Great Oden's Raven

A Different Drummer


“Can I please be excused?” I asked while I balled up my napkin and put it on my dinner plate. Mom looked at me and raised an eye brow.
“Did you eat all of those green beans?” she said. I was like “I took three bites, that’s all you said I needed to eat to be excused.” Then she purses her lips and looks down her nose at me and goes “Why don’t you take three more, sweet heart.” She said I only needed three! “But you said I only needed three!”
“Three more and you can be excused.” She says sternly and shoots dad a glance. He doesn’t even notice because he’s so busy scarfing down the gross tuna thing mom made. I scraped my top lip with my bottom teeth and dug my nails into my leg. I was starting to get a permanent scratch there, but who cares.
“Fine.” I took my stupid pink napkin off the plate and picked up the smallest green bean. It felt like a slug on my fingers. I put it on my tongue and felt all the juices in my stomach bubble and move around. I somehow managed to chew and swallow it, even though it felt like a bug. “Can that be it?” She shook her head and her stupid curls bounced around her fat face. Maybe she should eat three more bites of nothing so shes less fat. I grabbed one more slimy green bean, closed my eyes, shoved it in my mouth and then did it again. I threw my napkin back on my plate and shot them an evil glare. I stood up making as much noise as possible and ran upstairs. “You’re excused!” mom shouted as I was climbing the stairs.
I got into my room and I was like fuck them. I thought “I’m 12 and half. She can’t fucking tell me what to do anymore. What the hell does she know about me anyway?” I laid down on my bed and looked at the ceiling. I wanted freedom. Ultimate freedom. There was only one way to get it. Well there were two ways. I could run away, live on the road drop out of school and make money off of something. I had plenty of skills. I was pretty good at basketball. And I played the saxophone pretty good. I could definitely make my way out there somehow. Or, option number two, I could kill mom and dad. I mean what did they ever do for me, right? And then I could use their credit cards and shit to pay for everything and just live in the house. I could make up some excuse about how they are on vacation and keep it going until there’s some big plane crash and then say that they were on the plane. Some plane crashes every few weeks. Who would ask questions anyway? NO one.
So I stood up, grabbed my Rasta hat from six flags and put it on so I could think. I saw down with a pencil and a pad of paper that I stole from a bank. I crossed out the First National Bank heading and wrote “WAYS TO KILL WENDY AND JOHN” in big dark letters. Then I listed everything that came to mind, because you aren’t suppose to filter yourself when you brainstorm. You go back through and filter later. The first few were things anyone who wanted to kill their parents would think of: Shooting them, setting the house on fire, gas stove, etc. But that would mean sacrificing the house and where would I live then and where would I get a gun, anyway. I kept writing though. I also came up with: Suffocate in sleep, poison, cut brakes on car, release rapid dogs, fill their pockets with stones and send them into the ocean, hit them with the car, make them kill themselves, and kill one of them and have the other framed for their murder. Nothing on the list jumped out at me as a real possibility. I would want something that was quick and easy and all of these seemed involved and like too much work. I looked at the clock on my desk and it was 7:34. I remembered I was supposed to meet Rick online at 8 to talk on AIM but I hadn’t done my English homework yet.
I was supposed to write a one-page essay about “Marching to the beat of a different drummer” and how that applied to me. I looked into my backpack and realized I forgot my binder with all the lose leaf in it at school. “Shit!” I thought. Well I wasn’t about to leave my room and go downstairs to get some where I knew I would run into mom and dad so I tore off the “WAYS TO KILL WENDY AND JOHN” list and placed it next to the lamp. I crossed out the First National Bank heading again on the next sheet of paper and wrote in big dark letters “A DIFFERENT DRUMMER” at the top. I made up some bullshit about how it is good to be an individual but mostly I tended to like the same things as all of my friends and if I didn’t like the same things then we wouldn’t be friends, so why would I try to be different? I gave the example of how Rick and Sam always wanted to make gross concoctions at lunch and I never did. But the one time I said I didn’t want to they wouldn’t let me sit with them. So it’s like sit by yourself or make a gross concoction that tastes like baby farts once in a while, I think I would always choose the baby farts. In conclusion I said that I don’t even really like music with drums, just acoustic guitar and rap. I even wrote two pages, not just one. But the bank pad was thinner then regular paper, so it probably equaled a page anyway.
