"So I says to him, I'm explaining to the cop, 'yeah, maybe I had a coupla wobbly pops; I'm just waiting for my daughter, and she doesn't finish school 'til like three-thirty. What am I supposed to do for three hours? Right? Well, I musta said something wrong, or he ran my plates and saw my priors, 'cause next thing you know I'm face down in the mall parking lot and the asshole's cuffing me. I was pretty blitzed so I didn't bother wrestling the guy, besides I got an appearance in a month and this wouldn't help -- but Gooner, riding shotgun, pulls a broom handle outta nowhere. Whatever. Long story short, it was a clusterfuck. I should plant some coke on the ex, so I can just get custody and not have to worry about this bullshit anymore. It'd be fucking easy. So yeah: Mondays."
Sunday, March 30
Words I hate
The term, "wobbly pops." As in:
Monday, March 24
Religion reform #8
Sometimes, even I am brought down by the burden of free-thinking and the ennui of too-much-free-time-not-praying -- and it gets to me. It occurred to me that I went all yesterday without even once pondering the nature of my existence or whether my creator was satisfied with what I have been doing with it so far. Especially considering all I did instead was analyze clips on Redtube, and play with a whiffle ball and hair dryer for forty-five minutes.
So, know what? I'm diving in: I am going to join the flock of God's children in their drowsy march through Religion's glorious machinations. And damnit, I'm going to do it better than everybody else. I'm going to pray your fucking face off, God-lovers. Just try and stop me.
I will fast, I will light candles, I will pepper idols with appropriate gewgaws, I will make offerings, I will cry incantations, I shall get on my knees and pray -- and mostly -- I will pad my weekends with wholesome filler. And avoid Redtube. And drinking scotch with my Raisin Bran.
But let's face it, on the briefest inspection all the options out there suck donkeys. With the sole exception of Rastafarianism (Scientology of the Stoned) I'm not sure I could sign on to any of the Top 10 without succumbing to pangs of nausea or fits of awkward laughter or both.
So in classic hipster-douchebag DIY fashion, I will create my own religion.
Already code-named "Toucan", the new religion must and will include:
So, know what? I'm diving in: I am going to join the flock of God's children in their drowsy march through Religion's glorious machinations. And damnit, I'm going to do it better than everybody else. I'm going to pray your fucking face off, God-lovers. Just try and stop me.
I will fast, I will light candles, I will pepper idols with appropriate gewgaws, I will make offerings, I will cry incantations, I shall get on my knees and pray -- and mostly -- I will pad my weekends with wholesome filler. And avoid Redtube. And drinking scotch with my Raisin Bran.
But let's face it, on the briefest inspection all the options out there suck donkeys. With the sole exception of Rastafarianism (Scientology of the Stoned) I'm not sure I could sign on to any of the Top 10 without succumbing to pangs of nausea or fits of awkward laughter or both.
So in classic hipster-douchebag DIY fashion, I will create my own religion.
Already code-named "Toucan", the new religion must and will include:
- a commitment to comfortable clothing.
- an inclusive attitude towards all peoples, beliefs, customs, lifestyles and political values. Except filthy Poles.
- a drink only adherents know how to make; its secret passed orally to the most ardent and senior followers. (For the record, it shall taste a lot like a long Island Ice tea, but I don't think there'll be as much rum in it.)
- the ability to pray from the comfort of your own computer.
- a kick ass logo. (I'm thinking sideways checkmark.)
- Fajita Fridays.
- an Esperanto dictionary and Dvorak keyboard.
- heavy censure on the miraculous bullshit.
- mandatory hugs/high-fives/low-fives/ass-slaps.
- The Toucan equivalent of X-ian rock: Toucan Rock.
- A holy land the size of Virginia. Perhaps even, Virginia.
Sunday, March 16
But is it art?
Roger: You won’t guess who’s designed the Place Mats for that new restaurant on Elm Street.
Clive: Why you? How did you acquire that plum job?
Roger: Well, I haven’t yet. But I will. I’m showing them my work tomorrow.
Clive: Roger, it is my understanding in-house artists are responsible for that kind of thing.
Roger: Clive, my designs are infallible. They are, to grossly understate the case, sublime.
Clive: It has been well put by myself and others Rog; visual arts aren't really your thing.
