Jackals, False Grails: The Lonesome Era

I recently received an e-mail from my mother, forwarded from my aunt. Before the chain e-mail (on a possible plan of attack from gangs), there was the attached note from my aunt:

WANT ALL MY BUDS TO BE CAREFUL, SO REGARDLESS HOW TRUE THIS IS (THE IDEA CAME FROM SOMEWHERE), JUST KEEP AN EYE OUT AND KEEP SAFE WHEREVER YOU ARE................

I especially liked the inclusion of the phrase "all my buds." And the notion that the idea bears some thought just because "it came from somewhere." I may have the idea to stick my dick in a jar of honey and let bears lick it off, but that doesn't mean that it is an actual real threat to my honey-coated manhood. 'Cause, trust me, I have thought about it.

The core of the e-mail focused on a plot to...aw, fuck, just read it:

To All, [I'm part of all!]

National Gang week is starting soon. [Wait, what? What sort of bullshit gang has spirit week?] This is their new target method: [I was so tired of their old methods. Yawn. "You're shooting me from your car while it's moving...again? Really? God, get some fucking new tricks."]

While driving on any roads, if you see a baby car seat sitting on the side of the road, DO NOT STOP!!! This could be the Gang's trap. They target people especially women, to stop their vehicle to help a baby. [DO NOT STOP to help babies! Especially you, women! I know how your maternal instincts kick in and your ovaries start panting and you spot, but the gangs (the BLACK/LATINOS!!!) are waiting to pounce! And rape!] They make this baby look as if it has blood on itself or on it's clothes. When you exit from your vehicle in attempt to help, the gangs jump out from cornfields or tall bushes. They have beaten woman to near death, and then continue to rape them. [Wait, where the fuck are gangs that there are cornfields? And the gangs got a baby? And fake blood? And then put fake blood on the baby? And set it next to a cornfield? Goddamn, these gangs are fucking merciless!] Their goal is to torture the victims to death in anyway possible. [Who told you that? Maybe rape is the goal, and torture-to-death is just an unfortunate side-product.]

Then it continues on a while with an even older e-mail hoax, before signing off with the credentials, just to really weaken your bladder-control:

Officer R. Duplechin
Alvin ISD Police
Alvin High School Campus
2790 W. Hwy 6
Alvin, Tx. 77511
(281) 331-2320
(281) 245-2676

Oh, shit! Not a police officer from the Alvin ISD police?!? THIS IS A PANDEMIC! Slit your children's throats! The only way the gangs cannot use them is if they are already all dead! This ends here! Throw your infants in the river! Lock your doors, humanity is at hand!

The real violence, of course, has already long-occurred, when this hideous little meme, full of sly misogyny and racism and misanthropy, found it's way to my inbox. The worst thoughts hide in the most benign interactions, often.

But really, guys, be careful out there. People are crazy.

The Decay of the Angel (天人五衰)

Business office line. I think the chairs might be for Financial Aid. Jesus Christ, there are a lot of people in line. Has to be Financial Aid. I wonder if I could get financial aid? I don't really need it, but it'd be nice. Like a sign that the system cares about me. Chairs definitely not business office line. Fuck. Stand here.

Three people in line.

Does that lady have a mullet? Does that lady have a bald spot in her mullet?

Oh God, fucking loud kids. In goes the earphones. Wait, turn it down, you are going to want to hear this.

-You should do it.

Response is quick rocking from foot to foot in place. Guy rocking, guy being encouraged, is dressed in all black, black toboggan, scraggly rapist hair peeking out underneath. Bit of a pubic hair patch under his chin. Catch eyes, definitely vacant.

-Come on, man.

Encourager is squat, maybe 5'9". Red hair. Matches the horrible plague of acne on his cheeks. Goes to some red facial hair, like a desperate attempt to cover the sores on his face. Book bag over shoulder, dressed nice enough. Thumb up volume. That lady in line for financial aid is cute. Probably has a fucking litter of pups. All these girls have kids. Volume down.

-It's all nacho cheese, man. Come on. It's just--

Black guy is rocking back and forth more vigorously, like his whole body is engaged in a masturbatory act, mumbling the occasional affirmative grunt.

-Just a tub of nacho cheese. A big bag of--

Is acne man comparing some girl that Pube Beard is going to fuck to a tub of nacho cheese? How, most probably, poetically apt.

-Come on, man. She was totally into you.

-She was too into me.

