Hey!
Two things:
1) Its fucking cold out. Like space cold. And I'm home during the day and since I'm lame and live with my parents who work the heat isn't on. And I feel like a little leeching shit if I turn it on during the day even though I work from home and it's not like I don't have a job or anything. The thermostat in my house just has a picture of a middle finger on it. Also, my cats have reached the point in their lives where they piss on everything so a good number of our blankets smell like old hockey bags. And actually, as I think about it, the cats suck extra because they aren't even big enough to skin and make new blankets out of. Or even small area rug really. It would really add a lot to the decor: bear skin rug in the living room, cat skin mat in the front hall. And it would ward off intruding cats from encroaching on the property. And it would probably scare the shit out of little kids. Actually, the pros of this are greatly outmatching the cons. Something to think about for sure, especially with Christmas right around the corner.
2) I was originally going to write about the increasing tide of bizarre commercials (Old Spice, Troy Palomalu's Head and Shoulders stuff, etc.) but now I think I'll hold that off 'til after the Superbowl to see if it holds up. So to fill this space, I want to talk about how awesome 1920s style comedians were. Case in point. This originally caught my interest after watching Boardwalk Empire where they did an Eddie Cantor bit. I think I find it so funny because it is so radically out of context today. It's a dude in a porkpie hat with tons of stage makeup on just dropping bombs onstage. The weird part is that it was funny then because it was so fresh, and now it's fucking hysterical because it's so disjointed and alien. It's the kind of stuff all those absurd commercials are parodying, it's what Tim and Eric do on their show, it's definitely the essence of anti-comedy or absurdist comedy or whatever you want to call it. That said, I want to do a modern comedy show of observational comedy in the style of Eddie Cantor. Seinfeld-esque stuff, (although it seems like he's spun out of orbit too) but with that crazy cadence and with vaudeville songs and crazy powdery face makeup. I think it would be just top-notch. Get at me with donations.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
XVII
Well that worked well! Every Monday my ass.
This time I had a good excuse though. One of my compatriots and I decided to go out to a local watering hole to play some darts and steep in the local culture and things got a little carried away. I was under the impression that we were only going to take in a few beverages and watch the villagers play pool, drink, and fight in a slow orbit around our table, but I was clearly mistaken. As so often happens after a few drinks, the concept of tomorrow got more and more intangible, like trying to remember a dream at breakfast. We looked on through a haze of barley wine as men in leather jackets grabbed men in denim jackets for putting their hands on their lady's denim and leather clad asses. These same men, noticing us sitting in the corner avoiding eye contact (me especially, because I was wearing a navy blue and pink striped golf shirt in the land of flannel) came over to give us high fives and regale us with their life stories, many of which consisted of complaining about the government and arguing for the relative merit of domestic beer over imported. After about 11 o' clock most of the hardcore parlor game enthusiasts had left to make room for the creatures of the night. My friend and I, brash and brazen from inebriation, decided to make our move from the tabled fringe to barstool primacy. Still a bit wary of our surroundings we straddled the corner of the bar, our heads a'swivel. It didn't matter; out of the corner of our collective eye, we spotted a 60 something year old woman making her way for us, too late to do anything but brace for impact.
"Hey," she said, with the collected wear and tear of 52,000 cigarettes coming through, "can I buy you guys a pitcher a' beer?"
Baffled at this most recent development, my partner and I convened over the Megatouch machine.
"She's probably going to want something in return," my partner said, his voice hushed "and I don't think either of us are prepared to give her anything."
"Codswoddle!" I said, and then to her, "Thank you ma'am, we'd be much obliged."
"Call me Stella," she said with a cough and a wink.
Immediately regretting my decision, my hands started to shake as "Stella" ordered a pitcher of beer...and two tumblers of gin with lime. I don't drink gin, and I didn't plan on starting, so I politely said, "Oh no thanks, just the beer for me."
"Don't be an ass, they're both for me."
This response frightened me more than the prospect of her offering me the gin. Stella slid her stool next to me and my friend, placed her tumblers on the bar, pulled out a cigarette out of her purse and stuck in above her ear. "I'm gonna go out for a smoke, do me a favor and sneak me out this glass when the bartender isn't looking."
