So, wow. Sober dawn of Monday, eh? I spent this weekend in New York dicking around while some friends of mine got all married. When I got home last night I was barely able to stay awake until 930. I was looking forward to last night’s sleep almost all weekend. I felt that there was a tiny, off chance that I’d be able to just sleep for twelve incredible dead souled hours and then feel great today. Unfortunately this baby that sleeps in my room was up squirming and pissing her pants and moaning and yelling and shit the entire night. I don’t think there was a point where she stopped making sounds for more than like an hour and a half stretch from ten pm to 8 this morning. The results are not good.
I live near the train, and there’s a sadness that rolls out with that first 445 Monday morning train heading into the city. If I’m awake to hear that train, or if it wakes me up, I’m stuck there just thinking about how another week is brutally rolling in and there’s gonna be more work, more avoidance of work, more responsibility, more missed opportunities, more squandered hours and more soul crushing standing in line waiting for the chance to die. It’s not the most fun little bit of stocktaking that you can do right there at the beginning tip of your week, and boy howdy did it hit me in spades today.
I guess the real issue here is that I just spent the last four days staying up drinking whiskey until three in the morning when I’m usually soundly asleep. The lack of sleep and poison usually combines to stir up a little good old fashioned morning doom, but this batch is particularly vile today. And that’s totally fucked up. Here’s why: I just had one hell of a weekend where I hung out with some of my best friends, a guy who uses projections to make buildings disappear and a secret service dude that was, at one point, in charge of making sure the prince of Qatar got his dick implant safely and properly serviced. You can’t make that shit up folks.
What else? Two of my best friends are getting hitched this week. I’m playing two shows with some of my favorite bands EVER and I’ve got a good family and I’m pretty stoked on generally everything that’s going on. But shit, tell that to my spinning head and my two demanding kids and the brutal death march that’s gonna be today. I mean shit, folks. Is it too much to ask to just get some sort of hyperbaric Jacuzzi/soul transfusion machine to lounge in for a couple of days while beautiful naked women check on my various physical needs? Is that really so much to ask?
God. I could really use an apple.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
a bag of sand?
My kid woke up at six fifteen this morning. He’d pissed himself, as toddlers are wont to do in the course of a night, and when I walked into his room to free him (he sleeps in a tent) he said “daddy! I’m wet!” and shit, boy. He wasn’t fucking around. He was so drenched in piss that his socks were soaked. Quite a way to start off your Tuesday, right?
Anyway, I got a letter asking for a little advice a couple of weeks ago, and I thought I’d take a stab at it today.
Q:
I come to you in need of some advice, although I fear that this is a bit out of your normal realm of expertise. I still value you opinion on this matter.
Here's my predicament - I am a 26 year old female; I am not only a virgin, but I have actually never dated. ever. I'm average looking... but a little overweight. I'm mostly just a slightly anti-social, awkward and maybe a bit insecure girl who doesn't know how the hell this got so far. I'm becoming more confident with myself and blah blah blah, I'm now determined not to become some old spinster or crazy cat lady.
I want to start dating, but now I feel completely lost. I have no idea what to do. I'm at the level of a 15-year old with this shit. Actually, plenty of 15-year-olds are more advanced than me. I don't understand how dating works outside of what I've seen in movies, which I'm pretty sure I should just erase all knowledge gained there from my brain.
When asked about my previous dating experience, (which only seems to happen with nosy co-workers), I always say that I had a boyfriend X months ago and just try to keep it vague. I feel that if anyone were to find out about my... situation, that they would not understand how it's even possible and it all just becomes very embarrassing for me. I'm ok with (only because I can't really lie about it) telling a guy I'm a virgin, but does he really need to know about my complete lack of experience? I've never even kissed a guy before. And how and when does this kind of stuff come up?
I should also add that it's quite possible that the first guy I date will be a co-worker, which brings my anxiety level up 100% about all of this. I really don't want all my co-workers knowing about my business. I guess just want to know how normal people in their mid-20's date. Not your usual "how do I get laid?" type advice.
A:
Okay, where to begin here? How bout this: first things first, you gotta relax. Look, I was just talking to someone about this yesterday: getting into a situation you don’t really know anything about is never comfortable. That’s why your first few days at a new job always suck. You’ve got no idea what you’re doing, everyone around you presumably does and even if you DO have what it takes to be good at whatever the hell it is you’re doing (better than them even) your complete ignorance of what’s going on (uh, where do we keep the paper in this place?) is only gonna make you feel inferior.
BUT, what eventually happens? You get the hang of it, and fortunately for you, you’re talking about making out and going to movies and drinking beer on the back porch with someone you like, not starting up as a new accounts person at ProFlex Pharmaceuticals, which is vastly less fun, vastly harder and less forgiving in terms of inexperience…but you seem to be very concerned with your inexperience, so lets address that first, shall we?
“I am a 26 year old female; I am not only a virgin, but I have actually never dated. ever. I'm average looking... but a little overweight. I'm mostly just a slightly anti-social, awkward and maybe a bit insecure girl who doesn't know how the hell this got so far.” Yeah, you and everyone. Listen, here’s the thing: I know you’ve seen your friends/acquaintances dating and boning for years and you watch the MTV and whatever channels broadcast young people frantically getting drunk and pumping each other, but you’re really not in that strange of a situation. In fact, by my math you’re one month of bad decisions in college behind probably 90% of the less promiscuous of us out there, and probably in the exact same boat with more people than you realize. You said it yourself, you’re not grotesque or impossible to be around and you have enough self awareness to be writing to me, so what do you think? Somehow you’re the only person who’s slipped through some kind of crack? Nah. You’re fine.
I know, I know, easy to say, hard to believe, but seriously. You’re not forty, youre 26. That’s still YOUNG. AND you’re a girl. Think about this: how many dudes, average looking, slightly overweight and anti-social and awkward do you think are never-been-kissed virgins? I’d wager that the percentage hovers in the mid 90’s.
My point is, there are TONS of people out there in the exact situation that you’re in, so while you may feel alone, you may feel like you’re the only one of anyone you know who’s so inexperienced, look at yourself as an example. You’ve constructed a little series of white lies to keep what’s nobodies business from coming out, other folk are probably doing the same thing. Again, you’re not a freak, and your situation is vastly less weird than you’ve led yourself to believe.
That being said, you don’t know what to do. You don’t know how to answer questions when and if you find yourself in a potentially romantic situation. You don’t even know how to recognize that a situation may be potentially romantic.
