For me, writing poetry is like taking a shit. I do it because I have to. I take in the world through my own experience, process it, decide what to use and what to throw away, then I take a dump, or in this case, write a poem. Some things in life might give certain poets a kind of literary diarrhea. Those plates of metaphorical Indian food sometimes carry the label of "muse". Hollywood is one of mine.
Since my poems are so much like poop, once I write them, I usually want little or nothing to do with them. Also applicable to this analogy (heh heh, anal-ogy) is the fact that most people are less bothered by their own stank, than the stink stank of others. That being said, I'm not going to pretend to be the best judge of my own work.
Yes, this is going somewhere. In anticipation of the up coming poetry event "Sparrows", at which I have 9 minutes on stage, I have started to comb through old poems in an effort to decide which (if any) to use during my set. I'm also involved in a program called "Troubadours" in which myself and other performers will go around to specified restaurants in Salida doing readings for individual tables etc. (kinda like the Mariachis at El Compadre), so not all of these will be read on the stage. Besides that, I hope to have a fair amount of new material to read as well.
In any case, I posted a bunch of poems I'm considering on a new blog you'll find on my profile page called "Poems". I know, that is one creative name, right? Or, if you're as lazy as I am, you can just click this. I am asking anyone reading this to please take the time to browse the poems there, and let me know which ones you like and/or dislike. If you're not really into poetry, it doesn't matter. I still value and want to know your opinion. After all, most people think poetry is something for geeks and art fags only, but they'd be wrong. Poetry is for everyone, and I hope there are no pretensions or stigmatisms like that attached to the poems I write. Like I said, to me, they aren't that far from steaming piles of shit. Now I'm asking you to smell the piles, and let me know which of them stink the least. If you're not one for posting comments, don't feel obligated, but do feel free to send me an email here: camel_disk_jockey@yahoo.com.
Wow... that was motivating, eh? Asking you to smell piles of shit? Yeah... some people call it a knack; I like to think of it as a calling. I have an innate ability to ruin any potentially nice idea with gross analogies and repulsive imagery.
Thanks for your help, and keep on rawking.
Kory
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Future Shock
The future. What will it be like? Why is it on everyone's mind? Is it really going to be as bleak as some people make it seem, or will it be a spiritually evolved utopia and constant telekinetic hug-fest?
The pessimistic view is that of a polluted, post apocalyptic ghetto where the last surviving humans fight against newly evolved, hyper intelligent cockroaches and revived dinosaurs for what little resources are left amongst the rubble of once proud cities. Or sometimes it's more of a totalitarian state, wherein "Big Brother" controls the people through technologically advanced mind control devices and computer generated fear mongering.
Less pessimistic, but still naive is the vision of the "Jetsons" future, where dad goes to work in a personal, compact spaceship, and there are robots built to do all the things that human moms used to do. The robots will do laundry the same way we used to, but the washing machines won't change much. It's the idea that everything will just get bigger and better, but society and culture will remain much the same.
Then there's the hippie, new-age vision. This is one in which the people become spiritually advanced and enlightened as a whole. People learn to live in nature without exploiting it, and everyone loves one another. With hardly a care in the world, we all go around talking to each other with our minds and getting our nourishment through photosynthesis, producing no waste.
I don't know what the future will be like, but I imagine if one were to take certain elements of all the popular views listed above, one might be more in line with a practical guess. I sometimes imagine a future where in big brother does gain ground, and the gap between the "Haves" and the "Have Nots" grows exponentially through rampant capitalism. That's not to say the world will be a police state while the people are kept in check through mind control and brutality, but that the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer will create a similar, though much less dramatic culture and system of government.
I also think that people will continue to evolve socially and spiritually. While I doubt there will be a utopia of love and universal respect, I think that people will start to get over some of the idiotic bone of contention we now make into huge social issues. Like gay marriage, for instance.... or racism, or any other silly issue people currently use to breed blind hatred. People will have to think of new things to hate about one another, as culture and skin color will not be considered legitimate excuses.
I also see technology moving foreword, and people becoming more environmentally aware. I do don't think this will be a peaceful, enlightened path wither, though. I think it will come out of necessity once enough people die for and use up natural resources like oil. The climate will change, the ozone will change, the Earth's natural resources will become depleted, but humans will think of different energy sources and other solutions to these problems. It will not be an easy realization, though.
Finally I'd like to go on the record as saying that when we reach the future, flying cars or no; hippie utopia or police state, one thing is certain. We will look back on the work of Dr. Dre in awe and wonder. We'll realize that he was one of the greatest producers of music in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. He will be compared to the likes of Quincy Jones and Duke Ellington, and it will be said that no one had similarily commanded and controlled popular music from the Western US before or since. And even old white people will listen to "The Chronic" and "Straight Outta Compton", wishing they were around to hear it when it was brand new.
Over and out.
The pessimistic view is that of a polluted, post apocalyptic ghetto where the last surviving humans fight against newly evolved, hyper intelligent cockroaches and revived dinosaurs for what little resources are left amongst the rubble of once proud cities. Or sometimes it's more of a totalitarian state, wherein "Big Brother" controls the people through technologically advanced mind control devices and computer generated fear mongering.
Less pessimistic, but still naive is the vision of the "Jetsons" future, where dad goes to work in a personal, compact spaceship, and there are robots built to do all the things that human moms used to do. The robots will do laundry the same way we used to, but the washing machines won't change much. It's the idea that everything will just get bigger and better, but society and culture will remain much the same.
Then there's the hippie, new-age vision. This is one in which the people become spiritually advanced and enlightened as a whole. People learn to live in nature without exploiting it, and everyone loves one another. With hardly a care in the world, we all go around talking to each other with our minds and getting our nourishment through photosynthesis, producing no waste.
I don't know what the future will be like, but I imagine if one were to take certain elements of all the popular views listed above, one might be more in line with a practical guess. I sometimes imagine a future where in big brother does gain ground, and the gap between the "Haves" and the "Have Nots" grows exponentially through rampant capitalism. That's not to say the world will be a police state while the people are kept in check through mind control and brutality, but that the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer will create a similar, though much less dramatic culture and system of government.
I also think that people will continue to evolve socially and spiritually. While I doubt there will be a utopia of love and universal respect, I think that people will start to get over some of the idiotic bone of contention we now make into huge social issues. Like gay marriage, for instance.... or racism, or any other silly issue people currently use to breed blind hatred. People will have to think of new things to hate about one another, as culture and skin color will not be considered legitimate excuses.
I also see technology moving foreword, and people becoming more environmentally aware. I do don't think this will be a peaceful, enlightened path wither, though. I think it will come out of necessity once enough people die for and use up natural resources like oil. The climate will change, the ozone will change, the Earth's natural resources will become depleted, but humans will think of different energy sources and other solutions to these problems. It will not be an easy realization, though.
Finally I'd like to go on the record as saying that when we reach the future, flying cars or no; hippie utopia or police state, one thing is certain. We will look back on the work of Dr. Dre in awe and wonder. We'll realize that he was one of the greatest producers of music in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. He will be compared to the likes of Quincy Jones and Duke Ellington, and it will be said that no one had similarily commanded and controlled popular music from the Western US before or since. And even old white people will listen to "The Chronic" and "Straight Outta Compton", wishing they were around to hear it when it was brand new.
Over and out.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
SADD kicking in again
My step mom Ellen is really a cool person. She's one of those people who are good at everything, and if she's not naturally inclined toward a certain skill or project, she works harder than everyone else to become good. It's remarkable. That being said, Ellen is easily the best orange peeler ever born. Her only competition would be Rasmus, the Norwegian singer who pretends to be an Italian singer named "Cream Puff", who happens to be her cousin (and is really no competition at all, except that he can also consistently peel an orange in one piece). When she peels an orange, it's as if the peel is denying it's inherent physical traits, and gently tearing itself along a spiraling, precisely perforated edge. Her peels leave nothing behind, and always come off in one piece. They are little Still Life works of art after the fact, as they stand alone, looking like the fruit is still inside the peel, and a skilled artist has painstakingly drawn a mathematically perfect spiral pinstripe with a fine black marker on the outside. I'm not exaggerating, either.
I'm no physicist, nor am I a mathematician, but I have heard of the Fibonacci Code. I understand this basic principal and pattern of adding the digits, and how they are applied to Ellen's orange peeling. Understanding it and actually applying it in the physical sense though, are two different things.
Ever since I first witnessed this (one of many) uncanny ability of my step mom's, I have tried in vain to duplicate it. Today at lunch though, I purchased an orange, and got as close as I'll probably ever come. See?:
Now, this is no doubt a sloppy peel in comparison, still I'm proud of myself for having removed an entire orange peel in only two pieces (the larger of which is shown here). This ain't no tangerine, baby.
Hey, button your lip, you. I can't be the only one who gets excited by achievements as trivial as this, am I? Am I?? Hello? Hello?! Great... I lost 'em.
I'm no physicist, nor am I a mathematician, but I have heard of the Fibonacci Code. I understand this basic principal and pattern of adding the digits, and how they are applied to Ellen's orange peeling. Understanding it and actually applying it in the physical sense though, are two different things.
Ever since I first witnessed this (one of many) uncanny ability of my step mom's, I have tried in vain to duplicate it. Today at lunch though, I purchased an orange, and got as close as I'll probably ever come. See?:
Now, this is no doubt a sloppy peel in comparison, still I'm proud of myself for having removed an entire orange peel in only two pieces (the larger of which is shown here). This ain't no tangerine, baby.
Hey, button your lip, you. I can't be the only one who gets excited by achievements as trivial as this, am I? Am I?? Hello? Hello?! Great... I lost 'em.
A quick side note. While surfing the web last night, I came across an article about the scariest research in science. It is a little bit janky, I'll admit, but one has to admit that it does sound an awful lot like the stuff of Hollywood Blockbusters. after reading this article, I felt like I could predict the next roles for Tome Cruise, Ewan MacGregor and Christian Bale. Leo's probably under Scorsese's thumb for '07 already. Besides, he never doesn't really do action or sci-fi, does he?
Anyway, you too can read the article here:
http://www.popsci.com/popsci/science/b142d534cba30110vgnvcm1000004eecbccdrcrd.html
Now you tell me that article couldn't pass as 7 screen play ideas instead of seven of science's scariest projects.
Right.
Carry on.
Anyway, you too can read the article here:
http://www.popsci.com/popsci/science/b142d534cba30110vgnvcm1000004eecbccdrcrd.html
Now you tell me that article couldn't pass as 7 screen play ideas instead of seven of science's scariest projects.
Right.
Carry on.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
My SADD Story, and how I got through it
Ever since I was a wee lad, large crowds would make me physically ill. In fact, I still have a bit of trouble with them, though they never make me puke anymore. Unfortunately for me, as a youngster, I did a bit of growing up amongst my mom's family, she being the eldest of 10 children born to my own gradny-paw. A big crowd of people, even when they're family, is still a big crowd of people, so I did my share of barfing as a kid.
Some time in my teenage years, I misdiagnosed the problem as some kind of social anxiety (an angsty, 13 year old hobbledehoy, I would at times seriously consider the idea that I was perhaps retarded, but no one had ever bothered to tell me, like the grocery bagger with down syndrome at the supermarket). At this point though, it didn't fuckin' matter, because I had also discovered girls, and girls did not, by any means, consort with any boys who might be called "Socially Awkward".
I immediately abandoned Weird Al for NWA. I traded my Chemistry set for some Z. Cavericcis. Instead of taking extra classes at school, I tried my hand at a fistfight or two, and skipping school entirely. I wasn't sure why, but somehow my discovering girls - and girls discovering the omnipotent powers of their own two breasts - directly coincided with an unforeseen, insurmountable necessity in my world to... well... be, uh... cool?
