Friday, September 30, 2005
:
Happy Fucking Birthday To Me
Son of a bitch. I survived another trip around the sun. I have somehow managed to squeeze 10,227 days of life out of this strange little storybook that we're all in. 6 electrocutions, 4 near drownings, 2 car crashes, 1 mild case of gangrene, and countless influenza strains later and I'm still here.
Looking back on my life, as long as it seems to be and as short as it truly is, I'm set with this sense of wonder upon myself for how much I've done and how little I've accomplished.
I've been married, had two kids, and divorced.
I've broken hearts, and had my heart broken.
I've betrayed friends, and been betrayed by those I love.
I've seized moments that didn't belong to me, and I've sat back as my opportunities passed me by.
I have forsaken my family, and had my family forsake me.
I've looked down on, and been looked down upon.
I have spent most of my life shooting the shit, and I've been shot at.
I've have had many, many crushes. But I've only fallen in love once.
So far I've won battles, lost wars, tried my best, dropped the ball, beaten around the bush, gone for the gusto, smelled the flowers, taken the reins, ran the gauntlet, feared the reaper, popped the weasel, talked about Fight Club, taken the last cookie, pissed in the wind, brought in on, called it off, found Jesus, lost faith, gained perspective, learned my lesson, pounded the pavement, read the writing on the wall, read between the lines, put in my two cents, threw my hat in, thrown in the towel, thrown the game, played by my own rules, played well with others, changed my mind, changed my clothes, changed my scenery, changed the locks, quit smoking, quit smoking again, quit smoking again, quit smoking again, gave up on quiting smoking, gave up on myself, gave up on them, gave up on you, lost control, lost my mind, lost my keys--
Jesus, I could go on like this for days.
In all that I've been through, be it magnanimous or banal, it has all had one very important lesson attached to it: I have no fucking idea what I'm doing.
None of us have any fucking idea what we're doing. This is the first try at this for all of us, and anyone who claims to have it all figured out is either full of shit or The Dalai Lama (and I still have my doubts about that guy.)
So, here's to me and my 28 years of Living In Oblivion. According to current estimations in the trends of medical science, I can expect to know diddly-shit for at least another hundred years. Yippee.
My love to all of you, JonTheDoc
P.S. What do I want for my birthday? Why I'm so glad you asked.
The Optimus Keyboard - Every key is a small LCD display. When playing a game or running program with set hotkeys, the keys change their display to match their functions. Includes some extra keys on the left side with program icons to instantly bring that program to the front.
I know none of my friends have to money to buy one of these for themselves, let alone me. But it is fantastically cool and I want one. So, I just thought I'd throw it out there to any anonymous blog reader that might feel like doing a good deed today.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
:
"Go on. Smile, you cunt!"
Been reading back on some of my more recent posts. Jesus, when did I get to be such a downer? I've got to get the giggles back somehow. That's why today, I've decided to talk about something that makes me laugh. Something that no matter what the situation always makes me smile. Racism. Specifically, people's reaction to racism.
You see, I love the word "Nigger." And I don't me the urbanite slang "Nigga'," No, I'm talking about the The N Word. I don't consider myself a racist. At least, no more of a racist than your average 7-11 manager. But when it comes to referring to my African Brothers in conversation or narrative, "Black Man," "African American," and even "Negro," seem to stutter through my teeth or get caught in my throat. Meanwhile, not only does "Nigger" slide comfortably out of my mouth with little to no effort, but I never cease to be amused by the looks on people's faces when The Evil N flops right into their lap. I'm am so endlessly entertained by this that I can often be heard discussing the tragedy of the sociopolitical climate of the nations of Niger and Nigeria, just so I can refer to them as "Niggerland" and "Niggerlandia," respectively.
Now I know most of you have probably stopped reading this by now and have already begun composing your hate mail. For this, I thank you. A look of shock only lasts a few seconds, but e-mails of unfounded defensiveness can last forever.
But, just for shit's and giggles, I'm going to explain myself. You see, I have absolutely no qualms in using the Big Bad N Word for three reasons;
1) My family came to America after WWI. We missed out on all the black man enslaving and red man killings. So, I'm guilt free there. And, my Grandfather and his six brothers all joined the arm forces to fight the Germans in WWII. So, we're free of any anti-Semitic history too. The only blood on our hands is German blood, and we're German so it's all good. My father employs mexican immigrants at his farm and pays them more than he pays the white guys because they do better work for him. He also reports their taxes for them, giving them better chances at gaining legal citizenship. So as far as race relations go, my family is pretty pro-active. Not to mention my father once got the shit kicked out of him by the cops back in the 60's when he marched with the Equal Rights Movement in San Francisco.
