Good morning, Fatty.
I know I've mentioned before that I hate commercials and advertising. They tell idiotic lies, and even if we (as individuals) don't believe their lies, we sure as shit don't say anything. Is no one else offended? Haven't they insulted our intelligence enough?
When I was but a wee lad (think 5th grade or so), I could not get past a certain conundrum that I kept seeing in commercials. They would always say things like, "Come by our After Christmas sale and save big on all merchandise!" Or, "You can save up to $200 a month at Worthington Ford's year end sales extravaganza!" This to me seemed like the dumbest thing I'd ever heard. I felt like they might as well say, "The easiest way to lose weight is to get really fat!" And we're not only expected to believe this nonsense, but to go out and do it.
I had to ask my mom. "Mom," I said, "How can you be saving money if you're spending it? That doesn't make sense." And she explained that by "save" they were referring to the amount off of the regular price, so if you were to buy at an inopportune time, you'd pay more... etc, etc. Well, as much as I love my mom, and trusted that she was right, it still didn't make sense to me. Why didn't they just say what they mean?
To this day I hate to hear some jackass telling me that if I spend $30,000 on a car, I'm saving money. It's the dumbest thing I've ever heard, and it makes my blood boil.
Now... I'm not usually one of those conspiracy theorists who read way to far into things, but there's one commercial out there which I think is blatant in it's bigotry and innuendos. Watch this:
Does anyone else see a problem here? Let me tell you why this commercial makes me feel dirty.
First, the commercial begins with white people building a fence while another white guy (John Cugar Melancamp) sings proudly, "This is our Country!" As if to say, "This isn't your Country, Mexicans!" And, as we all know, building that dumb ass fence along the border is and has been a hot button political issue.
The commercial fades in and out of different eras in American History (not specifically, but that's what is implied). All the people are white. The fence is the image running through all eras as if they're implying that we've always wanted to keep Mexicans out of America, even though large parts of the Southwestern states used to belong to Mexico, hence the great white trash capitol of "New Mexico".
Also, notice the name of the ranch the guy at the end drives away from. The "KK Ranch". Think I'm kidding? Watch it again. I know what you're thinking, 'cause I am too. "What?! These crackers are so dumb they actually misspelled 'KKK'!" Sadly though, I don't think it was a simple mis spelling. I think they actually meant to fool us. As if they removed one of the K's from a commercial that is obviously anti-immigration and carries heavy, blatant racist undertones, that we might not notice, and certainly wouldn't put 2 and 2 together.
I dunno... maybe I am reading too much into it, but never the less, I can't watch that commercial without cringing and feeling embarrassed.
I'll stop there for now, as this subject can keep me going for hours. Please keep a clear head while watching television, especially commercials. The best thing we can do to overcome something like this is to govern our own thoughts. Just don't buy into it. Our Country, without fences, without racism, without politics bleeding into the media and trying to brainwash us... trying to keep us docile and controllable... Our Country, without shit like this would be a better place.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Stop The Wimp Rock
Hola Gorditos y Gorditas.
My brother Jake brought up a good point recently, and that is: What the fuck is going on with "Indy Rock"?
Somebody has got to take a stand here. There are far too many wimpy metro sexuals out there who learned a few chords on the guit-box, grew their hair out, put on a pair of pants that are too small and started to cry their little wussy hearts out over a basic, G, A, D chord progression. Frankly, I'm sick of hearing it. So what your white bred, cheerleadin' girlfriend left you after 2 months? We're supposed to weep in our beers? You ain't Hank, and you can't sing the blues. So shut up.
A good example (also Jake's) is the that show "Scrubs". At the beginning, some gay wad sings, "I can't do this all on my own, oh I'm no... I'm no Superman." First of all, Zach Braff, if you're implying that anyone ever thought of you as anything even remotely close to a superhero of any kind, you are sadly mistaken. Same goes for the guy singing the song. Listen dude, nobody has ever mistaken you for Superman, so there is no reason to reiterate that. You're being redundant. If you wanted to make a contradictory statement, you should say, "I'm not a giant douche." Because that's what we think you are.
With the Internet at our disposal, and still largely in the hands of (and controlled by) the people, just about anyone with a knack for marketing (or an important message) can become relatively well known. That being said, we the people must shoulder the responsibility of telling these emo, indy rock ass holes when they suck, which is most of the time. It is our duty as functional members of society to rid ourselves of whiny attention whores who think that singing like their nuts haven't descended is a cool thing.
Ladies, there is also a responsibility heaped upon your shoulders in this indy rock revolution. That is, stop throwing your undies at these guys. I know that some of you find guitar playing nancy-boys irresistible, but you must try to remain objective and keep a level head. Your involvement is crucial, because if singing like a pansy gets a guy laid, even once, he's going to continue to do so, and other douche bags will follow. Not to mention the possibility of becoming pregnant, there by adding to America's already maxed-out nancy boy population. Please. Do it (or rather, DON'T "do it") for your country.
Yes, it's crossed my mind to be more compassionate, but I find it difficult. In my defense, I'm not saying that every emo bastard is a bad musician or song writer. I just think we should hold them to a higher standard. We should create a filter to weed out the bad ones, and force the good ones to up the bar. I'm not promoting the re-corporatization of music either. I think it's good that the fate of musicians is in our hands via the Internet.
Also, as a final note, let me say that if a guy sings his heart out, it DOES NOT automatically make him a nancy-boy. No, no, quite the contrary. I mentioned Hank before, and for those of you who are unfamiliar, take a listen to songs like "There's a tear in my beer", or "I'm so lonesome I could cry". These are heartfelt ballads that cut to the bone. Songs that any man whose ever been sad, drunk or heartbroken can understand. There are no foolish pretenses. No ulterior motives (like getting some trim from the big breasted brunette in the front row). In fact, Hank used to use a psuedonym for his really sad songs. Luke the Drifter. That way, if you went up to the juke box, you'd know that Luke the Drifter was a really sad (and probably really drunk) Hank. This would avoid accidentally playing a sad song when you meant to play some more up beat, like "Hey Good Lookin'" or Honkey Tonkin'". See? Even way back when, Hank was protecting us from accidental emo. Thanks, Hank. We know you did it because you care.
Some of you may have come across a blog I wrote on myspace a long time ago about tattoos. This is along the same lines. It's ok to be accepting, but some things should be a little bit exclusive. Not everyone should be allowed to do them. Like Willie Nelson teaches us in "Shotgun Willie", "You can't make a record if you ain't got nothin' to say. Can't make a record of you ain't got nothin' to say. You can't play music if you don't know nothin' to play." Take heed, gordos y gordas. There's wisdom in the ages, and in this new era of independence from corporate rule, we have become the Simon Cowells, Paula Abdouls and Randy... uh... what's his last name? Anyway, we're the judges now, and we'll choose our own idols. Let's make 'em earn our respect as well as our underpants. Together, we can slow down the pussification of not only our pop music, but also our people.
Carry on.
My brother Jake brought up a good point recently, and that is: What the fuck is going on with "Indy Rock"?
Somebody has got to take a stand here. There are far too many wimpy metro sexuals out there who learned a few chords on the guit-box, grew their hair out, put on a pair of pants that are too small and started to cry their little wussy hearts out over a basic, G, A, D chord progression. Frankly, I'm sick of hearing it. So what your white bred, cheerleadin' girlfriend left you after 2 months? We're supposed to weep in our beers? You ain't Hank, and you can't sing the blues. So shut up.
A good example (also Jake's) is the that show "Scrubs". At the beginning, some gay wad sings, "I can't do this all on my own, oh I'm no... I'm no Superman." First of all, Zach Braff, if you're implying that anyone ever thought of you as anything even remotely close to a superhero of any kind, you are sadly mistaken. Same goes for the guy singing the song. Listen dude, nobody has ever mistaken you for Superman, so there is no reason to reiterate that. You're being redundant. If you wanted to make a contradictory statement, you should say, "I'm not a giant douche." Because that's what we think you are.
With the Internet at our disposal, and still largely in the hands of (and controlled by) the people, just about anyone with a knack for marketing (or an important message) can become relatively well known. That being said, we the people must shoulder the responsibility of telling these emo, indy rock ass holes when they suck, which is most of the time. It is our duty as functional members of society to rid ourselves of whiny attention whores who think that singing like their nuts haven't descended is a cool thing.
Ladies, there is also a responsibility heaped upon your shoulders in this indy rock revolution. That is, stop throwing your undies at these guys. I know that some of you find guitar playing nancy-boys irresistible, but you must try to remain objective and keep a level head. Your involvement is crucial, because if singing like a pansy gets a guy laid, even once, he's going to continue to do so, and other douche bags will follow. Not to mention the possibility of becoming pregnant, there by adding to America's already maxed-out nancy boy population. Please. Do it (or rather, DON'T "do it") for your country.
Yes, it's crossed my mind to be more compassionate, but I find it difficult. In my defense, I'm not saying that every emo bastard is a bad musician or song writer. I just think we should hold them to a higher standard. We should create a filter to weed out the bad ones, and force the good ones to up the bar. I'm not promoting the re-corporatization of music either. I think it's good that the fate of musicians is in our hands via the Internet.
Also, as a final note, let me say that if a guy sings his heart out, it DOES NOT automatically make him a nancy-boy. No, no, quite the contrary. I mentioned Hank before, and for those of you who are unfamiliar, take a listen to songs like "There's a tear in my beer", or "I'm so lonesome I could cry". These are heartfelt ballads that cut to the bone. Songs that any man whose ever been sad, drunk or heartbroken can understand. There are no foolish pretenses. No ulterior motives (like getting some trim from the big breasted brunette in the front row). In fact, Hank used to use a psuedonym for his really sad songs. Luke the Drifter. That way, if you went up to the juke box, you'd know that Luke the Drifter was a really sad (and probably really drunk) Hank. This would avoid accidentally playing a sad song when you meant to play some more up beat, like "Hey Good Lookin'" or Honkey Tonkin'". See? Even way back when, Hank was protecting us from accidental emo. Thanks, Hank. We know you did it because you care.
Some of you may have come across a blog I wrote on myspace a long time ago about tattoos. This is along the same lines. It's ok to be accepting, but some things should be a little bit exclusive. Not everyone should be allowed to do them. Like Willie Nelson teaches us in "Shotgun Willie", "You can't make a record if you ain't got nothin' to say. Can't make a record of you ain't got nothin' to say. You can't play music if you don't know nothin' to play." Take heed, gordos y gordas. There's wisdom in the ages, and in this new era of independence from corporate rule, we have become the Simon Cowells, Paula Abdouls and Randy... uh... what's his last name? Anyway, we're the judges now, and we'll choose our own idols. Let's make 'em earn our respect as well as our underpants. Together, we can slow down the pussification of not only our pop music, but also our people.
Carry on.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Game on!
It started out with the recent snowstorm that hit Denver. My Uncle Mike posted this photo on our family website of his back yard.
He mentioned the fact that he thought this pic was "boring". I told him that I'd like to jump on that trampoline with my swimming trunks and goggles on, and take a picture of that. Well... my Uncle Mike is never one to turn down a challenge, and so, a day or so later, he posted this one.
A counter challenge was issued by my dear uncle, but nothing was specified, so I responded with this picture, the caption reading, "Merry Christmas, Uncle Mike. Here is that pic of me in the shower you asked for. Birthday suit and all, just like you wanted..."
That wasn't good enough though. He ended up challenging me to take a picture with a genuine tourist as "Underpants Man". The outfit wasn't specified, only that there had to be visible underware, and it had to say "Underpants Man" somewhere. So here is what I cam up with. From secret identity, to superhero.
So, the moral of the story is this:
Don't challenge me to a dare-off. Because you will lose.
Carry on.
He mentioned the fact that he thought this pic was "boring". I told him that I'd like to jump on that trampoline with my swimming trunks and goggles on, and take a picture of that. Well... my Uncle Mike is never one to turn down a challenge, and so, a day or so later, he posted this one.
A counter challenge was issued by my dear uncle, but nothing was specified, so I responded with this picture, the caption reading, "Merry Christmas, Uncle Mike. Here is that pic of me in the shower you asked for. Birthday suit and all, just like you wanted..."
That wasn't good enough though. He ended up challenging me to take a picture with a genuine tourist as "Underpants Man". The outfit wasn't specified, only that there had to be visible underware, and it had to say "Underpants Man" somewhere. So here is what I cam up with. From secret identity, to superhero.
