One thing I've noticed, lately, is the phenomenon of white celebrities with East-Indian names. What the fuck is with this? Did their parents think this would be cute? Devendra Banhart, Uma Thurman, Radha Mitchell (whose full name, by the way, is Radha Rani Amber Indigo Anunda Mitchell) this is so offensive, and so potentially destructive it's not even funny. It seems like, wherever I go, everyone has some ass-backwards highly idiosyncratic take on India. Either you have white hipster types talking about how "super spiritual" it is, who wear kurtas, decorate their rooms with Krishna and Buddha statues or batik tapestries, and visit their fucking "gooroos", or, turning away from this in revulsion, people who lash out at India itself to get at these hipsters, making the country itself effectively the battleground for some intellectual proxy war between competing bands of hip urban whites. For example, Matt Cale, the in-house movie critic for the website ruthlessreviews.com, in a review of the Wes Anderson film The Darjeeling Limited once referred to Calcutta as "the world's largest open sewer". Matt Cale is sophisticated man who typically leans to the left, and so this was particularly jarring coming from him. Really, though, his beef wasn't with India, it was with the aforementioned vacant Western pop-Orientalists, desperately seeking meaning in their lives, who turn to India and other eastern
countries to find salvation in the exotic religions of these countries. Instead of saying that, though, he had to talk shit on India. I mean what did India ever do to him? What has India to do with the idiots who blindly embrace it or the bigoted cocksuckers who, just as blindly, shun it.
I mean are we all ready to throw in the towel with this whole cultural-relativism thing? Are we going to start measuring every society by the standards of the West? Has Matt Cale ever considered the fact that the filthy streets of Calcutta are almost identical to the streets of any post-colonial third world country and that maybe, both he and the orientalists he hates so much are more culpable, in a way, than the people who live in that "open sewer"? OF COURSE he fucking has! He's a well-read, educated person, so how the fuck dare he condemn India for the sins of a bunch of confused acid-burnouts and bohemian dipshits? And the worst part, is that there seems to be some mingling between these two categories of wretched fuckers. Recently, I saw hipster-orientalist swine Devendra Banhart's music video for his song "Carmencita", which takes-the-piss at Bollywood films and Indian religious serials, it reinforces all the most offensive religous and cultural stereotypes, and is, in short, Indian minstrelsy.
Even if "Devendra" was an actual Indian, which he's not, this shit would be unforgivably offensive. He'd be betraying his own culture and whoring it out to white audiences for cheap laughs. But as it stands, it's worse! It's fucking racist!
Who does this bastard think he is?
On another note, I see that, since the Democrats need an old-guard, salt-of-the-earth hero to rally behind (particularly one who's dead or dying) to compete with Republican Reagan-worship, that they've decided to suddenly canonize Ted Kennedy. I guess even dudes who let their mistresses drown to death deserve second chances.
Fuck!
Monday, August 25, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
...ugh...
So, it's nine a.m and I still haven't slept. Not because I can't, but because I don't want to. See, I don't know for a fact that I can't sleep because I haven't tried yet. Maybe, as soon as I hit the sheets I'll start to doze. Maybe not. As such, it would be inaccurate to say I can't sleep, more precise to say I haven't yet, and don't want to just now. But in either case, I must apologize in advance. I am writing this, again, because it seems to need updating, and not because I have anything to say. This, compounded with my lack of sleep may make for a really sucky piece, so be warned.
Instead of sleeping I watched two documentaries. One about Charles Bukowski, the other about the Bloods. Both Bukowski and the bloods are from Los Angeles. Also, the five men interviewed in the Blood movie seem like essentially good people molded into violent, hard bastards by circumstance. This is equally true of Bukowski.
I found out some interesting things today. First of all, one of rapper Li'l Wayne's favorite bands is Nirvana. Also I learned that Charles Bukowski hated Mickey Mouse, that character being, for him, representative of society's great effort to hide all horror and evil and violence under some artificial, expertly manicured facade. Disney depicted everything in their cartoons: hunger, violence, greed, war etc. but cute. And that sickened him.
I learned that hearing cute girls tell anecdotes about their butts can be very appealing, but I think I already knew this on some level. I learned that seventy-nine percent of people who visit the site Streetgangs.com (at least those who participated in the poll) think that Barack Obama is going to win in November.
I also learned that sometimes, even when you think you can tell a set of twins apart, one from the other, you really can't, and you'd better hope that that doesn't lead to anything awkward.