2) Thanks to my upbringing in the staunch belief that we are all equal, no mater our race, gender, or religion, I am confident that we all have equal playing ground when the dice are rolled. And yes, "The Man" is keeping the minorities down. But guess what; The Man keeps ME down too, because I wasn't born in a blue blood family. Yes, I'm white. Yes, I come from a middle class family. But I'm dirt fucking poor right now, and my country is being run by a junkie who's daddy bought and sold his way through everything. As far as these Robber Barons are concerned, I'm just as much a Nigger as Pigmy Tribesman.
3) And on the subject of equality....if you are free to call me a "Cracker" or a "Honky," well then guess what, "Nigger" and "Darkie" are fair game too. You know why? Because The First Amendment of The Constitution of The United States applies to both of us, pal. Equally.
That is why I find racism so funny. Because it's an instant test as to just how brainwashed by the deep seeded guilt of the Sins Of The Fathers we are that we cannot even practice what we preach; equality. Anyone who sits back and takes a second to think about it will see just how absurd it all is.
The only reason the Neo-Nazis and the KKK still have any staying power is because people are afraid of them and what they represent. The fact of the matter is, they are just a lame joke. They make me laugh. And that really pisses them off. I tell them that I've got friends in The Jewish Conspiracy and The Gay Agenda. They stand there, looking confused. They don't attack me, because I've scared them with their own superstition. But they don't run because deep down they know that it's a retarded and unfounded belief. So, they just stand there, turning red and peeing on themselves. And I laugh harder.
You see. Racism is funny. It tickles me.
BTW: Happy Birthday Kermit. Congratulations on your stamp.
In my line of business, Hotels that is, it's not uncommon for me to be the subject of abuse. Especially in these 4 to 5 star establishments where the clientel beleive themselves to be some sort of American Royalty. Everyone seems to think that they are entitled to all kinds of free asskissings, and yet when I refuse to pucker up, it's as though I had spit on them. Yellings, table slappings, and threats to have me fired ensue.
It's not a surprise at all when some drunk asshole seems to think that just because he dropped a couple hundred dollars at the bar, he has somehow earned the right to a free room for himself and the skank he just picked up. And of course, when I freely offer up the reality of the situation (no free rides or rooms), I am told that the person standing before me so important that if I don't wake up the manager (at 3 in the morning) to get the okay for a free room, then I will be penniless and homeless by the end of the week. Unfortunately for me, laughing directly into a guest's face is strictly against company policy.
I've been yelled at, screamed at, threatened with physical violence many a time in my 6 years in this business. Always by some spoiled brat who thinks that just because they make more money in an hour than I make in a year, that gives them some right to make me their bitch.
However, these things don't always come to their most vicious incarnation on a constant basis. I have never been physically attacked, and while some jerk will tell me that he's going to have my job I've never heard a murmer about it from any of my supervisors. Insults pertaining to the question of my manhood and/or sexuality are usually masked with very thick innuendo.
However, in the past week, things have gotten strange.
In the recent four days I was browbeat for 20 minutes by a man who was upset that I wouldn't drop $100 dollars off the walk-in rate. "But I'm not a walk-in. I've been in the bar for three hours! I stay here all the time. How would you like it if I took my business elsewear? Give me the fucking room or I'm never coming back here, you little shit!"
The next day, my co-worker Doug, asked a guest for a $30 deposit to cover the expenses he has already accrued to his bill. Doug got the money, but not until after he had been subject to a very long string of curses and explitives and being unnoficially dubed "fuckhead."
Two days later, another of my co-workers (Mary), came up against a very drunk man trying to check in with a bent up, worn out credit card and absolutely no form of ID. When she told him that it was against company policy for her to accept the card under these conditions, he threw the card at her, called her a "fucking bitch" and stormed out the door.
Later that same night, a group of about seven young men (all very drunk) decided that they didn't want to wait in the lobby for the valet to bring their cars, so they yanked open the locked doors to the cafe and made themselves comfortable. Then, when their cars showed up, one of them was too drunk to remember where his valet ticket was, and came to the front desk to scream at us for about 5 minutes, insisting that we had it.