So, the moral of the story is this:
Don't challenge me to a dare-off. Because you will lose.
Carry on.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Here are some jokes:
Everyone says talking on your cell phone in public is rude, but it isn't. It's only rude when you're supposed to be doing something else. Like ordering coffee, jackass. Or if you have a bluetooth earpiece, because nobody knows who you're talking to, if anyone. And it's really bad if you walk around having animated conversations and making inappropriate jokes with one of those on. Yesterday, some guy looked right at me and said, "I'm pretty sure I got gonorrhea from your mom." I almost kicked his ass until I saw that earpiece. Then I just laughed, laughed.
It's hard to talk about dogs with people, because they think they know everything. They always have some preconceived, idiotic notion about every single breed. "Don't get a Cocker Spaniel, they stink. They pee everywhere" Or, "Oh, Beagles? They don't bark, but they howl all night long." As if every Beagle ever born howls all night long, and that person knows this from personal experience. I'm going to start doing that if my friends ask about potential girlfriends. "Oh, don't get an Irish girl, they're feisty. And drunk all the time." "The Blond California Fake-Boob is a good breed, but they require lots of attention. And they need a big yard." "For your needs, I'd go with the short, dumpy Italian. They're fiscally responsible and I hear they can cook. Only problem is they've got lots of hair. It gets everywhere."
Whenever you have to pay someone for something, they always ask you how you're doing first, but they don't really want to know. So I make it a point to tell them. I was at Starbucks the other day, and they guy was like, "Hey, how's it goin', what can I get started for ya today?" And I was like, "Um, it's not going so well, actually. My wife left me for a soap opera star and I've had terrible constipation for four days. Also, my fucking toe has been killing me, man. Can you get my Amway, multilevel marketing business, and my cult started for me? Thanks."
Why do women think tall boots are sexy? They always look like wrestlers to me. Or hookers. Neither one of which denote very sexy imagry. Also, who was the idiot that thought "Juicy" was a good adjective for a nice round booty? So nice, in fact, that they should paint it across the ass of sweat pants and sell them to every 18-24 year old girl in the country? Now I think that all those women have shit stains on their thongs from being so "juicy". Gross.
Also, to they guy who added the "friends" tracking device feature to cell phones... Thanks a lot, ass hole.
Everyone says talking on your cell phone in public is rude, but it isn't. It's only rude when you're supposed to be doing something else. Like ordering coffee, jackass. Or if you have a bluetooth earpiece, because nobody knows who you're talking to, if anyone. And it's really bad if you walk around having animated conversations and making inappropriate jokes with one of those on. Yesterday, some guy looked right at me and said, "I'm pretty sure I got gonorrhea from your mom." I almost kicked his ass until I saw that earpiece. Then I just laughed, laughed.
It's hard to talk about dogs with people, because they think they know everything. They always have some preconceived, idiotic notion about every single breed. "Don't get a Cocker Spaniel, they stink. They pee everywhere" Or, "Oh, Beagles? They don't bark, but they howl all night long." As if every Beagle ever born howls all night long, and that person knows this from personal experience. I'm going to start doing that if my friends ask about potential girlfriends. "Oh, don't get an Irish girl, they're feisty. And drunk all the time." "The Blond California Fake-Boob is a good breed, but they require lots of attention. And they need a big yard." "For your needs, I'd go with the short, dumpy Italian. They're fiscally responsible and I hear they can cook. Only problem is they've got lots of hair. It gets everywhere."
Whenever you have to pay someone for something, they always ask you how you're doing first, but they don't really want to know. So I make it a point to tell them. I was at Starbucks the other day, and they guy was like, "Hey, how's it goin', what can I get started for ya today?" And I was like, "Um, it's not going so well, actually. My wife left me for a soap opera star and I've had terrible constipation for four days. Also, my fucking toe has been killing me, man. Can you get my Amway, multilevel marketing business, and my cult started for me? Thanks."
Why do women think tall boots are sexy? They always look like wrestlers to me. Or hookers. Neither one of which denote very sexy imagry. Also, who was the idiot that thought "Juicy" was a good adjective for a nice round booty? So nice, in fact, that they should paint it across the ass of sweat pants and sell them to every 18-24 year old girl in the country? Now I think that all those women have shit stains on their thongs from being so "juicy". Gross.
Also, to they guy who added the "friends" tracking device feature to cell phones... Thanks a lot, ass hole.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Jesus Lizards, cumfy prisons and Mary Jane's new deal
Hi Sausage Gut.
Just in case anyone was thinking of hiring me to be a look-out, don't. I would suck at that. I have bad vision, and spend most of my time in a daydream. I know there are a couple of Colombian drug cartel leaders who've been reading this blog; whom were also thinking of offering me that exact job. I just saved their cocaine plantations from coming under siege. Glad to be of service, Pablo and company.
What's in the news today? I hear tell they've discovered a new marijuana hybrid plant in Mexico that is resistant to herbicides. They call the plant "Colombians". Way to go, Pablo. Break me off a chunk, would ya? Check it out here if you'd like:
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/16311450/
I also hear tell that there is a Virgin Komodo Dragon in London who is about to give birth to 8 babies. Eight Komodo Dragons, all named "Jesus of London". Who knew the saviour would return as a giant lizard, let alone eight of them? What? Scientists already knew that Komodo Dragons had the ability to fertilize their own eggs, and they're just trying to sell this story of a "Miracle Christmas Birth" to the media? Huh. Well I'll be...
Lastly, (and to reiterate my disdain for the British) it was reported that 198 inmates of a British prison sued the government, claiming the heroine withdrawals they experienced as a result of not having the drug in prison was "assault". No shit. So they awarded the prisoners 5,00 pounds each to settle (which is like... what? $10,000?). "Terribly sorry you've experienced such discomfort in our prison. Please won't you join us for tea and crumpets this afternoon? Oh, you've scheduled an appointment with your dealer, have you? Right. Carry on then. Be sure to return no later than midnight. You are a prisoner, after all. Jolly good."
Just in case anyone was thinking of hiring me to be a look-out, don't. I would suck at that. I have bad vision, and spend most of my time in a daydream. I know there are a couple of Colombian drug cartel leaders who've been reading this blog; whom were also thinking of offering me that exact job. I just saved their cocaine plantations from coming under siege. Glad to be of service, Pablo and company.
What's in the news today? I hear tell they've discovered a new marijuana hybrid plant in Mexico that is resistant to herbicides. They call the plant "Colombians". Way to go, Pablo. Break me off a chunk, would ya? Check it out here if you'd like:
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/16311450/
I also hear tell that there is a Virgin Komodo Dragon in London who is about to give birth to 8 babies. Eight Komodo Dragons, all named "Jesus of London". Who knew the saviour would return as a giant lizard, let alone eight of them? What? Scientists already knew that Komodo Dragons had the ability to fertilize their own eggs, and they're just trying to sell this story of a "Miracle Christmas Birth" to the media? Huh. Well I'll be...
Lastly, (and to reiterate my disdain for the British) it was reported that 198 inmates of a British prison sued the government, claiming the heroine withdrawals they experienced as a result of not having the drug in prison was "assault". No shit. So they awarded the prisoners 5,00 pounds each to settle (which is like... what? $10,000?). "Terribly sorry you've experienced such discomfort in our prison. Please won't you join us for tea and crumpets this afternoon? Oh, you've scheduled an appointment with your dealer, have you? Right. Carry on then. Be sure to return no later than midnight. You are a prisoner, after all. Jolly good."
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
gambling on current events
Good morning, Slim. Happy Tuesday.
I think we should start an on line current events gambling racket. Hear me out, because I think this could work.
First, I should preface this by saying that I think gambling is an inherent trait in human beings. It's given us a thrill since the beginning of time, and will continue to do so long after we've colonized Mars, exploited all of our resources there and started to colonize Titan, (one of Jupiter's moons). I know gambling isn't the best thing we can do, but it doesn't have to be the worst either.
Betting on current events. It can be organized into different categories and sub categories. Here are a few ideas:
1) Domestic politics
a) National
b) Statewide
c) Local
2) Foreign politics
a) Asain
b) Middle Eastern
c) European
d) African
3) Popular Culture
a) Music
b) Cinema
c) Television
d) Tabloids/gossip
4) Business
a) Global
b) National
Then there can be certain betting window that open and close throughout the day. Election time would be crazy for domestic politics. Odds could be listed on all windows. "2008 Democratic Primaries, 5 to 1 Obama loses to Howard Dean". Or, "2 to 1 SNL does a 'Britney's Beaver' skit". "3 to 1 they cancel Craig Ferguson after this season".
Soon, every young person in America is watching the news, and people are getting fired up about politics. People start to participate when they realize that their own money is at steak. Before we know it, people make so much noise that the powers that be start to hear them. Politicians rethink their policies to benefit their constituents (rather than their wallets). Television producers start to realize that people will not watch shitty shows (because they're betting against them). Movies without substance begin to tank at the box office...
I think we're on to something here. I mean, even if gambling on current events doesn't make America a better place by getting the people involved, at least some savvy, white capitalist swine could run with this idea and make a shit load of money. And, White Capitalist Swine, if you're reading this, I want in on it. If not, I'll sue you, claiming you stole the idea from this blog post. I'll wait until you've become a gazillionaire though, 'cause I don't want to inherit a failing, borderline illegal business with mafia ties.
2 to 1 Forrest Whitaker is nominated for Best Actor for "The Last King of Scotland".
I think we should start an on line current events gambling racket. Hear me out, because I think this could work.
First, I should preface this by saying that I think gambling is an inherent trait in human beings. It's given us a thrill since the beginning of time, and will continue to do so long after we've colonized Mars, exploited all of our resources there and started to colonize Titan, (one of Jupiter's moons). I know gambling isn't the best thing we can do, but it doesn't have to be the worst either.
Betting on current events. It can be organized into different categories and sub categories. Here are a few ideas:
1) Domestic politics
a) National
b) Statewide
c) Local
2) Foreign politics
a) Asain
b) Middle Eastern
c) European
d) African
3) Popular Culture
a) Music
b) Cinema
c) Television
d) Tabloids/gossip
4) Business
a) Global
b) National
Then there can be certain betting window that open and close throughout the day. Election time would be crazy for domestic politics. Odds could be listed on all windows. "2008 Democratic Primaries, 5 to 1 Obama loses to Howard Dean". Or, "2 to 1 SNL does a 'Britney's Beaver' skit". "3 to 1 they cancel Craig Ferguson after this season".
Soon, every young person in America is watching the news, and people are getting fired up about politics. People start to participate when they realize that their own money is at steak. Before we know it, people make so much noise that the powers that be start to hear them. Politicians rethink their policies to benefit their constituents (rather than their wallets). Television producers start to realize that people will not watch shitty shows (because they're betting against them). Movies without substance begin to tank at the box office...
I think we're on to something here. I mean, even if gambling on current events doesn't make America a better place by getting the people involved, at least some savvy, white capitalist swine could run with this idea and make a shit load of money. And, White Capitalist Swine, if you're reading this, I want in on it. If not, I'll sue you, claiming you stole the idea from this blog post. I'll wait until you've become a gazillionaire though, 'cause I don't want to inherit a failing, borderline illegal business with mafia ties.
2 to 1 Forrest Whitaker is nominated for Best Actor for "The Last King of Scotland".
I've seen the Light
I've seen the light
red and blue
rotating,
screaming,
bright white
search light,
hand cuffed
sitting on the curb.
I've seen the light
sucked into a penny
in a mud puddle.
Dirty copper.
I've seen the lights
of county jail
in the wee hours
of some mundane weekday.
I've seen the light
fluorescent yellow tinged
casting a dingy hue
over hospital floors,
fake name and address,
fake social, no ID.
Sweating bullets
from pain
and nerves
wondering if they'll
discover my lie.
"You're doing fine, Derek"
"Just a little more, Derek"
I've seen the light
of the setting sun
behind the edge of
Western civilization,
Pacific waves crashing
and cresting upon
California's shoreline,
still holding
the gold rush fever.
Just reach down
and pick up
a fortune
lying peacefully
and undisturbed
right there on the ground.
I've seen it
pour through
vertical blinds
on quiet mornings,
painting young women
the color of bourbon.
