop.

If Eazy E were alive, this prick would’ve been waxed a long time ago. And music would be in a better place for it.

When I told my buddy Vas about this post, his reaction was downright emphatic. Being a budding filmmaker himself, he was quite enthralled with my decision to lambaste Mr. Cent. In fact, I believe his exact words were: “I hope anyone that sees his movie dies. I hope that they die, and that their children contract Chlamydia and then burn in hell for being the offspring of such people. And I want this all to happen in the theater as they watch the last five minutes of his movie.”

I couldn’t have put it better myself. And that’s my 2 cents on 50. I want my change back now, motherfucker.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

The Landshark and I have a special kinship… our birthdays are a mere eight days apart. Now while I may have just hit my quarter-century mark, the dear li’l Landshark is but a wee tyke still, though growing rapidly as he just turned 3.

*Sniff* Gosh, they grow up quick, don’t they? I can remember it like it was yesterday… a small, modest post about the pending horrors to come. And of course, at that time, I had far much more time to devote to my blog practice. Though the times have changed and this li’l fella has taken to walking on his own, I still dote over it like a good parent… or a good parent that has a career, deadlines, planes to catch and leaves the care of his or her children to the beloved nanny Consuela.

Except I don’t know where my nanny is half the time. The little bastard has gotten into my hooch three times in the last week. Consuela, where the fuck are you?

Anyway, I still remember those precious few posts… the one regarding violence in video games, the ongoing rants about the grad school experience, the very first full post about Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez.

“Bennifer.” That’s the term. I had almost shut that entire ordeal out of my head for the last few years until staying home for Thanksgiving this past week, and flipping through the vast wasteland I call television, and in passing heard the term reiterated on one of those confounded top 100 lists that E! and VH1 feel compelled to milk to the never-mind. From what I could gather, it was something exceptionally lame like the top 100 “power couples” or “celebrity breakups” or something to that effect.

When I heard the term, it brought back all those horrid memories of 2003 and the sheer over-saturation of that confounded excuse for a “romance.”

But it didn’t end with “Bennifer.” I was then inundated with the apparent new “compound pet names” for these celebrity “couples” (yes, I parenthesize that, because if you can really qualify these sad human beings as “couples,” you need to redefine your concept of the term “relationship”).

First, there was “Brangelina,” obviously referring to Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Then there was the atrocious “Tomkat,” in reference to Scientology’s favorite thetans, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.

I would love to get my mitts on the ruddy dirt rag reporter that coined any one of the above three names, simply because the pretentiousness and irritation factor in them are off the bloody charts right now. Granted, I have a deep-seated loathing for all celebrities except Christopher Walken and Edward Norton. That being said, I do consider most of them to be something less than human… every time I have seen them interviewed, my bullshit detector has blown a damn gasket. So, seeing as how we have now determined that most celebrities are less than human, I suppose it could be argued that amalgamating their names might be a way of dehumanizing them even more.

That may be true on most days, but here, I have to take issue.

These terms are not meant to degrade, and they really should. Even though these pairings tend to share a common brain that is a tenth the size of their combined egos, that doesn’t mean they should share a common name as well. The designation of a group of two or more people by a pet name typically is done to aggrandize them, not demean them. A good example would be the Rat Pack. Granted, at face value this may not seem like the most shimmering of names… nonetheless, at the end of the day, it became synonymous with talent and savoir-faire, and it became a term that the unit embraced.

The same can be said for these pairings. They embrace the term bestowed upon them by the media, and in turn revel in the absolutely needless attention it seems to garner them. Not for nothing, but if somewhere down the line, some nitwit ever refers to my wife and I by a common name, he can fully expect a high heel up his rectum (or possibly to his gumdrops) and a Deer Stag in the mush.

It’s been a while since I’ve had a good rant on celebrities, the world they live in and the abhorrent façade they call life. Truthfully, it feels pretty good. Again, I always look to out the overrated and overexposed with this baby blog of mine, and the truth is, these names are just absurd to begin with… but they have now risen to the next level we call “overkill.” I’m surprised that some clever asshole never came up with “Jessnicka” or “Kevitney.” I suppose I should also be thankful.

And dear reader, at this time of year, we should give thanks. I suppose that in reviewing this circuitously Zen post that harkens back to the early days and the irritants that caused me to light the fire here, I can at least be thankful that most, if not all of these celebrities will live boorishly empty lives that will end in substance abuse, scandal, divorce, bankruptcy, and God willing, leprosy. If these useless actors and actresses really want to make a go of their 15 minutes and engage the public via the sickening fascination with celebrities that most of us have coupled with the cleverness of a compound term, then I can take tremendous comfort in knowing that they’ll be getting a nice Karmic raping somewhere down the line.

Who says they live better than us?

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.