Friday, December 25, 2009

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!

Thursday, October 29, 2009

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.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

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.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

What dreams may come

Three hours of meetings scheduled with UNT professors on Tuesday. The professor that I've been corresponding with has been nothing but forthcoming so far, but I still don't really have any idea as to what I should be expecting when I get there, other than that I'm going to be sitting down with six professors, one after another, and hopefully selling myself to all of them, somehow. This isn't a formal thing, it's not part of the application process, the guy just offered it to me, which seems like a good thing. My understanding is that the standard grad school application process does NOT, impersonal as it is, include hob-knobbing with the professors prior to applying. However, because this isn't a standard part of the process, I'm not sure that the professors will necessarily know what to do either. My hope is that we'll all sit down and just kind of chat, I'll ask questions about the program and we'll strike up a fairly low-key, yet illuminating conversation. My fear is that I'm going to sit down to a professor staring out at me from behind a giant oak desk, just waiting for me to say something interesting. My other fear is that, out of a sense of near-debilitating desperation, I'll just go into a trance and start offering anything to whoever will guarantee my entry into the program. I just can't bear the thought of another year working at some bullshit job. *tags Ike in*

Friday, September 25, 2009

Nicotine, Valium, Vicodin, Marijuana, Ecstasy and Alcohol

In my attempt to escape from corporate rape, I'm attending bartending school. On my externship at a bar in Lewisville, I watched a scuzzy guy with a shaved head try to decide on a shot-Kamikaze, Sex with an Alligator, Red Headed Slut, Sex on the Beach, Bad Lieutenant-before choosing on the obligatory Royal Fuck.

The goal of shots is to be a means, and not an end, the epitome of everything wrong with youthful alcohol consumption. Who gives a fuck what's in it? Down it and get wasted! You're wasting valuable cocksucking time!

Recipes are indiscriminately thrown together solely for the humorous name or color that it comes out. Name it something that drunk people will find funny, and they will buy it in rounds, and if we are lucky, plow their car into the median on the way home.

Needing to bring something extra to the table when I apply at bars, I've decided to construct my own portfolio of "signature shots." The first batch, all trademarked, are the result of a fortuitous brainstorming session with Kristen. Generally, these follow the rules of shots: Eye-catching names, weird colors, and sickly sweet.

Gentleman Caller: The Shot
Lilliputian version of my childhood drink of choice.

1 1/2 oz. Crown Royal
splash grenadine

Fucking Cunt
Kristen's drink upon hearing that peach schnaaps meant the drink name would have a curse word or body part.

3/4 oz. peach schnaaps
3/4 oz. peach schnaaps
splash peach schnaaps


Pirate Balls
Formerly Peach Nibblets

3/4 oz. Captain Morgan's
3/4 oz. Peach Schnaaps
Splash: Dr. Pepper

Float a Peachie-O on top.

My Mom Beat Me, So Now I Have Emotional Problems
The salt and sugar on the rim are a simulation of the sweetness of emotional independence and the saltiness of one's own tears; the ingredients were all phases of things that I drank in large quantity when I was younger.

3/4 oz. Pirate's Bay Coconut
3/4 oz. Wild Turkey
Splash: Pineapple juice

Rim glass with salt and sugar.

Prolapsed Rectum
3/4 oz. Absolut Citron
3/4 oz. Apple Pucker
Splash: Cranberry

Fuck You, I Took a Different Educational Career Path
The grape juice was Kristen's idea. It made me laugh quite hard. I couldn't explain why.

3/4 oz. Jager
3/4 oz. Triple Sec
Mixer: Grape Juice

Line rim of glass with cocaine.

Hopefully, these are just the beginning. Chris and I's experimentation led to some foulness (vodka, snapple, and peach schnaaps) but great names for future shots (cum fart).

And Carrie's student who suggested that since it was hot and sunny, today would be a good day to walk on the moon? Totally going to be a shot name, even though Carrie thought it sounded like an emo band out of context.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

This is a song Jerry Lee Lewis wrote before he killed one of his wives.

You know what's a horrible town? Whitesboro. The whole fucking town could drift into the sea and no blip on the cultural landscape would occur. A town full of monkeys, named for the fact that it was going to be the safe haven for whites; a literal hole for white people. Saunter down main street, spy the Dollar General, the townspeople, and see why eugenics fails. If there were still Old Testament justice, we would flee, leaving the one who turned back for a giggle as a pillar of salt.

But that's not what this is about.

One of my pet peeves is the discouragement of knowledge. That sounds too broad, so let me give you an example involving chicken vaginas. All examples should involve chicken vaginas.

I don't remember how it came up in conversation, but the genitals possessed by chickens was brought up as a topic. When I came forth with the fact that female chickens have cloacae, one of my coworkers queried as to why I would know that.

Why is it so wrong for a man to know what kind of genitals a female chicken has?