Look, here’s the deal, and I know I said this before and I know it’s easier said than done, but man, you gotta relax. Dating someone in highschool is full of bullshit, for sure. You’re calling them, going to the movies, fingerbanging out in the field behind the middleschool, doing a lot of talking about “us” or whatever, but you’re thankfully a grown up now, and dating is a way different thing. It’s easy. Any time you’re spending with someone you like is kind of dating. It’s like being friends. There’s no point when you’re necessarily gonna be faced with having to answer questions like “so, how many guys have you kissed” unless you’re dating someone who’s super weird and awkward and at that point I’d advise you to tell the truth, because only someone who has similar romantic experience to you would ask something like that. And you know what? This brings me to my bigger point:
There’s nothing weird or wrong with not having kissed or dated anyone. Yes, it seems embarrassing. Yes, you feel like a pariah, and you don’t know what the fuck is going on and what do you even do once you’re holding a dick and wocka wocka wocka but heres the deal: this shit is fun and when you’re kissing someone you’ve never kissed before, chances are it’ll be a little weird, whether they’re the first or the one thousandth person you kiss. And that shit (again) is FUN, so it’s not like someone’s gonna get mad at you for fumbling though it. It’s like ice skating or smoking weed for the first time. Just trying it with someone is the big part, who cares if you’re wobbly or you cough up blood?
If you’re kissing someone, they like you at least a little, and they’re gonna be forgiving and cool, but you need to be confident and own your own situation. I know, easier said than done, but what’s the alternative? Pretend you’re some ex-escort or something and then wind up not knowing what’s going on in the moment? That’s gonna lead to serious stress on your part (not that I really think your partner would probably even really notice) and a potential weird breakdown where you have to admit you were lying and you don’t know what’s going on and THAT is something that’ll be maybe too much to bear. No one minds kissing someone for the first time, but people, as a rule, aren’t big on being lied to. So keep that in mind.
Oh, and I know this is trite advice coming from me, and I know it’s potentially bad advice, but a little booze goes a long way in terms of building confidence and allowing you to be honest with yourself and with others (in the short term). I’m not suggesting you go out and get shithoused and bang a soccer team or anything, but pretty much every single person on this earth is the product of a couple of beers, and if you’re feeling nervous, anti social and shy, a cosmo may just reset you for the evening.
I dunno. Is this advice bad? Socks? Dogs of War? What say you? Let’s help this girl out, eh?
Anyway, I got a letter asking for a little advice a couple of weeks ago, and I thought I’d take a stab at it today.
Q:
I come to you in need of some advice, although I fear that this is a bit out of your normal realm of expertise. I still value you opinion on this matter.
Here's my predicament - I am a 26 year old female; I am not only a virgin, but I have actually never dated. ever. I'm average looking... but a little overweight. I'm mostly just a slightly anti-social, awkward and maybe a bit insecure girl who doesn't know how the hell this got so far. I'm becoming more confident with myself and blah blah blah, I'm now determined not to become some old spinster or crazy cat lady.
I want to start dating, but now I feel completely lost. I have no idea what to do. I'm at the level of a 15-year old with this shit. Actually, plenty of 15-year-olds are more advanced than me. I don't understand how dating works outside of what I've seen in movies, which I'm pretty sure I should just erase all knowledge gained there from my brain.
When asked about my previous dating experience, (which only seems to happen with nosy co-workers), I always say that I had a boyfriend X months ago and just try to keep it vague. I feel that if anyone were to find out about my... situation, that they would not understand how it's even possible and it all just becomes very embarrassing for me. I'm ok with (only because I can't really lie about it) telling a guy I'm a virgin, but does he really need to know about my complete lack of experience? I've never even kissed a guy before. And how and when does this kind of stuff come up?
I should also add that it's quite possible that the first guy I date will be a co-worker, which brings my anxiety level up 100% about all of this. I really don't want all my co-workers knowing about my business. I guess just want to know how normal people in their mid-20's date. Not your usual "how do I get laid?" type advice.
A:
Okay, where to begin here? How bout this: first things first, you gotta relax. Look, I was just talking to someone about this yesterday: getting into a situation you don’t really know anything about is never comfortable. That’s why your first few days at a new job always suck. You’ve got no idea what you’re doing, everyone around you presumably does and even if you DO have what it takes to be good at whatever the hell it is you’re doing (better than them even) your complete ignorance of what’s going on (uh, where do we keep the paper in this place?) is only gonna make you feel inferior.
BUT, what eventually happens? You get the hang of it, and fortunately for you, you’re talking about making out and going to movies and drinking beer on the back porch with someone you like, not starting up as a new accounts person at ProFlex Pharmaceuticals, which is vastly less fun, vastly harder and less forgiving in terms of inexperience…but you seem to be very concerned with your inexperience, so lets address that first, shall we?
“I am a 26 year old female; I am not only a virgin, but I have actually never dated. ever. I'm average looking... but a little overweight. I'm mostly just a slightly anti-social, awkward and maybe a bit insecure girl who doesn't know how the hell this got so far.” Yeah, you and everyone. Listen, here’s the thing: I know you’ve seen your friends/acquaintances dating and boning for years and you watch the MTV and whatever channels broadcast young people frantically getting drunk and pumping each other, but you’re really not in that strange of a situation. In fact, by my math you’re one month of bad decisions in college behind probably 90% of the less promiscuous of us out there, and probably in the exact same boat with more people than you realize. You said it yourself, you’re not grotesque or impossible to be around and you have enough self awareness to be writing to me, so what do you think? Somehow you’re the only person who’s slipped through some kind of crack? Nah. You’re fine.
I know, I know, easy to say, hard to believe, but seriously. You’re not forty, youre 26. That’s still YOUNG. AND you’re a girl. Think about this: how many dudes, average looking, slightly overweight and anti-social and awkward do you think are never-been-kissed virgins? I’d wager that the percentage hovers in the mid 90’s.
My point is, there are TONS of people out there in the exact situation that you’re in, so while you may feel alone, you may feel like you’re the only one of anyone you know who’s so inexperienced, look at yourself as an example. You’ve constructed a little series of white lies to keep what’s nobodies business from coming out, other folk are probably doing the same thing. Again, you’re not a freak, and your situation is vastly less weird than you’ve led yourself to believe.
That being said, you don’t know what to do. You don’t know how to answer questions when and if you find yourself in a potentially romantic situation. You don’t even know how to recognize that a situation may be potentially romantic.
Look, here’s the deal, and I know I said this before and I know it’s easier said than done, but man, you gotta relax. Dating someone in highschool is full of bullshit, for sure. You’re calling them, going to the movies, fingerbanging out in the field behind the middleschool, doing a lot of talking about “us” or whatever, but you’re thankfully a grown up now, and dating is a way different thing. It’s easy. Any time you’re spending with someone you like is kind of dating. It’s like being friends. There’s no point when you’re necessarily gonna be faced with having to answer questions like “so, how many guys have you kissed” unless you’re dating someone who’s super weird and awkward and at that point I’d advise you to tell the truth, because only someone who has similar romantic experience to you would ask something like that. And you know what? This brings me to my bigger point:
There’s nothing weird or wrong with not having kissed or dated anyone. Yes, it seems embarrassing. Yes, you feel like a pariah, and you don’t know what the fuck is going on and what do you even do once you’re holding a dick and wocka wocka wocka but heres the deal: this shit is fun and when you’re kissing someone you’ve never kissed before, chances are it’ll be a little weird, whether they’re the first or the one thousandth person you kiss. And that shit (again) is FUN, so it’s not like someone’s gonna get mad at you for fumbling though it. It’s like ice skating or smoking weed for the first time. Just trying it with someone is the big part, who cares if you’re wobbly or you cough up blood?
