Turbo Whirlwind

An Essay by Timothy Spangler

2007-01-05T16:34:00.000-08:00

Technology marches forward, steady in the pursuit of improvement. Marketing is constantly evolving. Solutions never stop expanding.

Solutions are more than ideas, more than strategies, more than answers to challenges and responses to change. They’re not a way of marketing at all, but innovations birthed by changing the way you think. They’re freed by a mental revolution, a mind mutiny against conformed, routine problem solving. Saturate the atmosphere around you with your thoughts and the answer will precipitate. The cycle is never ending and increases momentum where evaporation isn’t a worry, where decomposition isn’t failure, but is natural and a cornerstone of the circle of light that not only illuminates, but guides us and warns us as we navigate the shoals and reefs of complacent thought and comfortable consideration. Inside our heads is what we know, inside the box we’re standing in is what we know we know, and outside that is an empty staff where the melodies and rhythms no one has ever dreamed of are waiting to be penned and performed. Music and word and everything else combined in brilliant new ways that escape the cellar door or those other places we’re afraid to search, forgot existed, or overlooked because of corrupted experience. Challenge what’s common, if you dare.

We inhabit a planet that’s a sphere, an infinity of mathematical points that keeps turning in a universe that is still expanding, still growing, still exploring and pushing beyond its capabilities; constantly pushing itself to the edge again and again and again. The universe has no boundaries, and neither should we. Not even the unimaginable, incomprehensible extensions of space are our border now. We are. The only thing that limits our growth is the size of our mental terrarium. Crash through with a flash flood of ideas that swallows the highest point mediocrity seeks dry refuge. Split atoms of inspiration with white-hot blasts of creative energy equivalent to a googolplex of courage-infused A-bombs and unleash enough fallout to mutate us all into 50-foot monsters of eccentricity. Get away from scratching and tickling a crust that crawls to change. Drill deep through the magma and straight to the core where there’s warmth, and live in a place no one’s ever been but everyone was told about, theorized existed and shown illustrated in a textbook we studied in 4th grade.

Put the pen to paper and tame the white bull that notches most of its victories not by wildly throwing us from the saddle, but by intimidating us never to step up, never to step in the building, never to step out of the small town thinking we’ve grown up with. Hug the bull. Embrace it. Put your face on its hide and smell its weathered skin. Grip the rope. Smell the wet dirt tossed in the air. Enjoy the ride. And when you taste blood from your lip remember how you got there and that scars are a reminder there is nothing pure, true, or inspiring that is not delivered from pain, sacrifice and passion.

Nazis were serious socialites

2006-12-13T21:21:00.000-08:00

November 14th rant after bowling league:

I bowled like a dainty priss tonight, tip toeing around the lane. I couldn’t get a rhythm. I couldn’t get a groove. I am in a slump. Shit.

Slumps are curious predicaments. Once you’re in one, and you realize it, you think about it. Pretty soon, you’re dwelling on it. And then you’re infected by it, saturated and dripping with mediocrity, or worse: below average performance, which was the case tonight. Literally.

I couldn’t hit my average. It’s 133. Not great. Not even that good by competitive standards, but for me it’s a goal, a guide, a measuring point that I shoot for and try to get above. I guess that’s what everyone does. But still, back to me. My average is my target.

Tonight, I was thinking about my game too much. I was analyzing my approach, my stance, my grip, my feet, my hands, my elbows, my shoulders, my follow-through and even my pin action. I even had more gas than usual, which made for some interesting moments of trying to hold it in. It’s all about timing, and clinching ability, which is difficult when you quickly take several steps, bend at the knees and heave a 16 lb mass. But I’ve been holding in farts at social events for most of my life and my technique usually succeeds, but it takes focus. And now I’m writing about farting. Forget I mentioned it.

Crofoot said it the best: have fun. Having fun is like Samson’s hair: it was his strength. Without it, he was nothing. With it, he was undefeatable. I was being way too serious doing something that needs to be lighthearted. Our team’s strength is we’re there to have a good time and winning is a byproduct. When you take things too serious, you don’t have fun. Take the Nazis for example. They took socialism way too serious. And look what it got them: the blood of millions on their hands. Really, all they had to do to be better socialists was throw more kick-ass parties. That’s what truly social people do. The lesson here speaks for itself — Do what the Nazis didn’t: Party more, have fun being around others and invite everyone, not just the perfect people.

You might be wondering what this has to do with my poor bowling performance tonight. Well, I’ll tell you what I’ve learned: Don’t take anything that’s meant to be fun too serious or else you ruin it for yourself and everyone involved. And then people die. And death is serious shit.

Lecture Hall Musical

2006-10-01T20:54:00.000-07:00

Been talking about this one for awhile. Check it out and REACH!

Liam Neeson's drunk, but it's ok.

