Brown lays it down

So, recently I had to write a paper for my Human Sexuality class about what I had learned from it. Trouble was, I learned almost nothing. That class was total dogshit. So I improvised. Here are the results:

...wait but first a little back story and my usual caveats. The class really is terrible, I'm not saying this because I'm some total narcissistic cock. At least I hope not. Also my teacher's name was professor Mickes. She was pretty cool, but she did nothing to rein in the baser instincts of the braying jackoffs in her class. Now I really do sound like an asshole. Also there was this fat bearded motherfucker in there who could easily be the most boring human being I've ever met. Most of his conversation consisted of one South Park quote after another.

so here:

Psyc 115: A Retrospective Summary

Dear Mickes,

I'm writing to inform you of a most tragic accident at the Ketchup Factory,
where your Harv works. It seems that at the stroke of twelve on St.
Christopher's Eve, Harv was scraping milk-paste from the refuse barrels, and
though he was uncharacteristically sober, misfortune came in the form of a
seven hundred pound tractor engine pitched over the guardrail by one of the
young giants employed by the factory to guard against raptor attacks.

Harv was crushed to death. He died instantly, and irrevocably, with, I'm afraid, maximum pain and suffering in the roughly half second before he was snuffed for good. Seeing as he was the principle breadwinner in your family, the factory is happy to announce that it will send you henceforth, a monthly care package of one half dozen saltine crackers, a small bottle of commodity black olives, and one package of Capri Sun Citrus Cooler, for the next four months until you get back on your feet. Also, my wife would like to offer you a position as lead serving-wench at our granddaughter's opulent thirty-fifth wedding anniversary this spring.

It is in trying times such as these, that I like to remember the sage words of Franklin Pierce, our 14^th president, when he said “I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream”, or something to that effect. Also, I hope you find solace in the worship of your strange pagan idols, and the hymns you sing in that garbled foreign tongue. May you be comforted at the black breast of your many armed she-goat goddess, or at the foot of her son the Redeemer.Also, Mickes, the class you taught on Carnal Knowledge at the Manchester Bestiary was most edifying. I particularly enjoyed the portly bearded fellow who kept muttering South Park references under his breath, hoping that someone, anyone, would give a shit. Also, your insight into multiple male orgasms, was most appreciated in Martha and my marriage bed. Many a cold night did the walls of our dreary manner house reverberate with our decadent groans.

Here's wishing you many gentle seasons.

-Lord Cadmus Winthrop

So there, I just thought it should be saved somewhere. Not like she'll really appreciate it. That is all.

...well...

So, I've decided to keep churning out posts with an eye for quantity rather than quality. To what end I'm not sure. Maybe I'm hoping that some gorgeous, bored, playgirl multi-millionaire with her own publishing house and three PhD's will stumble onto it by accident and be blown away. Or something.

Anyway, a thought crossed my mind the other day. In most situations, the presence of insects doesn't make people happy, or make the situation better or more appealing. Except one. I don't know if anyone can relate to this, but the only place I'm happy to find bugs is on an airplane...and maybe in a bait shop. But seriously, airplanes are so sterile and everything is so cold, and artificial, and inorganic. Plus the whole situation is so surreal, and not in like a Lazer-floyd Salvadore Dali kind of way. Somehow being magically supported in midair in a giant uncomfortable room hurtling through space toward, say, the Bahamas, just makes you feel bored and cramped and cut off from reality, just up in some blue-white limbo partially dead for three to twelve hours until you touch down. And to compound this numb, clinical ambience, everyone is, like, freshly showered, and wearing business suits and cologne, and the food is all pre-packaged in neat little servings, shrink-wrapped, vacuum-sealed and dyed boring. So to see, like, a gnat buzzing around is somehow really reassuring for me. Does anyone else get that, or what?

I had a shitty day at work today. I had a lot of trouble with our thirty-five milimeter print of some crappy movie called Young at Heart, which is a (to me) really offensive documentary about some program where they drag all these quirky old people from various nursing homes and suchlike onstage, give them Ironic Shades, and have them sing covers of Sex Pistols and Kanye West songs. I was pissed because our copy of the movie was shite, and so I had to bend over backwards to make sure this dogshit movie played properly for all the uncle-tom old people dipping into their pensions to watch other old people shuck and jive for the Man.

Anyhoo, while I was puking my guts out in the stifling heat of the projection booth wondering whether or not to alert the Gray Panthers, a series of truly hillarious entities appeared at the theatre for the first act of a farce that is continuing as we speak. Some bizzarre human being representing an organization called CRISPE (an acronym which involves the words "child", "parent", "education" and "response" I think) pulled up in a big pink CRISPE bus, with some woman in tow. They were renting out a theatre for a special screening of some documentary about how the child support system is "ripping families asunder" or something and, as is usually the case with these theatre-renters, the dude was really self-important and asked my General Manager to let him know when the movie sold out. As if.

