Wednesday, December 27, 2006
That last paragraph was written on Christmas Eve, I think. My mind was still enjoying being lethargic that I couldn’t muster up the will power to write anything else. Here I am now two days after Christmas and I’m feeling a bit energetic again, especially after having my grande sugar free vanilla chai latte. I’m under the impression that most people who like coffee like beer and vice-versa. They’re both acquired tastes. Rarely do I come across someone who doesn’t enjoy both adult beverages.
Two days after Christmas feels a lot like March 3rd. There isn’t anything particularly going on. Other than the fact that I’m off work until the middle of next week, it’s pretty much an average day. At the same time being off work when you should be sitting in a cubicle for 9 hours is definitely above average in my opinion.
New Years Eve is on a Sunday this year, kind of weird for anyone who lives in the Bible Blet and plans on celebrating at home. We have to buy our beer early! That’s the only holiday that we even have to look forward to, but then again Martin Luther King Day is coming up. People don’t tend to party much on that day or even give presents. I might start giving out Mos Def albums on MLK Day. Not trying to take away from what the man accomplished, but to add some flare to the holiday. I think people would appreciate that. Maybe on Columbus Day I could start handing out maps to buried treasure or Visa gift cards. I think I’m on to something here.
When I was probably 10 years old I remember getting really depressed on Christmas night. We had opened up all of our presents and finished eating the family dinner and there I sat on the living room floor looking through my loot. Being as happy as any adolescent could be upon this realization, it struck me that I had worked myself into a state of excitement for one glorious twenty-four hour period.
Now that the day had climaxed I was stuck with disappointment of the coming months. Christmas was not the end all savior I had hoped it to be. School was going to be back in the following week and I wasn’t going to get any more presents until my birthday rolled around in the summer time. I wanted to fucking cry.
From that day on I decided I would never get overly excited about anything ever again.
Some might think this to be the saddest day in my life, but it was probably the best decision I ever made.
Holidays would come and go and I never expected them to be anything extraordinary. If they did exceed my expectations then it was fucking awesome. If the family got into a big fight or if my step uncle Bobby was acting like an asshole it wasn’t a big deal because I had no expectations of Bobby not acting like an asshole.
It was what it was and it didn’t affect me either way.
Who knew that I was capable of making a philosophically Buddhist decision about my feelings at such a young age? I didn’t know what philosophy or Buddha was in 5th grade but it goes to show that the human mind is a powerful thing, especially for a ten year old.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
“Dude, what’s going on?”
“Dude, it’s so good to see you, dude.”
“Dude, I think my Dad hates me dude, because he thinks that I’m a gay dude.”
The word had almost become a greeting, capitalization and punctuation all in itself. It came to a point where none of us had to really communicate with each other anymore. We just looked at one another and depending on where we put stress when saying “dude” we could verbalize how we’ve been doing, what we’ve been up to and if we thought we were going to get grounded for flunking out of Geometry.Here's a perfect example of what I'm talking about from the 1998 film "BASEketball":
Coop: Dude, I'm not gonna cave in! End of story, dude!
Remer: Duuude?? (inquisitive)
Coop: Dude! (firm)
Remer: Dude!! (indignant)
Coop: Dude. (down-to-earth)
Remer: Dude! (argumentative)
Coop: DUDE! (even more argumentative)
Remer: Duude!! (firmly and contentiously) [Coop opens his mouth but says nothing. Remer continues firmly]
Remer: Dude. (in a more peaceful tone, seeking an end to hostilities)
Coop: [speechless, mouths around for something to say]
I guess you got a point there. All right all right, look. Maybe I was wrong. From now on... we're full partners.
Our parents were constantly correcting us and getting on to our lacklustering, linguistic asses. until a few of my friends and I decided that it was even starting to annoy us. Like a constant dripping of water between our eyes was hearing someone utter the word “dude”. The fleeting vocabulary of
How would we tackle this great language debacle? Could you erase the existence of something with it being in such widespread circulation? After watching Tremors that night on TNT we decided that you could not reverse the curse of popular culture. Something will always be there to remind you of the sins of the past. Once something is created it will always be, but there was a way we could succeed. You may not be able to delete a word from the dictionary of others’ minds, but you could replace it by giving them more choices.
