i was digging for inspiration, looking for something to push me forward and make me spit out some more words.
in my digging, i opened up an old file on my computer and found some fragments and musings that i figured would be interesting to share. here is the first:
...the trick then isn't to remain changeless and rigid, to let the things around you change with your awareness but without your reaction. let us also not confuse this amateurish stoicism for the ignorance of denial, for one is a pity and one is a plague. the idea would be to apply some temperance to the fate of man, for fate alone moves without conscience; but, the fate of man, That imbues itself with a sense of his own unknown capability and thust isn't without some humanity; it cannot be stopped, but it can be moved.
more to come...
4.09.2007
4.02.2007
Dull and Boring
it may be that a constant shroud of grey dew and mist has parked itself conveniently above our island. or, it could be that the windows from which i must always peer are in a constant state of never-clean; limescale, grit, and other unknown sludge compounds -- whose origins are from the city's maw and the foul rear-ends of its cars no doubt -- tirelessly fling themselves at even the faintest hint of clarity.
it might have only just struck me last night, as i rode the clickety clacking subway car home from a long sunday's worth of work. and, there, across from me and about 20 paces to my right stood a man, sucking and puckering and feeling for the memory of his teeth with his chapped lips and sallow cheeks. cheekbones like isosceles triangles and wide-set, pinhole eyes that glinted in the sterile lamplight. he was talking. above the din and growl of the six train he shouted in lisps and light whistles at his reflection in the dark glass. it was murky, like the rest of the bespeckled panels throughout our town.
at least he could see what he was shouting at, despite its distortion.
around me there seems to be a general 'dull and boring' permeating my surroundings, with only low points as accents to the otherwise sloth-like monotony. each one trying to creep lower than the previous--toothless men plagued by dementia, blind beggers, disfigured families...
and i just keep wandering through it. so do most of us, i think. it comes out best in the mornings, when the zombies march to their train stations and sit or stand in silence, complacently -- vacantly -- staring. i always wonder if they're looking for something, even a murky reflection.
i'm looking for something, just can't figure out what it is. and, while i keep looking, i keep wandering. and the filth and the mire and the sludge keeps piling up. i get the feeling that if i wait too long i'll find myself in quicksand.
maybe i'll just go eat some thai food. that usually makes things better.
it might have only just struck me last night, as i rode the clickety clacking subway car home from a long sunday's worth of work. and, there, across from me and about 20 paces to my right stood a man, sucking and puckering and feeling for the memory of his teeth with his chapped lips and sallow cheeks. cheekbones like isosceles triangles and wide-set, pinhole eyes that glinted in the sterile lamplight. he was talking. above the din and growl of the six train he shouted in lisps and light whistles at his reflection in the dark glass. it was murky, like the rest of the bespeckled panels throughout our town.
at least he could see what he was shouting at, despite its distortion.
around me there seems to be a general 'dull and boring' permeating my surroundings, with only low points as accents to the otherwise sloth-like monotony. each one trying to creep lower than the previous--toothless men plagued by dementia, blind beggers, disfigured families...
and i just keep wandering through it. so do most of us, i think. it comes out best in the mornings, when the zombies march to their train stations and sit or stand in silence, complacently -- vacantly -- staring. i always wonder if they're looking for something, even a murky reflection.
i'm looking for something, just can't figure out what it is. and, while i keep looking, i keep wandering. and the filth and the mire and the sludge keeps piling up. i get the feeling that if i wait too long i'll find myself in quicksand.
maybe i'll just go eat some thai food. that usually makes things better.
1.17.2007
Can We Still Rally?
the other night, over dinner with a friend, i believe an important question reared its head:where has our fervor gone?
why does it appear that the american public is only mildly concerned with the current state of affairs in this country? why is this mild concern meagerly supported by a dearth of examples, further hindering our awareness and leaving efforts hamstrung? and why do these efforts seem sporadic at best?
initially, my friend and i, we gravitated toward the 'media.' between its fragmentation and various vehicles, we simply concluded that its coverage of this war is equally fragmented and varied. and, well, it fills the gaps with things that amount to news-journalism "rubbernecking." we hear about porn revenues, people getting beat up, tv hosts dropping the F Bomb, spats amongst celebrities. and, as interesting and pleasing as these things are to read--they satisfy some cerebral sweet tooth--they take up space in our newspapers, websites, radio shows, magazines, and newscasts. they fill up time that might be better spent examining more necessary issues. moreover, they distract us.
for instance:
there were over 100 people killed in iraq on tuesday. yet, the only thing i really heard about was how hot brangelina looked at the golden globes.
now, i understand that if i really wanted to find some coverage on this disturbing wartime fact, i could dig around for a few minutes and find it. but my worry isn't about a situation like this. there are people who care deeply, and they find the facts; and they do talk about them. but, on the whole, these folks appear (at least to me) to be a vast minority. the issues they try to bring to the forefront can be given cursory coverage in major news sources and compete for ratings on tv newscasts where people naturally gravitate towards less taxing issues, like red carpet fashions.
even still, i think many might agree that there is sufficient coverage of some of the more pressing matters concerning our involvement in this war, and that one need only take a step in any direction to land on it. i admit that it would be difficult for me to argue against this position for an extended period of time.
and so, this situation, this 'mild concern' that i'm discussing, is a cause for even greater perplexity (again, perhaps just for me)...
...if i acquiesce and concede that there may in fact be satisfactory coverage of our involvement in this war and the issues involved in it, how is it that americans still appear to be, on the whole, rather apathetic about the whole thing?
my friend and i, we continued our debate on this point of contention, trying to lay blame. in doing so, we found our focus tightening. it no longer settled on 'media' as a whole. our aim now trained on what i'll call the 'curators'--the newscasters, editors, producers. for if, out there in the media ether, there exists sufficient wartime analysis to counter my previous assertion, and yet we still remain lethargic in response to the facts, then it must be concluded that one cannot necessarily depend on the american people to actively seek out the truth and debate it. therefore, it takes someone to direct us, to literally make us look at what is most important. this job lies in the hands of these 'curators,' as they control the distribution, the lineup, the commentary; they are the sources of dissemination.
there was a time when curators dealt the truth whether we wanted to hear it or not. and because those views rang true, we had no choice but to hear. they forced us to pay attention. during his coverage of the vietnam war, walter cronkite was brave enough to make us stop and listen. during his newscast on february 19, 1968 he opined that the war had become a "stalemate" that had to be ended, and so we must "negotiate."
ultimately, his comments helped lead our country out of that war, perhaps contributing to president johnson's decision to end our commitment in vietnam.
meanwhile, today, we have nbc newscasters labeling the situation in iraq as "civil war."
i find this to be a sad, stark contrast. and, unfortunately, most people are suffering for it--iraqis and americans alike. it's a "civil war" mentality that allows the importance of our wartime status to sneak past the american conscience and become a demoted, second-tier issue, effecting everything related to it.
in the end, however, i think it's difficult to place onus on any one group or person or thing. but then, this isn't the sort of issue that is bettered as result of allocating blame. rather than try to figure out where the problem started, it's better for us to decide how to fix it.
and so, i want to test the waters. i'm posting this article on digg.com. i urge you to help make this post stand out from the rest. i want to use it as a starting point. if enough support can be rallied, i hope to use it as a means of organizing a march in washington d.c.. something large enough to get everyone's attention. i've never done anything like this before, that's why i hope you'll take me seriously and help show that people still do care.
let's see what happens.