Any one of these events, over the course of a year, would not at all give me pause. Hell, having them spread out over three months would not even raise an eyebrow around here.
However, to have them all take place in less than a week worries me a bit. What the hell is going on? Is the world's collective unconsious suddenly PMSing? Is the threat of natural disaster, political upheaval, and economic leprosy just taking too much of a toll on the general public?
Is this happening anywhere else? Is it just Chicago? Is it just me? Has the whole of mankind turned into infintile little cunts, or do I just seem to bring that out in people?
Again....that looming lurking feeling of strange, twisted happenings about to infest my life.
I've been having an epic nightmare for the past three nights.
Well, I guess since I sleep in the day time I'll have to rewrite that last statement completely. And I say "epic" nightmare because it is not a reoccurring nightmare. The setting and players are the same, but both times that I have gone back to sleep I found myself picking up right where I left off.
The first time, I was introduced to this other world. I was me, and I was in my apartment. For some reason, I knew that I did not belong here. I knew that I was asleep, but this was not a dream...rather I had been flipped into an alternate me and our two personalities were sharing the same body. The other me was aware of this too, but unlike me he had no desire to understand why. He was scared. The Other Me is stricken with a constant fear of everything.
In this other world we do not share the apartment with Andrew and Sienna, only Andrew is there. And this Other Andrew is a constantly angry, sadistic bully. The other me is more scared of him more than anything else. In this other world my children live in Chicago as well, but the Other Me has not seen them in months because Other Andrew says I would "just fuck them up." My children are in Oregon, which is why I haven't seen them, but the Other Me hasn't even spoken to his children because he is afraid that Other Andrew is right, they're better off not knowing their father.
I cannot stand for this, I want to see my children. Even if these are the Other Me's children and not really mine, I want to see their faces. I force my will upon the Other Me and we start to leave to visit them. We are stopped by Other Andrew. He browbeats the Other Me, calling him names and other such atrocities. My temper overwhelms us both and the Other Me punches the Other Andrew square in the face. That is when I wake up.
For a moment, in that half-awake/half-dreaming state I believe that I have returned to my world because the Other Me's overwhelming shock of what I made him do had caused him to repel me completely from his world. As I slowly come to full consciousness, I feel very silly.
I look at my clock and see that I have awoken a full two hours before my alarm is set to go off. It's all just too strange.
The next day, I fall asleep and I am there again. I am running. The memories of what has happened since I was last there slowly come to me. Other Andrew tied the Other Me to a chair and burned him with a soldering iron as punishment for hitting him. I can still feel it. And now, rent was due. We are stealing money from a cash box at an impound yard. Other Andrew takes the money and tells me to run the opposite direction from him. I know it is because I am the decoy. He will escape while the police turn their attention to me. In this world, the police always use deadly force first. Other Andrew doesn't care if I get killed.
I force my influence onto the Other Me again, keeping him from panicking and directing him through the neighborhood to avoid the police altogether. We find ourselves at work. The Other Me works as an accountant at a hospital. I get there with a message from my ex-wife: my daughter is sick. Since I'm the one who works at a hospital, thus getting free health care, I have to bring her in to see a doctor. It takes some time, but I convince the Other Me to never tell Other Andrew about this. I can't be sure for how long this will hold after I have gone again.
The Other Me begins to have tremors. I remember now; Other Me has some sort of neurological disorder, not unlike Multiple Sclerosis, and he took the job at the hospital in order to get his medication for free. Without the pills, he would seize and tremor and scream in pain. In my world, the real world, my mother has MS. The thought of my mother spending the last years of her life in crippling pain sends the both of us into a depression. I wake to the sound of my alarm clock.
Day Three: I enter into the Other Me's mind as he's sitting in a waiting room. The pain from the burns are still noticeable. His daughter is being examined by the doctors, and he's afraid to be in there with her. Stress causes his condition to get worse and he's been popping his pills like M&M's. The doctor emerges and sits down with us. She tells us that the root of his daughter's problem is that she is "concreting" in her sleep and they can't figure out why.
What? "Concreting?" What is that? I want to ask, but the Other Me doesn't want to look stupid in front of the doctor and refuses to ask. He just nods his head.
The doctor tells us that my daughter will be dead within a year.
I awake, sweating buckets in a cold room.
No no no. It's just a dream. But what if it isn't? What if there is some correlation? What if my daughter is sick?