Again, probably true. Jesus Christ, what the fuck is mullet woman doing up there?

-You should go for it. She was cute and fun.

Cute and fun? I wonder what their standards of cute and fun are? God, to think of these fuckers passing a character evaluation on any female, especially one that they deem a giant tub of nacho cheese. And he's selling his buddy on this girl's fuckability on her seeming innocuousness.

-Why don't you go for it?

Pube Beard foists the nacho cheese off on Acne.

-She's....

Acne puts his head down, they are at the window. Attendant's gone. Acne arms on ledge, head down, mumbling.

-She's too cute for me.

Sadness!

-She's into anybody. You should do it.

Whore!

-She's...I'm being realistic. She's too cute...

-She called me tiger. Who says tiger nowadays?

Who says nowadays nowadays?

-Really?

-Mary Jane.

-Tiger, dude.

-Mary Jane says tiger.

-And not the one you can smoke.

-Yeah.

-Mary Jane Mary Jane.

The conversation is getting dumb enough that I'm losing thread.

-I'm trying to be, you know I'm trying to be abstinent.

Acne's abstinence is choice, not circumstance. Huzzah! Ego has reformed in a flash. God's chosen soldier, cock-hymen in place, marching forward to encourage drunken fucking of others, surrogate orgasms all around!

-You want me to fail.

Music back up. Brain taken in all it can. Still fucking texting. "How is baby you cok up mac nd cheez be home soon luv u" Definite hardening of lines from meth. Long conversation of meal plan with homoerotic undertones with Acne and Pube Beard.

Spring Semester, Day 1.

I'll know we're fucked, and not getting unfucked soon

Consider this low-rate Pitchfork. My tastes this year have not been especially odd--it’ll probably take a couple years before I find the hidden gems from this year. But overall, I would rank 2009 as a genuinely decent year for music.

The following list is in alphabetical order, as I’m not sure that I could do a genuine rank of “best, better, good.”

First, honorable mention. Albums that may not have been the best of the year, but were decent enough. Many of these are here simply because I don’t think I listened to them enough to have their charms fully worm their wear into my skull.

Animal Collective-Fall Be Kind E.P.

Really only here ‘cause I’d already put Merriweather on the Best list, and felt like I should Sophie Choice A.C. releases. Fall Be Kind is good, but not “fucking genius” like Merriweather. “What Would I Want? Sky” is the best use of The Grateful Dead outside of ice cream ever.

Dirty Projectors-Bitte Orca

Neon Indian-Psychic Chasms

Tortoise-Beacons of Ancestorship

Any new Tortoise release at least deserves a nod of recognition towards its existence. Beacons is less of a Tortoise-sounding release, if that means anything anymore. The whole album sounds like Tortoise heard their kids listening to a lot of electronic music and decided to jump on the bandwagon. It’s not quite electronic, but it’s really fucking close. And whatever it is is at least interesting. Also, the opening track “High Class Slim Came Floating In” is pretty fucking awesome.

So, favorites of the year:

Animal Collective-Merriweather Post Pavilion

The record where Animal Collective keeps its fucking hippy shit together long enough to poo out a nugget of genius. Any record that has songs as good as “My Girls,” “Summertime Clothes,” and “Brother Sport” on it deserves a nod as a job-well-done.

The Antlers-Hospice

I stole this from Hanna in the great music swap of aught nine. Hospice is brilliant, but has every right to be a pretentious mess. First, it’s a concept album. Like Queensryche. Second, it’s a concept album about a cancer patient. Third, it’s best described by words like “earnest,” “sweeping,” and “un-ironic.” But Hospice is genuinely good. And it features the best song about abortion since “Brick”. Unless there has been some unknown-to-me advance in abortion song technology since 1997.

Black Dice-Repo

I saw Black Dice with Animal Collective live, and it was a hilarious experience: watching all the 15 year olds who came to see AC play having to sit through three ugly, ugly men making Frankenstein dance music goes down as a pinnacle moment. Watching these Plano kids turn their backs and cover their ears in fright/snobbery at heart-stoppingly-loud whistles and bells and thuds was like seeing some sort of vengeance enacted from my childhood. Like Carrie setting fires with her menstrual blood.

And that would be enough, but Repo itself is a great record. Live, Black Dice are a beast of rape, constantly making you think that a dance song is about to start, only to once again pull out some noise that makes your eardrums bleed. However, Repo is a little more consenting, and genuinely makes good on the idea of noise dance music.

