Honestly, I get it. But then again, I kind of don’t. Why do people always wait until the 1st of January before they initiate all of those lofty, life-altering projects of radical self improvement? I’ve never believed in making new year’s resolutions because I’ve never viewed the start of a new year as a monumental event. Life is life, no matter the date, and no matter the year. The quality of life is generally unaffected by the numerical value that we’ve assigned to our days.

Whenever people tell me they plan to lose weight as part of their new year’s resolution, I always have to prevent myself from blurting out something snarky like, “I never knew being a fat-ass was a seasonal condition.” Okay, so I’m a sarcastic, holiday-bashing asshole, but at least I’m skinny, you Auld Lang Syne bitches! But seriously, consider this: I lost thirty pounds in 2009 between the months of May and August. When I finally got serious about losing weight, I didn’t stop to make sure that the earth had made its full rotation around the sun before I got my shit together. If there’s something that needs to be done, and you aren’t doing what you’re supposed to be doing, then don’t blame the position of the planet for your lack of action.

So on that note, I’m going to contradict myself and make a new year’s resolution without any sense of irony. I resolve in 2010 to write a novel. I’ve been kicking around ideas for more than eight years now, and all of my good intentions have amounted to an unimpressive collection of notes and infrequent blog entries. This year will be different. I’m not sure what I’m going to write about, and I’m not sure if what I have to say is really all that worthwhile. I just know that I have to try for once, instead of coasting dreamlessly through the gentle, ferocious monotony.

Posted by KZ on 01/06/10

Just beneath the banality of our boring and domestic daily experiences, our lives are predicated on a primal war for survival. If you have a hard time reconciling that fact to your own life, then try giving up food and water for a full day, and then reevaluating your worldview afterwards over a turkey sandwich and a Coke. Maybe a tofu sandwich and some wheatgrass for the vegetarians. Fortunately for those of us who don’t live in places of conflict in the world, the war for survival is waged with pillow fights and with foam covered Nerf bats. We’ve learned to ignore the inherent savagery of day-to-day life while it feebly kicks us in the shins. In this climate, our attention inevitably shifts from the war for survival, to the war on boredom.

The majority of our days are spent working someplace where we’d rather not be. For the rest of the time — our free time — we wile away the hours at home fighting boredom with all forms of distractions created by others to entertain us: television, books, blogs, music, video games. For most people, it’s enough simply to be entertained. Yet for some of us, prolonged exposure to any form of entertainment breeds restlessness, regret over lost time, and a nagging desire to create instead of consume. I know this feeling all too well.

As a writer, I should take the time to appreciate the creative efforts of others, if only to avoid becoming that lout at the party who interrupts everybody without waiting his turn to speak, and without listening to what everybody else has to say. Yet every time I sit down to read or to enjoy somebody else’s creative efforts, I inevitably think to myself: “You could be creating something worth remembering, too, if you would only stop wasting your time.” Boredom has a funny way of swirling the mind with its pesky contradictions and its appeals to one’s vanity. I’m just one of those people who was never smart enough to figure out that free time is a commodity that was meant to be wasted.

With the imminent fear of death and starvation held steadily at bay, it’s amazing to think of all the trivial things that the mind can allow itself to view as urgent. The war for survival has devolved from what was once a fearsome, roaring beast, into a passive aggressive, elderly old aunt who guilts you into giving her rides to the airport every day. In my little sanitized corner of the globe, modern life affords me the peace of mind to live a soft, comfortable life punctuated by modest intervals of free time. Yet during those free hours, I sweat over silly things like whether I have it in me to write that novel I’ve been working on for eight years, or whether I’m even capable of writing another blog entry worth reading. With so many people in the world with real problems, it occurs to me that the only reason that I care about such frivolous concerns is because they happen to be my own.

Boredom is the best and the worst gift my free time has ever given to me. It compels me to action through unease and anxiety, yet it also sours my creative spirit with crushing cynicism. Sometimes I wonder whether boredom is just another weapon that the war for survival uses to wield against us. There’s an odd sort of romance to that kind of thought.