1.11.2007
You Pay For What You (Don't) Get
it would appear that many of my musings are inspired or occur whilst in coffee shops.this deep thought is brought to you by starbucks.
let us walk through a scenario which i believe we can all relate to.
step 1: enter starbucks
step 2: queue in line
step 3: approach 'barista'
step 4: order
step 5: pay
step 6: get coffee
in a perfect world, this scenario unfolds from step 1 in a rather prompt and sequential manner. after all, it make sense that after step 1 comes step 2 and then step 3 and so on. until, in a reasonable amount of time, you're holding the multi-syllabic caffeinated beverage of your choice.
however, in a perfect world, we live not.
and so, our scenario's impenetrable logic suddenly begins to breakdown. everything still unfolds from step 1, but the fluidity and promptness of the process begins to deteriorate at step 5. here, there is a sort of barista brain fart, a hiccup.
the bone of contention for me is trying to understand what in god's name happens between steps 5 and 6. and, more importantly, why this mystery event--let's call it step 5.5--is acceptable.
after the barista has taken my money at step 5 thus ensues The Long Wait (aka step 5.5). it is at this particular juncture that i have taken value i own--i.e. cash--and transferred that value to the barista with the expectation of receiving a perishable good of commensurate value to the cash i just dispensed.
however, in return, i receive nothing. in fact, not only do i receive nothing, but worse, i am made to wait whilst still receiving nothing for an undetermined, protracted period of time ...the duration of which i have no control over.
this when i find myself asking:
"what did i just pay for?"
to anticipate a critique of this rationale:
yes, inevitably and ultimately i do receive my caffeine fix for the day. but my gripe is not with the end--i paid for that; i expect my coffee. my gripe is with the means--i didn't pay for that; why am i paying a price just to stand there?
so, in this limbo where i have paid for something and not yet received it, i'm waiting in a space where i've in fact paid for nothing.
the next question is:
"why are these 15 other people standing here? and why is this an acceptable paradigm for them?"
other holes people might try to punch in this conundrum involve examples.
for instance: plane tickets.
we buy those in advance. why don't you make the same claim about waiting for a flight to board when there's a delay or bad weather?
my answer:
i'm complaining about coffee. COFFEE.
it requires a process of grinding beans and then pouring hot water through them to produce a drink.
the counter-example involves airplanes.
airplanes are highly sophisticated machines with innumerable pieces, parts, nuances etc. furthermore, to fly one requires coordination on an advanced level. there's the FAA, flight control, other planes, radar, flight paths, etc. finally, weather can't be controlled, nor can it be well-predicted. simply put, flying on an airplane contains a sufficient amount of variables as to require a passenger to not only be un-phased by delays but to actually expect/anticipate them.
coffee on the other hand does not satisfy this 'numerous variable' requirement.
what do you think?
1.02.2007
2 + 1 + 2 Things You Don't Know About Me
got a tag from Jack Cheng to participate in a nice little project: five things you don't know about me. here comes the weirdness...
1. i'm incredibly OCD. i'm obsessed with the number thirteen. i view it as an auspicious sign when i look at a digital clock and it reads X hour and 13 minutes. if i want something good to happen, i will ask myself if it is going to happen and then look at the clock. if it is at the 13th minute, i will then count to thirteen in my head; and, if the minute doesn't change then i'm somewhat more hopeful of the prospect of this wish being fulfilled. likewise, i won't turn off the shower until i count backwards from 10 to -3.
2. conversely, i hate the number 14. i believe it to be the unluckiest of all numbers. if, when going through the above exercise of asking for a wish to fulfilled, i see the 14th minute on the clock, i'm pretty much certain that whatever it is i hoped for is now marked for death.
3. i love legos. i still build them with my nephews whenever i visit them. when i was little, i built an entire lego world based around the then magical monorail. it filled my whole room, and regular sized adults would have to sort of bob and weave to make their way through it.
4. i speak french
5. i have a 125mph serve. (i used to play a lot of tennis)
sadly, i know not who else to tag as all of my blogosphere contacts have been used up between my friends Jack and Ryan. they would've been Concha, Piers, Bryan, and then Ryan and Jack.
alas, i know no other bloggers. maybe i'll try aziz. he doesn't know me, but i bet his list would be interesting.
1. i'm incredibly OCD. i'm obsessed with the number thirteen. i view it as an auspicious sign when i look at a digital clock and it reads X hour and 13 minutes. if i want something good to happen, i will ask myself if it is going to happen and then look at the clock. if it is at the 13th minute, i will then count to thirteen in my head; and, if the minute doesn't change then i'm somewhat more hopeful of the prospect of this wish being fulfilled. likewise, i won't turn off the shower until i count backwards from 10 to -3.
2. conversely, i hate the number 14. i believe it to be the unluckiest of all numbers. if, when going through the above exercise of asking for a wish to fulfilled, i see the 14th minute on the clock, i'm pretty much certain that whatever it is i hoped for is now marked for death.
3. i love legos. i still build them with my nephews whenever i visit them. when i was little, i built an entire lego world based around the then magical monorail. it filled my whole room, and regular sized adults would have to sort of bob and weave to make their way through it.
4. i speak french
5. i have a 125mph serve. (i used to play a lot of tennis)
sadly, i know not who else to tag as all of my blogosphere contacts have been used up between my friends Jack and Ryan. they would've been Concha, Piers, Bryan, and then Ryan and Jack.
alas, i know no other bloggers. maybe i'll try aziz. he doesn't know me, but i bet his list would be interesting.
12.28.2006
(early) New Year's Resolution
not that anyone is actually reading...
but, my first ever New Year's Resolution will be to post something, anything, one single thing...
at least once per week.
(fingers crossed)
but, my first ever New Year's Resolution will be to post something, anything, one single thing...
at least once per week.
(fingers crossed)
10.21.2006
Human Assist
this really happened
some guy: "oh, and we have this great feature called 'human assist.'"
me: "okay?"
some guy: "yeah, we get real people do some of the work and act as filters."
it's like a we're living in the prelude to a movie, and it's called the terminator. with the utterance of that single term, 'human assist,' pictures of anthropomorphic cyborgs
and human batteries
quickly flashed through my mind. it wasn't a hard leap to envision the apocolypse unfolding right after this guy finished talking to me.
it's just that if we accept something like 'human assist' then we've suddenly begun subjugating ourselves to something else, constantly deferring to whatever we're 'assisting.' what's even more bothersome is how casually this concept is passed off and how readily this man accepted it as the next best thing since sliced bread. that sort of complacencey is dangerous.
it also mindlessly demeans everything we do. now, we don't actually do anything, we just assist. shit, i can hook a light bulb up to a hamster wheel and let a gerbil 'assist' me. do we really want to start thinking of ourselves as rodents? it's a slippery slope, i know. but this guy is committing us to a very scary first step.
some guy: "oh, and we have this great feature called 'human assist.'"
me: "okay?"
some guy: "yeah, we get real people do some of the work and act as filters."
it's like a we're living in the prelude to a movie, and it's called the terminator. with the utterance of that single term, 'human assist,' pictures of anthropomorphic cyborgs
and human batteries
quickly flashed through my mind. it wasn't a hard leap to envision the apocolypse unfolding right after this guy finished talking to me.
it's just that if we accept something like 'human assist' then we've suddenly begun subjugating ourselves to something else, constantly deferring to whatever we're 'assisting.' what's even more bothersome is how casually this concept is passed off and how readily this man accepted it as the next best thing since sliced bread. that sort of complacencey is dangerous.
it also mindlessly demeans everything we do. now, we don't actually do anything, we just assist. shit, i can hook a light bulb up to a hamster wheel and let a gerbil 'assist' me. do we really want to start thinking of ourselves as rodents? it's a slippery slope, i know. but this guy is committing us to a very scary first step.
A Haiku for Speakerphone
oh lady in the
cafe why do you talk on
speakerphone near me?
maybe you are old
and cannot hear things very well
is that why you yell?
who cares because we
all don't need to know about
your spreading rash and bad breath
cafe why do you talk on
speakerphone near me?
maybe you are old
and cannot hear things very well
is that why you yell?
who cares because we
all don't need to know about
your spreading rash and bad breath
10.15.2006
The Moden Man's Guide to Survival
we've lost sight...