If you’re kissing someone, they like you at least a little, and they’re gonna be forgiving and cool, but you need to be confident and own your own situation. I know, easier said than done, but what’s the alternative? Pretend you’re some ex-escort or something and then wind up not knowing what’s going on in the moment? That’s gonna lead to serious stress on your part (not that I really think your partner would probably even really notice) and a potential weird breakdown where you have to admit you were lying and you don’t know what’s going on and THAT is something that’ll be maybe too much to bear. No one minds kissing someone for the first time, but people, as a rule, aren’t big on being lied to. So keep that in mind.
Oh, and I know this is trite advice coming from me, and I know it’s potentially bad advice, but a little booze goes a long way in terms of building confidence and allowing you to be honest with yourself and with others (in the short term). I’m not suggesting you go out and get shithoused and bang a soccer team or anything, but pretty much every single person on this earth is the product of a couple of beers, and if you’re feeling nervous, anti social and shy, a cosmo may just reset you for the evening.
I dunno. Is this advice bad? Socks? Dogs of War? What say you? Let’s help this girl out, eh?
Monday, September 27, 2010
swinging from the gallows
Man, so this weekend was my friend Toby’s bachelor party. Now, Toby hails from the far northwestern corner of the United States; from Enumclaw, Washington in fact, which, if you don’t know, is the place where the guy filmed himself getting pumped to death by a horse. Toby lived not half a mile from that barn of ill repute. He hastens to point out that fucking horses is considered just as fucked up in Enumclaw as it is everywhere else, but I’m not ENTIRELY sure I believe him. Here’s the deal:
Apparently, when this guy got impaled, there were no laws in Washington dealing with uh…zoophilia or animal husbandry or whatever you want to call it. After this video (again, of a man being fucked to death by a horse) somehow became a viral internet phenomenon (which, I gotta tell you, I don’t understand. Who wants to see that? I consider myself to be fairly crass and lowbrow and there’s no WAY I would ever watch something that included A) a dude fucking a horse or vice versa or B) someone dying. It’s the same thing with the two chicks shitting into the cup or whatever…How is that popular? I’d barf if I was forced to watch that. I guess this universe is pretty twisted…I weep for the future. Anyway) they put all sorts of anti-animal fucking laws into place, but then just recently the cruel beastiality hating powers that be busted some ‘farm’ in Washington somewhere that was actually operating as some kind of perverse inter-species brothel. Apparently one of the best (?) things they found was an Englishman engaging in some kind of orgy with a bunch of different dogs. Imagine that.
Now, let me unequivocally state for the record that I’m in no way pro-dog fucking. Beyond any moral or ethical issue, I just find it to be gross. Dog wieners are all red and slimy and dog butts are, uh, dog butts. No explanation needed. And don’t even get me started on dog pussy. For whatever reason, the notion of having proper wiener-vagina sex with a dog is even more disgusting than just buttfucking it. I don’t know why that is and frankly it’s not an avenue of thought I’m too interested in ever exploring. Now, that being said, you kind of have to admire the dog fucking enthusiast who traverses an ocean just to indulge in the sensual garden of delights that is the Washington dog farm multi breed orgy. I mean, yeah, it’s revolting and twisted, but he really went for it. No half stepping. I wonder if, in animal pumping circles, this was a legendary bust, where people were saying things like “the honeysuckle ranch got shut down and there was a brit in the Mayflower room!” because presumably, that’s like going to graceland and sitting in the recliner or something. Weird.
But you know what? That’s all neither here nor there as this entry isn’t supposed to be about zoophilia anyway. Okay, where was I?
Ah, yes. The bachelor party for Toby. Now, toby is a lot of things and one or two of the things that he is is a massive fan of soccer and the American club team the Seattle Sounders, who just happened to be playing the Chicago Fire the night of said bachelor party. We went down there and hung out in the stands among the Sounders fans, and it was a great time. One particularly hilarious thing struck me though, and I’d like to share it with you:
Namely, people from Seattle are either completely clueless about how the world really is or just kind of embarrassed of Seattle in a really bizarre way. This is a notion I’ve been keenly aware of for some time, but it was really driven home the other night out there among the green shirted sports fans. Their chants were all these Viking-like odes to drinking and destruction and the back alley lifestyle of the Seattle Sounders hooligans, which is all well and good, but uh…have you ever been to Seattle?
Seattle is perched in the hills, it’s kind of rainy and it’s stuffed with erudite little coffee shops, smug little boutiques and guys with shaved heads and northface jackets. Seattle is clean, beautiful and just funky enough that it can be cool and kind of laid back but not funky enough that people will just shit in your vestibule every morning or anything. There’s a semi-famous punk band from Seattle called the Murder City Devils. That is absolutely insane.
Seattle is the murder city in the same way that I’m the hottest twelve year old girl in all of Peru. It’s not a town full of murderous Vikings and drunken hordes. I mean, I’m sure that people get mighty shitfaced out in Seattle and I’m sure there’s crime and I bet there’s even a shitty neighborhood or two, but come on folks! You’re not East St. Louis, you’re not Detroit or Cincinnati or Newark or the south side of Chicago. You’re not Nogales or Juarez or Miami or the Bronx. Fuck, man. You aren’t even PORTLAND! And that’s fine. Fuck. That’s great! I’d rather live in Seattle than any of these places, (well, except Portland which is one of the hands down best places out there) but man…Seattle is the home of Frasier Crane and all his various witticisms. Seattle is the home of the space needle and vegan breakfast and fast computers and city wide wifi. And sure, that shit probably sounds lame in a chant, or as the name of a band, but uh…do you have to undercompensate so much? I think there should be a movement out there to re-define Seattle as the pretty fucking nice, very clean honky town that it is. I’m throwing it out there, Seattleans (or whatever you’re called). Do your town proud, and let’s get rid of that ugly reputation as being the murder city, eh? How about the ‘city of nice parks’ or ‘city of friendly waitstaff’ (which I’ve always found to be true every time I’ve been in Seattle), or even Seattle: Home of Dicks!’ That sounds good. Dicks is the best weird cheeseburger stand in the northwest and it still sounds a little shady, so you don’t have to go all the way to “Seattle: sophisticated scrabble players and their brethren” or anything like that.
I dunno…it’s Monday. Just throwing it out there.
Or is it all an elaborate tongue in cheek thing where everyone kind of grins and winks at the notion of Seattle: city of evil? Because that would make a lot of sense, actually. Leave it to them to have a gigantic city wide in joke. Smug dicks.
Okay, I'm out.
Keep fucking those dogs, everyone!
