Okay, I'm off to Austin. No time for the old in-out love. Sorry, just came by to read the meter. If you're drinking this weekend, don't drive and if you're driving, don't drink, but if you live in or are staying in Austin, email me a picture of your hotel room and I'll make a decision about whether or not it's nice enough to grace with my presence...Seriously, I'm sleeping on the streets, people.
Wish me luck, assholes!
Friday, March 11, 2011
Thursday, March 10, 2011
the triumphant return of advice!
Hey everyone! I haven’t done the whole advice thing in a while, but I got a good query from a young lady who seems to be in dire straits. What some of you old timers may remember is that I used to dole out advice semi-regularly with the wisdom and panache of a sassy gay man wrapped up in a no nonsense obese black woman, but due to lack of advice inquiries, the whole thing has slowed down…wait, that seems like a perfect segue into this latest advice query! You’ve still got it, Kelly!
Q:
My husband and I are in our late twenties, been together about six years and married for three (no kids). Overall our relationship is great, he’s an awesome guy, and I love the shit out of him.
The thing is, and it’s kind of a big thing, is that he doesn’t want to bang me anymore. We used to have an amazingly wild sex life, and it’s withered away to almost nothing. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time we had sex and that really bums me out. I don’t think this is my fault; I’ve stayed in great shape, take care of myself, and haven’t gotten gross in any way, and I’m still way horny. The issue seems to be that he devotes all his energy to porn & masturbating rather than me. I totally understand that guys whack off and stare at porn (I DO read your blog, you know), but I think it’s a little excessive… he has frickin’ calluses on his dick (I’ve seen the few times I’ve gotten to handle it), he’s always “too tired” to bone. And he just gets really embarrassed when I try to talk to him about it. I know some masturbation is healthy and fine by me, but it’s totally destroyed our sex life.
I’m starting to feel like Peggy Bundy nagging Al for sex, but he’d rather in the garage with his Big’uns. It feels really, really shitty. I don’t want this to be the reason for a divorce or anything, I love this sexless dude with all my heart, but I’m a sexual lady in my twenties and I still want to fuck. Is there any hope of reviving a lively boning relationship?
A:
Okay, well…first off, good on ya for seeking a solid and healthy resolution to this problem instead of doing what a lot of people do in this situation and just throw their cards up in the air and start boning someone else on the side. That, unfortunately for the day and age we live in, says a lot about your character.
Okay, now that the asskissing is out of the way, let’s get down to it. You are correct, dudes tend to look at porn, and it’s this humble advice columnist’s opinion that those dudes who don’t have weird issues that are rooted in some unfortunate form of shame, but that’s neither here nor there. Obviously in this situation we’ve got a partner who seems to understand the role of porn in the male sexual pantheon and another partner who’s, uh…to put it bluntly, kind of going whacktastic, and obviously isn’t dealing with any porn-shame issues.
Let’s digress for a moment. I whack off. Most people do, and as a man who has lived through puberty and the subsequent 20 year mardi gras of malthusianism that followed, I can say I’ve done my share of beating off. I’ve talked to friends about beating off, we’ve discussed what happens when you beat off five or more times in a day (it’s like dry firing a gun) and truly, we’ve all over-indulged to the point of rawdong, which is an unfortunate, but not uncommon side effect of being born a male with hands.
What I’ve never in my life experienced, nor heard tales of, is calluses forming on a dick. That’s pretty wild. Now, far be it from me to say that’s ‘outrageous’ or anything like that. It could have to do with your husband’s skin or his pounding style or any number of other things I’d rather not picture, but let’s just put it this way: if the callused up dong was the whole problem, I’d be telling you to relax (even though, and I can’t stress this enough, I don’t know how you do that…I’d say my crack team of cranking-off researchers have crested the threshold of human endurance more than a few times, so maybe we’re dealing with an almost superhuman ability to find the time to beat off, which brings me to my point…)
This is obviously more than a cosmetic issue. It’s ruining your marriage and the forensic evidence seems to suggest it’s taking up a ton of his time, to the point where he’s undoubtedly putting other things off as well. In short, he’s not just not boning you. Were it that simple, he’d be a regular, normal guy with a raw dong and a bad attitude beating off a relatively benign 5-6 times a day, but that’s not what’s happening. Here’s what I think:
You’ve heard psychologists talk about rapists before, right? One thing they always say is that rape isn’t about sex. It’s about power. Similarly, this beating off compulsion can’t be reduced to the self-satisfaction of the sexual urge. If it was, there’s no way he’d be doing it that much, nor would it make sense for it to COMPLETELY replace accessible sex. Beating off, more times than not, isn’t even about being so horny you can’t take it any more. It’s about boredom, it’s about escape and (and every single dude out there knows what I’m talking about here) it’s an avoidance behavior.
Once the regular routine daily quotient of beating off has been achieved (and that’s different for everyone. Could be once every three days, could be four to six times a day) any extra cranks to the chain are likely avoidance behavior, where you’re beating off to not deal with something else. Say you’re doing your taxes and it’s stressing you out, or you’re trying to find a job or you’re sick of trying to deal with your relationship or self loathing, or you just don’t want to get out of bed because you can’t stand your situation, or any number of the zillions of other things that come along in day to day life that can be mentally crippling, you just beat off. It’s mindless, physically rewarding, relaxing, releases endorphins and has a concrete beginning, middle and end, which so many daily problems (shitty job, I’m ugly, my wife’s fucking someone else) don’t seem to have. What is that the recipe for?
Addiction. Any escapist hobby can become addictive and I’d say that unless there’s something major that I’m missing here (he’s beating off to GAY porn, you’re insane, there are actually NOT calluses on his dick, he’s having an affair out in the garage) there’s absolutely no doubt that your husband has cultivated an unhealthy addiction to beating off/pornography. Your disappointment in his lack of sex drive likely only makes him want to seek refuge in the cloak of his addiction, much like the way confronted drunks tend to go binge drink and overeaters, when mocked about their fatness tend to seek comfort in food. Your husband’s bottle of Wild Turkey or his pie a la mode is in the garage on his computer.
