The Dharma Bum

by Jaysen Buterin

"Make yourself necessary to somebody." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Grinnings and salivations true believers, both long-time listeners and first time callers, as I do believe that by the time this monthly serving of intellectual goulache is dumped onto your tray of existence by the chain-smoking, unibrowed, mullet-sporting, prison tattooed, "I'll kill you all" mumbling lunch lady that is life - it should be just about time for that mass exodus into the hallowed halls of academentia, where flocks of seemingly lucid boys and girls will soon fall prey to the same smoke and mirrors propaganda that countless others have succumbed to before them. Just what is this hyperbolic whitewash, this arbitrary prevarication that will continue to brainwash the masses as they prepare to take on college? Well my dear readers, I shall tell all of you, and then you can both be enlightened to the not-so-ebullient truth that is reality. No...I'm not going to tell you what the matrix is - instead kids, like any self-respecting tattooed manic street preacher, what I have for you is a revelation: for the love of any and everything that you hold sacrosanct, do not place all of your faith in a few letters that you "hope" will guarantee you enough friends later on and set you on the yellow brick road to fame and fortune once you graduate. And while it would give me no greater pleasure than to embark on a most acerbic, acrimonious, and recalcitrant Dennis Miller-like rant about the perfunctory, soul-stealing ways of fraternal organisations, unfortunately the particular targets that I have in mind take up a lot more space in my caustic crosshairs as they've infiltrated almost every facet of modern-day life. Yes, I'm talking about all those daffy bastards who get a B.A., or a lovely B.S., or even the prestigious M.A. or PhD - and turn out to be complete morons who have all the intuition, common sense, and intellect of paint chips, and yet seem to end up in, at least, titular positions of power because our society equates a college degree with a prolific brilliance, while those who may be lacking in formal education are looked down upon as the fodder of our culture, the worker bees - who, while obviously necessary, aren't informed or educated enough to make a salary worthy of their own invaluable experience. What does all this ranting mean? I have no bloody idea. Is this even what I meant to talk about? No...I was just thinking about how my father is the smartest, most intuitive, wisest man I have ever and will ever know.

And now for something completely different...

There are several things in this "cunning use of flags" world that are almost guaranteed to result in a rather tearful response from me: the last 1/2 hour of "The Fox and the Hound;" being tangled up in blue; completing the interactive tour of the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis, TN; and that moment when I'm home when I realise that I'll have to turn right around and go back out those same doors when I leave. Not that I have any regrets whatsoever about coming back to Greensboro to my precious Kindal and beloved nerd-herd, but invariably, the saddest part about going home is knowing that you will have to leave. I don't think Pliny the Elder had any idea just how right he was because every time I'm lucky enough to return to the Show-Me State, I know that when I leave again on a jet plane, that my heart will break a little more, 30,000 feet in the air, at hundreds of miles per hour. There's probably an entire crop circle field littered with various pieces of it.

And while, just a few years ago, the thought of me putting "lucky enough" and "return to the Show-Me State" in the same sentence together seemed like a heinous attempt at downright blasphemy, I realised some time ago what everyone realises about themselves when they get to a certain point in life - damn, I was really an idiot back then! And so the little things I miss are what breaks my heart when I leave: the last hug that I give my mum that I know will leave us both in tears; the sparkle I'll see in my father's eyes when I poke my head around the wall as he watches TV; the bone-crushing, man of steel handshake that I'll get when I see DJ Josh Lee; the warmth and care that embraces me like a brother when I step thru the door of the Kesterson's home; the way the air feels electric when I see my dear sister Mandy; all the little things that so many of us take for granted, and the epiphanies that they leave us with.

For instance, the last time I was home I was fortunate enough to be able to spend time with almost all the dear souls I wanted to, especially in Cape - where I sat at a Ms. PacMan table, desperately clutching my pint glass full of Coca Cola like Linus with his security blanket - and it dawned on me just how brilliant my friends are. Seriously, if I could transubstantiate and bottle the creative depth and energies of my City of Roses companions, I could solve the energy crisis...but to do the slightest modicum of justice to these yellow roman candles burning forevermore across my midnight sky would take a lifetime. While I have neither the caffeine nor the digital dexterity to draft such a paean, I can only assume that most of the three of you reading this have neither the desire nor vast eons of eternity to be able to digest such a rambling, but in case you are reading this Jay Cobb, know that you will always hold a most special place in my heart. So as the sun sets slowly in the West, I bid you a fond farewell, where a gent who used to look like Jeezie Chreezie, a bloke with a Coke and a bag of Lays, and a proud papa who will always be our Silent Bob, sit in a basement, chain-smoking, fat and happy in the knowledge that right now is still the good times. G'night kids.