"pray tell, what have we lost sight of?" you ask.
it's hard to say outright, so i'll detail a few observations.
oh, and minor caveat, i'm as guilty as anyone else regarding this blindness. come to think of it, i'm just guilty.
on to the good stuff. here is a list of two things:
1. lighter
2. matches
if i want to fire up the grill, i reach for one of those two items. i can suck down smoke because i have matches in my pocket. when i feel like burning stuff, it flames from the molded plastic butane torch that i picked up in the bodega.
back in the day, our cro-magnon forefathers rubbed some twigs around. before that they banged rocks together. before that, they froze their asses off and everything they ate would qualify for what we now call a 'raw bar.'
i've watched my fair share of cable tv, which is to say that i've seen countless re-runs of 'castaway' on tbs. and, i think it's safe to say that tom hanks has single handedly provided us with the modern man's guide to survival.
if i were marooned on an island... no. something even more minor: if i was lost in a field 5 minutes from my house, i'd be fucked. i don't hunt, i don't tie knots, and i can't tell time via the sun. i can, however, cook up a mean pot of mac and cheese using my patent-pending 'sublimation' technique. even then, i need a stove.
it is a sad fact to say that the only reason i'd even be able to keep myself warm on those lonely nights a stone's throw away from my favorite modern amenities is because of the drama that unfolded between one stranded tom hanks, two pieces of drift wood, and a volleyball named wilson. it just leads me to think that we've drifted a long way ourselves ...from some of the essential elements the make us who are.
sure, we innovate. we create technology. we find ways to insulate ourselves and make things more convenient, more accessible. but, by pursuing a particular path of intellectual achievement, i think some of our better parts atrophy at the expense of a greater good whose goal isn't quite clear.
do we really need to make another, faster computer? what does this get us? faster youtube downloads. better porn. server farms and petaflops. energy crises. i'm not sure that these are really essential to anything innately 'human.' nonetheless, i exploit all of these luxuries just as much (or more) than anyone else.
perhaps it's that these innovations no longer enhance our survival; it's that they allow us to forget survival's necessity. maybe that's what bothers me. because i'm certainly not suggesting we all go out in the woods for a few days, hunt bobcats, eat some raw meat, and make thicket houses to get in touch with our roots.
i just think there's something to be said for the type of innovation requisite to survival. there's a spirit to it and a necessity that speaks to an efficiency, a purity ignorant of excess.
i wonder if anyone pauses to think how important that flame is in their hand when they strike a match or spark a lighter. i doubt they do.
maybe we just need to readjust our bearings.
"pray tell, what have we lost sight of?" you ask.
it's hard to say outright, so i'll detail a few observations.
oh, and minor caveat, i'm as guilty as anyone else regarding this blindness. come to think of it, i'm just guilty.
on to the good stuff. here is a list of two things:
1. lighter
2. matches
if i want to fire up the grill, i reach for one of those two items. i can suck down smoke because i have matches in my pocket. when i feel like burning stuff, it flames from the molded plastic butane torch that i picked up in the bodega.
back in the day, our cro-magnon forefathers rubbed some twigs around. before that they banged rocks together. before that, they froze their asses off and everything they ate would qualify for what we now call a 'raw bar.'
i've watched my fair share of cable tv, which is to say that i've seen countless re-runs of 'castaway' on tbs. and, i think it's safe to say that tom hanks has single handedly provided us with the modern man's guide to survival.
if i were marooned on an island... no. something even more minor: if i was lost in a field 5 minutes from my house, i'd be fucked. i don't hunt, i don't tie knots, and i can't tell time via the sun. i can, however, cook up a mean pot of mac and cheese using my patent-pending 'sublimation' technique. even then, i need a stove.
it is a sad fact to say that the only reason i'd even be able to keep myself warm on those lonely nights a stone's throw away from my favorite modern amenities is because of the drama that unfolded between one stranded tom hanks, two pieces of drift wood, and a volleyball named wilson. it just leads me to think that we've drifted a long way ourselves ...from some of the essential elements the make us who are.
sure, we innovate. we create technology. we find ways to insulate ourselves and make things more convenient, more accessible. but, by pursuing a particular path of intellectual achievement, i think some of our better parts atrophy at the expense of a greater good whose goal isn't quite clear.
do we really need to make another, faster computer? what does this get us? faster youtube downloads. better porn. server farms and petaflops. energy crises. i'm not sure that these are really essential to anything innately 'human.' nonetheless, i exploit all of these luxuries just as much (or more) than anyone else.
perhaps it's that these innovations no longer enhance our survival; it's that they allow us to forget survival's necessity. maybe that's what bothers me. because i'm certainly not suggesting we all go out in the woods for a few days, hunt bobcats, eat some raw meat, and make thicket houses to get in touch with our roots.
i just think there's something to be said for the type of innovation requisite to survival. there's a spirit to it and a necessity that speaks to an efficiency, a purity ignorant of excess.
i wonder if anyone pauses to think how important that flame is in their hand when they strike a match or spark a lighter. i doubt they do.
maybe we just need to readjust our bearings.
9.27.2006
Smelly
my computer is smelly.i have an old computer. it's a laptop. sometimes i lug it with me places like the coffee shop or the deli or maybe somehwere else too. the outside of my smellbox is festooned with stickers ...but not flowery stickers, as "festoon" might have suggested to some. nope. they're just random stickers.
they were stuck there with the intention of infecting the smellbox with some character. we do that with our cars. when they get old, these automobiles (not 'cars'; cars are new) get little additions. they start to grow fuzzy dice or hula girls or furry steering wheels. and, you see bumper stickers that say "how's my driving?" or "my other car's a mazerati." and, then the car is named "steve-o" or "betty" or "kiki." somehow, the total sum of these attributes meets the minimum threshold of what we consider a personality because, as the clock winds down, we start to say things like, "kiki sure is fiesty, but she's been good to me" or "steve-o, he hangs in tough. he's a scrapper; that's why i like him." and so it goes.
i thought i could manage the same fate for my sharp-cornered laptop by stickering it. but, as its name is smellbox, it's pretty clear that the stickers didn't really do much for its character. they've been far outshined by smelliness. my laptop is that ugly, smelly kid that always grossed you out in gym class ...but, now, with the stickers, he's got an extreme case of acne.
icing on the cake.
my funky laptop is a people-repellant. it's the funk that does it; i'm pretty sure. i go somewhere with my smellbox, and i open it up and turn it on. it takes one to two minutes for the armpit-smell to waft up from beneath the keyboard. if you could see it, i think it would look like that stink-ribbon that always trailed skunks in old cartoons.
it's only a matter of time before that ribbon winds its way beneath elmer fudd's nose.
we all know what happens next:
can't shoot my smellbox though. i need it. to write this.
is it bad that i'm talking about it right now? i wonder if it can tell. maybe it will get back at me. like when that crazy computer started to eat richard pryor in superman 3. that would suck.
anyway.
it's just me and my smellbox. everytime i sit down with it, people start to leave. i think the girl sitting next to me is talking about it right now. she's speaking russian, but sometimes she'll turn her head to look at me during her phone conversation and say some words in english, like "smelly" and "hairy" and "guy" and "computer."
poor smellbox. he's good, but no one likes to be near him.
9.20.2006
Tacos!
first, some background:
microsoft has released a new little gizmo to compete with the ipod. it's called "the zune." you can't buy it yet, but a lot of people are talking about it. by a lot of people, i mean gadget freaks and techies who sit up all night scouring the interwebs for pr0n. not...say...housewives who sit in the audience of the ellen degeneres show and shop at kmart.
speaking of dancing lesbians, ms. degeneres decided to give a whole bunch of these little guys away to her audience. following her announcement, mayhem ensues. the good stuff jumps off at around 1:12 in the clip below.
basically, we get some good looks of 30- to 40- something women jumping up and down, screaming, yelling, hugging each other; it's a fucking frenzy. i think i even saw one girl start crying. take a look...
microsoft has released a new little gizmo to compete with the ipod. it's called "the zune." you can't buy it yet, but a lot of people are talking about it. by a lot of people, i mean gadget freaks and techies who sit up all night scouring the interwebs for pr0n. not...say...housewives who sit in the audience of the ellen degeneres show and shop at kmart.
speaking of dancing lesbians, ms. degeneres decided to give a whole bunch of these little guys away to her audience. following her announcement, mayhem ensues. the good stuff jumps off at around 1:12 in the clip below.
basically, we get some good looks of 30- to 40- something women jumping up and down, screaming, yelling, hugging each other; it's a fucking frenzy. i think i even saw one girl start crying. take a look...
here's my gripe (i'm about to get all 'marketing-speak-y' for a minute): these women, this particular demographic--the audience that watches daytime soaps, oprah, and 'the view'--their ken revolves around things like new 'scrubbing bubbles,' febreze, playtex 24-hour bras, and manwich meals. i bet if you stopped one of them on the street and asked her to give you a zune, she'd track down the nearest police officer and tell him that you asked her to do something involving drugs or sexual favors; she's not sure which, but she's positive it had something to do with one or the other. and yet, when ellen mentions that they're all getting one of these things, they flip out like a bunch of 14 year-olds at an aaron carter concert.
this got me thinking: if they really have no idea what this doo-hickey is that they're being given, ellen could have probably said anything--ANYTHING--and they would've all still gone schizo. it's as if they came to the show just waiting for an excuse to go apeshit and jump up and down and hug each other. they were primed, they just needed an excuse. to that end, our nation's favorite daytime talkshow host could've said, "and hey! guess what! you're all getting tacos!"