Another example: When I asked someone I work with "what they thought I was," I was termed as "not a Christian." When I asked why, she said it was because I seemed like one of those "college kids still seeking answers." The undertone was that once she'd settled on the Bible, there wasn't a need for any other books, no need to consult other modes of thought. Here, in one sentence, is the epitome of the smallest form of spirituality, the cancer on American Christianity, the thing that is killing it.

When did having broad knowledge become a bad thing, a thing to be scorned? What the fuck purpose does this serve? Biologically, why should we trend towards encouraging stupidity? Is this societal? Does this ultimately spell the downfall of our culture, the swallowing up by stupidity, leaving us in the dark, because "why would you want to know how the magic lights work?"

Seriously, fuck Whitesboro.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Oh god it's late.

The last paper I wrote for college was for my senior seminar class. I majored in political science, and because my chosen field is so swamped in mediocrity and the mere hagiography of the status quo (but in much prettier words), I spent a semester learning about, what else?, democracy!!!! I voted for fascist political thought, but no. Democracy, yet again. Sure, the United States is a democracy (save that argument for any comments), and we are IN the United States, sooooo why should political science students in America study anything else. All that is to get me to this, my final paper. In the paper we were given the task of making a policy recommendation to a new country, Sensempsci (no idea), in the form of a certain variety of democracy (non-democracies are so 20th century), and so, in a fit of contrarianism I proceeded to argue the common man as far out of the democratic picture as I could:

I propose that in order to ensure the most successful democracy possible, the state of Sensempsci adopt the representative model of democracy. While I believe the other models have merit, representative democracy is the only model that has the integrity to withstand the constant pressures of both domestic and international politics, and this is precisely because it excludes the average person from the policymaking process. Hibbing and Theiss-Morse, in their empirical research, found that “stronger political involvement will not make people more trusting, more tolerant, more other-regarding, or more supportive of government.”

Instead, their research points to a number of prohibitive factors that come about when people are made to participate in government. Empirical studies show that people will intentionally avoid conflict, in many cases even withdrawing from the situation entirely, and that when forming groups (keep in mind Putnam’s social capital here), people will generally tend toward homogeneity in their group selections, i.e. people will either choose groups that agree with them to begin with, or will form groups to share those ideas with like-minded others. Furthermore, Hibbing and Theiss-Morse’s synthesis of prior research on the topic concludes that “deliberation in real-world settings tends to disempower the timid, quiet, and uneducated relative to the loquacious, extroverted, and well schooled.”

Deliberation by the general public enforces, not erodes, natural inequalities for the precise reason that some people are better at communicating and developing their opinions than others. Since people will already avoid conflict and seek homogeneity in their group selections, deliberative bodies would result in those who are at all afraid of conflict or unskilled at debate to simply withdraw from the process, leading to the organic creation of an elite class of decision-makers. Representative democracy circumvents this problem by simply allowing the people to choose who composes the elite class in the first place. In doing so, the people are still able have a say in government, but the discursive necessity of a legitimate democracy is ensured through the provision of well-educated, well-informed statesmen.


As I was going through some of my old writing to try and find something, ANYTHING, to use as a writing sample for graduate school, I came across this series of paragraphs. In principle, I'm still proud of it. I was proud of it when I wrote it because I thought it an interesting use of the empirical studies that had been crammed down our throats all the semester, and I'm proud of it now because it seems to be, at the least, an admirable effort at actually trying to create something at the end of my college career, rather than simply regurgitating what I knew was expected (democracy is great, sure, but the best democracy is the one that lets plumber joe have his say whenever he wants!).


In theory, I still really agree with what I wrote. I think the democratic spirit tends toward mediocrity, laziness of thought. In a lot of ways it allows the worst in human nature to become the status quo. Now, this is not to say that democracy causes terrorism (though, you can argue that it does, but maybe that should be another post), but that democracy causes a gradual lowering of standards. In an entirely too pop culture-y example, look at the differences between Myspace and Facebook. Myspace, BASTION of everything that is wrong the vast majority of American society, is a relatively un-regulated, egalitarian enterprise. Anyone can get an account, all of the myspace designs and applications and themes and wallpapers and whatever else derive from a readily accessible, and FREE, suite of applications that either originate within, or build directly on, the foundations of the website. This is the democratic spirit at work, everyone has equal access to all the resources, anyone can join and make their profile as pretty or appalling as the next person. And what happens? They shit ALLLLLLL over it. Every horrible band you never wanted to hear from the last 5 years? Thanks myspace. The ubiquity of the scene kid thing? Thanks myspace. That one bisexual chick who had a reality show on one of those former music channels? THANKS FOR THAT ONE TOO.


On the opposite side of the spectrum, we have facebook at its inception: mildly regulated (no html, no themes, no wallpapers), to acquire membership to had to not only be a college student (verified through account creation process), but you had to attend a school that facebook deemed important enough to be allowed as a network on facebook. What did we get? A deeply useful tool for social networking. Facebook was the vehicle for so many events at my school, it helped me get to know the people who went there, it allowed me to periodically stalk whoever the latest gossip was about, and it allowed students to plan a lot more parties than the school would have liked, many times without them ever knowing. Now, I'm not arguing that facebook is some purely noble enterprise with only the best intentions. No doubt facebook was the medium through which many random hookups were arranged, but by God, it worked! It was fast, efficient, and effective. It did EXACTLY what it said it was going to, and it did it well.