I look at the clock, I've only been asleep for three hours. There is no reason at all for me to be awake.
I wrap my blanket around me and curl up against the wall. I try to fall back to sleep, I have to go back. I need to go back. I have to know what happens. I close my eyes and try to think of that place, the Other Me, trying to float back to that Other World.
I am met with a horrifying flash; a vision of some sort of half-dwarf/half-rhinoceros thing gobbling down a ham sandwich way too fast. It only lasts for a second, but it is enough to leave me with the distinct sick impression that I am no longer welcome in the place I'm trying to go.
For all of known history, we have been trying to unlock the secret of dreams. Psychologists, psychiatrists, and philosophers alike have argued over this subject for thousands of years. Is all this just a random string of neuron storms, with the wholes filled in by my imagination in order to keep me sane, or is my subconscious trying to tell me something? Or is it all, in some form or another, very real?
I gave up in trying to sleep anymore, even though I'm exhausted, and wandered into the office. I found this IM waiting for me on my computer:
"I just had a dream that you were trying to teach a fellow how to speak and sing and his mouth only opened about an inch wide all in all, and to add to the troubles he had no short term memory, his brain having been damaged somehow in a fishing incident... anyway... pleasant dreams, mr. sleepyhead"
I have a feeling things are about to get very strange in my life......
Thursday, September 15, 2005
:
Another step down the spiral......
Strangest thing....
Riding the train back from work this morning. It had been a long night and I was having trouble keeping my eyes focused. So I closed my book and looked up for a moment. I was dumbstruck by what I saw.
Some girl had sat down in the seat directly in front of me. I had not noticed her when she did, as I was buried deep in the last two chapters of George R. R. Martin's A Game of Thrones. Now that I saw her, the back of her head rather, I was thrown into a state of awe.
Her hair was died a fire-engine red and cropped very close to her scalp. From where I sat, I could see the entirety of her neck. And it was...the most beautiful neck I had ever seen.
I wanted to lean forward and give it a bite. Not an attack, mind you. The sort of clamping love-bite that you give to your loved one just after a passionate kiss or as you make love.
As my id and ego conspired to shove me into the act, my superego had it's hands full; shouting at the top of it's logic, "No! There will be screaming and police baton beatings!"
Chicago Police carve their own beat sticks and name them. Nothing sobers you up faster than remembering the day you met Officer Rodriguez and PitBull.
Luckily for both of us, she got off the train at the next stop. I was left to contemplate what I had just experienced.
Now, I'm sure some of you out there are wondering what the big deal is? I, on the other hand, am a bit unsettled by all this since I've never been attracted to a woman's neck in my life.
The complete list of female physical attributes that I am attracted to, in order of greatest to least, is as follows: Breasts, eyes, lips, ass, vagina, hair, legs. Never been into necks, feet, or hands. They all struck me as peripheral.
And yet, there I was. Drawn to it. Hypnotized by it. I could just barely make out her pulse as her skin jumped just slightly down her left side. It was the cutest little pulse ever.
("Pilot to tower. What the fuck? Over.")
When did I turn into Bella Lagosi? First the blackouts, then Libido, now this? What's next, dressing up as Faye Valentine at the Comic-Con?
Anyone who's known me for a long enough time has figured out that my grip on reality is off and on. But it's never been out of character.
Sure, I once told a waitress "This burger is so good, I wanna fuck you right now!" But at least I didn't try to fuck the burger. That would have been rude.
Thinking back, I don't even remember why I found her neck so attractive. It just was.
Maybe there is no reason behind it. It's like song by The Seatbelts;
Could it be that I got bored and lonely? Could it be that I'm just dumb and horny?
Or is it that I'm just fucking exhausted from working too much. I couldn't even see straight enough to read my book, and now I'm ranting senselessly like a schizophrenic porn star. It's very possible that all I need to do right now is shut the fuck up and get some sleep.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
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Who Writes This Stuff?
I've been wasting time at blogthings.com again. Does this mean I'm running out of things to write about? Am I so hard up for life experiences that I'm actually turning to cookie-cutter blog fodder in order to pad my "journal of thought."
Anyway:
You are dependable, popular, and observant. Deep and thoughtful, you are prone to moodiness. In fact, your emotions tend to influence everything you do.
You are unique, creative, and expressive. You don't mind waving your freak flag every once and a while. And lucky for you, most people find your weird ways charming!