I ripped off the piece of paper and put it by the lamp. 7:58. Great. I took off my Rasta hat and threw it on the bed. I opened my bedroom door trying to make as little noise as possible. I was technically grounded from the computer because I didn’t come home for dinner two nights ago. But I could hear mom and dad laughing at 3rd Rock From the Sun downstairs. The weird brother who wears vests guy said something funny about living on earth and Wendy and John flipped their shit. As long as they were distracted I could totally sneak down the hall way into the computer room and get away with this.
I slid though a small opening in the door and got down on my hands and knees and crawled on the thick white carpet down the hall. I passed mom and dad’s room with their gi-nourmous bed. It had to be so big because they were so fat. And stupid. I was passing the bathroom when I heard dad cough. I fell flat on my stomach and didn’t move in case he looked up through the banister. I know this wouldn’t really help if he looked at me but it was the only thing I could think of to do. If I get caught sneaking on the computer I would probably get grounded from TV. They’ll never catch me. And even if they do and I do get grounded that will be an even better excuse to definitely go through with the whole killing thing.
So I managed to get to the computer room and jumped off the floor into the spinney cushiony chair. The computer was on, thank god, so I didn’t have to think of a way to muffle the start up sound. I signed online and everyone was there. As I was reaching for the speakers to make sure they were off a stupid box opens on the screen along with the loudest attention noise thing I have ever heard. “Shit!” I thought. I turned down the speaker and crouched real low and help my breath. “STEVE,” a questioning voice called from downstairs. I didn’t answer. “Steve! Are you on the computer!?” I freaked out. I clicked off the monitor and quietly walked into the hall to the top of the stairs. “Steve!”
“Ya, Mom?” I said from the top stair.
“Are you on the computer?” she shouted from her reclined chair in the living room.
“No way mom, I’m grounded from the computer, remember?”
“Oh I remember, but I’m pretty sure I just heard one of those chatting sounds.”
“No, I was doing my homework, in my room.” I heard the chair squeak as she got up. My heart was racing. Fuck. She appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She put one foot on the last stair, one hand on the banister, and the other hand on her fat hip.
“Can I please see what you were working on then?”
“Sure I just finished it.” I ran into my room, my hands were shaking a little because I wasn’t sure that I was going to get out of this without getting in more trouble. I grabbed the paper by the lamp and went downstairs as quickly as possible. I handed her the papers trying to hide my nervousness as best I could. The second those narrow sheets of bank paper left my hand I knew I had messed up big time. I had just handed my mom the list! The list with ways to kill her!!! Without thinking I screamed and threw myself over the bottom two stairs onto the carpeted ground. She looked up from the paper and her questioning eyes shot through me. “I think I got a splinter from the banister,” I yelled. She narrowed her eyes and, I swear to God, in slow motion she turned her head from me to the sheets in her hand and saw the list. Her face went from being slightly agitated to being filled with surprise, horror, and anger. Her cheeks turned red and her eyebrows raised up into her hairline. Her nostrils flared like a fish opening its mouth. She pursed her lips and sucked a thick stream of air through her fish mouth nostrils. I swear to God again it came out as steam. “Steve. What in the Lord’s name is this?”
“My homework?”
“Your homework was a list of ways to kill your parents? John get in here!”
“It was just a joke, mom! I wasn’t really going to do anything I just wanted to see how many ways I could think of .” She didn’t buy it. Dad came waddling in from the living room with some crumbs on his shirt. She thrusted the list as his fat chest.
“Look what your son has been up in his room doing all night?” He took the paper in his hand and his eyes got real big as he read through my brainstorm of ways to kill him.
“You shouldn’t be stealing paper from the Bank, son.”
“John! That is not important right now! Do you see this! He wants to kill us. To MURDER his own parents.” Dad realized he was supposed to be as mad if not madder then mom so he took in a deep breath and started to yell at me.