"A-alright ma'am, I'll try," spoke my mouth before I noticed what had happened. My friend was looking at me with mouth agape. My hand took the glass and moved it down to hip-level, my legs made a move for the door.
"Nuh uh honey, don't let Stella strongarm you like that," the female barmaid said, "she can wait 'til she gets back in." At this point, Stella stormed back in the bar.
"What? Did you get caught or something?" said Stella to me.
"You can't bring your drinks outside unless you have a plastic cup, which we don't have," answered the barmaid in my stead.
"If the owner wasn't so fucking cheap maybe you would!" said Stella, "Come on kid, come help me get some cups from my apartment!"
I looked at my friend, crossed myself, and followed this old crone into the blustery cold.
I'd like to end the story there to interject that this was the point in the night where I thought something really interesting might happen; something worth telling a story about. Maybe I would have seen a really big dog, or Stella would have given me a briefcase full of unmarked twenties and a bottle of sour mix. I really didn't know, but I was at the point, not really drunk but definitely not sober, where I felt as though nothing bad could possibly have come out of this. It was a fact finding mission, a curious investigation into a person that I would not have normally talked to. Unfortunately, nothing really exciting happened. Thus, this big buildup was ultimately for nothing. I really wanted something exciting to happen, like that time in Canada with Ed and his band of concubines, but I got nothing. She stumbled two doors down to where she lived, yelled upstairs at someone that I didn't see, and two cups flew down the stairs. They didn't even hit her in the head. She caught them and we walked back to the bar. She lost interest in me when I put a dollar in the jukebox and played this song, and the rest of the night was uneventful. I guess this was kind of a strange way to tell a story, but I think it is the most accurate (my film noir/Sherlock Holmes style phrasing notwithstanding). Also, I'm just trying to shake the rust off these writing fingers. I don't need "smooth transitions" or "actual endings" at this point, 'cause this is a fucking blog. See, there I felt like I was yelling into the abyss like a lunatic. This post feels disappointing for some reason. Well, so did that night. But hey, free pitcher of beer!
This time I had a good excuse though. One of my compatriots and I decided to go out to a local watering hole to play some darts and steep in the local culture and things got a little carried away. I was under the impression that we were only going to take in a few beverages and watch the villagers play pool, drink, and fight in a slow orbit around our table, but I was clearly mistaken. As so often happens after a few drinks, the concept of tomorrow got more and more intangible, like trying to remember a dream at breakfast. We looked on through a haze of barley wine as men in leather jackets grabbed men in denim jackets for putting their hands on their lady's denim and leather clad asses. These same men, noticing us sitting in the corner avoiding eye contact (me especially, because I was wearing a navy blue and pink striped golf shirt in the land of flannel) came over to give us high fives and regale us with their life stories, many of which consisted of complaining about the government and arguing for the relative merit of domestic beer over imported. After about 11 o' clock most of the hardcore parlor game enthusiasts had left to make room for the creatures of the night. My friend and I, brash and brazen from inebriation, decided to make our move from the tabled fringe to barstool primacy. Still a bit wary of our surroundings we straddled the corner of the bar, our heads a'swivel. It didn't matter; out of the corner of our collective eye, we spotted a 60 something year old woman making her way for us, too late to do anything but brace for impact.
"Hey," she said, with the collected wear and tear of 52,000 cigarettes coming through, "can I buy you guys a pitcher a' beer?"
Baffled at this most recent development, my partner and I convened over the Megatouch machine.
"She's probably going to want something in return," my partner said, his voice hushed "and I don't think either of us are prepared to give her anything."
"Codswoddle!" I said, and then to her, "Thank you ma'am, we'd be much obliged."
"Call me Stella," she said with a cough and a wink.
Immediately regretting my decision, my hands started to shake as "Stella" ordered a pitcher of beer...and two tumblers of gin with lime. I don't drink gin, and I didn't plan on starting, so I politely said, "Oh no thanks, just the beer for me."
"Don't be an ass, they're both for me."
This response frightened me more than the prospect of her offering me the gin. Stella slid her stool next to me and my friend, placed her tumblers on the bar, pulled out a cigarette out of her purse and stuck in above her ear. "I'm gonna go out for a smoke, do me a favor and sneak me out this glass when the bartender isn't looking."
