Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Twas the night before Christmas, and some fads have gone wrong

The English part of me that really loves the language has been baking on something for a while  There is this saying going around--was made even more popular in the video game Far Cry 3 but has been going around for probably ten or twenty years now--that the definition of insanity is trying the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

All one really has to do is think about it for a few moments to realize that that's silly.  That's the definition, maybe, of stubbornness.  Maybe it's the definition for unintelligent, misguided persistence.  But not insanity.

No, insanity is far more complex.  Repeating the same action over and over and expecting a new result is fine.  Can you imagine the first person who began using a sharp rock to chop down a tree?  He should have stopped chopping after the first couple of times, shouldn't he have?  Unless he was insane?

What's alarming is that I saw this very incorrect and really unintelligent sentiment recently used on a political post.  I could normally let something like this go, because I don't expect a sentiment like this to gain traction, but it has.

So here is the true medical definition of insanity: 1. Persistent mental disorder or derangement. Not in scientific use.
2. Unsoundness of mind sufficient in the judgment of a civil court to render a person unfit to maintain a contractual or other legal relationship or to warrant commitment to a mental health facility.
3. In most criminal jurisdictions, a degree of mental malfunctioning considered to be sufficient to relieve the accused of legal responsibility for the act committed.

Now that we have that out of the way, we can get back to being smarter than taking pop-definitions as the gospel.  Have a happy holiday and great new year!

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Where in the world is Kevin SanDiego?

A quick post to let you know I'm alive.  I'm putting most of my energy into my radio shows and writing has taken a back-burner position, but don't worry if you were waiting for my next novel.  I was born a writer.  When I'm writing, I feel like I'm doing what I was created for.  I just needed a break from it after putting out four novels and writing two more that have yet to be published.

For those interested in the radio show, which focuses on capital-T Truth, please check it out.  It has been picked up by iHeartRadio!  I do two shows; the one picked up by iHeartRadio is called Truth on Tap.  The other show I do is about the Washington Capitals and is called Caps on Tap.  Both shows' Facebook page is and you can hear the shows on both Spreaker and iHeartRadio at the links below:



Wednesday, June 11, 2014

The Thing in my Stomach is ALIVE

I can imagine this.

A younger man is in an airport, with plans and enough confidence.  A baby is screaming.
The man is now pained; he needed to make a call, and cannot move because he has papers spread out all over his lap.  The baby is having severe stomach cramps--the equivelant pain of being cut across the stomach with a sharp knife.  The baby thinks she's being attacked--from the outside or inside is not a thought.  The only thought is that it hurts.

Quick hop from imagination to potentially linked truth:

Day six of fighting the Beast in the Belly has taught me to be cautious about praising a product too quickly.  The pink chewies from Rexall didn't help me at all (this is for a stomach bug with cramping and the other thing but not nausea, or very little, and only at the beginning).  The Kaopectate pills work great, for about 8 hours.  Then it's like your body says, "Get that sh** out of here," (naww mean?) and finally, Imodium functions great to keep you off of the commodium, but none of the above (nor pain meds) have calmed the stomach cramping. 

A week of this is too much. 

If I had to do it all over again, I'd start with Imodium and skip the rest.  It's exhausting.  No sleep.  Dehydration.  There is a very palpable weakness.  It's tiring my hands typing right now.  My other medical conditions that are painful are somehow slightly disconnected, like I'm too flat-lined to fully process all the pain signals.  Everything is confusing and annoying.  Sometimes when I think about very remote possibilities, I figure if I'm paying for something I did in the past or some past life, I must have really done it up right.  This is no plea for sympathy, as I find that embarrassing and emasculating, to a degree.  It's almost a prideful moment, like telling a war story.

I like telling stories through writing, so a war story it will be; here's a drama based on a true story...

It must have been the summer of 2014.  I was no stranger to frequent runs to the bathroom on occasion.  Far as I knew, that was normal for people to have a few times a year, or sometimes more.

But this time was different.

It started with the cramps--you know, the jellyfish-like motion your stomach starts making when it has business to take care of in a hurry.  It's your 3-minute warning, mostly.  And my alarm was ringing right across the country side.  My commander, Mother Nature, had called me, and ordered me to report to the Port of Porcelain.

It was in that port that I spent the better part of the next six days (at least).  My ass developed a horseshoe-shaped bruise in the perfect shape of a toilet lid.  My asteroids were a blazing, burning red after a few days there. 