I've seen it
burst out of
speakers and saxophones,
microphones and conga drums,
guitars and trumpets
setting Hollywood
on fire
and setting young lovers
on fire,
red with passion
love and hate
broadcast along the Boulevard,
little Mariachis
following behind,
making up the song
as they go along
yelling
screaming
loving
hating.
Yeah,
I've seen the light,
and it's right here
with us.
Right now.
red and blue
rotating,
screaming,
bright white
search light,
hand cuffed
sitting on the curb.
I've seen the light
sucked into a penny
in a mud puddle.
Dirty copper.
I've seen the lights
of county jail
in the wee hours
of some mundane weekday.
I've seen the light
fluorescent yellow tinged
casting a dingy hue
over hospital floors,
fake name and address,
fake social, no ID.
Sweating bullets
from pain
and nerves
wondering if they'll
discover my lie.
"You're doing fine, Derek"
"Just a little more, Derek"
I've seen the light
of the setting sun
behind the edge of
Western civilization,
Pacific waves crashing
and cresting upon
California's shoreline,
still holding
the gold rush fever.
Just reach down
and pick up
a fortune
lying peacefully
and undisturbed
right there on the ground.
I've seen it
pour through
vertical blinds
on quiet mornings,
painting young women
the color of bourbon.
I've seen it
burst out of
speakers and saxophones,
microphones and conga drums,
guitars and trumpets
setting Hollywood
on fire
and setting young lovers
on fire,
red with passion
love and hate
broadcast along the Boulevard,
little Mariachis
following behind,
making up the song
as they go along
yelling
screaming
loving
hating.
Yeah,
I've seen the light,
and it's right here
with us.
Right now.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Guess what, lard ass? It's Monday.
My girlfriend is Jewish, and I'm Arabic (among other cultural ancestry), so we're genetically predisposed to hating one another. Don't worry though; those "other cultural ancestors" also had a historic reputation for hating Jews. I realize that's an ambiguous statement, as everyone has a historic reputation for hating Jews... so I maintain my mysterious edge.
The good thing about dating a Jew is that it increases my Holidays at least three fold. Too bad I hate Holidays. They're only good for one thing: taking a day off of work. I get to take Yom Kippur off. Roshishana too. And sometimes I get to wear a yarmulke, which is awesome. Especially awesome for me because you can hardly see my bald spot when I'm wearing one. Not to mention the magical powers contained within the yarmulke. Last time I put one on, I started immediately and instinctually reorganizing my finances. Then I loaned a guy some money at a really high interest rate. Score!
I'm kidding around, folks. I harbor no generalized, arbitrary hatred for any other race, color or creed... except the English. What a bunch of stuck up wankers. I was in the lobby of my office building and I started to go up the staris when some Limey bastard says, "I think I'd rather take the lift." And I'm like, "Just because you have good manners doesn't mean I'm going to carry you up the stairs, asshole." Then I realized he was talking about the elevator, but whatever... he was still an asshole.
Also, the English need to decide what exactly the word "trolley" is going to mean. You can't use it for umbrella, city bus, train, shopping cart and pants. What if you were waiting for a train while it was raining, then got splashed by a bus, but were happy to remember you had some clean pants in your shopping cart? How would you relay that? "I was waiting for the trolley beneath me trolley when I a passing trolley splashed me trolleys. Luckily I had some dry trolleys in me trolley." Get it together, man! I can't understand you!
Oh, and David Beckham is gay. Here is a list of signs indicating Beckham's gay-ness:
1) His wife is known as "Posh Spice", which is like saying "my wife's name is 'fashion flavor'"
2) He plays soccer.
3) He wears make up, and sometimes a dress.
4) He makes no effort to call his dress a "kilt".
5) He has more hairstyles than Bjork.
6) Have you ever seen anything gayer than this?
Not outside of the West Hollywood Halloween carnival, you haven't.
I'd loveto make fun of each and every ethnicity right now, but unfortunately, I don't have the time. Suffice it to say that no matter your background, you're also geneticly predisposed to jackassery.
My girlfriend is Jewish, and I'm Arabic (among other cultural ancestry), so we're genetically predisposed to hating one another. Don't worry though; those "other cultural ancestors" also had a historic reputation for hating Jews. I realize that's an ambiguous statement, as everyone has a historic reputation for hating Jews... so I maintain my mysterious edge.
The good thing about dating a Jew is that it increases my Holidays at least three fold. Too bad I hate Holidays. They're only good for one thing: taking a day off of work. I get to take Yom Kippur off. Roshishana too. And sometimes I get to wear a yarmulke, which is awesome. Especially awesome for me because you can hardly see my bald spot when I'm wearing one. Not to mention the magical powers contained within the yarmulke. Last time I put one on, I started immediately and instinctually reorganizing my finances. Then I loaned a guy some money at a really high interest rate. Score!
I'm kidding around, folks. I harbor no generalized, arbitrary hatred for any other race, color or creed... except the English. What a bunch of stuck up wankers. I was in the lobby of my office building and I started to go up the staris when some Limey bastard says, "I think I'd rather take the lift." And I'm like, "Just because you have good manners doesn't mean I'm going to carry you up the stairs, asshole." Then I realized he was talking about the elevator, but whatever... he was still an asshole.
Also, the English need to decide what exactly the word "trolley" is going to mean. You can't use it for umbrella, city bus, train, shopping cart and pants. What if you were waiting for a train while it was raining, then got splashed by a bus, but were happy to remember you had some clean pants in your shopping cart? How would you relay that? "I was waiting for the trolley beneath me trolley when I a passing trolley splashed me trolleys. Luckily I had some dry trolleys in me trolley." Get it together, man! I can't understand you!
Oh, and David Beckham is gay. Here is a list of signs indicating Beckham's gay-ness:
1) His wife is known as "Posh Spice", which is like saying "my wife's name is 'fashion flavor'"
2) He plays soccer.
3) He wears make up, and sometimes a dress.
4) He makes no effort to call his dress a "kilt".
5) He has more hairstyles than Bjork.
6) Have you ever seen anything gayer than this?
Not outside of the West Hollywood Halloween carnival, you haven't.
I'd loveto make fun of each and every ethnicity right now, but unfortunately, I don't have the time. Suffice it to say that no matter your background, you're also geneticly predisposed to jackassery.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Me and Gilda.
"Tonight the bottle let me down,
and let your memory come around."
Mostly because I watched a movie called "Gilda" which really launched the career of Rita Hayworth. She was something, too. Very much like you.... who isn't reading this, (and even if you were, would not think I was talking about you).
I love those war era '40's movies (which is why I'm looking forward to "The Good German"). One thing I've noticed which is common in the writing style of that era is that they left innuendos subtle, giving us (the viewers) the opportunity to make up our own minds about a thing. It allows us to weigh our options and try to piece together the untold story line on our own. That sort of ambiguity makes those movies fun to watch. A good example is when Rita Hayworth says to her husband, "I can never get a zipper to close. Maybe that stands for something, what do you think?" And it's pretty much left at that.
Take Casablanca (one of my all time favorites) as another for instance. Nobody who's seen that movie could tell you who Ilsa was really in love with. Probably both Rick and Victor. The Beauty of it though, is that it's never actually explained. There are no answers to the ultimate question in that movie. Neither did the writers feel obligated to explain weather or not it's ok for Ilsa to be in love with two men. It just is the way it is. That's how life works sometimes. No clear good guy/bad guy conflict... just shades of grey.
Gone are the days of making a blockbuster movie like that. Gone are the days of letting innuendo be just that... assumed. Now they have to spell everything out in giant red letters. At least, they do when it comes to dialog, metaphors and messages. Sure, these days there are a lot of filmmakers and movie go-ers who love the "twist" (i.e., The 6th Sense), but that just isn't the same. I'm talkin' about subtleties. I'm talkin' about letting the viewer think for themselves. I'm talkin' about having the courage to pose a cinematic question, and leaving it unanswered at the end of the movie.
The only modern movie that I can think of right now that has done this is "Broken Flowers", a Jim Jarmusch movie (which I liked a lot). The big question was left up to the audience to answer if they must. Not afraid to let us think it over. After seeing a movie like any of those (Gilda, Casablanca, or Broken Flowers), I feel like the director and/or writer just gave me a present; like the movie was made for me, since I was allowed to project so much of myself into it without ruining anything. Thanks guys.
I don't know much about anything, but I do know that I really loved that movie Gilda. It's worth watching, and if you have Time Warner Digital Cable and live in Southern California, you can watch it for free on "Time Warner On Demand". Just turn to channel 001 and click "Free Movies". I know that's a shameless plug, but they have a good selection of Classic movies there (mostly presented by TCM), including some old John Ford/Duke Wayne westerns, and free movies on demand kicks ass.
Gilda: You do hate me, don't you, Johnny?
Johnny Farrell: I don't think you have any idea of how much.
Gilda: Hate is a very exciting emotion. Haven't you noticed? Very exciting. I hate you too, Johnny. I hate you so much I think I'm going to die from it. Darling...
[they kiss passionately]
Gilda: I think I'm going to die from it.
and let your memory come around."
Mostly because I watched a movie called "Gilda" which really launched the career of Rita Hayworth. She was something, too. Very much like you.... who isn't reading this, (and even if you were, would not think I was talking about you).
I love those war era '40's movies (which is why I'm looking forward to "The Good German"). One thing I've noticed which is common in the writing style of that era is that they left innuendos subtle, giving us (the viewers) the opportunity to make up our own minds about a thing. It allows us to weigh our options and try to piece together the untold story line on our own. That sort of ambiguity makes those movies fun to watch. A good example is when Rita Hayworth says to her husband, "I can never get a zipper to close. Maybe that stands for something, what do you think?" And it's pretty much left at that.
Take Casablanca (one of my all time favorites) as another for instance. Nobody who's seen that movie could tell you who Ilsa was really in love with. Probably both Rick and Victor. The Beauty of it though, is that it's never actually explained. There are no answers to the ultimate question in that movie. Neither did the writers feel obligated to explain weather or not it's ok for Ilsa to be in love with two men. It just is the way it is. That's how life works sometimes. No clear good guy/bad guy conflict... just shades of grey.
Gone are the days of making a blockbuster movie like that. Gone are the days of letting innuendo be just that... assumed. Now they have to spell everything out in giant red letters. At least, they do when it comes to dialog, metaphors and messages. Sure, these days there are a lot of filmmakers and movie go-ers who love the "twist" (i.e., The 6th Sense), but that just isn't the same. I'm talkin' about subtleties. I'm talkin' about letting the viewer think for themselves. I'm talkin' about having the courage to pose a cinematic question, and leaving it unanswered at the end of the movie.
The only modern movie that I can think of right now that has done this is "Broken Flowers", a Jim Jarmusch movie (which I liked a lot). The big question was left up to the audience to answer if they must. Not afraid to let us think it over. After seeing a movie like any of those (Gilda, Casablanca, or Broken Flowers), I feel like the director and/or writer just gave me a present; like the movie was made for me, since I was allowed to project so much of myself into it without ruining anything. Thanks guys.
I don't know much about anything, but I do know that I really loved that movie Gilda. It's worth watching, and if you have Time Warner Digital Cable and live in Southern California, you can watch it for free on "Time Warner On Demand". Just turn to channel 001 and click "Free Movies". I know that's a shameless plug, but they have a good selection of Classic movies there (mostly presented by TCM), including some old John Ford/Duke Wayne westerns, and free movies on demand kicks ass.
Gilda: You do hate me, don't you, Johnny?
Johnny Farrell: I don't think you have any idea of how much.
Gilda: Hate is a very exciting emotion. Haven't you noticed? Very exciting. I hate you too, Johnny. I hate you so much I think I'm going to die from it. Darling...
[they kiss passionately]
Gilda: I think I'm going to die from it.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
In the morning
the radio is talking
and I listen and wander.
They talk about
international news,
then local weather, traffic and time
and I listen and wander.
None of the clocks in my house
read the correct time.
That way,
I trick myself into being punctual.
The sun is sitting
on the edge of it's bed,
rubbing it's eyes.
She lays there
uttering grunts of dissapproval
at the idea of getting up.
The radio isn't talking anymore,
but I know the traffic report anyway.
Fucked up.
It's still morning
and I wander around.
Someone jogs past my window
and I guess it's Burt Bacharach
on their iPod,
but it's probably something more akin
to Justin Timberlake.