"A-alright ma'am, I'll try," spoke my mouth before I noticed what had happened. My friend was looking at me with mouth agape. My hand took the glass and moved it down to hip-level, my legs made a move for the door.
"Nuh uh honey, don't let Stella strongarm you like that," the female barmaid said, "she can wait 'til she gets back in." At this point, Stella stormed back in the bar.
"What? Did you get caught or something?" said Stella to me.
"You can't bring your drinks outside unless you have a plastic cup, which we don't have," answered the barmaid in my stead.
"If the owner wasn't so fucking cheap maybe you would!" said Stella, "Come on kid, come help me get some cups from my apartment!"
I looked at my friend, crossed myself, and followed this old crone into the blustery cold.
I'd like to end the story there to interject that this was the point in the night where I thought something really interesting might happen; something worth telling a story about. Maybe I would have seen a really big dog, or Stella would have given me a briefcase full of unmarked twenties and a bottle of sour mix. I really didn't know, but I was at the point, not really drunk but definitely not sober, where I felt as though nothing bad could possibly have come out of this. It was a fact finding mission, a curious investigation into a person that I would not have normally talked to. Unfortunately, nothing really exciting happened. Thus, this big buildup was ultimately for nothing. I really wanted something exciting to happen, like that time in Canada with Ed and his band of concubines, but I got nothing. She stumbled two doors down to where she lived, yelled upstairs at someone that I didn't see, and two cups flew down the stairs. They didn't even hit her in the head. She caught them and we walked back to the bar. She lost interest in me when I put a dollar in the jukebox and played this song, and the rest of the night was uneventful. I guess this was kind of a strange way to tell a story, but I think it is the most accurate (my film noir/Sherlock Holmes style phrasing notwithstanding). Also, I'm just trying to shake the rust off these writing fingers. I don't need "smooth transitions" or "actual endings" at this point, 'cause this is a fucking blog. See, there I felt like I was yelling into the abyss like a lunatic. This post feels disappointing for some reason. Well, so did that night. But hey, free pitcher of beer!
Monday, November 22, 2010
XVI
Okay everybody (literally zero people), I think I've reached the point in my life where my idealism has died enough for me to come to terms with my own shortcomings and creative limits. It's become clear that I'm not good at updating this thing regularly, and I think that has to do with three main things.
One: I was under the assumption that whenever a particularly interesting or humorous idea popped into my head, I would make a note and then post it up here, hopefully having the wherewithal to extrapolate that mote of information into a diatribe long enough to warrant a blog post. This is impractical. I have tens of thousands of notebooks all over the place that are filled with fragments of thoughts that if found and read by the proper authorities, would most likely land me in Levenworth. Most recently, a list titled "White People Problems" with two bullets underneath it reading "ran out of cookie straws" and "addicted to oxycontin", and a page that just has the words "Pillow Technology" on it. I don't know where either of those ideas were going, and frankly I don't really want to. Point being for better or worse none of those things ended up on here.
Which brings me to point two: I'm a lethal combination of forgetful and self-conscious. Half the time I would just forget to post the stuff on here, and the other half I would wait too long, re-examine what I had written, and realize that it was stupid bullshit and who the fuck was I to assume that anyone would want to read it. I can't seem to get my head around the conceit that people want to read meaningless shit about other people's lives, even though I spend a lot of time reading meaningless shit about other people's lives. In fact a lot of writing in general falls under that umbrella, with the additional fact that most autobiographical writing is written by people who have had interesting lives (or at least can fake it). Actually, even non-autobiographical fiction (to the extent that it exists) deals with that conceit, in some ways even more so, because you're reading about the life of some character that doesn't even exist in the real world. Again though, that subject matter, regardless of how seemingly meaningless it is, is interesting when done well. I don't want to get into a one sided discussion about the importance of fiction, lest I begin to resemble the man that walks to the library by himself, muttering and carrying armfuls of books, so I will stop. To sum up: I forget that this conduit to the etherweb exists sometimes, and when I do remember, I often convince myself that I have nothing worthwhile to add.
