To veer from my normal introspective ramblings, it brings a smile to my face when I see 13-year-old kid watching Showgirls on VH1 while on the treadmill at the gym.
I'm a sick human being sometimes.
12/21/2005
Funny how small things always manage to kickstart the brain into ponderous musings on the nature of life.
Recently, one of my coworkers passed around that little catalog that you get when you’re in elementary school. You know the one. The kind with all sorts of holiday doodads, kitchenware, household decorations, candles, etc. My coworker was playing the role of good mama and passed this sucker around to everyone in the office. Naturally, everyone being a reasonably good person bought something, not wanting to sleight such a cute kid.
So, seeing as how I had just recently gotten my own place, I decided to look for some swag for the cradle. I say “cradle” because it’s not quite a “crib,” yet. I think to officially be dubbed a “crib,” some “honeys” are required. And since the catalog didn’t offer any of those cute little honey bear bottles, it shall stay as a cradle until there is some sort of honey-esque interjection.
Anyway, I came across a Bonsai tree, and thought it’d be nice to get some life into the cradle. I’ve always had a certain affinity for plant life and botanical types, so I figured, “why not?” The one hitch to it all… the little sucker had to be planted. Sonuva…
Now, I have no experience whatsoever in caring for plants, animals, myself, or living things in general. That said, I knew this was gonna be a challenge. I mean, me not only having to take care of a living thing, but having to practically birth it? You’d have a better chance of finding honesty in the Bush Administration. Nevertheless, determined to at least give it a shot, I ordered the sucker. And about four to eight weeks later, my order came. When I opened the package, I was given maybe half-a-dozen seeds, soil and a small pot. I wasn’t even given anything to put under the pot. Seeing as how there’s a hole to sop up excess water, I was forced to nab an ashtray from my parents’ place.
The directions were brutally simple and painfully ambiguous: “place seeds about one inch apart, water regularly.” How regularly, motherfucker? What, like once a day, twice a day, hourly? Define regularly, you fuckwit piece of paper!
You can almost foresee a disaster in the making as you read this, right? Well, I stuck it out and watered this tiny pot of soil daily. Just enough to keep it good and moist. I have no botanical experience whatsoever as I mentioned, so I just kinda made sure it was a regular thing in my daily diet of to-do’s. After more than a month, I had all but given up hope on this sucker ever sprouting.
Then one day just a week or so ago, I noticed two small green tendrils emerging from the soil. Whu…? You mean to tell me that I actually succeeded in caring for a plant? And not for nothing, but my mother is a gardener of the alpha variety, so she knew I was up against a wall with this thing, and told me point blank that I had wasted my money in buying them. I was beginning to believe her, too, until I saw it blossom with my own two eyes.
In honor of the classic Karate Kid, series (pre-Hilary Swank, of course), I named my beloved Bonsai-in-progress “Miyagi.” Perhaps it was fate that just one day after he sprouted, Pat Morita passed away. I’m happy to report that little Miyagi continues to grow noticeably each day.
Where am I goin’ with this? I’ll tell you where.
It’s taken me a page and a half worth of writing to rip a page from my life as an illustrative metaphor that pace is essential to the life we lead, people. Now little Miyagi, he had to grow at his own pace in spite of his father’s impatience and ignorance as to the inner workings of plant life. He couldn’t be rushed, no matter how much water or sunlight he received, and at the end of the day, I feel much better in knowing that I’m able to watch him grow from seed to sprout to proud Bonsai when I could’ve just gone to Costco or any generic Asian kiosk in the mall and bought a full-grown Bonsai.
The equation here is simple, my pretties… the more steady the pace, the better the quality of your life. If the pace is accelerated, the likelihood of disaster is amplified. We lose sight of this quite frequently in life due to the nature of the society in which we live, because our culture doesn’t permit a steady pace. Everything has to be expedited: faster, more efficient, able to process quicker, etc. We move so fast, naturally our lives feel empty, less than complete, like we’re missing something. It’s because we’re not moving at a healthy pace, plain and simple.
I have noticed that within the context of my job, when I am rushed to get things in on short deadlines, more often than not mistakes are made. I would say that no compromises should be made for timeliness, but it’s par for the course around my office that I’m not the only one making such errors when pressed that way. Having said that, I don’t believe there should be a trade-off between accuracy and punctuality, but the saying does apply: “You can have it done fast, or you can have it done right.”
Pick one.
I’ve also come to realize that my pacing with my workouts has slowed and become more intent, more focused. And yeah, I’ve noticed results. That focus also applies to meditation, a highly enriching practice that requires one to keep the pace slow… to not get caught up in the high impact world in which we live. Needless to say this is another practice that I have adopted and grown to love.
Moreover, I feel that my pace in terms of relationships has improved dramatically. Following my last relationship, I’ve slowed things down considerably, taken a good amount of time to and for myself, and just enjoyed life without having to endure the pressures of having to be with someone. And for what it’s worth, I’ve felt better over the last four-plus months than I have in ages.
Imagine that, huh?
This is the thing: no matter how hard we push, no matter how badly we want something, we cannot force it to happen. If we attempt such a feat, we ultimately push whatever it is we want to the brink of ruin, because either we will have gone too far and pushed it to its limit, or once we attain it, it simply won’t seem as special as we had hoped. That’s because we yearned for it and worked for it so hard that when we get a half-assed end result, it’s extremely dissatisfying.
No, my friends… it is better for us to keep the pace of ourselves and our lives as moderate and controlled as possible. This is how the battle is won, and it’s taken me 25 years to come to that conclusion. Maybe I’m a little late in the game as far as coming to terms with it, but I operate at my own steady pace, and better to learn now than not learn at all.
I’m sure lots of this sounds like Zen mumbo jumbo, but trust me when I tell you, the quality of my life has improved tenfold, and the fact remains that whatever it is I’m working for will come in time. That’s not to say I shouldn’t work for it, but in keeping the pace at a comfortable level, it will come to me in time.
I’d imagine the same holds for you. Just watch.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Recently, one of my coworkers passed around that little catalog that you get when you’re in elementary school. You know the one. The kind with all sorts of holiday doodads, kitchenware, household decorations, candles, etc. My coworker was playing the role of good mama and passed this sucker around to everyone in the office. Naturally, everyone being a reasonably good person bought something, not wanting to sleight such a cute kid.
So, seeing as how I had just recently gotten my own place, I decided to look for some swag for the cradle. I say “cradle” because it’s not quite a “crib,” yet. I think to officially be dubbed a “crib,” some “honeys” are required. And since the catalog didn’t offer any of those cute little honey bear bottles, it shall stay as a cradle until there is some sort of honey-esque interjection.
Anyway, I came across a Bonsai tree, and thought it’d be nice to get some life into the cradle. I’ve always had a certain affinity for plant life and botanical types, so I figured, “why not?” The one hitch to it all… the little sucker had to be planted. Sonuva…
Now, I have no experience whatsoever in caring for plants, animals, myself, or living things in general. That said, I knew this was gonna be a challenge. I mean, me not only having to take care of a living thing, but having to practically birth it? You’d have a better chance of finding honesty in the Bush Administration. Nevertheless, determined to at least give it a shot, I ordered the sucker. And about four to eight weeks later, my order came. When I opened the package, I was given maybe half-a-dozen seeds, soil and a small pot. I wasn’t even given anything to put under the pot. Seeing as how there’s a hole to sop up excess water, I was forced to nab an ashtray from my parents’ place.
The directions were brutally simple and painfully ambiguous: “place seeds about one inch apart, water regularly.” How regularly, motherfucker? What, like once a day, twice a day, hourly? Define regularly, you fuckwit piece of paper!
You can almost foresee a disaster in the making as you read this, right? Well, I stuck it out and watered this tiny pot of soil daily. Just enough to keep it good and moist. I have no botanical experience whatsoever as I mentioned, so I just kinda made sure it was a regular thing in my daily diet of to-do’s. After more than a month, I had all but given up hope on this sucker ever sprouting.
Then one day just a week or so ago, I noticed two small green tendrils emerging from the soil. Whu…? You mean to tell me that I actually succeeded in caring for a plant? And not for nothing, but my mother is a gardener of the alpha variety, so she knew I was up against a wall with this thing, and told me point blank that I had wasted my money in buying them. I was beginning to believe her, too, until I saw it blossom with my own two eyes.
In honor of the classic Karate Kid, series (pre-Hilary Swank, of course), I named my beloved Bonsai-in-progress “Miyagi.” Perhaps it was fate that just one day after he sprouted, Pat Morita passed away. I’m happy to report that little Miyagi continues to grow noticeably each day.
Where am I goin’ with this? I’ll tell you where.
It’s taken me a page and a half worth of writing to rip a page from my life as an illustrative metaphor that pace is essential to the life we lead, people. Now little Miyagi, he had to grow at his own pace in spite of his father’s impatience and ignorance as to the inner workings of plant life. He couldn’t be rushed, no matter how much water or sunlight he received, and at the end of the day, I feel much better in knowing that I’m able to watch him grow from seed to sprout to proud Bonsai when I could’ve just gone to Costco or any generic Asian kiosk in the mall and bought a full-grown Bonsai.
The equation here is simple, my pretties… the more steady the pace, the better the quality of your life. If the pace is accelerated, the likelihood of disaster is amplified. We lose sight of this quite frequently in life due to the nature of the society in which we live, because our culture doesn’t permit a steady pace. Everything has to be expedited: faster, more efficient, able to process quicker, etc. We move so fast, naturally our lives feel empty, less than complete, like we’re missing something. It’s because we’re not moving at a healthy pace, plain and simple.
I have noticed that within the context of my job, when I am rushed to get things in on short deadlines, more often than not mistakes are made. I would say that no compromises should be made for timeliness, but it’s par for the course around my office that I’m not the only one making such errors when pressed that way. Having said that, I don’t believe there should be a trade-off between accuracy and punctuality, but the saying does apply: “You can have it done fast, or you can have it done right.”
Pick one.
I’ve also come to realize that my pacing with my workouts has slowed and become more intent, more focused. And yeah, I’ve noticed results. That focus also applies to meditation, a highly enriching practice that requires one to keep the pace slow… to not get caught up in the high impact world in which we live. Needless to say this is another practice that I have adopted and grown to love.
Moreover, I feel that my pace in terms of relationships has improved dramatically. Following my last relationship, I’ve slowed things down considerably, taken a good amount of time to and for myself, and just enjoyed life without having to endure the pressures of having to be with someone. And for what it’s worth, I’ve felt better over the last four-plus months than I have in ages.
Imagine that, huh?
This is the thing: no matter how hard we push, no matter how badly we want something, we cannot force it to happen. If we attempt such a feat, we ultimately push whatever it is we want to the brink of ruin, because either we will have gone too far and pushed it to its limit, or once we attain it, it simply won’t seem as special as we had hoped. That’s because we yearned for it and worked for it so hard that when we get a half-assed end result, it’s extremely dissatisfying.
No, my friends… it is better for us to keep the pace of ourselves and our lives as moderate and controlled as possible. This is how the battle is won, and it’s taken me 25 years to come to that conclusion. Maybe I’m a little late in the game as far as coming to terms with it, but I operate at my own steady pace, and better to learn now than not learn at all.
I’m sure lots of this sounds like Zen mumbo jumbo, but trust me when I tell you, the quality of my life has improved tenfold, and the fact remains that whatever it is I’m working for will come in time. That’s not to say I shouldn’t work for it, but in keeping the pace at a comfortable level, it will come to me in time.
I’d imagine the same holds for you. Just watch.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
12/11/2005
And then, there was but one.
I was in the midst of writing a fairly lengthy, Zen post when I found out that yet another of my longtime heroes died. It always saddens me deeply when people in the public eye that I truly admire pass away, particularly because there are very few individuals who fit that bill in full. Yet over the last few years, I’ve seen more and more of them buy the big ticket (Johnny Cash, Eddie Guerrero, etc.). It’s rare for me to see someone that has the ubiquitous “celebrity” sticker attached to their person that I genuinely respect… most of them were long gone before I was born (Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X… I was only three weeks old when John Lennon was killed, so I guess he doesn’t count, but you get the idea), so it’s always a letdown when one of the few that are still standing bids us sweet ado.
The two most beautiful words in comedy passed away yesterday, leaving behind a history that is certain to be completely unique, irreplaceable, and will never be replicated by any other comedian, black or white. The opening line of this post is in reference to a comment Jon Stewart made several years ago when hosting an HBO special honoring George Carlin (who, as you probably know, is another of these rare heroes to me). Stewart alluded to the Comedian’s Holy Trinity: George Carlin, Lenny Bruce, and Richard Pryor. Lenny died a long time ago, and now Rich is gone, too. Carlin is the last one standing.
One of the reasons that I respected Pryor as much as I did was that despite his battle with multiple sclerosis, he still did stand-up on occasion. Despite the pain that permeated his existence on a daily basis, he stuck by his convictions and what he believed in… so much so to the point where he was still somewhat active in the stand-up community.
But the infinitely greater reason that I admired him so much is basically the same reason I respect the other two gods in the Holy Trinity: he thumbed his nose at conformity and challenged all precepts of what should be. Pryor was the “Anti-Cosby.” While Bill was up there talking about his kids and Fat Albert decades before pushing pudding pops down Theo’s throat, Pryor was spewing it like he saw it about race relations in the world and the way things really were. Race, drugs, sex, nothing was off-color to him. Bruce set the tone for challenging authority in the world of comedy, and Carlin and Pryor each took that fundamental groundwork and ran with it, putting their individual spins on it.
In doing so, they each set the stage for comedians to follow. While there is certainly overlap in their influence throughout the stand-up world, there are many cases where you can directly link their work to present-day comics. Carlin managed to open the floodgates for raunchy, sociopolitical comics like Stewart, Dennis Miller and Lewis Black. Pryor, needless to say, broke ground for the African-American comics, and I think anyone would say that without hesitation. Eddie Murphy, Chris Rock, Dave Chappelle, all have cited Pryor as their primary influence, and it’s easy to see why. He said what others were thinking, but scared to speak on.
Challenge the norm. Set the precedent. Thumb your nose at authority.
That soon became the mantra for comics from all walks of life. But Pryor’s accomplishments as a controversial black comic will likely never be replicated. Eddie Murphy has fallen into the cinematic hell that is kid-friendly family films, Chris Rock has gained too much mainstream success to be as influential as his hero, and Dave Chappelle has, in many ways, opted for a more personally enriching existence as opposed to playing off of the success of his show. I hate saying that, because each of these individuals is tremendously funny under the right circumstances. But none of them are Richard Pryor, plain and simple.
It came as no surprise to me that when Comedy Central listed their top 100 stand-up comics last year (one of the few top 100 lists I was not only able to watch and stomach, but actually enjoy thoroughly), numbers one, two and three were Pryor, Carlin and Bruce. It almost seemed academic in some ways (kinda like listing the Beatles as number one on the top 100 bands ever), but it was also the most accurate top tier you could envision. Those three have demolished so many glass ceilings, they have made life almost too easy for comics today. The comment was made by many of the comics on the panel that they are spoiled, simply because they don’t have to endure the kind of controversy and blackballing that the Trinity did. Particularly Pryor.
And I love a lot of the comics that are out there right now. I think Dane Cook is fast becoming the best stand-up out there. I have always loved guys like Lewis Black and Dave Attell. But there will never be three finer comics like the Trinity, nor will there be any more influential individuals than they. In a way, it makes be sad, because it is now painfully obvious that there’s not much more that can be done in terms of originality or groundbreaking stand-up. But at the same time, while I can listen to Harmful If Swallowed or Retaliation and adore it, I will always gravitate back toward stuff like Was It Something I Said? and SuperNigger. And I will walk away from those albums and stuff like Carlin’s Class Clown and AM/FM with a greater sense of satisfaction and appreciation for what a true art form stand-up comedy really is.
Sometimes you just know when you come across greatness. And it makes me sad that greatness has just left us. The ripple effect that stems from Pryor's work is simply immeasureable, and besides that, he was just so Goddamn hilarious. Almost makes me want to sit through Superman III just for his lines. Almost.
A few years back, there was a tribute to Rich entitled I Ain’t Dead Yet, Motherfucker! I’m still not convinced he is.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
I was in the midst of writing a fairly lengthy, Zen post when I found out that yet another of my longtime heroes died. It always saddens me deeply when people in the public eye that I truly admire pass away, particularly because there are very few individuals who fit that bill in full. Yet over the last few years, I’ve seen more and more of them buy the big ticket (Johnny Cash, Eddie Guerrero, etc.). It’s rare for me to see someone that has the ubiquitous “celebrity” sticker attached to their person that I genuinely respect… most of them were long gone before I was born (Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X… I was only three weeks old when John Lennon was killed, so I guess he doesn’t count, but you get the idea), so it’s always a letdown when one of the few that are still standing bids us sweet ado.
The two most beautiful words in comedy passed away yesterday, leaving behind a history that is certain to be completely unique, irreplaceable, and will never be replicated by any other comedian, black or white. The opening line of this post is in reference to a comment Jon Stewart made several years ago when hosting an HBO special honoring George Carlin (who, as you probably know, is another of these rare heroes to me). Stewart alluded to the Comedian’s Holy Trinity: George Carlin, Lenny Bruce, and Richard Pryor. Lenny died a long time ago, and now Rich is gone, too. Carlin is the last one standing.
One of the reasons that I respected Pryor as much as I did was that despite his battle with multiple sclerosis, he still did stand-up on occasion. Despite the pain that permeated his existence on a daily basis, he stuck by his convictions and what he believed in… so much so to the point where he was still somewhat active in the stand-up community.
But the infinitely greater reason that I admired him so much is basically the same reason I respect the other two gods in the Holy Trinity: he thumbed his nose at conformity and challenged all precepts of what should be. Pryor was the “Anti-Cosby.” While Bill was up there talking about his kids and Fat Albert decades before pushing pudding pops down Theo’s throat, Pryor was spewing it like he saw it about race relations in the world and the way things really were. Race, drugs, sex, nothing was off-color to him. Bruce set the tone for challenging authority in the world of comedy, and Carlin and Pryor each took that fundamental groundwork and ran with it, putting their individual spins on it.
In doing so, they each set the stage for comedians to follow. While there is certainly overlap in their influence throughout the stand-up world, there are many cases where you can directly link their work to present-day comics. Carlin managed to open the floodgates for raunchy, sociopolitical comics like Stewart, Dennis Miller and Lewis Black. Pryor, needless to say, broke ground for the African-American comics, and I think anyone would say that without hesitation. Eddie Murphy, Chris Rock, Dave Chappelle, all have cited Pryor as their primary influence, and it’s easy to see why. He said what others were thinking, but scared to speak on.
Challenge the norm. Set the precedent. Thumb your nose at authority.
That soon became the mantra for comics from all walks of life. But Pryor’s accomplishments as a controversial black comic will likely never be replicated. Eddie Murphy has fallen into the cinematic hell that is kid-friendly family films, Chris Rock has gained too much mainstream success to be as influential as his hero, and Dave Chappelle has, in many ways, opted for a more personally enriching existence as opposed to playing off of the success of his show. I hate saying that, because each of these individuals is tremendously funny under the right circumstances. But none of them are Richard Pryor, plain and simple.
It came as no surprise to me that when Comedy Central listed their top 100 stand-up comics last year (one of the few top 100 lists I was not only able to watch and stomach, but actually enjoy thoroughly), numbers one, two and three were Pryor, Carlin and Bruce. It almost seemed academic in some ways (kinda like listing the Beatles as number one on the top 100 bands ever), but it was also the most accurate top tier you could envision. Those three have demolished so many glass ceilings, they have made life almost too easy for comics today. The comment was made by many of the comics on the panel that they are spoiled, simply because they don’t have to endure the kind of controversy and blackballing that the Trinity did. Particularly Pryor.
And I love a lot of the comics that are out there right now. I think Dane Cook is fast becoming the best stand-up out there. I have always loved guys like Lewis Black and Dave Attell. But there will never be three finer comics like the Trinity, nor will there be any more influential individuals than they. In a way, it makes be sad, because it is now painfully obvious that there’s not much more that can be done in terms of originality or groundbreaking stand-up. But at the same time, while I can listen to Harmful If Swallowed or Retaliation and adore it, I will always gravitate back toward stuff like Was It Something I Said? and SuperNigger. And I will walk away from those albums and stuff like Carlin’s Class Clown and AM/FM with a greater sense of satisfaction and appreciation for what a true art form stand-up comedy really is.
Sometimes you just know when you come across greatness. And it makes me sad that greatness has just left us. The ripple effect that stems from Pryor's work is simply immeasureable, and besides that, he was just so Goddamn hilarious. Almost makes me want to sit through Superman III just for his lines. Almost.
A few years back, there was a tribute to Rich entitled I Ain’t Dead Yet, Motherfucker! I’m still not convinced he is.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
11/28/2005
Fuck 50 Cent.
Yeah, I said it. I know he’s a physically rock solid, tried and true O.G. But you know what? He is a completely untalented physically rock solid, tried and true O.G.
Now, as many of you know, hip hop is not my forte when it comes to my musical preferences. However, my tastes do vary more so than the moods of a bipolar penguin with seasonal affective disorder and a one-way ticket to Bermuda, so I actually do have some block-rockin’ beatz on Kilgore.