Apparently, when this guy got impaled, there were no laws in Washington dealing with uh…zoophilia or animal husbandry or whatever you want to call it. After this video (again, of a man being fucked to death by a horse) somehow became a viral internet phenomenon (which, I gotta tell you, I don’t understand. Who wants to see that? I consider myself to be fairly crass and lowbrow and there’s no WAY I would ever watch something that included A) a dude fucking a horse or vice versa or B) someone dying. It’s the same thing with the two chicks shitting into the cup or whatever…How is that popular? I’d barf if I was forced to watch that. I guess this universe is pretty twisted…I weep for the future. Anyway) they put all sorts of anti-animal fucking laws into place, but then just recently the cruel beastiality hating powers that be busted some ‘farm’ in Washington somewhere that was actually operating as some kind of perverse inter-species brothel. Apparently one of the best (?) things they found was an Englishman engaging in some kind of orgy with a bunch of different dogs. Imagine that.
Now, let me unequivocally state for the record that I’m in no way pro-dog fucking. Beyond any moral or ethical issue, I just find it to be gross. Dog wieners are all red and slimy and dog butts are, uh, dog butts. No explanation needed. And don’t even get me started on dog pussy. For whatever reason, the notion of having proper wiener-vagina sex with a dog is even more disgusting than just buttfucking it. I don’t know why that is and frankly it’s not an avenue of thought I’m too interested in ever exploring. Now, that being said, you kind of have to admire the dog fucking enthusiast who traverses an ocean just to indulge in the sensual garden of delights that is the Washington dog farm multi breed orgy. I mean, yeah, it’s revolting and twisted, but he really went for it. No half stepping. I wonder if, in animal pumping circles, this was a legendary bust, where people were saying things like “the honeysuckle ranch got shut down and there was a brit in the Mayflower room!” because presumably, that’s like going to graceland and sitting in the recliner or something. Weird.
But you know what? That’s all neither here nor there as this entry isn’t supposed to be about zoophilia anyway. Okay, where was I?
Ah, yes. The bachelor party for Toby. Now, toby is a lot of things and one or two of the things that he is is a massive fan of soccer and the American club team the Seattle Sounders, who just happened to be playing the Chicago Fire the night of said bachelor party. We went down there and hung out in the stands among the Sounders fans, and it was a great time. One particularly hilarious thing struck me though, and I’d like to share it with you:
Namely, people from Seattle are either completely clueless about how the world really is or just kind of embarrassed of Seattle in a really bizarre way. This is a notion I’ve been keenly aware of for some time, but it was really driven home the other night out there among the green shirted sports fans. Their chants were all these Viking-like odes to drinking and destruction and the back alley lifestyle of the Seattle Sounders hooligans, which is all well and good, but uh…have you ever been to Seattle?
Seattle is perched in the hills, it’s kind of rainy and it’s stuffed with erudite little coffee shops, smug little boutiques and guys with shaved heads and northface jackets. Seattle is clean, beautiful and just funky enough that it can be cool and kind of laid back but not funky enough that people will just shit in your vestibule every morning or anything. There’s a semi-famous punk band from Seattle called the Murder City Devils. That is absolutely insane.
Seattle is the murder city in the same way that I’m the hottest twelve year old girl in all of Peru. It’s not a town full of murderous Vikings and drunken hordes. I mean, I’m sure that people get mighty shitfaced out in Seattle and I’m sure there’s crime and I bet there’s even a shitty neighborhood or two, but come on folks! You’re not East St. Louis, you’re not Detroit or Cincinnati or Newark or the south side of Chicago. You’re not Nogales or Juarez or Miami or the Bronx. Fuck, man. You aren’t even PORTLAND! And that’s fine. Fuck. That’s great! I’d rather live in Seattle than any of these places, (well, except Portland which is one of the hands down best places out there) but man…Seattle is the home of Frasier Crane and all his various witticisms. Seattle is the home of the space needle and vegan breakfast and fast computers and city wide wifi. And sure, that shit probably sounds lame in a chant, or as the name of a band, but uh…do you have to undercompensate so much? I think there should be a movement out there to re-define Seattle as the pretty fucking nice, very clean honky town that it is. I’m throwing it out there, Seattleans (or whatever you’re called). Do your town proud, and let’s get rid of that ugly reputation as being the murder city, eh? How about the ‘city of nice parks’ or ‘city of friendly waitstaff’ (which I’ve always found to be true every time I’ve been in Seattle), or even Seattle: Home of Dicks!’ That sounds good. Dicks is the best weird cheeseburger stand in the northwest and it still sounds a little shady, so you don’t have to go all the way to “Seattle: sophisticated scrabble players and their brethren” or anything like that.
I dunno…it’s Monday. Just throwing it out there.
Or is it all an elaborate tongue in cheek thing where everyone kind of grins and winks at the notion of Seattle: city of evil? Because that would make a lot of sense, actually. Leave it to them to have a gigantic city wide in joke. Smug dicks.
Okay, I'm out.
Keep fucking those dogs, everyone!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
They're probly drinking coffee and smoking big cigars (heyooo!)
Yesterday I asked my buddy Sean Nader if he would rather be in general population in a maximum security prison for five years (at this point he stopped me and said something to the effect of “I really doubt that whatever the other choice is could be worse than that”) or, would you rather have both the intellect and the maladies of Stephen Hawking?
After about a minute of silence, Sean came back with “I’d rather be in the prison” and I gotta say, I agree with him entirely. Yes, prison would be terrible. There’s all sorts of crazy shit that sounds like it goes on in there. Motherfuckers are getting stabbed and beat up and tattooing each other’s faces and making people suck their dicks and all sorts of crazy shit. I bet the food’s no good and I furthermore bet that the part that’s worse than any of that is that there’s no one there that gives a shit about you and when you have a bad day (uh…someone puts your face into a shit filled toilet and fucks you up the ass, for example) there’s no one you can call and talk to, or slide into bed next to (well, I guess you might have someone to slide into bed next to, but that’s gotta be a major part of the bad day in most cases, right?) that will help you sort of recover and just be sympathetic and nice to you. It’s gotta be cold. And I sincerely bet that’s the worst part. The lack of compassion and sympathy and general humanity.
I mean, I’ve never been to prison and it’s one of those places I hope I never go. I imagine that the cinderblock walls and the general ugly-on-purpose aesthetic is even more soul crushing than the lack of women and the fact that you’ve gotta wipe your ass right there in front of someone, but who knows? I could be wrong. I’ve known people who have ended up in prison and come out and been okay. There are lots of people who have gotten out of prison and come out and been hugely successful, like Dog the Bounty Hunter for example. I mean, I don’t know much about the ass kicking or prison raping pecking order in jail, but I’ve gotta imagine the leathery football with the bouffant and feather earrings is up there on the list of ‘people to stab when they walk into the blindspot over behind the pillar on the way to the soda machine,’ don’tcha think? One would think. Shit sounds like kind of a bummer, but the Dog? He turned out just fine (extreme racism notwithstanding). I guess that’s kind of the exception to the rule though. Usually you probably get out with a new questionable tattoo, a nice new stab wound or two and a general hatred for a world you’re no longer allowed to be a real part of. Sheeesh.