Now, this is the kind of problem that’s bigger than an advice column. You, as a monogamous member of your relationship, have a right to expect to be fucked on a regular basis. If you look at Maslow’s pyramid (an easily googleable chart which outlines the importance of the things humans need, also referred to as Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs) , sex is right there by food, sleep and shitting, beneath even personal safety, so what he’s doing to you by not addressing this problem is akin to withholding sleep or starving you (There are people who have low sex drives who will undoubtedly read this last sentence and scoff, but sex is a fundamental instinct, and I stand by this. It’s literally torture to withhold sex from someone who is unwilling to fuck up the life they have by seeking it elsewhere).
SO, here’s what I’d say: show him this column. Make him see how seriously you’re taking this whole deal. Obviously, you’ve tried to talk to him but whatever it is that he’s truly refusing to deal with has become tied up in your sexlife and well, if it were as simple as having a conversation, he’d still be fucking you. Tell him that you’re worried about what’s bothering him and that you want to see him take steps to figure it out, whether that’s seeing someone professional or another route, but that you won’t just sit there while he ignores your needs and beats off in the garage for the rest of your lives. As hilarious as it sounds, he needs a bit of an intervention, a kick to the balls so to speak, because he’s clearly in the grip (pun unintended but enjoyed) of something more powerful than simple conversation will be able to loosen.
And if he refuses to listen or talk or try to make the steps to fix himself, tell him you’ll divorce him, and if that doesn’t motivate him, do it. If you stay stuck in the situation you’re in now, you’re either gonna wind up fucking someone else and look like the bad guy, or you’re gonna go crazy and your life is gonna start to suck on a chronic and eternal level. You seem like you’re at the end of your rope (otherwise why would you write into a smarmy dildo like myself for advice) so do yourself a favor and treat this like the very, very serious problem that it is (AND, don’t listen to him when he says that it’s not a problem and that I’m a retard and that I’m way off and that he’s not avoiding anything and that this VERY PART OF THIS COLUMN RIGHT HERE is total poison bullshit, because THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE WHO ARE ADDICTED TO THINGS SAY WHEN THEY’RE CONFRONTED WITH THE REALITY OF THEIR ADDICTION.)
Um, yeah. Good luck with this. Pretty rough. Calluses? Really? Wow. Anyone else out there get the calluses?
Q:
My husband and I are in our late twenties, been together about six years and married for three (no kids). Overall our relationship is great, he’s an awesome guy, and I love the shit out of him.
The thing is, and it’s kind of a big thing, is that he doesn’t want to bang me anymore. We used to have an amazingly wild sex life, and it’s withered away to almost nothing. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time we had sex and that really bums me out. I don’t think this is my fault; I’ve stayed in great shape, take care of myself, and haven’t gotten gross in any way, and I’m still way horny. The issue seems to be that he devotes all his energy to porn & masturbating rather than me. I totally understand that guys whack off and stare at porn (I DO read your blog, you know), but I think it’s a little excessive… he has frickin’ calluses on his dick (I’ve seen the few times I’ve gotten to handle it), he’s always “too tired” to bone. And he just gets really embarrassed when I try to talk to him about it. I know some masturbation is healthy and fine by me, but it’s totally destroyed our sex life.
I’m starting to feel like Peggy Bundy nagging Al for sex, but he’d rather in the garage with his Big’uns. It feels really, really shitty. I don’t want this to be the reason for a divorce or anything, I love this sexless dude with all my heart, but I’m a sexual lady in my twenties and I still want to fuck. Is there any hope of reviving a lively boning relationship?
A:
Okay, well…first off, good on ya for seeking a solid and healthy resolution to this problem instead of doing what a lot of people do in this situation and just throw their cards up in the air and start boning someone else on the side. That, unfortunately for the day and age we live in, says a lot about your character.
Okay, now that the asskissing is out of the way, let’s get down to it. You are correct, dudes tend to look at porn, and it’s this humble advice columnist’s opinion that those dudes who don’t have weird issues that are rooted in some unfortunate form of shame, but that’s neither here nor there. Obviously in this situation we’ve got a partner who seems to understand the role of porn in the male sexual pantheon and another partner who’s, uh…to put it bluntly, kind of going whacktastic, and obviously isn’t dealing with any porn-shame issues.
Let’s digress for a moment. I whack off. Most people do, and as a man who has lived through puberty and the subsequent 20 year mardi gras of malthusianism that followed, I can say I’ve done my share of beating off. I’ve talked to friends about beating off, we’ve discussed what happens when you beat off five or more times in a day (it’s like dry firing a gun) and truly, we’ve all over-indulged to the point of rawdong, which is an unfortunate, but not uncommon side effect of being born a male with hands.
What I’ve never in my life experienced, nor heard tales of, is calluses forming on a dick. That’s pretty wild. Now, far be it from me to say that’s ‘outrageous’ or anything like that. It could have to do with your husband’s skin or his pounding style or any number of other things I’d rather not picture, but let’s just put it this way: if the callused up dong was the whole problem, I’d be telling you to relax (even though, and I can’t stress this enough, I don’t know how you do that…I’d say my crack team of cranking-off researchers have crested the threshold of human endurance more than a few times, so maybe we’re dealing with an almost superhuman ability to find the time to beat off, which brings me to my point…)
This is obviously more than a cosmetic issue. It’s ruining your marriage and the forensic evidence seems to suggest it’s taking up a ton of his time, to the point where he’s undoubtedly putting other things off as well. In short, he’s not just not boning you. Were it that simple, he’d be a regular, normal guy with a raw dong and a bad attitude beating off a relatively benign 5-6 times a day, but that’s not what’s happening. Here’s what I think:
You’ve heard psychologists talk about rapists before, right? One thing they always say is that rape isn’t about sex. It’s about power. Similarly, this beating off compulsion can’t be reduced to the self-satisfaction of the sexual urge. If it was, there’s no way he’d be doing it that much, nor would it make sense for it to COMPLETELY replace accessible sex. Beating off, more times than not, isn’t even about being so horny you can’t take it any more. It’s about boredom, it’s about escape and (and every single dude out there knows what I’m talking about here) it’s an avoidance behavior.