Prone to moodiness? What the fuck is that suppose to mean? Come over here and say that to my face. I'll show you moody.
Okay, so yeah, I get a little cranky once and a while. But anyone who has ever worked in any part of the service industry knows how easy it is to grow completely discontented with humanity as a whole.
Dependable, popular, and observant. Well of course I am. My Horoscope says the same thing.
Okay, so it's a little eerie that it points out my creative/freakish side that I don't mind touting, since that's the very subject that has come up the last two times I've delved into these odd little questionaires.
It's interesting at a psychological standpoint. Mainly because the statements it gives are so vague that they could apply to at least 20% of the population. Even more than that would be so blind as to their own mediocrity, that they wouldn't even realize it if it were not correct. Who doesn't want to be dependable, popular, and observant?
In fact, now that I've taken some time to reflect upon this, I realize just how futile and pointless it is, and I'm not even going to bother writing a conclusion paragraph.
Friday, September 09, 2005
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Let's Play 'Kick The Junkie!'
I'm going to take a little side-step from my "blogthings" project to pass on a little anecdote.
I work a Graveyard Shift at a hotel. Actually, here we call it an Overnight Shift since nothing in this town ever gets quiet enough to be considered a graveyard.
It was your usual kind of late evening. Even though it was the middle of the week, the bar was full and drunk people were wondering aimlessly all around the lobby. In Chicago, getting drunk is more popular than Sex In The City and Seinfeld combined. And while both of those shows have been cancelled, there's still plenty of booze to go around.
Well, as the bar closes up and the now angry drunks begin to fill up the lobby (demanding that I do something to make the bar stay open) a junkie strode up to the desk.
His long hair was pulled back in a samurai style ponytail, and his cutoff t-shirt exposed the many years worth of tatoos, scars, and track marks on his arms. The clothing itself had not been cleaned in months, and I was pretty sure this guy had hit me up for change on my way here.
"I'm here to meet with some of your guests," he quickly says to me, with a slight stutter.
Now, I'm not one to cast judgment on someone's appearence. Hell, anyone who's seen how I dress on my off hours knows I have no place to talk. But it was pretty clear to me that the only business this guy would have with someone staying at a Four Star Luxury Hotel would be to either sell them drugs or his ass.
However, before I could ask him who [in the hell] he was here to see, he suddenly put his hand to his forehead (like he just remembered something) and then slowly laid down on the floor, shaking his leg just a little.
I sighed. I'd seen this before. Many, many times. On TV and in real life. This guy wasn't here to see anyone. This guy was here for one reason only; to get us to call an ambulance for him so he can get some of those great medical grade barbituates that they give to epileptics. If he had done this in the middle of the street, he would have laid there shaking for hours. Here in the middle of the main lobby at a high price hotel, he knew we'd want him out of our hair as fast as possible.
I felt a little disappointed. The guy wasn't even trying to be convincing. He knew that he didn't need to fool me. I was obliged by company policy to help him, regardless of how much I think he's faking. He could have walked up to me and said, "Hi there, sir. I'm having a seizure. Please call an ambulance. I'll be in the bar."
I was happy to inform security that they needed to call 911 and let them deal with him. After that, my duty was done and I went right on ignoring the guy. It was rather cold of me to pass the buck like that, but it is the official procedure. Besides, no one here wants to put me on Homeless Junkie Duty. I'd just start kicking him until he eventually rolled out onto the sidewalk. Not good for the company image.
Some of the guests started getting concerned. One of them even tried to console the guy, "It's okay, buddy. Hang in there. The ambulance is coming. You'll be okay." I don't think the guy really cared at all. He had some chick with him that he had met in the bar. He was probably trying to impress her.
I thought, if the junkie doesn't care if I beleive him or not, than I don't care if the junkie knows I don't beleive him.
"Sir," I said to the guest, "He's not really having a seizure. He's faking it for free drugs from the hospital."
The guest glared at me. "How do you know? Are you a doctor?"
"No, but I used to fake seizures for free drugs." I said. A total lie, but I knew this guy would beleive me. The base of my customers are a bunch of Trust Fund Brats that assume everyone that works for a living is either an illiterate or an ex-con. Hey, at least I've never had all of my clothes stollen by a hooker.
I turned to Arthur, a friend of mine that worked security. "It's a good thing he's not trying for morphine."
"That's for sure," Arthur said, "I delt with enough screaming last night."