Fuck Buttons-Tarot Sport

Grizzly Bear-Vecktamist

Jim O’Rourke-The Visitor

The Visitor is the only album that I know of on the list that had special listening instructions: “Please listen on speakers, loud.” This turns what otherwise would have been a relatively mid-tempo instrumental album into a spiritual experience. The music is beautiful, but the experience of listening to it is something unto itself.

Micachu-Jewellery

Micachu is what pop music should be, if pop music were actually good, and not in an ironic “look, I’m a scenster who can appreciate Taylor Swift” sort of way.

Phoenix-Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix

St. Vincent-Actor

Berkley Horse

I have decided to do a complete overhaul of my life at the start of the year. This was not meant to be a set of conscious New Year’s resolutions, but it rolls nicely with the tradition. I have laid out a bulleted forty items, that once completed, will make me a better person, if not a demi-God.

The general gist of them is to appreciate life more, especially art. However, there is a renewed emphasis on the physical, as I believe that I have underestimated my physical existence in over pronouncement of intellectual pursuits. Among my resolutions:

5. Get to where I can bike to work.

6. Emotionally distance myself.

7. Understand one philosopher completely.

---

9. Cook more food.

10. Smoke less.

11. Take acid.

----

21. Wear more suits.

----

23. Understand the concept of time.

----

25. Lucid dream more.

26. Get in a fist-fight.

27. Get more scars.

---

40. Find fulfillment.

Dejemonos de pamplinas

Today is Christmas. Two-thousand and nine years. Maybe next time!

Christmas, at one point, celebrated the birth of Jesus Christ as the Savior of mankind. Sitting outside, smoking a cigarette, watching the cars back-up to the highway at Starbucks, I began to wonder if this is the miracle that its portrayed as. Was saving humanity really such an altruistic act?

What if the birth of the Savior is a punishment from God? What if it's an act on a par with a natural disaster? Christ the infant as tornado. “I have saved you from destruction! Roll this rock up a hill for the next two thousand years!”

Maybe adults have begun to have an inkling that they are alone in the wilderness. Maybe that’s why Christmas brings out the absolute worst in humanity. Suicide rates go up as people see the pointlessness of the whole venture.

Walking into Starbucks one afternoon, I was met with a crowded building, packed full of families who think they have found at least a few moments respite from conversation with their genetic familiars. I was stared down by a fat woman, who gave me a look that showed she had anger not only at my very presence, but had begun to disdain the entirety of the notion of living. A scowl hard-won. She was wearing a bright green sweater with a puff-paint Santa face on it that said BELIEVE. The sweater obviously had ironic meaning, but it's as if she had chosen, to exercise in XXL jersey material, her attempt to once more fool herself into believing that she was not on a pointless loop of sadness each year that culminates in Christmas.

My ideal Christmas would revel in the nihilistic undercurrent that belies most American Christmases, allowing it to the forefront. A sort of Christmas bacchanalia. We would serve the meat, everyone would get drunk on eggnog, we would open our presents, and then we’d throw down in the living room: sons fucking mothers, cousins fucking cousins, babies fucking dogs. Maybe reenact the ultimate fate of our savior by crucifying Uncle Roger in the backyard. Introduce a drawing instead of Chinese Christmas, ala The Lottery in Babylon, in which the stakes include flagellation or burning with hot irons.

So, this Christmas, I want to truly reflect on what that birth in Bethlehem truly means. Born unto us is a savior. We have been given our pardon. Go forth, ye men of the world, and rape! Go forth, and pretend! Go forth, for thine kingdom is the power and the glory, forever and ever, amen! Stomp each other for the sales at Wal-Mart!

In 1984, I Was Hospitalized for Approaching Perfection

There are certain rules of etiquette when it comes to dealing with persons in public. Urinal rules. People are generally to be treated as cars; give them their proper space and respect. If I were a hippy I would lament that we should all get in one big pile and love and see the beauty of all things. But I’m not, so I don’t.

Urinal rules state choose the farthest urinal away. Keep your eyes on your own dick. Do not talk. These are etched in stone, brought down from Sinai with veiled, glorious face.

Public rules of interaction can be broken, obviously, upon a social bond in which an understanding has been reached by both parties that normal societal rules need not be observed.