Once the regular routine daily quotient of beating off has been achieved (and that’s different for everyone. Could be once every three days, could be four to six times a day) any extra cranks to the chain are likely avoidance behavior, where you’re beating off to not deal with something else. Say you’re doing your taxes and it’s stressing you out, or you’re trying to find a job or you’re sick of trying to deal with your relationship or self loathing, or you just don’t want to get out of bed because you can’t stand your situation, or any number of the zillions of other things that come along in day to day life that can be mentally crippling, you just beat off. It’s mindless, physically rewarding, relaxing, releases endorphins and has a concrete beginning, middle and end, which so many daily problems (shitty job, I’m ugly, my wife’s fucking someone else) don’t seem to have. What is that the recipe for?
Addiction. Any escapist hobby can become addictive and I’d say that unless there’s something major that I’m missing here (he’s beating off to GAY porn, you’re insane, there are actually NOT calluses on his dick, he’s having an affair out in the garage) there’s absolutely no doubt that your husband has cultivated an unhealthy addiction to beating off/pornography. Your disappointment in his lack of sex drive likely only makes him want to seek refuge in the cloak of his addiction, much like the way confronted drunks tend to go binge drink and overeaters, when mocked about their fatness tend to seek comfort in food. Your husband’s bottle of Wild Turkey or his pie a la mode is in the garage on his computer.
Now, this is the kind of problem that’s bigger than an advice column. You, as a monogamous member of your relationship, have a right to expect to be fucked on a regular basis. If you look at Maslow’s pyramid (an easily googleable chart which outlines the importance of the things humans need, also referred to as Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs) , sex is right there by food, sleep and shitting, beneath even personal safety, so what he’s doing to you by not addressing this problem is akin to withholding sleep or starving you (There are people who have low sex drives who will undoubtedly read this last sentence and scoff, but sex is a fundamental instinct, and I stand by this. It’s literally torture to withhold sex from someone who is unwilling to fuck up the life they have by seeking it elsewhere).
SO, here’s what I’d say: show him this column. Make him see how seriously you’re taking this whole deal. Obviously, you’ve tried to talk to him but whatever it is that he’s truly refusing to deal with has become tied up in your sexlife and well, if it were as simple as having a conversation, he’d still be fucking you. Tell him that you’re worried about what’s bothering him and that you want to see him take steps to figure it out, whether that’s seeing someone professional or another route, but that you won’t just sit there while he ignores your needs and beats off in the garage for the rest of your lives. As hilarious as it sounds, he needs a bit of an intervention, a kick to the balls so to speak, because he’s clearly in the grip (pun unintended but enjoyed) of something more powerful than simple conversation will be able to loosen.
And if he refuses to listen or talk or try to make the steps to fix himself, tell him you’ll divorce him, and if that doesn’t motivate him, do it. If you stay stuck in the situation you’re in now, you’re either gonna wind up fucking someone else and look like the bad guy, or you’re gonna go crazy and your life is gonna start to suck on a chronic and eternal level. You seem like you’re at the end of your rope (otherwise why would you write into a smarmy dildo like myself for advice) so do yourself a favor and treat this like the very, very serious problem that it is (AND, don’t listen to him when he says that it’s not a problem and that I’m a retard and that I’m way off and that he’s not avoiding anything and that this VERY PART OF THIS COLUMN RIGHT HERE is total poison bullshit, because THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE WHO ARE ADDICTED TO THINGS SAY WHEN THEY’RE CONFRONTED WITH THE REALITY OF THEIR ADDICTION.)
Um, yeah. Good luck with this. Pretty rough. Calluses? Really? Wow. Anyone else out there get the calluses?
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
the stars at night are big and briiiiiiight....
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Monday, March 7, 2011
back in MY day...
Lately, for reasons vastly too stupid to go into here, I’ve been revisiting the music of some of the bands I was in when I was a teenager. I’ve been struck several times by a few things. Namely: I really, really used to be an even worse singer than I am now and I used to spend an awful lot of time singing about the ethereal idea of ‘freedom.’
It seems that the me of approximately twenty years old felt that freedom was the most important thing in the world, the homeless exemplified living this dream and were subsequently ostracized by everyone else caught in the stranglehold of the enemy of freedom, the Job.
As a twenty year old, I’d had a few jobs but none had ever paid me so well as making music (this isn’t saying much…the notion that I made more from a royalty statement [back when people used to buy records] than working at Ben and Jerrys or McDonalds [actual jobs I held and even wrote about a year ago in this very space] is hardly a surprise. Those jobs didn’t pay shit. And they sucked. And I didn’t really need them because my expenses were exactly 0 dollars and I made a little bit of money just fucking off with my band.
What I’m saying is, I was completely free at that time. I’d attained total freedom and I guess these songs were a sort of ode to living the dream on one hand and on the other hand a ‘fuck you’ to the world of people with jobs. That’s slavery, man. Fuck a job. Fuck you, you drones! At least the homeless have their freedom, man!
And on and on like this for record after record.
Here’s what I didn’t understand: A job is not a yoke. A job isn’t slavery. Yes. Lots of jobs totally suck dicks and especially right now, it’s hard to get jobs so people often feel stuck…but jobs don’t have an agenda for YOU. YOU can quit. The job won’t care. It will get someone else to do the job that you once did and it’ll be fine. The job is a tool that allows you to have some money and do things with the time that you have where you’re not there. That’s all it is, and that’s the way the whole thing should be measured.
Do you have time when you’re not at your job where you’re able to enjoy the money that they’ve given you to be there? Not always. Lots of people work really hard jobs and at the end of the day they just come home, drink themselves to oblivion and then pass out, wake up and do it all again. That sucks. That’s the kind of job you should probably quit. But otherwise, if you’re enjoying your money (which is what you get in exchange for working…I’m not trying to paint a grossly materialistic portrait here, I’m just emphasizing the nuts and bolts exchange that exists when you have a job) and your free time, well, in the great scheme of things, you’ve got a pretty good job (I’m not really getting into things like ‘enjoying your work’ or being self employed, or any self actualization that comes from just doing your job well…mostly because for our purposes here, it’s kind of irrelevant, but believe me, I’m acutely aware that those are huge factors in feeling like you’ve got a good job or not).