Posted by KZ on 04/24/09

Sorry for the silence, friends. I haven’t been in the proper state of mind lately to post something worth reading up here. After this kind of dry spell lasts for more than two weeks, I start to get nervous. I feel like a desperate rent-a-clown at a children’s party scrambling to put on a show for an entire afternoon with only twenty minutes’ worth of material. Maybe I’ll just squeak this red rubber nose another dozen times and see how that goes.

Anyhow, in an effort to keep my blog alive and interesting for anybody inclined to visit this sleepy patch of gray on the internet, I started digging back into my old writing journals for some previously forgotten gem. I didn’t come up with much this time around, but I did walk away from this exercise with a renewed sense of humility in the face of my undeniable lameness. I mean, goddamn, I actually used to write like that? I actually thought that sanctimonious load of crap I was working on was good when I wrote it ten years ago? I look back at my feeble attempts at poetry and prose from the past, and I just want to approach me in an alternate dimension and punch myself in the face.

I hope I encounter myself as a five-year-old in this alternate dimension so that I can throw a punch without having to worry about any meaningful retaliation. That will teach me for wasting my own time with that unpublishable crap.

Posted by KZ on 02/24/09

While roaming the streets of coastal Bay Area town one weekend, I spotted a delivery van for a seafood distribution company with a particularly terrible marketing slogan painted on its side:

Ugh. Grammatically speaking, the ellipsis (those triple dots, “…”) can be used to either insert a pause into a statement, to trail off thoughtfully from an unfinished point, or to indicate that a word or a phrase has been intentionally omitted from the original text. In the context of this slogan, there really isn’t a legitimate grammatical reason to use the ellipsis as a pause. “Our quality is your reputation” is all that needs to be said, so why bother breaking up the rhythm of the sentence? Dramatic tension? Anybody who would be even remotely excited and titillated by this cheesy and grammatically deficient sentence structure would have to be living a sad and bankrupt life marked with loneliness, light jazz, and a surplus of knit booty socks for the legs of their end tables.

Having said that, I have no choice but to conclude that something has been omitted from the original slogan. My question then becomes, “What exactly does this company have to hide?” They’re clearly hiding something, judging by that guilty looking ellipsis staring at you from the midst of all that italicized intrigue. The following is a list I created of some of the possibilities for the original slogan.

• Our Quality, Motherfuckers, is Your Reputation
• Our Quality, Mein Führer, is Your Reputation
• Our Quality, Lord Xenu, is Your Reputation
• Our Quality, Emperor Kahless, is Your Reputation
• Our Quality, You Dirty Minorities, is Your Reputation
• Our Quality Fish Flavored Soylent Green is Your Reputation
• Our Quality Crack-Laced Crab Cakes is Your Reputation
• Our Quality Four Dollar Hooker Service is Your Reputation
• Our Quality “Happy Ending” Massage Program Involving Fish is Your Reputation
• Our Quality Control Program, “Leave No Dead Fish Unfucked”, is Your Reputation

I’ll be polite and stop it there. But you have to admit, it’s kind of fun dreaming up all of the possibilities for the original slogan. Submit one of yours in the comment box today! You’ll be glad you did. Hell, you might even be included as a defendant in the inevitable defamation lawsuit coming my way. That’ll be an interesting day.

Note: The moral of the story is to never use the ellipsis irresponsibly unless you’re prepared to live with the consequences.

Posted by KZ on 02/06/09

Some friendships are meant to be remembered, and some are easily forgotten. But then there are some friendships that have a way of inflicting themselves on you. They grasp you by your guilty obligations, your quiet frustrations. Private notions of loyalty and compassion degrade over time, varnished by a silenced eternity of stifled resentment. These are the kinds of friendships that plague you long after their logical conclusion. This is a form of friendship that I often wish I’d never known. For the rest of my life, I will be haunted by the ghost of a friend who refuses to die. He shot himself in the head like an asshole.