With that, the guests ingored him too.
The junkie stopped shaking his leg and looked up at me, almost forlorne.
"Don't worry," I said, "the ambulance is still coming."
He nodded, and rested his head on the tile of the floor.
There he laid until the ambulance arrived. When the med-techs came in, they looked at the junkie and rolled their eyes. The tech that carried the gourney almost threw it to the floor next to the junkie. "Get on," he said. And the junkie climed on without help or protest.
As the techs lifted the grourney and carried him out of the hotel, one of them looked down at the junkie and said, "I expect you to thank me for not throwing you into traffic."
Thursday, September 08, 2005
:
I'm A Fucking Genius
Part two of my foray into pointless excersizes, sponsored by blogthings.com:
Your IQ Is 120
Your Logical Intelligence is Exceptional Your Verbal Intelligence is Exceptional Your Mathematical Intelligence is Genius Your General Knowledge is Above Average
And yet, no one I know is willing to bow down to my (now verified) genius. In my previous post, I displayed the results of my "Weird" test. Now, with my vast and incomparable inteligience added to the equation I realize that I am not weird at all. Stupid people are weird. I'm Eccentric!
So, if I'm so damn smart why do I keep dating women who like to cut themselves, and eventually me?
If I'm such a genius, why is it I can't tell the difference between a good time to call my boss "my bitch" and a bad time?
If I have such exceptional logic, why did I think it was a good idea to practice saying "Nice Tits" in Spanish to every waitress in town? (¡Buenas Chichis!)
Is this what it is that makes me so weird; the fact that I have all these extra brains lying around and I just refuse to use them? Or maybe it's just a basic human lack of self control, combined with an exceptionally creative and calculative mind that allows me to fuck up in such amazing ways --- hence, "weird."
Open you mind real wide and this will eventually start to make sense. Trust me, I'm a genius.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
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On The Subject Of "Weird"
I was introduced to blogthings.com earlier this week. A few amusing and inspiring things came out of the encounter, and I'm going to spend my next few entries on what I've discovered about myself, thanks to the world renowned expert psychologists, anthropologists, and psychics that are apparently on the payroll there.
I'm going to start with my results of the "How Weird Are You" quiz on blogthings.com:
You Are 40% Weird
Normal enough to know that you're weird... But too damn weird to do anything about it!
Interesting, depending on how much stock you put into these things. So far, the few friends I've shown this to would agree with these results. But then, most of my friends are bat-shit insane.
As the saying goes "One out of every four people are mentally insane. Check three of your friends. If they're okay, you're it."
That line does not explain, however, what it means if your three friends are totally nuts. Are the odds in your favor then? What if you check four friends? Five? One friend after another; nut-job, loony-tune, screwball, etc. What does this say about you?
Okay, so what is it that makes me so weird? Is it my total and complete distaste for humanity, while at the same time constantly clawing for humanity's approval and affection? While sad, I wouldn't say it's odd. Who among you can call yourselves innocent of this sin?
I mean, sure I know I'm strange. But how could I possible do anything about it if I have no idea what it is that makes me strange? And for that matter, why would I want to do anything about it? Isn't it always the strange people that bring our culture to it's next great step in evolution? Isn't it the weirdo's like Thomas Edison, Albert Einstein, and the Wright Brothers that keep pushing on the boundries of reality, widening the territories of "Normal" so the rest of the world can breath just a little bit easier? You wouldn't even be reading this little introspection of mine if not for those total head cases Bill Gates and Steve Jobs.
Rock and Roll, now a staple of worldwide culture, was once upon a time only found practiced in the private enclaves of the backwater bayou. So many parts of our everyday lives began as a freakish unspoken subculture that was denounced and attacked by those who fear the expansion of their tiny worlds.
Socrates, Plato, Leonardo Da Vinci, William Shakespeare, JD Salinger, Tom Robbins, Stephen King, Hunter Thompson, Douglas Adams, Mary Shelly, Andy Warhol, Andy Kaufman, Salvador Dhali, Bill Hicks, Michael Moore...Freaks. Every last one of them. And, my heroes.
Lets face it, the world keeps spinning thanks to people like you and me. Those of us who live South of Normal, taming The Fringe as it were, are the reason why Main Street is so long and so wide.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
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Look Ma! I'm a Media Whore!
I've been considering the possibility that I may want to sell out.