“This is not okay, Steve. We work very hard to give you a nice life and you want to kill us? Not every 12 year old boy out there has an IPod and three delicious meals a day, you know.”
“ Steve, I know that things are rough at school sometimes, but if something is bothering you we should all sit down and talk about it. I don’t want you to let everything build up inside and end up as one of those crazies who shoots all their friends in the cafeteria.”
“God, you guys, it was just a joke. I’m not some psycho whatever. I just thought it would be funny to think about,” I yelled. At this point I wasn’t sure if I was telling the truth or not. I had wanted to kill them earlier that night but I don’t think it is something I would have really done. Why did I have to go and write it down? Now I was going to hear about this for, like, the rest of my life. Mom was really flustered and Dad was just wanting to go back into the living room and watch 3rd Rock from the Sun. She put her hand in her curls and started to bite her lower lip. I could see the tears start to build up in her eyes. “Honey, is something wrong? This is really scaring me. What’s bothering you?” Dad walked over to her and patted her back as he looked over his shoulder towards the TV.
“You are mom. You always treat me like a baby and you guys are always trying to control everything I do. I just want to be on my own.”
I grabbed the list out of her hand and tore up the steps. I slammed my door. Then I decided to slam it again. And again. And one more time. Why not? Man I hate them. Mom is always crying. I heard the steps creak as she walked up them and towards the door. She didn’t even knock. She just came in. I was sitting in my desk chair facing the window and she sat down behind me on my bed. I could hear her playing with the sheets between her sausage fingers. “Are you doing drugs?”
“Are you doing drugs, Mom?”
“Steve, answer me.”
“No mom, I’m not doing drugs. I’m 12, not 15. And even if I was I wouldn’t tell you if you asked me.” She was so stupid. I almost told her I was doing drugs, because she probably would have died right then.
“Steve, this really worries me. If you don’t talk to me I am going to have to call the counselors at school and have one of them come take you out of class to talk to you. And I know how embarrassing that can be, so maybe you should tell me whats going on.”
I knew there was no easy way out of this. Talking to a counselor would be worse then talking to mom so I decided to take the path of making something up so mom would get off my case. “Mom, look. I don’t really want to kill you guys. It was a joke. Rick was talking about it at school earlier and how easy it would be to kill someone, so I just thought I would brainstorm some ideas. And I chose to put your guys’ names on the top of the list because you are the LAST people I would want to kill. But I’m not crazy. I’m not going to kill anyone. I swear.”
“ I don’t know if I like the influence these friends of yours have on you. First I find that dead bird in the dryer, then you don’t come home until late the other night, and now this. I am going to be keeping an extra eye on you, sweetie, and you may hate me even more for being extra protective, but in the long run you will thank me. You’ll thank me when all your friends have wives and babies and low paying jobs when they are 18 and you are on your way to Princeton. My little Princeton boy, just you wait.” Somehow I forced some sort of smile. She got up and rustled my hair and kissed my head.
“I’m going to go back downstairs. Finish up your homework and you can go on the computer for a little bit before bed.”
“But I thought I was grounded from it?”
“Well you were, but I know how much you like you chatting.”
As she left I was wondering if she was scared of me now. I wondered if she thought I might really do it. And now she was letting me do what I wanted. Maybe things had worked out to my advantage.
I walked back into the computer room and turned on the monitor. I had about eight instant message boxes with line after line wondering where I was. I couldn’t wait to tell Rick and Sam about this. They were going to think I was so cool, me who can rule over their parents and get whatever I want. Me who won’t have to do anymore chores or eat his green beans. They were totally impressed with the whole story, but told me I should leave evidence around the house that I might actually do it to scare them even more. I didn’t know if I wanted to go that far, but Rick and Sam usually have pretty good ideas. But then I realized I had come up with this plan to kill my parents all by myself, and maybe I did have some pretty good ideas on my own. Maybe I could march to the beat of my own drum and still have my friends think I was cool. Maybe if I actually killed my parents, everyone would think I was cool.