Cue 'madness.'
or maybe they were just desperate for free shit. this paints an even bleaker picture.
1. it portrays our countrymen/women as a people ravenous for a handout, no matter how relevant or useful said handout happens to be.
2. the broadcast is transformed from an object of mere entertainment to that of psychological conditioning. this show and its audience's reaction cleverly becomes a model, exemplary of how all citizens of the free world should act when given something by someone of a higher caste. we must be grateful for their generosity; we must celebrate these crumbs for without them, we would only have CD players. and, god, would that suck.
imagine what would've happened if ellen offered to give them free sour cream, too; there would've been riots of celebration pouring from the studio into the street.
this got me thinking: if they really have no idea what this doo-hickey is that they're being given, ellen could have probably said anything--ANYTHING--and they would've all still gone schizo. it's as if they came to the show just waiting for an excuse to go apeshit and jump up and down and hug each other. they were primed, they just needed an excuse. to that end, our nation's favorite daytime talkshow host could've said, "and hey! guess what! you're all getting tacos!"
Cue 'madness.'
or maybe they were just desperate for free shit. this paints an even bleaker picture.
1. it portrays our countrymen/women as a people ravenous for a handout, no matter how relevant or useful said handout happens to be.
2. the broadcast is transformed from an object of mere entertainment to that of psychological conditioning. this show and its audience's reaction cleverly becomes a model, exemplary of how all citizens of the free world should act when given something by someone of a higher caste. we must be grateful for their generosity; we must celebrate these crumbs for without them, we would only have CD players. and, god, would that suck.
imagine what would've happened if ellen offered to give them free sour cream, too; there would've been riots of celebration pouring from the studio into the street.
Donut Holes
a long day's afternoon is upon me, and i need a quick fix to keep my wits. i stroll over to the local coffee shop to pick up a double espresso (yeah, i know). it's been pretty busy at work, so i'm hoping that the line will move quickly.
let me digress for a moment. i have been cursed. specifically, a dark, pestilent plague has been cast upon me when it comes to waiting in lines. its modus operandi is to make me wait in line as long as possible for no reason. and, for the most part, when i am waiting in said lines, i am in a desperate hurry. i'm not sure why i'm always in such a hurry, but i think the act of waiting in line in and of itself has something to do with it. and so, i will say this: i fucking hate waiting in line.
the nature of a line is like that of a reservoir, and a reservoir is the illusion of the polite management of pressure. millions and millions of gallons of water have been corralled and bottled-up, exerting unheard of amounts of newton-meters of force on whatever has been engineered to contain it. usually, this containment comes in the form of a dam. so, there sits a tranquil midwestern town, over which looms the tall shadow of the great dam. behind this barrier is our gigantic volume of water dying to release its energy and rush freely over what is currently an impoverished, dry river bed; this water yearns to replenish and restore what was once a fecund valley, now occupied by...say...a coffee shop.
people in line are no different. as more gather, the pressure rises. however, we're not as passive as our liquid counterparts. so, as the line augments, its members become raucous, perturbed. they too feel the need to embark upon their intended paths, but something is holding them back: the dam. this time, though, the dam is equally unique.
it talks.
not only does it talk, but it has a cash register, an apron, and lingo. it has its very own fucking lexicon. and, it slings this ridiculous polysyllabic nonsense from its oral orifice at freakishly high volume, right in your face. this dam is running interference, trying to stuff its reservoir to maximum capacity.
meanwhile, this plague of mine, it festers and gurgles in the confines of my inner monologue and ultimately manifests as a throbbing neck vein. hitting something is usually the desired recourse and release. yet, as is the case, there isn't anything acceptable to hit. so i just stew, while the dam keeps spouting crap--the bottled up muck that results from stagnation.
finally, there's just one person--let's call him "Mongo"--in front of me. enter stage left, The Curse.
m: "yeah, uh, what are those there?" Mongo says, looking and pointing at round objects with holes in them, lying just beneath the glass counter top.
mind you, Mongo has no accent; he isn't from a far away place, untouched by man, dams, and coffee shops. all things considered, it in fact appears that Mongo is fairly accustomed to this procedure of ordering an object of which he is desirous.
d: "hi sir, how may help you?" as if the dam didn't just hear what Mongo had so astutely asked.
m: "yeah, those there," still pointing, "what are those?"
d: "those are donuts, sir," the dam replies.
then it enters into a long-winded exegesis, using the untranslatable lexicon to describe the history of said donuts and their romanticised journey. they started as sacred wheat in a remote african province and were blessed and harvested by anointed shamans (can you pluralize that?). from there they underwent an ancient, secret process by which they were combined with the rendered animal fat of sacrificial goats. bob's you uncle and, a dozen steps later, you got fucking donuts.
they're fucking donuts, not the holy sacrament.
m: "hmm, what was that you said about this one here," pointing at a donut that looks like this:
the explanation continues and, after another two or three wasted minutes, we get another gem:
d: "...and so that there is our luxurious glazed donut."
A glazed donut. Christ.
m: "okay, i think i'll have this one here. this one with the...uh...the stuff on it, right here. this one on your..."
Mongo turns around so that his right and left are synchronized with those of the dam. Mongo thinks for another minute, making sure the "right" he's about to refer to is in fact the same "right" of the dam. long pause--
m: "...the one on your right."
d: "the one here?" dam is pointing to his other right.
m: "no, that one, there on your other side."
d: "this one, here?"
m: "yes. yes, that one. that's the donut i'd like to order." Now all attention is focused on a donut that looks about like this:
m: "what's on that, anyway?"
d: "oh, i have no idea. it looks like..."
m: "yeah, gimme that one."
and here is my problem: who takes fifteen minutes to order something, let alone a goddamn donut, when he doesn't even know what it is? what if what he's just ordered isn't actually food at all? what if it was a mistake, and it's actually a mouldy cow patty that's found it's way from africa all the way to this counter? and, due to the intricate aging processes of mould, it just happens to resemble a donut?
what if Mongo is deathly allergic to not one, but ALL of the ingredients in this age-ripened-mouldy-cow-patty-donut?
what the fuck?!
i hope he chokes on that thing, has an allergic reaction, turns bright purple for ten days, then, a month later, his penis falls off.
i finally get to the counter.
a: "i'll have a double espresso, please." Gritting teeth.
d: "let me tell you about our exotic blends of beans..."
something has gone terribly wrong.
let me digress for a moment. i have been cursed. specifically, a dark, pestilent plague has been cast upon me when it comes to waiting in lines. its modus operandi is to make me wait in line as long as possible for no reason. and, for the most part, when i am waiting in said lines, i am in a desperate hurry. i'm not sure why i'm always in such a hurry, but i think the act of waiting in line in and of itself has something to do with it. and so, i will say this: i fucking hate waiting in line.
the nature of a line is like that of a reservoir, and a reservoir is the illusion of the polite management of pressure. millions and millions of gallons of water have been corralled and bottled-up, exerting unheard of amounts of newton-meters of force on whatever has been engineered to contain it. usually, this containment comes in the form of a dam. so, there sits a tranquil midwestern town, over which looms the tall shadow of the great dam. behind this barrier is our gigantic volume of water dying to release its energy and rush freely over what is currently an impoverished, dry river bed; this water yearns to replenish and restore what was once a fecund valley, now occupied by...say...a coffee shop.
people in line are no different. as more gather, the pressure rises. however, we're not as passive as our liquid counterparts. so, as the line augments, its members become raucous, perturbed. they too feel the need to embark upon their intended paths, but something is holding them back: the dam. this time, though, the dam is equally unique.
it talks.