What the hell is cool?! There was no way to know. I had to look around. See what other kids were doing. How were they getting along? Was being "cool" about being smart? About clothes? Music? Boobs? Sports? I never did find out what cool was, despite a solid ten years of searching. I did learn something in my valiant, hard fought efforts to fit in though. I learned that one can get a big crowd of people to say, do or believe just about anything they want. I learned how to be a part of a crowd. How to appreciate it, how to get drunk and laid in it, and how to like it like that (you like it like that?). But even so, my inner outcast was always there. Along with nerd in the closet, the artist under the rug, and the drunkard beneath the bed. I felt like my life was spiraling out of control and into "a true story of seven strangers picked to live in a house, work together and have their lives taped, to find out what happens, when people stopped being polite, and started getting real." I had hit rock bottom, but that's when everything changed.
I suppose these days I'm more "open" about my SADD - or Socially Awkward Dork/Dickwad/Douche/Dritsac Disorder. That's right SADD. It's caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain triggering fits of terribly nerdiness, followed by deep self loathing and the subsequent feeling of urgency to be cool about it. I know that now, thanks to the work of Dr. Whogives Afhatshit PhD, and his new book entitled, "Quit being a douche you SADD mother fucker". In it he discusses techniques on everything from not giving a hot whiskey piss about what other people think; to liking and disliking concepts and ideas strictly on one's own accord. Finally, Dr. Afhatshit reveals the path to thinking (that's right, thinking) all by one's self in an eight... uh, eighty, no, sorry - eighty eight step, easy to use program.
Folks, I'm a real live success story. I can now walk around without worrying about having SADD outbreak, because I give neither fat nor flying fucks about certain social norms. Good thing I've learned how to like and/or dislike something, then use the eighty eight, easy to remember steps to thinking it over. I know for instance that when walking down the street, a proper distance at which to acknowledge the presence of someone you recognize is approximately eight feet. Any longer, and your waving hands, goonish smile and "hello there" noises become nothing but plain buffoonery. Not giving the afore mentioned pisses, shits, or fucks is what allows me to react loudly at distances of up to twenty feet, at which point an individual is hardly recognizable. Most of the time, it's not even the person I thought it was. Man that's funny!
I guess I was kind of a douche for all those years, but now I realize that there's more to it than that. While I did consistently act like a complete dickwad, I know now that the real me was here all along, and the real you is right there too. Right now. The fear of being our true selves is the real douche, not you and I.
The power to get over having SADD is in you, little dingleberry, so call today. I can still hear Dr. Afhatshit saying, in a thick, mad-scientist accent, "Besht karate still unt ze inshide!" while standing with his arm around a life size cut-out of Mr. Miyagi. I don't know why he said that, but he was probably right.
Some time in my teenage years, I misdiagnosed the problem as some kind of social anxiety (an angsty, 13 year old hobbledehoy, I would at times seriously consider the idea that I was perhaps retarded, but no one had ever bothered to tell me, like the grocery bagger with down syndrome at the supermarket). At this point though, it didn't fuckin' matter, because I had also discovered girls, and girls did not, by any means, consort with any boys who might be called "Socially Awkward".
I immediately abandoned Weird Al for NWA. I traded my Chemistry set for some Z. Cavericcis. Instead of taking extra classes at school, I tried my hand at a fistfight or two, and skipping school entirely. I wasn't sure why, but somehow my discovering girls - and girls discovering the omnipotent powers of their own two breasts - directly coincided with an unforeseen, insurmountable necessity in my world to... well... be, uh... cool?
What the hell is cool?! There was no way to know. I had to look around. See what other kids were doing. How were they getting along? Was being "cool" about being smart? About clothes? Music? Boobs? Sports? I never did find out what cool was, despite a solid ten years of searching. I did learn something in my valiant, hard fought efforts to fit in though. I learned that one can get a big crowd of people to say, do or believe just about anything they want. I learned how to be a part of a crowd. How to appreciate it, how to get drunk and laid in it, and how to like it like that (you like it like that?). But even so, my inner outcast was always there. Along with nerd in the closet, the artist under the rug, and the drunkard beneath the bed. I felt like my life was spiraling out of control and into "a true story of seven strangers picked to live in a house, work together and have their lives taped, to find out what happens, when people stopped being polite, and started getting real." I had hit rock bottom, but that's when everything changed.
I suppose these days I'm more "open" about my SADD - or Socially Awkward Dork/Dickwad/Douche/Dritsac Disorder. That's right SADD. It's caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain triggering fits of terribly nerdiness, followed by deep self loathing and the subsequent feeling of urgency to be cool about it. I know that now, thanks to the work of Dr. Whogives Afhatshit PhD, and his new book entitled, "Quit being a douche you SADD mother fucker". In it he discusses techniques on everything from not giving a hot whiskey piss about what other people think; to liking and disliking concepts and ideas strictly on one's own accord. Finally, Dr. Afhatshit reveals the path to thinking (that's right, thinking) all by one's self in an eight... uh, eighty, no, sorry - eighty eight step, easy to use program.
Folks, I'm a real live success story. I can now walk around without worrying about having SADD outbreak, because I give neither fat nor flying fucks about certain social norms. Good thing I've learned how to like and/or dislike something, then use the eighty eight, easy to remember steps to thinking it over. I know for instance that when walking down the street, a proper distance at which to acknowledge the presence of someone you recognize is approximately eight feet. Any longer, and your waving hands, goonish smile and "hello there" noises become nothing but plain buffoonery. Not giving the afore mentioned pisses, shits, or fucks is what allows me to react loudly at distances of up to twenty feet, at which point an individual is hardly recognizable. Most of the time, it's not even the person I thought it was. Man that's funny!
I guess I was kind of a douche for all those years, but now I realize that there's more to it than that. While I did consistently act like a complete dickwad, I know now that the real me was here all along, and the real you is right there too. Right now. The fear of being our true selves is the real douche, not you and I.
The power to get over having SADD is in you, little dingleberry, so call today. I can still hear Dr. Afhatshit saying, in a thick, mad-scientist accent, "Besht karate still unt ze inshide!" while standing with his arm around a life size cut-out of Mr. Miyagi. I don't know why he said that, but he was probably right.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Right now, I'm going to set itunes to random and list the ten arbitrary selections. I promise not to cheat. OK, go.
1) Vivaldi - "4 Seasons" (Spring Concerto). Duh. Ben likes it.
2) Clarence Clearwater - "Slip Away". Because it rawks, yo.
3) John Lennon - "It's Real". Weird. Lennon whistles a happy song and plucks a guit-box for just longer than one minute. Yoko recently released this acoustic version (2005?).
4) Gilberto - "Girl From Ipanema". I know, I rule.
5) Unknown Artist(s) from something I got on Lime Wire called "Irish Drinking Songs". It's called "Fuck You, I'm Drunk". And while I always appreciate a hilarious racial stereo type (drunken Irishmen... though sadly, the song says nothing of potatoes); I also appreciate hundred year old Sea Shanties with verse as profound as, "I'm going to stay drunk / 'till the next time I'm drunk!"
6) Calexico - "The Ride Part II". It has it's artistic merits, but it's inescapably hipster crap. Aury and Thomas (Or "The Frenchies" as they're sometimes called) gave it to me. I burned 'em a shitload of Jimmie Rogers in return. Welcome to America, fellas - De-yo-deh-leigh-he-he!
7) Johnny Cash - "Personal Jesus". Yup. And it's great, too (in case you don't already know). J.R. made a whole CD steeped in his own pending demise. He could see the end of the line as soon as June passed, and thought he'd say "So long" to all o' us fans. Thanks John.
8) Pearl Bailey with Cootie Williams and his Orchestra - "Tess's Torch Song". It's dope, dude. But then again, if your name is "Cootie", you're automatically knighted in the League of Awesomeness.
9) Otis Redding - "Dreams to Remember". I know, I know. It was on some shitty, 80's, coming-of-age-teeny-bopper dung heap of a movie, but Otis is the man, and the song is great.
10) Bill Monroe - "Going Down the Road Feeling Bad". Just an old bluergrass hillbilly who once had his mandolin smashed to bits, painstakingly repaired and recently purchased for well over a million clams. He's that good.
So here's the deal. If you've read this far, you must now post ten random selections from your itunes library. Where should you post it? Hmmm... the comments section of this very entry seems as good a spot as any. Don't cheat and skip a song just because you don't like it, or it's something your douche bag ex roommate downloaded. You don't have to feel obligated to explain, but if the need strikes you, please elaborate.
Over.
1) Vivaldi - "4 Seasons" (Spring Concerto). Duh. Ben likes it.
2) Clarence Clearwater - "Slip Away". Because it rawks, yo.
3) John Lennon - "It's Real". Weird. Lennon whistles a happy song and plucks a guit-box for just longer than one minute. Yoko recently released this acoustic version (2005?).
4) Gilberto - "Girl From Ipanema". I know, I rule.
5) Unknown Artist(s) from something I got on Lime Wire called "Irish Drinking Songs". It's called "Fuck You, I'm Drunk". And while I always appreciate a hilarious racial stereo type (drunken Irishmen... though sadly, the song says nothing of potatoes); I also appreciate hundred year old Sea Shanties with verse as profound as, "I'm going to stay drunk / 'till the next time I'm drunk!"
6) Calexico - "The Ride Part II". It has it's artistic merits, but it's inescapably hipster crap. Aury and Thomas (Or "The Frenchies" as they're sometimes called) gave it to me. I burned 'em a shitload of Jimmie Rogers in return. Welcome to America, fellas - De-yo-deh-leigh-he-he!
7) Johnny Cash - "Personal Jesus". Yup. And it's great, too (in case you don't already know). J.R. made a whole CD steeped in his own pending demise. He could see the end of the line as soon as June passed, and thought he'd say "So long" to all o' us fans. Thanks John.
8) Pearl Bailey with Cootie Williams and his Orchestra - "Tess's Torch Song". It's dope, dude. But then again, if your name is "Cootie", you're automatically knighted in the League of Awesomeness.
9) Otis Redding - "Dreams to Remember". I know, I know. It was on some shitty, 80's, coming-of-age-teeny-bopper dung heap of a movie, but Otis is the man, and the song is great.
10) Bill Monroe - "Going Down the Road Feeling Bad". Just an old bluergrass hillbilly who once had his mandolin smashed to bits, painstakingly repaired and recently purchased for well over a million clams. He's that good.
So here's the deal. If you've read this far, you must now post ten random selections from your itunes library. Where should you post it? Hmmm... the comments section of this very entry seems as good a spot as any. Don't cheat and skip a song just because you don't like it, or it's something your douche bag ex roommate downloaded. You don't have to feel obligated to explain, but if the need strikes you, please elaborate.
Over.
Sparrows is coming up. It's a poetry festival in Salida, Co (which, if I understand correctly, is in the mountains West of Colorado Springs?). They have a good variety of poets this year, young and old, and of all walks of life. I've got 9 minuets on Saturday night, March 3rd. Rawk. I've also been invited to join a travelling band of poets to do some freestyle readings around town before the festival, but I'm not sure of the details of that yet.
The theme this year is "Wage Poetry". Kinda like make love, not war, you know? The cool thing is though, they sent out a news letter to those performing saying that a lot of the submissions they were getting were dark and cynical, and they were looking for more upbeat and funny stuff. They don't want to focus on the negative. Now, say what you may about poets, but I thought that was pretty cool. Discourage the "Oh Woe is Me" aspect of poetry, and let's rock the house with some real shit. Besides that, I believe that for most literary folks, positively themed poems are harder to write, especially when dealing with a heavy subject like war.
Me... I can't write about the current conflict (or any war, really) without getting a little worked up, so my submission for the "Wage Poetry" theme had a different twist. I put together a performance piece about a serpentine LA lawyer ordering David Beckham for $250 million at a cafe, then swallowing him whole with a side of fries and leaving without tipping. It's called "Minimum Wage Poetry". I won't put it up here though, 'cause I want it to premier at the festival. Word up, yo. I'm hardcore like that son! I got jokes.