She's gotten up
and has started the shower.
I'm taking vitamins
and betting myself
that she's laying in the tub,
still trying to snooze,
and she's got the water
way too hot.
She does.
I'll soap up,
take a shave
and dress quickly.
Today I'll dress like an accountant.
There'll be no fresh muffin breakfast.
No glass of cold OJ.
No coffee with half and half,
and no colorfully clad
bouncing girl,
shaking pom poms
and chanting little
militaristic, rhyming poems
about mine
or any other team.
There'll just be
my car and a CD
while I wander
as if I'm in a canoe,
and Laruel Canyon is a slow moving river
with a shit load of
canoes that are
a lot nicer than mine.
the radio is talking
and I listen and wander.
They talk about
international news,
then local weather, traffic and time
and I listen and wander.
None of the clocks in my house
read the correct time.
That way,
I trick myself into being punctual.
The sun is sitting
on the edge of it's bed,
rubbing it's eyes.
She lays there
uttering grunts of dissapproval
at the idea of getting up.
The radio isn't talking anymore,
but I know the traffic report anyway.
Fucked up.
It's still morning
and I wander around.
Someone jogs past my window
and I guess it's Burt Bacharach
on their iPod,
but it's probably something more akin
to Justin Timberlake.
She's gotten up
and has started the shower.
I'm taking vitamins
and betting myself
that she's laying in the tub,
still trying to snooze,
and she's got the water
way too hot.
She does.
I'll soap up,
take a shave
and dress quickly.
Today I'll dress like an accountant.
There'll be no fresh muffin breakfast.
No glass of cold OJ.
No coffee with half and half,
and no colorfully clad
bouncing girl,
shaking pom poms
and chanting little
militaristic, rhyming poems
about mine
or any other team.
There'll just be
my car and a CD
while I wander
as if I'm in a canoe,
and Laruel Canyon is a slow moving river
with a shit load of
canoes that are
a lot nicer than mine.
Aw, to hell with it. I'm just gonna say it.
Good Morning morbidly obese friends.
Here's a question: Is is unfair that when men sleep with a lot of women, it's often viewed as a positive attribute, but if women sleep with lots of men they are considered slutty? Here is an answer to that question: No.
Wait a minute... are you promoting sexual promiscuity in men, and denying women the same privilege? That's like having a giant, delicious cake and only letting men eat it. Aren't we beyond that kind of discrimination in this country?
No, no... let me 'splain it. There is something the overly PC are trying to make us forget in this country. Well... there are lots of thing the overly PC are trying to forget, but I won't digress. The point I'd like to make is that, weather we like it or not, men and women are DIFFERENT! Most of you will have undoubtedly noticed by now that there are certain physical differences between the sexes, yes? Yes. But there are also mental and emotional differences that should be discussed here. Let's not keep score, as I'm not saying one is better than the other (cultural prejudices aside), I'm only trying to point out differences in our points of view and genetic predispositions.
Guys, has your girlfriend ever been upset with you for not noticing right away when she's made some subtle change to her look (hair cut/color, new make up etc)? It's rhetorical. I know she has. She's mad because your not noticing right away makes her think you're not paying attention, and therefore don't care. While we may not be paying attention, ladies, we do care. It's just that we, as men are hard wired to look at a face and check it for geometric symmetry. This registers in our natural, subconscious mind as attractiveness in women and strength in men (to an extent). Women are programmed by nature to notice the subtleties in a face far beyond symmetry, because the details will tell her animal brain weather or not they can trust the person. That's why Jake Gyllenhall is the it boy right now. Because his face is not aggressive or intimidating, and women's animal brains tell them that he's likely to stick around and provide for the family if he knocks her up. Sorry, it's true.
Women need an instinctive asshole-o-meter; an initial defense against ne'er do wells. They need it because they are the ones who will carry around and ultimately raise the offspring. I'm not going to get into a father's important roles in modern society just yet, because we need to focus on nature right now, not American culture.
Being that women carry babies around, they are looking for something different in men than men look for in women. Men (by rule of natural selection) need only find as many hosts for their offspring as possible, so the things their animal brains look for in women are largely physical. "Is she gonna produce lots of babies? Healthy ones? Then she's hot, so I must do it with her."
This is repeated in nature constantly. Animals with complex social structures are the same way. Mountain Gorillas for instance, live in packs, and the silver back is entitled to the best poon. Subsequently, the babe with the best poontang becomes the leader of the females in the group. That's just how it works.
It's nature's fault then, that men look to hump lots of partners, and women try to keep their men close and to themselves. It is in this theory that I believe lies one very beautiful thing about monogamy. When men aren't chasing skirts because they promised you they wouldn't, they are defying the laws of nature! They are standing up to a power far beyond that of any human being for the sake of your happiness.
In an effort to level the playing field, I think women in this country are becoming increasingly sluttier. They are sleeping around more, and justifying it by saying how unfair it is for men to do it, but not them. Look at that show, "Sex and the City". That show was a classic example of role reversal. Career women obsessed with sex, money and work. Boring and cliche if you ask me, but that's not the point. The point is, if you disagree with the actions attributed to a large group of people (American Men in this for instance), the way to express your disdain toward their behaviour would NOT be to emulate it. This is not a good time to fight fire with fire.
If I were to play devil's advocate here against myself, and adopt the position the the whole scenario is unfair to women, then, as a man, I'd accept it as my responsibility to NOT sleep around, rather than try to convince women that it's OK if they do it too. Fortunately, I'm not of that school of thought (that it's unfair to women). I'm not sure what society thinks about the issue, but I'll tell you this much; I don't know any men who do not at least appreciate a nice slut. I also don't know any that would take the same slut home to meet the parents, let alone wish to marry her and "settle down". Maybe those guys are out there, but I sure as shit don't know of any.
Here's a question: Is is unfair that when men sleep with a lot of women, it's often viewed as a positive attribute, but if women sleep with lots of men they are considered slutty? Here is an answer to that question: No.
Wait a minute... are you promoting sexual promiscuity in men, and denying women the same privilege? That's like having a giant, delicious cake and only letting men eat it. Aren't we beyond that kind of discrimination in this country?
No, no... let me 'splain it. There is something the overly PC are trying to make us forget in this country. Well... there are lots of thing the overly PC are trying to forget, but I won't digress. The point I'd like to make is that, weather we like it or not, men and women are DIFFERENT! Most of you will have undoubtedly noticed by now that there are certain physical differences between the sexes, yes? Yes. But there are also mental and emotional differences that should be discussed here. Let's not keep score, as I'm not saying one is better than the other (cultural prejudices aside), I'm only trying to point out differences in our points of view and genetic predispositions.
Guys, has your girlfriend ever been upset with you for not noticing right away when she's made some subtle change to her look (hair cut/color, new make up etc)? It's rhetorical. I know she has. She's mad because your not noticing right away makes her think you're not paying attention, and therefore don't care. While we may not be paying attention, ladies, we do care. It's just that we, as men are hard wired to look at a face and check it for geometric symmetry. This registers in our natural, subconscious mind as attractiveness in women and strength in men (to an extent). Women are programmed by nature to notice the subtleties in a face far beyond symmetry, because the details will tell her animal brain weather or not they can trust the person. That's why Jake Gyllenhall is the it boy right now. Because his face is not aggressive or intimidating, and women's animal brains tell them that he's likely to stick around and provide for the family if he knocks her up. Sorry, it's true.
Women need an instinctive asshole-o-meter; an initial defense against ne'er do wells. They need it because they are the ones who will carry around and ultimately raise the offspring. I'm not going to get into a father's important roles in modern society just yet, because we need to focus on nature right now, not American culture.
Being that women carry babies around, they are looking for something different in men than men look for in women. Men (by rule of natural selection) need only find as many hosts for their offspring as possible, so the things their animal brains look for in women are largely physical. "Is she gonna produce lots of babies? Healthy ones? Then she's hot, so I must do it with her."
This is repeated in nature constantly. Animals with complex social structures are the same way. Mountain Gorillas for instance, live in packs, and the silver back is entitled to the best poon. Subsequently, the babe with the best poontang becomes the leader of the females in the group. That's just how it works.
It's nature's fault then, that men look to hump lots of partners, and women try to keep their men close and to themselves. It is in this theory that I believe lies one very beautiful thing about monogamy. When men aren't chasing skirts because they promised you they wouldn't, they are defying the laws of nature! They are standing up to a power far beyond that of any human being for the sake of your happiness.
In an effort to level the playing field, I think women in this country are becoming increasingly sluttier. They are sleeping around more, and justifying it by saying how unfair it is for men to do it, but not them. Look at that show, "Sex and the City". That show was a classic example of role reversal. Career women obsessed with sex, money and work. Boring and cliche if you ask me, but that's not the point. The point is, if you disagree with the actions attributed to a large group of people (American Men in this for instance), the way to express your disdain toward their behaviour would NOT be to emulate it. This is not a good time to fight fire with fire.
If I were to play devil's advocate here against myself, and adopt the position the the whole scenario is unfair to women, then, as a man, I'd accept it as my responsibility to NOT sleep around, rather than try to convince women that it's OK if they do it too. Fortunately, I'm not of that school of thought (that it's unfair to women). I'm not sure what society thinks about the issue, but I'll tell you this much; I don't know any men who do not at least appreciate a nice slut. I also don't know any that would take the same slut home to meet the parents, let alone wish to marry her and "settle down". Maybe those guys are out there, but I sure as shit don't know of any.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
rice and corn
Hi Chunk Light.
I've cycled through like 5 topics to write about this morning. Bush, Myspace, Tea, Real Estate, and responsibility. I don't want to write about any of that shit. So what to do now?
Some people have inquired as to why I always address readers as if they're fat people. My answer is simply "Because!" How do you like that, bitch tits?
The NBA is getting rid of their new microfiber ball, and going back to the traditional leather. What will be done with all those soon-to-be-un-official, new fangled, high tech ones? They'll prolly give 'em to the military, to be dropped upon foreign lands from airplanes as a token of our appreciation with little cards that say:
"Dear war-torn African and/or Middle Eastern country we're not currently bombing:
Merry Christmas! Jesus loves you. Here are some basketballs we don't need anymore. Sorry it's not food, but a bunch of idiot, idealistic twenty somethings in Green Peace won't have us delivering genetically altered corn and rice to you. Yes, they care more about the hype behind the term "genetically modified" than actually helping to put a small dent in world hunger. They think "genetically modified" means that the food is poisonous and full of the same chemicals that were killing the Lorax, but their failing to realize that just about anything they eat is or has been genetically modified by human beings, because that's what farming and cultivating does. And they certainly don't have a problem carrying around genetically modified little lap dogs in leather bags that cost enough American dollars to sustain your village for and entire year. But hey, at least you guys can have a nice game of hoops while you starve to death, and with a little practice, maybe over the next few years we'll come back and exploit some of your best talents (or just steal your tall ass dudes like Manute Bol and Dikembe Mutumbo).
Love,
America"
Guess I'm ramblin' now. Well... as we can derive from the microfiber balls, ya win some, ya lose some.
How 'bout that? I got through like... a paragraph and a half about balls without making one single joke about testes. This is truly a proud moment for me.
I've cycled through like 5 topics to write about this morning. Bush, Myspace, Tea, Real Estate, and responsibility. I don't want to write about any of that shit. So what to do now?
Some people have inquired as to why I always address readers as if they're fat people. My answer is simply "Because!" How do you like that, bitch tits?
The NBA is getting rid of their new microfiber ball, and going back to the traditional leather. What will be done with all those soon-to-be-un-official, new fangled, high tech ones? They'll prolly give 'em to the military, to be dropped upon foreign lands from airplanes as a token of our appreciation with little cards that say:
"Dear war-torn African and/or Middle Eastern country we're not currently bombing:
Merry Christmas! Jesus loves you. Here are some basketballs we don't need anymore. Sorry it's not food, but a bunch of idiot, idealistic twenty somethings in Green Peace won't have us delivering genetically altered corn and rice to you. Yes, they care more about the hype behind the term "genetically modified" than actually helping to put a small dent in world hunger. They think "genetically modified" means that the food is poisonous and full of the same chemicals that were killing the Lorax, but their failing to realize that just about anything they eat is or has been genetically modified by human beings, because that's what farming and cultivating does. And they certainly don't have a problem carrying around genetically modified little lap dogs in leather bags that cost enough American dollars to sustain your village for and entire year. But hey, at least you guys can have a nice game of hoops while you starve to death, and with a little practice, maybe over the next few years we'll come back and exploit some of your best talents (or just steal your tall ass dudes like Manute Bol and Dikembe Mutumbo).
