With Veterans Day approaching (and no, I didn't forget the apostrophe), I would like to point out that I have nothing either clever or particularly amusing to say about all those Army people being shot by one of their own out at Fort Hood last week.
Although, I will say that noting the shooter, an active-duty U.S. Army major, shouted "Allahu Akbar!" before he commenced with the Class-A assholery, I now have to revise the absolute bottom order of my list of Best Jobs In The Whole Wide World.
The top of the list, obviously, remains unchanged with Female Body Inspector just edging out Professional Ice Cream Taster, exactly as they have since I was 11.
After Fort Hood, the bottom five has experienced something of a shake-up and now looks like this:
11,224. Obama Secret Service detail.
11,225. U.S. military service member with a Muslim-sounding last name.
11,226. Crackwhore.
11,227. Funeral home plumber.
11,228. Corey Feldman's agent.
U.S. military service member with a Muslim-sounding last name is now a full 871 slots below "Fluffer" and 1,216 spots worse than "Gay Marine." At least the gay Marines have the option of Not Telling whereas if your name is Adnan Farouk Jilal Hamzah, they put that shit right there on your uniform breast pocket for you.
If you're in the military with a Muslim-sounding name now, you have to more than watch your step. Just to be safe, they have to move in exaggerated slow motion, as though constantly under water, fingers splayed out to show they are unarmed and stripped to the waist to show no hidden explosives. And the self-censorship they have to practice is brutal, if not demeaning. Anything remotely sounding like "Allahu Akbar" must be stricken from speech in order to avoid any kind of unfortunate misunderstandings involving live ammunition. In BXs and PXs all over this world, it has been 8 years since any serviceman or woman named Aziz or Hussein has uttered the phrase "I'll have a Clark Bar." The Zagnut people, as you can imagine, are OK with this.
This is unfortunate as there are thousands upon thousands of men and women--first, second third generation Arab-, Persian- or Turkish-Americans and beyond--serving in any of the branches of the armed forces whose loyalty is beyond reproach, whose professionalism daily saves the lives of dozens of their comrades, the exact same way the 442nd Regimental Combat Team became the most decorated military unit in U.S. history despite being made up of "suspect" Japanese during World War II.
But now because of the increased scrutiny, it isn't hard to imagine brave Americans with real skills, like Arabic or Farsi speakers, being reluctant to join and serve because of the stigma earned by one derailed fucked-up soft-headed douchebag and not for the old reasons they would stay out, because they were just gay.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
The Ballad of Blinky Jones
So you've left Iowa. It wasn't easy. There were harsh words with Dad, who only ever had one dream for you: to work yourself to death growing goverment-subsidized corn crops for possible use one day as ethanol fuel while expanding your corporarate agribusiness footprint across seven counties, amassing obscene wealth at the expense of taxpayers, the environment and probably your immortal soul.
But no, your mind's made up. You want something more meaningful. You've gone to Hollywood.
You hopped off the hay truck that brought you west, handerchief bundle tied to a stick over your shoulder, breathed in as deeply as the lung-searing smog would allow and said "So this is Hollywood!" only to be stabbed in the chest by a passerby and helpfully corrected: "You in Boyle Heights now, motherfucker!" It may be a quarter inch on the map, but there are people who take those fractions very seriously.
Punctured lungs heal, yes, but punctured dreams? Rarely so. Pride precluded you from writing home to retell the tale of your progress in the dog-eat-dog world of the Business We Call Show. For instance, that one time you had to eat a dog. That's something Mom wouldn't like to know.
But money is scarce and living is expensive in places with so very many area codes. The things you will do for money--and eventually also methamphetamine--are too gruesomely tedious to list, but your sturdy Midwestern upbringing reminds you that God gives us nothing with which we cannot cope, at least not without a half a bottle of mouthwash and a nice sitz bath.
On the non-illegal side of things, you've done it all, so long as it results in no reward and less pay: extra, production assistant, runner, courier, page, gossip-blog editor, MTV reality show persona, botox mule...