But the fact remains, the job is not your master, and neither is your boss. If you want to, you can tell your boss to go fuck himself. You’ll probably be fired and getting another job may be hard, but it’s not an illegal thing to do, nor is it uncommon. The thing that makes you a slave is the way you spend your money and your leisure time. THAT’S the enemy of freedom. Not work. Work is a tool that can help you to enjoy your freedom. A house that you own, however, or a family, THOSE things require responsibility and money and a pretty never ending supply of both. And it’s usually only through your old buddy, the job, that you can get that steady flow, and that’s where the whole thing becomes perverted to young ideologues who have never really stared down the notion of freedom vs slavery.
It’s easy to rail against a boss (because bosses are cocksuckers a lot of the time) and it’s easy to rail against a large corporation (because lots and lots of shady stuff gets done in the name of maintaining a favorable bottom line for the ‘fat cats’ while poor people slave in factories). And big corporations and bosses DO tend to suck, but they’re not the enemy of your freedom (unless you live in China and work for Nike). They’re the people that enable you to decide if you want to work and have money, or not work and not have money. They offer you a tool that you may or may not use. That’s it. Again, they don’t have an agenda for you. They’re just trying to give you money in exchange for part of your life, but only if you’re willing to make that deal.
BUT, there’s not really a good, angst-y way to rail against adjustable rate mortgages and babies. To bitch about babies is to be a real weirdo/asshole, especially if you’re just a kid doing it theoretically. And singing hardcore songs about bank loans is so painfully dorky that it actually may have gone all the way around the dial and become a cool idea, so uh…I dunno. I’m not gonna do it, but maybe one of you should.
I guess my point is that I sang all these songs about freedom from responsibility and jobs back when that was all I knew: freedom from responsibility and jobs. And now that I’m older and I listen to those songs, I can’t help but notice that I’m singing against all the wrong things. Not like I’ve changed my mind or that I’ve ‘grown up and no longer believe,’ but rather that I was railing against a straw man.
I dunno. Maybe that IS what I’m saying, but I still like freedom and I still like to have no responsibilities. But you know what? Responsibilities are things you take on in exchange for cool stuff, like having a house or a family, things that are really, really nice and hopefully, things that make taking on that responsibility worthwhile. And you know what else?
There’s nothing so gross as the grownup that’s never taken any resposnsibility for anything. Living in a shitty hovel and bumming around and being broke and out all night and shit is romantic and awesome when you’re 22 or 19, but when you’re pushing forty? It’s gross. It’s like doing jumps on stage while you’re playing guitar or dying your hair funny colors or any number of other things vaguely associated with being young and cool. It’s cool when you’re young, but once you’re not young, that shit ain’t cool. Don’t believe me? Go down to the hipster part of your town and hang out in a happening bar that’s full of cool people. Look around for the dude that’s older than me with the bleached hair and the hip clothes talking to the 22 year old girls. Is that cool?
Nah, brah.
Get some dignity.
It seems that the me of approximately twenty years old felt that freedom was the most important thing in the world, the homeless exemplified living this dream and were subsequently ostracized by everyone else caught in the stranglehold of the enemy of freedom, the Job.
As a twenty year old, I’d had a few jobs but none had ever paid me so well as making music (this isn’t saying much…the notion that I made more from a royalty statement [back when people used to buy records] than working at Ben and Jerrys or McDonalds [actual jobs I held and even wrote about a year ago in this very space] is hardly a surprise. Those jobs didn’t pay shit. And they sucked. And I didn’t really need them because my expenses were exactly 0 dollars and I made a little bit of money just fucking off with my band.
What I’m saying is, I was completely free at that time. I’d attained total freedom and I guess these songs were a sort of ode to living the dream on one hand and on the other hand a ‘fuck you’ to the world of people with jobs. That’s slavery, man. Fuck a job. Fuck you, you drones! At least the homeless have their freedom, man!
And on and on like this for record after record.
Here’s what I didn’t understand: A job is not a yoke. A job isn’t slavery. Yes. Lots of jobs totally suck dicks and especially right now, it’s hard to get jobs so people often feel stuck…but jobs don’t have an agenda for YOU. YOU can quit. The job won’t care. It will get someone else to do the job that you once did and it’ll be fine. The job is a tool that allows you to have some money and do things with the time that you have where you’re not there. That’s all it is, and that’s the way the whole thing should be measured.
Do you have time when you’re not at your job where you’re able to enjoy the money that they’ve given you to be there? Not always. Lots of people work really hard jobs and at the end of the day they just come home, drink themselves to oblivion and then pass out, wake up and do it all again. That sucks. That’s the kind of job you should probably quit. But otherwise, if you’re enjoying your money (which is what you get in exchange for working…I’m not trying to paint a grossly materialistic portrait here, I’m just emphasizing the nuts and bolts exchange that exists when you have a job) and your free time, well, in the great scheme of things, you’ve got a pretty good job (I’m not really getting into things like ‘enjoying your work’ or being self employed, or any self actualization that comes from just doing your job well…mostly because for our purposes here, it’s kind of irrelevant, but believe me, I’m acutely aware that those are huge factors in feeling like you’ve got a good job or not).
But the fact remains, the job is not your master, and neither is your boss. If you want to, you can tell your boss to go fuck himself. You’ll probably be fired and getting another job may be hard, but it’s not an illegal thing to do, nor is it uncommon. The thing that makes you a slave is the way you spend your money and your leisure time. THAT’S the enemy of freedom. Not work. Work is a tool that can help you to enjoy your freedom. A house that you own, however, or a family, THOSE things require responsibility and money and a pretty never ending supply of both. And it’s usually only through your old buddy, the job, that you can get that steady flow, and that’s where the whole thing becomes perverted to young ideologues who have never really stared down the notion of freedom vs slavery.