Love,
America"
Guess I'm ramblin' now. Well... as we can derive from the microfiber balls, ya win some, ya lose some.
How 'bout that? I got through like... a paragraph and a half about balls without making one single joke about testes. This is truly a proud moment for me.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Turd Philosophy
G'mornin', Chubbs.
This morning while taking a dump in the restroom on the thirteenth floor at my office, I realized the only graffiti in the whole bathroom is the word "Lakers" scratched into the paint of the handicap accessible stall. Now, we've all see lots of bathroom graffiti in our time, and most of it seems bad, but it's almost always a little bit interesting (I think). But "Lakers"? The least they could have done was added a "go" preceding the "Lakers" and/or an explanation point after. I had to wonder.
First of all, the offices on this floor belong to attorneys and us (real estate lenders). I don't think any of the guys here are the type to a) write graffiti in the bathroom, and b) like the Lakers, or basketball in general. I suppose there is a chance that someone's kid came to work with them and decided to proclaim their enthusiasm for the Lakers while they were taking a dump... I mean, what else could it be?
Well, I got to thinkin' about this, and as it turns out, there is a name for writing as well as the study of restroom graffiti. It's "Latrinalia".
Latrinalia exists wherever public restrooms do throughout the history of civilization. I think the psychology behind it has to have something to do with the mental juxtaposition of being simultaneously in public, and having privacy. It's that feeling of knowing you're in public, but no one can see you. I'm no head shrinker, but that's always the feeling I've had when I've contributed to the shit-house political forum.
I have always tried to be clever with my bathroom scrawlings. My point of view is that if I'm going to commit vandalism, it oughtta be worth reading. I've written "live life backwards" actually backwards on the wall adjacent to the mirror, so when you looked at it in the mirror, it could be read. I've also written various spur of the moment poems, and sometimes even snippets of famous poetry I happened to have previously committed to memory. Wow... that's sounding kind of uppity, ain't it? Who'd a thunk one could sound snobby whilst discussing instances of poop and vandalism? Leave it to me....
Anyway, I should make it known that I don't necessarily dislike the random, seemingly unimportant crude jokes or drawings of dicks or boobs. In fact, I think it's a moral imperative that, if one should enter a bathroom containing graffiti, but no one has drawn boobs, a vag or a dick, that person making note of this discrepancy is now obligated to do so, provided the person has a pen and/or marker handy.
Latrinalia is a living narrative of the people. It's poetry, art and an unofficial public forum for discussion and philosophy. Throughout history, we've been writing things on the bathroom walls, and some of it in my opinion is extremely important. In fact, I'd go so far as to say modern politicians would do well to read and take notes on all the toilet writings they encounter on the campaign trail. They'd have a much better idea of how their constituents think, and would get a firm grasp on the issues that are important to the people. Using those as a political platform, I think any politician could capture the hearts and minds of America... but that's just me.
So, the next time you find yourself taking a dump in public and you happen to have a pen, knife or marker in your pocket, do your part. Let your voice be heard, as there are doubtlessly scores of politicians reading my blog right now who will take my advice on the whole idea of basing their political platform on shit-house graffiti. Just don't write something like, "Lakers". No one will vote for a guy whose speeches revolve around Kobe and Phil. And remember, if there's no dick, boobs or vag, it's your duty to draw one of the three, even if you're Barak Obama.
Keep writing. They can't take that away from us.
This morning while taking a dump in the restroom on the thirteenth floor at my office, I realized the only graffiti in the whole bathroom is the word "Lakers" scratched into the paint of the handicap accessible stall. Now, we've all see lots of bathroom graffiti in our time, and most of it seems bad, but it's almost always a little bit interesting (I think). But "Lakers"? The least they could have done was added a "go" preceding the "Lakers" and/or an explanation point after. I had to wonder.
First of all, the offices on this floor belong to attorneys and us (real estate lenders). I don't think any of the guys here are the type to a) write graffiti in the bathroom, and b) like the Lakers, or basketball in general. I suppose there is a chance that someone's kid came to work with them and decided to proclaim their enthusiasm for the Lakers while they were taking a dump... I mean, what else could it be?
Well, I got to thinkin' about this, and as it turns out, there is a name for writing as well as the study of restroom graffiti. It's "Latrinalia".
Latrinalia exists wherever public restrooms do throughout the history of civilization. I think the psychology behind it has to have something to do with the mental juxtaposition of being simultaneously in public, and having privacy. It's that feeling of knowing you're in public, but no one can see you. I'm no head shrinker, but that's always the feeling I've had when I've contributed to the shit-house political forum.
I have always tried to be clever with my bathroom scrawlings. My point of view is that if I'm going to commit vandalism, it oughtta be worth reading. I've written "live life backwards" actually backwards on the wall adjacent to the mirror, so when you looked at it in the mirror, it could be read. I've also written various spur of the moment poems, and sometimes even snippets of famous poetry I happened to have previously committed to memory. Wow... that's sounding kind of uppity, ain't it? Who'd a thunk one could sound snobby whilst discussing instances of poop and vandalism? Leave it to me....
Anyway, I should make it known that I don't necessarily dislike the random, seemingly unimportant crude jokes or drawings of dicks or boobs. In fact, I think it's a moral imperative that, if one should enter a bathroom containing graffiti, but no one has drawn boobs, a vag or a dick, that person making note of this discrepancy is now obligated to do so, provided the person has a pen and/or marker handy.
Latrinalia is a living narrative of the people. It's poetry, art and an unofficial public forum for discussion and philosophy. Throughout history, we've been writing things on the bathroom walls, and some of it in my opinion is extremely important. In fact, I'd go so far as to say modern politicians would do well to read and take notes on all the toilet writings they encounter on the campaign trail. They'd have a much better idea of how their constituents think, and would get a firm grasp on the issues that are important to the people. Using those as a political platform, I think any politician could capture the hearts and minds of America... but that's just me.
So, the next time you find yourself taking a dump in public and you happen to have a pen, knife or marker in your pocket, do your part. Let your voice be heard, as there are doubtlessly scores of politicians reading my blog right now who will take my advice on the whole idea of basing their political platform on shit-house graffiti. Just don't write something like, "Lakers". No one will vote for a guy whose speeches revolve around Kobe and Phil. And remember, if there's no dick, boobs or vag, it's your duty to draw one of the three, even if you're Barak Obama.
Keep writing. They can't take that away from us.
Friday, December 8, 2006
Are you feeling frustrated? Losing sleep? Bills piling up? You're a miserable low down piece of donkey shit.
Good morning, Echo Chamber - amber - amber - amber.
It's been hard to find my balance in the choppy seas of Yuletide cheer. I'm too broke for Christmas, and I'm upset about that. Not just because I wish I had the dough-re-mi to spend, but also because I've let the capitalist machine mow me down like a dandelion on the imperialist lawn of economics. They've got me. Resistance is futile.
I know that sounds like a surrender, but it's not, really. It is to say that I don't hate capitalism, I just think there oughtta be something to monitor it. Seems to me like it's a snowball effect, only the ball is made out of money, and belongs to only a couple of people. Like Rupert Murdoch.
It also seems to me that unless we the people need to stand up together and let them know we're not idiots, and that we're no longer going to give them our money for nothin' (or our chicks for free), or it's only going to get worse. They're going to care less about us as the gap between rich and poor grows, and they're going to continue treating us like morons. And just like the lemmings to the pied piper, we'll march happily along to a hypnotizing flute right into our watery graves.
Advertising is invasive and insulting. Big business (another way of saying "big money") will not take the chance of allowing us to think for ourselves. Everywhere we look we are bombarded by ads. Ads that insinuate that we're ugly, stupid, fat, and uncool. Ads that promise salvation from this fate. Clothes and Ipods make you cool. Beer and liquor makes you sexy. Cars make you smart and sophisticated. Food makes you happy. Any number of these things makes your family love you more. This is the message of capitalism. "You are miserable, and the only way out is to buy what I'm selling. I am your savior."
This is more than just an insult to our intelligence and character. It's scary, evil genius, take-over-the-world-from-a-black-leather-swivel-chair-in-a-secret-lair-while-petting-a-white-cat type of comical villainy. Rupert Murdoch is Skeletor. Dick Cheney is Doctor Doom. Bill Gates is Shredder. Ralph Lauren is Gargamel. E-vill for evil's sake.
We are the Whos down in Whoville, but first we have to agree that we're gonna have Christmas weather or not we've all been violated and burglarized. Then we have to all meet in the middle of town and sing. Together. Holding hands. To let them know that there are some things they can't take away from us. We might sing in different keys, but it's gotta be the same song, for the same reason. Otherwise, the Grinch still won't give a shit and Who society will crumble like the walls of Jericho.
You're not stupid or uncool, and you don't need any products to prove it. Don't let commercials tell you otherwise.
It's been hard to find my balance in the choppy seas of Yuletide cheer. I'm too broke for Christmas, and I'm upset about that. Not just because I wish I had the dough-re-mi to spend, but also because I've let the capitalist machine mow me down like a dandelion on the imperialist lawn of economics. They've got me. Resistance is futile.
I know that sounds like a surrender, but it's not, really. It is to say that I don't hate capitalism, I just think there oughtta be something to monitor it. Seems to me like it's a snowball effect, only the ball is made out of money, and belongs to only a couple of people. Like Rupert Murdoch.
It also seems to me that unless we the people need to stand up together and let them know we're not idiots, and that we're no longer going to give them our money for nothin' (or our chicks for free), or it's only going to get worse. They're going to care less about us as the gap between rich and poor grows, and they're going to continue treating us like morons. And just like the lemmings to the pied piper, we'll march happily along to a hypnotizing flute right into our watery graves.
Advertising is invasive and insulting. Big business (another way of saying "big money") will not take the chance of allowing us to think for ourselves. Everywhere we look we are bombarded by ads. Ads that insinuate that we're ugly, stupid, fat, and uncool. Ads that promise salvation from this fate. Clothes and Ipods make you cool. Beer and liquor makes you sexy. Cars make you smart and sophisticated. Food makes you happy. Any number of these things makes your family love you more. This is the message of capitalism. "You are miserable, and the only way out is to buy what I'm selling. I am your savior."
This is more than just an insult to our intelligence and character. It's scary, evil genius, take-over-the-world-from-a-black-leather-swivel-chair-in-a-secret-lair-while-petting-a-white-cat type of comical villainy. Rupert Murdoch is Skeletor. Dick Cheney is Doctor Doom. Bill Gates is Shredder. Ralph Lauren is Gargamel. E-vill for evil's sake.
We are the Whos down in Whoville, but first we have to agree that we're gonna have Christmas weather or not we've all been violated and burglarized. Then we have to all meet in the middle of town and sing. Together. Holding hands. To let them know that there are some things they can't take away from us. We might sing in different keys, but it's gotta be the same song, for the same reason. Otherwise, the Grinch still won't give a shit and Who society will crumble like the walls of Jericho.
You're not stupid or uncool, and you don't need any products to prove it. Don't let commercials tell you otherwise.
Thursday, December 7, 2006
Spring
This morning Ben and I were listening to classical music. Vivaldi's Four Seasons, the Spring concerto. As were driving along the 101, Ben said, "Dad, this music sounds like Spring time".
I don't care if deep in his subconscious , he may recall either my telling him that the concerto was called Spring, or that he may have remembered from that Beethoven's wig CD we haven't listened to in months (it's been misplaced). I think it's pretty incredible for a four year old boy to be able to pick out the Spring concerto from Vivaldi's Four Seasons upon listening.
Ha ha! Not only is my kid smarter than your kid, he's probably smarter than you too!
Sometimes, Ben fills my heart with so much joy I think it might kill me... that's a feeling all parents get. What they don't usually get is to see their kids identify pieces of classical music like they might identify Disney characters.
That's all. Yup. That's all.
I don't care if deep in his subconscious , he may recall either my telling him that the concerto was called Spring, or that he may have remembered from that Beethoven's wig CD we haven't listened to in months (it's been misplaced). I think it's pretty incredible for a four year old boy to be able to pick out the Spring concerto from Vivaldi's Four Seasons upon listening.