Kilgore is my new iPod. Devastator had to be put to bed.
Devastator was my first iPod, in case you didn’t pick up on that.
If people can name their cars, computers and cocks, I can name my iPod, dammit.
As I was saying, I do like some hip hop, and I have my few favorite artists that I’ll gravitate to. I’ll always appreciate trendsetters from the early days like Run DMC and to a lesser extent, the Beastie Boys. I’ll always appreciate the raw and complex social commentary offered up by the likes of Public Enemy and Tupac Shakur. I can even appreciate the lyrical abilities of cats like Biggie Smalls and Eminem.
But 50 Cent doesn’t have an ounce of skill (or skillz) in his million dollar body when it comes to rap. The most memorable part of his debut affair, Get Rich Or Die Tryin’ was the downbeat to “In Da Club.”
And that’s it. Seriously, that’s the only part of that entire album that I find listenable/tolerable. He doesn’t rhyme with the proficiency of an Eminem or the fire of a Tupac. In fact, most of his songs sound the friggin’ same to me simply because of that dull, monotone voice of his that never seems to change it’s tone.
And yet, the man has still somehow managed to pop up everywhere. Since his release of The Massacre earlier this year (which, to my understanding, is aptly named since the album is massacring a potential art form), he has managed to cross over into nearly every other branch of mediart (my term) save for literature. Not surprising since I doubt a book would cater to most of his audience. But he has managed to parlay Get Rich into a lackluster cinematic hack that many consider to be a rip on Eminem’s 8 Mile. And if it is not a full rip, it is, at the very least, attempting to recreate the success of said movie.
Then there was the mind-blowing atrocity that sparked this post in the first place… the man released a video game bearing his name, voice, music and image. 50 Cent: Bulletproof recently hit the shelves. Like everything else Mr. Jackson has done, it tries to dovetail off of a precedent already set… in this case, the freeform, ultra-violent, socially bankrupt phenomenon in gaming started by the popular GTA series. I suppose it’s no surprise that with San Andreas being as huge a success as it was, developers everywhere have tried to cash in on the whole “gangsta” image perpetuated by the game’s early 1990’s setting. That being said, based on the reviews, this came appears to fail miserably. As a “passable” affair, this game should be a rental at best.
Imagine my horror when I found it to be the number one selling game at one of my local game stores. And that seems to be the norm everywhere.
Why? Why is this the number one game in the nation? Can it really be just because 50’s face is plastered all over it? Is he really that dominant a force in the hip hop world? Doesn’t a lack of talent stand for anything in this sick, sad world anymore?
Here’s the thing about hardcore gamers, folks… they are loyal to the bone, but in smaller droves than the average moron. However, word travels fast in the gaming world, and hits and misses are oftentimes quickly dignified as such, sometimes even before the plastic wrap is torn off the case. So if this game really is as piss-poor as we are being led to believe, then there really is no hope for humanity, and style has officially slain substance.
Look, here’s the bottom line… 50 made it for two reasons. One, he has a great look. He’s in great physical shape, which is huge with the ladies, and his thugged out threads only endears him to would-be gangbangers. Two, he is a legitimate tough guy. You don’t get shot nine times and survive without earning yourself some serious street respect (or “cred,” if you will).
But he is not talented.
He never was talented.
Please for the love of God, just go away, 50… You don’t know how bad “Candy Shop” makes me want to go to the liquor shop.
If Eazy E were alive, this prick would’ve been waxed a long time ago. And music would be in a better place for it.
When I told my buddy Vas about this post, his reaction was downright emphatic. Being a budding filmmaker himself, he was quite enthralled with my decision to lambaste Mr. Cent. In fact, I believe his exact words were: “I hope anyone that sees his movie dies. I hope that they die, and that their children contract Chlamydia and then burn in hell for being the offspring of such people. And I want this all to happen in the theater as they watch the last five minutes of his movie.”
I couldn’t have put it better myself. And that’s my 2 cents on 50. I want my change back now, motherfucker.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Yeah, I said it. I know he’s a physically rock solid, tried and true O.G. But you know what? He is a completely untalented physically rock solid, tried and true O.G.
Now, as many of you know, hip hop is not my forte when it comes to my musical preferences. However, my tastes do vary more so than the moods of a bipolar penguin with seasonal affective disorder and a one-way ticket to Bermuda, so I actually do have some block-rockin’ beatz on Kilgore.
Kilgore is my new iPod. Devastator had to be put to bed.
Devastator was my first iPod, in case you didn’t pick up on that.
If people can name their cars, computers and cocks, I can name my iPod, dammit.
As I was saying, I do like some hip hop, and I have my few favorite artists that I’ll gravitate to. I’ll always appreciate trendsetters from the early days like Run DMC and to a lesser extent, the Beastie Boys. I’ll always appreciate the raw and complex social commentary offered up by the likes of Public Enemy and Tupac Shakur. I can even appreciate the lyrical abilities of cats like Biggie Smalls and Eminem.
But 50 Cent doesn’t have an ounce of skill (or skillz) in his million dollar body when it comes to rap. The most memorable part of his debut affair, Get Rich Or Die Tryin’ was the downbeat to “In Da Club.”
And that’s it. Seriously, that’s the only part of that entire album that I find listenable/tolerable. He doesn’t rhyme with the proficiency of an Eminem or the fire of a Tupac. In fact, most of his songs sound the friggin’ same to me simply because of that dull, monotone voice of his that never seems to change it’s tone.
And yet, the man has still somehow managed to pop up everywhere. Since his release of The Massacre earlier this year (which, to my understanding, is aptly named since the album is massacring a potential art form), he has managed to cross over into nearly every other branch of mediart (my term) save for literature. Not surprising since I doubt a book would cater to most of his audience. But he has managed to parlay Get Rich into a lackluster cinematic hack that many consider to be a rip on Eminem’s 8 Mile. And if it is not a full rip, it is, at the very least, attempting to recreate the success of said movie.
Then there was the mind-blowing atrocity that sparked this post in the first place… the man released a video game bearing his name, voice, music and image. 50 Cent: Bulletproof recently hit the shelves. Like everything else Mr. Jackson has done, it tries to dovetail off of a precedent already set… in this case, the freeform, ultra-violent, socially bankrupt phenomenon in gaming started by the popular GTA series. I suppose it’s no surprise that with San Andreas being as huge a success as it was, developers everywhere have tried to cash in on the whole “gangsta” image perpetuated by the game’s early 1990’s setting. That being said, based on the reviews, this came appears to fail miserably. As a “passable” affair, this game should be a rental at best.
Imagine my horror when I found it to be the number one selling game at one of my local game stores. And that seems to be the norm everywhere.
Why? Why is this the number one game in the nation? Can it really be just because 50’s face is plastered all over it? Is he really that dominant a force in the hip hop world? Doesn’t a lack of talent stand for anything in this sick, sad world anymore?
Here’s the thing about hardcore gamers, folks… they are loyal to the bone, but in smaller droves than the average moron. However, word travels fast in the gaming world, and hits and misses are oftentimes quickly dignified as such, sometimes even before the plastic wrap is torn off the case. So if this game really is as piss-poor as we are being led to believe, then there really is no hope for humanity, and style has officially slain substance.
Look, here’s the bottom line… 50 made it for two reasons. One, he has a great look. He’s in great physical shape, which is huge with the ladies, and his thugged out threads only endears him to would-be gangbangers. Two, he is a legitimate tough guy. You don’t get shot nine times and survive without earning yourself some serious street respect (or “cred,” if you will).
But he is not talented.
He never was talented.
Please for the love of God, just go away, 50… You don’t know how bad “Candy Shop” makes me want to go to the liquor shop.
If Eazy E were alive, this prick would’ve been waxed a long time ago. And music would be in a better place for it.
When I told my buddy Vas about this post, his reaction was downright emphatic. Being a budding filmmaker himself, he was quite enthralled with my decision to lambaste Mr. Cent. In fact, I believe his exact words were: “I hope anyone that sees his movie dies. I hope that they die, and that their children contract Chlamydia and then burn in hell for being the offspring of such people. And I want this all to happen in the theater as they watch the last five minutes of his movie.”
I couldn’t have put it better myself. And that’s my 2 cents on 50. I want my change back now, motherfucker.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
11/27/2005
The Landshark and I have a special kinship… our birthdays are a mere eight days apart. Now while I may have just hit my quarter-century mark, the dear li’l Landshark is but a wee tyke still, though growing rapidly as he just turned 3.
*Sniff* Gosh, they grow up quick, don’t they? I can remember it like it was yesterday… a small, modest post about the pending horrors to come. And of course, at that time, I had far much more time to devote to my blog practice. Though the times have changed and this li’l fella has taken to walking on his own, I still dote over it like a good parent… or a good parent that has a career, deadlines, planes to catch and leaves the care of his or her children to the beloved nanny Consuela.
Except I don’t know where my nanny is half the time. The little bastard has gotten into my hooch three times in the last week. Consuela, where the fuck are you?
Anyway, I still remember those precious few posts… the one regarding violence in video games, the ongoing rants about the grad school experience, the very first full post about Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez.
“Bennifer.” That’s the term. I had almost shut that entire ordeal out of my head for the last few years until staying home for Thanksgiving this past week, and flipping through the vast wasteland I call television, and in passing heard the term reiterated on one of those confounded top 100 lists that E! and VH1 feel compelled to milk to the never-mind. From what I could gather, it was something exceptionally lame like the top 100 “power couples” or “celebrity breakups” or something to that effect.
When I heard the term, it brought back all those horrid memories of 2003 and the sheer over-saturation of that confounded excuse for a “romance.”
But it didn’t end with “Bennifer.” I was then inundated with the apparent new “compound pet names” for these celebrity “couples” (yes, I parenthesize that, because if you can really qualify these sad human beings as “couples,” you need to redefine your concept of the term “relationship”).
First, there was “Brangelina,” obviously referring to Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Then there was the atrocious “Tomkat,” in reference to Scientology’s favorite thetans, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.
I would love to get my mitts on the ruddy dirt rag reporter that coined any one of the above three names, simply because the pretentiousness and irritation factor in them are off the bloody charts right now. Granted, I have a deep-seated loathing for all celebrities except Christopher Walken and Edward Norton. That being said, I do consider most of them to be something less than human… every time I have seen them interviewed, my bullshit detector has blown a damn gasket. So, seeing as how we have now determined that most celebrities are less than human, I suppose it could be argued that amalgamating their names might be a way of dehumanizing them even more.
That may be true on most days, but here, I have to take issue.
These terms are not meant to degrade, and they really should. Even though these pairings tend to share a common brain that is a tenth the size of their combined egos, that doesn’t mean they should share a common name as well. The designation of a group of two or more people by a pet name typically is done to aggrandize them, not demean them. A good example would be the Rat Pack. Granted, at face value this may not seem like the most shimmering of names… nonetheless, at the end of the day, it became synonymous with talent and savoir-faire, and it became a term that the unit embraced.
The same can be said for these pairings. They embrace the term bestowed upon them by the media, and in turn revel in the absolutely needless attention it seems to garner them. Not for nothing, but if somewhere down the line, some nitwit ever refers to my wife and I by a common name, he can fully expect a high heel up his rectum (or possibly to his gumdrops) and a Deer Stag in the mush.
It’s been a while since I’ve had a good rant on celebrities, the world they live in and the abhorrent façade they call life. Truthfully, it feels pretty good. Again, I always look to out the overrated and overexposed with this baby blog of mine, and the truth is, these names are just absurd to begin with… but they have now risen to the next level we call “overkill.” I’m surprised that some clever asshole never came up with “Jessnicka” or “Kevitney.” I suppose I should also be thankful.
And dear reader, at this time of year, we should give thanks. I suppose that in reviewing this circuitously Zen post that harkens back to the early days and the irritants that caused me to light the fire here, I can at least be thankful that most, if not all of these celebrities will live boorishly empty lives that will end in substance abuse, scandal, divorce, bankruptcy, and God willing, leprosy. If these useless actors and actresses really want to make a go of their 15 minutes and engage the public via the sickening fascination with celebrities that most of us have coupled with the cleverness of a compound term, then I can take tremendous comfort in knowing that they’ll be getting a nice Karmic raping somewhere down the line.
Who says they live better than us?
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
*Sniff* Gosh, they grow up quick, don’t they? I can remember it like it was yesterday… a small, modest post about the pending horrors to come. And of course, at that time, I had far much more time to devote to my blog practice. Though the times have changed and this li’l fella has taken to walking on his own, I still dote over it like a good parent… or a good parent that has a career, deadlines, planes to catch and leaves the care of his or her children to the beloved nanny Consuela.
Except I don’t know where my nanny is half the time. The little bastard has gotten into my hooch three times in the last week. Consuela, where the fuck are you?
Anyway, I still remember those precious few posts… the one regarding violence in video games, the ongoing rants about the grad school experience, the very first full post about Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez.
“Bennifer.” That’s the term. I had almost shut that entire ordeal out of my head for the last few years until staying home for Thanksgiving this past week, and flipping through the vast wasteland I call television, and in passing heard the term reiterated on one of those confounded top 100 lists that E! and VH1 feel compelled to milk to the never-mind. From what I could gather, it was something exceptionally lame like the top 100 “power couples” or “celebrity breakups” or something to that effect.
When I heard the term, it brought back all those horrid memories of 2003 and the sheer over-saturation of that confounded excuse for a “romance.”
But it didn’t end with “Bennifer.” I was then inundated with the apparent new “compound pet names” for these celebrity “couples” (yes, I parenthesize that, because if you can really qualify these sad human beings as “couples,” you need to redefine your concept of the term “relationship”).
First, there was “Brangelina,” obviously referring to Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Then there was the atrocious “Tomkat,” in reference to Scientology’s favorite thetans, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.
I would love to get my mitts on the ruddy dirt rag reporter that coined any one of the above three names, simply because the pretentiousness and irritation factor in them are off the bloody charts right now. Granted, I have a deep-seated loathing for all celebrities except Christopher Walken and Edward Norton. That being said, I do consider most of them to be something less than human… every time I have seen them interviewed, my bullshit detector has blown a damn gasket. So, seeing as how we have now determined that most celebrities are less than human, I suppose it could be argued that amalgamating their names might be a way of dehumanizing them even more.
That may be true on most days, but here, I have to take issue.
These terms are not meant to degrade, and they really should. Even though these pairings tend to share a common brain that is a tenth the size of their combined egos, that doesn’t mean they should share a common name as well. The designation of a group of two or more people by a pet name typically is done to aggrandize them, not demean them. A good example would be the Rat Pack. Granted, at face value this may not seem like the most shimmering of names… nonetheless, at the end of the day, it became synonymous with talent and savoir-faire, and it became a term that the unit embraced.
The same can be said for these pairings. They embrace the term bestowed upon them by the media, and in turn revel in the absolutely needless attention it seems to garner them. Not for nothing, but if somewhere down the line, some nitwit ever refers to my wife and I by a common name, he can fully expect a high heel up his rectum (or possibly to his gumdrops) and a Deer Stag in the mush.
It’s been a while since I’ve had a good rant on celebrities, the world they live in and the abhorrent façade they call life. Truthfully, it feels pretty good. Again, I always look to out the overrated and overexposed with this baby blog of mine, and the truth is, these names are just absurd to begin with… but they have now risen to the next level we call “overkill.” I’m surprised that some clever asshole never came up with “Jessnicka” or “Kevitney.” I suppose I should also be thankful.
And dear reader, at this time of year, we should give thanks. I suppose that in reviewing this circuitously Zen post that harkens back to the early days and the irritants that caused me to light the fire here, I can at least be thankful that most, if not all of these celebrities will live boorishly empty lives that will end in substance abuse, scandal, divorce, bankruptcy, and God willing, leprosy. If these useless actors and actresses really want to make a go of their 15 minutes and engage the public via the sickening fascination with celebrities that most of us have coupled with the cleverness of a compound term, then I can take tremendous comfort in knowing that they’ll be getting a nice Karmic raping somewhere down the line.
Who says they live better than us?
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
11/17/2005
Dunkin Donuts has gotta be the end-all be-all paradox of the universe.
Now, when it comes to vendors of caffeinated stimulants, most of my fellow man would be quick to go for Starbucks’s jugular. Now granted, I’m down with the whole anti-corporate thing anyway… and I could never justify paying $3.50 for a small cup of coffee. Be that as it may, Dunkin Donuts just boggles my mind from top to bottom, inside and out, and everywhere in between.
First off, in case you haven’t noticed, their coffee is nothing spectacular. I mean, it’s OK, but it’s not like I go on a massive killing spree if I don’t get my daily fix. It’s overly flavored, much too sweet at times, and just plain “eh” for the most part. And yet people literally go berserk for it. They stop in every morning for the first cup o’ the day, and they see no problem shelling out over $3 for a large cup. Folks, it’s coffee, not cabernet. If you’re paying anything over $1.69, you’re throwing your money away.
To boot, the people that work at Dunkin Donuts have got to be about as capable as a comatose amputee octogenarian with a colostomy bag. Yes, it really is that fuckin’ bad, don’t you dare deny it. When was the last time you walked into a Dunkin Donuts, ordered something, and walked out with exactly what you wanted? The ratio has gotta be about 30 percent, I believe.
In relaying this to a close friend, it was less than 24 hours after our conversation that the Dunkin Donuts customer service curse touched her life. Take it away, Jules:
"I just wanted to share my unpleasant Dunkin’ Donuts experience with you this morning. This is the second time that this has happened to me. My typical order (which I treat myself to once or twice a week) is a small, iced vanilla latte with soy milk and a toasted whole wheat bagel with strawberry jam (the healthiest you can get). Not only was I overcharged (not the first time) and the cashier wouldn’t adjust the price, but I was given strawberry cream cheese instead of strawberry jam. I had to resort to the same measure I took the first time it happened – I had to take a handful of napkins and pull several globs of cream cheese off before I could even eat it. And not all DD locations have soy milk, which is why I must make absolute last resorts to Starbucks, other trendy places, or a sidewalk vendor (who usually doesn’t have it either, and in that case a small dribble of skim milk is added)."
Folks, tell me you haven’t had this experience before, or something akin to it. I can count at least 12 times in the last year that I have been overcharged at this establishment.
And I still go back! We all do, not a one of us is innocent on this course, ladies and gentlemen. What is it about this franchise that compels us, as if we were lambs of the slaughter, to waste twenty minutes every morning in line at the drive-through (I refused to write “thru.” Ever), arguing with the cashier over what we ordered and how much we were charged?
Fuck Stonehenge, this is the real mystery of a lifetime.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Now, when it comes to vendors of caffeinated stimulants, most of my fellow man would be quick to go for Starbucks’s jugular. Now granted, I’m down with the whole anti-corporate thing anyway… and I could never justify paying $3.50 for a small cup of coffee. Be that as it may, Dunkin Donuts just boggles my mind from top to bottom, inside and out, and everywhere in between.
First off, in case you haven’t noticed, their coffee is nothing spectacular. I mean, it’s OK, but it’s not like I go on a massive killing spree if I don’t get my daily fix. It’s overly flavored, much too sweet at times, and just plain “eh” for the most part. And yet people literally go berserk for it. They stop in every morning for the first cup o’ the day, and they see no problem shelling out over $3 for a large cup. Folks, it’s coffee, not cabernet. If you’re paying anything over $1.69, you’re throwing your money away.
To boot, the people that work at Dunkin Donuts have got to be about as capable as a comatose amputee octogenarian with a colostomy bag. Yes, it really is that fuckin’ bad, don’t you dare deny it. When was the last time you walked into a Dunkin Donuts, ordered something, and walked out with exactly what you wanted? The ratio has gotta be about 30 percent, I believe.
In relaying this to a close friend, it was less than 24 hours after our conversation that the Dunkin Donuts customer service curse touched her life. Take it away, Jules:
"I just wanted to share my unpleasant Dunkin’ Donuts experience with you this morning. This is the second time that this has happened to me. My typical order (which I treat myself to once or twice a week) is a small, iced vanilla latte with soy milk and a toasted whole wheat bagel with strawberry jam (the healthiest you can get). Not only was I overcharged (not the first time) and the cashier wouldn’t adjust the price, but I was given strawberry cream cheese instead of strawberry jam. I had to resort to the same measure I took the first time it happened – I had to take a handful of napkins and pull several globs of cream cheese off before I could even eat it. And not all DD locations have soy milk, which is why I must make absolute last resorts to Starbucks, other trendy places, or a sidewalk vendor (who usually doesn’t have it either, and in that case a small dribble of skim milk is added)."
Folks, tell me you haven’t had this experience before, or something akin to it. I can count at least 12 times in the last year that I have been overcharged at this establishment.
And I still go back! We all do, not a one of us is innocent on this course, ladies and gentlemen. What is it about this franchise that compels us, as if we were lambs of the slaughter, to waste twenty minutes every morning in line at the drive-through (I refused to write “thru.” Ever), arguing with the cashier over what we ordered and how much we were charged?
Fuck Stonehenge, this is the real mystery of a lifetime.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
11/08/2005
At what point does exposure in the public eye go to a person’s head? When does the line begin to blur between perception and reality for a human being? When do these individuals begin to believe the hype?
