Last night I was going back through the old posts on this blog to try and figure out when my baby started sleeping through the night. Turns out it was about the second week of August. Anyway, I was struck by the notion that perhaps this thing is just getting shittier and shittier with each passing day. Now, this is one of the most patently ridiculous things to worry about as A) this is a blog…so who cares B) A lot like point A, this thing is supposed to be a reflection of my thoughts, which means it can really only be measured empirically, and C) Are you fucking crazy? This shit’s better than ever, yo!
BUT, this moment of panic on my quest for self actualization, or whatever you want to call it, really highlights something that I think is important in the world of making shit, call it ‘art’ if you must (though I hardly think dick jokes and entreaties to not be such pussies about what you drink at the bar could ever qualify as art…maybe in the south). Namely, the fear that everything you’re making is subpar. This is a funny thing, because usually, you start off a project (for this example, we’ll use a blog, but this could just as easily be a book, a band, a screenplay a series of paintings or an interracial gangbang video serial…really anything that taps into your creative mind) and there are no expectations, so the first blog entry (in this case, a little number I did back in July 08 entitled ‘hello blogosphere’) isn’t burdened with having to really do anything. If, by the creator’s standards, it succeeds then a second one follows. If it sucks, then it’s abandoned and well, no one’s any wiser or worse either way. BUT, if it’s successful, and continues to be, then there’s a moment where you, as a creative heavy lifter, start to look back to those carefree days when there were no expectations and wish you could recapture that magic. Why? Because the stakes are higher now, you’re ostensibly better at what you do, and so you’ve got all sorts of new expectations to deal with, and as such the freedom to just kind of let shit roar (which is usually when the best shit is made) becomes compromised. So, what do you do? Oh, what do you do?
Usually, between these moments, the moment of initial conception, when, let’s say, the band gets together and writes that first song or you first film that first Japanese girl taking a dump on that other girl, you get a period where you’re still unburdened, but you’re heady with the success of kind of effortlessly succeeding. This is absolutely the best place to be creatively. The, “man, these people are gonna be fucking amazed when they see the shit I’m pulling off next!” mentality definitely makes for the most effortless and therefore highest caliber output.
But whatever, I’m talking about what happens once you’ve crested that and you’re just sitting there in your underpants looking at your computer going “fuck. Can I still do this shit? I don’t even remember why I liked interracial gangbangs in the first place.” What do you do? Well, you take comfort in the fact that your creative mind is jolting you with fear as a method of inspiration, for one thing. One thing you should never ever do though, is look to your own output from the past as inspiration. That’s the artistic (just for lack of a better word) equivalent of eating your own shit for nutrition. It kind of works, but it doesn’t work nearly as well as eating the stuff that the shit was made from.
Man, so, in my first entry I laid out what this thing was gonna be about, a bit of a mission statement, and I said it was gonna be self reflexive (dude…check.) and advice oriented (seems like I solved everyone’s problems, because I haven’t got any good advice queries in a while…except for the guy who wants to know how to get his old lady to wax her asshole and beav…Okay, here’s what you do. You wait until things are relaxed and you’re just kind of having a good, fun conversation. Maybe you’re drinking wine and sitting on the porch or maybe you’re watching tv in bed or maybe you’re driving somewhere…get the idea, somewhere conversational. Anyway, casually bring up something you’ve seen regarding waxing, like say, that scene in the forty year old virgin. You mention how funny that shit is, or how disturbing it is, and as every conversation about waxing has ever done, it will eventually turn to how much pain the waxee feels during the process. At this point you say something like “yeah, for sure, but I gotta tell you, I think that girls that are all waxed look super hot.” Then, you see what the reaction is. If it’s something like ‘WHAT? REALLY? EW!” then it doesn’t seem to me like you’re with a girl who’s ever gonna drip hot wax onto her asshole and pull out the hairs…sorry. Pretty much any other reaction, and you’ve planted the seed. And really, that’s the most you can do, because talking to people about their grooming habits is like talking to people about their kids…they get defensive real fast, and if you want someone to do what you want, the last mindframe you want them in is defensive. SO, then you change the subject and wait for your birthday.)
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so we’ve got self reflexive, advice oriented, and finally celeb and pop culture driven, so, like when I say that I can’t believe that LC and Heidi are talking again, I fulfill this part of the mission statement. Good. Done. Hmmmm….I don’t know though. I used to do lots of lists. I haven’t done a good list in a while. How about this? Here’s a list of things that if you’re holding when someone walks by you on the street, you’re guaranteed to get a strange, judgmental look.
A baby that’s absolutely freaking out.
A large pizza (the ‘you’re already fat’ category)
A hypodermic syringe
Lotto tickets and a welfare check
A bucket full of gasoline
A bucket full of chicken heads
A map of the town you’re in
A swastika flag
An autographed picture of OJ
A balloon (the ‘you already look like a pedophile’ category)
A kid on a leash
-this one really pisses me off. Kids learn to walk before they learn to comprehend things like how it feels to get hit by a car or what it’s gonna take to find mommy in this gigantic parking lot, and yet assholes just blithely comment on this like it’s their right. “Don’t put that kid on a leash. He’s not a dog!” Hey, guess what asshole? He’s not a dog, but I’ve got kind of a lot to keep track of over here, firstly, and secondly, go fuck yourself. You know what’s dangerous? Coming up to strangers and telling them how to raise their kids, ESPECIALLY if they’re just doing something harmless that protects said kid. You know what? You should maybe get that tubby wife of yours to put YOU on a leash so you don’t wind up getting punched in the face for sticking your nose in other people’s business. Anyway, my kid can’t even walk, and as such, he’s never been on a leash, so this isn’t a gripe from personal experience. It’s just one of those things I’ve seen happen and it’s fucking infuriating. That person is a parent, their life is over and they’re trying to navigate this drunk midget with no grasp of English or the physical world through the fucking Macy’s. give ‘em a fucking break, man. Christ.
Back to the list:
Anything that implies that you’re a hippy (you’re dressed like a stupid hippy category)
-a cup for change
-keys to an SUV
-a lid of grass
(At this juncture, I’d like to point out that there’s absolutely nothing judgmental about hating hippies. It’s perfectly natural)
A large dildo
A small dildo
Any sort of double dildo
Okay, that’s pretty good. I have a friend who sometimes eats his mcdonalds cheeseburgers on the toilet while he takes dumps. He says something about evening out the amount of food inside you or something like that. It’s gross. But he also shits for half an hour at a time and gets really sweaty, so maybe he needs the snack. I bring this up only because my baby is currently eating and attempting to poo at the same time. Today it’s peas. I just tried em. They’re actually not bad. Off to the farmers market. Last chance of the harvest season, people. I gots to get my fuji apples and deer steaks before winter sets in.