And to top it off, I just read a disturbing report that says that the vast majority of the sexual abuse that happens in jails is perpetrated by the guards. That’s genuinely terrifying. Everyone I’ve ever met who’s ever been in jail or prison says the same thing, namely: that the guards are worse than even the shittiest prisoners, and hey, if they’re doing most of the raping, it doesn’t take me too much of a leap of imagination to see why they say that. I can’t even imagine the kind of psychological torture that you’ve gotta endure on a day in, day out basis in order to wind up the kind of person that wants to work as a correctional officer. I mean, I can fathom what leads someone to kill an enemy or steal some shit. I can understand the motivation behind misguided notions of using violence to spread ideology and I even kind of understand (brace yourselves) why someone would take or sell drugs, but man…no way can I wrap my head around the idea of being a free person and deciding that I was gonna go work in a prison and spend my days dehumanizing people for a living before I came home to my regular life every evening. I mean, what the fuck do you have to be about for that to seem like something you’d be interested in doing? I know people who go into volunteer programs where they do literacy workshops at jails, and even under the umbrella of being a goodwill ambassador, none of them have ever mentioned LIKING being in there. To go in there as the enemy and wage war on prisoners every day seems like something that only the most very deranged folks on the planet would ever do. People who were beaten by their parents, bad at everything they ever tried, made fun of for virtually every aspect of their personality and cowardly to boot seem to be the only people who’d fit the unique profile it would take to be a prison officer.
But hey, maybe I’m wrong, right? I hope so, because the whole thing is such an enormous mass of sadness that it’s threatening to derail what seems like a pretty nice day. I, a person who’s not in prison, will take my kids to the park, walk my dogs, pick out a nice place to eat lunch, perhaps with friends, and probably take a nap at some point after we eat. I’ll also go to the gym and get in a fight in the shower, but that part sounds like prison, so forget that.
Nope. Being in prison sounds like a bad time.
But you know what would be worse? Being in a prison in your own body. Sitting there, unable to move or do anything, but being perfectly alert and a brilliant mind to boot. You are smart enough that you’re a step away from mathematically disproving the existence of god (I am aware that you cannot prove that something doesn’t exist, so back off) and thereby the afterlife but you can’t do a goddamn thing while you’re here. You can’t chew. You can’t whack off. You can’t hug anyone. You can just exclusively sit there and piss your pants and atrophy while life goes on around you and you can bear witness to beauty, freedom, a naked chick here and there, a party full of people but you can NEVER participate. You’re in a prison that you’ll never get out of. That would be worse. Endlessly worse.
I wonder, if you asked Hawking if he would take the opportunity to get the full function of his body back if the stipulation was that he must exist in the general population of say, Leavenworth penitentiary for the first five years of his newfound mobility, what do you think he’d say? Well, probably not ‘say’ but what do you think his series of breaths into that tube would end up signifying? I mean, that kind of answers it, eh? He’d pick the prison. We all would. But he’s never gonna get to make that choice, and that’s a pretty rough reality to deal with. No escape but death. And to top it off, cursed with a mind that can probably imagine death and run wild with all the horrifying unknowns that are part and parcel with contemplating mortality. Fuuuuuuuuck that. I’m going to move my arms and shit for a while, then I’m going to walk outside in a mixed gender environment. I recommend you all do the same.
Um, any readers out there former or current inmates (or correctional officers for that matter)? I’d be real curious to hear about your experiences. Just throwing that out there. Kay. Later y’all.
After about a minute of silence, Sean came back with “I’d rather be in the prison” and I gotta say, I agree with him entirely. Yes, prison would be terrible. There’s all sorts of crazy shit that sounds like it goes on in there. Motherfuckers are getting stabbed and beat up and tattooing each other’s faces and making people suck their dicks and all sorts of crazy shit. I bet the food’s no good and I furthermore bet that the part that’s worse than any of that is that there’s no one there that gives a shit about you and when you have a bad day (uh…someone puts your face into a shit filled toilet and fucks you up the ass, for example) there’s no one you can call and talk to, or slide into bed next to (well, I guess you might have someone to slide into bed next to, but that’s gotta be a major part of the bad day in most cases, right?) that will help you sort of recover and just be sympathetic and nice to you. It’s gotta be cold. And I sincerely bet that’s the worst part. The lack of compassion and sympathy and general humanity.
I mean, I’ve never been to prison and it’s one of those places I hope I never go. I imagine that the cinderblock walls and the general ugly-on-purpose aesthetic is even more soul crushing than the lack of women and the fact that you’ve gotta wipe your ass right there in front of someone, but who knows? I could be wrong. I’ve known people who have ended up in prison and come out and been okay. There are lots of people who have gotten out of prison and come out and been hugely successful, like Dog the Bounty Hunter for example. I mean, I don’t know much about the ass kicking or prison raping pecking order in jail, but I’ve gotta imagine the leathery football with the bouffant and feather earrings is up there on the list of ‘people to stab when they walk into the blindspot over behind the pillar on the way to the soda machine,’ don’tcha think? One would think. Shit sounds like kind of a bummer, but the Dog? He turned out just fine (extreme racism notwithstanding). I guess that’s kind of the exception to the rule though. Usually you probably get out with a new questionable tattoo, a nice new stab wound or two and a general hatred for a world you’re no longer allowed to be a real part of. Sheeesh.
And to top it off, I just read a disturbing report that says that the vast majority of the sexual abuse that happens in jails is perpetrated by the guards. That’s genuinely terrifying. Everyone I’ve ever met who’s ever been in jail or prison says the same thing, namely: that the guards are worse than even the shittiest prisoners, and hey, if they’re doing most of the raping, it doesn’t take me too much of a leap of imagination to see why they say that. I can’t even imagine the kind of psychological torture that you’ve gotta endure on a day in, day out basis in order to wind up the kind of person that wants to work as a correctional officer. I mean, I can fathom what leads someone to kill an enemy or steal some shit. I can understand the motivation behind misguided notions of using violence to spread ideology and I even kind of understand (brace yourselves) why someone would take or sell drugs, but man…no way can I wrap my head around the idea of being a free person and deciding that I was gonna go work in a prison and spend my days dehumanizing people for a living before I came home to my regular life every evening. I mean, what the fuck do you have to be about for that to seem like something you’d be interested in doing? I know people who go into volunteer programs where they do literacy workshops at jails, and even under the umbrella of being a goodwill ambassador, none of them have ever mentioned LIKING being in there. To go in there as the enemy and wage war on prisoners every day seems like something that only the most very deranged folks on the planet would ever do. People who were beaten by their parents, bad at everything they ever tried, made fun of for virtually every aspect of their personality and cowardly to boot seem to be the only people who’d fit the unique profile it would take to be a prison officer.