Ha ha! Not only is my kid smarter than your kid, he's probably smarter than you too!
Sometimes, Ben fills my heart with so much joy I think it might kill me... that's a feeling all parents get. What they don't usually get is to see their kids identify pieces of classical music like they might identify Disney characters.
That's all. Yup. That's all.
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Eat shit
Good morning, fatty.
It's Tuesday Morning, and you all know what that means...! Nothing, really. Its just another Tuesday.
The other day, Ben and I were riding home from an early morning trip to the grovery store (we realized with great alarm that we were out of bacon, and French toast just isn't the same without fried strips of greasy swine). We were sitting at a red light and he says, "Dad, when I get older, I'm gonna say bad words." And so ensued the bad-word conversation that parents must eventually have with young children. I told Ben that if he wanted to, we could say some bad words together. I explained that I won't ever get mad at him for saying them, as long as no one else hears him, and that there was a time and place for saying those words. "If you want to say one now, go ahead." I said.
"Fuckin' bitch."
"Wow, Ben. That is quite a cuss word. When would anyone say that?"
"When you're driving, and someone goes in front of you and almost hits you like this (motions with his hands), then you can say, 'Hey you fuckin' bitch!' to them."
"Oh. Is that what Uncle Luke says?"
"Yeah. He gets pissed at the cars."
"Yes, he does."
Anyway, we talked a little more on the subject of swearing, and I think he understands that lots of people are offended by them, and it's therefore rude to spout off at say, the grocery store. Or school. But I won't get too upset if it's just us, at home or something where a word is just a word.
Knowing the origin of some of these words makes it hard for me to deem them offensive. I'll explain, but not in great detail, because I can't remember all the specifics...
A long, long time ago, at the fall of the Roman Empire, there were a bunch of "barbaric" tribes that started takin' over shit that the Romans were leaving behind as thier empire came a-tumblin' down (Huns, Jutes, Anglos, Saxons etc). Two of these groups, the Anglos and the Saxons settled in and migrated throughout what is now modern England.
When these two tribes met and eventually melded, the similar but different languages spoken between them were combined. When this kind of integration happens throughout human history, it typically begins as a ruling calss and a subordinate class. I don't remember which (Anglos or Saxons) were the ruling class in this instance. The point is though, that the ruling class deemed some of the subordinate class' words offensive, simply becasue they were used by the lower class. Some of those words were shit, piss, and eat. That's right. the word "eat" was originally deemed a cuss word. It was preferred that one use the term of the ruling class, which was "dine". That would mean that back in the 4th or 5th century AD, "eat shit" was a real zinger.
It can be said then, that modern swear words have their roots in racism and opression. In fact, it seems to me that most of the folks I know that are highly offended by cussing are proverbial acorns that didn't fall too incredibly far from that tree, the main difference in attitude being dictated by the parlance of our time.
I know cussing can be impolite, and being a grifter by trade, I understand full well the power of manners and charm. I know that we all have buttholes, and farts come out of them, but it still doesn't make it right to fart at the dinner table. For those of you about to make the point that many of today's cuss words refer to body parts or functions (involving sex or excrement) which "decent poeple" fear or dislike and wish they didn't have, and that not saying cuss words, or following those universal rules of when, where and how to discuss them is a way of hiding from things they'd prefer not to deal with at all; I say simply, "Fuck You."
Talking about offensive things just for the sake of being offensive isn't funny, clever, cutting edge or new. Referencing either Lenny Bruce, George Carlin, South Park or Dave Chapelle isn't going to fly either, though they all did/do make good points. I think it's ok to let some things be offensive, and not wish to discuss them, and least not in certain company or circumstances. Sometimes, society as a whole needs a change, but that's a thing we all do together under the leadership of certain individuals such as those listed above. We'll all decide together when it's time to push things forward, but for now, I'll manage my personal family affairs how I see fit, keeping in mind that the rest of the world may not agree with me. Thing of it is, I'm not trying to change the rest of the world. I'm only trying to let my four year old son (and now the rest of you) know where I stand on cussing and why.
Fuckin' bitch.
It's Tuesday Morning, and you all know what that means...! Nothing, really. Its just another Tuesday.
The other day, Ben and I were riding home from an early morning trip to the grovery store (we realized with great alarm that we were out of bacon, and French toast just isn't the same without fried strips of greasy swine). We were sitting at a red light and he says, "Dad, when I get older, I'm gonna say bad words." And so ensued the bad-word conversation that parents must eventually have with young children. I told Ben that if he wanted to, we could say some bad words together. I explained that I won't ever get mad at him for saying them, as long as no one else hears him, and that there was a time and place for saying those words. "If you want to say one now, go ahead." I said.
"Fuckin' bitch."
"Wow, Ben. That is quite a cuss word. When would anyone say that?"
"When you're driving, and someone goes in front of you and almost hits you like this (motions with his hands), then you can say, 'Hey you fuckin' bitch!' to them."
"Oh. Is that what Uncle Luke says?"
"Yeah. He gets pissed at the cars."
"Yes, he does."
Anyway, we talked a little more on the subject of swearing, and I think he understands that lots of people are offended by them, and it's therefore rude to spout off at say, the grocery store. Or school. But I won't get too upset if it's just us, at home or something where a word is just a word.
Knowing the origin of some of these words makes it hard for me to deem them offensive. I'll explain, but not in great detail, because I can't remember all the specifics...
A long, long time ago, at the fall of the Roman Empire, there were a bunch of "barbaric" tribes that started takin' over shit that the Romans were leaving behind as thier empire came a-tumblin' down (Huns, Jutes, Anglos, Saxons etc). Two of these groups, the Anglos and the Saxons settled in and migrated throughout what is now modern England.
When these two tribes met and eventually melded, the similar but different languages spoken between them were combined. When this kind of integration happens throughout human history, it typically begins as a ruling calss and a subordinate class. I don't remember which (Anglos or Saxons) were the ruling class in this instance. The point is though, that the ruling class deemed some of the subordinate class' words offensive, simply becasue they were used by the lower class. Some of those words were shit, piss, and eat. That's right. the word "eat" was originally deemed a cuss word. It was preferred that one use the term of the ruling class, which was "dine". That would mean that back in the 4th or 5th century AD, "eat shit" was a real zinger.
It can be said then, that modern swear words have their roots in racism and opression. In fact, it seems to me that most of the folks I know that are highly offended by cussing are proverbial acorns that didn't fall too incredibly far from that tree, the main difference in attitude being dictated by the parlance of our time.
I know cussing can be impolite, and being a grifter by trade, I understand full well the power of manners and charm. I know that we all have buttholes, and farts come out of them, but it still doesn't make it right to fart at the dinner table. For those of you about to make the point that many of today's cuss words refer to body parts or functions (involving sex or excrement) which "decent poeple" fear or dislike and wish they didn't have, and that not saying cuss words, or following those universal rules of when, where and how to discuss them is a way of hiding from things they'd prefer not to deal with at all; I say simply, "Fuck You."
Talking about offensive things just for the sake of being offensive isn't funny, clever, cutting edge or new. Referencing either Lenny Bruce, George Carlin, South Park or Dave Chapelle isn't going to fly either, though they all did/do make good points. I think it's ok to let some things be offensive, and not wish to discuss them, and least not in certain company or circumstances. Sometimes, society as a whole needs a change, but that's a thing we all do together under the leadership of certain individuals such as those listed above. We'll all decide together when it's time to push things forward, but for now, I'll manage my personal family affairs how I see fit, keeping in mind that the rest of the world may not agree with me. Thing of it is, I'm not trying to change the rest of the world. I'm only trying to let my four year old son (and now the rest of you) know where I stand on cussing and why.
Fuckin' bitch.
Monday, December 4, 2006
Improving my idiocy
Good morning, fatso. How was your weekend?
I've been sorting through a few things... trying to prioritize my life's goals. For a while there, my main objective was to work on getting fatter, dumber and balder while growing out my handle bar mustache and refusing to wash my wife beater tank top. I'd then start a collection of half full (ever the optimist) beer cans to be kept within arm's reach at all times, so that I might throw them at my girlfriend and yell slurred profanities at seemingly random intervals. I think I might be aiming too high on that one though, as maintaining that level of suppressed rage then purposely misdirecting it on to women can be emotionally draining. I'm too lazy to be that angry.
That being said, I think I'll aspire to smoke more pot and play more video games. Although coffee and television have been good to me over the years, I find myself watching educational programming far too often. While I know that TV is helping to desensitize me, brainwash me with commercials and make me even lazier, I keep on accidentally learning things. Damn PBS! How am I ever going to reach my goals if I'm learning? I won't, that's how. Thank god Bill O'Reily is still around to insist on making Americans stupid. If not for him, I may have thought ill of some members of the Republican Party and been forced to listen to reason. Keep yelling, Bill. Your viewers need to be scolded and bullied into believing everything you are told to say.
I also contemplated going to church, but that would require socializing as well as dressing up on Sundays. No can do. Besides that, I'm not sure church makes you dumber. Using some of the prominent figures of the religious right as a barometer, I thought it would, but then I realized that lots of people go to church and still don't take away some of the core Christian principles. Blind hatred, extreme prejudice, a sense of moral superiority and entitlement, or a healthy fear of science and real life for instance. In fact, to my amazement, I've found lots of "churchy" people to be honest, kind, smart and generally pleasant company. So that's out.
Guess it's a long, difficult path of mary jane and playstation for me if I want to keep getting dumber. I just wish that pot didn't make my mind wander so much. Sometimes I actually think about things when I'm stoned. Fortunately though, I usually forget what potentially good ideas I had almost immediately. Dorito's and Tekken 5. Now there's a life with promise.
I've been sorting through a few things... trying to prioritize my life's goals. For a while there, my main objective was to work on getting fatter, dumber and balder while growing out my handle bar mustache and refusing to wash my wife beater tank top. I'd then start a collection of half full (ever the optimist) beer cans to be kept within arm's reach at all times, so that I might throw them at my girlfriend and yell slurred profanities at seemingly random intervals. I think I might be aiming too high on that one though, as maintaining that level of suppressed rage then purposely misdirecting it on to women can be emotionally draining. I'm too lazy to be that angry.
That being said, I think I'll aspire to smoke more pot and play more video games. Although coffee and television have been good to me over the years, I find myself watching educational programming far too often. While I know that TV is helping to desensitize me, brainwash me with commercials and make me even lazier, I keep on accidentally learning things. Damn PBS! How am I ever going to reach my goals if I'm learning? I won't, that's how. Thank god Bill O'Reily is still around to insist on making Americans stupid. If not for him, I may have thought ill of some members of the Republican Party and been forced to listen to reason. Keep yelling, Bill. Your viewers need to be scolded and bullied into believing everything you are told to say.
I also contemplated going to church, but that would require socializing as well as dressing up on Sundays. No can do. Besides that, I'm not sure church makes you dumber. Using some of the prominent figures of the religious right as a barometer, I thought it would, but then I realized that lots of people go to church and still don't take away some of the core Christian principles. Blind hatred, extreme prejudice, a sense of moral superiority and entitlement, or a healthy fear of science and real life for instance. In fact, to my amazement, I've found lots of "churchy" people to be honest, kind, smart and generally pleasant company. So that's out.
Guess it's a long, difficult path of mary jane and playstation for me if I want to keep getting dumber. I just wish that pot didn't make my mind wander so much. Sometimes I actually think about things when I'm stoned. Fortunately though, I usually forget what potentially good ideas I had almost immediately. Dorito's and Tekken 5. Now there's a life with promise.
Friday, December 1, 2006
Laundry Day
Good morning, Echo Chamber. Any plans for the weekend?
I plan to do laundry, which is always a real treat. There's no place quite like a public laundromat. It smells clean but looks dirty. That always throws me off... can't quite get my bearings; focus my chi. I hope I never encounter a ruthless Chinese gang leader on a campaign of martial arts carnage there. The scent of fabric softener and the sight of a fat dude in dirty sweatpants disorients me ever so slightly, leaving me susceptible to the praying mantis style.
Great. Now my nemeses (that's plural for nemesis!) will know I'm vulnerable! Why did I start this blog?