If'n y'all know anyone who might be able to make it out to Salida on or around March 1st through the 3rd, make sure you tell 'em about the festival. Don't worry, it's not going to be a bunch of squares reciting shitty limericks about butterflies drinking the tears of sleeping birds (which is true, by the way; entomologists recently observed a species displaying this behaviour). There should be plenty of debauchery, as the guys and gals who put this together are a good lot of old hippies, some of whom have been around long enough to have hung out with Kerouac, Cassidy, Ginsberg and the like. So it should be cool. Anyway, for more info, you can go here: www.sparrowspoetry.com. There's also a blog link in my side bar, but it doesn't go to the home site.
'Bout it, I guess. Sorry for being boring today. I'm gonna go punch myself.
The theme this year is "Wage Poetry". Kinda like make love, not war, you know? The cool thing is though, they sent out a news letter to those performing saying that a lot of the submissions they were getting were dark and cynical, and they were looking for more upbeat and funny stuff. They don't want to focus on the negative. Now, say what you may about poets, but I thought that was pretty cool. Discourage the "Oh Woe is Me" aspect of poetry, and let's rock the house with some real shit. Besides that, I believe that for most literary folks, positively themed poems are harder to write, especially when dealing with a heavy subject like war.
Me... I can't write about the current conflict (or any war, really) without getting a little worked up, so my submission for the "Wage Poetry" theme had a different twist. I put together a performance piece about a serpentine LA lawyer ordering David Beckham for $250 million at a cafe, then swallowing him whole with a side of fries and leaving without tipping. It's called "Minimum Wage Poetry". I won't put it up here though, 'cause I want it to premier at the festival. Word up, yo. I'm hardcore like that son! I got jokes.
If'n y'all know anyone who might be able to make it out to Salida on or around March 1st through the 3rd, make sure you tell 'em about the festival. Don't worry, it's not going to be a bunch of squares reciting shitty limericks about butterflies drinking the tears of sleeping birds (which is true, by the way; entomologists recently observed a species displaying this behaviour). There should be plenty of debauchery, as the guys and gals who put this together are a good lot of old hippies, some of whom have been around long enough to have hung out with Kerouac, Cassidy, Ginsberg and the like. So it should be cool. Anyway, for more info, you can go here: www.sparrowspoetry.com. There's also a blog link in my side bar, but it doesn't go to the home site.
'Bout it, I guess. Sorry for being boring today. I'm gonna go punch myself.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Mister Misanthrope
All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. In my experience, I have known this to be true. That being said, I hate bad actors. The overly calculated, meticulously sculpted messy hair and over-priced ripped or "vintage" pants are indicative of the amount of time you spent calculating a careless, "thrown together" look. It is a direct contradiction to the character you're trying too hard to portray, douche. Neither do we believe the political rhetoric you're regurgitating from your preferred talking head. Yes, we know your ideas are painfully unoriginal, and your jokes are worse than that of greatest douche of all, Dane Cook. I'm sure you're a fan.
Yes, everyone knows you're a total douche, as is the self-loathing whore with obvious daddy issues sitting at your table. Isn't the tramp stamp rising from her exposed coin slot pretty? Never seen anything like it. Neither have I come across an attention starved narcissist pounding wimpy cocktails and strategically placing her cleavage beneath the eyes of self indulgent liars. "I'm a record producer." Yes, we could tell, shitweasel. We'd never doubt you.
None of you are fooling anyone. It only seems that way because you're all so incredibly self involved. There is no conversation to be had with you, as it's plain you lack the capacity to listen, let alone comprehend. Thus, an awkward conversation with you is a series of intervals in which you're anxiously awaiting your turn to speak, as if you're gracing us with the melodic sound of your own voice. The thing of it is, your voice does not sound like bells on the ankles of angels the way you think it does. No, it's more like an irritating murmur that gently grinds the human soul into a fine, useless powder, unfit even for pig slop.
Tattoos, piercings, shopping mall fashion. You couldn't make up your own mind about anything, even if your life depended on it as evidenced by your utterance of idiocies like:"I like every kind of music except (blank)". Fuck you, dirt bag, and your little dog too. The one your girlfriend carries around in her purse, sometimes pretending it's a baby. One that eats it's on feces.
What's that? Oh no, you must be mistaken. I'm in a fine mood. Just fine.
Yes, everyone knows you're a total douche, as is the self-loathing whore with obvious daddy issues sitting at your table. Isn't the tramp stamp rising from her exposed coin slot pretty? Never seen anything like it. Neither have I come across an attention starved narcissist pounding wimpy cocktails and strategically placing her cleavage beneath the eyes of self indulgent liars. "I'm a record producer." Yes, we could tell, shitweasel. We'd never doubt you.
None of you are fooling anyone. It only seems that way because you're all so incredibly self involved. There is no conversation to be had with you, as it's plain you lack the capacity to listen, let alone comprehend. Thus, an awkward conversation with you is a series of intervals in which you're anxiously awaiting your turn to speak, as if you're gracing us with the melodic sound of your own voice. The thing of it is, your voice does not sound like bells on the ankles of angels the way you think it does. No, it's more like an irritating murmur that gently grinds the human soul into a fine, useless powder, unfit even for pig slop.
Tattoos, piercings, shopping mall fashion. You couldn't make up your own mind about anything, even if your life depended on it as evidenced by your utterance of idiocies like:"I like every kind of music except (blank)". Fuck you, dirt bag, and your little dog too. The one your girlfriend carries around in her purse, sometimes pretending it's a baby. One that eats it's on feces.
What's that? Oh no, you must be mistaken. I'm in a fine mood. Just fine.
Friday, January 19, 2007
There's a scientist who studies endophytes, which are tiny micro-organisms that live in the spaces between plant cells. The plant offers them food and shelter (neither of which harm the plant) and in turn, the endophytes produce chemical compounds hither to unknown to science, which fight off specific diseases. Malaria, for instance. The scientist leading the way in the study of endophytes (Gary Strobel, Montana State University) travels the globe speaking to traditional healers and shamans to discover which plants they use medicinally. He then collects the plants, and searches for endophytes.
He's basically saying that indigenous peoples were right, or, at least they were on to something. And it's only taken science 2000+ years to catch on. Sure, many shamans chalk up the healing power of medicinal herbs to spirits, gods, or other metaphysical concepts, but they were still right... according to science. My question is this: Does it matter weather people call it God, Nature, Biology, Endophytes, or the great Googaly Moogaly? Nope. It'll take science and modern medicine to make believers out of us Westerners, but as far as I'm concerned, you can call it whatever you want, it still doesn't change the bottom line.
Science and modern medicine have a long history of being wrong. There's a simple explanation for it that people generally don't want to accept. That explanation is that there are things in this world, forces at work, if you will, that are still so far out of the realm of human comprehension, that we can't hope to understand them scientifically. At least, not in the foreseeable future. That being said, when will it be ok to relax and take things at face value? When will it be ok to enjoy life without having to search for an explanation of why?
It's a proven fact that contracting the muscles of your face into a smile will prompt cells in your body to fire signals into your brain telling it that you're happy. That means, if you're in a shitty mood, smile. Science has proven that this will put you in a better mood almost immediately. Strangely enough, this scientific realization is relatively new. Ironically, everyone who has ever been born has known that fact to be true. Maybe they don't (and didn't) know the inner workings of cells, neurons, electrons, endorphins and the like, but who cares? Isn't it enough to know from personal experience that smiling and laughing make you happy?
I wonder how science would explain my having to take a giant dump right now. Surely it has something to do with the food I've consumed, the nutrients my body has absorbed, the energy I've used, and the resulting waste needing to be expelled. But how do I know that this particular dump is going to be monstrous and vile? Why is it that I can already anticipate the horrible and very specific smell, and preemptively empathize with the gag reflex any unsuspecting bathroom visitor will experience during, or soon after the taking of said dump? Does the ability to scientifically explain such phenomena make the result less funny? I think not.
He's basically saying that indigenous peoples were right, or, at least they were on to something. And it's only taken science 2000+ years to catch on. Sure, many shamans chalk up the healing power of medicinal herbs to spirits, gods, or other metaphysical concepts, but they were still right... according to science. My question is this: Does it matter weather people call it God, Nature, Biology, Endophytes, or the great Googaly Moogaly? Nope. It'll take science and modern medicine to make believers out of us Westerners, but as far as I'm concerned, you can call it whatever you want, it still doesn't change the bottom line.
Science and modern medicine have a long history of being wrong. There's a simple explanation for it that people generally don't want to accept. That explanation is that there are things in this world, forces at work, if you will, that are still so far out of the realm of human comprehension, that we can't hope to understand them scientifically. At least, not in the foreseeable future. That being said, when will it be ok to relax and take things at face value? When will it be ok to enjoy life without having to search for an explanation of why?
It's a proven fact that contracting the muscles of your face into a smile will prompt cells in your body to fire signals into your brain telling it that you're happy. That means, if you're in a shitty mood, smile. Science has proven that this will put you in a better mood almost immediately. Strangely enough, this scientific realization is relatively new. Ironically, everyone who has ever been born has known that fact to be true. Maybe they don't (and didn't) know the inner workings of cells, neurons, electrons, endorphins and the like, but who cares? Isn't it enough to know from personal experience that smiling and laughing make you happy?
I wonder how science would explain my having to take a giant dump right now. Surely it has something to do with the food I've consumed, the nutrients my body has absorbed, the energy I've used, and the resulting waste needing to be expelled. But how do I know that this particular dump is going to be monstrous and vile? Why is it that I can already anticipate the horrible and very specific smell, and preemptively empathize with the gag reflex any unsuspecting bathroom visitor will experience during, or soon after the taking of said dump? Does the ability to scientifically explain such phenomena make the result less funny? I think not.
I wish I could be a money grubber by trade, but the occupation does not befall me. It's not that I can't handle money, but the grubbing cramps my style. Grubbing anyting (but especially money) can be hard work and usually requires years of training. No, no, I lean naturally toward bullshitting, punctuality and mediating arguments. That means I'm good at selling nothing. By that I mean, if you have a whole lot of nothing, and you can't sell it, you should call call me. I'll sell your nothing for you, at prices way above current blue-book values, turning a nice profit for both of us.
How does one sell nothing? Easily. Make the potential buyer think they're buying something. Like "service and expertise" for instance. Lots of people want to buy that. What kind of service and/or expertise? It doesn't matter. What you're really saying is, "For a nominal fee, I'll make three phone calls per month on your behalf." And, if you're really clever, you have a clause in your contract that indicates possible extra charges should the phone calls become excessive (more than three).
I can hear you saying, "What if someone finds out you're not an expert of anything, and they call you on it?" Not to worry. Simply agree with them that you're not an expert on whatever it is that's upsetting them, then suggest they hire one. In fact, tell them you know of just the right expert, and for an additional fee, you'll hire said expert on your clients behalf, getting them a bulk rate discount.
Suppose they realize they haven't bought anything, and are paying you for nothing. Ha! That's laughable! Of course they'll never think that, because they're also too busy selling (and buying) nothing. The thought will never occur to them, because they think they actually have something. That's what makes the trick so easy. Sure you know you're selling nothing, but everyone wants so badly to believe it's something. They'll never question it, because if they do, they'll be questioning themselves, and that, friends, would not be acceptable.
Still at the end of a hard day of selling nothing, someone still write me a check. A check to show they're appreciation to me for getting rid of all that nothing, which can really start to clutter up... uh... whatever you're keeping your nothing in (warehouses, offices, bank accounts, garages etc).
If you've got nothing to sell, call me right away. My services are in high demand, so these deals won't last. Remember, you're nothing if not for nothing.
How does one sell nothing? Easily. Make the potential buyer think they're buying something. Like "service and expertise" for instance. Lots of people want to buy that. What kind of service and/or expertise? It doesn't matter. What you're really saying is, "For a nominal fee, I'll make three phone calls per month on your behalf." And, if you're really clever, you have a clause in your contract that indicates possible extra charges should the phone calls become excessive (more than three).