Roger: What are you talking about? I am a natural in all things image.
Clive: A natural? I remember that "elephant" you drew in grade three...
Roger: You always bring that up.
Clive:...it looked like an upside down melting pyramid. Where is the elephant in that?
Roger: (sighs.) Did you ever consider the elephant within? Or that maybe one has to look further than the limits of the uninitiated mind? That perhaps, contained in the geometry of the shapes you didn’t – no, refused to – understand was the inchoate Idea of the elephant? What would you prefer? Let me guess, Archetypal Pablum -- the capital-E Elephant bedizened with clichés -- all Trunk, Floppy Ears, Thick Cylinder Legs, non? But of course. You and your cabal of Intellectual Thought Police. “However will we tell what it is?” You are a victim of the acritochromacy of Reason, sir. Your world is Black and White, and I daub from the variegated palette of Free Thought. I am a rara avis in your work-a-day world/prison/life, and I refuse to stare fixedly at the ground while the Powers That Be dictate the intendment of my work. For art is the craft of implication; of aesthetics derived from a creative promenade through the artist’s psyche -- should you be fortunate enough to warrant invitation. My elephant wasn’t merely represented by that “upside down melting pyramid” as you call it. It was Manifested by its geometry and form, and lack of form; a pachydermal tesseract that transcends traditional notions of Depiction.
Clive: I see.
Roger: Irregardless, that was the third grade. I have much improved.
Clive: Have you?
Roger: Quite.
Clive: Well, these Place Mats sound positively cosmic in scope. Can I see one?
Roger: I think not.
Clive: What? You were just waxing magniloquent about your Art. Let’s see one. I plan to eat at this place, and I want to know what I'm in store for.
Roger: No, I don't think you will appreciate it.
Clive: Let’s just see it.
Roger: Fine.
Clive: An... elephant?
Roger: It’s a steak sandwich. Please Lord, deliver this tortured poet from the folly of his sightless brethren.
Clive: Why you? How did you acquire that plum job?
Roger: Well, I haven’t yet. But I will. I’m showing them my work tomorrow.
Clive: Roger, it is my understanding in-house artists are responsible for that kind of thing.
Roger: Clive, my designs are infallible. They are, to grossly understate the case, sublime.
Clive: It has been well put by myself and others Rog; visual arts aren't really your thing.
Roger: What are you talking about? I am a natural in all things image.
Clive: A natural? I remember that "elephant" you drew in grade three...
Roger: You always bring that up.
Clive:...it looked like an upside down melting pyramid. Where is the elephant in that?
Roger: (sighs.) Did you ever consider the elephant within? Or that maybe one has to look further than the limits of the uninitiated mind? That perhaps, contained in the geometry of the shapes you didn’t – no, refused to – understand was the inchoate Idea of the elephant? What would you prefer? Let me guess, Archetypal Pablum -- the capital-E Elephant bedizened with clichés -- all Trunk, Floppy Ears, Thick Cylinder Legs, non? But of course. You and your cabal of Intellectual Thought Police. “However will we tell what it is?” You are a victim of the acritochromacy of Reason, sir. Your world is Black and White, and I daub from the variegated palette of Free Thought. I am a rara avis in your work-a-day world/prison/life, and I refuse to stare fixedly at the ground while the Powers That Be dictate the intendment of my work. For art is the craft of implication; of aesthetics derived from a creative promenade through the artist’s psyche -- should you be fortunate enough to warrant invitation. My elephant wasn’t merely represented by that “upside down melting pyramid” as you call it. It was Manifested by its geometry and form, and lack of form; a pachydermal tesseract that transcends traditional notions of Depiction.
Clive: I see.
Roger: Irregardless, that was the third grade. I have much improved.
Clive: Have you?
Roger: Quite.
Clive: Well, these Place Mats sound positively cosmic in scope. Can I see one?
Roger: I think not.
Clive: What? You were just waxing magniloquent about your Art. Let’s see one. I plan to eat at this place, and I want to know what I'm in store for.
Roger: No, I don't think you will appreciate it.
Clive: Let’s just see it.
Roger: Fine.
Clive: An... elephant?
Roger: It’s a steak sandwich. Please Lord, deliver this tortured poet from the folly of his sightless brethren.