I have to wonder about this, because as I’m sure some of you know, my role in the Sons of Pericles requires a certain amount of public exposure in the Hellenic community. So I suppose that as a designated “leader,” this topic is of concern to me. Obviously it’d be nice if I could always “keep it real,” so to speak, and not let the compliments that I receive regularly go to my head. ‘Cause that’s the point where I, or anyone else in said position, stands to lose focus, drop the ball on the big picture, and just go into business for oneself.
I understand that this one is probably coming from way outta left field for a lot of people, so allow me to explain the impetus for this entry in the Inspector’s Notebook…
Some of you may know me to be/have been a fan of pro wrestling. I use the quasi-past tense here because in recent months, the overall product has failed to engage me as it once did. To accelerate this disenchantment, I refuse to get cable in my new place for some time because I rarely have time to watch TV as it is, would rather use my spare time to partake in more creative activities, and quite frankly just am not home enough to really take advantage of it. So if I can save a few bucks a month that will go towards towering gas prices and my gym membership, so be it. Very little on TV is actually worth watching these days to begin with, but that’s a topic for a different post altogether.
The one aspect of wrestling over the past year that I have truly enjoyed is the inception of the WWE’s DVD library. For those of you who are not aware, many of the special releases are more documentary-based now, focusing on the careers of various wrestlers (Chris Benoit, Ric Flair, Eddie Guerrero, Rob Van Dam, the Road Warriors, etc.), or particular milestones in wrestling history (ECW, the “Monday Night Wars,” and the like). I find these DVD’s to be highly entertaining and informative, as it offers the more… shall we say, “enlightened” fan a deeper look into the inner workings of the business (a fascinating case study in and of itself).
Which brings me to a case study of a different sort: a psychological case study embodied in the man who wrestled as the Ultimate Warrior back in the 80’s and 90’s when it was still known as the World Wrestling Federation (WWF). Recently, a DVD entitled The Self-Destruction Of The Ultimate Warrior hit the shelves, and I had to buy it for a variety of reasons going far beyond my appreciation for the documentary aspect of this series.
First off, it brings me back to the guy that captured my attention as a 9-year-old kid way back when. For the uninitiated, the Warrior was a hulking mass of bodybuilder-turned-pro wrestler renowned for his great intensity, unique persona, and extremely limited in-ring ability. The man was distinguished by his long hair, multi-colored face paint and tassels, and his seemingly incoherent ramblings (more on that in a bit). The Warrior’s entrance was famous as his music blared through the arenas with a pulse-pounding guitar chord and heavy backbeat that saw the man sprint down to the ring, pumping his fists through the air and shaking the ropes like a savage convict behind bars. He looked like a comic book character come to life. Somewhere between He-Man and the Mighty Thor, there lay the character for the Ultimate Warrior. He resembled a postmodern barbarian with a dose of Native American influence that would go on about his destiny, the sacrifices he had made, and the power bestowed upon him by the gods above.
Yeah, the guy was out there.
But he got noticed, and to make a long story short, he went onto become the first man in years to cleanly pin Hulk Hogan at WrestleMania VI to become the WWF World Heavyweight Champion. It was a milestone since both guys were fan favorites, but also since Hulk Hogan was “the man” so to speak. It’s like when Guns N’ Roses opened for Aerosmith on the 1987 tour that saw GN'R supporting Appetite For Destruction and Aerosmith supporting Permanent Vacation. People were coming to the show for Guns and then leaving before Steven Tyler and Company could take the stage. Again, more on that later.
As I said, the Warrior was not much of an actual wrestler. He was sloppy, careless, couldn’t cut an interview to save his life, and relied too much on the character rather than learning a craft. But he still managed to rise to the top of the ladder despite the dominance of established guys like Hogan and Andre the Giant. So it was interesting to see this guy just explode out of nowhere. That is not common in the wrestling business; most competitors spend years working their way up the ladder. This guy just sped past everybody because of the character.
And ultimately (no pun intended), it would be the character that would both define and destroy the man behind the face paint: Jim Hellwig. Hellwig would come to believe his own hype, most would say… and resultant of that, he developed a massive ego in the business, and thought himself to be underpaid, underappreciated and underused. According to the DVD (which, it should be duly noted, does not feature Hellwig, as he declined to appear), his peers claim he had a bad attitude and thought a bit too highly of himself. He was fired three times from the WWF: once for refusing to work a major pay per view unless he was paid a substantial amount of money (on the very night of the show itself, no less), again for failing a drug test, and a third and final time for missing a series of shows. Hellwig disputes all these points to this day, but to me, if there are a dozen or more people supporting one story, and only one guy supporting another side of the story, I have to fall back on the majority, nine times out of ten.
But it goes way beyond all that. After his second departure from the WWF, Hellwig legally changed his name to “Warrior.” Not Jim Warrior or James Warrior Hellwig, just “Warrior.” This would be like if Cherilyn Sarkisian LaPierre legally changed her name to just “Cher.” Only much more bizarre.
Not only did he change his name, but he formulated his own philosophy based on the Ultimate Warrior character. See, since the Warrior always babbled incessantly about his destiny and the sacrifices he made, the man Jim Hellwig came to identify with the character he portrayed on TV. And because of his meteoric rise to the top of the wrestling profession, he came to accept the hype surrounding him that was only reinforced by the office and his fans. The line apparently began to blur for Hellwig, and he saw his irrational behavior as perfectly justified in keeping with the Warrior persona. In fact, he came to identify with the character so much that he sued the WWF in 1996 for the rights to the name. His rationale was that since he was now Warrior and not Jim Hellwig, and since many aspects of the character were formulated by him, he was the rightful owner of the intellectual property. This came in spite of the fact that Vince McMahon was the one who came up with the name and initial backbone of the character.
Hellwig (or “Warrior,” as he prefers, simply for the fact that I don’t want to get sued, either) went on to one more wrestling stint in WCW, which was a huge flop. He then began maintaining his own company (which is apparently a handful of close friends and his wife), posting long, rambling entries on his personal website, maintaining the precepts of his philosophy, and most recently speaking on the college circuit (specifically as it pertains to young conservatives). But Warrior has burned all of his bridges, it would seem: with the WWE, with the fans, and with the general public. He recently started a near-riot at UConn during one of his public speaking appearances.
The point of this bizarre history lesson is to illustrate how a life spent in the public eye can change a man’s view of himself, and not for the better. There’s a wrong and right way to take compliments and praise. This is definitely the wrong way.
But it’s not just my former childhood hero that has fallen victim to this syndrome. I have selected two other very public, very recognizable men who also fit the bill.
Submitted for your evaluation, one Mr. William Bailey, an Indiana native with big dreams to become a huge rock star. A well-schooled pianist and devout rock fan with an endearing love for Queen, Aerosmith and the Sex Pistols, Bailey struck out on his own with his buddy Jeff and hit up Hollywood. It wasn’t long before they got together with Saul, Mike and Steve, all of whom were in another very popular band frequenting the dives along L.A.’s Sunset Strip.
One thing led to another and it wasn’t long before William, Saul, Mike, Jeff and Steve were know as Axl, Slash, Duff, Izzy and… well, Steve. Guns N’ Roses.
Yeah, Indiana’s own William Bailey transformed himself into the charismatic yet unpredictable Axl Rose, rock n’ roll’s greatest frontman since Mick Jagger himself. As I mentioned before, when Guns opened for Aerosmith in ’87, many people were coming to check the opening act alone, leaving the headliners in the dirt come mainstage time.
As time went on, the videos got more and more grandiose, as did the stage productions and the songs. They went from the visceral, violent Appetite to the considerably more refined Illusions albums. Axl’s attitude, stage presence, temper, all went over-the-top. The down and dirty boys from L.A.’s Sunset Strip had become an over-the-top bombastic rock and roll production. Along with the bombast grew Axl’s ego, as he became even more temperamental, going so far as to storm offstage in fits of inexplicable rage and frustration. He went even further by no-showing several major shows, letting down the fans time and again.
His attitude got so out of hand that he not only alienated his fans, but his bandmates as well. Little by little, they began to bail on him, leaving him as the last original member of GN’R. Axl would go into exile for a number of years, making occasional appearances in public and onstage in the late 90’s, as well as reforming Guns.
But it wasn’t the Guns we knew. Confident that his name and his name alone could sell the product, he rounded up a group of talented, albeit obscure and out-of-place musicians to recreate Guns N’ Roses. A boorishly mediocre performance at the 2002 MTV Video Music Awards (capped by Axl’s horrid howling) was followed by a brief American tour. Many critics claimed that this would be a make-or-break moment for Axl and his lot, seeing as how the long-awaited new GN’R album, Chinese Democracy, had been in development for nearly 10 years without nary a hint of radio airplay or promotion, and no release date in sight.
The tour went swimmingly for a few weeks… until the no-shows commenced again. 10 years later, nothing changed. Axl let the fans down, the tour was cancelled, and for all intents and purposes, he has not been heard from in the last three years.
It is interesting how the people who come to believe their own hype ultimately feel a certain amount of invincibility – as if the world owes them something, and they can fuck up however much they want and still get away with it.
This brings me to our Commander-In-Chief.
Republican friends, hold thy tongues. This is my blog, my right, no apologies. No one will ever be able to convince me that this man’s incompetence and utter disregard for anything but his own hide and his bank account are a figment of my imagination.
The difference here is that James Hellwig and William Bailey tried to convince the world that they were the Ultimate Warrior and Axl Rose. In this case, Dubya is trying to convince the world that he’s really George W. Bush.
See, Dubya is the man behind the mask. Dubya is the happy-go-lucky blueblood Texan who never gave a damn about anything but himself. However, the persona he attempts to emit, the persona of George W. Bush, is who he sees himself as: a caring, compassionate President with a sterling track record of defending the nation against terrorism and improving the economy.
Balderdash.
I’ve heard recently from Canadian friends that there are claims which state the Bush administration has actually stopped several terrorist attacks over the last few years. How convenient these reports are now being broadcast when his approval rating is at an all-time low.
Face it, the man is not presidential material, people. I bit my tongue during Katrina, but to see this phony photo op shots of him holding children and weeping turns my stomach. A few cute pictures do not make a solution.
And yet, even while I displace myself from the pulpit, it is hard to say that he doesn’t believe the shit he’s shoveling. I really believe that in his mind, he is one of the finest leaders this nation has ever seen, which is why he goes to the lengths he does to convince us. I believe that in his mind’s eye, he feels we really belong in Iraq, and that he has made all the right decisions since 2001 when he was inaugurated.
I am convinced he believes his own hype… and feels vindicated for all his misgivings. I’m sure he doesn’t even consider them to be misgivings… I think he truly believes himself to be a superior leader. And yet even his once most loyal supporters have begun to turn their backs on him in recent months following Katrina and his insistance that we stay in Iraq.
And I don’t want to make this just a political thing… I’ve seen it happen on the ground level… people I’ve worked with, dealt with on a daily basis, past friends, past girlfriends, I have seen the hype go to people’s heads. I have seen them buy into the notion that they are something spectacular. A compliment is not a license to boast or brandish like a trophy.
And I have seen the end result… people who were once fun, beautiful human beings turned ugly inside-out by virtue of their own egos. Sad as it may be, it is in part human nature. We can’t help but want to be more than we are… but to believe we are something that spectacular, that godlike and monolithic is absolutely absurd. I have made it my personal mission to never let my role go to my head no matter where my lot in life is. It’s one of the reasons that I have convinced myself I can never deal with the woes of celebrity. Why would I want to alienate myself that way? Why strip myself of my humanity for the sake of my own self-gratification?
Granted, I may be working my ass off for myself these days, but that is in an effort to grow more comfortable with myself… Not to go out with a “#1” tattooed on my forehead. Believe me, I’ve gotten a heap ton of compliments regarding my work with the Sons, my writing, and the like. The key is to not let that travel northward to my cranium where it can sit, grow, and fester like a sickness.
At the end of the day, I refuse to even believe my own hype. I’ve seen the damage that does.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
I have to wonder about this, because as I’m sure some of you know, my role in the Sons of Pericles requires a certain amount of public exposure in the Hellenic community. So I suppose that as a designated “leader,” this topic is of concern to me. Obviously it’d be nice if I could always “keep it real,” so to speak, and not let the compliments that I receive regularly go to my head. ‘Cause that’s the point where I, or anyone else in said position, stands to lose focus, drop the ball on the big picture, and just go into business for oneself.
I understand that this one is probably coming from way outta left field for a lot of people, so allow me to explain the impetus for this entry in the Inspector’s Notebook…
Some of you may know me to be/have been a fan of pro wrestling. I use the quasi-past tense here because in recent months, the overall product has failed to engage me as it once did. To accelerate this disenchantment, I refuse to get cable in my new place for some time because I rarely have time to watch TV as it is, would rather use my spare time to partake in more creative activities, and quite frankly just am not home enough to really take advantage of it. So if I can save a few bucks a month that will go towards towering gas prices and my gym membership, so be it. Very little on TV is actually worth watching these days to begin with, but that’s a topic for a different post altogether.
The one aspect of wrestling over the past year that I have truly enjoyed is the inception of the WWE’s DVD library. For those of you who are not aware, many of the special releases are more documentary-based now, focusing on the careers of various wrestlers (Chris Benoit, Ric Flair, Eddie Guerrero, Rob Van Dam, the Road Warriors, etc.), or particular milestones in wrestling history (ECW, the “Monday Night Wars,” and the like). I find these DVD’s to be highly entertaining and informative, as it offers the more… shall we say, “enlightened” fan a deeper look into the inner workings of the business (a fascinating case study in and of itself).
Which brings me to a case study of a different sort: a psychological case study embodied in the man who wrestled as the Ultimate Warrior back in the 80’s and 90’s when it was still known as the World Wrestling Federation (WWF). Recently, a DVD entitled The Self-Destruction Of The Ultimate Warrior hit the shelves, and I had to buy it for a variety of reasons going far beyond my appreciation for the documentary aspect of this series.
First off, it brings me back to the guy that captured my attention as a 9-year-old kid way back when. For the uninitiated, the Warrior was a hulking mass of bodybuilder-turned-pro wrestler renowned for his great intensity, unique persona, and extremely limited in-ring ability. The man was distinguished by his long hair, multi-colored face paint and tassels, and his seemingly incoherent ramblings (more on that in a bit). The Warrior’s entrance was famous as his music blared through the arenas with a pulse-pounding guitar chord and heavy backbeat that saw the man sprint down to the ring, pumping his fists through the air and shaking the ropes like a savage convict behind bars. He looked like a comic book character come to life. Somewhere between He-Man and the Mighty Thor, there lay the character for the Ultimate Warrior. He resembled a postmodern barbarian with a dose of Native American influence that would go on about his destiny, the sacrifices he had made, and the power bestowed upon him by the gods above.
Yeah, the guy was out there.
But he got noticed, and to make a long story short, he went onto become the first man in years to cleanly pin Hulk Hogan at WrestleMania VI to become the WWF World Heavyweight Champion. It was a milestone since both guys were fan favorites, but also since Hulk Hogan was “the man” so to speak. It’s like when Guns N’ Roses opened for Aerosmith on the 1987 tour that saw GN'R supporting Appetite For Destruction and Aerosmith supporting Permanent Vacation. People were coming to the show for Guns and then leaving before Steven Tyler and Company could take the stage. Again, more on that later.
As I said, the Warrior was not much of an actual wrestler. He was sloppy, careless, couldn’t cut an interview to save his life, and relied too much on the character rather than learning a craft. But he still managed to rise to the top of the ladder despite the dominance of established guys like Hogan and Andre the Giant. So it was interesting to see this guy just explode out of nowhere. That is not common in the wrestling business; most competitors spend years working their way up the ladder. This guy just sped past everybody because of the character.
And ultimately (no pun intended), it would be the character that would both define and destroy the man behind the face paint: Jim Hellwig. Hellwig would come to believe his own hype, most would say… and resultant of that, he developed a massive ego in the business, and thought himself to be underpaid, underappreciated and underused. According to the DVD (which, it should be duly noted, does not feature Hellwig, as he declined to appear), his peers claim he had a bad attitude and thought a bit too highly of himself. He was fired three times from the WWF: once for refusing to work a major pay per view unless he was paid a substantial amount of money (on the very night of the show itself, no less), again for failing a drug test, and a third and final time for missing a series of shows. Hellwig disputes all these points to this day, but to me, if there are a dozen or more people supporting one story, and only one guy supporting another side of the story, I have to fall back on the majority, nine times out of ten.
But it goes way beyond all that. After his second departure from the WWF, Hellwig legally changed his name to “Warrior.” Not Jim Warrior or James Warrior Hellwig, just “Warrior.” This would be like if Cherilyn Sarkisian LaPierre legally changed her name to just “Cher.” Only much more bizarre.
Not only did he change his name, but he formulated his own philosophy based on the Ultimate Warrior character. See, since the Warrior always babbled incessantly about his destiny and the sacrifices he made, the man Jim Hellwig came to identify with the character he portrayed on TV. And because of his meteoric rise to the top of the wrestling profession, he came to accept the hype surrounding him that was only reinforced by the office and his fans. The line apparently began to blur for Hellwig, and he saw his irrational behavior as perfectly justified in keeping with the Warrior persona. In fact, he came to identify with the character so much that he sued the WWF in 1996 for the rights to the name. His rationale was that since he was now Warrior and not Jim Hellwig, and since many aspects of the character were formulated by him, he was the rightful owner of the intellectual property. This came in spite of the fact that Vince McMahon was the one who came up with the name and initial backbone of the character.
Hellwig (or “Warrior,” as he prefers, simply for the fact that I don’t want to get sued, either) went on to one more wrestling stint in WCW, which was a huge flop. He then began maintaining his own company (which is apparently a handful of close friends and his wife), posting long, rambling entries on his personal website, maintaining the precepts of his philosophy, and most recently speaking on the college circuit (specifically as it pertains to young conservatives). But Warrior has burned all of his bridges, it would seem: with the WWE, with the fans, and with the general public. He recently started a near-riot at UConn during one of his public speaking appearances.
The point of this bizarre history lesson is to illustrate how a life spent in the public eye can change a man’s view of himself, and not for the better. There’s a wrong and right way to take compliments and praise. This is definitely the wrong way.
But it’s not just my former childhood hero that has fallen victim to this syndrome. I have selected two other very public, very recognizable men who also fit the bill.
Submitted for your evaluation, one Mr. William Bailey, an Indiana native with big dreams to become a huge rock star. A well-schooled pianist and devout rock fan with an endearing love for Queen, Aerosmith and the Sex Pistols, Bailey struck out on his own with his buddy Jeff and hit up Hollywood. It wasn’t long before they got together with Saul, Mike and Steve, all of whom were in another very popular band frequenting the dives along L.A.’s Sunset Strip.
One thing led to another and it wasn’t long before William, Saul, Mike, Jeff and Steve were know as Axl, Slash, Duff, Izzy and… well, Steve. Guns N’ Roses.
Yeah, Indiana’s own William Bailey transformed himself into the charismatic yet unpredictable Axl Rose, rock n’ roll’s greatest frontman since Mick Jagger himself. As I mentioned before, when Guns opened for Aerosmith in ’87, many people were coming to check the opening act alone, leaving the headliners in the dirt come mainstage time.
As time went on, the videos got more and more grandiose, as did the stage productions and the songs. They went from the visceral, violent Appetite to the considerably more refined Illusions albums. Axl’s attitude, stage presence, temper, all went over-the-top. The down and dirty boys from L.A.’s Sunset Strip had become an over-the-top bombastic rock and roll production. Along with the bombast grew Axl’s ego, as he became even more temperamental, going so far as to storm offstage in fits of inexplicable rage and frustration. He went even further by no-showing several major shows, letting down the fans time and again.
His attitude got so out of hand that he not only alienated his fans, but his bandmates as well. Little by little, they began to bail on him, leaving him as the last original member of GN’R. Axl would go into exile for a number of years, making occasional appearances in public and onstage in the late 90’s, as well as reforming Guns.
But it wasn’t the Guns we knew. Confident that his name and his name alone could sell the product, he rounded up a group of talented, albeit obscure and out-of-place musicians to recreate Guns N’ Roses. A boorishly mediocre performance at the 2002 MTV Video Music Awards (capped by Axl’s horrid howling) was followed by a brief American tour. Many critics claimed that this would be a make-or-break moment for Axl and his lot, seeing as how the long-awaited new GN’R album, Chinese Democracy, had been in development for nearly 10 years without nary a hint of radio airplay or promotion, and no release date in sight.
The tour went swimmingly for a few weeks… until the no-shows commenced again. 10 years later, nothing changed. Axl let the fans down, the tour was cancelled, and for all intents and purposes, he has not been heard from in the last three years.
It is interesting how the people who come to believe their own hype ultimately feel a certain amount of invincibility – as if the world owes them something, and they can fuck up however much they want and still get away with it.
This brings me to our Commander-In-Chief.
Republican friends, hold thy tongues. This is my blog, my right, no apologies. No one will ever be able to convince me that this man’s incompetence and utter disregard for anything but his own hide and his bank account are a figment of my imagination.
The difference here is that James Hellwig and William Bailey tried to convince the world that they were the Ultimate Warrior and Axl Rose. In this case, Dubya is trying to convince the world that he’s really George W. Bush.