I can hear you saying, "What if someone finds out you're not an expert of anything, and they call you on it?" Not to worry. Simply agree with them that you're not an expert on whatever it is that's upsetting them, then suggest they hire one. In fact, tell them you know of just the right expert, and for an additional fee, you'll hire said expert on your clients behalf, getting them a bulk rate discount.
Suppose they realize they haven't bought anything, and are paying you for nothing. Ha! That's laughable! Of course they'll never think that, because they're also too busy selling (and buying) nothing. The thought will never occur to them, because they think they actually have something. That's what makes the trick so easy. Sure you know you're selling nothing, but everyone wants so badly to believe it's something. They'll never question it, because if they do, they'll be questioning themselves, and that, friends, would not be acceptable.
Still at the end of a hard day of selling nothing, someone still write me a check. A check to show they're appreciation to me for getting rid of all that nothing, which can really start to clutter up... uh... whatever you're keeping your nothing in (warehouses, offices, bank accounts, garages etc).
If you've got nothing to sell, call me right away. My services are in high demand, so these deals won't last. Remember, you're nothing if not for nothing.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
G'mornin', gluttons. What's the buzz, cuz?
I spent a couple few years in giant, corporate coffee shops, doing every job from part time morning guy, to General Store manager. From Starbucks, to Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, to Peaberry Coffee and a couple few independent, hipster laden shit holes, where before they let you in the door, they check your haircut to make sure it's trendy enough to enter. Needless to say, I have observed a thing or two about coffee, it's culture, and the people who drink it. In fact, we used to play a game of "call that drink". A game at which I had become quite efficient.
Believe it or not, your Starbucks order acts like an accessory to your outfit. Judging by your choice of clothes, the time of day you some in, the frequency of your visits and a few other variables, an experienced barista has a good chance of accurately predicting your coffee order. Here's a few popular choices, and a brief description of the people who usually order them.
Regular Coffee: No nonsense. Usually older (over 35) men order this. Most of the time, they are republicans, and they come in early in the morning on their way to work. They have their own insulated mugs which they'll ask you to rinse out with hot water before pouring the coffee. They also don't care which kind of coffee they get (light or dark), so long as it's fresh and caffeinated. There is a window for the broke democrat, or the serious-about-studying college kid though. But they'll get the drip coffee in the afternoon, sit at the shop all day, and get like 30 refills at 50 cents a pop, if not free.
Flavored latte: There are many, many variables to this drink. It's most commonly ordered with skim milk (skinny), and usually befalls the fairer sex. That's a lot of sweet cream for any self respecting man to be ingesting. The sweeter the drink, the younger broad (i.e., extra caramel, 6 pumps of vanilla, etc).
Mocha: This is for the person who does not like coffee and would rather be drinking hot chocolate, but desperately needs the caffeine. This drink, when ordered decaf, is typically done so by older women who aren't quite ready to let go and just be the crazy cat lady they are inevitably going to become. They hang around day-time coffee shops, scoping out any man they think they can get their hooks into, while pretending to read Danielle Steel novels.
Cappuccino: You're probably a noob and don't know what you're getting, but ordered this drink because you'd heard the name so frequently. You think it'll be a sweet, chunky, gluttonous American drink, but it isn't. As soon as this person picks it up, they send it back claiming it's empty. Also, for the record, baristas usually know you have no idea what you're ordering, but the individual who typically makes this mistake, is also the type of person to pretend to be offend by the idea that he's got no idea what he's ordering, and will try to make you believe otherwise. This beverage, when ordered "dry" however, is a symbol of someone who's really been around the block. They probably know more about coffee than you, and more about literature as well.
Espresso: Occasionally, this will also be ordered by mistake, given the popularity (and the the confusion) of the name. People who order this on purpose do not have time to fuck around with an entire cup of coffee. They almost always make some form of stale joke regarding a caffeine I.V., and would buy harder drugs if you were selling them.
Frozen/blended coffee drinks: If you're ordering these and you're of legal drinking age, you should consider the search for a new beverage of choice, douche. If you're a cheerleader at a local highschool, you're only dilemma is "what flavor?"
Iced coffee: You're one of the good ones. Unpretentious, but with a good idea of what you're doing in a specialty coffee shop. You probably have a french press at home, which you use from time to time. This person can also be witnessed ordering the elusive "Americano", and is probably a regular at more than one coffee shop.
Yes, there are more variations to be discussed, and a relatively detailed description can be offered about the typical orderers of those variations as well, but I think this is enough for now.
Cheerio.
I spent a couple few years in giant, corporate coffee shops, doing every job from part time morning guy, to General Store manager. From Starbucks, to Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, to Peaberry Coffee and a couple few independent, hipster laden shit holes, where before they let you in the door, they check your haircut to make sure it's trendy enough to enter. Needless to say, I have observed a thing or two about coffee, it's culture, and the people who drink it. In fact, we used to play a game of "call that drink". A game at which I had become quite efficient.
Believe it or not, your Starbucks order acts like an accessory to your outfit. Judging by your choice of clothes, the time of day you some in, the frequency of your visits and a few other variables, an experienced barista has a good chance of accurately predicting your coffee order. Here's a few popular choices, and a brief description of the people who usually order them.
Regular Coffee: No nonsense. Usually older (over 35) men order this. Most of the time, they are republicans, and they come in early in the morning on their way to work. They have their own insulated mugs which they'll ask you to rinse out with hot water before pouring the coffee. They also don't care which kind of coffee they get (light or dark), so long as it's fresh and caffeinated. There is a window for the broke democrat, or the serious-about-studying college kid though. But they'll get the drip coffee in the afternoon, sit at the shop all day, and get like 30 refills at 50 cents a pop, if not free.
Flavored latte: There are many, many variables to this drink. It's most commonly ordered with skim milk (skinny), and usually befalls the fairer sex. That's a lot of sweet cream for any self respecting man to be ingesting. The sweeter the drink, the younger broad (i.e., extra caramel, 6 pumps of vanilla, etc).
Mocha: This is for the person who does not like coffee and would rather be drinking hot chocolate, but desperately needs the caffeine. This drink, when ordered decaf, is typically done so by older women who aren't quite ready to let go and just be the crazy cat lady they are inevitably going to become. They hang around day-time coffee shops, scoping out any man they think they can get their hooks into, while pretending to read Danielle Steel novels.
Cappuccino: You're probably a noob and don't know what you're getting, but ordered this drink because you'd heard the name so frequently. You think it'll be a sweet, chunky, gluttonous American drink, but it isn't. As soon as this person picks it up, they send it back claiming it's empty. Also, for the record, baristas usually know you have no idea what you're ordering, but the individual who typically makes this mistake, is also the type of person to pretend to be offend by the idea that he's got no idea what he's ordering, and will try to make you believe otherwise. This beverage, when ordered "dry" however, is a symbol of someone who's really been around the block. They probably know more about coffee than you, and more about literature as well.
Espresso: Occasionally, this will also be ordered by mistake, given the popularity (and the the confusion) of the name. People who order this on purpose do not have time to fuck around with an entire cup of coffee. They almost always make some form of stale joke regarding a caffeine I.V., and would buy harder drugs if you were selling them.
Frozen/blended coffee drinks: If you're ordering these and you're of legal drinking age, you should consider the search for a new beverage of choice, douche. If you're a cheerleader at a local highschool, you're only dilemma is "what flavor?"
Iced coffee: You're one of the good ones. Unpretentious, but with a good idea of what you're doing in a specialty coffee shop. You probably have a french press at home, which you use from time to time. This person can also be witnessed ordering the elusive "Americano", and is probably a regular at more than one coffee shop.
Yes, there are more variations to be discussed, and a relatively detailed description can be offered about the typical orderers of those variations as well, but I think this is enough for now.
Cheerio.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Here's the bathroom door at my office:
Seems like a normal bathroom with typical, appropriate signage, right? Nothing to worry about here. However, there is a rather curious sign on the inside of the same door, shown here:
Huh. "Avoid accidents"? What exactly are they trying to say? I mean, usually, when speaking in reference to a bathroom of any kind, the term "accident" refers to a shart, squirt, leak or full fledged load being released where it shouldn't have been. In most cases, one's undies.
If this door were abnormally heavy, (it isn't), I might be able to make a case for such a sign in that if one were rushing to the bathroom with a turtle head pokin' out, said person would not want to quickly yank on something that is unexpectedly weighty. That would surely cause the deuce to drop in the ol' pantaloons. On that note, the same action could very well cause one to be standing in a puddle of warm urine.
A "bathroom accident" upon opening a door to quickly might also be caused by a person in a scary mask, hiding behind the wall opposite the door. I can assure you, however, that in a professional setting such as this, people in scary masks are quite uncommon, let alone ones that are hiding behind doors, literally waiting to scare the shit and/or piss out of you.
All I'm saying is that maybe they should have been more specific with the wording. The sign could have very well read, "To avoid hitting someone with the door, please open slowly". Then they wouldn't have some smart alack mocking them on the internet.
Right. Carry on then, and try not to soil yourself. Remember, every day that ends without poop in your pants is a successful and happy day, so heed the sign on the wall. May all of your undies remain dookie-free.
Seems like a normal bathroom with typical, appropriate signage, right? Nothing to worry about here. However, there is a rather curious sign on the inside of the same door, shown here:
Huh. "Avoid accidents"? What exactly are they trying to say? I mean, usually, when speaking in reference to a bathroom of any kind, the term "accident" refers to a shart, squirt, leak or full fledged load being released where it shouldn't have been. In most cases, one's undies.
If this door were abnormally heavy, (it isn't), I might be able to make a case for such a sign in that if one were rushing to the bathroom with a turtle head pokin' out, said person would not want to quickly yank on something that is unexpectedly weighty. That would surely cause the deuce to drop in the ol' pantaloons. On that note, the same action could very well cause one to be standing in a puddle of warm urine.
A "bathroom accident" upon opening a door to quickly might also be caused by a person in a scary mask, hiding behind the wall opposite the door. I can assure you, however, that in a professional setting such as this, people in scary masks are quite uncommon, let alone ones that are hiding behind doors, literally waiting to scare the shit and/or piss out of you.
All I'm saying is that maybe they should have been more specific with the wording. The sign could have very well read, "To avoid hitting someone with the door, please open slowly". Then they wouldn't have some smart alack mocking them on the internet.
Right. Carry on then, and try not to soil yourself. Remember, every day that ends without poop in your pants is a successful and happy day, so heed the sign on the wall. May all of your undies remain dookie-free.
Monday, January 15, 2007
a vague recollection of a harder time
Struck a match and lit a smoke
in the barroom shithouse,
erased my name
from the bathroom wall.
I wobbled out and plugged
a few dollars into the juke box.
Played whatever decent
country songs were available.
The bartender thought I was sweet
and she poured me an extra scotch.
The bottle popper in her back pocket
pointed devilishly at the tramp stamp
on her lower back
and I hummed along with Shotgun Willie.
A fat gangster covered in tattoos
had also taken a shine to me.
He was a little dumb, but that was ok by me.
There'd be no fistfights that gloomy evening.
I haven't spent many nights like that,
but sometimes the world forces you into a corner
and between rounds of being pummeled
into a meat pancake,
the sardonic trainer gives you whiskey
instead of water
until you finally see
the folly of your ways.
in the barroom shithouse,
erased my name
from the bathroom wall.
I wobbled out and plugged
a few dollars into the juke box.
Played whatever decent
country songs were available.
The bartender thought I was sweet
and she poured me an extra scotch.
The bottle popper in her back pocket
pointed devilishly at the tramp stamp
on her lower back
and I hummed along with Shotgun Willie.
A fat gangster covered in tattoos
had also taken a shine to me.
He was a little dumb, but that was ok by me.
There'd be no fistfights that gloomy evening.
I haven't spent many nights like that,
but sometimes the world forces you into a corner
and between rounds of being pummeled
into a meat pancake,
the sardonic trainer gives you whiskey
instead of water
until you finally see
the folly of your ways.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Life, Tetris, and beating Gunnar at Connect Four
There's an old phrase people frequently use about learning something every day. I forget how it goes... but that's beside the point. I bring it up because I'm not sure the people who use (or perhaps more appropriately, abuse) the phrase actually learn anything, ever.