Lastly, three: I'm pretty sure no one reads this, partly because of my chaotic posting regimen, and partly because the blog doesn't really cater to a specific interest. It's not a food blog, it's not a fashion blog, it's not a tech blog, it's not a travel blog, and it doesn't have porn on it, thus it is aimed at no one in particular. But it's also aimed at everyone in particular. But no one in particular seems to read it, save a few friends. So even though updating regularly is not hard work, screaming into the void about nothing in particular while hearing nothing back does resemble insanity (something I tend to shy away from).
Thus, I'm going to try to update every Monday. Sean is funny on Monday.
One: I was under the assumption that whenever a particularly interesting or humorous idea popped into my head, I would make a note and then post it up here, hopefully having the wherewithal to extrapolate that mote of information into a diatribe long enough to warrant a blog post. This is impractical. I have tens of thousands of notebooks all over the place that are filled with fragments of thoughts that if found and read by the proper authorities, would most likely land me in Levenworth. Most recently, a list titled "White People Problems" with two bullets underneath it reading "ran out of cookie straws" and "addicted to oxycontin", and a page that just has the words "Pillow Technology" on it. I don't know where either of those ideas were going, and frankly I don't really want to. Point being for better or worse none of those things ended up on here.
Which brings me to point two: I'm a lethal combination of forgetful and self-conscious. Half the time I would just forget to post the stuff on here, and the other half I would wait too long, re-examine what I had written, and realize that it was stupid bullshit and who the fuck was I to assume that anyone would want to read it. I can't seem to get my head around the conceit that people want to read meaningless shit about other people's lives, even though I spend a lot of time reading meaningless shit about other people's lives. In fact a lot of writing in general falls under that umbrella, with the additional fact that most autobiographical writing is written by people who have had interesting lives (or at least can fake it). Actually, even non-autobiographical fiction (to the extent that it exists) deals with that conceit, in some ways even more so, because you're reading about the life of some character that doesn't even exist in the real world. Again though, that subject matter, regardless of how seemingly meaningless it is, is interesting when done well. I don't want to get into a one sided discussion about the importance of fiction, lest I begin to resemble the man that walks to the library by himself, muttering and carrying armfuls of books, so I will stop. To sum up: I forget that this conduit to the etherweb exists sometimes, and when I do remember, I often convince myself that I have nothing worthwhile to add.
Lastly, three: I'm pretty sure no one reads this, partly because of my chaotic posting regimen, and partly because the blog doesn't really cater to a specific interest. It's not a food blog, it's not a fashion blog, it's not a tech blog, it's not a travel blog, and it doesn't have porn on it, thus it is aimed at no one in particular. But it's also aimed at everyone in particular. But no one in particular seems to read it, save a few friends. So even though updating regularly is not hard work, screaming into the void about nothing in particular while hearing nothing back does resemble insanity (something I tend to shy away from).
Thus, I'm going to try to update every Monday. Sean is funny on Monday.
Monday, March 29, 2010
XV
I started watching Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution on Hulu today, and after imbibing several glasses of 12 dollar red wine I figured I should tell everyone about what the show is about. Basically, after trying to make English school lunches healthy and practical he decided to try his hand at doing the same in the States. However, he chose Huntington, WV as his destination. This was his first mistake. Huntington, WV is considered the unhealthiest city in the nation, and it's located in the part of America that I like to call the "ignorant and proud of it" belt. Or to be more politically correct, the "mostly ignorant and proud of it" belt. The combination of these two things make this city horrifying to see on internet television, mainly 'cause of the ignorance and fat. I guess mostly 'cause of the fat. And the worst part is that in high school, I ate a bunch of the same stuff. Even though I usually brought my lunch, I definitely packed away a decent amount of breakfast sandwiches in my day at that institution. Packed up in foil, these cholesterol-bombs consisted of some kind of egg, a coaster shaped patty of sausage, a cheese square, wrapped up in a bagel or some kind of English muffin product. The weird thing was that these little guys tasted like a million blowjobs. I have a theory now that this had to do with the concentration of sugar and salt.