Nothing and nothing and nothing and nothing to show for it but a sort of dull, buzzing resignation in the face of universal and constant rejection.
You consider throwing it all away, marching right out of your cherry spot on skid row with your half a pillow case and your companion mongrel emergency-eatin' dog, back to a life of empty luxury and useless dignity as an appendage on Dad's growing farming concern when finally, unlooked for, unhoped for, the call comes, probably on a pay phone in an alleyway behind a Vietnamese human sex slavery clearing house: you're going to be featured in a national print marketing campaign. Not just in advertising, but in packaging. You'll be everywhere. At last, finally: famous.
You don't call home to share the news; it's classier, you decide, just to drop a note.
Dear Dad, it will say. Why don't you stop by the Walgreen's. It's time you did something about that effed-up eye of yours. Love, Donny.
And he'll walk in and he'll look and there you'll be, staring right back out at him with your one, good, piercing eye.
In your face, old man. That loan shark teaching you a lesson with that fire poker when you couldn't get him his $75 and subsequent $8,000 in interest turned out to be the greatest blessing of your life.
Why is there a picture on the front of an eyepatch box? Are they afraid people won't know how to use it? Is there really any kind of advertising war between brands of eyepatch warranting the use of a handsome but (by implication) horribly disfigured face? Not for us to say, mateys. That's someone else's problem. We're just running half blind into a bright, bright future, with both hands in front of us to correct for our problem with depth perception.
But no, your mind's made up. You want something more meaningful. You've gone to Hollywood.
You hopped off the hay truck that brought you west, handerchief bundle tied to a stick over your shoulder, breathed in as deeply as the lung-searing smog would allow and said "So this is Hollywood!" only to be stabbed in the chest by a passerby and helpfully corrected: "You in Boyle Heights now, motherfucker!" It may be a quarter inch on the map, but there are people who take those fractions very seriously.
Punctured lungs heal, yes, but punctured dreams? Rarely so. Pride precluded you from writing home to retell the tale of your progress in the dog-eat-dog world of the Business We Call Show. For instance, that one time you had to eat a dog. That's something Mom wouldn't like to know.
But money is scarce and living is expensive in places with so very many area codes. The things you will do for money--and eventually also methamphetamine--are too gruesomely tedious to list, but your sturdy Midwestern upbringing reminds you that God gives us nothing with which we cannot cope, at least not without a half a bottle of mouthwash and a nice sitz bath.
On the non-illegal side of things, you've done it all, so long as it results in no reward and less pay: extra, production assistant, runner, courier, page, gossip-blog editor, MTV reality show persona, botox mule...
Nothing and nothing and nothing and nothing to show for it but a sort of dull, buzzing resignation in the face of universal and constant rejection.
You consider throwing it all away, marching right out of your cherry spot on skid row with your half a pillow case and your companion mongrel emergency-eatin' dog, back to a life of empty luxury and useless dignity as an appendage on Dad's growing farming concern when finally, unlooked for, unhoped for, the call comes, probably on a pay phone in an alleyway behind a Vietnamese human sex slavery clearing house: you're going to be featured in a national print marketing campaign. Not just in advertising, but in packaging. You'll be everywhere. At last, finally: famous.
You don't call home to share the news; it's classier, you decide, just to drop a note.
Dear Dad, it will say. Why don't you stop by the Walgreen's. It's time you did something about that effed-up eye of yours. Love, Donny.
And he'll walk in and he'll look and there you'll be, staring right back out at him with your one, good, piercing eye.
In your face, old man. That loan shark teaching you a lesson with that fire poker when you couldn't get him his $75 and subsequent $8,000 in interest turned out to be the greatest blessing of your life.