2006-09-14T09:38:00.000-07:00

Lots of stars stay at the Four Seasons Hotel during the Toronto International Film Festival. If you get to the Four Seasons Lounge early, sit in the back. As the night passes on, reserved signs will pop up as people leave the tables around you. Hold fast and act like you’ve been there before. Do not leave, even when security gives you the stinkeye. Order an unusual drink, as in not your usual. Try a vodka tonic, a French Martini, or a Chivas Regal scotch. When the waitress corrects you because you say Shee-vas instead of Chee-vas, just smile like you made a joke.

VIP's will roll in one by one. William H. Macy will sit down at the table next to you with four women. One of them must be his wife, but no. He never looks around the room. He focuses on the people he's with. Liam Neeson will also be there, looking completely used up and more skinny than Qui-Gon Jinn. He will drink a lot. And saunter over to a table to entertain a pair of young beauties. Very smooth.

When you decide to finally break the seal make sure you get the security guard’s attention as you leave the VIP area, but nonchalantly. Say, “Excuse me” or brush by his shoulder. This lets him know you’re cool to get back in. Not because you belong, but because you were there first. Do the same at the lounge entrance as you’ll have to journey into the hotel to find a restroom. Lounge access is exclusive now and by squatting earlier you have earned your readmission. At the end of your stay be sure to piss again before you catch a cab back to the hotel. No need to feel uncomfortable pressure on the ride home. When you drift outside to meet your friends, you'll find them smoking a square with David Chase Jr, son of the creator, producer and writer of The Sopranos.

David: "There're a lot of celebrities here. Did you see Liam Neeson?"

Andy: "Yeah. He walked over to a table of girls by us and was putting on the moves."

David: "Yeah. He's drunk, but he's Irish. If you guys are ever in Jersey, stop by. Say you're friends from Toronto."

Andy: "Is that really going to work?”

Andrea: “Yeah. Can we get a middle initial, or something?"

"David R. Chase. It was nice meeting you."

Re: RXnera from Harve Beecroft

2006-08-29T14:57:00.000-07:00

I'm getting a lot of random-ass emails lately loaded with stock tips that look like they were written by a dyslexic mongoose. Here's my favorite, if only for the last three lines. ASK YOURSELF, MATA! Enjoy.
______________________

Hi,
G s ood news for you.

PHA s RMA b CY di w rec d tly from the ma j nu d factu w rer,
Ec i onomi v ze u n p to 60 x % wi r th us
, c

, b

, h

Friends? He looked baffled. Like who?
Well that macho fat thug Svinjar for one. King of the Machmen. Then
you can invite Iron John and his opposite number, Mata. Ask yourself

Bernice

2006-08-28T19:57:00.000-07:00

Bernice wants her own room. A room she doesn’t have to share with another guest. A room like the one I’m sitting in now. Bernice rolls her wheelchair halfway into the Garden Suite. A soft alarm tone sounds out in the hallway, like when I leave my keys in the ignition.

“Who’s that? Are you recovering?” Bernice shouts from the doorway towards the bed.

My Grandma is lying with her head back and breathing heavy. Her mouth is open and her lips are pulled tightly over her gums where her dentures used to be until they started to hurt her recently. She’s still asleep. Eyes shut. Very still except for the labored rising and falling of her chest. Two house flies orbit her body and then land on the bed sheet.

“Are you getting into trouble again?” the orderly asks Bernice as she steps behind the wheelchair. “You’re setting off the alarms.”

“I want my own room.”

“You have your own room. What are you doing down here?”

“None of your business.”

The orderly looks at us. “Sorry.”

Bernice is rolled away.

“She’s nuts,” my uncle says. He winks at me. “Well, you know what I mean. Alzheimer’s.”

He moves along side the bed and grabs my Grandma’s hand. “Mom. You awake?” he shouts. Her eyelids flash open.

“Hey, look at that. Joel’s here. Your grandson. He looks pretty good don’t you think?”

She looks at me. The corners of her mouth pull tight like a smile. I squeeze her hand. Her eyes close. Her mouth is still open. I swat away the flies.

“She doesn’t talk anymore,” my uncle says. “Just nods yes or no. Sleeps mostly now. I hope that’s how she goes. Wouldn’t that be peaceful? No pain. Says she can’t feel any pain now. But I hope she goes in her sleep.”

We sit down again.

Bernice slowly wheels into sight, framed in the doorway.

“Who’s that?” she says staring at my Grandma.

“Grace Henning,” my aunt half shouts, annoyed.

“Is she recovering?”

She’s resting now.

Meeting new people

2005-01-30T16:07:00.000-08:00

Carl was always nervous when he met new people. When Carl turned two, his mother sent his picture to the local news station so they could air it with other birthday baby pictures. In this particular picture, Carl was standing completely naked on his booster seat with birthday cake dripping from his face and his left foot in a bowl of ice cream up on the table. This fully exposed his little smokey. Carl never forgave his mother and he never could understand why a nude, full frontal picture would be aired on network television, even if the picture was of an innocent two year old. Every new aquantance Carl made, he couldn't help but wonder if while getting ready for work, or quietly enjoying coffee or raisin bread in the morning, if that person had gotten a glimpse of his baby carrot.