I never asked him to shoot himself in the head, and he never asked me if he could dump his collection of scribbles on me. He just woke up one morning and decided to do both of those things, and now I find myself inexorably linked to the most obnoxious corpse of a pest who ever wielded a pen. How’s that for a eulogy, Ben?

Until the day he died, I’ve endured Ben’s friendship for years. Now that he’s dead, it’s a little disconcerting to realize that not very much has changed. Ben is the one who shot himself, but here I remain, the walking dead, with a conspicuous bloody hole in my head. It offends the senses and dulls the sentiment. Just a bit. I am not him, but he is me.

Posted by KZ on 02/06/09

During the summer of 2008, my good friends, Josh and Sarah, got married in Hawaii amongst an intimate gathering of immediate family. They renewed their vows in late December with a beautiful, romantic, slightly belated wedding reception. I was one of two Best Men to speak that night.

While common wisdom would suggest that the best way to deliver a toast is to speak extemporaneously and directly from the heart, I took the exact opposite approach and drafted a script that I intended to memorize and deliver. I was so honored that Josh had entrusted me to say something meaningful and to help set the right tone for the night. I prepared as much as I could in order to reciprocate that honor to Josh.

Being one of the Best Men at Josh’s wedding was an experience that I will always remember with great fondness. I’m so glad I was a Best Man at least once in my life, but once is frankly enough. I was a nervous wreck two weeks prior to the wedding reception. I’m a writer, not a an orator.

Special props go out to the other Best Man, Carlos Oliveira, for his support and encouragement while I was on the brink of hyperventilation during the minutes leading up to my speech. I’d also like to mention Conrado Oliveira, who started clapping and chanting “KZ” to help me through that awkward pause when I forgot my next line. This act came from a place of love, and I won’t soon forget it. Special thanks go out to Tommy for heckling me from the guest tables as I was setting up one of my jokes. It’s all love, Tommy, I know. Wiseguy. Finally, thank you to my wonderful girlfriend, Diana, whom I love deeply, and whose loving support gave me the courage to believe that I could do the speech my way, and succeed in doing so.

If you’ll please forgive me this indulgence, I have posted below the original script of my Best Man’s speech.

The Other Best Man – by KZ

Believe it or not, ladies and gentlemen, I am the other Best Man. We’re kind of doing the People Magazine thing where they name the sexiest man alive every year, but oddly enough, every year it’s always a different dude. It kind of cheapens the honor, don’t you think? Well, whatever, there’s two best men now, and one indecisive groom. The way Josh explained it to us, he couldn’t decide between me or Carlos, so he decided to honor us both as his Best Men. That’s a cute explanation, but if you really want to know the truth, I just think Josh has problems with commitment.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re sitting there in your chair, folding your arms and thinking to yourself, “Oi! How can you say such a terrible thing at the bloke’s wedding reception?” First of all, please drop the terrible cockney English accent because it is not working for you. But secondly, relax. I emailed this very speech to Josh this afternoon at 2 PM. I assume since he never got back to me with a reply or a complaint, that everything I’m doing up here is fully sanctioned by Josh.

Having said that, I would like to read a poem I wrote specifically for this occasion. I wasn’t sure whether I should read this poem tonight. I’ll try to keep it short, but it’s about seven…seven…seventeen pages long. But again, Josh gave me his “silent OK”, so anything goes. Four letter words and all. And…it’s in my other tux. Thank you very much Diana for reminding me on the way out of the house today. Let’s give her a round of applause, ladies and gentlemen. She has ruined my entire speech.

At this point, Josh probably hates me, and he’s regretting that he ever asked me to come up here and say something nice about him.