Why is there a picture on the front of an eyepatch box? Are they afraid people won't know how to use it? Is there really any kind of advertising war between brands of eyepatch warranting the use of a handsome but (by implication) horribly disfigured face? Not for us to say, mateys. That's someone else's problem. We're just running half blind into a bright, bright future, with both hands in front of us to correct for our problem with depth perception.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Big Time
I think it was the Mennonites who first came to this valley, lo this century and more ago. Others had tried to cross the vast desert west of Navajo Country, never to be heard from again. The giant, blood-thirsty tortoises that patrolled the long, barren marches had grown fat on the hairy gristle of Spanish would-be conquistadors, the holy flesh of pious, but fatally naive missionaries and even the unbathed putrescence of speculators driven mad with lust for the things California promised, like gold and no-documentation mortgages.
But the Mennonites came, lolling the great reptiles to sleep with their gentle natures, their beards unanchored by mustaches and their complicated nail-free furniture. Not only did they avoid the grisly fate of their unmourned predecessors, legend says they arrived in triumph, riding on the backs of the great beasts, whose scooped-out shells provided the settlers with their first permanent shelter.
It is unclear why the Mennonites chose to stop their westward rush in great Riverside. Perhaps it was the abundance of unseasonable year-round heat so achingly close to sea-moderated temperate climates just over the hills west that appealed to the more masochistic penance-taking aspects of their religion. Perhaps it was the irony of the name, what with the no river and all. Perhaps it was the easy freeway access and the early presence of a Best Buy. All we know for sure is that even then, it was clear to them that San Bernardino was a shithole and they should just keep going a little further.
It wasn't long afterward that the Mennonites built the first orange out of a tennis ball, a bull's scrotum and a persimmon. Within a short period of time, the citrus empire built by the original settlers all but realized their dream of a scurvy-free world. For a time, Riverside flourished, even though the world would one day pay a steep price for their great advances in pomology.
Like most single-industry towns, the boom times would fall victim to the awful counterweight of bust cycles. With fading fortunes went, alas, the iron grip of the Mennonite overlords and their giant tortoise enforcers. A frustrated populace... well, stayed home and felt sorry for themselves mostly. But one guy did rise up, which is all it takes when you're facing down pacifists. You punch one in the face and the rest tend to vacate the area, PDQ.
With the Mennonites went their patronage of Mennonite-style arts culture, which involved mostly sitting in sturdily built chairs in total silence trying not to think about sex.
Instantly there were pizza restaurants, movie houses, record stores, soda fountains, Japanese car dealerships... all the worst types of vice and shameless iniquity rushed in like tidal flood after being held back by the Mennonite dike for so long. No one really remembers what her name was...
But even that burst of energy, with its unholy tendencies, coupled with another economic downturn, traded resplendent debauchery for squalor. Grand hotels became flophouses. Great theaters now housed seedy '70s porn films, with all the body hair and brazenly anti-Mennonite beard-free mustaches.
As my generation rose to prominence here, we've kept a longer view of what Riverside can be. Though derelict and black holes of crime and blight, we resisted calls to demolish Riverside's landmark buildings and the history housed therein, for the sake of posterity, for continuity and because we couldn't find anyone who wanted to tear that shit down and build something good instead. Seriously, it was almost Detroit-bad.
But our patience and our love for our city eventually paid off. Somebody must have known someone who was fucking someone powerful because we got like a billion dollars in redevelopment money. The 2nd through 8th layers of scum and dried blood have been scraped off most of the buildings. The graffiti has been corrected for grammar and reapplied in a more aesthetically pleasing font and color pallette. The homeless people have been lovingly transferred elsewhere by the gentle suggestion of law enforcement and their smiling K-9 companions. The parking situation downtown has become a confusing checkerboard of time-limited permit-only spaces and draconinan fine-levying... just like a real city!
And for all this, what has a billion dollars gotten us?
David Sedaris is coming to Riverside this May.
Oh yes. We've arrived.
Eat your fucking heart out, Fontana.