not only does it talk, but it has a cash register, an apron, and lingo. it has its very own fucking lexicon. and, it slings this ridiculous polysyllabic nonsense from its oral orifice at freakishly high volume, right in your face. this dam is running interference, trying to stuff its reservoir to maximum capacity.
meanwhile, this plague of mine, it festers and gurgles in the confines of my inner monologue and ultimately manifests as a throbbing neck vein. hitting something is usually the desired recourse and release. yet, as is the case, there isn't anything acceptable to hit. so i just stew, while the dam keeps spouting crap--the bottled up muck that results from stagnation.
finally, there's just one person--let's call him "Mongo"--in front of me. enter stage left, The Curse.
m: "yeah, uh, what are those there?" Mongo says, looking and pointing at round objects with holes in them, lying just beneath the glass counter top.
mind you, Mongo has no accent; he isn't from a far away place, untouched by man, dams, and coffee shops. all things considered, it in fact appears that Mongo is fairly accustomed to this procedure of ordering an object of which he is desirous.
d: "hi sir, how may help you?" as if the dam didn't just hear what Mongo had so astutely asked.
m: "yeah, those there," still pointing, "what are those?"
d: "those are donuts, sir," the dam replies.
then it enters into a long-winded exegesis, using the untranslatable lexicon to describe the history of said donuts and their romanticised journey. they started as sacred wheat in a remote african province and were blessed and harvested by anointed shamans (can you pluralize that?). from there they underwent an ancient, secret process by which they were combined with the rendered animal fat of sacrificial goats. bob's you uncle and, a dozen steps later, you got fucking donuts.
they're fucking donuts, not the holy sacrament.
m: "hmm, what was that you said about this one here," pointing at a donut that looks like this:
the explanation continues and, after another two or three wasted minutes, we get another gem:
d: "...and so that there is our luxurious glazed donut."
A glazed donut. Christ.
m: "okay, i think i'll have this one here. this one with the...uh...the stuff on it, right here. this one on your..."
Mongo turns around so that his right and left are synchronized with those of the dam. Mongo thinks for another minute, making sure the "right" he's about to refer to is in fact the same "right" of the dam. long pause--
m: "...the one on your right."
d: "the one here?" dam is pointing to his other right.
m: "no, that one, there on your other side."
d: "this one, here?"
m: "yes. yes, that one. that's the donut i'd like to order." Now all attention is focused on a donut that looks about like this:
m: "what's on that, anyway?"
d: "oh, i have no idea. it looks like..."
m: "yeah, gimme that one."
and here is my problem: who takes fifteen minutes to order something, let alone a goddamn donut, when he doesn't even know what it is? what if what he's just ordered isn't actually food at all? what if it was a mistake, and it's actually a mouldy cow patty that's found it's way from africa all the way to this counter? and, due to the intricate aging processes of mould, it just happens to resemble a donut?
what if Mongo is deathly allergic to not one, but ALL of the ingredients in this age-ripened-mouldy-cow-patty-donut?
what the fuck?!
i hope he chokes on that thing, has an allergic reaction, turns bright purple for ten days, then, a month later, his penis falls off.
i finally get to the counter.
a: "i'll have a double espresso, please." Gritting teeth.
d: "let me tell you about our exotic blends of beans..."
something has gone terribly wrong.
9.16.2006
That Doesn't Fit You
i'm going to be an asshole.but someone needs to be. for all of our sakes. because frankly, this shit won't stand. correction: it can't stand. rather, it more or less hangs ...loosely ...gathered at the edges ...flapping, flopping, bouncing.
that shit hanging out from the side of your jeans, that's not cute. that's fat.
now, i'm pretty sure someone is getting pissed at me right at this moment. try not to be too angry. i'm just letting you in on the shit-talk that's going on behind your back, after it trundles by.
oh, and also, don't think this is gender-specific. that's just the best picture i could find. men are equally heinous perpetrators. let's examine a few errors in judgment:
there's the ass-taco
if any one of these things is made more visible, is enhanced, or is accentuated by your clothing, you are one of two things:
a) a retard
b) blind
if two or more of these symptoms is exhibited by the patient at any one time, they should be euthanized immediately ...or at least shown to a mirror.
seriously though, it's no wonder europeans make fun of americans for being fat. just look at the shit we wear. the clothes we're picking out aren't doing us any favors. okay fine, europeans smell funny, but you've never heard someone go, "those italians girls, they're so fucking fat and ugly." on the other hand, when a tourist begins to rant on america, the only thing you can pick out between his nasty teeth, characteristically strong b.o., and terrible halitosis are the words "americans" and "fat" (...which are then followed up by the questions, "where is Mac Do? and why no mayo with french fries?")
at any rate, people need to be better judges of appropriateness. just because matthew mcconaughey goes around shirtless and lindsay lohan forgets to wear ...well, clothes... doesn't mean that either of those things will work for you. next time that saleswoman tells you those hotpants look great, be a harder sell and spare us the pain of watching you wear them.
9.13.2006
Scabs
i had lunch outdoors on monday. i had worked just about every hour of the past couple of days, and i wanted to enjoy the daylight a bit. i had a lumberjack breakfast at the diner around the corner: pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, and sausage...swimming in syrup. reason being i'm always counseled, "feed a cold, starve a fever." feed, i did.
i sat, somewhat bovine in my sleep-deprived state, with an equally zombie-like spectre that was my lunchtime comrade. we were humbly munching on the softness of our sap-soaked flapjacks. then two men passed by our outdoor feed plot. they wore black t-shirts with white words upon them. the words read, "remember 9/11."
then i remembered ...that morning.
i never watch the television when i get up in the morning. but that morning, i turned it on. and, there was the local morning newscast. that day it wasn't particularly bubbly. no, it was dark; it was a memorial. that morning there was a telecast on the local news memorializing the tragedy of 9/11. there was a telecast like this one on every channel on the television that morning.
then i remembered ...cnn.
cnn had replaced their "red-alert" ticker. instead, there was a black band filled with white letters. for days, i had been seeing this new alert ticker as i visited the site filled with all the news and information i could handle. in all those visits, those white letters only read one thing: "cnn's exclusive footage of 9/11 to be rebroadcast, uninterrupted here on cnn.com on monday."
then i remembered ...nicholas cage.
for weeks, i realized i had been seeing hundreds of adds that focused on two very tell buildings and one cop with a handlebar mustache. the buildings were the two towers of the world trade center. the mustachioed-cop was nicholas cage. as usual, he looked like shit. the movie was called World Trade Center.
then i remembered ...pennsylvania.
months prior, i remember having seen more adds for another movie about a plane crash. the plane couldn't make it to its final destination. apparently, some bad people took control of the plane. the passengers, unhappy that they couldn't arrive where they needed to go, decided to take matters into their own hands and put an end to this misdirection before it got any worse. in the end, the plane crashed in pennsylvania. everyone was killed. no one got to where they needed to go. no one needed to die for that. the movie was called United 93.
then i got ...angry.
there is something terrible and something great in all of us. but, it's mostly terrible. we pick at scabs. from time to time, we get hurt. and, when we get really hurt, we get cuts or scrapes. and, as those minor fleshwounds start to heal, we get scabs. these marks aren't necessarily troublesome, but sometimes they itch a lot. they also feel different than regular skin; and, they look funny. thus, i think it's safe to say that these aren't things we want so much as that they're things we have to deal with ...at least until they heal properly.
most of the time, we get anxious. we are determined to move forward. we don't want to be pestered with some awkward looking, strange feeling blotches. no, we need to keep moving. besides, those things really do itch like crazy. in our haste to push forward, we start to scratch. and, in the end, the scabs usually come off earlier than our bodies intended. and that leaves a new wound, smaller than the last one but no less raw.
the process starts again, and finally, we get a scar--discolored and melty--where smooth, healed skin should have found its way. now, that mark will always be with us, never to be forgotten.
this is how we've handled 9/11. yet, still worse because we didn't really prolong our ugliness for the sake of moving forward, as a people or a nation. we're pushing forward for a profit, a bottomline. it can be said that these "memorializations" have been perpetrated not by a people, but by corporations. however, it is a people that makes exploitation acceptible. and so it seems to me that we've set ourselves down the long path of destroying the healing process of a people. and, we've lost focus.