See, Dubya is the man behind the mask. Dubya is the happy-go-lucky blueblood Texan who never gave a damn about anything but himself. However, the persona he attempts to emit, the persona of George W. Bush, is who he sees himself as: a caring, compassionate President with a sterling track record of defending the nation against terrorism and improving the economy.
Balderdash.
I’ve heard recently from Canadian friends that there are claims which state the Bush administration has actually stopped several terrorist attacks over the last few years. How convenient these reports are now being broadcast when his approval rating is at an all-time low.
Face it, the man is not presidential material, people. I bit my tongue during Katrina, but to see this phony photo op shots of him holding children and weeping turns my stomach. A few cute pictures do not make a solution.
And yet, even while I displace myself from the pulpit, it is hard to say that he doesn’t believe the shit he’s shoveling. I really believe that in his mind, he is one of the finest leaders this nation has ever seen, which is why he goes to the lengths he does to convince us. I believe that in his mind’s eye, he feels we really belong in Iraq, and that he has made all the right decisions since 2001 when he was inaugurated.
I am convinced he believes his own hype… and feels vindicated for all his misgivings. I’m sure he doesn’t even consider them to be misgivings… I think he truly believes himself to be a superior leader. And yet even his once most loyal supporters have begun to turn their backs on him in recent months following Katrina and his insistance that we stay in Iraq.
And I don’t want to make this just a political thing… I’ve seen it happen on the ground level… people I’ve worked with, dealt with on a daily basis, past friends, past girlfriends, I have seen the hype go to people’s heads. I have seen them buy into the notion that they are something spectacular. A compliment is not a license to boast or brandish like a trophy.
And I have seen the end result… people who were once fun, beautiful human beings turned ugly inside-out by virtue of their own egos. Sad as it may be, it is in part human nature. We can’t help but want to be more than we are… but to believe we are something that spectacular, that godlike and monolithic is absolutely absurd. I have made it my personal mission to never let my role go to my head no matter where my lot in life is. It’s one of the reasons that I have convinced myself I can never deal with the woes of celebrity. Why would I want to alienate myself that way? Why strip myself of my humanity for the sake of my own self-gratification?
Granted, I may be working my ass off for myself these days, but that is in an effort to grow more comfortable with myself… Not to go out with a “#1” tattooed on my forehead. Believe me, I’ve gotten a heap ton of compliments regarding my work with the Sons, my writing, and the like. The key is to not let that travel northward to my cranium where it can sit, grow, and fester like a sickness.
At the end of the day, I refuse to even believe my own hype. I’ve seen the damage that does.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
10/01/2005
OK… far be it from me to ever speak ill of a certain nationality, especially a minority in the U.S., but are these people out of their collective gord?
What's even more worrisome about this is the fact that the mayor agreed to this. Now, I can understand that some people want to vote for one of their own; a person who is connected to his or her roots within the community. Fair enough… but if he's as obviously delusional as you, you may want to rethink that notion.
Now, I say this not because I don't believe in the existence of extraterrestrial life. Quite to the contrary, I believe this universe to be far too vast for us to be the only carbon-based types bopping around in our own little petri dish.
But my thinking dictates that if there are aliens out there, and if UFO's have come to Earth at some point in time, abducted human beings, probed their posteriors, studied their sacks and fondled their fruit, odds are they aren't going to need a landing strip. I'm willing to bet good money that they'll touch down wherever the fuck they please, and then proceed to pillage this planet so viciously that not even Bill Pullman will be able to stop them this time. What a waste of taxpayer pesos.
Yes, I know that Puerto Rico's currency is actually the United States dollar. Pesos sound better. Deal.
In fact, I welcome these strange and exciting visitors, because I am even more rapidly losing faith in the intellectual and mental health of mankind. I suppose next the mayor of Glasgow will pass a bill to manufacture giant swimmies for the Loch Ness monster.
Goodnight and have a spacy tomorrow.
What's even more worrisome about this is the fact that the mayor agreed to this. Now, I can understand that some people want to vote for one of their own; a person who is connected to his or her roots within the community. Fair enough… but if he's as obviously delusional as you, you may want to rethink that notion.
Now, I say this not because I don't believe in the existence of extraterrestrial life. Quite to the contrary, I believe this universe to be far too vast for us to be the only carbon-based types bopping around in our own little petri dish.
But my thinking dictates that if there are aliens out there, and if UFO's have come to Earth at some point in time, abducted human beings, probed their posteriors, studied their sacks and fondled their fruit, odds are they aren't going to need a landing strip. I'm willing to bet good money that they'll touch down wherever the fuck they please, and then proceed to pillage this planet so viciously that not even Bill Pullman will be able to stop them this time. What a waste of taxpayer pesos.
Yes, I know that Puerto Rico's currency is actually the United States dollar. Pesos sound better. Deal.
In fact, I welcome these strange and exciting visitors, because I am even more rapidly losing faith in the intellectual and mental health of mankind. I suppose next the mayor of Glasgow will pass a bill to manufacture giant swimmies for the Loch Ness monster.
Goodnight and have a spacy tomorrow.
9/30/2005
OK, I am currently writing from the confines of my cube in between inputting numbers into stupid little grids on an Excel spreadsheet. After doing something funky to my back last night, I asked a co-worker for some aspirin. Seeing as how she recently tore a few tendons in her arm, and is currently in a cast, she has some of the… shall we say, more "top shelf" pain relievers.
Yeah, I know… I spoke out on the evils of self-medicating last year, but taking two Tylenol with Codeine once for a sore back is hardly abuse. All I was asking for was some Alleve. But I got Tequila instead of a Bud Light, if you would like an analogous comparison. In any event, seeing as how this stuff is kicking in over here, this oughta make for an interesting post. By the power of painkillers, here we go…
I'm not a fan of numbers. Percentages, fractions, formulas, the works. Don't like 'em. Never had. I don't know that it's because I don't have a "head for math."
Wait. Scratch that. I have something of a head for math… I just hate using it. I don't like numbers, or crunching them. It's not that the task is hard… I'm sure that with enough time and effort, I could pull it off. Both my parents are mathematically keen, so I'm sure that genetically it runs strong in the bloodline. It's not just them, either - seems like plenty of folks on both sides of the family fair well with math (finance and accounting majors tend to run abound).
Be that as it may, I just can't stand the concept of crunching numbers to come up with results. It's one of the reasons that while my job pays the bills, I'm not thrilled with it. I make no bones about that. But y'see, the reason I'm not thrilled with it has nothing to do with the workload or the people. It's a number-crunching job in the guise of a multi-tasking position. These formulas, these inventory reports, they drive me absofrickinglutely mental. This wasn't what I had in mind when I signed on for the job, and yet I stick with it because I know that there is potential here for really good things.
Be that as it may, I take umbrage to any one individual who says that numbers determine the pattern of things in this world. OK, to an extent you're right. Numbers are the backbone of basic mathematics and science, both of which have helped us to establish the history of humankind, and the history of the earth (and possibly the future, itself).
Be that as it may, dear bean-counters, there are a great deal of much more important x-factors that numbers simply cannot account for. In fact, I would be willing to bet that there's at least a 50 percent over-under on the certainty of such figures. I suppose making such a statement may ruffle the feathers of some of the online community, but screw 'em. I know in my mind that I'm right on this. There's always that margin of error, because in this world, and for that matter, this universe, nothing is constant, nothing is perfect. Ever.
There's a lot that numbers cannot do. Numbers cannot entertain or engage the mind. I find it very hard to believe that they can inspire creation, or motivate an individual to work harder. I truly believe that those who sink into numerically sound industries such as accounting or finance do so because either A) they have a knack for it, B) they love money, or C) both. I have never met anyone who has beamed about being an accounting major. And of the finance majors I have met, they talk more about their income (or potential income) than their actual craft.
Meanwhile, if you were to speak to a theater or dance major, I'll bet you dollars to dicks that they absolutely gush about what they do, knowing full well that they will probably never make a fraction of the salary of a top tier financial analyst.
It's like me with writing. I do it because I love it. It goes way beyond a past time or hobby. It has fully cascaded into a passion, pure and simple. And I just cannot fathom how anyone could be passionate about mathematics. Think about it. Do you remember any of your math teachers ever being terribly excited about their craft? I sure as shit don't.
Now let me make one thing clear, here… my quarrel is with mathematical institutions as a lifestyle and cornerstone of busines. I have nothing against science. While science relies mainly on fact, it is still 50 percent analytical, 50 percent theoretical. The latter half requires a certain type of mind to think outside the box and really grasp concepts. That goes way beyond carbon-dating and the like, and I'm sure not everyone can get into that.
I look at it this way: raw numbers, in my mind, equate to facts. Facts are boring. Anyone can look them up in an encyclopedia or online. Retaining facts is simple. You pound your head against something long enough and it'll sink in and make sense. But concepts are something that raw numbers cannot conceive.
And still, 18 hours later after my codeine-induced writing fit, I stand by everything I wrote here. I just cannot get behind the use of mathematics as a way of life. I understand it, but I don’t agree with it. To me, it’s only a part of the puzzle, and is all too often overly relied upon. You don’t know how many times those Excel formulas don’t work, or how many times the projections come up dead wrong. Like anything else, it’s imprecise, plain and simple.
Maybe I should recant and take pain-killers more often. At least it got me motivated enough to write. But then I’d just be putting the “hip” in “hypocrite,” and I don’t wanna snake the Republican Party’s next great slogan.
That’s right. I zinged the Party. Deal with it.
But to summarize, true believers... you go ahead and plug those digits into your Texas Instruments calculator. You go ahead and have faith in your precious numbers. Meanwhile I'm going to read a book and postulate on my own personal theories of existence... sans formulas.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Yeah, I know… I spoke out on the evils of self-medicating last year, but taking two Tylenol with Codeine once for a sore back is hardly abuse. All I was asking for was some Alleve. But I got Tequila instead of a Bud Light, if you would like an analogous comparison. In any event, seeing as how this stuff is kicking in over here, this oughta make for an interesting post. By the power of painkillers, here we go…
I'm not a fan of numbers. Percentages, fractions, formulas, the works. Don't like 'em. Never had. I don't know that it's because I don't have a "head for math."
Wait. Scratch that. I have something of a head for math… I just hate using it. I don't like numbers, or crunching them. It's not that the task is hard… I'm sure that with enough time and effort, I could pull it off. Both my parents are mathematically keen, so I'm sure that genetically it runs strong in the bloodline. It's not just them, either - seems like plenty of folks on both sides of the family fair well with math (finance and accounting majors tend to run abound).
Be that as it may, I just can't stand the concept of crunching numbers to come up with results. It's one of the reasons that while my job pays the bills, I'm not thrilled with it. I make no bones about that. But y'see, the reason I'm not thrilled with it has nothing to do with the workload or the people. It's a number-crunching job in the guise of a multi-tasking position. These formulas, these inventory reports, they drive me absofrickinglutely mental. This wasn't what I had in mind when I signed on for the job, and yet I stick with it because I know that there is potential here for really good things.
Be that as it may, I take umbrage to any one individual who says that numbers determine the pattern of things in this world. OK, to an extent you're right. Numbers are the backbone of basic mathematics and science, both of which have helped us to establish the history of humankind, and the history of the earth (and possibly the future, itself).
Be that as it may, dear bean-counters, there are a great deal of much more important x-factors that numbers simply cannot account for. In fact, I would be willing to bet that there's at least a 50 percent over-under on the certainty of such figures. I suppose making such a statement may ruffle the feathers of some of the online community, but screw 'em. I know in my mind that I'm right on this. There's always that margin of error, because in this world, and for that matter, this universe, nothing is constant, nothing is perfect. Ever.
There's a lot that numbers cannot do. Numbers cannot entertain or engage the mind. I find it very hard to believe that they can inspire creation, or motivate an individual to work harder. I truly believe that those who sink into numerically sound industries such as accounting or finance do so because either A) they have a knack for it, B) they love money, or C) both. I have never met anyone who has beamed about being an accounting major. And of the finance majors I have met, they talk more about their income (or potential income) than their actual craft.
Meanwhile, if you were to speak to a theater or dance major, I'll bet you dollars to dicks that they absolutely gush about what they do, knowing full well that they will probably never make a fraction of the salary of a top tier financial analyst.
It's like me with writing. I do it because I love it. It goes way beyond a past time or hobby. It has fully cascaded into a passion, pure and simple. And I just cannot fathom how anyone could be passionate about mathematics. Think about it. Do you remember any of your math teachers ever being terribly excited about their craft? I sure as shit don't.
Now let me make one thing clear, here… my quarrel is with mathematical institutions as a lifestyle and cornerstone of busines. I have nothing against science. While science relies mainly on fact, it is still 50 percent analytical, 50 percent theoretical. The latter half requires a certain type of mind to think outside the box and really grasp concepts. That goes way beyond carbon-dating and the like, and I'm sure not everyone can get into that.
I look at it this way: raw numbers, in my mind, equate to facts. Facts are boring. Anyone can look them up in an encyclopedia or online. Retaining facts is simple. You pound your head against something long enough and it'll sink in and make sense. But concepts are something that raw numbers cannot conceive.
And still, 18 hours later after my codeine-induced writing fit, I stand by everything I wrote here. I just cannot get behind the use of mathematics as a way of life. I understand it, but I don’t agree with it. To me, it’s only a part of the puzzle, and is all too often overly relied upon. You don’t know how many times those Excel formulas don’t work, or how many times the projections come up dead wrong. Like anything else, it’s imprecise, plain and simple.
Maybe I should recant and take pain-killers more often. At least it got me motivated enough to write. But then I’d just be putting the “hip” in “hypocrite,” and I don’t wanna snake the Republican Party’s next great slogan.
That’s right. I zinged the Party. Deal with it.
But to summarize, true believers... you go ahead and plug those digits into your Texas Instruments calculator. You go ahead and have faith in your precious numbers. Meanwhile I'm going to read a book and postulate on my own personal theories of existence... sans formulas.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
8/16/2005
As much as I hate to admit it, America just doesn't get it.
Let me set the scene for you… as I've made mention of before, every time I cruise I-95 en route to work, I see many of the same drivers day in and day out. Hard to believe that amongst the hundreds upon hundreds of motorists, I would be able to pick out maybe a dozen or so that have repeat sightings attached to their being. But it's true. Normally, this is discovered by way of whatever bumper sticker adorns their ride. Example: I've encountered a fellow Skidmore alumnus several times while braving the deadlock. When you kill this much time in bumper-to-bumper traffic, you just notice these things.
Now, there's this one car that I've seen many a time during the morning and evening commute. Make and model are unimportant… in short, this car has a French flag sticker on the bumper, and in the rear window, there's an upside down American flag.
Now, Connecticut is quite a liberal state, wealthy population notwithstanding. So this character is, more than likely, making some thinly veiled political statement at the current state of the union. However, in his perhaps anti-American (or possibly anti-administration) display of zeal, he did bring to light something that I have been dwelling on for far too long.
That is the fact that we as Americans are short on happiness, high on stress, and lost in life. One recurring theme throughout this blog, especially over the course of the last year, has been the fact that society places extreme pressure on us to succeed. I don't know enough about economics to put that blame on capitalism per se, but I think it's clear that America thrives on commerce, and commerce thrives on the blood, sweat and tears of the average human being just trying to make ends meet. That being said, it is often quite difficult for said average person to really enjoy life to any meaningful extent.
I was, for quite a long time following my last post, going to write a lengthy piece about America's pursuit of happiness and how seemingly elusive it really is. The catalyst for that post was the fact that I had a conversation with a close friend who had just started seeing a really great guy that made her happy. However, she was uncertain that her parents wouldn't accept him, and because of that fear, her ability to enjoy the relationship was hindered. Similarly, I had just found a great place to live by myself, and despite this fact I was burdened with mortgage red tape, payments, and the inevitable process of moving itself. And yet here we were, two reasonably intelligent, capable 20-somethings with really good things in our lives… and yet we were unable to enjoy them.
The thrust of this piece was going to be the fact that our society, for whatever reason, simply prevents us from attaining happiness. However, as time went on and I planned the piece, I notice something happening… I was putting it off daily. This alone took me over two weeks to write, which is very uncustomary of me. See, I normally like to follow a single thought once it hits and see it through to the end. However, with a recent shake-up in my division at work, my workload has increased dramatically, and I myself have been so overwhelmed that even regular trips to the gym are becoming a chore.
Overworked with not enough sleep under my belt on a daily basis, I began to come to grips with the fact that no matter what job I take, as long as it's big business, it will always be like this in some way. There will always be extreme amounts of work, late hours, new and challenging tasks, frustrations, stresses, and not nearly enough compensation or appreciation. Now I recently received my six-month review, and I did OK for myself. I seem to be grasping things well, and received a decent little raise for myself, but… that is not nearly enough to make me want to stay with this outfit for the rest of my days. No, dear reader… I cannot see myself doing that.
And this is after I moved 30 miles closer to my office… before that, I was literally up every morning at 5:30, out the door by 7:15, in the office between 8:30 and 9:00 (depending on traffic), out of the office between 5:00 and 5:30 (depending on the workload), and back home around 6:00 and 6:30. I was so beat, that I would take daily naps in my car during my lunch breaks. I'll even go so far as to spare the time I spent at the gym from being factored into this equation, and do the math that by the time I finish my day, from the time I woke up to the time I touched down, it was on average about 12-13 hours. That's freakin' disgusting, and I know for a fact that I'm not the only guy who has made such a commute. Hell, for that matter, there are folks who have commuted even further to their offices. Chew on that.
I remember when I was looking for work, and so many people told me, "Remember, you've got the rest of your life to work." That is so sadly true, and a fact that I abhor. And I know that I would probably not have to endure such a tedious routine if I did not live in this country.
Now I'm not sure how it is in more rural areas of the nation… truthfully, I've never been to such locales. However, in the northeast, northern Midwest and other areas of major commerce where there are large cities and companies to boot, your livelihood is predicated on your output within the cube, plain and simple. And the company dictates your life.
It's funny, I spoke with a co-worker earlier today who got reamed out because she took half-days for the rest of the week to be with her son who is home alone. Her husband travels a lot, so it's difficult to always be there for him. She actually agreed to bring work home with her so she wouldn't fall behind. She came in a half-hour late today and got the business for it. A half-hour. Think about that. What gets accomplished in that small time frame to begin with? The answer is probably not too much. But that is business for you… the company over the individual.
I spoke to an acquaintance not too long ago who recently got his review, and the one glaring item on it was the fact that in terms of his ranking, he put the customer first, then himself, then the company. That was their only complaint. Imagine that. Putting yourself above the company… How dare he! Heck, I don't even think I would put the customer above myself. It's not that I'm selfish, but how can I put someone I've never even seen before on a higher plateau than myself? To me, that's not a question of company loyalty, that's a question of common sense. If the company is so much more important than the individual, why do upper-level managers get more vacation time? Why do they use that vacation time? Why is it that some of them only work partial weeks? I'm having trouble figuring that one out.
Another very close friend (the aforementioned individual with the boyfriend "crisis") works in New York for a PR firm, and for a week straight, she worked every night past 10:00 PM. You're talking a 14-hour marathon every day discounting her commute. That, my friends, is just exquisite bullshit. No one should have to put in those kind of insane hours, ever. Even if they're willing.
But like I said… this is the American culture. Put in your 40-plus a week, earn your keep, and always reach for the brass ring. Well the brass ring doesn't always have to be a faster car or bigger house… I believe the real brass ring lay within. Cliché as it may sound, I really feel that there is something altogether internal that we as Americans miss out on because of the madness the culture dictates. I could be wrong, but chalk it up to one man's opinion.
Now Europe, however, is a completely different scene. The people over there, while perhaps overly nationalistic, still "get it." They know how to live, man. You go over to Greece, Spain or Italy, and those folks work a few hours, go home and take a nap, finish work, then go out all night and party. Wake up, lather, rinse, repeat. And those people are living longer, healthier lives than us Yanks. Don't kid yourselves, folks, it goes way beyond just the diet… it's the lifestyle, the daily routine, the culture itself that is keeping those people in healthier states than us. I would be very interested to go so far as to compare the numbers regarding people in therapy and/or on medication between the U.S. and Europe. I wouldn't be surprised if those numbers reveal that the U.S. has a greater population (per capita, of course) of people in treatment. I mean, c'mon, what do people in Europe have to get stressed out over or worried about?
Let me tell you something, my one surviving Grandparent is straight over from Greece. He is going to be 92 years old this coming January, and he's healthy as ever. He walks 5 miles a day, eats well, and has always been a workhorse. I'm convinced he'll live to see 100 just because that's how tough he is… but the secret to his long life has come through his lifestyle. He's been a man of a strong work ethic and a low stress level. Since day one, he has called the shots for himself, whether it be on the farm in his native village, behind the wheel of an ice cream truck in Waterbury, or slaving over a hot stove in the restaurant in New Haven. He has been the master of his own destiny since day one, and that is why we as Americans miss out on life so much. We let others govern our paths rather than take charge ourselves.
What I'm getting at is that the condition of our society itself will not allow us to easily select our lot in life… no matter how hard we work.