It’s easy to rail against a boss (because bosses are cocksuckers a lot of the time) and it’s easy to rail against a large corporation (because lots and lots of shady stuff gets done in the name of maintaining a favorable bottom line for the ‘fat cats’ while poor people slave in factories). And big corporations and bosses DO tend to suck, but they’re not the enemy of your freedom (unless you live in China and work for Nike). They’re the people that enable you to decide if you want to work and have money, or not work and not have money. They offer you a tool that you may or may not use. That’s it. Again, they don’t have an agenda for you. They’re just trying to give you money in exchange for part of your life, but only if you’re willing to make that deal.
BUT, there’s not really a good, angst-y way to rail against adjustable rate mortgages and babies. To bitch about babies is to be a real weirdo/asshole, especially if you’re just a kid doing it theoretically. And singing hardcore songs about bank loans is so painfully dorky that it actually may have gone all the way around the dial and become a cool idea, so uh…I dunno. I’m not gonna do it, but maybe one of you should.
I guess my point is that I sang all these songs about freedom from responsibility and jobs back when that was all I knew: freedom from responsibility and jobs. And now that I’m older and I listen to those songs, I can’t help but notice that I’m singing against all the wrong things. Not like I’ve changed my mind or that I’ve ‘grown up and no longer believe,’ but rather that I was railing against a straw man.
I dunno. Maybe that IS what I’m saying, but I still like freedom and I still like to have no responsibilities. But you know what? Responsibilities are things you take on in exchange for cool stuff, like having a house or a family, things that are really, really nice and hopefully, things that make taking on that responsibility worthwhile. And you know what else?
There’s nothing so gross as the grownup that’s never taken any resposnsibility for anything. Living in a shitty hovel and bumming around and being broke and out all night and shit is romantic and awesome when you’re 22 or 19, but when you’re pushing forty? It’s gross. It’s like doing jumps on stage while you’re playing guitar or dying your hair funny colors or any number of other things vaguely associated with being young and cool. It’s cool when you’re young, but once you’re not young, that shit ain’t cool. Don’t believe me? Go down to the hipster part of your town and hang out in a happening bar that’s full of cool people. Look around for the dude that’s older than me with the bleached hair and the hip clothes talking to the 22 year old girls. Is that cool?
Nah, brah.
Get some dignity.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
WOW!!!! ADVERTISING!
Hey! I'll be starring in a post dinner theater version of "A night at the L&L tavern on Belmont and Clark" this saturday night. I'll be playing the role of creepy bartender with a beard. You should come down and get drunk. It's the part I was born to play. I'll be serving tigers blood and chocolate milk and everything else that could possibly relate to the insane popularity of Charlie Sheen's meltdown...um...yeah. Come see me. It's the least you can do. er...um, winning? is that it? Rhymes with winning?
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
ooh la la
There are two main demographic groups that go to lady gaga concerts: gay dudes and older women in bras. As I walked around the united center a couple of nights ago, I was repeatedly bombarded with this realization. The gay guys weren’t a shock. Lady gaga is to gay clubs and parties what that fat bunch of turds that sing about the bodies hitting the floor is to Marines (but not dead). As if to compensate for being such a large and potentially unshocking majority, the gay dudes were dressed up in costumes the likes of which this reporter has never seen.
I pissed next to a dude who was easily 6’6” and wearing platform boots. He was also wearing a prison striped bikini. Okay, that’s fine. That’s not even really that weird. I mean, I ordered my beer ($9) next to a cowboy in a large-mesh, skintight pink fishnet shirt, rainbow cords, a mesh cowboy hat and full on Elizabeth Taylor makeup (blue eye shadow, ruby red lips, mascara and false lashes, rouge). He was in his late forties, and in my opinion, he was rocking a much weirder outfit than boots and a bikini. However, my buddy in the bikini had also built a box around his head which had bars on the front that he was looking out through, like a mind prisoner or something. Oh, he also had a little guy on a leash, who ordered him to stand up and pee (there was a bit of a debate as to whether the mind prisoner should sit or stand, all conducted in sassy gaytino accents, which made it endlessly awesome).
So yeah, the gay dudes were out there, glammed up and in some cases, massively perved out, like the dude who was just in the assless leather speedo, knee high boots, spikey necklace and ball gag. The whole thing ran the gamut from disturbingly awesome to awesomely disturbing, but it was the women that really kind of surprised me.
At any concert, one will find women dressed up to maximize their assets. This is sometimes colloquially referred to as ‘dressing slutty’ but in my experience that paints a truly awesome style in a negative light, and I don’t want to do that. So, lets just say that at the Gaga concert there were plenty of women who felt their best assets were their tits, asses, legs, stomachs, backs and so forth. A humongously popular trend was being old and wearing just a bra instead of a shirt and a bra.
Now, it’s not that I’m one of those people who thinks that you’ve gotta be super attractive to dress sexy. That’s kind of shitty. And it’s not that these women looked bad in their bikini tops. I guess I’m just kind of surprised that women that age would be into that. I mean, I know women in their thirties. I know a lot of them. And I cannot for the life of me think of a single one of my thirty something female acquaintances that would go to a concert (or really anywhere for that matter) wearing just their bra, and I’m friends with some serious skanks. (At this point, before we leave the shirtless women and move on to the actual show, I should point out that most of the women in bras seemed like they were in their late thirties and early forties…not the twenty year olds, not even the thirty two year olds, the thirty nine to forty five year olds. It was a sight to behold….anyway).
Gaga has never struck me as attractive before. I mean, I think she’s super magnetic and I like her style (more than I like her music, though she’s really, truly an impressive vocalist [as evidenced during her performance, during which she obviously sang live {though to a track during the choruses, which I still consider to be fully acceptable, since after all, it IS the chorus and on those recordings the vocals are at the very least quintupled}]). But man, I’m wrong. And you out there…you that has seen the close ups on Larry King or the View or in front of capitol hill or at the grammys or whatever, you who think she looks like a melted pee wee herman in drag, you who thinks she’s got a fish chin, you who thinks, like I did, that finally, FINALLY a woman who’s not that hot is being celebrated worldwide for her talent and not her hotness…well, sorry to say, she’s SMOKING hot. She’s sexy and hot and beautiful and I’m as surprised to be writing this as you are to be sitting there shaking your head and saying ‘bullshit! Who does he think he’s fooling? I’ve seen her! She’s a pig!’