But the Mennonites came, lolling the great reptiles to sleep with their gentle natures, their beards unanchored by mustaches and their complicated nail-free furniture. Not only did they avoid the grisly fate of their unmourned predecessors, legend says they arrived in triumph, riding on the backs of the great beasts, whose scooped-out shells provided the settlers with their first permanent shelter.
It is unclear why the Mennonites chose to stop their westward rush in great Riverside. Perhaps it was the abundance of unseasonable year-round heat so achingly close to sea-moderated temperate climates just over the hills west that appealed to the more masochistic penance-taking aspects of their religion. Perhaps it was the irony of the name, what with the no river and all. Perhaps it was the easy freeway access and the early presence of a Best Buy. All we know for sure is that even then, it was clear to them that San Bernardino was a shithole and they should just keep going a little further.
It wasn't long afterward that the Mennonites built the first orange out of a tennis ball, a bull's scrotum and a persimmon. Within a short period of time, the citrus empire built by the original settlers all but realized their dream of a scurvy-free world. For a time, Riverside flourished, even though the world would one day pay a steep price for their great advances in pomology.
Like most single-industry towns, the boom times would fall victim to the awful counterweight of bust cycles. With fading fortunes went, alas, the iron grip of the Mennonite overlords and their giant tortoise enforcers. A frustrated populace... well, stayed home and felt sorry for themselves mostly. But one guy did rise up, which is all it takes when you're facing down pacifists. You punch one in the face and the rest tend to vacate the area, PDQ.
With the Mennonites went their patronage of Mennonite-style arts culture, which involved mostly sitting in sturdily built chairs in total silence trying not to think about sex.
Instantly there were pizza restaurants, movie houses, record stores, soda fountains, Japanese car dealerships... all the worst types of vice and shameless iniquity rushed in like tidal flood after being held back by the Mennonite dike for so long. No one really remembers what her name was...
But even that burst of energy, with its unholy tendencies, coupled with another economic downturn, traded resplendent debauchery for squalor. Grand hotels became flophouses. Great theaters now housed seedy '70s porn films, with all the body hair and brazenly anti-Mennonite beard-free mustaches.
As my generation rose to prominence here, we've kept a longer view of what Riverside can be. Though derelict and black holes of crime and blight, we resisted calls to demolish Riverside's landmark buildings and the history housed therein, for the sake of posterity, for continuity and because we couldn't find anyone who wanted to tear that shit down and build something good instead. Seriously, it was almost Detroit-bad.
But our patience and our love for our city eventually paid off. Somebody must have known someone who was fucking someone powerful because we got like a billion dollars in redevelopment money. The 2nd through 8th layers of scum and dried blood have been scraped off most of the buildings. The graffiti has been corrected for grammar and reapplied in a more aesthetically pleasing font and color pallette. The homeless people have been lovingly transferred elsewhere by the gentle suggestion of law enforcement and their smiling K-9 companions. The parking situation downtown has become a confusing checkerboard of time-limited permit-only spaces and draconinan fine-levying... just like a real city!
And for all this, what has a billion dollars gotten us?
David Sedaris is coming to Riverside this May.
Oh yes. We've arrived.
Eat your fucking heart out, Fontana.
Monday, October 19, 2009
It's the pictures that got small
I don't mean to brag, but I totally knew it was a hoax the minute I heard about it. Sure, there was all the buzz around the office, the normal "didyouheardidyouhearohmygod" panting hysterics, but just like that Michael-Jackson-Is-Dead bullshit that all of you fell for a couple months ago, I wasn't buying.
It's bald-faced cynicism maybe, sure, but look, this is the Reality TV era. The only thing that's important is to get yourself mentioned, roll up some notoriety and then parlay that into a big fat dignity-free televised celebration of the malfunctioning shame centers of your brain. They call it "going Jon and Kate." Clown-car uterus optional.