Dear reader, if you haven't already, I urge you to see Office Space. Trust me, you'll be a better person for it, and you'll also get a peak at corporate America at its finest. This film is frightfully accurate in its portrayal of the utterly absurd "office dynamic." Granted, some things like Milton and the stapler may be extreme, but for the most part, this film captures the mundane at its best, and is able to depict life in the corporate environment with razor sharp wit and precision. In short, the big dogs don’t care about the drones. They don’t give a shit about the cogs that make up the machine. So long as they make their money and get their eight weeks vacation time, they’re fine with whatever goes on.
In my division alone, three people have vanished in the last month. One has been transferred, two have up and quit, one of them without any prior notice. Doesn’t exactly make me look at things with enthusiastic candor, decent review notwithstanding.
So while this French motorist may have been making a strong political statement, he was also right about something else… America is in distress and needs help, but from within. While it may seem impossible, I feel that there are certain aspects of our culture, certain norms that need to be turned inside out, or else we will simply implode under the strain. It’s that simple, people. Either our nation takes it easy a bit, or we drive ourselves mental because the boss told us to.
So the question is, do I plan on staying with this outfit forever, dooming myself to bitching about my stapler and ordering stamps for an eternity? Hell, no. For that matter, do I plan on staying in business forever? No dear reader, I think for myself, I will be pursuing other more creative options as means to earn a living and be happy. I don’t know exactly what yet, but I’ve seen what I don’t want, and that is only going to lead me closer to what I do want.
It reminds me of my father’s blurb in his high school yearbook… A line that said he “believes life is meant to be lived easy.”
This coming from a man who ultimately spent the bulk of his life working as a foreman in factories. As much as I love my father, I think for myself, I will try to live by that mantra, and break away from the chain of madness our society has adopted. God willing, either America will wake up (which it needs to do anyway) and stop beating itself up just to be #1 in everything, or I’ll be able to earn my keep comfortably and still be able to be happy and content with myself and my life. Hopefully I’ll be able to bring a little slice of Europe into my world, and get by each day with a nap under my belt and a smile on my face.
Crazy? Maybe. Plausible? Why not? Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Let me set the scene for you… as I've made mention of before, every time I cruise I-95 en route to work, I see many of the same drivers day in and day out. Hard to believe that amongst the hundreds upon hundreds of motorists, I would be able to pick out maybe a dozen or so that have repeat sightings attached to their being. But it's true. Normally, this is discovered by way of whatever bumper sticker adorns their ride. Example: I've encountered a fellow Skidmore alumnus several times while braving the deadlock. When you kill this much time in bumper-to-bumper traffic, you just notice these things.
Now, there's this one car that I've seen many a time during the morning and evening commute. Make and model are unimportant… in short, this car has a French flag sticker on the bumper, and in the rear window, there's an upside down American flag.
Now, Connecticut is quite a liberal state, wealthy population notwithstanding. So this character is, more than likely, making some thinly veiled political statement at the current state of the union. However, in his perhaps anti-American (or possibly anti-administration) display of zeal, he did bring to light something that I have been dwelling on for far too long.
That is the fact that we as Americans are short on happiness, high on stress, and lost in life. One recurring theme throughout this blog, especially over the course of the last year, has been the fact that society places extreme pressure on us to succeed. I don't know enough about economics to put that blame on capitalism per se, but I think it's clear that America thrives on commerce, and commerce thrives on the blood, sweat and tears of the average human being just trying to make ends meet. That being said, it is often quite difficult for said average person to really enjoy life to any meaningful extent.
I was, for quite a long time following my last post, going to write a lengthy piece about America's pursuit of happiness and how seemingly elusive it really is. The catalyst for that post was the fact that I had a conversation with a close friend who had just started seeing a really great guy that made her happy. However, she was uncertain that her parents wouldn't accept him, and because of that fear, her ability to enjoy the relationship was hindered. Similarly, I had just found a great place to live by myself, and despite this fact I was burdened with mortgage red tape, payments, and the inevitable process of moving itself. And yet here we were, two reasonably intelligent, capable 20-somethings with really good things in our lives… and yet we were unable to enjoy them.
The thrust of this piece was going to be the fact that our society, for whatever reason, simply prevents us from attaining happiness. However, as time went on and I planned the piece, I notice something happening… I was putting it off daily. This alone took me over two weeks to write, which is very uncustomary of me. See, I normally like to follow a single thought once it hits and see it through to the end. However, with a recent shake-up in my division at work, my workload has increased dramatically, and I myself have been so overwhelmed that even regular trips to the gym are becoming a chore.
Overworked with not enough sleep under my belt on a daily basis, I began to come to grips with the fact that no matter what job I take, as long as it's big business, it will always be like this in some way. There will always be extreme amounts of work, late hours, new and challenging tasks, frustrations, stresses, and not nearly enough compensation or appreciation. Now I recently received my six-month review, and I did OK for myself. I seem to be grasping things well, and received a decent little raise for myself, but… that is not nearly enough to make me want to stay with this outfit for the rest of my days. No, dear reader… I cannot see myself doing that.
And this is after I moved 30 miles closer to my office… before that, I was literally up every morning at 5:30, out the door by 7:15, in the office between 8:30 and 9:00 (depending on traffic), out of the office between 5:00 and 5:30 (depending on the workload), and back home around 6:00 and 6:30. I was so beat, that I would take daily naps in my car during my lunch breaks. I'll even go so far as to spare the time I spent at the gym from being factored into this equation, and do the math that by the time I finish my day, from the time I woke up to the time I touched down, it was on average about 12-13 hours. That's freakin' disgusting, and I know for a fact that I'm not the only guy who has made such a commute. Hell, for that matter, there are folks who have commuted even further to their offices. Chew on that.
I remember when I was looking for work, and so many people told me, "Remember, you've got the rest of your life to work." That is so sadly true, and a fact that I abhor. And I know that I would probably not have to endure such a tedious routine if I did not live in this country.
Now I'm not sure how it is in more rural areas of the nation… truthfully, I've never been to such locales. However, in the northeast, northern Midwest and other areas of major commerce where there are large cities and companies to boot, your livelihood is predicated on your output within the cube, plain and simple. And the company dictates your life.
It's funny, I spoke with a co-worker earlier today who got reamed out because she took half-days for the rest of the week to be with her son who is home alone. Her husband travels a lot, so it's difficult to always be there for him. She actually agreed to bring work home with her so she wouldn't fall behind. She came in a half-hour late today and got the business for it. A half-hour. Think about that. What gets accomplished in that small time frame to begin with? The answer is probably not too much. But that is business for you… the company over the individual.
I spoke to an acquaintance not too long ago who recently got his review, and the one glaring item on it was the fact that in terms of his ranking, he put the customer first, then himself, then the company. That was their only complaint. Imagine that. Putting yourself above the company… How dare he! Heck, I don't even think I would put the customer above myself. It's not that I'm selfish, but how can I put someone I've never even seen before on a higher plateau than myself? To me, that's not a question of company loyalty, that's a question of common sense. If the company is so much more important than the individual, why do upper-level managers get more vacation time? Why do they use that vacation time? Why is it that some of them only work partial weeks? I'm having trouble figuring that one out.
Another very close friend (the aforementioned individual with the boyfriend "crisis") works in New York for a PR firm, and for a week straight, she worked every night past 10:00 PM. You're talking a 14-hour marathon every day discounting her commute. That, my friends, is just exquisite bullshit. No one should have to put in those kind of insane hours, ever. Even if they're willing.
But like I said… this is the American culture. Put in your 40-plus a week, earn your keep, and always reach for the brass ring. Well the brass ring doesn't always have to be a faster car or bigger house… I believe the real brass ring lay within. Cliché as it may sound, I really feel that there is something altogether internal that we as Americans miss out on because of the madness the culture dictates. I could be wrong, but chalk it up to one man's opinion.
Now Europe, however, is a completely different scene. The people over there, while perhaps overly nationalistic, still "get it." They know how to live, man. You go over to Greece, Spain or Italy, and those folks work a few hours, go home and take a nap, finish work, then go out all night and party. Wake up, lather, rinse, repeat. And those people are living longer, healthier lives than us Yanks. Don't kid yourselves, folks, it goes way beyond just the diet… it's the lifestyle, the daily routine, the culture itself that is keeping those people in healthier states than us. I would be very interested to go so far as to compare the numbers regarding people in therapy and/or on medication between the U.S. and Europe. I wouldn't be surprised if those numbers reveal that the U.S. has a greater population (per capita, of course) of people in treatment. I mean, c'mon, what do people in Europe have to get stressed out over or worried about?
Let me tell you something, my one surviving Grandparent is straight over from Greece. He is going to be 92 years old this coming January, and he's healthy as ever. He walks 5 miles a day, eats well, and has always been a workhorse. I'm convinced he'll live to see 100 just because that's how tough he is… but the secret to his long life has come through his lifestyle. He's been a man of a strong work ethic and a low stress level. Since day one, he has called the shots for himself, whether it be on the farm in his native village, behind the wheel of an ice cream truck in Waterbury, or slaving over a hot stove in the restaurant in New Haven. He has been the master of his own destiny since day one, and that is why we as Americans miss out on life so much. We let others govern our paths rather than take charge ourselves.
What I'm getting at is that the condition of our society itself will not allow us to easily select our lot in life… no matter how hard we work.
Dear reader, if you haven't already, I urge you to see Office Space. Trust me, you'll be a better person for it, and you'll also get a peak at corporate America at its finest. This film is frightfully accurate in its portrayal of the utterly absurd "office dynamic." Granted, some things like Milton and the stapler may be extreme, but for the most part, this film captures the mundane at its best, and is able to depict life in the corporate environment with razor sharp wit and precision. In short, the big dogs don’t care about the drones. They don’t give a shit about the cogs that make up the machine. So long as they make their money and get their eight weeks vacation time, they’re fine with whatever goes on.
In my division alone, three people have vanished in the last month. One has been transferred, two have up and quit, one of them without any prior notice. Doesn’t exactly make me look at things with enthusiastic candor, decent review notwithstanding.
So while this French motorist may have been making a strong political statement, he was also right about something else… America is in distress and needs help, but from within. While it may seem impossible, I feel that there are certain aspects of our culture, certain norms that need to be turned inside out, or else we will simply implode under the strain. It’s that simple, people. Either our nation takes it easy a bit, or we drive ourselves mental because the boss told us to.
So the question is, do I plan on staying with this outfit forever, dooming myself to bitching about my stapler and ordering stamps for an eternity? Hell, no. For that matter, do I plan on staying in business forever? No dear reader, I think for myself, I will be pursuing other more creative options as means to earn a living and be happy. I don’t know exactly what yet, but I’ve seen what I don’t want, and that is only going to lead me closer to what I do want.
It reminds me of my father’s blurb in his high school yearbook… A line that said he “believes life is meant to be lived easy.”
This coming from a man who ultimately spent the bulk of his life working as a foreman in factories. As much as I love my father, I think for myself, I will try to live by that mantra, and break away from the chain of madness our society has adopted. God willing, either America will wake up (which it needs to do anyway) and stop beating itself up just to be #1 in everything, or I’ll be able to earn my keep comfortably and still be able to be happy and content with myself and my life. Hopefully I’ll be able to bring a little slice of Europe into my world, and get by each day with a nap under my belt and a smile on my face.
Crazy? Maybe. Plausible? Why not? Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
5/30/2005
This may come as a shock to most of you, but I take pride in my stupid little blog.
Don’t ask me why, but I do. Beyond my way of just venting my frustrations about this ricockulous world we live in, I also like to think that it’s my way of enriching the masses. And by “masses,” I mean the half-dozen people that actually read this thing. Be that as it may, I never intended for this to be a personal extension of my everyday life, which seems to be the average blog these days.
Now admittedly, in the early days of LSS, way back in the fall of ’02, I would gripe a lot about the situations I encountered at graduate school, and I suppose that in a way, that could be considered a source of pointless bitching. I’ll concede to that much, but I’d also like to point out that on the flipside of that coin, my frequent complaints were often used as anecdotal segues into more elaborate rants about the pitfalls of our modern education system, and the troglodytes that inhabit both the administrations and student bodies.
And that's the thing. Even when I was on about how '04 was a miserable year for me, I was still able to extend that feeling of discontent with my personal life and apply it to the big picture of what was (and for that matter, still is) going on in the world. When I do lengthy posts, if I can't apply my sad little existence on this rock to something infinitely bigger and uglier, I'm wasting my time.
No, I truly believe that my intent in creating this blog was, and always has been, to offer a podium for myself to preach from. Call it the “soapbox” effect. That’s where I stand on my soapbox, offer up my opinions with my own brand of logic and uncommon sense, and you either agree or disagree with me. And yes, not everyone that reads my stuff is in agreement with me. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I never claimed to be the end-all, be-all fountain of information. I can only talk about the things I believe to be true or unsettling about life, plain and simple.
What saddens me is that I find my personal brand of writing on the web to be something of a lost art. And that’s not to sound pretentious and say that I’m the daddy of the mack-daddy when it comes to editorials and the like. More accurately, I find these types of blogs or forums to be a dying breed. People on the Internet don’t seem to have opinions anymore. Have you noticed this? Unless you happen to be a Star Wars fanatic who is more than content to bitch about Jar Jar and the fact Revenge Of The Sith offered no explanation as to how Darth Vader goes to the bathroom with that suit on.
My theory is that he has a pee-latch.
But seriously… unless you’re the beloved kind of übergeek that prowls message boards trying to unravel the mysteries of Lost and Lindsay Lohan’s weight loss, the fact is that most of us who do post anything on the Internet in any type of forum pretty much kvetch about the mundane goings-on in our meager little lives.
Not for nothing, but I really don’t want to know what’s irking you.
I don’t care who your friends are, I don’t care what you’re listening to right now, I don’t care what your mood is, I don’t care how Von Goethe and The Crow changed your life, I don’t care what you did (or didn’t do) this past Saturday night, and I certainly don’t care to hear about all the so-called “drama” that permeates your wretched existence, capice?
I’m sure you’re probably wondering what brought on this diatribe to end all diatribes, and I’ll tell you. Several months ago, I was dating a girl who shall remain nameless. My blog inspired her to create her own. I seem to have this effect on people. Difference being that her blog is a window to her life, whereas I prefer to think of our blogs as a window to our thoughts. There’s a big difference.
We have long since broken up, and while I have nothing against her personally, I also have no interest in seeing her again, plain and simple. But I have noticed that over the last few months, her posts have gotten increasingly personal, and downright pig-headed in their arrogance. Now chalk this up to hubris, or just being a moody girl in your early 20’s, but trying to read these things without stabbing myself in my scrotum is like trying to sit through an episode of Fat Actress without stabbing myself in my scrotum. Damn near impossible.
To begin with, this sparks the entire, “what-the-hell-did-I-ever-see-in-you” curiosity factor, where I am forced to question my own judgment since at one point I dated such a unbelievably conceited, petty excuse for a human being.
But that’s just the tip of the irritable iceberg. In having perused this person’s blog, I have also browsed the comments left on her posts by others. Naturally, these third parties are friends… but the bulk of the comments in response to her words all pertain to overly-hyped, overly-dramatic situations of the 90210 variety.
That’s right. Not only are these posts regarding incidents that are highly personal, and better left unknown to the Internet community, but all parties involved are now getting in on the action, so eager to share their side of the story, making for one mother of a clusterfuck.
This is what pisses me off. Y’know, journals are not meant to be shared, which is probably why I never opted to do this thing on livejournal.com. I want my personal problems and relations to remain as such. They’re in my hands, and I’m more than happy to deal with them either by myself or with the assistance of a select circle of friends and family. I don’t see the need to share such woes with a few billion people.
By that same rationale, I really don’t care to know what’s going on in other peoples’ lives. At least not at that deep a level. Nor do I see the reason why anyone would want to read such drivel. I suppose to some extent, it’s the same innate, sick curiosity that draws the masses to reality television. And I’m sure that for the writers’ relations, it’s an even stronger pull considering that the main party is known to them.
But seriously… I really don’t give a fuck.
I don’t expect what I do to become the norm. I accept the fact that I’m a minority in this tangled worldwide web, and not only do I acknowledge that notion, but I embrace it. I like being the castaway content to run my own little gravy train, and I openly invite anyone who likes a good read to give my stuff a looksie.
But as welcome as you all are to partake in my opinions, ramblings and perspectives, I simply do not want you all to know how so-and-so went behind so-and-so’s back, or how John Doe, Mrs. Butterworth and I all went to see Kung Fu Hustle last Tuesday and some guy in the front row streaked the place.
I should mention that at one point, I was heavily considering posting a link this individual’s blog just to give you an idea of the sort of rot I’m talking about. But I’ve since reconsidered this. Now that's not because I'm trying to be the bigger person post-breakup or anything. After all, you do know how I love to burst the bubble of big bullshitters, and this would've been a prime opportunity to do so.
No, I simply rethought things and figured that since she already seems comfortable sharing this crap with so many… why vindicate her misgivings?
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Don’t ask me why, but I do. Beyond my way of just venting my frustrations about this ricockulous world we live in, I also like to think that it’s my way of enriching the masses. And by “masses,” I mean the half-dozen people that actually read this thing. Be that as it may, I never intended for this to be a personal extension of my everyday life, which seems to be the average blog these days.
Now admittedly, in the early days of LSS, way back in the fall of ’02, I would gripe a lot about the situations I encountered at graduate school, and I suppose that in a way, that could be considered a source of pointless bitching. I’ll concede to that much, but I’d also like to point out that on the flipside of that coin, my frequent complaints were often used as anecdotal segues into more elaborate rants about the pitfalls of our modern education system, and the troglodytes that inhabit both the administrations and student bodies.
And that's the thing. Even when I was on about how '04 was a miserable year for me, I was still able to extend that feeling of discontent with my personal life and apply it to the big picture of what was (and for that matter, still is) going on in the world. When I do lengthy posts, if I can't apply my sad little existence on this rock to something infinitely bigger and uglier, I'm wasting my time.
No, I truly believe that my intent in creating this blog was, and always has been, to offer a podium for myself to preach from. Call it the “soapbox” effect. That’s where I stand on my soapbox, offer up my opinions with my own brand of logic and uncommon sense, and you either agree or disagree with me. And yes, not everyone that reads my stuff is in agreement with me. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I never claimed to be the end-all, be-all fountain of information. I can only talk about the things I believe to be true or unsettling about life, plain and simple.
What saddens me is that I find my personal brand of writing on the web to be something of a lost art. And that’s not to sound pretentious and say that I’m the daddy of the mack-daddy when it comes to editorials and the like. More accurately, I find these types of blogs or forums to be a dying breed. People on the Internet don’t seem to have opinions anymore. Have you noticed this? Unless you happen to be a Star Wars fanatic who is more than content to bitch about Jar Jar and the fact Revenge Of The Sith offered no explanation as to how Darth Vader goes to the bathroom with that suit on.
My theory is that he has a pee-latch.
But seriously… unless you’re the beloved kind of übergeek that prowls message boards trying to unravel the mysteries of Lost and Lindsay Lohan’s weight loss, the fact is that most of us who do post anything on the Internet in any type of forum pretty much kvetch about the mundane goings-on in our meager little lives.
Not for nothing, but I really don’t want to know what’s irking you.
I don’t care who your friends are, I don’t care what you’re listening to right now, I don’t care what your mood is, I don’t care how Von Goethe and The Crow changed your life, I don’t care what you did (or didn’t do) this past Saturday night, and I certainly don’t care to hear about all the so-called “drama” that permeates your wretched existence, capice?
I’m sure you’re probably wondering what brought on this diatribe to end all diatribes, and I’ll tell you. Several months ago, I was dating a girl who shall remain nameless. My blog inspired her to create her own. I seem to have this effect on people. Difference being that her blog is a window to her life, whereas I prefer to think of our blogs as a window to our thoughts. There’s a big difference.
We have long since broken up, and while I have nothing against her personally, I also have no interest in seeing her again, plain and simple. But I have noticed that over the last few months, her posts have gotten increasingly personal, and downright pig-headed in their arrogance. Now chalk this up to hubris, or just being a moody girl in your early 20’s, but trying to read these things without stabbing myself in my scrotum is like trying to sit through an episode of Fat Actress without stabbing myself in my scrotum. Damn near impossible.
To begin with, this sparks the entire, “what-the-hell-did-I-ever-see-in-you” curiosity factor, where I am forced to question my own judgment since at one point I dated such a unbelievably conceited, petty excuse for a human being.
But that’s just the tip of the irritable iceberg. In having perused this person’s blog, I have also browsed the comments left on her posts by others. Naturally, these third parties are friends… but the bulk of the comments in response to her words all pertain to overly-hyped, overly-dramatic situations of the 90210 variety.
That’s right. Not only are these posts regarding incidents that are highly personal, and better left unknown to the Internet community, but all parties involved are now getting in on the action, so eager to share their side of the story, making for one mother of a clusterfuck.
This is what pisses me off. Y’know, journals are not meant to be shared, which is probably why I never opted to do this thing on livejournal.com. I want my personal problems and relations to remain as such. They’re in my hands, and I’m more than happy to deal with them either by myself or with the assistance of a select circle of friends and family. I don’t see the need to share such woes with a few billion people.
By that same rationale, I really don’t care to know what’s going on in other peoples’ lives. At least not at that deep a level. Nor do I see the reason why anyone would want to read such drivel. I suppose to some extent, it’s the same innate, sick curiosity that draws the masses to reality television. And I’m sure that for the writers’ relations, it’s an even stronger pull considering that the main party is known to them.