The learning process becomes more difficult as one gets older. It might be because most of us get progressively dumber as the years float by, but I don't think so. I think that life can become stagnant as one begins to "settle down" or become "established". In order to keep learning, we've got to constantly break down the walls we are continually building around ourselves. These walls are commonly known as "comfort zones", and while they certainly are nice and cumfy, they don't do much for us in the way of expanding our minds.
It's not easy to break break down our comfort zones. It takes effort and creativity. It's sort of like playing Tetris, in that pieces of these walls are always falling from the skies of our personal experience, and we've got to find a place to put them. If we organize them correctly, they fit together and eliminate themselves (at least partially). This is known as "getting lines". As time goes by, the pieces begin to fall faster and faster, making it more difficult to get lines. If we do not make an effort to keep up the pace, the pieces will stack up too high, and our learning experience grinds to a halt. It is at this point that people begin to listen to Kenny G, and recognize it as good music.
There are some cheat codes in this game of Tetris though. Ways to get a bunch of lines at a time when the walls start to get too high. It sounds easy, but it's surprisingly difficult to do. You have to scare yourself. I don't mean "scare yourself" as in ask a friend to hide behind something then suddenly jump out at you when you least expect it. Neither do I mean to insinuate that we should watch scary movies, or read Edgar Allan Poe stories late at night in creepy old mansion estates. I mean, think of something in life that scares you, then do it.
I used to hate parallel parking, and would therefore avoid it at all cost. It wasn't until I tried scaring myself that I learned to do it, and do it well. Not only did I make myself parallel park, but I made myself do it on busy streets. I know to some of you, that doesn't sound scary at all, in fact, you probably think I'm a giant douche now. There was a time in my life however, that it scared the piss outta me. Don't judge. Some of you are probably afraid of spiders. I'm not judging you (ha ha! wimp!) but I am suggesting that you make an effort to collect one. A big ol' scary one. Or, if you see one in your home, instead of smashing it or drowning it in a smoking puddle of dangerous poison, try to get it in a dixie cup and put it gently outside. Maybe even study it a little before you let it go peacefully on it's way. Look it up on the internet, find out what species it is and it's habits etc. You might be surprised to find that this will give you a shit load of lines, and you'll probably beat your previous "high score".
Thinking of new ways to scare yourself isn't easy either. Most of us can probably come up with one or two scary things right off the bat, but if you try this technique often, (which I enthusiastically recommend) you'll probably run out of ideas pretty quickly. The trick is to listen to your emotions, even when they're acting retarded. If you're out and about, for instance, and notice a member of the opposite sex checkin' you out, go over there and say howdy. I know that's not terrifying, but the great majority of you would be lying if you said it didn't make you a little nervous. It doesn't have to go anywhere. It doesn't have to mean anything. Just do it to scare yourself.
You may not realize it right away, but each time you're successful in doing something nerve wracking, you're learning something. Or maybe it's more accurate to say you're growing. You see, the higher the Tetris walls get, the more they impede your progress, and subsequently, the more difficult it is to grow as an individual.
I do understand that some of us are naturally better at Tetris than others, and those individuals may not need to utilize the "frighten yourself" cheat code as often as others. Those people are called "scientists" or "doctors" (not doctors of the medical variety, necessarily, but with PhD's). Ironically enough, those individuals are already predisposed to liking Kenny G, and are therefore beyond help. They can still benefit from growing as an individual though, even if only socially or emotionally.
I also understand that Tetris fucking cheats. Ask anyone who's ever played. There are times in life when you've got a solid wall built and it's poised to crumble down like those of Jericho at a jazz festival, but the piece you need (usually a long, straight bar) just isn't falling. In this instance, you must breathe deeply and relax. The bar will fall. Just be patient. And whatever you do, don't throw the controller. If you bust that, you'll have to play with the the "player 2" controller, and we all know you spilled beer all over it and the buttons stick, rendering it all but useless. Besides, when the bar finally does come, you'll get four lines simultaneously. This is called "a Tetris", and is worth a shitload of points. Sweet success!
This Tetris metaphor reminds me to let everyone know that even though my girlfriend is beautiful AND bright, I always kick her ass when we play in 2 player vs mode. Also, I can easily annihilate both of my brothers at almost any video game, not the least of which is Tetris. Just so you know. Oh, and one more thing. I LET Gunnar win at Connect Four. I could've beat him easily, but I felt bad since he was the one who actually made the trophy. Here he is posing with it, and feeling like it was a legitamate victory:
Keep on keepin' on.
The learning process becomes more difficult as one gets older. It might be because most of us get progressively dumber as the years float by, but I don't think so. I think that life can become stagnant as one begins to "settle down" or become "established". In order to keep learning, we've got to constantly break down the walls we are continually building around ourselves. These walls are commonly known as "comfort zones", and while they certainly are nice and cumfy, they don't do much for us in the way of expanding our minds.
It's not easy to break break down our comfort zones. It takes effort and creativity. It's sort of like playing Tetris, in that pieces of these walls are always falling from the skies of our personal experience, and we've got to find a place to put them. If we organize them correctly, they fit together and eliminate themselves (at least partially). This is known as "getting lines". As time goes by, the pieces begin to fall faster and faster, making it more difficult to get lines. If we do not make an effort to keep up the pace, the pieces will stack up too high, and our learning experience grinds to a halt. It is at this point that people begin to listen to Kenny G, and recognize it as good music.
There are some cheat codes in this game of Tetris though. Ways to get a bunch of lines at a time when the walls start to get too high. It sounds easy, but it's surprisingly difficult to do. You have to scare yourself. I don't mean "scare yourself" as in ask a friend to hide behind something then suddenly jump out at you when you least expect it. Neither do I mean to insinuate that we should watch scary movies, or read Edgar Allan Poe stories late at night in creepy old mansion estates. I mean, think of something in life that scares you, then do it.
I used to hate parallel parking, and would therefore avoid it at all cost. It wasn't until I tried scaring myself that I learned to do it, and do it well. Not only did I make myself parallel park, but I made myself do it on busy streets. I know to some of you, that doesn't sound scary at all, in fact, you probably think I'm a giant douche now. There was a time in my life however, that it scared the piss outta me. Don't judge. Some of you are probably afraid of spiders. I'm not judging you (ha ha! wimp!) but I am suggesting that you make an effort to collect one. A big ol' scary one. Or, if you see one in your home, instead of smashing it or drowning it in a smoking puddle of dangerous poison, try to get it in a dixie cup and put it gently outside. Maybe even study it a little before you let it go peacefully on it's way. Look it up on the internet, find out what species it is and it's habits etc. You might be surprised to find that this will give you a shit load of lines, and you'll probably beat your previous "high score".
Thinking of new ways to scare yourself isn't easy either. Most of us can probably come up with one or two scary things right off the bat, but if you try this technique often, (which I enthusiastically recommend) you'll probably run out of ideas pretty quickly. The trick is to listen to your emotions, even when they're acting retarded. If you're out and about, for instance, and notice a member of the opposite sex checkin' you out, go over there and say howdy. I know that's not terrifying, but the great majority of you would be lying if you said it didn't make you a little nervous. It doesn't have to go anywhere. It doesn't have to mean anything. Just do it to scare yourself.
You may not realize it right away, but each time you're successful in doing something nerve wracking, you're learning something. Or maybe it's more accurate to say you're growing. You see, the higher the Tetris walls get, the more they impede your progress, and subsequently, the more difficult it is to grow as an individual.
I do understand that some of us are naturally better at Tetris than others, and those individuals may not need to utilize the "frighten yourself" cheat code as often as others. Those people are called "scientists" or "doctors" (not doctors of the medical variety, necessarily, but with PhD's). Ironically enough, those individuals are already predisposed to liking Kenny G, and are therefore beyond help. They can still benefit from growing as an individual though, even if only socially or emotionally.
I also understand that Tetris fucking cheats. Ask anyone who's ever played. There are times in life when you've got a solid wall built and it's poised to crumble down like those of Jericho at a jazz festival, but the piece you need (usually a long, straight bar) just isn't falling. In this instance, you must breathe deeply and relax. The bar will fall. Just be patient. And whatever you do, don't throw the controller. If you bust that, you'll have to play with the the "player 2" controller, and we all know you spilled beer all over it and the buttons stick, rendering it all but useless. Besides, when the bar finally does come, you'll get four lines simultaneously. This is called "a Tetris", and is worth a shitload of points. Sweet success!
This Tetris metaphor reminds me to let everyone know that even though my girlfriend is beautiful AND bright, I always kick her ass when we play in 2 player vs mode. Also, I can easily annihilate both of my brothers at almost any video game, not the least of which is Tetris. Just so you know. Oh, and one more thing. I LET Gunnar win at Connect Four. I could've beat him easily, but I felt bad since he was the one who actually made the trophy. Here he is posing with it, and feeling like it was a legitamate victory:
Keep on keepin' on.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
After Barnacle Bill identifies himself as the one knocking on the fair young maiden's door, she tells him she'll come down and let him in. This is how Barnacle Bill responds:
Well hurry before I bust in the door
I'll rare and tear and rant and roar.
I'll spin ya yarns and tell ya lies
I'll drink your wine and eat your pies
I'll kiss your cheeks and black your eyes...
(He's Barnacle Bill the sailor).
Well, it seems to me that Barney and I would have been good pals. Not that I support blacking the eyes of anyone, especially a woman, but hell, at least he's up front about that. Now, if I were that maiden, I'd probably not open the door after I heard Bill's proclamation intended physical abuse, but that's just me.
I have some friends that are similar to Barnacle Bill, actually. Not that they beat up women, but they're just a little rough around the edges. The difference is that of all the people I know personally who bust in doors, spin yarns, drink wine, eat pies, and blacken eyes, not a single one ever admit to it. Certainly not right outta the gate like that. And, if something crazy does happen on account of their gallivantin' and carousin', they usually have some excuse. I think they oughtta chest up a bit. Take some responsibility and let everyone know they might get hammered and punch things. Let everyone know what they're up against. If all those cards on on the table right away, who could blame Barnacle Bill if he knocks someone out?
Personally, I fall more in line with Willie and Waylon (the Outlaws) in "Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys". There they say:
Cowboys like smokey old pool rooms and clear mountain mornin's,
little warm puppies and children and girls of the night.
Them that don't know 'im won't like 'im
and them that do sometimes won't know how ta take 'im.
He ain't wrong he's just differ'nt, but his pride won't let 'im
do things to make you think he's right.
See? Those guys won't let nobody dictate what they can and can't enjoy. Neither do they feel obligated to 'splain it. That's why I don't feel conflicted about liking whiskey and cigareetes (in relative moderation) and still feeling like a good dad. It's why it doesn't seem weird for me to love museums and academia as much as I like farts, football and boobs. I'm done feelin' guilty about who I am. I have good moods and bad. I love life too much not to explore it... good and bad. Besides that, I'm done letting society determine what is "good" or "bad". I think I'm capable of making that decision on my own, thanks.
"If ya don't understand 'im and he don't die young, he'll prolly just ride away."
Well hurry before I bust in the door
I'll rare and tear and rant and roar.
I'll spin ya yarns and tell ya lies
I'll drink your wine and eat your pies
I'll kiss your cheeks and black your eyes...
(He's Barnacle Bill the sailor).
Well, it seems to me that Barney and I would have been good pals. Not that I support blacking the eyes of anyone, especially a woman, but hell, at least he's up front about that. Now, if I were that maiden, I'd probably not open the door after I heard Bill's proclamation intended physical abuse, but that's just me.
I have some friends that are similar to Barnacle Bill, actually. Not that they beat up women, but they're just a little rough around the edges. The difference is that of all the people I know personally who bust in doors, spin yarns, drink wine, eat pies, and blacken eyes, not a single one ever admit to it. Certainly not right outta the gate like that. And, if something crazy does happen on account of their gallivantin' and carousin', they usually have some excuse. I think they oughtta chest up a bit. Take some responsibility and let everyone know they might get hammered and punch things. Let everyone know what they're up against. If all those cards on on the table right away, who could blame Barnacle Bill if he knocks someone out?