The news coverage was typically breathless, but then again these are the same media outlets that cut into the DEVELOPING STORY of Gwyneth Paltrow not being pregnant to give you BREAKING NEWS of a horse stuck in a drainage channel. People like to point to Ed Murrow and Walter Cronkite as the monoliths casting the shadow in which modern journalism is left sun-starved, withered and sallow, but at least they had Joe McCarthy and moon rockets to fall back on. What do we have to report? IEDs and what Lindsay Lohan weighs. 24 hours is one hell of a news cycle to fill when the president just won't invade some new shit like we'd like him to.
So yeah, I guess on that count we can't really blame the media for glomming on to something that was so obviously a hoax, but shame on them for not at least leaning on the story to get it to topple over. Where's the follow up? Where's the second, third, fourth question that cracks the burnt sugar crust on the crème brulée of shameless mendacity?
I said it when I saw and I'll say it here again: no way this was ever true.
I know, right? Totally worse than that stupid balloon thing.
Here's the money quote:
God help those who won't help themselves. Or at least send them to Loozyana where this man will figure out all your shit for you. In his capacity as Guy Who Knows What's Best For Y'all, he also refuses to notarize documents for passports (foreigners don't receive Americans well), authorize transfer of ownership for any vehicles manufactured in Mexico (illegals frequently hide in trunks or, if very small, glove boxes) or validate parking (encourages an abdication of personal responsibility).
It's difficult for him in his passive role as a JP to positively change the world with his pro-active go-getter policy of getting all up in people's business uninvited, but now with this new high public profile, the TV offers will roll in and soon enough he'll be stamping out miscegenation for "Judge Judy" money.
Yes, OK, he had to draw us in with the unbelievable "mixed race is bad" bullshit in Obama's America, but now he's got his high profile. Next stop? The Premiere Radio Networks.
It's sneaky, but I don't dislike it. He can't have really thought that being kind of a dick would definitively stop these people from marrying when they could, say, go to another county or, perhaps, come back on his day off. There's no way he thought that. Because then he would be retarded. Nope, has to be the publicity. Dude knows how the game is played.
* * * *
You will notice to the right I've integrated the Twitter feed. I barely have a Twitter feed. But I thought we'd try it out. Bump this crap up to more than once a week, content-wise. I'd invite you to follow me, but I'm not 100% sure what that means. I am old.
It's bald-faced cynicism maybe, sure, but look, this is the Reality TV era. The only thing that's important is to get yourself mentioned, roll up some notoriety and then parlay that into a big fat dignity-free televised celebration of the malfunctioning shame centers of your brain. They call it "going Jon and Kate." Clown-car uterus optional.
The news coverage was typically breathless, but then again these are the same media outlets that cut into the DEVELOPING STORY of Gwyneth Paltrow not being pregnant to give you BREAKING NEWS of a horse stuck in a drainage channel. People like to point to Ed Murrow and Walter Cronkite as the monoliths casting the shadow in which modern journalism is left sun-starved, withered and sallow, but at least they had Joe McCarthy and moon rockets to fall back on. What do we have to report? IEDs and what Lindsay Lohan weighs. 24 hours is one hell of a news cycle to fill when the president just won't invade some new shit like we'd like him to.
So yeah, I guess on that count we can't really blame the media for glomming on to something that was so obviously a hoax, but shame on them for not at least leaning on the story to get it to topple over. Where's the follow up? Where's the second, third, fourth question that cracks the burnt sugar crust on the crème brulée of shameless mendacity?
I said it when I saw and I'll say it here again: no way this was ever true.
I know, right? Totally worse than that stupid balloon thing.
Here's the money quote:
Bardwell said he has discussed the topic with blacks and whites, along with witnessing some interracial marriages. He came to the conclusion that most of black society does not readily accept offspring of such relationships, and neither does white society, he said.
"There is a problem with both groups accepting a child from such a marriage," Bardwell said. "I think those children suffer and I won't help put them through it."
God help those who won't help themselves. Or at least send them to Loozyana where this man will figure out all your shit for you. In his capacity as Guy Who Knows What's Best For Y'all, he also refuses to notarize documents for passports (foreigners don't receive Americans well), authorize transfer of ownership for any vehicles manufactured in Mexico (illegals frequently hide in trunks or, if very small, glove boxes) or validate parking (encourages an abdication of personal responsibility).