I don't want to summarize the whole show, because you should definitely watch it yourself, but these parents, and these lunchladies, and these administrators don't really know anything about what their kids are putting into their tiny fat bodies. Not to remove all blame from those little pigs. They didn't even know that french fries came from potatoes. Maybe instead of having this show about Huntington, WV we should just start using all of the people that live there as fuel for the country as a whole. Wind or solar power do seem like the most Earth conscious options, but I think that Southern energy really might have a shot. We'd have to start producing really big hamster wheels hooked up to turbines for these people to run on, but I don't think that production of goods is really a problem for our country. After we have all of the wheels connected to power plants, we would bring all of these people down and show them the set-up. Then we'd try to convince them to start running on the wheels in order to lose weight. If they refused, we'd burn them like coal. I really think that this option has potential. That might be the wine talking.
I feel like this post took a turn for the cruel at the end. Sorry.
I don't want to summarize the whole show, because you should definitely watch it yourself, but these parents, and these lunchladies, and these administrators don't really know anything about what their kids are putting into their tiny fat bodies. Not to remove all blame from those little pigs. They didn't even know that french fries came from potatoes. Maybe instead of having this show about Huntington, WV we should just start using all of the people that live there as fuel for the country as a whole. Wind or solar power do seem like the most Earth conscious options, but I think that Southern energy really might have a shot. We'd have to start producing really big hamster wheels hooked up to turbines for these people to run on, but I don't think that production of goods is really a problem for our country. After we have all of the wheels connected to power plants, we would bring all of these people down and show them the set-up. Then we'd try to convince them to start running on the wheels in order to lose weight. If they refused, we'd burn them like coal. I really think that this option has potential. That might be the wine talking.
I feel like this post took a turn for the cruel at the end. Sorry.
Monday, March 22, 2010
XIV
Fuck me blah blah blah, haven't updated this in a while blah blah blah, no one reads this blah blah blah. It's hard to keep this updated regularly when life consists of reading books, going to class, and drinking. Maybe I'm just a colossal pussy. Maybe a combination of those.
Anyways, my last post was November 9th, 2009 and I think I was writing about how the educational system is bullshit and further how the more we learn the more there is to know and so we can't actually know anything and then I figured out that it was almost impossible to jerk off while simultaneously typing so I stopped. Also, further on that point, summoning the will to jerk off is incredibly difficult while wallowing in abject nihilism. Shallow optimism however, very compatible with rationalizing internet pornography because hey, if it makes you happy why the hell not. Shallow optimism is also very compatible with Netflix, listening to Podcasts, using plastic bags at the supermarket even though you have reusable ones that you're just too stupid to remember to bring, playing the lottery, making lists of things that you intend to do but not actually making any tangible moves to attain those goals, and a whole host of other things that I like to engage in these days. As an offshoot of that, those Facebook fan groups that consist of a long, exceptionally vague sentence like "it gets awkward when you're watching a movie with your parents and a sex scene comes on" or "i've thought about punching you in the face so many times..." or "regretting something so much it makes you sick" or the host of other remarkably erudite slices of life are physically hurting me. Half of them are things that no one should reasonably be a fan of, and the others are things that people should be embarrassed for being fans of. You're a fan of watching sex scenes with your parents? Who are probably on Facebook now? Trying to connect with old friends from high school but more realistically getting a heaping helping of pictures of their progeny boozing, barfing on dicks, and passing out? Luckily opening up Facebook releases a chemical out of your computer speakers that immediately renders all people that were alive when Lyndon Baines Johnson was passing legislation completely unable to navigate the interweb. Honestly though, I think that the technology associated with social networking is incompatible with people that were born in the 50s. However, this inability on the part of the baby-boomers does result in less people joining those fucking fan pages. The movies that they watched with their parents didn't have sex scenes. They didn't even have fucking sound.