On another note, a strange thing happened to me at work today. There's this blonde woman who always comes in with a bunch of her friends. She has a really awful facelift and gives off trophy-wifeish vibes, and she's really loud and eccentric and it's hard to deal with because she's friendly and irreverent, but somehow gives the impression that if you take any liberties with her, she might blow her stack and endanger your job. Anyhow, she comes out of a theatre while I'm sweeping up and tells me it's freezing in there, and asks could I put the heat on or turn the air conditioning off? I say sure, and she says
"good cuz, it's so cold in there. See?" and she grabs my wrist. I think maybe she wants me to feel her hands, which would be forward enough, but she bends down and touches my wrist with her nose.
Weird huh? I mean, it didn't bother me. Hey, her nose was cold, she had a reason to be upset, I'll certainly give her that. I wonder if she has any idea that this behavior could be construed as weird, or offensive. I wonder if this was some sort of come on?
I'll let you people mull that over.
Instead of sleeping I watched two documentaries. One about Charles Bukowski, the other about the Bloods. Both Bukowski and the bloods are from Los Angeles. Also, the five men interviewed in the Blood movie seem like essentially good people molded into violent, hard bastards by circumstance. This is equally true of Bukowski.
I found out some interesting things today. First of all, one of rapper Li'l Wayne's favorite bands is Nirvana. Also I learned that Charles Bukowski hated Mickey Mouse, that character being, for him, representative of society's great effort to hide all horror and evil and violence under some artificial, expertly manicured facade. Disney depicted everything in their cartoons: hunger, violence, greed, war etc. but cute. And that sickened him.
I learned that hearing cute girls tell anecdotes about their butts can be very appealing, but I think I already knew this on some level. I learned that seventy-nine percent of people who visit the site Streetgangs.com (at least those who participated in the poll) think that Barack Obama is going to win in November.
I also learned that sometimes, even when you think you can tell a set of twins apart, one from the other, you really can't, and you'd better hope that that doesn't lead to anything awkward.
On another note, a strange thing happened to me at work today. There's this blonde woman who always comes in with a bunch of her friends. She has a really awful facelift and gives off trophy-wifeish vibes, and she's really loud and eccentric and it's hard to deal with because she's friendly and irreverent, but somehow gives the impression that if you take any liberties with her, she might blow her stack and endanger your job. Anyhow, she comes out of a theatre while I'm sweeping up and tells me it's freezing in there, and asks could I put the heat on or turn the air conditioning off? I say sure, and she says
"good cuz, it's so cold in there. See?" and she grabs my wrist. I think maybe she wants me to feel her hands, which would be forward enough, but she bends down and touches my wrist with her nose.
Weird huh? I mean, it didn't bother me. Hey, her nose was cold, she had a reason to be upset, I'll certainly give her that. I wonder if she has any idea that this behavior could be construed as weird, or offensive. I wonder if this was some sort of come on?
I'll let you people mull that over.
Friday, August 1, 2008
...huh...
Well, I guess I screwed the pooch on that one. I really did intend to write a series of thoughtful pieces about my trip to India, little journal-like bits which would catalogue the emotional highlights of this trip and try to evoke, for the American reader, the complex experience of a young NRI as he tries to understand himself in the context of the ancient culture and complicated family he was born into.
This, of course, begs the question: "What American reader?" Who the fuck did I want to write all this for? Probably me. Also, I've been to India before. This was only one of many trips I've taken in the last ten years, so why did I expect this one to bear literary fruit? Well I dunno. In any case, maybe next time I go I'll write a fuckin' book.
My dad is listening to some weepy love song by Gordon Lightfoot. That kind of stuff always makes me a little maudlin. Gordon Lightfoot confuses me, he seems too talented to be so mediocre. Maybe I don't know what I'm talking about.
I wonder if I should publish this post. It doesn't seem to be going anywhere, really, and I think I'm only writing it because I haven't updated in a while, and I stubbornly refuse to let go of this blog. The act of writing stuff down and throwing it up on the internet for all the world to see is really the kind of high narcissism which I find addictive. In the months I've had this thing, I don't think I've attracted a single foreign reader. At least judging by the comments, the only fools who've peeped the hectic steez on this rantpage have been people I know. Which is nice, because it means that I have some friends who care enough to check this thing from time to time and read what I write. But, and I'll own up to this, I think at bottom I'm really writing this to get laid. This shouldn't surprise anyone, really. I do lot's of stuff to get laid. Like shower, try to look okay, try to be reasonably functional, I mean, really, almost everything I do is done to either get play, stave off death or unhappiness, or both. This is most likely true of most people.