It's difficult for him in his passive role as a JP to positively change the world with his pro-active go-getter policy of getting all up in people's business uninvited, but now with this new high public profile, the TV offers will roll in and soon enough he'll be stamping out miscegenation for "Judge Judy" money.
Yes, OK, he had to draw us in with the unbelievable "mixed race is bad" bullshit in Obama's America, but now he's got his high profile. Next stop? The Premiere Radio Networks.
It's sneaky, but I don't dislike it. He can't have really thought that being kind of a dick would definitively stop these people from marrying when they could, say, go to another county or, perhaps, come back on his day off. There's no way he thought that. Because then he would be retarded. Nope, has to be the publicity. Dude knows how the game is played.
* * * *
You will notice to the right I've integrated the Twitter feed. I barely have a Twitter feed. But I thought we'd try it out. Bump this crap up to more than once a week, content-wise. I'd invite you to follow me, but I'm not 100% sure what that means. I am old.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
$1,492
As my job is obliquely, secondarily and tangentially involved in some tertiary way with government, I get Columbus Day off. Huzzah for smallpox!
As my children now go to a public school, this also means that they will be attending said school, as somehow we are no longer allowed to publicly celebrate the rape of a whole continent, even if in the end it gave the world Democracy, the Interwebs and Cloris Leachman. Boo, smallpox! Very bad form indeed!
Net result? I am home all day with no children. For the first time in, like, maybe ever. It might have happened when I was younger, before I had children of my own, but then one could argue I was the child I was home with at the time, so that's like a tie instead of a win.
What will I do with a full day of freedom? I have decided I will stay here and wait around for the right guy to come along and handle my unruly pipe. That's right, I have a very naughty pipe that needs some immediate, burly hands-on attention. And I'm willing to pay top dollar AND sit around all day waiting for it, God, just WAITING for it.
Sometimes smallpox doesn't sound so bad.
As my children now go to a public school, this also means that they will be attending said school, as somehow we are no longer allowed to publicly celebrate the rape of a whole continent, even if in the end it gave the world Democracy, the Interwebs and Cloris Leachman. Boo, smallpox! Very bad form indeed!
Net result? I am home all day with no children. For the first time in, like, maybe ever. It might have happened when I was younger, before I had children of my own, but then one could argue I was the child I was home with at the time, so that's like a tie instead of a win.
What will I do with a full day of freedom? I have decided I will stay here and wait around for the right guy to come along and handle my unruly pipe. That's right, I have a very naughty pipe that needs some immediate, burly hands-on attention. And I'm willing to pay top dollar AND sit around all day waiting for it, God, just WAITING for it.
Sometimes smallpox doesn't sound so bad.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Reaper Man
It is the fate of nearly all humans to die alone, unloved and unmourned, forgotten long before death by a society addicted, like vampires, to the virgin blood of vigorous, unaffected youth. The allure is strong, then, for an ironically-named untimely death, allowing the still-potent narcotic of vigor and potential to splash, to bloom and diffuse in the stream of living cultural consciousness, borne away, indelible, on the eternal current of memory. James Dean will always be 24 years old, a lost Brando. The longer-lived Brando is the fat guy dressed in a bedsheet hamming and mumbling his half-hearted way through The Island of Doctor Moreau. Oh, if only he'd died right after Streetcar...
One can only imagine what a sleepless night thinking is for any member of *NSync not named Timberlake. An ill-timed plane crash, though unforgiving on the vital organs, can cement a cultural legacy through at least one generation. Sure, we assume Buddy Holly would have preferred to make it to his 23rd birthday, but would that really have been the best thing for his reputation? And how sure are we that playing "Peggy Sue" four nights a week for the afternoon LifeAlert crowd in Branson, MO is really that much better than being dead?