But hey, maybe I’m wrong, right? I hope so, because the whole thing is such an enormous mass of sadness that it’s threatening to derail what seems like a pretty nice day. I, a person who’s not in prison, will take my kids to the park, walk my dogs, pick out a nice place to eat lunch, perhaps with friends, and probably take a nap at some point after we eat. I’ll also go to the gym and get in a fight in the shower, but that part sounds like prison, so forget that.
Nope. Being in prison sounds like a bad time.
But you know what would be worse? Being in a prison in your own body. Sitting there, unable to move or do anything, but being perfectly alert and a brilliant mind to boot. You are smart enough that you’re a step away from mathematically disproving the existence of god (I am aware that you cannot prove that something doesn’t exist, so back off) and thereby the afterlife but you can’t do a goddamn thing while you’re here. You can’t chew. You can’t whack off. You can’t hug anyone. You can just exclusively sit there and piss your pants and atrophy while life goes on around you and you can bear witness to beauty, freedom, a naked chick here and there, a party full of people but you can NEVER participate. You’re in a prison that you’ll never get out of. That would be worse. Endlessly worse.
I wonder, if you asked Hawking if he would take the opportunity to get the full function of his body back if the stipulation was that he must exist in the general population of say, Leavenworth penitentiary for the first five years of his newfound mobility, what do you think he’d say? Well, probably not ‘say’ but what do you think his series of breaths into that tube would end up signifying? I mean, that kind of answers it, eh? He’d pick the prison. We all would. But he’s never gonna get to make that choice, and that’s a pretty rough reality to deal with. No escape but death. And to top it off, cursed with a mind that can probably imagine death and run wild with all the horrifying unknowns that are part and parcel with contemplating mortality. Fuuuuuuuuck that. I’m going to move my arms and shit for a while, then I’m going to walk outside in a mixed gender environment. I recommend you all do the same.
Um, any readers out there former or current inmates (or correctional officers for that matter)? I’d be real curious to hear about your experiences. Just throwing that out there. Kay. Later y’all.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
let it rattle
Duuuudes! I just had a lot of crazy days and the results were that I was unable to get to this shit for a minute. Sorry. I’m planning my buddy Toby’s bachelor party and frankly, it’s gonna be awesome. We’re getting one of those strippers that shoots pool balls out of her asshole and into various cakes and we’re gonna get a rickshaw (drawn by a real live running chinaman, no less!) to cruise us around Chicago so we can snort coke and drink Courvosier with impunity. It’s gonna be spectacular, to put it mildly.
I remember my bachelor party pretty fondly. Well, that’s not really true. I don’t really remember much of my bachelor party except for this one pretty rad moment where I was hanging out with my friend Todd and I went to lean against the photo booth and fell into the probably 5” gap between the booth and the wall. I became pretty insanely stuck and to hear Todd tell the story, he was just tipsy enough (read: shithammered) that he thought I had vanished into thin air. No one had any idea where I’d poofed off to, until my screams were finally able to be heard over the Smart Bar’s blasting techno music. It was a really nice time, gotta say.
My bachelor party was a sophisticated and gentlemanly affair, but that’s because I didn’t plan it. Since I’m in charge of Toby’s we’re getting tranny hookers, plates of blood pressure medication and a few fighting cocks and we’re gonna fully go to Jacuzzi on that ass, if you dig.
Now, what else is happening in the world? I just got the first cut of a new demo that I did and I think it’s pretty righteous. I did it with this dude named Sean Astrom and this other dude named Eric Halborg. If you’re not gay porn enthusiasts, you probably don’t recognize either of their names, but they’re some good dudes from Denver. It’s definitely a pretty weird song. It’s called “a man with the passion of Tennessee Williams” which I think is a pretty radical title. I think it’s about hipsters and my own uneasy proximity to them as an old guy who pretends to eschew the notion of hipsterdom, but who still ends up drinking highlife and listening to POS on my iphone in my western shirt and fedora (thank you very much Francis!) (and of course, no offense to the mighty POS).
It’s a kick in the balls, eh? The things that are the closest to you but just slightly different are the things you despise most, right? That’s why skateboarders hate rollerbladers, even though they’re both smashing their nuts on the same railings. That’s why the nazi skins hate the anti racist skins more than anyone else even though they both decided to pervert the idea of punk rock into some situation where you wear a uniform and follow a code, that’s why you think that Good Charlotte sucks so much ass. It’s not because they’re actually a bad band (which they are) but it’s because 90% of the way that they look and act is the way punk rock kids identify themselves, but that last ten percent is just goofy and wrong and the results are that you’re kind of stuck looking into this mirror where you see not only all the dumb choices you could have made, but you’re sort of forced to see all the dumb choices you DID make. And man, Mark Twain once said (and I’m paraphrasing at a dangerous level of vacillation right now) that familiarity breeds contempt.
This is true. There is no one so sick of your shit as those people forced to deal with you all the time. No matter how awesome you are, the way you slurp your coffee (something my wife absolutely hates about me) or the way you phrase certain things or the way you lie out loud to yourself or the way you act like a total dipshit around this one dude but you’re pretty cool the rest of the time or even small things like your walk or your pronunciation will eventually drive people around you nuts.
Remember the phrase “no matter how hot she is there’s a dude out there who’s sick of fucking her (alternate ending: sick of her shit)? That’s true for everyone and not just when it comes to fucking. Familiarity breeds contempt. Even if a friendship or relationship is never corrupted, that contempt is in there. That’s why your grandparents love the shit out of each other and get along famously and couldn’t even survive without the other one, but they start yelling and cursing about what seems like nothing all the time. They’ve been building little nuggets of contempt for each other over the course of fifty or so years. Give em a fucking break. Your grandma HATES the way your grandpa clicks his serrated grapefruit spoon against his teeth and all it takes is him saying ‘breakfast’ and she’s on edge.
And there’s no one you’re more familiar with than yourself. And the result of that is that you desperately avoid thinking about yourself in any sort of context like that, because your weaknesses are your weaknesses and you probably are doing the best you can to be the person you want to be, and you have to have sympathy for the fact that you’re doing your best. There’s no reason to beat yourself up over small shit like the way you hate that you don’t really do something very well, or you’re kind of a phony or whatever it is that you secretly know about yourself. You often don’t even admit that shit to yourself except when you’re on mushrooms or terribly hung over or having panic attacks in the middle of the night or sweating why your boyfriend is gonna leave you or something. Then all that contempt pours out and it’s a shitty, terrible feeling that can only be suppressed by completely changing the subject and finding something else to think about. That’s why a lot of people who tend to fancy this type of introspection end up addicted to drugs and alcohol and shit, because frankly, nothing changes the subject faster than something that switches up your brain chemistry. Suddenly, everything’s okay and you don’t have to pay the piper just yet, so to speak.
But yeah. That’s why the metalheads hate the punks and you can’t stand to see your dad with food on his chin. It’s all too close for comfort. What were we talking about again? Oh, how I’m essentially a hipster douche. Right. Sweet.
Okay, I gotta feed my kid breakfast and hit up my accountant’s office. Wait. I’m a thirtysomething turd with a stroller too? Aye carumba.