What amazes me is how certain persons feel no need to honor these rules, as if they were exempt. My job requires that I interact with a lot of people. I like these people, generally, and am friendly and as loquacious as I can be within a corporate environment.

Rules state that if someone is reading, do not bother them. They are engaged in art, and a breach from the outside is a terrible act of violence on the part of the intruder.

I have had to resort to complete assholery at my job. I enter work with my headphones in to bypass the gauntlets of “Hello”s I must endure, a bullshit societal observance that makes me feel, at the end of my fifth greeting, as if I’d been politely gang-raped. These are usually accompanied by queries if I have just woken up, or worse, if I am “alright.” Two years of entrance into work in the same state has not produced in these people any sense of pattern. What joy it must be to enter the world as if a baby, each day unpredictable and new!

Once I have made my drink, a putrid concoction simply intended to insert caffeine into my system, I go outside. At which point, I not only have my headphones, but I read at the same time. My goal is to turn myself into a veal: blindfolded, deaf, suspended above the ground so my muscles don’t become chewy. Without fail, however, person upon person insists on interrupting me to chat mindless bullshit.

It’s not that I am excessively misanthropic, I don’t think. Or that I am attempting to appear above people, as I was once accused of. It’s just that I hate people, and think that I am better than them.

Sings adverts for the Weetabix

I’m curious about that case of cigars. I’ve never seen anybody buy a cigar out of there. I would wear one of those T-shirts. Maybe I should get a cigar? But I bet they’re stale. And I don’t like cigars, all that much-heartburn.

At bar, crowded, guy leaning over Jager-dispenser to hit on the waitress, past him, moment of decision: woman leaning over the bar elbows on, man on edge of bar. Can’t fit through completely: turn crotch toward woman. Etiquette involved. More sideways, shows acknowledgement of femininity, lacking vulgarity.

Outside. Options. Table nearest the window, back to the window. This place would be great if not for the people.

-Hey

-Hey

Throw cigarettes down, still wait, wait till waitress comes….

-What’ll you have, hon?

Cute waitress said hon. But it seemed more affectionate. I’m sure she calls everyone hon, but there seemed to be a real feeling to it that time. Maybe not. Maybe…

-Can I get my sheet?
-Isaac, right?

She remembered my name. We will be married on the hills of Ireland, I will plant her belly full of dandelions.
-And you?

Orders something. Not sure. Had it before. Don’t remember. Fuck. Douche with the mowhawk. Dumpy fucking premie baby always with three hot women cause he has fucking ridiculous hair and alcohol problem and sagging pants and no dignity and probably no fucking clue about anything beyond his own cock.

Who picked Metallica? Always. Always.

-She…is really cute.

Inside, turn. Peer through window like orphan into Christmas house, see lit tree and trimmed turkey carcass. The glow. Quick: three people, two ladies, one gent, gents got himself a backwards cap, a mug, one of those cartoonish clown mugs that only hold swill, girl to the left has too much shit on, too much pretty on her. Her?

-Her?
The other one, little more plain, less attempting to be….
-Yeah, that one.
Other one better sale, obviously didn’t care enough to fix her hair all that much, wearing glasses, shows she isn’t vain enough to wear contacts only.
Shit.

-Know what you want?
Don’t fuck this up. The future of your children rests in your answer. Spent all valuable menu contemplation time on sizing up that woman over there; she is drinking a fucking frozen margarita, and any girl that could order a fucking slushy in a pub and sit and drink it, in full view of God and town, with a man with a baseball cap backwards, is not where you need to rest your genetic eggs. Meanwhile this poor girl is waiting on you to say something, anything. Quick, quick, make it casual, make it seem like…

-Can I just….
Just. Good? Wait. Maybe kinda assholish. Just. Wanted casual, but may have diminished the amount of her work in retrieving it. Just. Can I just get…
-get a pint…
Pick something. You are stretching this out way too long. Now she knows that just was just fucking time fill. GOD. TICK TOCK EACH SECOND IS AN ABORTION.
-If today was your last day…
What is this? Peer down. Need something surly but not trite like Guinness.
-and tomorrow was too late
Rogue sounds like I’m trying to be manly. But I like it. Goddamn it. Bass. Nobody sounds fake manly ordering Bass. It’s named after a fucking fish.
-Could you say goodbye to yesterday?
What the fuck is this shit? Who picked this? What is this? Why is this making me so angry?
-Can I get a pint of Rogue?
-Rogue? Sure, hon.
I'm going to die alone.