Personally, I fall more in line with Willie and Waylon (the Outlaws) in "Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys". There they say:
Cowboys like smokey old pool rooms and clear mountain mornin's,
little warm puppies and children and girls of the night.
Them that don't know 'im won't like 'im
and them that do sometimes won't know how ta take 'im.
He ain't wrong he's just differ'nt, but his pride won't let 'im
do things to make you think he's right.
See? Those guys won't let nobody dictate what they can and can't enjoy. Neither do they feel obligated to 'splain it. That's why I don't feel conflicted about liking whiskey and cigareetes (in relative moderation) and still feeling like a good dad. It's why it doesn't seem weird for me to love museums and academia as much as I like farts, football and boobs. I'm done feelin' guilty about who I am. I have good moods and bad. I love life too much not to explore it... good and bad. Besides that, I'm done letting society determine what is "good" or "bad". I think I'm capable of making that decision on my own, thanks.
"If ya don't understand 'im and he don't die young, he'll prolly just ride away."
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Being a young, middle class white American male is really tough, man. Everything I say is racist and insensitive. Goddamn minos. I just invented that slur for all recognized "minority" groups in the world (psst... that means any human being on earth, as well as a few animal species).
Everyone has stereotypes and prejudices, and sometimes they're funny, but you can't always say so. Unless whoever you're laughing at is a middle class white American guy. Everyone can make fun them, whenever or where ever they please. That's ok by me, but the thing of it is, I can't really make fun of anyone else. Ever. Or, if I do, it has to be in the the most light hearted, unoffensive way possible. It's true I sometimes walk around in public in a blue blazer and tie, whistling Perry Como tunes and being extraordinarily polite to people. I even make it a point to over-enunciate, just for humorous effect. It's hilarious because there are times when I'm a living, breathing stereotype. In fact, I dare anyone not to laugh and point if I actually do try to dance (which I only do after copious amounts of Pabst Blue Ribbon). There are few things that can generate such a resounding chorus of instant laughter and merrymaking at the expense of another. Of course, I feel guilty for getting a chuckle out of a Mexican dude in a truck that's horn plays a snippet of "La Cucaracha" and the back window is a giant Jesus sticker. And God forbid I admit to thinking a Jerry Curl is a hilarious hair style, or laugh myself to tears at the latest Baliwood show-stopping musical numbers while checking out some "Namaste America".
If only I could be a real minority, I'd be given the "Carlos Mencia Get out of Jail Free Card". That is to say, because he's a Mexican guy, it's ok for him make fun of his own people. It's also ok for him to tease all other recognized minority groups, weather or not he's a card carrier (i.e. handicapped people, fat people, gays or any ethnic group). I wish I had that card too. I want to spread the love. Even my having a gay mom and members of my immediate family of every race color and creed does not grant me access to this magical well of hilarity. Unfortunately, I can only make fun of myself; and that's no fun at all because everyone's already doing it for me. I don't want to steal their jokes, so I just make fun of the British.
Think of that combination of words without a negative connotation for a moment. Make and Fun. Sounds like a party I'd go to, I don't know about you...
Laughing is a good thing. Violence and hatred on the other hand, are wiggita wiggita wack. I say let's laugh at each other. Let's laugh together, and instead of throwing stones at one another, throw them at Bill O'Riley. He's the real douche. A kind of person who does hate, and is therefore incapable of seeing humor in trunk jewelery. He doesn't know why Perry Como is funny. The bass line of a Mexican polka or corrido does not crack him up. Neither does a Jewish guy haggling over one lemon at the grocery store. Instead, all of these are "offensive". All of these piss him off, and now we're not allowed to laugh at them. What a cock gobbler.
It shows progress when we can all make fun of each other. Equally.
Everyone has stereotypes and prejudices, and sometimes they're funny, but you can't always say so. Unless whoever you're laughing at is a middle class white American guy. Everyone can make fun them, whenever or where ever they please. That's ok by me, but the thing of it is, I can't really make fun of anyone else. Ever. Or, if I do, it has to be in the the most light hearted, unoffensive way possible. It's true I sometimes walk around in public in a blue blazer and tie, whistling Perry Como tunes and being extraordinarily polite to people. I even make it a point to over-enunciate, just for humorous effect. It's hilarious because there are times when I'm a living, breathing stereotype. In fact, I dare anyone not to laugh and point if I actually do try to dance (which I only do after copious amounts of Pabst Blue Ribbon). There are few things that can generate such a resounding chorus of instant laughter and merrymaking at the expense of another. Of course, I feel guilty for getting a chuckle out of a Mexican dude in a truck that's horn plays a snippet of "La Cucaracha" and the back window is a giant Jesus sticker. And God forbid I admit to thinking a Jerry Curl is a hilarious hair style, or laugh myself to tears at the latest Baliwood show-stopping musical numbers while checking out some "Namaste America".
If only I could be a real minority, I'd be given the "Carlos Mencia Get out of Jail Free Card". That is to say, because he's a Mexican guy, it's ok for him make fun of his own people. It's also ok for him to tease all other recognized minority groups, weather or not he's a card carrier (i.e. handicapped people, fat people, gays or any ethnic group). I wish I had that card too. I want to spread the love. Even my having a gay mom and members of my immediate family of every race color and creed does not grant me access to this magical well of hilarity. Unfortunately, I can only make fun of myself; and that's no fun at all because everyone's already doing it for me. I don't want to steal their jokes, so I just make fun of the British.
Think of that combination of words without a negative connotation for a moment. Make and Fun. Sounds like a party I'd go to, I don't know about you...
Laughing is a good thing. Violence and hatred on the other hand, are wiggita wiggita wack. I say let's laugh at each other. Let's laugh together, and instead of throwing stones at one another, throw them at Bill O'Riley. He's the real douche. A kind of person who does hate, and is therefore incapable of seeing humor in trunk jewelery. He doesn't know why Perry Como is funny. The bass line of a Mexican polka or corrido does not crack him up. Neither does a Jewish guy haggling over one lemon at the grocery store. Instead, all of these are "offensive". All of these piss him off, and now we're not allowed to laugh at them. What a cock gobbler.
It shows progress when we can all make fun of each other. Equally.
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Merchant/Atlas in '08!
I don't want to get up here and preach politics, Fat Ass, but things are getting complicated. Now we're bombing mud huts in Somalia? Hmm... The only place on the globe that's more unstable than Iraq (and we all know where that got us).
Now, while I despise almost all politicians (jackass and elephant), and emphatically disagree with just about everything they say or do, I don't want to start singling people out (ahem, Bush/Cheyney). And while it pains me deep in my soul to see what's happening in the Middle East (Iraq, Iran, Lebanon, Israel, Somalia) no one can just undo what's happened. Nor can we sit here in our comfortably air conditioned office buildings, or quaint little country bungalows pretending that nothings happening about which intelligent and decent people should be concerned. We are at war, and as heart breaking as that is, there's no going back. We've got to find a solution, and just about everything our current leaders (demos and repubs alike) have done has failed miserably thus far. I'm afraid for the future of America, the country I dearly love. I think there's only one thing to do. Elect Larry Merchant as President.
Larry Merchant knows fighting. Not only that, but he's well connected, well spoken and has the stones to bust through a post fight melee in a ring, walk up to a 250lb pugilist who's just proven that he can single handedly beat up anyone in the world, stick a mic in the face of said pug and call him a bum. He's belligerent at times, but no one can argue with him. He'll always tell you like it is. Larry Merchant never lies, and he has no fear. Once, while discussing George Foreman's incredible feat of becoming the oldest man to win a Heavyweight Championship at age 45, Jim Lampley said, "It's one of the greatest performances in sports history. Some people compare it to Jack Nicholas winning the Masters at age 46." To which Larry responded (quite appropriately, if you ask me), "Say what you may, Jim, but no one was punching Jack Nicholas in the face when he won the Masters!"
Larry's running mate (VP) could be Teddy Atlas... the ex fighter who sounds like he might be retarded, but then shocks listeners with insightful, well composed commentary. That's another guy who knows how to win a fight. Also, Teddy can beat your ass. I promise. It's said that he once held a gun to a young Mike Tyson's head (whom Atlas trained in the early years under Cus D'Amato) when Iron Mike made an unwelcome pass at a female relative of Teddy's. Atlas also is credited with predicting Tyson's downfall due to his personal conduct and jackassery. Teddy knew that acting a fool would bring about the merciless ass whupin' Tyson received at the hands of Buster Douglas, and continued to receive by every notable fighter hence.
Larry Merchant, as noted above, is known to be belligerent at times, and this will not do if he is to become president. Also, he tends to ride Manny Pacquiao's nuts a little too much (in my personal opinion). Fortunately though, he can hire Burt Sugar to be his first advisor. Burt Sugar may be the only man with not only the stones, but also the knowledge and ability to wax poetic to put Larry in check when he gets outta hand. Burt's got sand in his craw enough to make Merchant listen up.
Now, once we all go vote for Merchant/Atlas in '08, they can appoint some of their peeps (I believe that's the most grammatically appropriate term for them) to other cabinet positions. Emanuel Stewart as Secretary of Defense, for instance. I'm telling you right now, there is no one better. All anyone needs to do is listen to Emanuel Stewart, and he'll tell you how to win a fight, no matter the circumstance. I'll bet if we called him right now, he'd have a better Strategy for Iraq.
Do I even need to mention who'd make the best Secretary of the Treasury? You guessed it. Don King. Oh c'mon, you and I both know that Don King is no less villainous or ruthless than any of the old white politicians who currently handle our nations finances. Besides that, who (other than those guys previously mentioned) is going to fuck with Don King? No one, that's who.
George Foreman can fit in there too. I'd like to see him as Press Secretary. Here's an example of his natural talent for diverting the nation's attention. In 1997, he fought Shannon Briggs, a big, hard hitting heavyweight. Foreman was 48 years old at the time (though closer to 49), and proceeded to beat Briggs' 26 year old ass for at least 8 out of 12 rounds. When the fight was over, however, the judges gave the fight to Briggs. Amongst a thunderous chorus of boos from the crowd, Larry Merchant shoves his way through the ring to stick a mic in Foreman's face. Larry asked him if he was upset about the decision, since it'd been clear to everyone watching that Foreman was easily the winner. (paraphrasing) "He's a young guy, Larry, and I'm old and gettin' ready to retire. He needs it a lot more than I do. I ain't mad. By the way, I'm 48 years old, and I feel great after 12 rounds of boxing. You know how I stay in such good shape? By usin' the George Foreman Grill every morning..." At this point, Merchant interrupts, saying something like, "George, can we talk about the fight?" To which Foreman responded, "I GOT to sell my grill, Larry!" Now, if that doesn't demonstrate a natural ability to get people to ignore an 800 pound gorilla in the room, I don't know what is; and isn't that the job of the Press Secretary? I think so.
There's more to mention here, like appointing some boxing judges to the Supreme Court. I mean, as long as we're calling things how they are, boxing judges are no more crooked than some of those who are Justices right now. And, at least we'd know that rather than pretend it ain't so like we do today.
Look, if we're in a fight, and we're losing, we need to take action. If we keep losing rounds, we'll need a knockout to win. Those boxing personalities mentioned above would clean up the face of modern American politics. Wow! You know things are bad when it's up to BOXING personalities to clean up politics, but at least the corruption in the boxing world is blatant and on the table. No one tries to hide from it or deny it. Sadly, that's WAY more honest than just about anyone in Washington right now. I like my coffee black and my corruption apparent. That's how I roll.
Merchant/Atlas in '08!