I guess what I'm saying is Kurt Cobain, John F. Kennedy, Bruce Lee, John Lennon... man, they got off kind of easy.
None of them lived long enough to have a week like Dave Letterman has. Every moment, every incident, every banged secretary is another opportunity for the press and the public to reasses and reasses and reasses again your position in the pop culture zodiac until eventually, inevitably, you are ground to ashes and dust.
Or you end up on I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! with Pia Zadora and Alf.
Either of which, I've heard, are what happens when you die anyway, so where's the benefit?
Consider Heath Ledger: premature death = Oscar. Regular non-death = a string of films that could only disappoint after the cachet of Brokeback Mountain or the overwhelming, nearly unprecedented success of The Dark Knight. Next thing you know it's 2014 and you're doing Brokeback II: Young Stallions directed by Uwe Boll. Oh, and prolly no Oscar.
To paraphrase that other guy from The Dark Knight, you either die a hero, or you live long enough to be exposed as a singularly fallible middling talent who's also kind of a douchebag.
But then, he should know. He followed that movie with Love Happens. Case in point.
One can only imagine what a sleepless night thinking is for any member of *NSync not named Timberlake. An ill-timed plane crash, though unforgiving on the vital organs, can cement a cultural legacy through at least one generation. Sure, we assume Buddy Holly would have preferred to make it to his 23rd birthday, but would that really have been the best thing for his reputation? And how sure are we that playing "Peggy Sue" four nights a week for the afternoon LifeAlert crowd in Branson, MO is really that much better than being dead?
I guess what I'm saying is Kurt Cobain, John F. Kennedy, Bruce Lee, John Lennon... man, they got off kind of easy.
None of them lived long enough to have a week like Dave Letterman has. Every moment, every incident, every banged secretary is another opportunity for the press and the public to reasses and reasses and reasses again your position in the pop culture zodiac until eventually, inevitably, you are ground to ashes and dust.
Or you end up on I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! with Pia Zadora and Alf.
Either of which, I've heard, are what happens when you die anyway, so where's the benefit?
Consider Heath Ledger: premature death = Oscar. Regular non-death = a string of films that could only disappoint after the cachet of Brokeback Mountain or the overwhelming, nearly unprecedented success of The Dark Knight. Next thing you know it's 2014 and you're doing Brokeback II: Young Stallions directed by Uwe Boll. Oh, and prolly no Oscar.
To paraphrase that other guy from The Dark Knight, you either die a hero, or you live long enough to be exposed as a singularly fallible middling talent who's also kind of a douchebag.
But then, he should know. He followed that movie with Love Happens. Case in point.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Hope
There are obvious benefits to getting older. Car insurance is cheaper, for one. Less hassle at the liquor store when a guy wants to pick up 2, 3 or, say, 11 King Cobras at a time. Your once cutting edge Stryper tattoo takes on a whole new context as a cultural history referent.
A more ambiguous gift of age is the accumulated context and perspective with which to view events, commonly referred to as wisdom. In its traditional form, wisdom is expressed as a collection of crytpo-philosophical aphorisms to astonish and bewilder anyone young and un-wisdomy enough to accidentally ask you a question to which you do not know the answer. The first crow's foot is itself a license to speak entirely in a muddle of koans akin to pidgin Fortune Cookese.
That clearly is a bonus: more ways to fuck with people expecting help is always welcome. I clearly missed my calling in high school guidance counseling.
The ambiguity comes from the dubious curse of historical perspective. Hindsight can help us make decent decisions--nobody buys a second Chevrolet--but it can lead to a listless, limp-armed depression and paralysis when we see patterns rolling out, over and over again, that we are helpless to stop and must simply wait out.
The boy band thing is one example.
And while we all knew we'd survive the low-slung jeans era, it didn't make all the muffin tops any easier to stomach (no pun intended).
For me, all my sad nostalgia--seen from the high vantage point afforded me by my great age-earned stature and wide vision, piercing the gold-hued misty haze of time and memory--is focused on the distant past of the Year 2000.