But seriously… I really don’t give a fuck.
I don’t expect what I do to become the norm. I accept the fact that I’m a minority in this tangled worldwide web, and not only do I acknowledge that notion, but I embrace it. I like being the castaway content to run my own little gravy train, and I openly invite anyone who likes a good read to give my stuff a looksie.
But as welcome as you all are to partake in my opinions, ramblings and perspectives, I simply do not want you all to know how so-and-so went behind so-and-so’s back, or how John Doe, Mrs. Butterworth and I all went to see Kung Fu Hustle last Tuesday and some guy in the front row streaked the place.
I should mention that at one point, I was heavily considering posting a link this individual’s blog just to give you an idea of the sort of rot I’m talking about. But I’ve since reconsidered this. Now that's not because I'm trying to be the bigger person post-breakup or anything. After all, you do know how I love to burst the bubble of big bullshitters, and this would've been a prime opportunity to do so.
No, I simply rethought things and figured that since she already seems comfortable sharing this crap with so many… why vindicate her misgivings?
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
5/14/2005
It’s been a while since this has happened, but I encountered something this week that truly disgusted me. No exaggeration, it turned my freakin’ stomach.
Tuesday afternoon, I was driving home from my job in Norwalk on 95. Now, I’m sure most of you are at least vaguely familiar with the infamous I-95, but for those of you who aren’t, let me just tell you, having to drive this fucker every day is one of the most painful experiences you could possibly imagine. Thank God I’m moving to Milford soon, because I’m already spending upwards of three hours a day driving.
Since 95 moves slower than the Olsen twins at a buffet line, you often get a good view of your commuting neighbors in the lane next to you. So while driving on this gorgeous Tuesday afternoon, listening to a little Billy Joel to unwind the nerves after work, I see coming up on my right, in the middle lane, a white Mitsubishi convertible with the top down being driven by a 20-something blonde tart with a pair of Oakley’s. Now, as if this wasn’t enough to make my blood boil, the capper to it all is the fact that she’s got a Chihuahua perched immediately behind her, looking over the side of the door at this Red Sea of cars that just doesn’t want to seem to part.
A Chihuahua.
It was at this point that the windows in my car rolled down, the volume on the stereo went up, and “Captain Jack” changed without warning to “5 Minutes Alone” by Pantera. Appropriate song, since I would’ve loved 5 minutes alone with this petite princess to chew her out.
Now, before you condemn me for jumping to conclusions and labeling this li’l missy a prissy little Paris rip-off with a ginormous bitch switch, let me tell you something, my friend…
Yesterday (Friday), while driving to work… not from, to… I just happened across the same Mitsubishi convertible, unrecognizable at first since the top was up. But lo and behold, who should be behind the wheel but Princess. And still at the upholstered perch was precious little Chi-Chi, her oversized rodent of a status symbo—I mean dog looking out the window at the slow-moving line of cars.
Windows down, “Say Hello 2 Heaven” by Temple Of The Dog switches to “Stronger Than Death” by Black Label Society.
Why the overload of metal music on my behalf? Because this young lady obviously needs a very loud wake-up call, and what better way to offer that up than in the form of heavy riffs, rapid-fire solos and a blood-curdling vocal? She needs to be exposed to another side of life: the side slightly less ugly than either the lifestyle she promotes or the rhinoplasty she got for her Sweet 16. The side of life most of us (I should hope) dwell in. Cold, hard reality. The type that's not pretty in pink or even feasible in fusca. The type of life that has problems, conflicts, compromises, and stresses that go beyond your favorite tanning salon shutting down.
You have to look at it this way: on Tuesday, it’s quite possible she was coming home from a friend’s house or a party or something else. However, if she’s driving 95 at 8:00 in the AM, there’s a 99% chance she’s going to a job of some sort.
Now, whatever this young kitten does for money (insert prostitution pun here), whatever her line of work is, you have to ask yourself… why the hell is she bringing a Chihuahua to work?! Even if she’s a veterinarian, what’s she doing, bringing her work home with her? I’m sorry, that doesn’t jibe.
So that’s why I opted for such a heavy musical selection. This kid needs a major reattachment to good sound terra firma.
Look, she may be the nicest kid on earth, but I take issue with anyone that carries around a Chihuahua these days. Paris and Britney have turned these poor, once-ridiculed and fast food-exploited canines and turned them into representatives of their ritzy roots. No, folks… odds are this estrogen-infused humanoid is no vet. More likely she works at Abercrombie & Fitch in the Danbury Fair Mall while living off of mummy and daddy’s trust fund and the hard-scrubbing hands of their Mexican houseboy.
Look, I’m an animal lover. Especially dogs. I want one eventually, but have held off for a long time because at this time in my life, I don’t have the time to devote to properly caring for one. I’m not one to dive headfirst into responsibility if I know that I can’t live up to the commitment. So when some tarnished little princess struts around with Chihuahua in hand (or purse, as I’ve seen from time to time), basically flaunting her bankbook and fashionable duds and digs, my iPod turns iRate, and so do I.
People wonder why I’m so down on American society from the upper echelon right down to the mere mortals, and it’s shit like this that fortifies my mindset. When you use another carbon-based life form, be it a dog or a child (soccer moms, I’m looking your way… get out of the Suburban and stop snorting Astroturf) to say something about yourself, I consider you an enemy of the state of Rick, and you’re susceptible to the possibility of capital punishment in the form of a good tongue-lashing on ye olde Landshark blog. And the only reason my sentences never get past that is because U.S. law conflicts with Rick’s law, and neither are in sync with Murphy’s law. I won’t even begin to get into Carlito’s way, either.
And I’m being serious when I say this: I really think the ASPCA should hunt these people down and charge them with animal abuse. Because these little girls are not dog lovers. How can you call yourself a dog lover when you’re clearly too in love with yourself? I’m willing to bet that while these girls are doting as all hell, they’re still not providing these poor critters with the TLC that they so richly deserve. And as if that isn’t criminal enough, they parade the damn thing around like a new belly button piercing or ankle tattoo. Not that I have anything against piercings or tattoos, but I’d much rather they have some kind of relevance to the proud owner, and the same goes for pets. If you’re going to own a dog, own it because you love it, not because it’s the trendy thing to do.
So unless you want me to tie you into a straightjacket, tape your eyelids open and Clockwork Orange you into watching House Of Wax uninterrupted for a fortnight, either give your Chihuahua to someone who actually gives a damn or ship him to Tijuana.
And for fuck’s sake, don’t let a dog that weighs less than four pounds lean out the side of your convertible on I-95 you stupid, stupid slag!
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Tuesday afternoon, I was driving home from my job in Norwalk on 95. Now, I’m sure most of you are at least vaguely familiar with the infamous I-95, but for those of you who aren’t, let me just tell you, having to drive this fucker every day is one of the most painful experiences you could possibly imagine. Thank God I’m moving to Milford soon, because I’m already spending upwards of three hours a day driving.
Since 95 moves slower than the Olsen twins at a buffet line, you often get a good view of your commuting neighbors in the lane next to you. So while driving on this gorgeous Tuesday afternoon, listening to a little Billy Joel to unwind the nerves after work, I see coming up on my right, in the middle lane, a white Mitsubishi convertible with the top down being driven by a 20-something blonde tart with a pair of Oakley’s. Now, as if this wasn’t enough to make my blood boil, the capper to it all is the fact that she’s got a Chihuahua perched immediately behind her, looking over the side of the door at this Red Sea of cars that just doesn’t want to seem to part.
A Chihuahua.
It was at this point that the windows in my car rolled down, the volume on the stereo went up, and “Captain Jack” changed without warning to “5 Minutes Alone” by Pantera. Appropriate song, since I would’ve loved 5 minutes alone with this petite princess to chew her out.
Now, before you condemn me for jumping to conclusions and labeling this li’l missy a prissy little Paris rip-off with a ginormous bitch switch, let me tell you something, my friend…
Yesterday (Friday), while driving to work… not from, to… I just happened across the same Mitsubishi convertible, unrecognizable at first since the top was up. But lo and behold, who should be behind the wheel but Princess. And still at the upholstered perch was precious little Chi-Chi, her oversized rodent of a status symbo—I mean dog looking out the window at the slow-moving line of cars.
Windows down, “Say Hello 2 Heaven” by Temple Of The Dog switches to “Stronger Than Death” by Black Label Society.
Why the overload of metal music on my behalf? Because this young lady obviously needs a very loud wake-up call, and what better way to offer that up than in the form of heavy riffs, rapid-fire solos and a blood-curdling vocal? She needs to be exposed to another side of life: the side slightly less ugly than either the lifestyle she promotes or the rhinoplasty she got for her Sweet 16. The side of life most of us (I should hope) dwell in. Cold, hard reality. The type that's not pretty in pink or even feasible in fusca. The type of life that has problems, conflicts, compromises, and stresses that go beyond your favorite tanning salon shutting down.
You have to look at it this way: on Tuesday, it’s quite possible she was coming home from a friend’s house or a party or something else. However, if she’s driving 95 at 8:00 in the AM, there’s a 99% chance she’s going to a job of some sort.
Now, whatever this young kitten does for money (insert prostitution pun here), whatever her line of work is, you have to ask yourself… why the hell is she bringing a Chihuahua to work?! Even if she’s a veterinarian, what’s she doing, bringing her work home with her? I’m sorry, that doesn’t jibe.
So that’s why I opted for such a heavy musical selection. This kid needs a major reattachment to good sound terra firma.
Look, she may be the nicest kid on earth, but I take issue with anyone that carries around a Chihuahua these days. Paris and Britney have turned these poor, once-ridiculed and fast food-exploited canines and turned them into representatives of their ritzy roots. No, folks… odds are this estrogen-infused humanoid is no vet. More likely she works at Abercrombie & Fitch in the Danbury Fair Mall while living off of mummy and daddy’s trust fund and the hard-scrubbing hands of their Mexican houseboy.
Look, I’m an animal lover. Especially dogs. I want one eventually, but have held off for a long time because at this time in my life, I don’t have the time to devote to properly caring for one. I’m not one to dive headfirst into responsibility if I know that I can’t live up to the commitment. So when some tarnished little princess struts around with Chihuahua in hand (or purse, as I’ve seen from time to time), basically flaunting her bankbook and fashionable duds and digs, my iPod turns iRate, and so do I.
People wonder why I’m so down on American society from the upper echelon right down to the mere mortals, and it’s shit like this that fortifies my mindset. When you use another carbon-based life form, be it a dog or a child (soccer moms, I’m looking your way… get out of the Suburban and stop snorting Astroturf) to say something about yourself, I consider you an enemy of the state of Rick, and you’re susceptible to the possibility of capital punishment in the form of a good tongue-lashing on ye olde Landshark blog. And the only reason my sentences never get past that is because U.S. law conflicts with Rick’s law, and neither are in sync with Murphy’s law. I won’t even begin to get into Carlito’s way, either.
And I’m being serious when I say this: I really think the ASPCA should hunt these people down and charge them with animal abuse. Because these little girls are not dog lovers. How can you call yourself a dog lover when you’re clearly too in love with yourself? I’m willing to bet that while these girls are doting as all hell, they’re still not providing these poor critters with the TLC that they so richly deserve. And as if that isn’t criminal enough, they parade the damn thing around like a new belly button piercing or ankle tattoo. Not that I have anything against piercings or tattoos, but I’d much rather they have some kind of relevance to the proud owner, and the same goes for pets. If you’re going to own a dog, own it because you love it, not because it’s the trendy thing to do.
So unless you want me to tie you into a straightjacket, tape your eyelids open and Clockwork Orange you into watching House Of Wax uninterrupted for a fortnight, either give your Chihuahua to someone who actually gives a damn or ship him to Tijuana.
And for fuck’s sake, don’t let a dog that weighs less than four pounds lean out the side of your convertible on I-95 you stupid, stupid slag!
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
4/18/2005
I've noticed something over the last few months.
You know those ultra-hip yellow Livestrong wristbands that Lance Armstrong has marketed for cancer research? I dig 'em. I like what they stand for, and I particularly like the fact that they're stylish withoug being trendy (or pretentious). Teh fact that the money from each purchase goes straight to cancer research is a huge plus with me. So yeah, on the whole I really like them, which is probably why I own one (along with half my office).
However, have you noticed that while these things pull off the unthinkable by making banana yellow cool, they don't look good on fat people at all?
Now, by "fat," I don't mean someone who has a small gut, beer belly, or even a paunch. I'm talking about the so-called "morbidly obese" that seem to be growing in both per capita population and waistline each year. They really just don't look good on these people. At all.
I first noticed this one night two months ago down at the gym. I was going through my routine when this fat kid comes in. He's maybe 6' and change, but is clearly overweight. The first thing I noticed (besides his size) was how young he was. Probably no more than 14 or 15. The second thing I noticed was that he was doing every single exercise wrong. I tried to help him, but he maintained that he used to lift and knew what he was doing. Nearly two full months later, he's not only still doing them wrong, but he's brought down the weight to make it easier. The third thing I noticed was his Livestrong band. They do stick out because of their color, and also because it seems like everyone owns one now. But it really didn't look that hip on him.
It just looked out of place, like it accidentally found its way onto his wrist. Of course, this was all compounded by the fact that the kid is a total chump. But I have noticed these items on other grossly overweight individuals, and they just don't look right.
It is therefore my assertion that, on a purely subconscious level, seeing a Livestrong bracelet on an extremely overweight person is not aesthetically pleasing. On a subterranean level, your mind tells you, "What business does someone that size have promoting health through his fashion statement? From the look of him, he should be wearing a wristband that promotes hunger strikes, because his belly is promoting Wendy's late-night drive-thru window."
Well, maybe only my mind tells me that last bit.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
You know those ultra-hip yellow Livestrong wristbands that Lance Armstrong has marketed for cancer research? I dig 'em. I like what they stand for, and I particularly like the fact that they're stylish withoug being trendy (or pretentious). Teh fact that the money from each purchase goes straight to cancer research is a huge plus with me. So yeah, on the whole I really like them, which is probably why I own one (along with half my office).
However, have you noticed that while these things pull off the unthinkable by making banana yellow cool, they don't look good on fat people at all?
Now, by "fat," I don't mean someone who has a small gut, beer belly, or even a paunch. I'm talking about the so-called "morbidly obese" that seem to be growing in both per capita population and waistline each year. They really just don't look good on these people. At all.
I first noticed this one night two months ago down at the gym. I was going through my routine when this fat kid comes in. He's maybe 6' and change, but is clearly overweight. The first thing I noticed (besides his size) was how young he was. Probably no more than 14 or 15. The second thing I noticed was that he was doing every single exercise wrong. I tried to help him, but he maintained that he used to lift and knew what he was doing. Nearly two full months later, he's not only still doing them wrong, but he's brought down the weight to make it easier. The third thing I noticed was his Livestrong band. They do stick out because of their color, and also because it seems like everyone owns one now. But it really didn't look that hip on him.
It just looked out of place, like it accidentally found its way onto his wrist. Of course, this was all compounded by the fact that the kid is a total chump. But I have noticed these items on other grossly overweight individuals, and they just don't look right.
It is therefore my assertion that, on a purely subconscious level, seeing a Livestrong bracelet on an extremely overweight person is not aesthetically pleasing. On a subterranean level, your mind tells you, "What business does someone that size have promoting health through his fashion statement? From the look of him, he should be wearing a wristband that promotes hunger strikes, because his belly is promoting Wendy's late-night drive-thru window."
Well, maybe only my mind tells me that last bit.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
4/08/2005
The Pope wants me dead.
Now, I'm not Catholic. Those of you who know me are aware that I'm a Greek Orthodox Christian, so I've never had a reason to pay any attention to the Pope. But that's not why he wants me dead. He doesn't event want me dead because I'm not Catholic. There's a far deeper reason for the Pope's loathing for me.
You see, back at Skidmore, I auditioned for a sketch comedy troupe appropriately named the Sketchies. Although I never was a full-fledged member, I was an extra in two skits, the first of which was "Varsity Green." This was a take on Varsity Blues that juxtaposed football with Ultimate Frisbee (the average Skiddie/Hippie's sport of choice, commonly played on the campus green, hence the name). My role was that of a nameless walk-on player. Harmless stuff... it's the second skit that really fired up Juan Pablo Dos.
"The Adventures Of Popeman And Cardinal."
This was a take-off on the old Batman TV show with Adam West and Burt Ward. Considering how campy and kitschy the original product was, you can only imagine what the parody had to offer.
Popeman and Cardinal live their lives as average everyday Christians, and spend their days watching televangelists and PAX. But when sin is on the horizon, they receive a call from the Commish.
Jesus Christ.
That's right. The Sketchies set up a phone with a little light-up plastic Jesus that would flicker when the phone rang. On the other end, a dirty hippie named Gareth with long hair and a fake beard posing as the Lord, our Savior.
I'm so going to Hell for this.
So J.C. plays the part of Commissioner Gordon, instructing Popeman and Cardinal to jump into action when all that is good and holy is in danger. After He wishes His boys good luck ("...And may my Dad be with you"), these two mild-mannered Bible-thumpers become the Dynamic Duo, the Papal Pair, Popeman and Cardinal. Popeman adorns the massive Pope hat that we've all come to know and love along with a white tunic, and a large red "P" on his chest a la Superman. Cardinal, on the other hand, sports a red tunic with a small yellow "C" encased within a black circle, and wears a black mask in the style of Robin or Kato.
Straight to Hell, do not pass Go, do not collect $200.
In this week's episode (which is the only episode to date), the malevolent Dr. Polygamy, a rogue monk entrenched in a harem of wives, is planning to rig the Annual Papal Awards in hopes of pecoming the new Pope. Along with his wicked wives and his illegitimate son, Bastardo, he will wreack havoc on the Roman Catholic Church!
In case you're wondering where I am in this mess, I was one of the wives. Yes. I dressed in drag. Once. It was not a pretty sight. I've seen more attractive people at the burn ward. Do your best to erase the image from your mind. You'll thank me later.
Anyway, Popeman and Cardinal arrive on the scene to thward Dr. Polygamy's plans only to be confronted by his harem. Cue your standard cliched Batman-inspired climax/throwdown, replete with fisticuffs and theatrics. Only the "Bams!" and "Biffs!" have been replaced with more... pious exclamations. A punch is thrown and "Bible!" flashes across the screen. A wife grabs Cardinal in a rear waistlock, and the Altar Boy Wonder nails an incoming sinner with a double kick to the midsection to the tune of "Psalm!" You get the idea.
Long story short, the pair are overcome by the wives and taken prisoner, left to the devices of the Devilishly Darwinian Evil-Lution. Basically an excuse to put a guy in a monkey suit. Naturally, the good guys escape, and arrive at the Papal Awards just in time to stop Dr. Polygamy (posing as Antonio Sabado, Jr.) from accepting the Papacy from this year's presenters (Steve Martin and Goldie Hawn). Everyone good lives, everyone bad dies or goes to jial. Life is sweet, cue the dance routine.
For participating in this sketch, the Pope is making me pay from beyond the grave. See, I work for a company that specializes in collectibles. Model cars, elegantly bound books, commemorative sports novelties, etc. My dividsion deals with the philatelic side of things.
Translation: I work with stamps and coins. Yep. I bust my ass and drive over an hour to work every day so some wishy-washy no-life shmuck can have a collection of decorative panels featuring coins minted from FDR's presidency and commemorative stamps in honor of the signing of the Federal Deposit Insurance Law and the like (I'm not making this up), all packaged in a "handsome" limited edition deluxe collector's album with vinyl sleeves to keep the coins and stamps (which are already encapsulated in acetates) in mint condition.
People wonder why I drink a quart of turpentine when I get home from work every night.
Well here's the thing... my division underwent a massive changei n operation when Princess Diana died several years back. Now we make a good portion of our bread through memorial programs for beloved public figures in lieu of their deaths.
So you can imagine that when J.P. II took a trip to the O.R., our creative department was already developing art for an upcoming program in honor of his great life. When he bought the farm on Saturday, I knew that Monday (and the week to follow) was going to be hell in a hand basket.
I come to work before my assistant manager arrives (as always) and find out that I have to order 7 million unites of marketing materials (letters, brochures, etc.). That 7 million quickly jumps to 7.5 mil. As I write this, we're at 10 mil, and that's just what's been estimated in 2 days. I'm sure that as the masses that flock to His Eminence's corpse increase, so will my workload.
The irony of it all. The Pope, perhaps the holiest man known to the world, is now putting me through hell. All because of that Goddamn skit.
I just cringe to think at what he'll do to the cat in the monkey suit.
Goodnight and have a blessed tomorrow.
Now, I'm not Catholic. Those of you who know me are aware that I'm a Greek Orthodox Christian, so I've never had a reason to pay any attention to the Pope. But that's not why he wants me dead. He doesn't event want me dead because I'm not Catholic. There's a far deeper reason for the Pope's loathing for me.
You see, back at Skidmore, I auditioned for a sketch comedy troupe appropriately named the Sketchies. Although I never was a full-fledged member, I was an extra in two skits, the first of which was "Varsity Green." This was a take on Varsity Blues that juxtaposed football with Ultimate Frisbee (the average Skiddie/Hippie's sport of choice, commonly played on the campus green, hence the name). My role was that of a nameless walk-on player. Harmless stuff... it's the second skit that really fired up Juan Pablo Dos.