However, that was all in the past. Now we turn to the present and see what facebook is coming. Without more than a few clicks you can easily begin to see the similarities between facebook and myspace. Now don't get me wrong, neither facebook nor myspace are important in the slightest, they aren't. Really. However, as cultural material they serve as a unique example of what the truly democratic spirit can do. With facebook we have exclusivity and (limited) authority leading to a well-functioning, truly innovative platform for social interaction. With myspace, we have something that (to be fair) was innovative in its time, though due more to the fact that it was new and flashy, and less to any true progression of the medium, but eventually ended up resembling an online Golgotha. AND YET, with the existence of both entities within the realm of social network, both representing different democratic experiments, what do we find? Facebook can't compete. Myspace continued to win and facebook has had to open its doors to everyone, allowed for more customization, but most importantly, it's allowed itself to be manipulated by the masses.

Culture tends downward, we see that everywhere. It most certainly has its moments, but culture, and democracy, tends in the direction of the herd. Society meanders along, oblivious to its many shortcomings, until something is forced into the public consciousness that reminds the people of just how lazy they've become. The true energy of social change in America is reactive, not progressive. How can we assuage the guilt we feel upon realizing JUST how passive and weak-minded we've become? How do we brush away the shame we're forced to contend with when something reminds us how rarely we ever do anything worth mentioning, how the moments when we truly hold ourselves accountable as individuals and are, as a result, PROUD of what we uncover are SO few and far between? We gentrify. We grab hold of those jarring reminders and we, in our one TRUE democratic action, decide as a people to nullify that which might finally force us to stop and look at ourselves for what we've become. In short, we invent reality television.

Friday, September 18, 2009

The Dilemma of Dilemna

So. This post was originally going to be about video games.

Forget that.

I was happily typing in the title, and I came to the word "Dilemna", and the word check said that it was misspelled. As a fairly snobby speller, I feel cheated. I have gone my whole life (well at least since I was, you know, three and spelling words like this one...) with a misconception about the spelling of this word, and according to a google search of "Dilemna" I'm not the only one.

How do YOU spell dilemma? When did the spelling change?

Am I crazy?

Alcoholism in the morning

Since I've started the late shift I've found that the hours between 8 AM and 11 AM hold nothing but wonder and amazement. Be it watching all the tv shows I've been missing out on (via the unfailingly useful ninjavideo), sitting around drinking coffee just because, reading for an hour or so prior to leaving for work, OR (in a turn toward the crude) drinking in the morning and then heading off to work. Morning beer started a long time ago as, I think, a bonding action between the three roommates. Times were tough and we had all adopted a sort of devil-may-care attitude, directly symbolized by the fact that we were drinking in the morning and didn't give two shits about who saw us.

By now, though, things have settled down into a kind of easy routine, so why is morning beer still around? The initial conclusion to be drawn is that this apartment is inhabited by alcoholics, which may be true, but isn't really of any import with regard to this discussion. I think that morning beer has come to be a sort of carving out. The majority of my time may belong to Cigna these days, all the rules and required behavior and fake niceties (and caring, and sympathy, insert other, similar qualities here) constantly a necessity in the workplace, but in the morning I can carve out a 10 minute period of my day where all of that just doesn't matter and I can do whatever the fuck I want, which includes drinking a beer immediately upon waking.

The end.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

The Difference Between Me and You is That I'm Not on Fire

This whole enterprise may, as many things do, ultimately crash and burn. We shall see.

If not, I could see it acting as a sort of catch-all for the inner-workings of the denizens of the apartment.

On cigarettes: after an experiment in rolling my own cigarettes, it turns out that pressing and packing 40 organic cigarettes cost me just as much as purchasing Kamel Reds from the gas station, and having them quickly handed to me by the attractive Indian girl that works there. The trade-offs of traveling to the state of Oklahoma and purchasing them from mongoloids will be calculated later.

Also, my cigarette tubes are called "Gamblers" and have a cowboy on them. Fuck if I know what those things are made of. Reds have a cotton filter, and are most likely not lovingly crafted in the Philippines like said Gamblers.

The most economic option would be to simply smoke less; however, this option is also the option that is the most unlikely option.

The Flies

The flies are becoming unbearable. This is the plague. The bodies are being stacked upon one another, and once decorum falls we will burn the corpses at the edge of town. "They smell the dead; that's why their in such a state."



When I was a kid, my grandfather paid me a penny to kill flies in houses that he was remodeling. My first perspective job was killing. I have opted to leave this off of my resume.

Chris and I have resumed this long dormant streak of fly holocaust. Annihilation to all lower life forms. This included a firefly I spied while out on the porch, who upon impact began twinkling, leaving me with a glowing flyswatter and immense guilt.