At times, it was like pure rainfall.  At other times, it was like wet clay mortars going off just below me.  I won't lie--I was frightened, as I had no back-up.  I was tempted on several occasions to flee the Port of Porcelain without clearance, but then I realized that the result might be peace of mind for me, but it would make a mess for the locals, so I kept my post, and I ruled my throne like a slightly-overweight, exhausted elephant seal, flopping around, reaching in what became a routine between toilet paper, books, and the bathtub rim to brace myself for the larger bombs. 

As time went on, the bombs stopped and the rains were constant.  It was all wrong.  My energy was gone, and I mean the kind of gone like after a football game that goes to overtime.  You have no legs.  You have no will.  You aren't even that interested in survival; it's something you half-heartedly hope will happen passively, without any effort on your part, because you have no effort left to give.  After that sixth day, when PTSD and really, the older fashioned "shell shock" had set in, there was a certain comfort.  It's a strange comfort, not a good comfort--one like you'd feel if you knew you were going to die in ten minutes and had a thought about paying taxes.  That kind of comfort.  I survived.  I can die now, sure, but I survived something I shouldn't have, and doesn't it feel great to have been measured so directly and viciously by General Mother Nature, who expected you to fall in battle--doesn't it feel good to be able to crawl out of it and give her a nod, even if you knew you would die just after. 

She knew, from experience, that I would not sleep... that all of my current physical ailments would be magnified at first, and then almost irrelevant later--more like a decoration I carried as I dealt with the real pain she had brought down.  She knew I would eat fried foods and dairy and things that would make the war worse, but maybe she's not just an evil bitch--maybe she wanted me stronger.  She tends to favor the stronger ones. 

I began to wonder; "Mother Nature hasn't really created this body and mind of man very well if such small wars can render him entirely useless instead of just partially useless like I was.  She knew that my over-exposure to the town surrounding the Port would create familiarity which breeds contempt, and that lack of sleep and presence of new pain would compound the psychological component." 

My realization is that mankind is, if he should continue long enough for this phase to matter, a seriously under-developed work in progress.  Denis Leary said happiness comes in small doses; it's a cookie, a cigarette, a 5-second orgasm.  That means the rest of life is either uneventful or painful, and who needs that?  I'm fighting your little war, Mother Nature, ma'am, but just to prove to myself I can do it because I can think of a thousand ways to die that would be less unpleasant than this. 

And as for this thing in my stomach that I'm almost certain is at least the size of a midget alien, I'm going to cut it out and beat it to death with yardstick just to prolong its suffering.

Saturday, March 22, 2014

What's Wrong with the Younger Generation? The Same Thing that was Wrong with Yours.

I'm 42 years-old.  I have a lot of flaws, and have made so many mistakes that all my fingers and toes AND a calculator couldn't count them.

One of the very few areas I have not made a mistake in is wondering what it would be like when I got older, or more actively, imagining what it would be like.  Turns out I was mostly right about what I had guessed, and one thing I had guessed is that I will see the younger generation(s) as less honorable, disciplined, and respectful than mine.

Well, here we are.  2014.  I have friends who have posted as recently as today on Facebook about how much our youth is lacking--in his case, his flash of awareness came from watching a certain network that he is certain is aimed at 20-somethings, since it has mindless programs with more magic than plot--more eye candy than brain candy.

But then I thought back at the programs we used to watch.  A-Team.  Incredible Hulk.  Spencer for Hire.  MacGyver.  The Cosby Show.  Three's Company.  The Andy Griffith Show.  Saturday morning cartoons.  While a few of them taught something, most of them were mindless consumables.  Violence.  Green dudes with big muscles.  A black guy with a mohawk who feared flying, probably fearing it even more when flying with his normal pilot, an 80's version of Jim Carrey in The Mask.  Were we any better?  According to our elders then, it was mindless junk.  I keep using that word, mindless.  It's so befitting.

But that friend who questioned today's programming toward the next generation down also wondered where our species was going.  I must agree that even though the generational doubt about what we imagine is a decline in values will be ongoing, perpetually, we must admit that the line of cultural change continues to move and meander as it always has.  Change is underway, as it always has been, and because it seems rather unpredictable, it's reasonable to wonder where we are going.

There are major dichotomies at work right now.  For example, the average kid scores higher on intelligence tests now than one generation ago, yet cannot answer fundamental questions about his country, such as where California is on a map or in what century the Civil War was fought.  Because intelligence tests have only been around for a few hundred years and have undergone constant changes of their own, we can't know if that steady growth in intelligence has been linear, or cyclical, or even random.

American programming is aimed at Americans, for the most part, even though audiences are fast becoming global.  American kids are having a harder time answering questions about their country, yet intelligence tests seem to show an increasing intelligence.  Even so, regarding basic facts that you would not find in intelligence tests, America is slipping, quickly, in world rankings.

Or are we?