Fables with modern morals
A boy and his cat
young and foolish child was amusing himself among his father's effects, though he was forbidden to do so. He came upon a fat ball of twine and decided to play a game.Taking his family's cat outside into the sun, he tied one end of the string around its neck and shooed the cat away. As the the family pet ran, it pulled the string behind it and the child laughed as the ball of twine shrunk, spinning in his hands.
But soon the cat was out of sight and the child was left holding a long yellow string. He cried for the cat's return, but it did not come. Growing tired the little boy began to pull the string back toward him to fetch the cat. But after tugging the entire length of string, the cat was gone.He was sobbing when his parents returned home and they rightly scolded him, saying "what a naughty and foolish thing you have done!" The child cried at his folly, and the cat was gone forever.
Moral: keep your pussy in sight, and on a short leash, dude.
young and foolish child was amusing himself among his father's effects, though he was forbidden to do so. He came upon a fat ball of twine and decided to play a game.Taking his family's cat outside into the sun, he tied one end of the string around its neck and shooed the cat away. As the the family pet ran, it pulled the string behind it and the child laughed as the ball of twine shrunk, spinning in his hands.
But soon the cat was out of sight and the child was left holding a long yellow string. He cried for the cat's return, but it did not come. Growing tired the little boy began to pull the string back toward him to fetch the cat. But after tugging the entire length of string, the cat was gone.He was sobbing when his parents returned home and they rightly scolded him, saying "what a naughty and foolish thing you have done!" The child cried at his folly, and the cat was gone forever.
Moral: keep your pussy in sight, and on a short leash, dude.
Monday, March 10
What's your favourite brand of underwear?
The only thing worse than insipid questions asked at parties are the appeals to get you to answer them. Don't giggle and tell me that you and your bobble-headed friend are doing an "impromptu survey," unless you want to be on the receiving end of a lifetime of enmity. Please also don't preface your flawed statistical endeavour by saying you're doing "research" or a "scientific investigation." I already hate you and your amateur data collection. Appealing to the spirit of scientific progress won't help.
Nor is adding the senseless condition: "what if you had to choose?" This often follows the Would You Rather (WYR) family of Fun Questions to ask at mixers and other social gatherings:
Bib: Would you rather have sex with your dog, or murder one of your parents?
Bub: Both seem pretty abhorrent to me. I think I'll pass on both.
Bib: No, no: what if you had to choose?
What the fuck? Now look, I understand the intricacies of these dilemmas, and I'm not oblivious to the entertainment value in dissecting them. (An aside: a girl in our circle once revealed that she would sooner fornicate with a horse than with her first cousin -- in marked contradistinction to the other respondents. I immediately dubbed her Horses Over Cousins (H.O.C.) and she became a pariah overnight.)
What I take issue with is :
It was a simpler question, and not a WYR, that prompted one such thought experiment last weekend. It went like this:
"So?"
"I don't actually have a preference."
"Sure you do. Everyone does."
"I don't. In fact, I really don't give a rusty fuck."
"C'mon. What if you had to choose?"
Fuck me. I picture myself... as a secret agent perhaps. Not James Bond, though. No, this mission won't be so easy. Instead of a tux, I'm almost naked -- in ripped pants and bare feet -- crouched on the floor of a Turkish prison cell. My wrists and ankles are bound tight with thick prickly rope and I'm soaking wet. The guards douse me with a bucket of water almost every hour. I haven't been dry since the moment I got here, three days ago. At least I think it's been three days. It's hard to tell. There aren't any windows, only a few bare bulbs dangling dimly on the other side of the bars. My stomach growls, but I've already eaten the parts of the bread not black with mold.
I wake up to the rapping of a nightstick against the cold bars of my cell. The mustachioed guard yells my name, and some other words I can't understand. I raise my eyes slowly to meet his. He is gently laying boxer shorts by Tommy Hilfiger on the stone floor on the other side of the bars. Another guard walks up behind him, a bouquet of Jockey briefs trapped in his thick muscled fist. I watch the guards in a daze. I am covered in sweat and my ribs ache from the nightly beatings. I ponder the plastic capsule tucked in the recesses of my anus.
"Fine, Fruit of the Loom." I took a long sip of my drink.