I remember my bachelor party pretty fondly. Well, that’s not really true. I don’t really remember much of my bachelor party except for this one pretty rad moment where I was hanging out with my friend Todd and I went to lean against the photo booth and fell into the probably 5” gap between the booth and the wall. I became pretty insanely stuck and to hear Todd tell the story, he was just tipsy enough (read: shithammered) that he thought I had vanished into thin air. No one had any idea where I’d poofed off to, until my screams were finally able to be heard over the Smart Bar’s blasting techno music. It was a really nice time, gotta say.
My bachelor party was a sophisticated and gentlemanly affair, but that’s because I didn’t plan it. Since I’m in charge of Toby’s we’re getting tranny hookers, plates of blood pressure medication and a few fighting cocks and we’re gonna fully go to Jacuzzi on that ass, if you dig.
Now, what else is happening in the world? I just got the first cut of a new demo that I did and I think it’s pretty righteous. I did it with this dude named Sean Astrom and this other dude named Eric Halborg. If you’re not gay porn enthusiasts, you probably don’t recognize either of their names, but they’re some good dudes from Denver. It’s definitely a pretty weird song. It’s called “a man with the passion of Tennessee Williams” which I think is a pretty radical title. I think it’s about hipsters and my own uneasy proximity to them as an old guy who pretends to eschew the notion of hipsterdom, but who still ends up drinking highlife and listening to POS on my iphone in my western shirt and fedora (thank you very much Francis!) (and of course, no offense to the mighty POS).
It’s a kick in the balls, eh? The things that are the closest to you but just slightly different are the things you despise most, right? That’s why skateboarders hate rollerbladers, even though they’re both smashing their nuts on the same railings. That’s why the nazi skins hate the anti racist skins more than anyone else even though they both decided to pervert the idea of punk rock into some situation where you wear a uniform and follow a code, that’s why you think that Good Charlotte sucks so much ass. It’s not because they’re actually a bad band (which they are) but it’s because 90% of the way that they look and act is the way punk rock kids identify themselves, but that last ten percent is just goofy and wrong and the results are that you’re kind of stuck looking into this mirror where you see not only all the dumb choices you could have made, but you’re sort of forced to see all the dumb choices you DID make. And man, Mark Twain once said (and I’m paraphrasing at a dangerous level of vacillation right now) that familiarity breeds contempt.
This is true. There is no one so sick of your shit as those people forced to deal with you all the time. No matter how awesome you are, the way you slurp your coffee (something my wife absolutely hates about me) or the way you phrase certain things or the way you lie out loud to yourself or the way you act like a total dipshit around this one dude but you’re pretty cool the rest of the time or even small things like your walk or your pronunciation will eventually drive people around you nuts.
Remember the phrase “no matter how hot she is there’s a dude out there who’s sick of fucking her (alternate ending: sick of her shit)? That’s true for everyone and not just when it comes to fucking. Familiarity breeds contempt. Even if a friendship or relationship is never corrupted, that contempt is in there. That’s why your grandparents love the shit out of each other and get along famously and couldn’t even survive without the other one, but they start yelling and cursing about what seems like nothing all the time. They’ve been building little nuggets of contempt for each other over the course of fifty or so years. Give em a fucking break. Your grandma HATES the way your grandpa clicks his serrated grapefruit spoon against his teeth and all it takes is him saying ‘breakfast’ and she’s on edge.
And there’s no one you’re more familiar with than yourself. And the result of that is that you desperately avoid thinking about yourself in any sort of context like that, because your weaknesses are your weaknesses and you probably are doing the best you can to be the person you want to be, and you have to have sympathy for the fact that you’re doing your best. There’s no reason to beat yourself up over small shit like the way you hate that you don’t really do something very well, or you’re kind of a phony or whatever it is that you secretly know about yourself. You often don’t even admit that shit to yourself except when you’re on mushrooms or terribly hung over or having panic attacks in the middle of the night or sweating why your boyfriend is gonna leave you or something. Then all that contempt pours out and it’s a shitty, terrible feeling that can only be suppressed by completely changing the subject and finding something else to think about. That’s why a lot of people who tend to fancy this type of introspection end up addicted to drugs and alcohol and shit, because frankly, nothing changes the subject faster than something that switches up your brain chemistry. Suddenly, everything’s okay and you don’t have to pay the piper just yet, so to speak.
But yeah. That’s why the metalheads hate the punks and you can’t stand to see your dad with food on his chin. It’s all too close for comfort. What were we talking about again? Oh, how I’m essentially a hipster douche. Right. Sweet.
Okay, I gotta feed my kid breakfast and hit up my accountant’s office. Wait. I’m a thirtysomething turd with a stroller too? Aye carumba.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Quickly
Okay, wow. I got no time today, but I want to get a few things out there real quick. Firstly, this is incredible. Very happy with all that. Secondly, it’s my wedding anniversary, and thirdly, I’m gonna be down at the Gingerman tonight slingin suds and pumpin studs so come down and let’s hang out, eh? I bet your friends from the Menzingers and Gaslight Anthem could potentially show up there. Eh? Eh?
Fuck, I dunno. I gotta run.
Fuck, I dunno. I gotta run.
Friday, September 17, 2010
we were born this way!!!
What’s the worst look? Like, what’s the absolute worst way you can make yourself look? Being hopelessly unaware plays a huge role in looking truly bad, doesn’t it? Like, when you’re bald but you’ve got the long flowing locks or when you’re super sloppy and you’re wearing a miniskirt and metal bra, that looks terrible. But what else? There’s a guy in my neighborhood who’s always walking around. He’s real fat and has big swinging, pendulous breasts and he’s also got long hair and a humongous frizzy beard and he kind of dresses like uh…one of the people that potentially hangs out with Robin Hood or something. It’s not quite drag, and it’s not quite ‘back in time’ style, but it’s fucked up and every time I see him, I point him out to my wife and say, “hey, your ex boyfriend is in our neighborhood again” and she says something like “that guy is always around” and I kind of shudder because she’s right. He’s so interesting looking that it’s creepy. Kind of in a weird way he’s doing all the gender and expectation subverting that Lady Gaga has been going for, using nothing but Hostess pudding pies and his love of Renaissance fairs. That’s pretty tight, isn’t it?
I mean, what can you do these days? It’s clear to me that all the good styles have been tried. Therefore the only way to really get ‘out there’ is to do something completely retarded, like wear food or a tent on your face or something. Short of that, you’re not freaking anyone out unless you’re just born grotesque, in which case I hope you’re already totally into freaking people out, because frankly, you’re gonna be doing a lot of it either way, so may as well suit up in rubber tubing and smear yourself with chocolate and just fully go for it, because honestly, limping dude with testicle sacks hanging from your face and neck, you’re not gonna be diffusing any stares with any snappy outfit and erudite conversations about current affairs. Not in the cards, unforch.