You’re wrong. I was wrong. She’s a stone cold fox. One of the best looking women I’ve ever seen in person. I mean, look…You’ve all seen pictures of famous people before and then seen them in person, right? They don’t really look like their pictures or movies when you see them live. Sometimes, they’re actually grotesque and ugly and sometimes they’re vastly more attractive than you’d ever imagined. That second one is what’s going on with Lady Gaga. (And me too, honestly. Have you ever seen pictures of me? Sure, I’m great looking in photos, but in person I’ll peel the paint off your barn [so to speak] with my incredible visage. Yeah, my sloppy, sweaty, droopy eyed photogenetics, stunning as they are, absolutely mask my unthinkable beauty. It’s no wonder I’ve done a ton of underwear modeling [the massive dong doesn’t hurt matters either].)
Anyway, the show started and it was a gigantic spectacle that probably costs a million dollars a day, bare minimum to do. Now, I’ve noticed that when big fans of lady gaga (gay dudes, old women in bras) talk about her shows, they say crazy, grandiose things like “oh my god! Lady gaga totally fucked my face with her mind” but to me, it was just pretty good. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s spectacular as a performer and the whole thing was executed beautifully, but I’ve unfortunately been raised in a world of quick cuts and spectacular feats of pyrotechnic prowess and such and the result is that after about forty five minutes of looking at almost anything, I get kind of bored. So the show was cool, but it didn’t compare to standing in the concourse and watching the freaks and slutes giddily flit about. That was the real party.
In closing, we were born this way my little monsters.
And so forth.
I pissed next to a dude who was easily 6’6” and wearing platform boots. He was also wearing a prison striped bikini. Okay, that’s fine. That’s not even really that weird. I mean, I ordered my beer ($9) next to a cowboy in a large-mesh, skintight pink fishnet shirt, rainbow cords, a mesh cowboy hat and full on Elizabeth Taylor makeup (blue eye shadow, ruby red lips, mascara and false lashes, rouge). He was in his late forties, and in my opinion, he was rocking a much weirder outfit than boots and a bikini. However, my buddy in the bikini had also built a box around his head which had bars on the front that he was looking out through, like a mind prisoner or something. Oh, he also had a little guy on a leash, who ordered him to stand up and pee (there was a bit of a debate as to whether the mind prisoner should sit or stand, all conducted in sassy gaytino accents, which made it endlessly awesome).
So yeah, the gay dudes were out there, glammed up and in some cases, massively perved out, like the dude who was just in the assless leather speedo, knee high boots, spikey necklace and ball gag. The whole thing ran the gamut from disturbingly awesome to awesomely disturbing, but it was the women that really kind of surprised me.
At any concert, one will find women dressed up to maximize their assets. This is sometimes colloquially referred to as ‘dressing slutty’ but in my experience that paints a truly awesome style in a negative light, and I don’t want to do that. So, lets just say that at the Gaga concert there were plenty of women who felt their best assets were their tits, asses, legs, stomachs, backs and so forth. A humongously popular trend was being old and wearing just a bra instead of a shirt and a bra.
Now, it’s not that I’m one of those people who thinks that you’ve gotta be super attractive to dress sexy. That’s kind of shitty. And it’s not that these women looked bad in their bikini tops. I guess I’m just kind of surprised that women that age would be into that. I mean, I know women in their thirties. I know a lot of them. And I cannot for the life of me think of a single one of my thirty something female acquaintances that would go to a concert (or really anywhere for that matter) wearing just their bra, and I’m friends with some serious skanks. (At this point, before we leave the shirtless women and move on to the actual show, I should point out that most of the women in bras seemed like they were in their late thirties and early forties…not the twenty year olds, not even the thirty two year olds, the thirty nine to forty five year olds. It was a sight to behold….anyway).
Gaga has never struck me as attractive before. I mean, I think she’s super magnetic and I like her style (more than I like her music, though she’s really, truly an impressive vocalist [as evidenced during her performance, during which she obviously sang live {though to a track during the choruses, which I still consider to be fully acceptable, since after all, it IS the chorus and on those recordings the vocals are at the very least quintupled}]). But man, I’m wrong. And you out there…you that has seen the close ups on Larry King or the View or in front of capitol hill or at the grammys or whatever, you who think she looks like a melted pee wee herman in drag, you who thinks she’s got a fish chin, you who thinks, like I did, that finally, FINALLY a woman who’s not that hot is being celebrated worldwide for her talent and not her hotness…well, sorry to say, she’s SMOKING hot. She’s sexy and hot and beautiful and I’m as surprised to be writing this as you are to be sitting there shaking your head and saying ‘bullshit! Who does he think he’s fooling? I’ve seen her! She’s a pig!’
You’re wrong. I was wrong. She’s a stone cold fox. One of the best looking women I’ve ever seen in person. I mean, look…You’ve all seen pictures of famous people before and then seen them in person, right? They don’t really look like their pictures or movies when you see them live. Sometimes, they’re actually grotesque and ugly and sometimes they’re vastly more attractive than you’d ever imagined. That second one is what’s going on with Lady Gaga. (And me too, honestly. Have you ever seen pictures of me? Sure, I’m great looking in photos, but in person I’ll peel the paint off your barn [so to speak] with my incredible visage. Yeah, my sloppy, sweaty, droopy eyed photogenetics, stunning as they are, absolutely mask my unthinkable beauty. It’s no wonder I’ve done a ton of underwear modeling [the massive dong doesn’t hurt matters either].)