The Turkish prison was wiped away, and my thoughts inevitably filled with stock images of grown men in fruit costumes, cavorting without shame. And just as automatically, my memories floated back to the discount stores of my youth, to bins overflowing with boxers and briefs and what-have-you. And for some reason [drugs --Ed.] I amused myself with the thought of a beast slowly arising from one such bargain bin of underthings: a monster of unmentionables. Standing in the bowels of Biway, me and the other customers feel a low rumbling under our feet. The pile of undies ascends, and the rumbling grows louder, finally escaping as a roar, through a hole near the monster's bulbous head. Dozens of puckering mouths form in the writing body of the beast, a protoplasm of gussets and elastic waists --
I blinked, reminded of FTL's low quality elastic.
"Wait, can I change my answer?" I asked out loud, but the girl was gone. I took another long sip of my drink, but it was gone too. I absently swirled the ice at the bottom of my glass.
Nor is adding the senseless condition: "what if you had to choose?" This often follows the Would You Rather (WYR) family of Fun Questions to ask at mixers and other social gatherings:
Bib: Would you rather have sex with your dog, or murder one of your parents?
Bub: Both seem pretty abhorrent to me. I think I'll pass on both.
Bib: No, no: what if you had to choose?
What the fuck? Now look, I understand the intricacies of these dilemmas, and I'm not oblivious to the entertainment value in dissecting them. (An aside: a girl in our circle once revealed that she would sooner fornicate with a horse than with her first cousin -- in marked contradistinction to the other respondents. I immediately dubbed her Horses Over Cousins (H.O.C.) and she became a pariah overnight.)
What I take issue with is :
- the kind-of-insulting notion that I might actually someday, somehow, be forced to confront such an asinine issue, and
- the use of imperative-language addenda as a strategy to encourage a response to a question someone doesn't want to/can't be bothered to answer, and
- the fact that I am forced into a bizarre Kubrickian thought experiment to suit the content of the inquiry.
It was a simpler question, and not a WYR, that prompted one such thought experiment last weekend. It went like this:
"So?"
"I don't actually have a preference."
"Sure you do. Everyone does."
"I don't. In fact, I really don't give a rusty fuck."
"C'mon. What if you had to choose?"
Fuck me. I picture myself... as a secret agent perhaps. Not James Bond, though. No, this mission won't be so easy. Instead of a tux, I'm almost naked -- in ripped pants and bare feet -- crouched on the floor of a Turkish prison cell. My wrists and ankles are bound tight with thick prickly rope and I'm soaking wet. The guards douse me with a bucket of water almost every hour. I haven't been dry since the moment I got here, three days ago. At least I think it's been three days. It's hard to tell. There aren't any windows, only a few bare bulbs dangling dimly on the other side of the bars. My stomach growls, but I've already eaten the parts of the bread not black with mold.
I wake up to the rapping of a nightstick against the cold bars of my cell. The mustachioed guard yells my name, and some other words I can't understand. I raise my eyes slowly to meet his. He is gently laying boxer shorts by Tommy Hilfiger on the stone floor on the other side of the bars. Another guard walks up behind him, a bouquet of Jockey briefs trapped in his thick muscled fist. I watch the guards in a daze. I am covered in sweat and my ribs ache from the nightly beatings. I ponder the plastic capsule tucked in the recesses of my anus.
"Fine, Fruit of the Loom." I took a long sip of my drink.
The Turkish prison was wiped away, and my thoughts inevitably filled with stock images of grown men in fruit costumes, cavorting without shame. And just as automatically, my memories floated back to the discount stores of my youth, to bins overflowing with boxers and briefs and what-have-you. And for some reason [drugs --Ed.] I amused myself with the thought of a beast slowly arising from one such bargain bin of underthings: a monster of unmentionables. Standing in the bowels of Biway, me and the other customers feel a low rumbling under our feet. The pile of undies ascends, and the rumbling grows louder, finally escaping as a roar, through a hole near the monster's bulbous head. Dozens of puckering mouths form in the writing body of the beast, a protoplasm of gussets and elastic waists --
I blinked, reminded of FTL's low quality elastic.
"Wait, can I change my answer?" I asked out loud, but the girl was gone. I took another long sip of my drink, but it was gone too. I absently swirled the ice at the bottom of my glass.