But what's worse, the dude asked for a red carpet (which we actually supplied) and hired private bodyguards to stand outside wearing sunglasses and black suits and look intimidating. I guess this guy was just kicking out such Mad Truth that he was afraid for his safety. Like maybe the CIA was going to try to silence him or something. Trouble was, neither of these dudes looked very intimidating. One looked like an aging yuppie at a wedding, and the other looked like what would happen if there was a "Federal Agent" in the Village People. Sadly it was time for me to clock out before things really started to get hillarious, and so I walked out past Starsky and Hutch standing outside the theatre and glowering at the Uncle-Tom Seniors and neither they nor the wretched little twat in charge of this idiocy seemed to realize how ridiculous it all was.

I really think I need to quit this job.

...um...

So, today I decided to borrow a page from George Carlin's book, and make a list of People I'm Tired of. Originally I was going to make a list of People Who Should Kill Themselves, but honestly, some of the people I'm about to describe don't quite deserve to die by their own hand, I just wish they'd be a little less shitty. A disclaimer: I'm making this list to make the three people who read this thing laugh, not because I think I'm right about anything. So please don't think I'm some angsty, self-righteous, judgemental prick...you three.

1.) People who start long conversations with me about highly specialized subjects, which they somehow assume I know about in depth. Like this one dude in one of my classes who keeps coming up to me and talking about shitty pop-punk and Industrial bands which I neither know, nor care about, and about weird horror-fan stuff which I care even less about. Usually these conversations are, like, lists of events that this dude attended, or plans to attend. Like "...and then I went up to L.A. so I could go to Fangoria's "Beast Jam '08" and I met Daz Dworkin from Coffin Comix and saw Layers of Caked Filth play with Disheveled Youth." Yawn.

2. ) People whose favorite director is Wes Anderson, favorite band is Radiohead, and favorite author is Chuck Palahniuk.

3.) People who actually believe that there are entities of varying nationalities, with varying motives, collectively known as "terrorists", who run around with nasty grins on their brown, brown faces throwing bombs, menacing young women, voting for Obama and engaging, generally, in truly meddlesome hijinks. Who further believe that these people are cowardly, freedom hating fascists whose only real objective is to make sure everyone on earth is miserable, and that the only way to eradicate this menace is to elect inhuman monsters in three-piece-suits who are tough on "national security".

4.) People who "don't take any shit", "don't give a fuck", "don't care what you think" and "don't care who knows it".

5.) Actual adults who listen to bands like Nickelback, Matchbox 20, Linkin Park, Staind, P.O.D. etc. etc. etc. (yes these people do exist).

6.) People whose voices are two to three times louder than everyone else in the room, and who love to regale me with stories of their various moral, intellectual, sexual, and physical conquests. Especially if these people slap backs, display little inhibition, and try to constantly dominate conversation.

7.) Actual adults who listen to bands like the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Tool, the White Stripes, Incubus, and other bands which you're supposed to start liking just after you realize that Staind, Nickelback etc. are garbage, and grow out of by fourteen or so.

8.) People who have made the following statement, "How come if black people say n***er it's okay, but if I say n***er then that's racist??" Seriously, these people should kill themselves.

9.) Ellen Page.

10.) People who think Dane Cook is funny.

11.) White people who quote Chapelle show constantly, especially those that quote the "grape drink" bit. I encourage these people to look up the word "minstrelsy", and then ask themselves why Dave Chapelle decided to quit making the show.

12.) People who are genuinely surprised when I tell them I don't like cops.

13.) People who are genuinely surprised when I tell them I don't like Cops.

14.) People who sit around talking about how great cartoons were in the 90's.

15.) People who are a mere thirty seconds into a vaguely left-leaning rant when the whole thing devolves into a whiny call for marijuana to be legalized.

16.) The friends of person number thirteen, who, when he starts to do his thing, actually sing "...doon't criticiiiiize iiit!"

17.) Those credulous folks who will mention the Illuminati, the 9/11 truth movement, freemasonry, and the Jesus-Mary Magdalene connection without the slightest hint of skepticism or irony.

18.) People who really aren't all that bright, who always piss and moan about how "stupid people are". Especially if these people always tell stories about besting another person intellectually, constantly harp on other people's inferior grammar in text messages and emails, or say things like "(Person's Name) realized that he has never read a work of 'popular fiction'. Oh well, back to Finnegan's Wake". (This is an actual quote from the "status update" of someone on facebook.)