really, who the fuck likes nicholas cage?!
i sat, somewhat bovine in my sleep-deprived state, with an equally zombie-like spectre that was my lunchtime comrade. we were humbly munching on the softness of our sap-soaked flapjacks. then two men passed by our outdoor feed plot. they wore black t-shirts with white words upon them. the words read, "remember 9/11."
then i remembered ...that morning.
i never watch the television when i get up in the morning. but that morning, i turned it on. and, there was the local morning newscast. that day it wasn't particularly bubbly. no, it was dark; it was a memorial. that morning there was a telecast on the local news memorializing the tragedy of 9/11. there was a telecast like this one on every channel on the television that morning.
then i remembered ...cnn.
cnn had replaced their "red-alert" ticker. instead, there was a black band filled with white letters. for days, i had been seeing this new alert ticker as i visited the site filled with all the news and information i could handle. in all those visits, those white letters only read one thing: "cnn's exclusive footage of 9/11 to be rebroadcast, uninterrupted here on cnn.com on monday."
then i remembered ...nicholas cage.
for weeks, i realized i had been seeing hundreds of adds that focused on two very tell buildings and one cop with a handlebar mustache. the buildings were the two towers of the world trade center. the mustachioed-cop was nicholas cage. as usual, he looked like shit. the movie was called World Trade Center.
then i remembered ...pennsylvania.
months prior, i remember having seen more adds for another movie about a plane crash. the plane couldn't make it to its final destination. apparently, some bad people took control of the plane. the passengers, unhappy that they couldn't arrive where they needed to go, decided to take matters into their own hands and put an end to this misdirection before it got any worse. in the end, the plane crashed in pennsylvania. everyone was killed. no one got to where they needed to go. no one needed to die for that. the movie was called United 93.
then i got ...angry.
there is something terrible and something great in all of us. but, it's mostly terrible. we pick at scabs. from time to time, we get hurt. and, when we get really hurt, we get cuts or scrapes. and, as those minor fleshwounds start to heal, we get scabs. these marks aren't necessarily troublesome, but sometimes they itch a lot. they also feel different than regular skin; and, they look funny. thus, i think it's safe to say that these aren't things we want so much as that they're things we have to deal with ...at least until they heal properly.
most of the time, we get anxious. we are determined to move forward. we don't want to be pestered with some awkward looking, strange feeling blotches. no, we need to keep moving. besides, those things really do itch like crazy. in our haste to push forward, we start to scratch. and, in the end, the scabs usually come off earlier than our bodies intended. and that leaves a new wound, smaller than the last one but no less raw.
the process starts again, and finally, we get a scar--discolored and melty--where smooth, healed skin should have found its way. now, that mark will always be with us, never to be forgotten.
this is how we've handled 9/11. yet, still worse because we didn't really prolong our ugliness for the sake of moving forward, as a people or a nation. we're pushing forward for a profit, a bottomline. it can be said that these "memorializations" have been perpetrated not by a people, but by corporations. however, it is a people that makes exploitation acceptible. and so it seems to me that we've set ourselves down the long path of destroying the healing process of a people. and, we've lost focus.
really, who the fuck likes nicholas cage?!
9.06.2006
Deep Thoughts
there is a rhythm to things.
i can't quite figure out the beat, but i know that there is a rhythm. which is to say, that, inevitably, particular events or occurrences or thoughts strike me with a frequency i can't predict. there is a surety to these happenings, but it only evinces itself once the moment is upon me. and so, there seems to be some certainty, but only with hindsight.
Hesse called these times "moments of clarity."
Nietzsche called this dynamic the "eternal recurrence."
for the latter, the fate of man hinged upon breaking the cycle. the problem is that the rhythm becomes oppressive and renders its victims apathetic to its regularity. moreover, the issue isn't just the regularity, it's the entrenchment. only when you try to make that first step do you realize how deeply embedded in this rhythm you've become.
wittgenstein might refer to this paradigm as a symptom of "shared meaning;" to break from it demands a deconstruction of all previous conventions. but, now the problem becomes the fact that no one can understand you.
this then begs the question: if left all alone with meanings only you understand and conventions by which only you can operate, will a rhythm--some new kind of rhythm--find its way into your life once more? is this just a different expression of the eternal recurrence?
i can't quite figure out the beat, but i know that there is a rhythm. which is to say, that, inevitably, particular events or occurrences or thoughts strike me with a frequency i can't predict. there is a surety to these happenings, but it only evinces itself once the moment is upon me. and so, there seems to be some certainty, but only with hindsight.
Hesse called these times "moments of clarity."
Nietzsche called this dynamic the "eternal recurrence."
for the latter, the fate of man hinged upon breaking the cycle. the problem is that the rhythm becomes oppressive and renders its victims apathetic to its regularity. moreover, the issue isn't just the regularity, it's the entrenchment. only when you try to make that first step do you realize how deeply embedded in this rhythm you've become.
wittgenstein might refer to this paradigm as a symptom of "shared meaning;" to break from it demands a deconstruction of all previous conventions. but, now the problem becomes the fact that no one can understand you.
this then begs the question: if left all alone with meanings only you understand and conventions by which only you can operate, will a rhythm--some new kind of rhythm--find its way into your life once more? is this just a different expression of the eternal recurrence?
8.29.2006
"CNN confirms that fugitive polygamist Mormon sect leader..."
did you manage to catch this headline this morning? it was at the top of the cnn.com homepage, in that big red 'alert' bar.
i saw it ...and i had to read it five times over. my hang-up was that i couldn't believe it was actually real. let's look at this one more time just in case you're missing the hilarity:
CNN confirms that fugitive polygamist Mormon sect leader...
this was published in the good faith of journalisitic intergrity by one of the largest news sources in the nation; and, i'm not talking about the relatable fact that the phrase conveys (which is ridiculous in itself: does this really happen?). i'm specifically ridiculing the language.
fugitive. polygamist. mormon. sect. leader.
someone at cnn has officialy lost his mind. this isn't news; it's the line out of a sitcom. it's a long lost seinfeld episode. i'll tell you how it goes: this mulitisyllabic villain is actually elaine's bad date for the night. he ends up being married to george's new girlfriend, who ran away from her husband because he was too controlling. she came to new york to start over and reinvent herself (no wonder george thought she was 'wild'). meanwhile, george has actually come to believe in his new girlfriend's reinvention rhetoric and decides that he is no longer 'george'. he is 'jorge'.
this is a bad joke if someone thought that the entirety of the english-literate world would take such a headline seriously.
but what's perhaps more disconcerting is the fact that this title had to pass by so many people. cnn has got to be a labyrinth of fact checking gnomes, one only slightly larger than the next (redundancy is invaluable at a company that large). these words passed by countless eyes, seeing the words and the fact, but nothing else. i guess it's fault and folley: it's upsetting that this was published, but it's also really fucking funny.
i saw it ...and i had to read it five times over. my hang-up was that i couldn't believe it was actually real. let's look at this one more time just in case you're missing the hilarity:
CNN confirms that fugitive polygamist Mormon sect leader...
this was published in the good faith of journalisitic intergrity by one of the largest news sources in the nation; and, i'm not talking about the relatable fact that the phrase conveys (which is ridiculous in itself: does this really happen?). i'm specifically ridiculing the language.
fugitive. polygamist. mormon. sect. leader.
someone at cnn has officialy lost his mind. this isn't news; it's the line out of a sitcom. it's a long lost seinfeld episode. i'll tell you how it goes: this mulitisyllabic villain is actually elaine's bad date for the night. he ends up being married to george's new girlfriend, who ran away from her husband because he was too controlling. she came to new york to start over and reinvent herself (no wonder george thought she was 'wild'). meanwhile, george has actually come to believe in his new girlfriend's reinvention rhetoric and decides that he is no longer 'george'. he is 'jorge'.
this is a bad joke if someone thought that the entirety of the english-literate world would take such a headline seriously.
but what's perhaps more disconcerting is the fact that this title had to pass by so many people. cnn has got to be a labyrinth of fact checking gnomes, one only slightly larger than the next (redundancy is invaluable at a company that large). these words passed by countless eyes, seeing the words and the fact, but nothing else. i guess it's fault and folley: it's upsetting that this was published, but it's also really fucking funny.