Also, looks like this hot piece of ass is insured until he is 26. Which is awesome. I haven't really had time to milk the system too much yet 'cause of this college thing, but once I graduate it's going to be easy street. Lipitor milkshakes, Chantix sundaes, and Viagra pancakes for this guy. Also, I'm going to start taking WebMD seriously and I'm going to encourage all of my friends to do the same. That mole on your arm? Cancer. That cough you have? Pneumonia. That scab on your knee? Leprosy. The government better fucking take down that god damn site or there's going to be negative two hundred flagillion dollars sucked out of health care. On a more serious note, conservative Republicans can go fucking choke on dicks. ABSOLUTELY ZERO FORESIGHT. Conservatives in general seem to be lacking in that respect. Really? Things are going to stay the same forever? Awesome, let me jump in my polio wagon and head down to the lynching. Fucking idiots. Gay marriage destroys the sanctity of the institution of marriage! Can you even imagine a modern country in the next 20 years not having gay marriage legal? It's laughable. And these (largely) white, (largely) old chodes think that they're going to stand resolutely against this coming "radicalism" forever? Let's kick their walkers out from under them and push them down some fucking escalators. Get out of the way, we're all gay Ecstasy junkies that know how use Facebook and are REALLY pissed about how you spent all of the money on fucking war.
Been reading: Kurt Vonnegut - Breakfast of Champions, Graham Swift - Shuttlecock
Been listening: Titus Andronicus - The Monitor, Free Energy - Stuck on Nothing
Been watching: Paul Newman movies, and anything but Tool Academy III
PS - This could've been longer, but I'm trying to save some chi for more writing
Anyways, my last post was November 9th, 2009 and I think I was writing about how the educational system is bullshit and further how the more we learn the more there is to know and so we can't actually know anything and then I figured out that it was almost impossible to jerk off while simultaneously typing so I stopped. Also, further on that point, summoning the will to jerk off is incredibly difficult while wallowing in abject nihilism. Shallow optimism however, very compatible with rationalizing internet pornography because hey, if it makes you happy why the hell not. Shallow optimism is also very compatible with Netflix, listening to Podcasts, using plastic bags at the supermarket even though you have reusable ones that you're just too stupid to remember to bring, playing the lottery, making lists of things that you intend to do but not actually making any tangible moves to attain those goals, and a whole host of other things that I like to engage in these days. As an offshoot of that, those Facebook fan groups that consist of a long, exceptionally vague sentence like "it gets awkward when you're watching a movie with your parents and a sex scene comes on" or "i've thought about punching you in the face so many times..." or "regretting something so much it makes you sick" or the host of other remarkably erudite slices of life are physically hurting me. Half of them are things that no one should reasonably be a fan of, and the others are things that people should be embarrassed for being fans of. You're a fan of watching sex scenes with your parents? Who are probably on Facebook now? Trying to connect with old friends from high school but more realistically getting a heaping helping of pictures of their progeny boozing, barfing on dicks, and passing out? Luckily opening up Facebook releases a chemical out of your computer speakers that immediately renders all people that were alive when Lyndon Baines Johnson was passing legislation completely unable to navigate the interweb. Honestly though, I think that the technology associated with social networking is incompatible with people that were born in the 50s. However, this inability on the part of the baby-boomers does result in less people joining those fucking fan pages. The movies that they watched with their parents didn't have sex scenes. They didn't even have fucking sound.
Also, looks like this hot piece of ass is insured until he is 26. Which is awesome. I haven't really had time to milk the system too much yet 'cause of this college thing, but once I graduate it's going to be easy street. Lipitor milkshakes, Chantix sundaes, and Viagra pancakes for this guy. Also, I'm going to start taking WebMD seriously and I'm going to encourage all of my friends to do the same. That mole on your arm? Cancer. That cough you have? Pneumonia. That scab on your knee? Leprosy. The government better fucking take down that god damn site or there's going to be negative two hundred flagillion dollars sucked out of health care. On a more serious note, conservative Republicans can go fucking choke on dicks. ABSOLUTELY ZERO FORESIGHT. Conservatives in general seem to be lacking in that respect. Really? Things are going to stay the same forever? Awesome, let me jump in my polio wagon and head down to the lynching. Fucking idiots. Gay marriage destroys the sanctity of the institution of marriage! Can you even imagine a modern country in the next 20 years not having gay marriage legal? It's laughable. And these (largely) white, (largely) old chodes think that they're going to stand resolutely against this coming "radicalism" forever? Let's kick their walkers out from under them and push them down some fucking escalators. Get out of the way, we're all gay Ecstasy junkies that know how use Facebook and are REALLY pissed about how you spent all of the money on fucking war.