Truth be told, Josh and I have known each other for twenty years now, and we have never been able to get rid of each other. We met at the age of seven at Five Wounds Elementary School. Then we went on to Bellarmine College Prep for high school. Then finally, for undergrad, we both ended up going to Santa Clara University. We’ve remained friends long after graduation. For twenty years, I’ve had the privilege of calling Josh my friend. And for the past four years, I’ve had the delight of getting to know Sarah, and I now consider her one of my closest friends. It makes my heart sing to know that these two have found so much happiness together. After twenty years of friendship, I am proud to witness these moments, the time in my good friend’s life when he starts a new life with his wonderful bride. Josh has gotten married before I have, by the way, and my girlfriend Diana won’t let me hear the end of it. “Oi! Josh and Sarah did it. When are you and me getting married?” Diana’s English accent is terrible. Why does she talk to me like that? She’s not even British.

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about love, and what I can say about it without sounding redundant. What can you really say about love that hasn’t been said literally thousands of times before? What more can I say when so many inspired philosophers, authors, poets, and playwrights have already weighed in on the subject with far more eloquence than I’m capable of? Just as humankind has always done for centuries, we are born, we grow, we learn, and we fade away. But in between, there are some beautiful moments where, with a little luck, we find love, we get married, and we celebrate with grand parties just like this one. It’s happened billions of times before throughout the ages, and I should think that it will happen billions of times more in the future. When you begin thinking of anything on that grand a scale, you begin to wonder, “So what?” Love? It’s all been done before, so what’s all the fuss about? What a tidy little rut we find ourselves in.

But love is no rut, not in any form. Love is the grand experiment of life that constantly surprises us by joy, one generation after the next, and always with the same old bag of tricks. The human dance wouldn’t be the same without love to guide us with all of its familiar refrains. Robert Frost once said, “Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.” That innate desire lives inside all of us, and it begs us to dream, challenges us to grow, and dares us to care about someone other than ourselves. Love is that immutable constant of the human spirit that invariably keeps us all human. Love is our guarantee that the human spirit, for all of its frailties, will always have something worth celebrating. Tonight, my human spirit soars with gratitude and joy because two people whom I love very much have dedicated their lives to loving each other. I can think of no better reason to celebrate.

Tonight, my friends, let’s all raise our glasses in celebration to Josh and Sarah.

Posted by KZ on 12/22/08

A common age and a common name, how low we bow
to common pains, the like mistakes
dictated by complacency, familiar trembling aches
decaying the root of reason, the tides of time sweeping
swooning plops ashore in granite rhythm
sea of the wincing stewards of change

Past we roll, oblivious to the bloody sky
on common grounds, a constant state
Unsteady peace, fear into pieces
ambassadors of nuclear rage
particles bursting apart in frenzied glee
shrapnel, rusty screws, ball bearings
indignance and human decency
the cries of righteous suicide
as we rely on steady orders from unflinching leaders
ordained by rite
by authority of warring deities

Fear not, child
The ashes are bequeathed to the meek

-Kevin Zing

Posted by KZ on 10/14/08

Yeah, it’s been over a year since my last post.  Yes, this is my first official post on the new incarnation of my blog.  Check the new digs, man.  I’ve finally got the dot-com credibility to back up my feeble words.  So where have I been for the past year and two months?  I’ve been agonizing, on and off, about the irrelevance of contributions made by individuals.  Interpret that any way you like.  I’m tired of deciphering the meaning of my own words.   This writing game will break your heart and unravel your mind if you let it.

Posted by KZ on 09/20/08

There are few moments in life that feel more surreal and socially awkward than those times when you’re forced to ignore the effusive confessions of a woman in love because all you want to do is purchase a carton of eggs. If you think yourself incapable of this level of indifference, then consider how many times you’ve ignored the background music playing in your local supermarket. Background music in all of its impassioned, hypnotic, erotic, and obnoxious forms, has always been a subject of great interest to me. It hovers above your head no matter where you go, regardless of whether you asked somebody to play it for you. The presence of background music in public places turns decent, ordinary people like you and me into callous, emotionless vessels-—islands unto ourselves without so much as an ounce of empathy to spare. In our careless apathy, we squander passionate music and allow it to grow stale, and we tame those mighty roars into gentle hums that get lost amid the murmurs of idle conversation, shuffling soles, rustling shopping bags, and mere human indifference. As innocuous as it may seem, background music in public places is the manifestation of every ambitious artist’s greatest fear: anonymity.