Let's Do Lunch
s: "hey! I haven't seen you in ages! wow, crazy running into you like this; how have you been?! gosh, i would love to catch up, but i'm actually on my way to a meeting downtown. lemme get your phone number. i'll call you; we'll get some lunch."a: "uh, okay. it's--"
and right at this point i wonder if i can get away with giving this guy the wrong phone number. but then what if he calls straight back so that i'll have his?
"--415.423.7798." gave out the real one.
s: "great, hold on real quick. let me call you back so you'll have my number too."
that would've been awkward. but now i got this dude's number, and, frankly, i don't even remember who he is. And so, here we arrive at another instance of a social retardation: what the hell is up with 'lunch'? nobody actually plans on meeting for these so-called 'lunches.' they don't even plan to call you. and, that's fine, really, because i don't plan on calling them either. so why bother going through the effort of looking like you care? it's not like saying hello and then moving on is rude. on the contrary, i find it sincere. i'd rather have a short exchange with someone i never see than a long one that gets pinned to the unreal expectation of meeting for a lunch that will never happen with a person i don't really know.
in fact, suggesting to do the 'lunch' thing makes you look like a schmuck. you stare someone in the face, act happy and surprised to see them, then even go so far as to suggest the two of you make an opportunity out of this chance encounter by meeting later to 'catch up'--and none of it's true. what's really being said is: "do i know you? i think i do. do i want to try and know you more? eh...not really. i deduced your current status via your appearance at present. you seem to be doing fine. there's really no need to draw this out any further just to see it go nowhere because we all know that's what's going to happen. we weren't close friends before; why start now?"
suggesting to do something with the intention of never doing it just for the sole purpose of coming off as nice: that's what's called being an asshole.
in the future, don't be surprised if this happens:
s: "let's do lunch."
a: "go fuck yourself."
8.23.2006
That Thing in Your Ear
"hey man, what's up?wait a sec. what the hell is that thing in your ear? do realize that it's blinking obnoxiously? can you even hear what i'm saying?"
wtf? when did it become normal to walk around with some dongle hanging out year earhole? is this herb on the left really that excited about the shit that's stuck to the side of his head? i hope not, because he looks like a moron.
it's like i woke up one day and, suddenly, arrived in bizarro world. everywhere i look, people are sticking these things in their heads and then just leaving them there like nothing ever happened. this shit won't stand. that thing doesn't belong in your head.
i went to the deli yesterday, and Dude sitting next to me is eating his pastrami on rye, talking to his buddy, with one of these doodads sucking his aural canal and blinking at me. as if, all of the sudden, he's going to get THE call; the call to end all calls. and, god forbid his phone might ring three times before he can fish it out of his pocket. Noooooo. when that call comes, he's got to be ready. and by ready, i mean a loser with some bluetooth schbiel surgically implanted onto his face.
another example: at dinner the other night. i'm in a nice restaurant, having a pleasant dining experience, when something begins to catch my eye. yeah, an awkwardly out of place blinking blue light keeps flashing in my peripheral vision. i look over, and some guy is all dressed up, sitting at the table with what appears to be his girlfriend, laughing, joking, holding hands, with his headset in his ear.
this shit is ridiculous. do people think it's cool to look like a robot? maybe it's just that i didn't get the memo and we've all begun to be assimilated and will soon be part of the borg 'collective.' ...fucking borg.
i wonder if these things will ultimately get relegated to the lexicon of tampons. like, will someone eventually leave one of these things in his ear for too long and develop a nasty case of toxic shock syndrome? is the packaging going to start coming with warnings about hygiene and proper maintenance of 'the device' as it pertains to your earhole? is there going to be an o.b. equivalent of the bluetooth earpiece: "designed by an eardoctor to perfectly conform to the curves and contours of your body." then comes the debate over cardboard versus plastic applicators, vending machines in bathrooms, and that ever pesky odor problem. let's not even get into the uncomfortable talks with mom and dad about the new needs of your growing body.
i tell you: this shit has got to stop because it has already gone too far.
8.21.2006
Comments
the comments section was closed off for some reason.
but now,
it's open.
so feel free to go to it if the mood strikes you...
but now,
it's open.
so feel free to go to it if the mood strikes you...
8.19.2006
A Vist and A Toothbrush
my parents have come to new york to visit me.
this is an interesting moment. frankly, there hasn't been a time when i was actually alone with my parents--just the three of us--when they've made one of these visits. in most cases, i'd travel to somewhere other than home to see them. and, for the most part, this other place was one of my siblings' current place of residence. that said, there was always company involved in any long-distance parental consultation. even still, for the last three years, coming to new york to visit meant visiting me and my sister (she recently moved). so, to get down to it: i've always had a buffer zone. by the transitive property, that also means that for most of my semi-adult life (if you can even venture to call it that), it's never been 'just the three of us.'
and that pretty much brings us to up to right about four hours prior to now.
here we are.
at this very moment, my parents are on an official visit here--to new york--on business from the familial consulate back in the Homeland. this single visit could have ramifications that echo in the eternity of reunions, reminiscing, and any awkward silent moment shared among family members... because we all know that everyone fills space with gossip.
that means you.
and, by 'you', i mean me.
that means, as an ambassador to this delegation, i must act like a statesman. And so, there is to be no awkward silence. Yet, inevitably, every now and again these conversational black holes manage to suck all the words right out of peoples' brains until they're left staring blankly at one another, which just makes everyone feel weird. Thus it follows that there must be a contingency plan for when such a moment does indeed arrive. Contingency plan: fill aforementioned awkward silence.*
*all parent-worthy 'filler' must be 100% natural. gossip-free.
shit.
what in the world do i have to say? current events: jon-benet ramsey, israel, and beirut. not your typical uplifting, witty-yet-appropriate small talk. you don't just have a chit-chat about missiles landing in haifa or dirty men in bangkok. that stuff only puts a sour taste in your mouth. that's what we call a Dinner Killer. i've got useless facts: water is most dense at around 4 degrees celsius, toilet bowls flush the other way around in the southern hemisphere, eggs are really really hard to crush if you try to squeeze them from their top and bottom most points. but that's all pretty much crap, which, when measured on the conversation scale, is well below 'gossip.' and so yields a 'negative, Ghostrider." after all that, i got nothing. i'm screwed.
well, this mental tail-spin starts to kick in right about the time we sit down for dinner. up until this point, there has been meaningful--but expected--conversation. things like:
'how are you?" or,
'how was your day?", or maybe
'what's goin on these days?" or perhaps even
'did you get that thing at that place like you were saying you wanted to do the last time we talked?'
in reality, it was all of those and a few more that were equally uninteresting/less-than-crucial. nonetheless, it's nice to share those details, especially with loved ones. at this point i'm thinking, "so far so good," conversation has been flowing well for a good...oh...say....17 minutes. about the time it took to meet them at the hotel and share a cab to the restaurant. mind you this has been intense one on one time; full parental focus. lockdown.
now, i freeze. two thoughts were developing simultaneously: one was traveling linearly along the path of the general discussion, anticipating upcoming questions and comments and preparing the mind accordingly. the other was a bit more hurdy-gurdy, planting a seed of anxiousness that feeds upon the awareness of the inevitable Lull. if they leave the cerebral cortex at about the same time, when will these two thoughts collide? i'll tell you: 17 minutes.
faced with this pileup and an ever mounting heart rate, my brain begins to shut off all non-essential systems. i'll let you in on another gem: when defcon 5 jumps off in your head, cognition is about the third to go. first you wet yourself, then you realize you can't smell the urine in your pants, then you can't remember anything after that. if you're lucky, you might be able to rig a jumpstart and manage to reboot. one thing that has worked for me in the past is liquor
w: "hi guys, welcome to Z. would you like anything to dri--"
a: "vodka soda." stat.
moments later that sweet, sweet nectar--the very same libation responsible for some of my most infamous undoings--is politely gushing over my lips and rushing through the spaces between my teeth. ah, that bitter-semi-sweet blend of a tasty russian vodka, a judiciously applied amount of soda water, and the hint of a lightly squeezed lemon. the effect sends serotonin rushing to my upper most extremity. the light-bulb flickers back on.