Monday, March 3
The second last temptation of Christ
A rare nugget of spiritual teaching from my childhood:
Harvey: Daddy, where did the Easter bunny come from, and why does he leave chocolate eggs for me to find?
Dad: Son, long ago there was a man named Jesus Christ. The prophets foretold his birth, and that he was the Messiah. He was God's only son, and he came to Earth to redeem man and die for his sins, which he did when he was crucified by the Romans--
Harvey: Daddy? What about the Easter bunny?
Dad: I'm getting to that, son. You see, Jesus was nailed to the cross, where he bled to death. And as he was dying, he was growing delirious, and weak, and he cried out: "There will be bunnies! And they shall leave chocolate in orbs. Come to the chocolate, and find it. The Kingdom of God will wait for those with eggs. On Judgment Day you will need those eggs. And there will be cream filled varieties as well."
Harvey: Really?
Dad: Yes. And then he died, but they lost him or something, and now he's in Heaven with God. Or somewhere in the Middle East. Now go to bed, son.
Harvey: Daddy, where did the Easter bunny come from, and why does he leave chocolate eggs for me to find?
Dad: Son, long ago there was a man named Jesus Christ. The prophets foretold his birth, and that he was the Messiah. He was God's only son, and he came to Earth to redeem man and die for his sins, which he did when he was crucified by the Romans--
Harvey: Daddy? What about the Easter bunny?
Dad: I'm getting to that, son. You see, Jesus was nailed to the cross, where he bled to death. And as he was dying, he was growing delirious, and weak, and he cried out: "There will be bunnies! And they shall leave chocolate in orbs. Come to the chocolate, and find it. The Kingdom of God will wait for those with eggs. On Judgment Day you will need those eggs. And there will be cream filled varieties as well."
Harvey: Really?
Dad: Yes. And then he died, but they lost him or something, and now he's in Heaven with God. Or somewhere in the Middle East. Now go to bed, son.
Sunday, March 2
Of mosquitoes and (canned) meat
Many summers ago, when I was a child, I asked my older (and wiser) cousin just what the point of mosquitoes was.
"So the birds have something to eat," was his calm and learned reply.
And standing in the hot sun --scratching my forearms and neck with vehemence-- I understood how everything, including pests, had a proper function in life. No matter how irritating or obscure, everything had a purpose, though perhaps beyond the comprehension of my tiny child mind.
But being older (and wiser) now, I'm not sure where spam fits in. I don't mean the lunch meat from Hormel -- which serves to feed poor Britons -- but rather unwanted electronic mail.
For what birds are these pests nourishment? Most of the time my Bulk Unsolicited Mail (BUM) takes the form of Faulkneresque streams-of-consciousness, or at the opposite end of the spectrum, cold calls for Viagra in pidgin English. Today however, I received this pointed missive in my box, addressed to me and six other lucky recipients:
Huh. I sure don't earn a grand and a half a week sitting at home. Come to think of it, I earn nothing. Am I wasting precious time? I asked myself rhetorically. No, no, wait. I'm sure I'll have to sell something to make this work.
What's this? No selling? No cold calls, even?
I call the number.
Voice of Opportunity: Good afternoon, thank you for calling Marshall—
Harvey: Good afternoon to you. I'm looking to speak with Kent?
Voice of Opportunity: I'm sorry, who?
Harvey: Kent. Kent.
I emphasize the name in the same manner one might say, "Television? Perhaps you’ve heard of it?"
Voice of Opportunity: I'm sorry sir. We don’t have anyone here with that name.
Harvey: Unbelieveable. He told me to call here about an amazing opportunity. Also, I think I owe him, like, three grand. I just want to know how to send it to him.
Voice of Opportunity: Uh, sir, how did you get this number?
Harvey: Can you take a message for Steve?
Voice of Opportunity: Steve?
Harvey: (Exasperated tone.) Steve is the same as Kent. Can you take a message?
And with a surprisingly cordial air he said:
Voice of Opportunity: Of course. Go right ahead.