I’m personally over the notion of ‘freaking out the squares’. It’s so trite and such a personality trait in and of itself at this point that it’s just as boring as the very uh…’societal norms’ that the whole ‘movement’ is supposedly opposed to. I’m bored of meat bikinis and gender bending and all that. Who cares? Guess who’s been doing shit like that for years? Everyone. Fuck. There’s guys out there (David Bowie comes to mind instantly) who are the same age as MY parents who have been doing that shit since before we were even born. Who cares? Everyone thinks they’re new and dynamic but everyone gets old and hangs up the meat bikini some day and realizes that they’re just like all the other great subversives that came before them: petulant children who didn’t want to hang with the dorks. And fuck…who can blame you/me/them/us? Who wants to hang with the dorks?
Well, the truth is, eventually we all become dorks (or we become mean and isolated, which is worse) and it’s nice to have other dorks around to show you the ropes. It’s not something you can help. You just become a dork no matter what. Yeah, you’re good looking and you like to party and you get all your shit done and it doesn’t matter if you’re still blowing lines at 630 am, by 9 you’re at your computer cranking out bold new ideas and images and pushing the edge of things and making money and DOING it. But guess what? You’re gonna get old. You’re gonna get fat/bald/saggy/scared of kids/too old looking to continue to wear the clothes you like because you’ll end up looking like a clueless Tommy Lee/Pam Anderson Peter Pan typ, so you’ll have to adapt into a more mature style that you don’t really care for or understand and next thing you know you look just like your mom and you’ve got some kids and you can’t even deal with hangovers so it’s easier just to go to bed at 9, because you’re DEFINITELY not getting dynamic shit done after even eating a fucking pizza too close to bedtime, much less snorting a bunch of ketamine and uh oh, the kids are doing shit that seems stupid to you and you don’t want to adapt because you’ve ‘got it figured out’ and the reason you think that is because at some brief fleeting point in your youth, you had it figured out for the second, before the world turned and everything changed and you foolishly think that you’re still some sort of authority about what’s cool, but ooooooooops! You’re just like everyone else. Clueless. And now PRESTO! You’re a dork and you too are bored of these loser kids coming around in their vampire costumes and meat bikinis and punk rock hairdos and trying to freak you out. “oooooooh. Terrifying.” You may be heard to utter from behind your glass of lemonade.
The thing is, you want to freak people out? For real? Wanna be subversive? Be black. Or be from Iran. Then marry someone’s daughter. There you go. You’ve successfully wigged out the squares for real. It’s funny, all the meat bikinis and upside down crosses and pentagrams and gay sex in the world can’t compare to a black MFA student out to dinner with a white girl or a dude in a turban boarding a plane. That’s what Lady Gaga should do next, for sure: become a black dude and start dating Taylor Swift. THAT would be worth digging, folks.
Listen, I’ve gotta go. I don’t have the time to do this stuff today. I hope you guys have a nice weekend. I’m tired and it’s ten thirty and I’m still in my underwear and I’ve gotta get my kid outside and expend some energy. Also I’ve gotta go get my dogs trimmed up and get their asses drained (it’s an extremely glamorous and appetizing process that all small dogs have to go through.
Then it’s off to have lunch. Anyway, be good to each other.
xoxoxox
I mean, what can you do these days? It’s clear to me that all the good styles have been tried. Therefore the only way to really get ‘out there’ is to do something completely retarded, like wear food or a tent on your face or something. Short of that, you’re not freaking anyone out unless you’re just born grotesque, in which case I hope you’re already totally into freaking people out, because frankly, you’re gonna be doing a lot of it either way, so may as well suit up in rubber tubing and smear yourself with chocolate and just fully go for it, because honestly, limping dude with testicle sacks hanging from your face and neck, you’re not gonna be diffusing any stares with any snappy outfit and erudite conversations about current affairs. Not in the cards, unforch.
I’m personally over the notion of ‘freaking out the squares’. It’s so trite and such a personality trait in and of itself at this point that it’s just as boring as the very uh…’societal norms’ that the whole ‘movement’ is supposedly opposed to. I’m bored of meat bikinis and gender bending and all that. Who cares? Guess who’s been doing shit like that for years? Everyone. Fuck. There’s guys out there (David Bowie comes to mind instantly) who are the same age as MY parents who have been doing that shit since before we were even born. Who cares? Everyone thinks they’re new and dynamic but everyone gets old and hangs up the meat bikini some day and realizes that they’re just like all the other great subversives that came before them: petulant children who didn’t want to hang with the dorks. And fuck…who can blame you/me/them/us? Who wants to hang with the dorks?
Well, the truth is, eventually we all become dorks (or we become mean and isolated, which is worse) and it’s nice to have other dorks around to show you the ropes. It’s not something you can help. You just become a dork no matter what. Yeah, you’re good looking and you like to party and you get all your shit done and it doesn’t matter if you’re still blowing lines at 630 am, by 9 you’re at your computer cranking out bold new ideas and images and pushing the edge of things and making money and DOING it. But guess what? You’re gonna get old. You’re gonna get fat/bald/saggy/scared of kids/too old looking to continue to wear the clothes you like because you’ll end up looking like a clueless Tommy Lee/Pam Anderson Peter Pan typ, so you’ll have to adapt into a more mature style that you don’t really care for or understand and next thing you know you look just like your mom and you’ve got some kids and you can’t even deal with hangovers so it’s easier just to go to bed at 9, because you’re DEFINITELY not getting dynamic shit done after even eating a fucking pizza too close to bedtime, much less snorting a bunch of ketamine and uh oh, the kids are doing shit that seems stupid to you and you don’t want to adapt because you’ve ‘got it figured out’ and the reason you think that is because at some brief fleeting point in your youth, you had it figured out for the second, before the world turned and everything changed and you foolishly think that you’re still some sort of authority about what’s cool, but ooooooooops! You’re just like everyone else. Clueless. And now PRESTO! You’re a dork and you too are bored of these loser kids coming around in their vampire costumes and meat bikinis and punk rock hairdos and trying to freak you out. “oooooooh. Terrifying.” You may be heard to utter from behind your glass of lemonade.
The thing is, you want to freak people out? For real? Wanna be subversive? Be black. Or be from Iran. Then marry someone’s daughter. There you go. You’ve successfully wigged out the squares for real. It’s funny, all the meat bikinis and upside down crosses and pentagrams and gay sex in the world can’t compare to a black MFA student out to dinner with a white girl or a dude in a turban boarding a plane. That’s what Lady Gaga should do next, for sure: become a black dude and start dating Taylor Swift. THAT would be worth digging, folks.
Listen, I’ve gotta go. I don’t have the time to do this stuff today. I hope you guys have a nice weekend. I’m tired and it’s ten thirty and I’m still in my underwear and I’ve gotta get my kid outside and expend some energy. Also I’ve gotta go get my dogs trimmed up and get their asses drained (it’s an extremely glamorous and appetizing process that all small dogs have to go through.
Then it’s off to have lunch. Anyway, be good to each other.
xoxoxox
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