"The Adventures Of Popeman And Cardinal."
This was a take-off on the old Batman TV show with Adam West and Burt Ward. Considering how campy and kitschy the original product was, you can only imagine what the parody had to offer.
Popeman and Cardinal live their lives as average everyday Christians, and spend their days watching televangelists and PAX. But when sin is on the horizon, they receive a call from the Commish.
Jesus Christ.
That's right. The Sketchies set up a phone with a little light-up plastic Jesus that would flicker when the phone rang. On the other end, a dirty hippie named Gareth with long hair and a fake beard posing as the Lord, our Savior.
I'm so going to Hell for this.
So J.C. plays the part of Commissioner Gordon, instructing Popeman and Cardinal to jump into action when all that is good and holy is in danger. After He wishes His boys good luck ("...And may my Dad be with you"), these two mild-mannered Bible-thumpers become the Dynamic Duo, the Papal Pair, Popeman and Cardinal. Popeman adorns the massive Pope hat that we've all come to know and love along with a white tunic, and a large red "P" on his chest a la Superman. Cardinal, on the other hand, sports a red tunic with a small yellow "C" encased within a black circle, and wears a black mask in the style of Robin or Kato.
Straight to Hell, do not pass Go, do not collect $200.
In this week's episode (which is the only episode to date), the malevolent Dr. Polygamy, a rogue monk entrenched in a harem of wives, is planning to rig the Annual Papal Awards in hopes of pecoming the new Pope. Along with his wicked wives and his illegitimate son, Bastardo, he will wreack havoc on the Roman Catholic Church!
In case you're wondering where I am in this mess, I was one of the wives. Yes. I dressed in drag. Once. It was not a pretty sight. I've seen more attractive people at the burn ward. Do your best to erase the image from your mind. You'll thank me later.
Anyway, Popeman and Cardinal arrive on the scene to thward Dr. Polygamy's plans only to be confronted by his harem. Cue your standard cliched Batman-inspired climax/throwdown, replete with fisticuffs and theatrics. Only the "Bams!" and "Biffs!" have been replaced with more... pious exclamations. A punch is thrown and "Bible!" flashes across the screen. A wife grabs Cardinal in a rear waistlock, and the Altar Boy Wonder nails an incoming sinner with a double kick to the midsection to the tune of "Psalm!" You get the idea.
Long story short, the pair are overcome by the wives and taken prisoner, left to the devices of the Devilishly Darwinian Evil-Lution. Basically an excuse to put a guy in a monkey suit. Naturally, the good guys escape, and arrive at the Papal Awards just in time to stop Dr. Polygamy (posing as Antonio Sabado, Jr.) from accepting the Papacy from this year's presenters (Steve Martin and Goldie Hawn). Everyone good lives, everyone bad dies or goes to jial. Life is sweet, cue the dance routine.
For participating in this sketch, the Pope is making me pay from beyond the grave. See, I work for a company that specializes in collectibles. Model cars, elegantly bound books, commemorative sports novelties, etc. My dividsion deals with the philatelic side of things.
Translation: I work with stamps and coins. Yep. I bust my ass and drive over an hour to work every day so some wishy-washy no-life shmuck can have a collection of decorative panels featuring coins minted from FDR's presidency and commemorative stamps in honor of the signing of the Federal Deposit Insurance Law and the like (I'm not making this up), all packaged in a "handsome" limited edition deluxe collector's album with vinyl sleeves to keep the coins and stamps (which are already encapsulated in acetates) in mint condition.
People wonder why I drink a quart of turpentine when I get home from work every night.
Well here's the thing... my division underwent a massive changei n operation when Princess Diana died several years back. Now we make a good portion of our bread through memorial programs for beloved public figures in lieu of their deaths.
So you can imagine that when J.P. II took a trip to the O.R., our creative department was already developing art for an upcoming program in honor of his great life. When he bought the farm on Saturday, I knew that Monday (and the week to follow) was going to be hell in a hand basket.
I come to work before my assistant manager arrives (as always) and find out that I have to order 7 million unites of marketing materials (letters, brochures, etc.). That 7 million quickly jumps to 7.5 mil. As I write this, we're at 10 mil, and that's just what's been estimated in 2 days. I'm sure that as the masses that flock to His Eminence's corpse increase, so will my workload.
The irony of it all. The Pope, perhaps the holiest man known to the world, is now putting me through hell. All because of that Goddamn skit.
I just cringe to think at what he'll do to the cat in the monkey suit.
Goodnight and have a blessed tomorrow.
3/29/2005
The more I look at what’s going on out west, the more convinced I become of the theory that the entire L.A. County District Attorney’s Office must be suffering from one brutal case of collective brain cancer.
Because you’d have to be sans that many brain cells and smoking that much pot to drop the ball on so many brutally obvious celebrity convictions.
Seriously, what the fuck is going on in California? As if I weren’t already praying for its inevitable descent into the Pacific courtesy of the San Andreas Fault, I’m forced to watch justice perverted on a regular basis at the hands of inept prosecutors and muckraking scumbag defense attorneys.
Granted, I’ve got enough problems with the American legal system to begin with. And I’m talking well beyond the current cast of Law & Order. I think we have way to many legal loopholes that keep felons out of jail and convicts on death row. I also think the rules of evidence need to be restructured because too often, there are extenuating circumstances that require evidence be plucked from somewhere besides the area designated in a search warrant.
But I’m not here to talk about that. I’m here to talk about how these dimwit prosecutors dropped the ball on Robert Blake, an obvious psychopath, and how they’re inevitably gonna drop the ball on Michael Jackson.
Yeah, I know, I lambasted him earlier this month. I still think the man is guilty. By that same token, I’m convinced that the prosecution is gonna do what it always does in Hollywood: they’re gonna build a case on a foundation of circumstantial evidence, fail to establish a clear motive, and glide through like they’ve got an easy win.
And you know what? They really should have an easy win. They should’ve had an easy win with Blake. And with O.J. And with John Landis. You get the idea.
Seriously, have you heard Blake since his win in the courtroom? If I were a juror for that case, the first thing to cross my mind when hearing his press conference would be, “holy shit, we just unleashed a madman into society.”
And it’s hardly the jury’s fault; they’re selected because they know nothing about the case to begin with. Another fatal flaw of our legal system, but I digress. It’s the duty of the prosecution and the defense to convince the jury that the defendant is either guilty or not. It just so happens that prosecutors in California haven’t been able to do this since Charles Manson.
Seriously, they let off John Landis in the Twilight Zone case. For those unfamiliar, this was a film adaptation of the popular Rod Serling TV show done in an episodic fashion, each segment with a different director. Long story short, there was a helicopter sequence in Landis’ portion of the film in which a pyrotechnic blast was overloaded, and it wound up taking the helicopter down, causing it to land on actor Vic Morrow and two child actors, killing all three. First off, Landis was in the wrong by having the two younger actors work late nights (child labor laws, folks). Secondly, he packed the explosion to the nines for a greater effect; an item he bragged about openly on the set. Now, I loved Animal House, but the guy is clearly guilty of negligence. Yet the prosecution failed to follow through on its intent to convict.
As I said, this is the same thing that happened with O.J. and Robert Blake. When it all adds up, odds are Mikey’s gonna get off. On kiddie porn. Then he’ll be acquitted of all charges. So it goes.
Maybe a lot of this has to do with the strength of your average celebrity attorney. These guys could sell you a Pinto and have you thinkin’ it’s a goddamn Beemer. I’d love to know what law school they attended to acquire such vile talents when it comes to manipulation, but I seriously think it’s time someone carpet bombed that institution. We got enough lowlife lawyers out there to begin with. Only difference is these guys are priced too high for anyone without a seven figure income.
Some of this rumination on my part may have been brought about by the passing of Johnnie Cochran. I heard about this on the radio tonight, and I nearly breathed a sigh of relief. I’m not a cold person when it comes to untimely deaths, but that is one guy that I will not miss, nor will I shed any tears for. I can’t respect a man who made his living—a robust one at that—by “unproving” the obvious guilt of so many piss-poor human beings. Honestly, did he ever do anything else worth note or merit? The man was a scumbag, plain and simple. He thrived on deception, diversion, subterfuge, and the overall softening of the human brain. God be with his family and friends, but quite frankly, the world’s a better place without him. End of story.
In the meantime, I seriously think it’s high time that California’s prosecutors up the ante and get aggressive when it comes to celebrity cases. These Goddamn cases are so high profile, so larger-than-life that when a clearly guilty celeb is acquitted, it makes our nation and our legal system look bad. I’ll never vindicate someone for their poor deeds just because they landed People Magazine’s “50 Most Beautiful People List” (Jude Law, I’m lookin’ your way. I know about the illegal cable hookup. And the baby seal you clubbed. Your number’s up, chump). I look at them as I would any other felon when it’s clear they’ve done wrong. But in the eyes of the court, I do believe prosecutors should look at them differently. Don’t view them as just people, especially when it comes to heinous crimes. Go for the fuckin’ throat and don’t let up until they cry uncle or their bank account dies. Make an example of these pompous, cocky bastards for the rest of the lot.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Because you’d have to be sans that many brain cells and smoking that much pot to drop the ball on so many brutally obvious celebrity convictions.
Seriously, what the fuck is going on in California? As if I weren’t already praying for its inevitable descent into the Pacific courtesy of the San Andreas Fault, I’m forced to watch justice perverted on a regular basis at the hands of inept prosecutors and muckraking scumbag defense attorneys.
Granted, I’ve got enough problems with the American legal system to begin with. And I’m talking well beyond the current cast of Law & Order. I think we have way to many legal loopholes that keep felons out of jail and convicts on death row. I also think the rules of evidence need to be restructured because too often, there are extenuating circumstances that require evidence be plucked from somewhere besides the area designated in a search warrant.
But I’m not here to talk about that. I’m here to talk about how these dimwit prosecutors dropped the ball on Robert Blake, an obvious psychopath, and how they’re inevitably gonna drop the ball on Michael Jackson.
Yeah, I know, I lambasted him earlier this month. I still think the man is guilty. By that same token, I’m convinced that the prosecution is gonna do what it always does in Hollywood: they’re gonna build a case on a foundation of circumstantial evidence, fail to establish a clear motive, and glide through like they’ve got an easy win.
And you know what? They really should have an easy win. They should’ve had an easy win with Blake. And with O.J. And with John Landis. You get the idea.
Seriously, have you heard Blake since his win in the courtroom? If I were a juror for that case, the first thing to cross my mind when hearing his press conference would be, “holy shit, we just unleashed a madman into society.”
And it’s hardly the jury’s fault; they’re selected because they know nothing about the case to begin with. Another fatal flaw of our legal system, but I digress. It’s the duty of the prosecution and the defense to convince the jury that the defendant is either guilty or not. It just so happens that prosecutors in California haven’t been able to do this since Charles Manson.
Seriously, they let off John Landis in the Twilight Zone case. For those unfamiliar, this was a film adaptation of the popular Rod Serling TV show done in an episodic fashion, each segment with a different director. Long story short, there was a helicopter sequence in Landis’ portion of the film in which a pyrotechnic blast was overloaded, and it wound up taking the helicopter down, causing it to land on actor Vic Morrow and two child actors, killing all three. First off, Landis was in the wrong by having the two younger actors work late nights (child labor laws, folks). Secondly, he packed the explosion to the nines for a greater effect; an item he bragged about openly on the set. Now, I loved Animal House, but the guy is clearly guilty of negligence. Yet the prosecution failed to follow through on its intent to convict.
As I said, this is the same thing that happened with O.J. and Robert Blake. When it all adds up, odds are Mikey’s gonna get off. On kiddie porn. Then he’ll be acquitted of all charges. So it goes.
Maybe a lot of this has to do with the strength of your average celebrity attorney. These guys could sell you a Pinto and have you thinkin’ it’s a goddamn Beemer. I’d love to know what law school they attended to acquire such vile talents when it comes to manipulation, but I seriously think it’s time someone carpet bombed that institution. We got enough lowlife lawyers out there to begin with. Only difference is these guys are priced too high for anyone without a seven figure income.
Some of this rumination on my part may have been brought about by the passing of Johnnie Cochran. I heard about this on the radio tonight, and I nearly breathed a sigh of relief. I’m not a cold person when it comes to untimely deaths, but that is one guy that I will not miss, nor will I shed any tears for. I can’t respect a man who made his living—a robust one at that—by “unproving” the obvious guilt of so many piss-poor human beings. Honestly, did he ever do anything else worth note or merit? The man was a scumbag, plain and simple. He thrived on deception, diversion, subterfuge, and the overall softening of the human brain. God be with his family and friends, but quite frankly, the world’s a better place without him. End of story.
In the meantime, I seriously think it’s high time that California’s prosecutors up the ante and get aggressive when it comes to celebrity cases. These Goddamn cases are so high profile, so larger-than-life that when a clearly guilty celeb is acquitted, it makes our nation and our legal system look bad. I’ll never vindicate someone for their poor deeds just because they landed People Magazine’s “50 Most Beautiful People List” (Jude Law, I’m lookin’ your way. I know about the illegal cable hookup. And the baby seal you clubbed. Your number’s up, chump). I look at them as I would any other felon when it’s clear they’ve done wrong. But in the eyes of the court, I do believe prosecutors should look at them differently. Don’t view them as just people, especially when it comes to heinous crimes. Go for the fuckin’ throat and don’t let up until they cry uncle or their bank account dies. Make an example of these pompous, cocky bastards for the rest of the lot.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
3/03/2005
Y’know, if I ever decide to become a child molester, I’m gonna make sure that I have the best-selling album of the decade before I start dipping my pen into the Romper Room ink pool.
That would appear to be what Michael Jackson did, and it’s done him well thus far. After all, despite a purportedly overwhelming amount of evidence against his cause, he still has a legion of religiously devout fans, as well as more celebrity friends than are listed in Johnny Carson’s old guestbook. And both groups are avidly supporting him with the incoming of this trial. So not only does he have the moral support of his fans, but he has character witnesses willing to take the stand for him.
Of course, when your character witnesses are a guy who was on trial for rape and a woman with nearly ten marriages to her name, you gotta wonder if Mikey’s defense isn’t asking them to kindly back off. Then again, you gotta be kinda loopy to represent a guy like Jackson in the first place.
I am convinced that Michael Jackson could commit atrocities against humankind that would make Osama bin Laden shit himself, and he’d still have hundreds of people flock to him like vultures to a pasty white corpse with no nose. And it didn’t take this trial to make me aware of this fact.
Lemme set the stage for ya: my radio show at Skidmore was basically a hard rock expo peppered with commentary, observations, and sage truths.
Just imagine this blog with a soundtrack. That was my show in a nutshell.
The slot I had during the first semester of my senior year was from 6 to 8 in the evening. My lead-in was an hour-long show entitled “Off The Wall: A Tribute To The Jacksons.” The hosts were a boyfriend/girlfriend team who were both Jackson fanatics, and their on-air content consisted not only of tunes by Michael, Janet, and the 5, but also “impressive” solo work by Germaine, Tito, Marlon, and LaToya. There was also Jackson Trivia, holiday songs, “This Day in Jackson History,” etc., etc., ad nauseum (or just plain “added nausea”). Top it all off with the fact that the female half of the team shelled out a whopping $300 and change to see the Michael Jackson Tribute Special back in 2001, featuring Michael, Britney Spears, Justin Timberlake, Usher, and a veritable cornucopia of $&B stars and Pop Tarts.
First off, how late were the program managers up at night to have an all-Jackson’s program as a lead-in to a balls-out hard rock show? Then again, it is Skidmore, so it’s likely that between alternating bong hits, beer funnels and Esperanto’s Dough Boys, my show would’ve sounded like a great lead-in for an all-polka show.
Wait… that was my junior year… sonuva…
Secondly, this led me to two rock-hard, undisputable truths:
1 – Jackson fans are absolutely rabid. You really have to just forsake all reason and love the hell out of this man if you’re willing to purchase Tito Jackson’s solo records based solely on the fact that he is Michael’s sibling.
2 – The female half of this crew had to give the most amazing blow job known to man, because I do not know a single red-blooded American male that would fess up to liking Michael Jackson in this day and age, let alone sit beside his girlfriend and profess said fandom on a radio show.
Seriously, how can you doubt that this man is beyond fucked up and has an unhealthy obsession with children? That ol’ boy ain’t right, folks! It’s as plain as the fingerprint on the kiddie porn. A lot of us don’t want to believe it, and I understand that. Maybe to some of us, Michael is one of the last truly magical characters in the world that has yet to be debunked. Rank him up there with Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy; it seems to fit the idiom he’s crafted for himself.
Look, I ain’t rankin’ on the guy for his odd behavior or his appearance. At the core if it all, it may not even really be his fault. It’s purely a psychological thing probably brought about by his childhood and all the shit Big Poppa Joe put him and his sibs through. The saddest part is that, in his mind, Michael really doesn’t know that what he’s doing is wrong. Chalk that one up to legal insanity, folks. It’s the same reason that Jeffrey Dahmer was killed in a prison riot and not by lethal injection. Because he thought that putting post-sodomized human entrails on the menu was an OK thing to do.
I forget who said it, but one reported likened Michael Jackson to Howard Hughes. Now this is not the Howard Hughes depicted in The Aviator. This is the whacked-out germophobe version. The guy who was such a hugely public figure that when he all but vanished, people’s already-unhealthy infatuation with him rose tenfold. The unsettling part of this analogy is that while it may be accurate to a fault, Michael’s eccentricities have, like the times themselves, grown more disturbing and frightening.
And it’s hard to deny that. Some folks are eager to cry “conspiracy” to defend Michael’s name, and to be fair, any conspiracy theory may have an element of truth to it, if not too far-fetched. Example: The U.S. government’s watch over and eventual deportation of John Lennon was initially regarded as just wild conspiracy theory. Today we know it to be fact. But the shortcoming of the Jackson theory is this: what would anyone have to gain by setting the man up? I mean, hey, I hated Moonwalker as much as anyone, but I wouldn’t frame the guy for child molestation to get my kicks.
No my friends, this one is sadly very much a reality. We gotta accept that. For many people, this may be the equivalent of discovering that wholesome, likeable J.F.K. cheated on Jackie. Or learning that Mickey Mantle was a massive alcoholic. It’s a sad truth that diehard fans have to learn to deal with. Coming to Michael’s aid isn’t going to help him. Maybe in terms of morale, sure. But it’s not going to be able to sway twelve jurors. That’s what his attorneys are attempting to do. Please leave that job to them.
And please leave college radio alone. Just… just stop dipping into my Kool-Aid, will ya?
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
That would appear to be what Michael Jackson did, and it’s done him well thus far. After all, despite a purportedly overwhelming amount of evidence against his cause, he still has a legion of religiously devout fans, as well as more celebrity friends than are listed in Johnny Carson’s old guestbook. And both groups are avidly supporting him with the incoming of this trial. So not only does he have the moral support of his fans, but he has character witnesses willing to take the stand for him.
Of course, when your character witnesses are a guy who was on trial for rape and a woman with nearly ten marriages to her name, you gotta wonder if Mikey’s defense isn’t asking them to kindly back off. Then again, you gotta be kinda loopy to represent a guy like Jackson in the first place.
I am convinced that Michael Jackson could commit atrocities against humankind that would make Osama bin Laden shit himself, and he’d still have hundreds of people flock to him like vultures to a pasty white corpse with no nose. And it didn’t take this trial to make me aware of this fact.
Lemme set the stage for ya: my radio show at Skidmore was basically a hard rock expo peppered with commentary, observations, and sage truths.
Just imagine this blog with a soundtrack. That was my show in a nutshell.
The slot I had during the first semester of my senior year was from 6 to 8 in the evening. My lead-in was an hour-long show entitled “Off The Wall: A Tribute To The Jacksons.” The hosts were a boyfriend/girlfriend team who were both Jackson fanatics, and their on-air content consisted not only of tunes by Michael, Janet, and the 5, but also “impressive” solo work by Germaine, Tito, Marlon, and LaToya. There was also Jackson Trivia, holiday songs, “This Day in Jackson History,” etc., etc., ad nauseum (or just plain “added nausea”). Top it all off with the fact that the female half of the team shelled out a whopping $300 and change to see the Michael Jackson Tribute Special back in 2001, featuring Michael, Britney Spears, Justin Timberlake, Usher, and a veritable cornucopia of $&B stars and Pop Tarts.
First off, how late were the program managers up at night to have an all-Jackson’s program as a lead-in to a balls-out hard rock show? Then again, it is Skidmore, so it’s likely that between alternating bong hits, beer funnels and Esperanto’s Dough Boys, my show would’ve sounded like a great lead-in for an all-polka show.
Wait… that was my junior year… sonuva…
Secondly, this led me to two rock-hard, undisputable truths:
1 – Jackson fans are absolutely rabid. You really have to just forsake all reason and love the hell out of this man if you’re willing to purchase Tito Jackson’s solo records based solely on the fact that he is Michael’s sibling.
2 – The female half of this crew had to give the most amazing blow job known to man, because I do not know a single red-blooded American male that would fess up to liking Michael Jackson in this day and age, let alone sit beside his girlfriend and profess said fandom on a radio show.