The sobering reality of life as an artist is that any work of art, no matter how brilliant or inspired, can be subjected to indifference and reduced to white noise. Indifference is that intangible something that allows you to pay more attention to sweaters on a sale rack than to a Led Zeppelin song blaring above your head. Indifference is that impulse that compels you to carry on with your busy life when you find yourself tempted to stop and admire a Van Gogh print hanging in a hallway, or an Ansel Adams photograph featured in a magazine. Indifference is that soothing voice in your mind that quiets your guilt for having lived your entire life without reading even a third of all the books that you had intended to read. Indifference is that force of human nature that degrades all forms of art into lifeless, interchangeable distractions. People have grown quietly accustomed to ignoring the best efforts of most of the world’s artists because, to be frank, the world has more artists than it can stand. Even when you “make it” as an artist, there’s no guarantee that, in time, your body of work won’t be largely ignored. You may toil your entire life only to earn the right to merely blend into the endless tapestry of artistic creation. In light of these unpleasant truths, the prospects don’t look very promising for all of the frustrated and overlooked artists of the world.

Yet amazingly, even despite the discouraging odds, we continue to create. What is it about creation that compels us to carry on when we face the near certainty that our works will fade into obscurity like a dusty footprint on a well-traveled road? Yes, art is a medium for self-expression, but there seems to be little reason to create without the hope of recognition. He that acts upon his creativity does so in the hopes of being noticed, to be recognized for his power to inspire. While the most ambitious of us aim to move civilizations and to ignite the minds of the apathetic masses, so few of us are given an honest opportunity to try. And yet we insist on our right to try, because as depressing as it is for an artist to grapple with chronic obscurity, it’s all the more depressing to imagine life without ever creating again. There’s no joy in being ignored, but there’s also no joy in squandering talent, wasting opportunities, abandoning dreams. By the end, your work may one day languish beneath the weight of endless obscurity, but little good arises out of the assumption that it will actually happen to you. The only worthwhile thing to do is to play whatever instruments you’ve set out to play, and hope your efforts will be enough to distinguish your work from the rest of the background noise. All we can do is to keep doing what we do best. We seem to have little choice in the matter.

So here’s to us, the resolute artists of the world, all fighting to grasp our way out of gentle obscurity. Background music be damned. There must be some way to ripple the tides of apathy before the end. Here’s to loss of vision, the forsaking of rhythm, explosions of revelation, countless pained revolutions, lost beginnings, unsatisfactory conclusions, and to all points in between that bring us closer to the verge of being heard.

Posted by KZ on 06/13/07

Stories never begin with “Once upon a time” anymore. I imagine there must have been a time when “Once upon a time” was the noblest salutation a storyteller could say to preface his tales. No longer, I guess. Compulsion urges us for constant change — and so we bend a little each time so that our constructions take on slightly unfamiliar shapes. There’s no nobility to be found in tradition these days, because the familiar is crude, and woefully cliché.

Once upon a time, a friend of mine died. He never quite learned just how to bend. He was a writer, something like me. They found him hunched in his chair with an exit wound shattering the calm of his right temple. He was left-handed. On the desk in front of him laid a pen and an empty page, haphazardly soiled by blood and mental debris.

Inspiration once flowed through him so naturally, but he could never commit his thoughts to language on an open page. Every sentence he ever wrote meant labored pain. He could always capture beginnings, but could never retain a satisfying end. Colloquialism felt too familiar, and the grandiose often felt strained. He figured, by the end, not a single original thought in the world remained.

Now he’s gone. Life motioned to bend him, and he chose instead to break. Once upon a time, my friend allowed himself to die. I wonder if he ever realized that his fear of the cyclical kept him running in place.

Posted by KZ on 04/17/06