Right. Laundry. Something changes inside of me watching garments tumble around the dryer window; seeing the red light change from indicating the "Final rinse" stage of the wash cycle to the "Final Spin" phase. Maybe it's the mild sense of demasculinization I get when I fold my girlfriend's clothes... just Ben and I. It's not like I have a huge problem with that, but I'd much prefer to don a flower-and-lace apron in the privacy of my own home. Did I mention I wear a flowery apron when I wash clothes? I might as well anyway. That's all I'm sayin'. I wish Ben and I could always do manly things together. Of course, we usually have a pretty good time at the laundromat, singing songs and making friends. See, the laundromat environment lends itself to easy, casual conversation with other patrons. There's a sort of unspoken bond that forms between strangers who've seen each other's undies. "So... those are your skivvies, huh? Yup-ah. These are mine."
The whole "seeing another person's undies" thing is awkward when it's you and the fat, dirty-sweatpants guy, which is to be expected. It's far more awkward (surprisingly) when you're folding undies with that ineluctable knock-out dame doing laundry at the same time. I always see a hot girl at the launderette. Never fails.
There are two advantages a man has in this magical forest of industrial sized appliances when it comes to the fairer sex. First, a cute girl doing laundry on a Saturday morning is usually still pajama clad, and that promotes public bralessness (which should be a real word and a serious cause). Secondly, the laundromat throws everyone off balance, not just highly trained vigilante martial arts killing machines with a strong moral fiber and a good heart who were framed by their ex-partner and current unscrupulous chief of police. No. We're all vulnerable there (hence pj's sans bra), and cute girls even like nerdy guys when they're feeling vulnerable. Especially ones who aren't afraid of doing a little laundry with their adorable son. I'm not sayin' that I'd ever be led astray by some laundromat temptress, some sultry, sensual morning mistress, suggestively folding frilly underthings while blatantly eye-fucking me... but it is nice to be noticed... (nicer still when it's one of those LA women that Jim Morrison was singn' about).
The thing I hate about laundry though is that you have to pay for it. Man! Who is the masochist who thought of that? Prolly kin to the jerk that invented work (who was hanged from a cigarette tree on the Big Rock Candy Mountain). "Hmm... How can we make a horrible, monotonous chore even more miserable? Wait... I got it! What if we rigged it so that the people actually had to pay for the 'privilege' of doing their own laundry?" Of course I understand why washing machines cost money, and how that came to be, but it still chaps my ass. If I'm coming out of pocket to do chores, I'd rather be paying someone to do the actual work for me. Ten bucks oughtta buy a little piece of mind on an easy weekend, right?
Another bone of contention - folding clothes. The process involves so many steps that are inherently irritating to me. Finding matching socks, for instance. I hate to discover how many single socks (usually my favorites) are missing their counterparts. I hate the feeling of apprehension I get when I find a matching pair, but can't think of any other way to keep them together other than wrapping the elastic band of one around the top of the other, thereby inevitably ruining the pair, as it's been well documented that if this technique is used even one time too often, it'll turn the once harmonious pair into the dreaded one-stays-up-and-the-other-falls-down pair of feuding foot covers... ahhhh! It's happening... and I haven't even gotten to complain about t-shirts or dress pants...! Must... break... free....
*phew*
So I guess it's safe to say that the jury's still out regarding Saturday morning trips to the laundromat. It does have it's perks (pun intended)... shallow and lascivious as they may be, but as you can plainly see, there are times when the simple act of folding clothes can drive me to the brink of madness. I'm inclined to chalk one up for Laundry under the "Hate" column, but as long as there are beautiful women who also have to do their own laundry, there lies a reasonable doubt.
Boobs make everything better.
Damn right.
I plan to do laundry, which is always a real treat. There's no place quite like a public laundromat. It smells clean but looks dirty. That always throws me off... can't quite get my bearings; focus my chi. I hope I never encounter a ruthless Chinese gang leader on a campaign of martial arts carnage there. The scent of fabric softener and the sight of a fat dude in dirty sweatpants disorients me ever so slightly, leaving me susceptible to the praying mantis style.
Great. Now my nemeses (that's plural for nemesis!) will know I'm vulnerable! Why did I start this blog?
Right. Laundry. Something changes inside of me watching garments tumble around the dryer window; seeing the red light change from indicating the "Final rinse" stage of the wash cycle to the "Final Spin" phase. Maybe it's the mild sense of demasculinization I get when I fold my girlfriend's clothes... just Ben and I. It's not like I have a huge problem with that, but I'd much prefer to don a flower-and-lace apron in the privacy of my own home. Did I mention I wear a flowery apron when I wash clothes? I might as well anyway. That's all I'm sayin'. I wish Ben and I could always do manly things together. Of course, we usually have a pretty good time at the laundromat, singing songs and making friends. See, the laundromat environment lends itself to easy, casual conversation with other patrons. There's a sort of unspoken bond that forms between strangers who've seen each other's undies. "So... those are your skivvies, huh? Yup-ah. These are mine."
The whole "seeing another person's undies" thing is awkward when it's you and the fat, dirty-sweatpants guy, which is to be expected. It's far more awkward (surprisingly) when you're folding undies with that ineluctable knock-out dame doing laundry at the same time. I always see a hot girl at the launderette. Never fails.
There are two advantages a man has in this magical forest of industrial sized appliances when it comes to the fairer sex. First, a cute girl doing laundry on a Saturday morning is usually still pajama clad, and that promotes public bralessness (which should be a real word and a serious cause). Secondly, the laundromat throws everyone off balance, not just highly trained vigilante martial arts killing machines with a strong moral fiber and a good heart who were framed by their ex-partner and current unscrupulous chief of police. No. We're all vulnerable there (hence pj's sans bra), and cute girls even like nerdy guys when they're feeling vulnerable. Especially ones who aren't afraid of doing a little laundry with their adorable son. I'm not sayin' that I'd ever be led astray by some laundromat temptress, some sultry, sensual morning mistress, suggestively folding frilly underthings while blatantly eye-fucking me... but it is nice to be noticed... (nicer still when it's one of those LA women that Jim Morrison was singn' about).
The thing I hate about laundry though is that you have to pay for it. Man! Who is the masochist who thought of that? Prolly kin to the jerk that invented work (who was hanged from a cigarette tree on the Big Rock Candy Mountain). "Hmm... How can we make a horrible, monotonous chore even more miserable? Wait... I got it! What if we rigged it so that the people actually had to pay for the 'privilege' of doing their own laundry?" Of course I understand why washing machines cost money, and how that came to be, but it still chaps my ass. If I'm coming out of pocket to do chores, I'd rather be paying someone to do the actual work for me. Ten bucks oughtta buy a little piece of mind on an easy weekend, right?
Another bone of contention - folding clothes. The process involves so many steps that are inherently irritating to me. Finding matching socks, for instance. I hate to discover how many single socks (usually my favorites) are missing their counterparts. I hate the feeling of apprehension I get when I find a matching pair, but can't think of any other way to keep them together other than wrapping the elastic band of one around the top of the other, thereby inevitably ruining the pair, as it's been well documented that if this technique is used even one time too often, it'll turn the once harmonious pair into the dreaded one-stays-up-and-the-other-falls-down pair of feuding foot covers... ahhhh! It's happening... and I haven't even gotten to complain about t-shirts or dress pants...! Must... break... free....
*phew*
So I guess it's safe to say that the jury's still out regarding Saturday morning trips to the laundromat. It does have it's perks (pun intended)... shallow and lascivious as they may be, but as you can plainly see, there are times when the simple act of folding clothes can drive me to the brink of madness. I'm inclined to chalk one up for Laundry under the "Hate" column, but as long as there are beautiful women who also have to do their own laundry, there lies a reasonable doubt.
Boobs make everything better.
Damn right.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Free way cars and trucks
I used to hate people who identify themselves in large part by what they drive. I thought for a long time that this was a ridiculous notion, even knowing that so much of America's culture is was built around the automobile. I realize now that I was wrong. Even if you make an effort to NOT be defined by what you drive, other people will. It's inescapable. There's a certain psychology behind road rage that makes us so susceptible. The idea is that when someone cuts you off in traffic, or is driving in a way you don't like, it's easy to rage against them because in your mind, you're raging against a car (a "machine", if you will, hardee har har). We'd never think to act so rudely or aggressively if a similar mild intrusion or faux pas were to take place on a crowded public sidewalk, because we'd be dealing with an actual person, face to face. Mano y Mano. It's the same reason you can sit back and write me emails about how fucking stupid I am and how you'd like to punch me in the face, when in fact, were we having this conversation outside of a bar (for instance) you might still think I'm stupid, but you wouldn't say shit until I'm long gone so as to avoid getting actually punched (or counter punched, as it were).
Let's look at some examples of car to driver similarities. I drive a white, 2005 Chevy Cavalier. It does not go fast, is not exciting in any way, and I operate this car in the same fashion overly-cautious elderly people handle their Cadillacs. Slow and easy. Defensively. If you were to see me on the road, you might draw the following conclusions:
- This dude must be broke as hell
- What a fucking NERD!
- Here's a guy who doesn't take pride in his car
- This guy probably doesn't know shit about cars (mechanics), their design or their manufacturers
- He probably listens to NPR in the mornings on his way to the office where he'll pretend to be busy for the bulk of the day, ultimately getting in about 3 hours of actual "work".
You be correct to assume all of the above. Just as when you see someone in a "tricked out" mid-nineties model Honda Civic with chain link steering wheel, eight ball steering wheel knob (spinner), altered exhaust pipe(s) and a set of rims that costed three times what the car is worth, one might assume that the person is probably not good with finances, has a desperate, uncontrollable need to feel "cool", probably has a bad tattoo, drives like an asshole and does not like to read a good book before an 11 o'clock bed time.
I will say; while it's a bit douchey to have one, it's a little bit unfair to say that every guy with a gigantic truck, altered to look even bigger (i.e. lift kits and oversized tires) has a small penis. Unless of course, you're using the statement metaphorically, the "small penis" representing a wide array of social or emotional insecurities that must be covered up by obscenely huge trucks. Maybe the guy is a latent homosexual? Perhaps he's got a fear of women? Maybe he got picked on growing up?
Anyway, I understand that people are always going to assess (prejudge) certain parts of our identity in direct correlation with our automobiles. Might as well embrace that fact. Heck, maybe I'll even give some additional clues to my personality via my car. Something to the effect of a giant pair of glasses to sit on the front windshield with tape in the middle and a bow tie and cardigan sweater painted on the hood? That oughtta proclaim my geekdom loud and clear. That way, when people see me driving cautiously, signaling with both blinker and hand, they'll be more inclined to cut me some slack. Well, either cut me slack or throw more trash at me. Either way it lessens the ambiguity.
One final note. Those individuals who have neon lights anywhere on their cars (ground effects, around the licence plate, or anywhere inside) deserve every bit of mockery and ridicule they have already endured, and will continue to endure as long as they drive around with a light up sign loudly broadcasting, "I am a jackass, please berate me!"
Done.
Let's look at some examples of car to driver similarities. I drive a white, 2005 Chevy Cavalier. It does not go fast, is not exciting in any way, and I operate this car in the same fashion overly-cautious elderly people handle their Cadillacs. Slow and easy. Defensively. If you were to see me on the road, you might draw the following conclusions:
- This dude must be broke as hell
- What a fucking NERD!
- Here's a guy who doesn't take pride in his car
- This guy probably doesn't know shit about cars (mechanics), their design or their manufacturers
- He probably listens to NPR in the mornings on his way to the office where he'll pretend to be busy for the bulk of the day, ultimately getting in about 3 hours of actual "work".
You be correct to assume all of the above. Just as when you see someone in a "tricked out" mid-nineties model Honda Civic with chain link steering wheel, eight ball steering wheel knob (spinner), altered exhaust pipe(s) and a set of rims that costed three times what the car is worth, one might assume that the person is probably not good with finances, has a desperate, uncontrollable need to feel "cool", probably has a bad tattoo, drives like an asshole and does not like to read a good book before an 11 o'clock bed time.
I will say; while it's a bit douchey to have one, it's a little bit unfair to say that every guy with a gigantic truck, altered to look even bigger (i.e. lift kits and oversized tires) has a small penis. Unless of course, you're using the statement metaphorically, the "small penis" representing a wide array of social or emotional insecurities that must be covered up by obscenely huge trucks. Maybe the guy is a latent homosexual? Perhaps he's got a fear of women? Maybe he got picked on growing up?