Anyway, the show started and it was a gigantic spectacle that probably costs a million dollars a day, bare minimum to do. Now, I’ve noticed that when big fans of lady gaga (gay dudes, old women in bras) talk about her shows, they say crazy, grandiose things like “oh my god! Lady gaga totally fucked my face with her mind” but to me, it was just pretty good. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s spectacular as a performer and the whole thing was executed beautifully, but I’ve unfortunately been raised in a world of quick cuts and spectacular feats of pyrotechnic prowess and such and the result is that after about forty five minutes of looking at almost anything, I get kind of bored. So the show was cool, but it didn’t compare to standing in the concourse and watching the freaks and slutes giddily flit about. That was the real party.
In closing, we were born this way my little monsters.
And so forth.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
if you try it once you’ll die, your face will melt off, and your children will weep over your exploded body.
I love Charlie Sheen. Well, no. That’s not really true. I liked Platoon, I thought Major League was spectacular and I kind of like the bug-eyed sincerity that he brought to that Hot Shots franchise. I think he was great in Young Guns and his role in Ferris Bueller’s day off is nothing short of spectacular. That’s easily his finest work.
Well, until now. Obviously, Carlos has been in the news a lot recently, and it’s been pretty wonderful. I’d like to think he built this whole thing for us to enjoy. Oh! It’s possible. Don’t think it’s not. Remember, we’ve spoken before about how these days, what with all the 24 hour news cycles and the Life and Style’s and the US weekly’s and our obsession with ‘reality,’ the prime avenue through which celebrities now entertain us is no longer through their work, but through their lives outside of work. The work is just the stepping-stone to the real stardom…or not, actually. The actual work is actually becoming unnecessary and outmoded, not unlike dial-up or computer discs: just a superfluous step that we’ve finally evolved past.
This is really the only explanation that anyone needs for why people like Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton are famous: they’re reality stars. They don’t necessarily have to star on reality shows, they’re stars of ACTUAL REALITY, and in the truest, most dynamic and modern way possible, there IS a show, it’s just not a TV show (I know that Kim has a show, by the way, it’s called making a point, so relax).
In fact, this is really an interesting phenomenon. Everyone from record executives to artists to marketing people at McDonalds talk about how they want to utilize social media and all sorts of ‘alternate avenues’ of shoving crap down the consumer’s throats. “it’s not enough to have commercials on TV. We need the internet, viral campaigns, twitter, facebook, water cooler buzz, a STORY LINE etc.” What no one seems to really notice is that (for example) Lindsay Lohan has completely pioneered this idea and perfected it to the point where nothing needs to exist at the heart of it. She’s the star of a wildly successful and drama filled show. You hear about it from clips on the internet, tweets, facebook, youtube, photos here and there, news briefs, but make no mistake, it’s not just real life playing out. It’s a full on multi-media reality show.
And she’s a star. She’s a HUGE star, in fact. She’s the star of a show with a colorful cast of characters that’s being told in a completely new, completely digital way that’s not beholden to schedules or executive board whims or even media formats.
This IS what the people that are trying to get the word out about a new type of Filet o Fish are trying to achieve…Say what you want about Lindsay, but she’s made the first blueprint of the way that entertainment is going to wind up. People aren’t gonna need TV shows any more, they’re dying anyway. It’s so much cooler if shit just happens. Banksy kind of does this too a little bit, but in a more sparse (and sophisticated) way.
Anyway, this is a long tangent, but mark my words. Lindsay Lohan is the future of entertainment in all media. It started with the Real World, hit critical mass with those shows about fucking someone who’s fucked Flavor Flav, and has now finally stepped out of the primeval ocean to take its first steps on land.
Okay, so back to Sheen. This guy has set the basis for his show up really, really admirably. Britney, when she first pioneered the movement of a Reality show (capital R to indicate a show about reality not bound to traditional episodic television) kind of scared me. She’s a young girl and she was having a lot of pressure put on her and she snapped, and it was sad. There were moments that were scary. I mean, sure, it’s fun to watch a millionaire go into a gross bathroom with no shoes on and everything, but Britney seemed like she was obviously deep down a nice girl who was lost and she had genuine fear in her eyes when she shaved her head and went all “the Penguin” on that paparazzo’s van.
Sheen, however, taking a cue from the Spears Show has absolved us from any guilt we may feel in watching his demise by being a woman-beating sack of shit. He also maintains a look of smug omniscience, which is one of the most hatable traits a human can possess. And finally, he’s just going completely balls out. Where Lindsay has no choice but to be followed by her story and life, whereas Britney ran from it, Charlie Sheen is texting messages that undermine his (former) publicist’s cleanup efforts, he’s blitzing every media outlet he can, he’s getting pornstars in his house tweeting shots of their beavers and his massive bottles of vodka. He’s hitting the ground running and absolutely making sure that no one, regardless of what weird outpost of media they’re getting their entertainment from, is missing even a second. Hell, he’s probably telegraphing dong shots all over Mongolia and the north pole.
And once he’s there, in the public eye, man, is he saying the BEST stuff. Today on Howard he told us that he’s worth a hundred billion dollars, and that’s just on a cellular level. He’s on a drug, it’s called Charlie Sheen. There’s tiger blood in his veins (and that’s gotta be illegal) .He’s saying things over and over and over again and then saying they’re jokes. He’s passing drug tests(?) and then apparently just going right into the next room and smoking crack before he does his interviews. He’s GLEEFULLY pissing on the heads of everyone that he stands above, and pissing on his own career and reputation in the process, and just LOVING THE SHIT OUT OF IT, which is fun as shit to watch on a zillion levels.
I thought Mel Gibson was entertaining, but this shit makes Mel Gibson look like a pre-recorded game of Pong. I mean, Charlie Sheen is literally dismantling one of the most successful careers and franchises in history all for our amusement and to what end? He just wants to party with hookers and blow and hold a bitch’s head under the water in the toilet until she learns to listen in peace, without all the ‘turds’ breathing down his neck? Is that it?
Well, that’s the greatest part: That’s NOT it because now he’s going apeshit demanding his show back and attempting to galvanize his massive legions of fans! I mean, it bears mentioning that he’s on EVERY network, in EVERY magazine, on EVERY website (including this one) and in the world of all-publicity-is-good-publicity, he’s KILLING IT like no one ever has before, except maybe Monica Lewinsky or Osama. And that’s no easy task, folks.