Sigh

After that poem yesterday I totally have a crush on Leo again.

" 'A real man makes his own luck'- Billy Zane, Titanic" -Dwight, The Office

Dear Leonard Dicaprio

I was thinking about you today
When I saw a boy with floppy hair
and a slight nose.

I remembered when you looked in my 12 year old eyes
with your icy warm baby blues
and your hand moved with charcoal across the page.

You might as well have saved me from Jumping
With your floppy hair and slight nose.

Now that your hair is cut and you thin frame filled out with manly muscles
Where are you now my sweet little Leo?
Lunching with Al Gore?
Dipping diamonds in blood?
Or writing me a poem,
As I am writing you?

You jump, I jump, remember?

This well established band, The Poster Children, is doing the live music for Kip Knutzen. Come see it!!!

http://www.posterchildren.com/video.php?video=0

You can't spell show week without insomnia.

Maybe I cant sleep sometimes because Tom Hanks cerca 1993 is trying to get me to listen to some call in radio show or something.


Come see my play!

Then some friends came

Bryant Lake Bowl

You could hear people bowling while we performed, in the air, a little in your ears too.

Yes

Obama vs. the Phobocracy


By Michael Chabon
Monday, February 4, 2008; 12:00 AM

There are many reasons not to support Barack Obama's candidacy for president, but every one of them is bad for the same reason.

Because I have come out publicly for the senator from Illinois, I am often called upon to listen as people offer up -- with wistfulness and regret, or with a pundit's show of certainty, or with a well-earned but useless skepticism -- their bad reasons for not giving Obama their support. For a long time now, I have listened to these people with forbearance and with a sense of duty -- not to some principle of open debate or of the inherent merit in the free exchange of even meritless ideas, but rather out of obligation to the candidate whose cause I champion.

Because Obama appears to be a patient, forbearing man with a gift for listening, I figured I owed it to him to play the thing his way. So I have nodded and looked into their eyes and hummed sympathetically as people gave their reasons and made their excuses and generally offered up, as if they were golden ingots of profound wisdom, the handful of two-penny nails with which they plan to board up the windows of their hopes for themselves, their families, their country and the world.

But now, with everything seeming to come down, at last, to the first Tuesday in February, and in the wake of an all-out, months-long push by the cynicism industry to cook up an entire line of bad reasons ready to heat and serve, I admit that I'm getting tired of listening to rationales from people who know that Obama is a remarkable, even an extraordinary politician, the kind who comes along, in this era of snakes and empty smiles, no more than once a generation.

Oh, sure, most of these people tell me they would like to see Obama become president. No question, he comes off as at once brilliant and sensible, vibrant and measured, engaged and engaging, talented, forthright, quick-witted, passionate, thoughtful and, as with all remarkable people whom experience has taught both the extent and the bitter limits of their gifts, reasonably humble. In a better world, people tell me, in theory, sure, having a president like Barack Obama sounds great. But not, you know, for real. Not in the base, corrupt, morally spent, toxic and reeling rats' nest that we like to call home. Things are so bad we just can't afford to waste our votes, people tell me, on some fantasy super-president with magical powers. We need someone electable, someone, as I have been told repeatedly in the past year, who can win.

Of course this misses the point; it misses all kinds of points. In a better world, if there were such a thing (and so far there never has been), we would not need a president like Obama as badly as we do. If there were less at stake, if our democracy had not been permitted, indeed encouraged, to sink to its present degraded and embattled condition not only by the present administration but by a fair number of those people now seeking to head up the next one, perhaps then we could afford to waste our votes on the candidate who knows best how to jigger, to manipulate and to conform to the vapid specifications of the debased electoral process it has been our unhappy fate to construct for ourselves.

Because ultimately, that is the point of Obama's candidacy -- of the hope, enthusiasm and sense of purpose it inspires, yes, but more crucially, of the very doubts and reservations expressed by those who pronounce, whether in tones of regret, certainty or skepticism, that America is not ready for Obama, or that Obama is not ready for the job, or that nobody of any worth or decency -- supposing there even to be such a person left on the American political scene -- can be expected to survive for a moment with his idealism and principle intact.