Seriously, how can you doubt that this man is beyond fucked up and has an unhealthy obsession with children? That ol’ boy ain’t right, folks! It’s as plain as the fingerprint on the kiddie porn. A lot of us don’t want to believe it, and I understand that. Maybe to some of us, Michael is one of the last truly magical characters in the world that has yet to be debunked. Rank him up there with Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy; it seems to fit the idiom he’s crafted for himself.
Look, I ain’t rankin’ on the guy for his odd behavior or his appearance. At the core if it all, it may not even really be his fault. It’s purely a psychological thing probably brought about by his childhood and all the shit Big Poppa Joe put him and his sibs through. The saddest part is that, in his mind, Michael really doesn’t know that what he’s doing is wrong. Chalk that one up to legal insanity, folks. It’s the same reason that Jeffrey Dahmer was killed in a prison riot and not by lethal injection. Because he thought that putting post-sodomized human entrails on the menu was an OK thing to do.
I forget who said it, but one reported likened Michael Jackson to Howard Hughes. Now this is not the Howard Hughes depicted in The Aviator. This is the whacked-out germophobe version. The guy who was such a hugely public figure that when he all but vanished, people’s already-unhealthy infatuation with him rose tenfold. The unsettling part of this analogy is that while it may be accurate to a fault, Michael’s eccentricities have, like the times themselves, grown more disturbing and frightening.
And it’s hard to deny that. Some folks are eager to cry “conspiracy” to defend Michael’s name, and to be fair, any conspiracy theory may have an element of truth to it, if not too far-fetched. Example: The U.S. government’s watch over and eventual deportation of John Lennon was initially regarded as just wild conspiracy theory. Today we know it to be fact. But the shortcoming of the Jackson theory is this: what would anyone have to gain by setting the man up? I mean, hey, I hated Moonwalker as much as anyone, but I wouldn’t frame the guy for child molestation to get my kicks.
No my friends, this one is sadly very much a reality. We gotta accept that. For many people, this may be the equivalent of discovering that wholesome, likeable J.F.K. cheated on Jackie. Or learning that Mickey Mantle was a massive alcoholic. It’s a sad truth that diehard fans have to learn to deal with. Coming to Michael’s aid isn’t going to help him. Maybe in terms of morale, sure. But it’s not going to be able to sway twelve jurors. That’s what his attorneys are attempting to do. Please leave that job to them.
And please leave college radio alone. Just… just stop dipping into my Kool-Aid, will ya?
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
2/14/2005
So last week, Howard Stern dropped the "bombshell" (I use quotation marks since it's been expected for some time) that a committee in the House of Representatives has OK'd a bill that gives the FCC the power to fine individual broadcasters up to $500,000 per offense for crude or indecent content on the public airwaves. The bill passed by a margin of 42-2.
This is gonna be an angry one. Strap in.
I tell ya, this really pisses me off to no end. I cannot believe the government is this up in arms about indecency. It's such a ridiculous, absurd thing to harp on when there are infinitely larger problems at hand.
And yeah, I'm biased as all hell because of my background in radio. If they were cracking down on everyone this bad when I was in college, I'm not so sure I would've gotten those 12 collective months at WSPN under my belt. I don't even think I would've considered it.
Because I wouldn't have had any fun.
People ask me quite frequently if I ever consider returning to radio as a full time career. I suppose it's because I wax poetically about it ad nauseum, but the answer is always an emphatic "no." Why? Three reasons.
1) It is incredibly difficult to get by with a career in radio, no matter how talented you are. I know, there are some guys out there who rake in millions of dollars. But those guys, the Howard Sterns and Don Imuseseses of the world, represent a very slim sample of the entire broadcasting population. They are in the top one percent of all radio personalities, and it took them more than 20 years to reach their respective pinnacles.
The fact is that they and every other schlep in the business got their start by breaking their balls on the weekly overnight. From Monday through Friday, they earned their wings by broadcasting at hours even Dracula and hookers think are nuts. I'm talking from midnight 'til 6 in the morning. This is where you start. And if you miraculously manage to weather that task for, oh, 3-7 years, you may get bumped up to one of two prime drive spots: from 3-6 in the afternoon or from 6-10 in the morning. That's when everyone is listening, really. That also happens to be where the heaviest competition is, especially in the morning. Stations fight for ratings like kids from a fat camp on a field trip to the Hostess factory on a day when they're passing out free samples.
But if you're lucky, you may become one of the top morning guys in the county or state, and even that's a big "if." I'd say on average, the typical radio DJ can't make much more than $20,000 a year, if that. In a nutshell, it's ten times the ladder you'd have to climb in the corporate world.
2) The world of broadcasting has become almost entirely engulfed by the corporate machine. This has killed any legitimate exposure for budding artists through this once-great medium, and has also killed all the fun. Big conglomerates like Clear Channel really do make a difference as far as what gets put on the air. And it's sad, because there's so much truly great music out there that goes completely unheard. I'm amazed that smaller bands such as Thursday, Wilco and Franz Ferdinand have been able to make as much of an impact as they have in a world chuck foll of Matchbox 20's and Sugar Ray's. But they're still a small percentage of the overwhelming number of bands that don't receive adequate exposure.
I heard an ad on K-Rock earlier this week with Hoobastank in which they wax sappy about their root, saying that before all the huge sellout concerts and platinum albums, you heard them on the radio. The only reason that's accurate is because their sound is streamlined to the point where the suits are just comfy enough with them as a hard rock act. You rarely hear a band like, say, From Autumn To Ashes get the kind of airtime Hoobastank does, because FATA is infinitely harder and more aggressive than Hoobastank. There's no longer the element of surprise in radio; the deck has been fixed for a long time, and we're forced to deal with the shitty cards we're dealt.
3) The FCC has a brutal vice grip on the entire industry. In fact, the aforementioned conglomerates are bending over backwards to avoid being fined, resulting in even more lukewarm airplay. Not only are the companies backing down, but with this new legislation against individual broadcasters on the horizon, on-air personalities are now raising the white flag as well. That's the saddest part for me. No one, save Howard, is really making an effort to buck the system and stand up to the FCC. I understand it's hard to fight the government--nigh impossible, if you will. Nevertheless, these DJ's are so petrified, they won't even mention those three cursed consonants on the air. This reticent surrender leads to... you guessed it. More piss poor broadcasts.
Y'know, I've always had issues with the FCC. The only time I think I've ever agreed with them is during last year's SuperBowl fiasco (I refuse to use the term "wardrobe malfunction" like every other shmuck with a mic), because yeah, that incident was uncalled for and inappropriate. I'll give you that.
It was also an isolated incident. One that has never happened before. Be that as it may, the FCC treated the situation like an omen of things to come. To them, Janet Jackson's breast offered poison milk that would impact our impressionable youth, corrupt us, and lead to vulgar, violent, promiscuous behavior across the nation.
Gimme a fuckin' break.
This is where I draw the line with the FCC. I give 'em credit for investigating, but for treating the incident like it was a riot or coup d’etat is outta line. Moreover, they're handling the incident as if they were crossing a minefield.
Two perfect examples. This year, there were two commercials for the SuperBowl that were slated to air. However, things changed quickly.
First off, there was a Bud Light commercial which made light of last year's halftime show. Apparently, there's this one thirsty cat backstage at last year's sporting extravaganza, and he has a hankerin' for some Bud Light. However, not having a bottle opener handy, he uses Janet Jackson's bustier to get that pesky cap off his brew. In doing so, he damages the clothing, and even the most inept genetic defective can pick up on what is being implied.
The other ad that got cut up just before getting the axe was the immensely popular GoDaddy.com ad featuring Candice Michelle. This one is not as overt as the banned Bud Light ad, but it features the strap to Candice's top snapping, and her struggling to keep it on. The three noteworthy things about this ad are that to begin with, the term "wardrobe malfunction" (God, how I hate that phrase...) was initially included in the dialogue, but ultimately removed. Secondly, the ad was slated to run twice during the 'Bowl, but only made the rounds once early in the first quarter. Lastly, the ad has now been pulled from the airwaves altogether.
A word of advice to the FCC: you cannot undo that which is already done. It happened, it was nuts, move on. Chopping up ads that simply try to parody the incident is not going to mystically remove it from television history.
As if my recommendation would make a lick of difference, right? That disgusting, formless, saggy boob has given the FCC a leg to stand on and a loaded gun. The only problem is that their aim is not focused, and they're shooting a lot of innocent bystanders. How do you fine Howard Stern for something he did three or four years ago because Janet Jackson had to be a shameless publicity whore? Nearly a year after the massive fines began to hit, I still don't get it.
Of course, it's not just Howard who's at risk. Pretty much anyone broadcasting at a few thousand watts is dead set in the FCC's crosshairs, and that's the scary part for so many folks in the industry. Being a DJ used to be fun, but now many broadcasters will tell you that they risk career suicide every time they put on a pair of headphones. From what I understand, this new piece of fascist dogm--I mean, legislation, doesn't even offer lenience in the way of extenuating circumstances. In short, if a DJ is on the air, and someone alls up, says "fuck," and it somehow makes it onto the air because the button-pushers aren't fast enough to bleep it, that DJ is at fault, not the caller.
If'n that ain't exquisite bullshit, I don't know what is.
So with this mountain of insanity and irrationality the FCC is making everyone climb, it's easy to see why I would never consider getting back into radio. Don't get me wrong, under nominal circumstances, I'd love to get back in the game. Hell, with Internet radio still around and the advent of Podcasting, who's to say I won't some day? But for right now, terrestrial radio is, as Howard Stern puts it, dead. Period. You can't tell me otherwise. With the exception of college radio and satellite, the art form has been completely demolished. This is why Howard is going to SIRIUS satellite radio, and you know what? Good for fuckin' him. I love it. You'd better believe I'm saving my pennies for my SIRIUS setup. And no, Howard is not the sole reason I'm getting one. I've listened to the product before, and the range of programming is absolutely fantastic. It's all the great stuff you won't hear on contemporary FM, minus the commercials. Stern is smart to get behind this, and I'm fairly certain that in due time, more and more radio personalities will follow hot on his heels. See, because it's a service that the people pay for, the FCC can't touch it. As long as SIRIUS charges a monthly fee, it is completely exempt from any sort of fines. For reference, just look at what HBO can get away with as opposed to basic cable networks.
Look, I'm not gonna twist this into an over-the-top political rant, but I will say that as a former on-air DJ and fulltime radio enthusiast, this legislation is a slap in the face of free speech and the First Amendment. You cannot argue that. The FCC is basically trying to amend an amendment, and that's just plain stupid. Certain government bodies have been lobbying to restrict forms of free speech for years now. Remember when Mortal Kombat came out and all of a sudden Congress was trying to stifle video games? Going back even further, there's the Parent's Music Resource Center, which came up with those wonderfully lame and completely ineffective "Parental Advisory" stickers. (And to all my Republican friends who label me too liberal, the PMRC happened to be founded by Tipper Gore, wife of a Democrat. And political party notwithstanding, I still think it's a bunch of horseshit. Now could you kindly get off my case, already? Thank you.)
This may seem miniscule at this point in time, but to me, it's always about the grand scheme of things. This sort of thing worries me in that it has the potential to set a nasty precedent. It may start with radio and television, but where will it stop? Music? Cinema? Art? Literature? Hell, I've already gone into detail about that *ahem* wonderfully progressive library in Mississippi that pulled the Daily Show book. You don't have to stretch things to see how this could snowball into societal censorship.
And yeah, maybe I do have a small problem with authority which leads me to these opinions. But more so, I have a strong appreciation for freedom of expression and ideas. And believe me, not every attack on free speech involves Larry Flint or Howard Stern. There are many more that go unnoticed because the victims are of a much smaller public stature than the aforementioned "smut moguls." Be that as it may, not every attack has to involve free speech of a sexual nature.
The sad thing is that with this much momentum following "nipplegate" (another term I loathe), the FCC doesn't look to be letting up anytime soon. And while it's great that Stern is giving them a nice big "fuck you" by going to satellite where he can't be touched, it's a shame that people should have to pay for free speech.
Only in America, folks.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
This is gonna be an angry one. Strap in.
I tell ya, this really pisses me off to no end. I cannot believe the government is this up in arms about indecency. It's such a ridiculous, absurd thing to harp on when there are infinitely larger problems at hand.
And yeah, I'm biased as all hell because of my background in radio. If they were cracking down on everyone this bad when I was in college, I'm not so sure I would've gotten those 12 collective months at WSPN under my belt. I don't even think I would've considered it.
Because I wouldn't have had any fun.
People ask me quite frequently if I ever consider returning to radio as a full time career. I suppose it's because I wax poetically about it ad nauseum, but the answer is always an emphatic "no." Why? Three reasons.
1) It is incredibly difficult to get by with a career in radio, no matter how talented you are. I know, there are some guys out there who rake in millions of dollars. But those guys, the Howard Sterns and Don Imuseseses of the world, represent a very slim sample of the entire broadcasting population. They are in the top one percent of all radio personalities, and it took them more than 20 years to reach their respective pinnacles.
The fact is that they and every other schlep in the business got their start by breaking their balls on the weekly overnight. From Monday through Friday, they earned their wings by broadcasting at hours even Dracula and hookers think are nuts. I'm talking from midnight 'til 6 in the morning. This is where you start. And if you miraculously manage to weather that task for, oh, 3-7 years, you may get bumped up to one of two prime drive spots: from 3-6 in the afternoon or from 6-10 in the morning. That's when everyone is listening, really. That also happens to be where the heaviest competition is, especially in the morning. Stations fight for ratings like kids from a fat camp on a field trip to the Hostess factory on a day when they're passing out free samples.
But if you're lucky, you may become one of the top morning guys in the county or state, and even that's a big "if." I'd say on average, the typical radio DJ can't make much more than $20,000 a year, if that. In a nutshell, it's ten times the ladder you'd have to climb in the corporate world.
2) The world of broadcasting has become almost entirely engulfed by the corporate machine. This has killed any legitimate exposure for budding artists through this once-great medium, and has also killed all the fun. Big conglomerates like Clear Channel really do make a difference as far as what gets put on the air. And it's sad, because there's so much truly great music out there that goes completely unheard. I'm amazed that smaller bands such as Thursday, Wilco and Franz Ferdinand have been able to make as much of an impact as they have in a world chuck foll of Matchbox 20's and Sugar Ray's. But they're still a small percentage of the overwhelming number of bands that don't receive adequate exposure.
I heard an ad on K-Rock earlier this week with Hoobastank in which they wax sappy about their root, saying that before all the huge sellout concerts and platinum albums, you heard them on the radio. The only reason that's accurate is because their sound is streamlined to the point where the suits are just comfy enough with them as a hard rock act. You rarely hear a band like, say, From Autumn To Ashes get the kind of airtime Hoobastank does, because FATA is infinitely harder and more aggressive than Hoobastank. There's no longer the element of surprise in radio; the deck has been fixed for a long time, and we're forced to deal with the shitty cards we're dealt.
3) The FCC has a brutal vice grip on the entire industry. In fact, the aforementioned conglomerates are bending over backwards to avoid being fined, resulting in even more lukewarm airplay. Not only are the companies backing down, but with this new legislation against individual broadcasters on the horizon, on-air personalities are now raising the white flag as well. That's the saddest part for me. No one, save Howard, is really making an effort to buck the system and stand up to the FCC. I understand it's hard to fight the government--nigh impossible, if you will. Nevertheless, these DJ's are so petrified, they won't even mention those three cursed consonants on the air. This reticent surrender leads to... you guessed it. More piss poor broadcasts.
Y'know, I've always had issues with the FCC. The only time I think I've ever agreed with them is during last year's SuperBowl fiasco (I refuse to use the term "wardrobe malfunction" like every other shmuck with a mic), because yeah, that incident was uncalled for and inappropriate. I'll give you that.
It was also an isolated incident. One that has never happened before. Be that as it may, the FCC treated the situation like an omen of things to come. To them, Janet Jackson's breast offered poison milk that would impact our impressionable youth, corrupt us, and lead to vulgar, violent, promiscuous behavior across the nation.
Gimme a fuckin' break.
This is where I draw the line with the FCC. I give 'em credit for investigating, but for treating the incident like it was a riot or coup d’etat is outta line. Moreover, they're handling the incident as if they were crossing a minefield.
Two perfect examples. This year, there were two commercials for the SuperBowl that were slated to air. However, things changed quickly.
First off, there was a Bud Light commercial which made light of last year's halftime show. Apparently, there's this one thirsty cat backstage at last year's sporting extravaganza, and he has a hankerin' for some Bud Light. However, not having a bottle opener handy, he uses Janet Jackson's bustier to get that pesky cap off his brew. In doing so, he damages the clothing, and even the most inept genetic defective can pick up on what is being implied.
The other ad that got cut up just before getting the axe was the immensely popular GoDaddy.com ad featuring Candice Michelle. This one is not as overt as the banned Bud Light ad, but it features the strap to Candice's top snapping, and her struggling to keep it on. The three noteworthy things about this ad are that to begin with, the term "wardrobe malfunction" (God, how I hate that phrase...) was initially included in the dialogue, but ultimately removed. Secondly, the ad was slated to run twice during the 'Bowl, but only made the rounds once early in the first quarter. Lastly, the ad has now been pulled from the airwaves altogether.
A word of advice to the FCC: you cannot undo that which is already done. It happened, it was nuts, move on. Chopping up ads that simply try to parody the incident is not going to mystically remove it from television history.
As if my recommendation would make a lick of difference, right? That disgusting, formless, saggy boob has given the FCC a leg to stand on and a loaded gun. The only problem is that their aim is not focused, and they're shooting a lot of innocent bystanders. How do you fine Howard Stern for something he did three or four years ago because Janet Jackson had to be a shameless publicity whore? Nearly a year after the massive fines began to hit, I still don't get it.
Of course, it's not just Howard who's at risk. Pretty much anyone broadcasting at a few thousand watts is dead set in the FCC's crosshairs, and that's the scary part for so many folks in the industry. Being a DJ used to be fun, but now many broadcasters will tell you that they risk career suicide every time they put on a pair of headphones. From what I understand, this new piece of fascist dogm--I mean, legislation, doesn't even offer lenience in the way of extenuating circumstances. In short, if a DJ is on the air, and someone alls up, says "fuck," and it somehow makes it onto the air because the button-pushers aren't fast enough to bleep it, that DJ is at fault, not the caller.
If'n that ain't exquisite bullshit, I don't know what is.
So with this mountain of insanity and irrationality the FCC is making everyone climb, it's easy to see why I would never consider getting back into radio. Don't get me wrong, under nominal circumstances, I'd love to get back in the game. Hell, with Internet radio still around and the advent of Podcasting, who's to say I won't some day? But for right now, terrestrial radio is, as Howard Stern puts it, dead. Period. You can't tell me otherwise. With the exception of college radio and satellite, the art form has been completely demolished. This is why Howard is going to SIRIUS satellite radio, and you know what? Good for fuckin' him. I love it. You'd better believe I'm saving my pennies for my SIRIUS setup. And no, Howard is not the sole reason I'm getting one. I've listened to the product before, and the range of programming is absolutely fantastic. It's all the great stuff you won't hear on contemporary FM, minus the commercials. Stern is smart to get behind this, and I'm fairly certain that in due time, more and more radio personalities will follow hot on his heels. See, because it's a service that the people pay for, the FCC can't touch it. As long as SIRIUS charges a monthly fee, it is completely exempt from any sort of fines. For reference, just look at what HBO can get away with as opposed to basic cable networks.
Look, I'm not gonna twist this into an over-the-top political rant, but I will say that as a former on-air DJ and fulltime radio enthusiast, this legislation is a slap in the face of free speech and the First Amendment. You cannot argue that. The FCC is basically trying to amend an amendment, and that's just plain stupid. Certain government bodies have been lobbying to restrict forms of free speech for years now. Remember when Mortal Kombat came out and all of a sudden Congress was trying to stifle video games? Going back even further, there's the Parent's Music Resource Center, which came up with those wonderfully lame and completely ineffective "Parental Advisory" stickers. (And to all my Republican friends who label me too liberal, the PMRC happened to be founded by Tipper Gore, wife of a Democrat. And political party notwithstanding, I still think it's a bunch of horseshit. Now could you kindly get off my case, already? Thank you.)
This may seem miniscule at this point in time, but to me, it's always about the grand scheme of things. This sort of thing worries me in that it has the potential to set a nasty precedent. It may start with radio and television, but where will it stop? Music? Cinema? Art? Literature? Hell, I've already gone into detail about that *ahem* wonderfully progressive library in Mississippi that pulled the Daily Show book. You don't have to stretch things to see how this could snowball into societal censorship.
And yeah, maybe I do have a small problem with authority which leads me to these opinions. But more so, I have a strong appreciation for freedom of expression and ideas. And believe me, not every attack on free speech involves Larry Flint or Howard Stern. There are many more that go unnoticed because the victims are of a much smaller public stature than the aforementioned "smut moguls." Be that as it may, not every attack has to involve free speech of a sexual nature.
The sad thing is that with this much momentum following "nipplegate" (another term I loathe), the FCC doesn't look to be letting up anytime soon. And while it's great that Stern is giving them a nice big "fuck you" by going to satellite where he can't be touched, it's a shame that people should have to pay for free speech.
Only in America, folks.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
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