Been reading: Kurt Vonnegut - Breakfast of Champions, Graham Swift - Shuttlecock
Been listening: Titus Andronicus - The Monitor, Free Energy - Stuck on Nothing
Been watching: Paul Newman movies, and anything but Tool Academy III
PS - This could've been longer, but I'm trying to save some chi for more writing
Monday, November 9, 2009
XIII
I think I've come to terms with the fact that this blog has been, and always will be solely for my own benefit.
Is the point of the modern school system to build up an enormous reservoir of knowledge, problem solving skills, and creative ability only to slowly undo all of that right before the end of the process? It certainly seems that way. All of the material that I picked up from grades 0-12 has been taken from me. Stolen. All of those tediously memorized historical facts, undercut by Howard Zinn. The basics of plot, character, setting, etc., excised by everyone that I started reading after senior year of high school. Postmodernism? Deconstructionism? Literally taking all of those things I learned and making them utterly obsolete. How do I know that Columbus discovered America? What makes the country that I live in "America"? Can a nation be anything but a group of people living together? Are any of the words I'm using right now actually representative of anything in the real world? Or do they just approach accuracy indefinitely, a decidedly phallic asymptote ramming its way directly up my ass, no doubt working its way towards my brain. There aren't enough pills in the world to combat the massive panic attack that will undoubtedly occur if any of those things are thought about for too long. It all ends in catatonia anyways. Either way you look at it you eventually think yourself into inaction, or at the very least, crippling apathy. You can start to avoid all forms of intellectualism, start drinking 40s and headbutting the sidewalk, but that's just a mess. You can start to fully embrace intellectualism, hoping that there's some sort of answer at the end, but eventually finding out that the more you know, the more there is to know (I think I said that in the last post), and thus leaving you even more fucked because the liquor store closes at nine and you wasted all your time learning.
Solutions:
Embrace chaos, and be as esoteric, strange, and against-the-grain as possible. It certainly seems more in line with the current mess of affairs than traditional learning and expression, and at the very least, it's fun. Watch Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job.
Suicide? I think Camus said that the goal of absurdism was to establish whether or not suicide was justified in a God-less world. Work on that.
Note: be careful, as those two solutions are remarkably close. Also, I endorse the former over the latter. Because dead people cannot watch Beaver Boys. And thus cannot be happy.
If anyone read this, I would be more worried about a disclaimer.
Is the point of the modern school system to build up an enormous reservoir of knowledge, problem solving skills, and creative ability only to slowly undo all of that right before the end of the process? It certainly seems that way. All of the material that I picked up from grades 0-12 has been taken from me. Stolen. All of those tediously memorized historical facts, undercut by Howard Zinn. The basics of plot, character, setting, etc., excised by everyone that I started reading after senior year of high school. Postmodernism? Deconstructionism? Literally taking all of those things I learned and making them utterly obsolete. How do I know that Columbus discovered America? What makes the country that I live in "America"? Can a nation be anything but a group of people living together? Are any of the words I'm using right now actually representative of anything in the real world? Or do they just approach accuracy indefinitely, a decidedly phallic asymptote ramming its way directly up my ass, no doubt working its way towards my brain. There aren't enough pills in the world to combat the massive panic attack that will undoubtedly occur if any of those things are thought about for too long. It all ends in catatonia anyways. Either way you look at it you eventually think yourself into inaction, or at the very least, crippling apathy. You can start to avoid all forms of intellectualism, start drinking 40s and headbutting the sidewalk, but that's just a mess. You can start to fully embrace intellectualism, hoping that there's some sort of answer at the end, but eventually finding out that the more you know, the more there is to know (I think I said that in the last post), and thus leaving you even more fucked because the liquor store closes at nine and you wasted all your time learning.
Solutions:
Embrace chaos, and be as esoteric, strange, and against-the-grain as possible. It certainly seems more in line with the current mess of affairs than traditional learning and expression, and at the very least, it's fun. Watch Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job.
Suicide? I think Camus said that the goal of absurdism was to establish whether or not suicide was justified in a God-less world. Work on that.
Note: be careful, as those two solutions are remarkably close. Also, I endorse the former over the latter. Because dead people cannot watch Beaver Boys. And thus cannot be happy.