Now, while I despise almost all politicians (jackass and elephant), and emphatically disagree with just about everything they say or do, I don't want to start singling people out (ahem, Bush/Cheyney). And while it pains me deep in my soul to see what's happening in the Middle East (Iraq, Iran, Lebanon, Israel, Somalia) no one can just undo what's happened. Nor can we sit here in our comfortably air conditioned office buildings, or quaint little country bungalows pretending that nothings happening about which intelligent and decent people should be concerned. We are at war, and as heart breaking as that is, there's no going back. We've got to find a solution, and just about everything our current leaders (demos and repubs alike) have done has failed miserably thus far. I'm afraid for the future of America, the country I dearly love. I think there's only one thing to do. Elect Larry Merchant as President.
Larry Merchant knows fighting. Not only that, but he's well connected, well spoken and has the stones to bust through a post fight melee in a ring, walk up to a 250lb pugilist who's just proven that he can single handedly beat up anyone in the world, stick a mic in the face of said pug and call him a bum. He's belligerent at times, but no one can argue with him. He'll always tell you like it is. Larry Merchant never lies, and he has no fear. Once, while discussing George Foreman's incredible feat of becoming the oldest man to win a Heavyweight Championship at age 45, Jim Lampley said, "It's one of the greatest performances in sports history. Some people compare it to Jack Nicholas winning the Masters at age 46." To which Larry responded (quite appropriately, if you ask me), "Say what you may, Jim, but no one was punching Jack Nicholas in the face when he won the Masters!"
Larry's running mate (VP) could be Teddy Atlas... the ex fighter who sounds like he might be retarded, but then shocks listeners with insightful, well composed commentary. That's another guy who knows how to win a fight. Also, Teddy can beat your ass. I promise. It's said that he once held a gun to a young Mike Tyson's head (whom Atlas trained in the early years under Cus D'Amato) when Iron Mike made an unwelcome pass at a female relative of Teddy's. Atlas also is credited with predicting Tyson's downfall due to his personal conduct and jackassery. Teddy knew that acting a fool would bring about the merciless ass whupin' Tyson received at the hands of Buster Douglas, and continued to receive by every notable fighter hence.
Larry Merchant, as noted above, is known to be belligerent at times, and this will not do if he is to become president. Also, he tends to ride Manny Pacquiao's nuts a little too much (in my personal opinion). Fortunately though, he can hire Burt Sugar to be his first advisor. Burt Sugar may be the only man with not only the stones, but also the knowledge and ability to wax poetic to put Larry in check when he gets outta hand. Burt's got sand in his craw enough to make Merchant listen up.
Now, once we all go vote for Merchant/Atlas in '08, they can appoint some of their peeps (I believe that's the most grammatically appropriate term for them) to other cabinet positions. Emanuel Stewart as Secretary of Defense, for instance. I'm telling you right now, there is no one better. All anyone needs to do is listen to Emanuel Stewart, and he'll tell you how to win a fight, no matter the circumstance. I'll bet if we called him right now, he'd have a better Strategy for Iraq.
Do I even need to mention who'd make the best Secretary of the Treasury? You guessed it. Don King. Oh c'mon, you and I both know that Don King is no less villainous or ruthless than any of the old white politicians who currently handle our nations finances. Besides that, who (other than those guys previously mentioned) is going to fuck with Don King? No one, that's who.
George Foreman can fit in there too. I'd like to see him as Press Secretary. Here's an example of his natural talent for diverting the nation's attention. In 1997, he fought Shannon Briggs, a big, hard hitting heavyweight. Foreman was 48 years old at the time (though closer to 49), and proceeded to beat Briggs' 26 year old ass for at least 8 out of 12 rounds. When the fight was over, however, the judges gave the fight to Briggs. Amongst a thunderous chorus of boos from the crowd, Larry Merchant shoves his way through the ring to stick a mic in Foreman's face. Larry asked him if he was upset about the decision, since it'd been clear to everyone watching that Foreman was easily the winner. (paraphrasing) "He's a young guy, Larry, and I'm old and gettin' ready to retire. He needs it a lot more than I do. I ain't mad. By the way, I'm 48 years old, and I feel great after 12 rounds of boxing. You know how I stay in such good shape? By usin' the George Foreman Grill every morning..." At this point, Merchant interrupts, saying something like, "George, can we talk about the fight?" To which Foreman responded, "I GOT to sell my grill, Larry!" Now, if that doesn't demonstrate a natural ability to get people to ignore an 800 pound gorilla in the room, I don't know what is; and isn't that the job of the Press Secretary? I think so.
There's more to mention here, like appointing some boxing judges to the Supreme Court. I mean, as long as we're calling things how they are, boxing judges are no more crooked than some of those who are Justices right now. And, at least we'd know that rather than pretend it ain't so like we do today.
Look, if we're in a fight, and we're losing, we need to take action. If we keep losing rounds, we'll need a knockout to win. Those boxing personalities mentioned above would clean up the face of modern American politics. Wow! You know things are bad when it's up to BOXING personalities to clean up politics, but at least the corruption in the boxing world is blatant and on the table. No one tries to hide from it or deny it. Sadly, that's WAY more honest than just about anyone in Washington right now. I like my coffee black and my corruption apparent. That's how I roll.
Merchant/Atlas in '08!
Monday, January 8, 2007
Mike MacDonald from Rude Buddha was there...
This weekend my cousin was in town. He's a good guy, that one, and he loves to mix things up. Stir the pot a little bit.
Whenever someone comes to LA for the first time, the host (that would be me in this for instance) is under the unspoken obligation to play "tour guide" to an extent. Fortunately for me, I live right on Hollywood Blvd, so a liesurely stroll down to the Walk of Fame is always in order. After that, being in Hollywood, the next stop is usually the Sunset Strip.
Now, the Strip is a place I generally avoid at almost any cost. Driving through it is one thing, but actually getting out of the car and spending time down there is quite another. My cousin is the kind of guy though, who would really thrive in a place like that. A sea of young, beautiful idiots. Oh yes, that's a playground for a guy like him.
My brother Jake, his girlfrined Heather and I hopped a cab and took our kin folk down to the Saddle Ranch. You know, that crazy bar with the mechanical bull? Yeah. Anyway my cousin had a plan, which we excecuted at least ten times that evening, and which turned out to be a hell of a lot of fun.
He'd find a group of two or more cute girls, then cassually stroll over there to order his drink. After a few minutes, I'd then walk over as if just passing by, and as I did, I'd do a double take on my cuz. "Excuse me," I'd say, "Are you Mike MacDonald from Rude Buddha?" He'd act flattered and a little coy before admitting to being the one and only. I'd then ask for a quick autograph, and my cousin the fake celebrity would be happy to oblige. Unfortunately, he didn't have a pen. Uh oh. Neither did I. Well, maybe this group of hot girls has one? Sure enough, I'd get a quick signature, then proclaim my admiration for his music one more time, and I'd be on my way. I could hear twitterpated girls giggling and asking him to sign their arms, napkins and other various keepsakes.
This racket worked like a charm. There were a couple of times I'd ask some girls to take a quick photo of me with him, and hand them my phone. Then, inevitably, they'd all want a pic with him too. It'll be great for myspace!
Nothing came of this scam, except a rockin' good time. That's the way I like it. No harm done, just funnin' with people. That's all. There were no hurt feelings, and no one lost or gained anything, really. That's my kind of yarn. Spreading love through the telling of a little white lie. A lie that we wanted to tell, and most people wanted to hear.
Whenever someone comes to LA for the first time, the host (that would be me in this for instance) is under the unspoken obligation to play "tour guide" to an extent. Fortunately for me, I live right on Hollywood Blvd, so a liesurely stroll down to the Walk of Fame is always in order. After that, being in Hollywood, the next stop is usually the Sunset Strip.
Now, the Strip is a place I generally avoid at almost any cost. Driving through it is one thing, but actually getting out of the car and spending time down there is quite another. My cousin is the kind of guy though, who would really thrive in a place like that. A sea of young, beautiful idiots. Oh yes, that's a playground for a guy like him.
My brother Jake, his girlfrined Heather and I hopped a cab and took our kin folk down to the Saddle Ranch. You know, that crazy bar with the mechanical bull? Yeah. Anyway my cousin had a plan, which we excecuted at least ten times that evening, and which turned out to be a hell of a lot of fun.
He'd find a group of two or more cute girls, then cassually stroll over there to order his drink. After a few minutes, I'd then walk over as if just passing by, and as I did, I'd do a double take on my cuz. "Excuse me," I'd say, "Are you Mike MacDonald from Rude Buddha?" He'd act flattered and a little coy before admitting to being the one and only. I'd then ask for a quick autograph, and my cousin the fake celebrity would be happy to oblige. Unfortunately, he didn't have a pen. Uh oh. Neither did I. Well, maybe this group of hot girls has one? Sure enough, I'd get a quick signature, then proclaim my admiration for his music one more time, and I'd be on my way. I could hear twitterpated girls giggling and asking him to sign their arms, napkins and other various keepsakes.
This racket worked like a charm. There were a couple of times I'd ask some girls to take a quick photo of me with him, and hand them my phone. Then, inevitably, they'd all want a pic with him too. It'll be great for myspace!
Nothing came of this scam, except a rockin' good time. That's the way I like it. No harm done, just funnin' with people. That's all. There were no hurt feelings, and no one lost or gained anything, really. That's my kind of yarn. Spreading love through the telling of a little white lie. A lie that we wanted to tell, and most people wanted to hear.
Friday, January 5, 2007
Ugh. I'm really hung over this morning, Heavy D. Help me.
The bar is a strange and magical place. I feel like I can keep on drinkin, and nothing will happen to me. I never realize how drunk I am until I get home... then it's all gloom and doom. Last night, I was dizzy, but hanging in there just fine until I walked in my front door, then all that Pabst and whiskey sucker punched me in the stomach. Don't worry though, we walked there and back home. Sober driving is an issue I can (and do) really get behind. I mean, let's face it, if you drink and drive, you really are an asshole, and if (God willing) you get home safely, someone should hit you in the face while you're sleeping. Jack Daniels is an ass hole too. He pretends to be cool... like he's all fun and light hearted and shit, but he is not your friend, or mine. Let's not hang out with him anymore.
Even if I'm not hung over like this, I still feel like an ass after a night of hangin' out with Jack. He always turns me into a buffoon. Why then, do I insist of maintaining his friendship? Honestly, I don't even know. Last night, he was like, "I think you should tell that English girl about your fake hatred for her countrymen. She'll think that's funny." Nope. She didn't. Jack was wrong again. She spent the rest of the evening insisting to me that she was only half British. And despite my many attempts to explain the joke, it didn't sink in. Jesus those damn Limeys are a thick headed bunch of stuck up douche bags.
That's just a little humor for ya. Get it...? Because I was just complaining about the English not getting my joke about hating the English. THen I made a derogatory comment about the English, as if I really do hate them. See... it's funny because I'm contradicting myself. Y'know, like how sometimes it's funny to say the opposite of what you really mean? And sometimes, it's funny to purposely ruin a joke.
(hurl)
Anyone got an alka-seltzer?
The bar is a strange and magical place. I feel like I can keep on drinkin, and nothing will happen to me. I never realize how drunk I am until I get home... then it's all gloom and doom. Last night, I was dizzy, but hanging in there just fine until I walked in my front door, then all that Pabst and whiskey sucker punched me in the stomach. Don't worry though, we walked there and back home. Sober driving is an issue I can (and do) really get behind. I mean, let's face it, if you drink and drive, you really are an asshole, and if (God willing) you get home safely, someone should hit you in the face while you're sleeping. Jack Daniels is an ass hole too. He pretends to be cool... like he's all fun and light hearted and shit, but he is not your friend, or mine. Let's not hang out with him anymore.
Even if I'm not hung over like this, I still feel like an ass after a night of hangin' out with Jack. He always turns me into a buffoon. Why then, do I insist of maintaining his friendship? Honestly, I don't even know. Last night, he was like, "I think you should tell that English girl about your fake hatred for her countrymen. She'll think that's funny." Nope. She didn't. Jack was wrong again. She spent the rest of the evening insisting to me that she was only half British. And despite my many attempts to explain the joke, it didn't sink in. Jesus those damn Limeys are a thick headed bunch of stuck up douche bags.