19.) Libertarians.

20.) People who really like Judd Apatow movies and talk about them constantly.

21.) People who insist that I watch/read/listen to something I couldn't give a shit less about.

and

22.) People who write nasty snarky lists and post them on their unpopular blogs.

...uh...

A few people have told me over the past few months that I should update this thing, and I always fully intended to once I had something to write about. I'm no closer to having anything of substance to say, but I figured I should at least put something up, if only to add a little vitality to this stagnant endeavor. My old dentist comes in to my work every now and again, and I usually give him free popcorn even though I can tell he doesn't remember me. I sometimes catch him reading my nametag and I can tell that my little gesture makes him feel more awkward than anything. Well, today he came in and he had shaved his moustache and I didn't recognize him at first. But whether or not he remembers me as a patient, he remembers that I work at the theatre and give him popcorn and that my name is Ben. So today, he recognized me first, and by the time I was able to grasp why this apparent stranger was being so familiar I had already filled his popcorn and rung him up. It's amazing what a little thing like facial hair can do in terms of making you look totally different. My dad has worn a beard for the last thirty years, and so of course I have never seen him clean shaven. I bet if I did it would be genuinely unsettling.
My friend Leron has a moustache too. I saw him last night for the first time in a few weeks. Once when we were fifteen or so, I got way too drunk with him at my house. I think I may have had alchohol poisoning. Leron always had really nice stuff, and he was obsessively clean and well dressed. I threw up all over him and all over his gear, and I couldn't stand or talk or anything. He had so help undress me and hold my hand while I showered. He really went out of his way that night so that I would be safe and my folks wouldn't find out. For some reason I told them anyway. Kids are stupid. Twenty-somethings are stupid. I'm stupid.
Leron was one of the first people I met when I moved to San Diego. I had a friend named Emma from back in Pennsylvania who would send me these ridiculous care packages when I first moved. Looking back, I wonder how much they cost to ship, they were so huge. Basically, she would get big cardboard boxes, and fill them with all sorts of things. Mix cd's, t-shirts, drawings, old stale chocolate, broken toys, trash, twigs, wrappers, all sorts of stuff. I talked to her almost every day on the phone, and I would provide her with little updates about the people I was meeting and so on. One day she sent another of her care packages. By this point I was friends with Leron, and a few other kids named Evan, Sean, David, and Jonathan. In the care package, Emma enclosed a drawing, done in pencil on computer paper, of a cute sort of punky, gothish chick about to set this cheerleader on fire. This was because at thirteen we thought we were a couple of quirky-as-fuck, non-conforming, weird-clothes-wearing, "establishment"-hating little badasses. On the back of the drawing, not out of spite but just as an odd little joke, Emma and our mutual friend Katie had written "Fuck Evan, Fuck Leron, Fuck Sean, Fuck David, Fuck Jonathan". I loved this picture a lot. Partly because I wanted to so badly be Jack Kerouac the Homicidal Maniac, but also because I missed home. It was the cover of my binder, and eventually I scotch-taped it to my wall. My friends would make fun of me for it, because even then we could tell it was a little childish. And one day, as he was examining it, Leron saw what was written on the back. David, Evan, Sean, and Jonathan were in the room too, I think.
He reminded me of this last night, it was pretty awkward explaining that to them. Out of all of those kids, Leron is the only one who's a fuckup like me. The rest are all at great colleges right now, like UC Berkeley.
My bengali uncle pronounces that word, "Bharklee".
Hmm...that story about the picture was not nearly as interesting in print as it was in my head. As I was remembering it the whole thing seemed so zany, like it was written by Larry David. Oh well.
I went to San Francisco recently to see friends. My buddy Bones and I took a bus to Chinatown and bought a bag of mangosteens. I didn't know that they had finally started importing them. The Evan whom I just mentioned was the one who first told me about mangosteens. He apparently heard that they had the consistency of ice cream and that in southeast asia, people would mortgage their homes to buy a single fruit. This is, of course, not true at all. Anyway,I tried them for the first time last summer in Malaysia and liked them a lot (hype notwithstanding) and so wanted Bones to try them. We actually managed to find them, (which surprised me) and we walked to City Lights books, so that I could by a Sherman Alexie novel for the flight back to San Diego. There were some people busking outside the store, and a crowd of cute hipster girls had gathered to watch. We ate our exotic fruit, and before we went inside, I lit up a cigarette. Thus did I find myself loitering in front of City Lights books, smoking a cigarette. I've turned into some perverse caricature of what I wanted to grow up to be when I was thirteen. The saddest part was, some hipster chick actually checked Bones out.
I apologize for this boring post.