Okay, I’m off to sprinkle magic all over the day of a toddler and his young baby sister, so I gotta stop wasting time here, but remind me, tomorrow I’m gonna tell you guys all about my experience with Lady Gaga last night. In what can only be described as an unexpected revelation, she’s incredibly, incredibly hot.
That shit’s true, folks.
Well, until now. Obviously, Carlos has been in the news a lot recently, and it’s been pretty wonderful. I’d like to think he built this whole thing for us to enjoy. Oh! It’s possible. Don’t think it’s not. Remember, we’ve spoken before about how these days, what with all the 24 hour news cycles and the Life and Style’s and the US weekly’s and our obsession with ‘reality,’ the prime avenue through which celebrities now entertain us is no longer through their work, but through their lives outside of work. The work is just the stepping-stone to the real stardom…or not, actually. The actual work is actually becoming unnecessary and outmoded, not unlike dial-up or computer discs: just a superfluous step that we’ve finally evolved past.
This is really the only explanation that anyone needs for why people like Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton are famous: they’re reality stars. They don’t necessarily have to star on reality shows, they’re stars of ACTUAL REALITY, and in the truest, most dynamic and modern way possible, there IS a show, it’s just not a TV show (I know that Kim has a show, by the way, it’s called making a point, so relax).
In fact, this is really an interesting phenomenon. Everyone from record executives to artists to marketing people at McDonalds talk about how they want to utilize social media and all sorts of ‘alternate avenues’ of shoving crap down the consumer’s throats. “it’s not enough to have commercials on TV. We need the internet, viral campaigns, twitter, facebook, water cooler buzz, a STORY LINE etc.” What no one seems to really notice is that (for example) Lindsay Lohan has completely pioneered this idea and perfected it to the point where nothing needs to exist at the heart of it. She’s the star of a wildly successful and drama filled show. You hear about it from clips on the internet, tweets, facebook, youtube, photos here and there, news briefs, but make no mistake, it’s not just real life playing out. It’s a full on multi-media reality show.
And she’s a star. She’s a HUGE star, in fact. She’s the star of a show with a colorful cast of characters that’s being told in a completely new, completely digital way that’s not beholden to schedules or executive board whims or even media formats.
This IS what the people that are trying to get the word out about a new type of Filet o Fish are trying to achieve…Say what you want about Lindsay, but she’s made the first blueprint of the way that entertainment is going to wind up. People aren’t gonna need TV shows any more, they’re dying anyway. It’s so much cooler if shit just happens. Banksy kind of does this too a little bit, but in a more sparse (and sophisticated) way.
Anyway, this is a long tangent, but mark my words. Lindsay Lohan is the future of entertainment in all media. It started with the Real World, hit critical mass with those shows about fucking someone who’s fucked Flavor Flav, and has now finally stepped out of the primeval ocean to take its first steps on land.
Okay, so back to Sheen. This guy has set the basis for his show up really, really admirably. Britney, when she first pioneered the movement of a Reality show (capital R to indicate a show about reality not bound to traditional episodic television) kind of scared me. She’s a young girl and she was having a lot of pressure put on her and she snapped, and it was sad. There were moments that were scary. I mean, sure, it’s fun to watch a millionaire go into a gross bathroom with no shoes on and everything, but Britney seemed like she was obviously deep down a nice girl who was lost and she had genuine fear in her eyes when she shaved her head and went all “the Penguin” on that paparazzo’s van.
Sheen, however, taking a cue from the Spears Show has absolved us from any guilt we may feel in watching his demise by being a woman-beating sack of shit. He also maintains a look of smug omniscience, which is one of the most hatable traits a human can possess. And finally, he’s just going completely balls out. Where Lindsay has no choice but to be followed by her story and life, whereas Britney ran from it, Charlie Sheen is texting messages that undermine his (former) publicist’s cleanup efforts, he’s blitzing every media outlet he can, he’s getting pornstars in his house tweeting shots of their beavers and his massive bottles of vodka. He’s hitting the ground running and absolutely making sure that no one, regardless of what weird outpost of media they’re getting their entertainment from, is missing even a second. Hell, he’s probably telegraphing dong shots all over Mongolia and the north pole.
And once he’s there, in the public eye, man, is he saying the BEST stuff. Today on Howard he told us that he’s worth a hundred billion dollars, and that’s just on a cellular level. He’s on a drug, it’s called Charlie Sheen. There’s tiger blood in his veins (and that’s gotta be illegal) .He’s saying things over and over and over again and then saying they’re jokes. He’s passing drug tests(?) and then apparently just going right into the next room and smoking crack before he does his interviews. He’s GLEEFULLY pissing on the heads of everyone that he stands above, and pissing on his own career and reputation in the process, and just LOVING THE SHIT OUT OF IT, which is fun as shit to watch on a zillion levels.
I thought Mel Gibson was entertaining, but this shit makes Mel Gibson look like a pre-recorded game of Pong. I mean, Charlie Sheen is literally dismantling one of the most successful careers and franchises in history all for our amusement and to what end? He just wants to party with hookers and blow and hold a bitch’s head under the water in the toilet until she learns to listen in peace, without all the ‘turds’ breathing down his neck? Is that it?
Well, that’s the greatest part: That’s NOT it because now he’s going apeshit demanding his show back and attempting to galvanize his massive legions of fans! I mean, it bears mentioning that he’s on EVERY network, in EVERY magazine, on EVERY website (including this one) and in the world of all-publicity-is-good-publicity, he’s KILLING IT like no one ever has before, except maybe Monica Lewinsky or Osama. And that’s no easy task, folks.
Okay, I’m off to sprinkle magic all over the day of a toddler and his young baby sister, so I gotta stop wasting time here, but remind me, tomorrow I’m gonna tell you guys all about my experience with Lady Gaga last night. In what can only be described as an unexpected revelation, she’s incredibly, incredibly hot.
That shit’s true, folks.
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