The point of Obama's candidacy is that the damaged state of American democracy is not the fault of George W. Bush and his minions, the corporate-controlled media, the insurance industry, the oil industry, lobbyists, terrorists, illegal immigrants or Satan. The point is that this mess is our fault. We let in the serpents and liars, we exchanged shining ideals for a handful of nails and some two-by-fours, and we did it by resorting to the simplest, deepest-seated and readiest method we possess as human beings for trying to make sense of the world: through our fear. America has become a phobocracy.

Since I started talking and writing about Obama I have come to see that this ruling fear, and nothing else, lies at the back of every objection or reservation people raise or harbor regarding the man and his candidacy.

Fear whispers to us that white voters have a nasty tendency to tell pollsters, friends and neighbors that they support an African American candidate, then go into the voting booth and let the fear known as racism pull the lever.

Fear tells us that ugliness, rage and brutality are the central facts of human existence, that decency and tolerance are luxuries on whose altar our enemies will be only too happy to sacrifice us.

It is through our fear of falling prey to the calamity and misadventure from which the media promise faithlessly to protect us -- a fear manufactured and sold by the media themselves -- that we accept without question the media-borne canard (tainted, in my view, by a racism as insidious as any that hides behind the curtains of voting booths) that Barack Obama, a seasoned and successful 46-year-old husband and father of two, a man sweeping into the prime of his life with all his sails and flags unfurled, is too young and inexperienced for a job that demands vitality and flexibility and that, furthermore, has made nonsense of glittering resumes, laughingstocks of practiced old hands and, in a reverse of Popeye's old trick, ravenous alligators out of years of accumulated baggage.

Fear and those who fatten on it spread vile lies about Obama's religion, his past drug use, his views on Israel and the Jews. Fear makes us see the world purely in terms of enemies and perils, and leads us to seek out the promise of leadership, however spurious it proves to be, among those who speak the language of that doomed and demeaning, that inhuman view of the world.

But the most pitiable fear of all is the fear of disappointment, of having our hearts broken and our hopes dashed by this radiant, humane politician who seems not just with his words but with every step he takes, simply by the fact of his running at all, to promise so much for our country, for our future and for the eventual state of our national soul. I say "pitiable" because this fear of disappointment, which I hear underlying so many of the doubts that people express to me, is ultimately a fear of finding out the truth about ourselves and the extent of the mess that we have gotten ourselves into. If we do fight for Obama, work for him, believe in him, vote for him, and the man goes down to defeat by the big-money machines and the merchants of fear, then what hope will we have left to hold on to?

Thus in the name of preserving hope do we disdain it. That is how a phobocracy maintains its grip on power.

To support Obama, we must permit ourselves to feel hope, to acknowledge the possibility that we can aspire as a nation to be more than merely secure or predominant. We must allow ourselves to believe in Obama, not blindly or unquestioningly as we might believe in some demagogue or figurehead but as we believe in the comfort we take in our families, in the pleasure of good company, in the blessings of peace and liberty, in any thing that requires us to put our trust in the best part of ourselves and others. That kind of belief is a revolutionary act. It holds the power, in time, to overturn and repair all the damage that our fear has driven us to inflict on ourselves and the world.

And when we all wake up on Nov. 5, 2008, to find that we have made Barack Obama the president of the United States, the world is already going to feel, to all of us, a little different, a little truer to its, and our, better nature. It is part of the world's nature and of our own to break, ruin and destroy; but it is also our nature and the world's to find ways to mend what has been broken. We can do that. Come on. Don't be afraid.

mchabon@gmail.com

Michael Chabon's novels include "The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay," "The Yiddish Policemen's Union" and, most recently, "Gentlemen of the Road."

The Places We Stayed

In Minneapolis:
Beer that was hard to open and a movie
A two year old named Ella who had a larger vocabulary then I
Organic Food
Retro house with nice floors

This is where I am

waiting to get picked up. The guards in the different galleries sing or dance when you look at them and then tell you about a new piece in the museum. Its cool, but really confusing at first. Oh, art.