Anyway, I understand that people are always going to assess (prejudge) certain parts of our identity in direct correlation with our automobiles. Might as well embrace that fact. Heck, maybe I'll even give some additional clues to my personality via my car. Something to the effect of a giant pair of glasses to sit on the front windshield with tape in the middle and a bow tie and cardigan sweater painted on the hood? That oughtta proclaim my geekdom loud and clear. That way, when people see me driving cautiously, signaling with both blinker and hand, they'll be more inclined to cut me some slack. Well, either cut me slack or throw more trash at me. Either way it lessens the ambiguity.
One final note. Those individuals who have neon lights anywhere on their cars (ground effects, around the licence plate, or anywhere inside) deserve every bit of mockery and ridicule they have already endured, and will continue to endure as long as they drive around with a light up sign loudly broadcasting, "I am a jackass, please berate me!"
Done.
Hum-fucking-bug! Didjya hear that, Cratchet?!
Humbuggery abounds, Echo Chamber. I'm haunted by visions of slowly navigating parking lots, the familiar apprehension of "Will they like it?", the crowds of snarling moms and grimacing in-laws, hating every second of life while wishing everyone "Happy Holidays". No one can afford it... everyone's broke, at least broker than they'd like to be right now. Hard to satisfy rampant, unchecked consumerism. Hard to satisfy a lifetime of guilt by giving that five bucks to a bum once a year.
Peace on Earth, goodwill toward men. These things were invented by clever writers. Most of the people you encounter on a daily basis wish you were dead. Especially with all this Yuletide cheer wafting through the air among cinnamon scented candles and imitation pine. Have another rum, Poppa Bing. It'll come in handy when you have to beat your wife and kids immediately proceeding this last take of "White Christmas".
Let's face it. We all hate Christmas time. Sure, if one happened to develop a mild feud with a family member sometime during the year, it's a time to reconsider those feelings and embrace family. Besides that though, it's a time of year we spend money we don't have on things the people we don't like don't even want. We over stay our visits, over eat, and over extend our emotional capacity trying to make everyone happy. The result is a deep and unruly hatred for our neighbors, bitterly expressed through a thin lacy veil of "Merry Christmas" and an under-the-breath symphony of expletives and insults unmatched by the most elite of the cuss word enthusiasts.
Yes. And a very merry Christmas to you sir.
Slayer rings, are ya listenin'
In the alley, puke is glistenin'.
A horrible sight
we're depressed tonight
crawling through a winter wonderland.
I know... that was totally gay. Hey... Guess what?! I just warmed you up a nice bowl of feces and milk - eat up!
Peace on Earth, goodwill toward men. These things were invented by clever writers. Most of the people you encounter on a daily basis wish you were dead. Especially with all this Yuletide cheer wafting through the air among cinnamon scented candles and imitation pine. Have another rum, Poppa Bing. It'll come in handy when you have to beat your wife and kids immediately proceeding this last take of "White Christmas".
Let's face it. We all hate Christmas time. Sure, if one happened to develop a mild feud with a family member sometime during the year, it's a time to reconsider those feelings and embrace family. Besides that though, it's a time of year we spend money we don't have on things the people we don't like don't even want. We over stay our visits, over eat, and over extend our emotional capacity trying to make everyone happy. The result is a deep and unruly hatred for our neighbors, bitterly expressed through a thin lacy veil of "Merry Christmas" and an under-the-breath symphony of expletives and insults unmatched by the most elite of the cuss word enthusiasts.
Yes. And a very merry Christmas to you sir.
Slayer rings, are ya listenin'
In the alley, puke is glistenin'.
A horrible sight
we're depressed tonight
crawling through a winter wonderland.
I know... that was totally gay. Hey... Guess what?! I just warmed you up a nice bowl of feces and milk - eat up!
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
That makes me think of
Here's the "That makes me think of..." game. Take an idea, then make a list of the things it makes you think of, even if they're dumb or obvious. Then take one thing from that list, and repeat the pattern. Keep going for a while, each time taking an idea from the newest list. When you're done, go back a look at the first idea see what kind of new perspective you get on it. Let's start with... :
Mustaches and turtlenecks:
a character
the 70's
comb overs
rockin out on the Casio keyboard
stuffing one's polyester pants
Cologne
Burt Reynolds
Rockin' out on the Casio:
gigs at barmitzvah's or cheesy lounges
a yellow tambourine
Milwaukee Beer
keyboard guitars
white guys playing funk
Milwaukee Beer:
bikers
Americana
the open road
dark taverns during the day
heartbreak
guns
fat people
heartbreak:
beauty is villainous
flowers
cheap hotels
basement studios in east Hollywood
Willie Nelson
universal pain
OK, that should be enough. Now if we go back and look at mustaches and turtlenecks, we can devise that just because some baby boomer picked up a Casio and turned it into a hobby; just because he practices in his basement with other fat guys blow drying hair over bald spots and drinking Milwaukee beer during breaks; just because they're getting pumped up for their big show Wednesday night (armature night) at "Classy Dave's Steak House and Lounge" doesn't mean that back in the late 70's just after 'Nam, that blond in the red dress and pearls didn't shatter his heart, just like that chick with nipple rings tattoos shattered yours.
So show some respect. Mustache and turtleneck guy is a person too. And his bass player rules.
Mustaches and turtlenecks:
a character
the 70's
comb overs
rockin out on the Casio keyboard
stuffing one's polyester pants
Cologne
Burt Reynolds
Rockin' out on the Casio:
gigs at barmitzvah's or cheesy lounges
a yellow tambourine
Milwaukee Beer
keyboard guitars
white guys playing funk
Milwaukee Beer:
bikers
Americana
the open road
dark taverns during the day
heartbreak
guns
fat people
heartbreak:
beauty is villainous
flowers
cheap hotels
basement studios in east Hollywood
Willie Nelson
universal pain
OK, that should be enough. Now if we go back and look at mustaches and turtlenecks, we can devise that just because some baby boomer picked up a Casio and turned it into a hobby; just because he practices in his basement with other fat guys blow drying hair over bald spots and drinking Milwaukee beer during breaks; just because they're getting pumped up for their big show Wednesday night (armature night) at "Classy Dave's Steak House and Lounge" doesn't mean that back in the late 70's just after 'Nam, that blond in the red dress and pearls didn't shatter his heart, just like that chick with nipple rings tattoos shattered yours.
So show some respect. Mustache and turtleneck guy is a person too. And his bass player rules.
Monday, November 27, 2006
I like being called "Dolly Angel". So what?
Good morning lonesome echo chamber of the cyber netherworld. How was everyone's Thanksgetting?
I went up to visit my cousins, Peter and Paulie Paruccini. That's right, fuckers. I have Italian cousins up North that'll be happy to sort you out should you come around fuckin' with mine. They're mom still calls me her little "Dolly Angel". Sure I'm a 27 year old man, but I gotta admit, it's endearing after all these years. Especially since the nicknames I get from other close friends and family usually allude to the fact that I'm ornery, lazy, and act like an old man who's mashed potatoes got cold at Country Buffet.
Most people complain complain complain about their family, but not me. I like 'em more than I like anyone else. They're just better people than most, and I feel lucky and honored just to be in their company. Sure they're crazy, but so what? I like it better that way. Besides, what could be more fun than blowing up old vacuums with dangerous Mexican fire works on some farm land out at the foot of the Butes with your brothers and two bad ass cousins? Childish? Maybe, but if you can't understand the allure of mindless destruction via unstable explosives, we're probably not going to be friends anyway, so I won't feel bad about asking you to politely exit stage and commence fucking yourself post haste.
Toodaloo.
I went up to visit my cousins, Peter and Paulie Paruccini. That's right, fuckers. I have Italian cousins up North that'll be happy to sort you out should you come around fuckin' with mine. They're mom still calls me her little "Dolly Angel". Sure I'm a 27 year old man, but I gotta admit, it's endearing after all these years. Especially since the nicknames I get from other close friends and family usually allude to the fact that I'm ornery, lazy, and act like an old man who's mashed potatoes got cold at Country Buffet.
Most people complain complain complain about their family, but not me. I like 'em more than I like anyone else. They're just better people than most, and I feel lucky and honored just to be in their company. Sure they're crazy, but so what? I like it better that way. Besides, what could be more fun than blowing up old vacuums with dangerous Mexican fire works on some farm land out at the foot of the Butes with your brothers and two bad ass cousins? Childish? Maybe, but if you can't understand the allure of mindless destruction via unstable explosives, we're probably not going to be friends anyway, so I won't feel bad about asking you to politely exit stage and commence fucking yourself post haste.
Toodaloo.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Fruit at the bottom
Testes, testes.
I sure am hungry. For yogurt. Fruit at the bottom.
Last night a big fat Finnish mama came over to talk to me about life insurance and investment opportunities. It was a two hour presentation, that ended in way to launder your own money so as to keep it out of Uncle Sam's pocket. She talked about 401k's, CD's and mutual funds, and by the end of the night, she called me a Marxist. I took one of her stupid pamphlets, but only to get her to go away.
A Marxist?
Some time during the presentation, she came to a segment in which she demonstrated the basic theories of "Tax Now" (interest accruing savings accounts and public investments getting taxed at the end of every year) "Tax Later" (401k's and IRA's) and "Tax Never" (her glorious solution to all our problems). During this segment, she did a lot of confusing math, and ended up with this bottom line: "If you accrue $900,000 in a 401k plan, and take out a small percent to live on in retirement, the government will tax you $810,000." I must have had a disturbed look on my face immediately upon hearing this news because she said, "You have a disturbed look on your face."
"Yes," I said, "I am disturbed." Then I told her that I didn't buy it. It sounded to me like she was throwing a bunch of unverifiable numbers at me and creating a fictional scenario in order to demonstrate an alarming situation so that when she got to what she was selling, I would be so emotionally relieved to know that I could avoid this perilous fate at the hands of my government in my old age that I'd jump at the opportunity to buy up that heaping helping of financial salvation. Then I told her I didn't believe that our leaders would let that happen to old people. Corrupt as they were, I just couldn't see that level of blatant thievery happening, at least not to our own people. Maybe to Iraqis or Mexicans, but not red blooded, retired Americans.
Fruit at the bottom. I take a side in the great yogurt debate. My girlfriend eats that Yoplait, whipped kind of yogurt. Me... I find it well worth the extra effort of stirring the little cup so that the boogery lumps of real fruit are well mixed... but I'm no Marxist.
I sure am hungry. For yogurt. Fruit at the bottom.
Last night a big fat Finnish mama came over to talk to me about life insurance and investment opportunities. It was a two hour presentation, that ended in way to launder your own money so as to keep it out of Uncle Sam's pocket. She talked about 401k's, CD's and mutual funds, and by the end of the night, she called me a Marxist. I took one of her stupid pamphlets, but only to get her to go away.
A Marxist?
Some time during the presentation, she came to a segment in which she demonstrated the basic theories of "Tax Now" (interest accruing savings accounts and public investments getting taxed at the end of every year) "Tax Later" (401k's and IRA's) and "Tax Never" (her glorious solution to all our problems). During this segment, she did a lot of confusing math, and ended up with this bottom line: "If you accrue $900,000 in a 401k plan, and take out a small percent to live on in retirement, the government will tax you $810,000." I must have had a disturbed look on my face immediately upon hearing this news because she said, "You have a disturbed look on your face."
"Yes," I said, "I am disturbed." Then I told her that I didn't buy it. It sounded to me like she was throwing a bunch of unverifiable numbers at me and creating a fictional scenario in order to demonstrate an alarming situation so that when she got to what she was selling, I would be so emotionally relieved to know that I could avoid this perilous fate at the hands of my government in my old age that I'd jump at the opportunity to buy up that heaping helping of financial salvation. Then I told her I didn't believe that our leaders would let that happen to old people. Corrupt as they were, I just couldn't see that level of blatant thievery happening, at least not to our own people. Maybe to Iraqis or Mexicans, but not red blooded, retired Americans.
Fruit at the bottom. I take a side in the great yogurt debate. My girlfriend eats that Yoplait, whipped kind of yogurt. Me... I find it well worth the extra effort of stirring the little cup so that the boogery lumps of real fruit are well mixed... but I'm no Marxist.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