Okay, cool, so now I'm waxing philosophical. See you never know where these things will go when you start them.
Another quick thing about Lightfoot. I really like that song "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald". Many people who know it, don't. It has been variously reamed out by the likes of Seinfeld and Dave Barry, but why? It's not a bad song, and anyway growling out "folk" songs with campy old-time pioneer and maritime imagery is kind of his gig, and so what? More power to him!
Anyhow, on a totally unrelated note, I've been hearing some rumbling to the effect that Barack Obama is too skinny to be President. Now, this could very well be true for all I know. I mean, we all know how much brute strength and sheer physical stamina is neccesary to adequately dispatch the duties of Commander in Chief. For example, when, inevitably, Barack Obama finds that his country needs him to defeat Lex Luthor and Fu Manchu in hand to hand combat or intercept an incoming ICBM in midair and pitch it into the sun, well, then we'll probably all wish we'd elected a more hale and hearty president like the septaugenarian John McCain.
But, yeah, I mean I don't really like Obama that much. I'll vote for him because I actively dislike the opposition, but I'm not a huge fan. I will say this, though: It seems like Obama has been the victim of more fierce mudslinging than I remember ever seeing. It would seem that Obama is a runty, elitist slum lord who hates America and the working man, has a black militant wife, attends a black supremacist church, and wants to piss all over the second amendment so that his friends in Hamas and the Weather Underground can come in and fuck us all up. Huh.
Well friends, I'm sure you're all tired of this bit by now, tune in next time when I'll piss and moan about my job, talk about pears, and try to tie both in with the kennedy assassination or something. Cheers!
This, of course, begs the question: "What American reader?" Who the fuck did I want to write all this for? Probably me. Also, I've been to India before. This was only one of many trips I've taken in the last ten years, so why did I expect this one to bear literary fruit? Well I dunno. In any case, maybe next time I go I'll write a fuckin' book.
My dad is listening to some weepy love song by Gordon Lightfoot. That kind of stuff always makes me a little maudlin. Gordon Lightfoot confuses me, he seems too talented to be so mediocre. Maybe I don't know what I'm talking about.
I wonder if I should publish this post. It doesn't seem to be going anywhere, really, and I think I'm only writing it because I haven't updated in a while, and I stubbornly refuse to let go of this blog. The act of writing stuff down and throwing it up on the internet for all the world to see is really the kind of high narcissism which I find addictive. In the months I've had this thing, I don't think I've attracted a single foreign reader. At least judging by the comments, the only fools who've peeped the hectic steez on this rantpage have been people I know. Which is nice, because it means that I have some friends who care enough to check this thing from time to time and read what I write. But, and I'll own up to this, I think at bottom I'm really writing this to get laid. This shouldn't surprise anyone, really. I do lot's of stuff to get laid. Like shower, try to look okay, try to be reasonably functional, I mean, really, almost everything I do is done to either get play, stave off death or unhappiness, or both. This is most likely true of most people.
Okay, cool, so now I'm waxing philosophical. See you never know where these things will go when you start them.
Another quick thing about Lightfoot. I really like that song "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald". Many people who know it, don't. It has been variously reamed out by the likes of Seinfeld and Dave Barry, but why? It's not a bad song, and anyway growling out "folk" songs with campy old-time pioneer and maritime imagery is kind of his gig, and so what? More power to him!
Anyhow, on a totally unrelated note, I've been hearing some rumbling to the effect that Barack Obama is too skinny to be President. Now, this could very well be true for all I know. I mean, we all know how much brute strength and sheer physical stamina is neccesary to adequately dispatch the duties of Commander in Chief. For example, when, inevitably, Barack Obama finds that his country needs him to defeat Lex Luthor and Fu Manchu in hand to hand combat or intercept an incoming ICBM in midair and pitch it into the sun, well, then we'll probably all wish we'd elected a more hale and hearty president like the septaugenarian John McCain.