it's sort of like that experiment your science teacher would show in seventh grade. you're all dissecting frogs, some are doing it more precisely than others. you've gotten past the goo that lines their bellies. then you see that tiny little stomach, some other odds and ends. then, before you go for the brain (you know you'll do it), you see it. right there between those tiny little lungs. it looks like a slightly overgrown caper, and you wonder at how that little thing is responsible for powering this slightly larger little thing. that's when you hear:
t: "everyone, come over to my dissection tray!" the class hazily complies. finally, you're all gathered round.
t: "remember when i told you that we all carried a charge? well, now i'll show you how we need electricity just like our clocks do." as he's speaking, the teacher places two little clamps--one on either side--on kermit. teach flips the switch. then, ZAP; the little guy starts working. he's brain dead, but he's working.
well, i wasn't brain dead, but it got me working again.
surprisingly, i didn't really need to worry about the Lull or filler. things managed to just sort of take care of themselves. we talked about our family, my siblings and their various newsworthy activities, a little about life, and then just told stories. my parents talked to me about some of their experiences growing up. some funny ones, but mostly inspiring ones. i did my best to counter with tales that seemed equally well-aged.
looking around, i realized that it wasn't just us at the kitchen table in our house as it had been so long ago. we were in a restaurant. we were in new york. and yet, oddly it felt like home. dad finishing mom's sentences. mom telling me to get my elbows 'off the table.' all of the endearing little habits and favorite turns-of-phrase found themselves right back where i had remembered them. having my parents around made everything feel like home.
and as such, home wouldn't be complete without an awkward yet sentimentally meaningful gift. for chanukah, i used to get a right-footed sock on one night, and a left-footed one on the other. sometimes, i'd get tic tacs or post-it notes. once i got a box of number 2 pencils, followed by a notepad the next night. and, of course, there was always the little case of thumbtacks packed in the deceptively huge box. all of these gifts were, in and of themselves, pretty meager. their purpose was more for humor than anything else...and we always had a pretty good laugh at them. so much so that when it came time to actually need one of those gifts, the use of it wasn't simply evocative of its utility; rather, its use became swaddled in the memory of what it had once occasioned.
my parents came to new york to visit me. they gave me a toothbrush.
this is an interesting moment. frankly, there hasn't been a time when i was actually alone with my parents--just the three of us--when they've made one of these visits. in most cases, i'd travel to somewhere other than home to see them. and, for the most part, this other place was one of my siblings' current place of residence. that said, there was always company involved in any long-distance parental consultation. even still, for the last three years, coming to new york to visit meant visiting me and my sister (she recently moved). so, to get down to it: i've always had a buffer zone. by the transitive property, that also means that for most of my semi-adult life (if you can even venture to call it that), it's never been 'just the three of us.'
and that pretty much brings us to up to right about four hours prior to now.
here we are.
at this very moment, my parents are on an official visit here--to new york--on business from the familial consulate back in the Homeland. this single visit could have ramifications that echo in the eternity of reunions, reminiscing, and any awkward silent moment shared among family members... because we all know that everyone fills space with gossip.
that means you.
and, by 'you', i mean me.
that means, as an ambassador to this delegation, i must act like a statesman. And so, there is to be no awkward silence. Yet, inevitably, every now and again these conversational black holes manage to suck all the words right out of peoples' brains until they're left staring blankly at one another, which just makes everyone feel weird. Thus it follows that there must be a contingency plan for when such a moment does indeed arrive. Contingency plan: fill aforementioned awkward silence.*
*all parent-worthy 'filler' must be 100% natural. gossip-free.
shit.
what in the world do i have to say? current events: jon-benet ramsey, israel, and beirut. not your typical uplifting, witty-yet-appropriate small talk. you don't just have a chit-chat about missiles landing in haifa or dirty men in bangkok. that stuff only puts a sour taste in your mouth. that's what we call a Dinner Killer. i've got useless facts: water is most dense at around 4 degrees celsius, toilet bowls flush the other way around in the southern hemisphere, eggs are really really hard to crush if you try to squeeze them from their top and bottom most points. but that's all pretty much crap, which, when measured on the conversation scale, is well below 'gossip.' and so yields a 'negative, Ghostrider." after all that, i got nothing. i'm screwed.
well, this mental tail-spin starts to kick in right about the time we sit down for dinner. up until this point, there has been meaningful--but expected--conversation. things like:
'how are you?" or,
'how was your day?", or maybe
'what's goin on these days?" or perhaps even
'did you get that thing at that place like you were saying you wanted to do the last time we talked?'
in reality, it was all of those and a few more that were equally uninteresting/less-than-crucial. nonetheless, it's nice to share those details, especially with loved ones. at this point i'm thinking, "so far so good," conversation has been flowing well for a good...oh...say....17 minutes. about the time it took to meet them at the hotel and share a cab to the restaurant. mind you this has been intense one on one time; full parental focus. lockdown.
now, i freeze. two thoughts were developing simultaneously: one was traveling linearly along the path of the general discussion, anticipating upcoming questions and comments and preparing the mind accordingly. the other was a bit more hurdy-gurdy, planting a seed of anxiousness that feeds upon the awareness of the inevitable Lull. if they leave the cerebral cortex at about the same time, when will these two thoughts collide? i'll tell you: 17 minutes.
faced with this pileup and an ever mounting heart rate, my brain begins to shut off all non-essential systems. i'll let you in on another gem: when defcon 5 jumps off in your head, cognition is about the third to go. first you wet yourself, then you realize you can't smell the urine in your pants, then you can't remember anything after that. if you're lucky, you might be able to rig a jumpstart and manage to reboot. one thing that has worked for me in the past is liquor
w: "hi guys, welcome to Z. would you like anything to dri--"
a: "vodka soda." stat.
moments later that sweet, sweet nectar--the very same libation responsible for some of my most infamous undoings--is politely gushing over my lips and rushing through the spaces between my teeth. ah, that bitter-semi-sweet blend of a tasty russian vodka, a judiciously applied amount of soda water, and the hint of a lightly squeezed lemon. the effect sends serotonin rushing to my upper most extremity. the light-bulb flickers back on.
it's sort of like that experiment your science teacher would show in seventh grade. you're all dissecting frogs, some are doing it more precisely than others. you've gotten past the goo that lines their bellies. then you see that tiny little stomach, some other odds and ends. then, before you go for the brain (you know you'll do it), you see it. right there between those tiny little lungs. it looks like a slightly overgrown caper, and you wonder at how that little thing is responsible for powering this slightly larger little thing. that's when you hear:
t: "everyone, come over to my dissection tray!" the class hazily complies. finally, you're all gathered round.
t: "remember when i told you that we all carried a charge? well, now i'll show you how we need electricity just like our clocks do." as he's speaking, the teacher places two little clamps--one on either side--on kermit. teach flips the switch. then, ZAP; the little guy starts working. he's brain dead, but he's working.
well, i wasn't brain dead, but it got me working again.
surprisingly, i didn't really need to worry about the Lull or filler. things managed to just sort of take care of themselves. we talked about our family, my siblings and their various newsworthy activities, a little about life, and then just told stories. my parents talked to me about some of their experiences growing up. some funny ones, but mostly inspiring ones. i did my best to counter with tales that seemed equally well-aged.
looking around, i realized that it wasn't just us at the kitchen table in our house as it had been so long ago. we were in a restaurant. we were in new york. and yet, oddly it felt like home. dad finishing mom's sentences. mom telling me to get my elbows 'off the table.' all of the endearing little habits and favorite turns-of-phrase found themselves right back where i had remembered them. having my parents around made everything feel like home.
and as such, home wouldn't be complete without an awkward yet sentimentally meaningful gift. for chanukah, i used to get a right-footed sock on one night, and a left-footed one on the other. sometimes, i'd get tic tacs or post-it notes. once i got a box of number 2 pencils, followed by a notepad the next night. and, of course, there was always the little case of thumbtacks packed in the deceptively huge box. all of these gifts were, in and of themselves, pretty meager. their purpose was more for humor than anything else...and we always had a pretty good laugh at them. so much so that when it came time to actually need one of those gifts, the use of it wasn't simply evocative of its utility; rather, its use became swaddled in the memory of what it had once occasioned.
my parents came to new york to visit me. they gave me a toothbrush.
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