Here at Blogspot.com, they offer the opportunity to make your own voice, your way. Instead of simply placing random ads on your blog that attack your readers with endless ads for Viagra and Ice Princess: Special Edition DVD, you are allowed to post your blog, ad free at no cost to you.
But...if you want to...you know....if you feel like it....not that we're pressuring you or anything, we're just sayin'...
Let them place ads with your permission, and they'll pay you based on the number of people that hit your site and/or click on the ads.
Item One:Considering that You've been writting this blog with the intention that it be read by no one, it seems a bit counterintuitive to suggest to anyone that it may be a source for revenue.
In the beginning, yes. However I've recently waded knee deep into yet another online siren call; MySpace.com. I've plastered myself up there as though there were something about me that may be of interest to someone, anyone who just happen to be doing random searches on common keywords like Atom And His Package or Sean Of The Dead. On top of that, I've even taken the time to scower MySpace for old friends, aquaintences, and ex-lovers in some sort of desperate attempt to recapture the "good old days." And, in a sick stunt to regain their approval (assuming I ever had it to begin with) I've linked my MySpace page to this blog. Immediately afterward, I went back over all of my old posts, fixing grammar and spelling mistakes.
Item Two:Even if your "friends" visit your blog, that wouldn't be enough. You would need to draw total strangers. What makes you think that total and complete strangers would have any interest in your fevered rantings?
Example: Hunter S. Thompson.
Item Three:Hunter S. Thomson was a genius. You are a fuckhead.
Maybe so, but Hunter is dead. I am alive.
Item Four:How dare you! I hate you!
Yes. But you read my blog, didn't you?
Item Five: You are totally selling out!
That is correct. But all of the greats of our day and of days past began as sellouts. Would there have ever been a Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band if not for A Hard Days Night.
Item Six:Did you just accuse The Beatles of being sellouts?!?
"She loves you. Yeah, yeah, yeah." Come on. Who are we kidding? They might as well be asking "Who put the 'bop' in the 'Bop-shi-bop-shi-bop?'"
Item Seven:I am going to hunt you down and kill you.
Wouldn't that make for great publicity? See you on the blogosphere, suckers!
Friday, September 02, 2005
:
When Good Movies Go Bad
What the hell happened to Team America: World Police?
I saw that movie in the theater, possibly opening weekend but maybe not. I had never laughed so hard in my life. At the very beginning to the very end, my gut is in pain from nonstop laughing. I loved that movie. When it was done, I hailed Trey Parker and Matt Stone as eternal geniuses and upon their deaths, I will erect monoliths in their name and crucify all who deny their divinity.
My roommates had never seen the movie. I was shocked -- shocked I say!
I resolved to remedy this crime immediately.
We downloa--er, rented the DVD and sat down for an official viewing.
It was not funny. All of us sat there...I tried laughing at first, to warm things up in the room, but even my favorite parts from the first time I saw it seemed trite. Even the puppet sex scene had me looking at my watch.
Meanwhile, my roommates are glancing in my direction, waiting for me to assure them that it's going to get funny any second now.
What the fuck happened? Did the movie get reedited by political conspirators? Was it just the shock value that made me laugh before? If so, why weren't my roommates at least finding it funny?
I've been contemplating this for a couple weeks now. And I think I've hit upon a theory.
Team America is a dated movie. It was first released back in the day when none of us thought in a million years would the American people be stupid enough to reelect our man-child of a president. All of the political posturing was laughable and infuriating at the same time. The pile after pile of bullshit concerning Afghanistan and Iraq was pumping at us through the fire hose of misinformation that is Mass Media.
The humor behind Team America was rooted very deeply and almost entirely in the news and mentality of the day. It was what was on everyone's mind.
After a while, the mentality of the collective unconscious changes and it just isn't funny anymore. A piece of comedic genius like World Police stops being funny when you realize that Drop-Dead George is still in the White House and his little gang of I-Have-A-Tiny-Penis-But-I'm-Filthy-Stinking-Rotten-Rich Frat Boys are still running things.
Let me illustrate this another way... Heard any jokes about the Pope's failing health lately? Didn't think so.
The only part of Team America that we can actually still laugh at is the musical interlude "Pearl Harbor Sucked, And I Miss You." This is the only enternal joke of the movie. No amount of time or altered political climate will change the fact that Michael Bay's "Pearl Harbor" is a shitty movie. That will always be funny.
The Optimus Keyboard