But, yeah, I mean I don't really like Obama that much. I'll vote for him because I actively dislike the opposition, but I'm not a huge fan. I will say this, though: It seems like Obama has been the victim of more fierce mudslinging than I remember ever seeing. It would seem that Obama is a runty, elitist slum lord who hates America and the working man, has a black militant wife, attends a black supremacist church, and wants to piss all over the second amendment so that his friends in Hamas and the Weather Underground can come in and fuck us all up. Huh.
Well friends, I'm sure you're all tired of this bit by now, tune in next time when I'll piss and moan about my job, talk about pears, and try to tie both in with the kennedy assassination or something. Cheers!
Friday, June 6, 2008
Bande Mataram!
So I am currently in India, on one of my annual trips to the motherland, where I will attempt to disgorge from my fouled system the white man's poison, cleanse from my corrupted consciousness the oppressive shackles of Patriarchy, cut from my diseased flesh the parasites of anthropocentrism, avarice and false piety. And suckle from the life giving breast of Bharati, bathing in her gentle streams and sitting as a king at her table.
Or something like that. In any event I'm here, and I'm here for two solid months. This will be the longest block of time I've ever spent in this hot, bright, gorgeous, loud, fragrant, malodorous, beautiful, blessed, rotten fucking country. As I write this, I am forced to steal precious time at the keyboard in between photographs. My cousin is getting married, and the whole family is gathered in the living room of my aunts house taking more pictures than Ansel Adams took during his whole career. I'm sweaty, disheveled, dazed from jet lag and uninterrupted travel, and a little worried that I may have inadvertently pissed off one of my uncles. I'm something like the loveable jackass of the family, and that act can get tiresome after awhile, for everyone. Still and all, I'm happy. Happy to be back in a country that has always captured my imagination, evoked intense and complicated emotions, and never failed to effortlessly crack my hard agnostic shell, albeit temporarily.
Traveling here via Taiwan and Malaysia, with a long series of connecting flights, one hotel stay and endless hours spent waiting at various terminals, it occurred to me that we should perhaps devise a way to quantify poise, grace, and savvy while traveling. Writing about Leonard Cohen, Tom Robbins said that he was a man of the future, equally comfortable hailing a cab in Paris and giving a lecture in L.A., or something to that effect. If such a scale were devised I wonder how I'd fare. Apart from a rather stressful moment when trying to get to the hotel in Malaysia, and an unfortunate episode, just moments from meeting my Uncle and cousin at the airport in Hyderabad, when I was reamed by a duplicitous customs agent who charged me $160 to bring in my cousin's wedding jewelry, it was a smooth journey.
This is hopefully the first of many updates which I'll post while I'm here. Hopefully they will be most edifying for the two or so people who regularly read this fucking thing.
Or something like that. In any event I'm here, and I'm here for two solid months. This will be the longest block of time I've ever spent in this hot, bright, gorgeous, loud, fragrant, malodorous, beautiful, blessed, rotten fucking country. As I write this, I am forced to steal precious time at the keyboard in between photographs. My cousin is getting married, and the whole family is gathered in the living room of my aunts house taking more pictures than Ansel Adams took during his whole career. I'm sweaty, disheveled, dazed from jet lag and uninterrupted travel, and a little worried that I may have inadvertently pissed off one of my uncles. I'm something like the loveable jackass of the family, and that act can get tiresome after awhile, for everyone. Still and all, I'm happy. Happy to be back in a country that has always captured my imagination, evoked intense and complicated emotions, and never failed to effortlessly crack my hard agnostic shell, albeit temporarily.
Traveling here via Taiwan and Malaysia, with a long series of connecting flights, one hotel stay and endless hours spent waiting at various terminals, it occurred to me that we should perhaps devise a way to quantify poise, grace, and savvy while traveling. Writing about Leonard Cohen, Tom Robbins said that he was a man of the future, equally comfortable hailing a cab in Paris and giving a lecture in L.A., or something to that effect. If such a scale were devised I wonder how I'd fare. Apart from a rather stressful moment when trying to get to the hotel in Malaysia, and an unfortunate episode, just moments from meeting my Uncle and cousin at the airport in Hyderabad, when I was reamed by a duplicitous customs agent who charged me $160 to bring in my cousin's wedding jewelry, it was a smooth journey.
This is hopefully the first of many updates which I'll post while I'm here. Hopefully they will be most edifying for the two or so people who regularly read this fucking thing.
Friday, May 23, 2008
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:
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 14th 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.
...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 14th 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.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
...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.
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.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
...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.
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.
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