That's just a little humor for ya. Get it...? Because I was just complaining about the English not getting my joke about hating the English. THen I made a derogatory comment about the English, as if I really do hate them. See... it's funny because I'm contradicting myself. Y'know, like how sometimes it's funny to say the opposite of what you really mean? And sometimes, it's funny to purposely ruin a joke.
(hurl)
Anyone got an alka-seltzer?
Thursday, January 4, 2007
Hi Bitch Tits! Are you losing weight? Oh. It doesn't look like it, I just said that to rub it in.
So I've been working with a company recently called Ownit Mortgage Solutions, trying to get some of their turn downs. I met with the owner twice, and things seemed to be going well, though he didn't really send anything my way. Well, I opened the business section of the LA Times yesterday, and to my surprise, saw a huge article about Ownit explaining how they went belly up in a hurry. They went into the toilet so fast, and so severely in fact, that they can't even pay their employees. Wow. Guess I'm not the only grifter in this business.
Speaking of grifting, I've been thinking of starting a weekly Video Blog, or "vlog" in addition to this one. Any of you computer savvy butt nuggets out there have any advice on that? I mean, my ideer was to shoot it on a reg'ler digital camera I have, then edit it in iMovie. I could then upload it to Youtube, and post it here, right? I have however seen other people forego youtube, and post their videos directly on to their sites. Is this a better option? Why? Does anyone know how to do that? Oh, c'mon, don't get all upset because I called you a butt nugget. I was only kiddin'... fuckin' douche nozzle.
Vlogging might be fun. I once took the ol' camera out on a late night Hollywood romp with Lexi, and who should jump out of a van to scold me for filming a passed out bum? Ghost Face Killa of the Wu Tang Clan, Theodor Unit, that's who. At first, I didn't believe it was him, but when I asked for confirmation, he opened his jacket displaying and extensive collection of ridiculous bling. I was momentarily blinded by the street lights bouncing off his insanely gawdy ice. Had Mr. T not pimpped out Nancy Reagan in his younger days, I'm certain he'd be jealous.
Anyway, your thoughts would be much appreciated. I'll try to get another sumpin' sumpin' up here later on. Until then, keep on keepin' on. Send me your ideers and advice. I'm lookin' at you, Nitz, Riz and J-Bo. Butt holes.
Kisses!
Kory
So I've been working with a company recently called Ownit Mortgage Solutions, trying to get some of their turn downs. I met with the owner twice, and things seemed to be going well, though he didn't really send anything my way. Well, I opened the business section of the LA Times yesterday, and to my surprise, saw a huge article about Ownit explaining how they went belly up in a hurry. They went into the toilet so fast, and so severely in fact, that they can't even pay their employees. Wow. Guess I'm not the only grifter in this business.
Speaking of grifting, I've been thinking of starting a weekly Video Blog, or "vlog" in addition to this one. Any of you computer savvy butt nuggets out there have any advice on that? I mean, my ideer was to shoot it on a reg'ler digital camera I have, then edit it in iMovie. I could then upload it to Youtube, and post it here, right? I have however seen other people forego youtube, and post their videos directly on to their sites. Is this a better option? Why? Does anyone know how to do that? Oh, c'mon, don't get all upset because I called you a butt nugget. I was only kiddin'... fuckin' douche nozzle.
Vlogging might be fun. I once took the ol' camera out on a late night Hollywood romp with Lexi, and who should jump out of a van to scold me for filming a passed out bum? Ghost Face Killa of the Wu Tang Clan, Theodor Unit, that's who. At first, I didn't believe it was him, but when I asked for confirmation, he opened his jacket displaying and extensive collection of ridiculous bling. I was momentarily blinded by the street lights bouncing off his insanely gawdy ice. Had Mr. T not pimpped out Nancy Reagan in his younger days, I'm certain he'd be jealous.
Anyway, your thoughts would be much appreciated. I'll try to get another sumpin' sumpin' up here later on. Until then, keep on keepin' on. Send me your ideers and advice. I'm lookin' at you, Nitz, Riz and J-Bo. Butt holes.
Kisses!
Kory
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
Nothing Doing
Today has been a lonesome day
Today has been a
Lonesome day
Today has been a lonesome day
looks like tomorrow 'll be the same old way.
Nothing to write about this morning, guys. Sorry. Back in my skirt chasin' days, I used to tell dames that I was really only good for about 3 dates. After that, I run out of material. Sometimes, they'd think that was charming, assuming I was only kidding and that I always had lots of clever things to talk about; then they'd realize that what I said was fairly accurate and they'd stop returning my phone calls. ha ha!
Here is a hilarious picture I came accross recently:
Nancy Reagan on the lap of Mr. T, kissing him.
While I disagree with Ronald Reagan politics, I sure think he was a swell guy. I mean, anyone who makes jokes just seconds after they get shot is automatically cool in my book. Being cool though, doesn't mean you'd make a great president. It does however save you from being both a poor fool, and thus pittied by a large man with a mohawk and a shit load of trunk jewelery.
Represent indeed, sir.
Today has been a
Lonesome day
Today has been a lonesome day
looks like tomorrow 'll be the same old way.
Nothing to write about this morning, guys. Sorry. Back in my skirt chasin' days, I used to tell dames that I was really only good for about 3 dates. After that, I run out of material. Sometimes, they'd think that was charming, assuming I was only kidding and that I always had lots of clever things to talk about; then they'd realize that what I said was fairly accurate and they'd stop returning my phone calls. ha ha!
Here is a hilarious picture I came accross recently:
Nancy Reagan on the lap of Mr. T, kissing him.
While I disagree with Ronald Reagan politics, I sure think he was a swell guy. I mean, anyone who makes jokes just seconds after they get shot is automatically cool in my book. Being cool though, doesn't mean you'd make a great president. It does however save you from being both a poor fool, and thus pittied by a large man with a mohawk and a shit load of trunk jewelery.
Represent indeed, sir.
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
trying a new strategy
Hi, Fatty. The Holiday season is finally over. Sustained celebrity casualties so far were Gerald Ford, James Brown and Saddam Hussein. There. I mentioned it. Now, let's not talk about it anymore. Let's talk about games instead. Specifically, the one we're all playing, but not talking about. Until now.
Everyone has a strategy in life. They use it in relationships, work, social interactions, everywhere. It's not always the same in every circumstance. Most people have different strategies how to operate in work and in home.
My work strategy has always been sort of reactionary. If I were a boxer, I'd be a counter-puncher. If I let you lead off, I can get a good idea of what I'm dealing with, and react accordingly. I'm also able to absorb a lot of punishment, and I don't get upset very easily, so unless you hit really, really hard, if you do catch me with a shot, I have a pretty good chance of staying cool.
My home strategy has been teamwork and patience. I'm like a nice boss, and try to politely delegate jobs to people. I try to choose jobs at which they naturally excel, because for one, they'll do do it well, and two, they don't seem to mind as much. When work needs to be done that everyone hates, I like to split it up. "If I clean the kitchen, will you run the vacuum?" That kind of stuff.
In relationships, I can be really unorthodox. I hit hard from strange angles. Flowers and gifts for no reason, for instance. This also works on the opposite end though in that I'll side step an argument on her terms, and pretend to be understand and docile, then, a week later, when she thinks all is hunky dory, I'll drop the bomb. It seems unfair, I know, but it's effective.
A new technique I'm trying out though, is to call it like I see it, and be (at times) brutally honest. Calling an emotional confrontation with your significant other a game, for instance. Because that's how it works with my girlfriend and I. When she's mad at me for something, she'll sometimes write mean poems or journal entries, and them tuck them away in places that she knows I'll eventually find them. It's like a booby trap. Then I have to bring it up, but when I do, she's got her strategy all planned out already, and can take me down, man. I don't know what they call that in your neck of the woods, but here, it's called a game. The object of which (I hope) is to eventually solve the problem and/or riddle. Calling it such, and then trying to set up some boundaries... y'know, rules, regulations and what not is my new experimental technique. I had an opportunity to try it out with my girlfriend recently, but it didn't go over too well. That's just because it was a bit of a surprise, and when I explained it, it seemed to her to be degrading and sarcastic, but it wasn't meant to be.
Call it like it is. Sometimes, we do bad things, and we're not sure why we did them, but in all actuality, if we were to admit to them and take a little responsibility instead of trying to cover them up, we'd realize that they weren't so bad after all. "Yes, I flirted with the girl at Coffee Bean, and I do think she's cute. She did give me her number." That doesn't mean I'm a cheater. It doesn't mean I've done anything wrong, really... especially if I cop to it right away. It wasn't the right thing to do necessarily, but nothing happened, and nothing was going to happen. I just got a little flattered over the attention of a PYT. I'm only a man.
"No, I haven't yet finished that project because it's miserable, and I found ten other things to do that were equally productive and important. Also, I've spent the last half an hour writing a blog." That doesn't mean I'm lazy or I've done the wrong thing. It'll get done, and in plenty of time (if there is a deadline). Just relax. Breathe.
Change your way of thinkin'.
Everyone has a strategy in life. They use it in relationships, work, social interactions, everywhere. It's not always the same in every circumstance. Most people have different strategies how to operate in work and in home.
My work strategy has always been sort of reactionary. If I were a boxer, I'd be a counter-puncher. If I let you lead off, I can get a good idea of what I'm dealing with, and react accordingly. I'm also able to absorb a lot of punishment, and I don't get upset very easily, so unless you hit really, really hard, if you do catch me with a shot, I have a pretty good chance of staying cool.
My home strategy has been teamwork and patience. I'm like a nice boss, and try to politely delegate jobs to people. I try to choose jobs at which they naturally excel, because for one, they'll do do it well, and two, they don't seem to mind as much. When work needs to be done that everyone hates, I like to split it up. "If I clean the kitchen, will you run the vacuum?" That kind of stuff.
In relationships, I can be really unorthodox. I hit hard from strange angles. Flowers and gifts for no reason, for instance. This also works on the opposite end though in that I'll side step an argument on her terms, and pretend to be understand and docile, then, a week later, when she thinks all is hunky dory, I'll drop the bomb. It seems unfair, I know, but it's effective.
A new technique I'm trying out though, is to call it like I see it, and be (at times) brutally honest. Calling an emotional confrontation with your significant other a game, for instance. Because that's how it works with my girlfriend and I. When she's mad at me for something, she'll sometimes write mean poems or journal entries, and them tuck them away in places that she knows I'll eventually find them. It's like a booby trap. Then I have to bring it up, but when I do, she's got her strategy all planned out already, and can take me down, man. I don't know what they call that in your neck of the woods, but here, it's called a game. The object of which (I hope) is to eventually solve the problem and/or riddle. Calling it such, and then trying to set up some boundaries... y'know, rules, regulations and what not is my new experimental technique. I had an opportunity to try it out with my girlfriend recently, but it didn't go over too well. That's just because it was a bit of a surprise, and when I explained it, it seemed to her to be degrading and sarcastic, but it wasn't meant to be.
Call it like it is. Sometimes, we do bad things, and we're not sure why we did them, but in all actuality, if we were to admit to them and take a little responsibility instead of trying to cover them up, we'd realize that they weren't so bad after all. "Yes, I flirted with the girl at Coffee Bean, and I do think she's cute. She did give me her number." That doesn't mean I'm a cheater. It doesn't mean I've done anything wrong, really... especially if I cop to it right away. It wasn't the right thing to do necessarily, but nothing happened, and nothing was going to happen. I just got a little flattered over the attention of a PYT. I'm only a man.
"No, I haven't yet finished that project because it's miserable, and I found ten other things to do that were equally productive and important. Also, I've spent the last half an hour writing a blog." That doesn't mean I'm lazy or I've done the wrong thing. It'll get done, and in plenty of time (if there is a deadline). Just relax. Breathe.
Change your way of thinkin'.
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