I proceed as if leaving voicemail:
Harvey: Kent, this is Harvey, Harvey Kornbluth. I want you to know that I am ab-satively pos-olutely revved up to hop on board. Give me a shout so we can pull the trigger on this bitch. Hit me at at XXX-XXX-XXXX again, that's Harvey Kornbluth at XXX-XXX-XXXX. We met on the beach in Oahu? I am looking forward to your call at your earliest convenience. Please do not call me before eleven in the morning.
The man on the other line starts to speak. I can’t hear him because I am busy pressing pound -- for more options.
Voice of Opportunity: Sir? Um. Sir?
Harvey: Kent is that you?
Voice of Opportunity: No, it's still me. I will forward your message for you. Is there anything else I can help you with?
Harvey: Yes, damnit. Can you please tell me about this opportunity that will change my life?
I would tell you here that he spoke at length about Ponzi schemes and reselling Beanie Babies, but in truth I called the number twice and just got a disconnected tone.
Fine. Maybe I called more than than that.
Sunday nights can be dull you know. I wonder how the other six fared.
"So the birds have something to eat," was his calm and learned reply.
And standing in the hot sun --scratching my forearms and neck with vehemence-- I understood how everything, including pests, had a proper function in life. No matter how irritating or obscure, everything had a purpose, though perhaps beyond the comprehension of my tiny child mind.
But being older (and wiser) now, I'm not sure where spam fits in. I don't mean the lunch meat from Hormel -- which serves to feed poor Britons -- but rather unwanted electronic mail.
For what birds are these pests nourishment? Most of the time my Bulk Unsolicited Mail (BUM) takes the form of Faulkneresque streams-of-consciousness, or at the opposite end of the spectrum, cold calls for Viagra in pidgin English. Today however, I received this pointed missive in my box, addressed to me and six other lucky recipients:
I hate to be the bearer of bad news but if you
are not making at least $1500 or more per week
from your own place then you haven't listened to
my message yet so shame on you...but you can make
a wrong right by giving me 2 minutes of your time.
This is so easy is crazy. As long as you have a phone
you too can do this. Best of all..
No Selling
No Cold Calls
No trying to recruit your friends and family.
So quit wasting precious time and call to listen.
866.727.89O8
Huh. I sure don't earn a grand and a half a week sitting at home. Come to think of it, I earn nothing. Am I wasting precious time? I asked myself rhetorically. No, no, wait. I'm sure I'll have to sell something to make this work.
What's this? No selling? No cold calls, even?
I call the number.
Voice of Opportunity: Good afternoon, thank you for calling Marshall—
Harvey: Good afternoon to you. I'm looking to speak with Kent?
Voice of Opportunity: I'm sorry, who?
Harvey: Kent. Kent.
I emphasize the name in the same manner one might say, "Television? Perhaps you’ve heard of it?"
Voice of Opportunity: I'm sorry sir. We don’t have anyone here with that name.
Harvey: Unbelieveable. He told me to call here about an amazing opportunity. Also, I think I owe him, like, three grand. I just want to know how to send it to him.
Voice of Opportunity: Uh, sir, how did you get this number?
Harvey: Can you take a message for Steve?
Voice of Opportunity: Steve?
Harvey: (Exasperated tone.) Steve is the same as Kent. Can you take a message?
And with a surprisingly cordial air he said:
Voice of Opportunity: Of course. Go right ahead.
I proceed as if leaving voicemail:
Harvey: Kent, this is Harvey, Harvey Kornbluth. I want you to know that I am ab-satively pos-olutely revved up to hop on board. Give me a shout so we can pull the trigger on this bitch. Hit me at at XXX-XXX-XXXX again, that's Harvey Kornbluth at XXX-XXX-XXXX. We met on the beach in Oahu? I am looking forward to your call at your earliest convenience. Please do not call me before eleven in the morning.
The man on the other line starts to speak. I can’t hear him because I am busy pressing pound -- for more options.
Voice of Opportunity: Sir? Um. Sir?
Harvey: Kent is that you?
Voice of Opportunity: No, it's still me. I will forward your message for you. Is there anything else I can help you with?
Harvey: Yes, damnit. Can you please tell me about this opportunity that will change my life?
I would tell you here that he spoke at length about Ponzi schemes and reselling Beanie Babies, but in truth I called the number twice and just got a disconnected tone.
Fine. Maybe I called more than than that.
Sunday nights can be dull you know. I wonder how the other six fared.
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