Come back with me, won't you? Remember the days of cell phones for voice communications, Creed and internet grocery shopping. Man, those were the days!
I also remember the presidential election that year. Semi-not-fat wonktard patrician political dynasty scion Vice President Al Gore--what a stiff!--versus non-beer-drinking-but-I'd-love-to-drink-a-beer-with silver spoon good ole boy political dynasty scion Texas Gov. George "W." Bush. Anyone remember what the biggest complaint about that election was? Yes, that's right: it doesn't matter who you vote for because they're both the same. People actually made a decision on whom to vote for because in a presidential debate, Al Gore was kind of a dick.
At the time it sounded kind of farcical and disastrous. Now? Kinda charming. The subsequent fill-in history since then dulls some of the charm sheen, sure, but still, how quaint we once were.
Using our hard-earned wisdom as a context for comparison, where are we now, politically, as a country?
and
Hm, so much for "no discernible difference." We're basically Godwin's Law writ large. Which is kind of awesome because it makes the foreigners a little scared of us*, which can be useful.
But wisdom also tells us not to get too worried about it. After all, we've kind of seen it before and we survived that nonsense.
Also, I should point out, that at least this time around, everybody has the good sense to not pay attention to Creed. By comparison, how can it really be worse?
* I recommend reading the comments section. And this is from a "neutral" national news source. I can't imagine what the right-leaning blogs look like.
A more ambiguous gift of age is the accumulated context and perspective with which to view events, commonly referred to as wisdom. In its traditional form, wisdom is expressed as a collection of crytpo-philosophical aphorisms to astonish and bewilder anyone young and un-wisdomy enough to accidentally ask you a question to which you do not know the answer. The first crow's foot is itself a license to speak entirely in a muddle of koans akin to pidgin Fortune Cookese.
That clearly is a bonus: more ways to fuck with people expecting help is always welcome. I clearly missed my calling in high school guidance counseling.
The ambiguity comes from the dubious curse of historical perspective. Hindsight can help us make decent decisions--nobody buys a second Chevrolet--but it can lead to a listless, limp-armed depression and paralysis when we see patterns rolling out, over and over again, that we are helpless to stop and must simply wait out.
The boy band thing is one example.
And while we all knew we'd survive the low-slung jeans era, it didn't make all the muffin tops any easier to stomach (no pun intended).
For me, all my sad nostalgia--seen from the high vantage point afforded me by my great age-earned stature and wide vision, piercing the gold-hued misty haze of time and memory--is focused on the distant past of the Year 2000.
Come back with me, won't you? Remember the days of cell phones for voice communications, Creed and internet grocery shopping. Man, those were the days!
I also remember the presidential election that year. Semi-not-fat wonktard patrician political dynasty scion Vice President Al Gore--what a stiff!--versus non-beer-drinking-but-I'd-love-to-drink-a-beer-with silver spoon good ole boy political dynasty scion Texas Gov. George "W." Bush. Anyone remember what the biggest complaint about that election was? Yes, that's right: it doesn't matter who you vote for because they're both the same. People actually made a decision on whom to vote for because in a presidential debate, Al Gore was kind of a dick.
At the time it sounded kind of farcical and disastrous. Now? Kinda charming. The subsequent fill-in history since then dulls some of the charm sheen, sure, but still, how quaint we once were.
Using our hard-earned wisdom as a context for comparison, where are we now, politically, as a country?
and
Hm, so much for "no discernible difference." We're basically Godwin's Law writ large. Which is kind of awesome because it makes the foreigners a little scared of us*, which can be useful.
But wisdom also tells us not to get too worried about it. After all, we've kind of seen it before and we survived that nonsense.
Also, I should point out, that at least this time around, everybody has the good sense to not pay attention to Creed. By comparison, how can it really be worse?
* I recommend reading the comments section. And this is from a "neutral" national news source. I can't imagine what the right-leaning blogs look like.
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