If anyone read this, I would be more worried about a disclaimer.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
XII
I think I've come to terms with my limitations. I guess that comes with getting older and realizing that there are fewer and fewer things that you can really explore and experience without too much risk. I realize that sounds naive, me being 20 years old, but I think it's true. When I was a kid, I wanted to be hundreds of different things: a baseball player, a scientist, a writer, a kid with a smaller head, etc. I really didn't have any limitations, save for the head shrinking, and I could fool around with a whole bunch of different stuff. They say that the difference between primary school teachers and secondary school teachers is that the primary school teachers know a little about a lot and secondary school teachers know a lot about a little. Also, banging students is a little more frowned upon at the primary school level.
I think that narrowing of expertise is a reality of life today; in order to be a "productive member of society" you have to have a specific area of expertise. I don't think it necessarily is involved with the limitations of the human mind, people can learn almost infinite amounts of information, or limitations of time, we are around for a very long time and the brain is only useless when you're very young and very old (except for 14 year old males, whose brains become dedicated only to pornography, violence, and violent pornography for at least one calendar year), I think it has to do with limitations imposed by society, specifically American society.
America seems to be motivated, as well as controlled by work. One could argue that this work ethic gave us airplanes, automobiles, the moon landing, and those plastic things that go on the end of shoelaces (aglets). One could also argue that it made everyone in this country fucking boring. The work ethic back in the day led to the notion that getting up and going to work every morning at 9, doing something there, and getting back at 5 was an honorable and useful way to spend time, which I think is ridiculous. Have you ever pushed a pencil for 8 hours? Those things are REALLY tiny, and bending down to give them the business all day is really hard on the back. I guess you could say that the airplane, automobile, and aglet were all fantastic inventions and totally worth the work that was put into them. I'd actually have to agree with you on that. Which makes my examples very bad. I'm sort of getting away from my point.
Do you think that all of the modern conveniences we know and love would never have come along without the "American spirit" of toiling work? I think they would have. Eventually. I think my theory is pretty half-baked at this point, but there is something to it. I'll come back to this later, I'm too tired from working on schoolwork. Which actually was the impetus for this in the first place.
Here's a line from the best melodrama ever made:
"You want me to get a job on the line for the next 20 years til I’m granted leave with my gold-plated watch and my balls full of tumors because I surrendered the one thing that means shit to me? Well, you can just exhale because it’s not gonna happen, not in this lifetime."
I like the part about the watch. And the ball tumors. Fuuuck.
I think that narrowing of expertise is a reality of life today; in order to be a "productive member of society" you have to have a specific area of expertise. I don't think it necessarily is involved with the limitations of the human mind, people can learn almost infinite amounts of information, or limitations of time, we are around for a very long time and the brain is only useless when you're very young and very old (except for 14 year old males, whose brains become dedicated only to pornography, violence, and violent pornography for at least one calendar year), I think it has to do with limitations imposed by society, specifically American society.
America seems to be motivated, as well as controlled by work. One could argue that this work ethic gave us airplanes, automobiles, the moon landing, and those plastic things that go on the end of shoelaces (aglets). One could also argue that it made everyone in this country fucking boring. The work ethic back in the day led to the notion that getting up and going to work every morning at 9, doing something there, and getting back at 5 was an honorable and useful way to spend time, which I think is ridiculous. Have you ever pushed a pencil for 8 hours? Those things are REALLY tiny, and bending down to give them the business all day is really hard on the back. I guess you could say that the airplane, automobile, and aglet were all fantastic inventions and totally worth the work that was put into them. I'd actually have to agree with you on that. Which makes my examples very bad. I'm sort of getting away from my point.
Do you think that all of the modern conveniences we know and love would never have come along without the "American spirit" of toiling work? I think they would have. Eventually. I think my theory is pretty half-baked at this point, but there is something to it. I'll come back to this later, I'm too tired from working on schoolwork. Which actually was the impetus for this in the first place.
Here's a line from the best melodrama ever made:
"You want me to get a job on the line for the next 20 years til I’m granted leave with my gold-plated watch and my balls full of tumors because I surrendered the one thing that means shit to me? Well, you can just exhale because it’s not gonna happen, not in this lifetime."
I like the part about the watch. And the ball tumors. Fuuuck.
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