Isn't it possible that other nations are just suddenly tapped in to things like the internet and new mediums such that their own children have an easier time getting their hands on information?  Couldn't it just be relativity that makes us look like we're slipping, when really, our car isn't rolling backwards--the cars around us are just lurching forward?  In America, the single-parent household has skyrocketed with the fall of religion making divorce more acceptable, and therefore, a more likely choice among couples having hard times.  This alone could throw off a child's ability to focus on study, say nothing of modern, sudden changes in educational standards and testing.  Toss in with that the wide array of distractions now available to a kid than we had generations before in electronics and media access that speak directly to the more primitive areas of the mind (fear generating a need for power, lack of control generating a need for control, apathy generating a need for mind-jarring effects in entertainment, and then on to the simpler ones like the need to be liked, loved, popular, then later to escape pain with drugs, alcohol, or cutting, or the use of sex for the same affect) and you've got a bubbling soup of I-don't-know-how-this-shit-will-turn-out.

One of the biggest causes of the change we're seeing now that we're not acknowledging is the perfect intersection of the population ramp going nearly vertical (extreme population growth) at the same time that information access and global connections are reaching a fever pitch.  These two things did not necessarily have to happen at the same time, but they did, and the combination created a global curve-ball that I don't think anybody was able to predict and certainly now is making the future even harder to predict.

Maybe it's wishful thinking in part along with my own version of prediction, but I think our ultimate direction, as my friend was asking, is off of the planet.  Colonizing the portion of the Universe that we can spread out to.  That's in our nature, whether you see us more as angels or locusts, we grow and spread.  Hell, that's life's nature.  Just ask a bacterium or fire ant or rat.

There may be no real connection between that and the "new" attitudes of the younger generations, but maybe there is.  Maybe we'll need a psychologically tough, nearly numb, race of people to be able to come up with the courage to leave Earth and the fortitude to keep from snapping once away from her.  Maybe that is something that the X-Box and the internet and easy, less cerebral television programming is helping us to build.

Every generation is worse than the last, isn't it?  They don't have respect these days, you hear.  Everybody's ex is psychotic (that totally cheapens mine because she REALLY IS).  The stores charge too much.  The politicians are lying more than ever.  The music lacks culture.  These are complaints that have come from the older generations forever, and I don't expect they'll ever stop.

Monday, January 20, 2014

Who Should Have Mercy

Maybe I'm selfish.  Maybe thoughts like mine should belong
to the mother whose water broke as she stumbled along
Maybe thoughts like mine should be held back and stored
So I can live up to man-image who's pain is ignored.

If I have no ego to protect, why would I do that?

Medicine surpassed rubbing of leaves on the wounds
and it evolved past the sexes and roles of the goons
and it reached up and out quickly to touch children and women
and has arrived now to touch both Lions and Tinmen.

But I can't.  I'm a man.  I played football and skydived and
got into fistfights and jumped off of high dives
and joined the world's strongest military, serving with honor.
Saved drowning victims twice.  Fished with Grizzlies just yonder.

Opened my knee with a chainsaw, broke my foot sliding into home,
Ate a worm for a dollar, lost both big toenails from moving , alone.
Rode an unbroken horse and stayed unbroken after impact
Jumped off bridges, fled cops, all wearing underwear and a ball cap.

And I sit here in pain so severe that I can't describe it
My spine and my knee keep it constantly ignited.

The medicine has evolved, it's able to treat me
to force pain to subside the the point I could be me
But me is no more, that boy from the past
Who ran down a hiked mountain with a sprained ankle, fast
With concern that if we went slow, it would swell up too large
I'm down now, rolling down, arms still raised in victory
Rolling down like a stump who needs only to look tough
While the fire in my mind asks, "When is enough?

Saturday, January 18, 2014

My blog is like my lawn mower

I don't post often, then sometimes, I post in bunches.

I don't cut grass often, but sometimes, again, in bunches, depending on rain and growth.

So the point is; is there really any bother that the interval changes?  Does the grass still not get cut?  Does the blog still not see the light of day?  Can a break from either lead to growth in the operator?  I believe so.

So, lately, I've been up to very little writing (which sucks cuz I have a book due out in April) lots of hurting (let it go), lots of paracord creations like bracelets; paracord is short for parachute cord and has 32 trillion uses and is, no matter how many dudes deny it, man-knitting, and it does VERY well at distracting one from one's problems.

I could write the best blog on the planet.  I've read some of this one popular guy's blog and how famous he has become (the 30-something that gave up his radio show to blog full time?) because I have full confidence in my ability to see well below the surface in human motivation and resulting endeavor.  The question is motive.

Do I really give a goddam if I help to save us?

I'll go think about it.