Being young and naïve and not realizing what great feat we were about to undertake and not knowing the great repercussions of our actions, we decided our replacement word off the cusp. Looking back, I’m not very proud of it, but I’m sure many urban, Caucasian, drum n’ bass enthusiasts would be very pleased.
Yeah, that’s it. I know. I’m still a little pissed off about it.
When it comes down to it though, the word didn’t really matter. We could’ve used “humanoid”. I definitely would’ve stood behind this choice even now, nine and a half years later. Memories of calling someone a humanoid would bring great joy and peace to my heart, opposed to the lameness that is the word “kid” or at least the usage of it.
Just imagine with me for a second.
“What’s up humanoid?”
“Are you coming to the party tonight ‘noid?”
“I’m just sitting around being a humanoid.”
It would’ve been great. Then again it’s never too late (and that rhymed, I’m keeping it because it reminds me of the Princess Bride. “No more rhyming and I mean it.” “Anybody wanna a peanut?”).
Back to the point though, I must accept that we used the word “kid”. I’m not even sure why I’m upset about it because the whole experiment was, believe it or not, an anthropological success.
For being high school students, I’m still impressed with how we introduced the word into our vocabulary and to our peers so nonchalantly. Dropping “kid” into our day-to-day conversations at random, so that no one would catch on, you would think that we had already graduated by now or at least paid attention in psychology class.
Slowly, we medicated their brains with the cure to their poisonous “slanguage”. Within a months time the word dude had suddenly vanished. Walking through the halls hearing my contemporaries fall prey to our sociological stealth attack was like music to my ears, at least for a while.
Knowing that we could impregnate other’s minds with whatever word we deemed necessary or amusing that month gave us a sense of power. No wonder crazy Christians try to reach the lost youth of our generation by manufacturing neo-religion rocker groups. It’s easy to plant shit in their head and watch it take root.
Unfortunately, I was only 16 and didn’t know what “marketing” was, nor did I care about “sociology”. It wasn’t until years later that I realized that selling products or ideas came naturally to the men in my family. Maybe it comes from being Irish (Actually, that’s probably where the alcoholism comes from.). Honestly, I have no fucking idea where it’s rooted.
As I sit here today in my cubicle, it’s only fitting that my job consists of trying to create new ways to market and sell new “products and ideas”. That just goes to show that whether you realize it not, you’ll eventually find a way to do what you love. It may not always look like your passion, but if you work with the clay enough you can mold it into a unique piece of art, dude.
Monday, December 11, 2006
I know who you are, sort of. The state you reside in and even your hometown is available to me along with your entry and exit pages and the name of your internet provider. If you have a blog, I can usually find that too.
For those of you who I know and like, I added you to my home made blog roll. Check it out, you might be there. If you aren't there and we're friends, let me know. I can make it happen.
And for anyone who anonymously reads, you can say "Hi! Keep up the "strange" work." or even "Hey fucker, I hate your blog and I only read to see how shitty your writing is today."
Whatever works best for you.
Friday, December 08, 2006
As 2006 is coming to an end, it’s time again to evaluate my current job status. My works brings fulfillment and sometimes even joy to my life, but what I would really love to do is bring laughter to people. Well, not all people, mainly just black people. I want to be a black comedian.
If you don’t already know me or what I look like, I am not contemplating this career move because I am black. I’m quite the opposite. It also has nothing to do with how “gangsta” I am or even for my love to say the word “Mother Fucker” in a deep Samuel L. Jackson–Pulp Fiction–“Be cool bitch!”-Kind of way.
The love that resides in my heart for Nas and select Jay-Z tracks does not influence my reasoning either. My goal is also not to make fun of black people. Again, it’s on the complete opposite end of the spectrum.
For some reason, when I act normal, I make black people laugh. Giggles don’t count either. Gut wrenching laughter is what we’re talking about here.
Walking through a mall last night that is casually referred to as having a hint of a “ghetto” shopping experience, I kept encountering different black women. Each exchange always resulted in them laughing at me. No jokes were made other than me moaning about Christmas Shopping for people who already have everything under the sun, but with the few words that I said you would’ve thought I was Chris Rock doing my newest HBO special.
Maybe I could do a comedy tour with Wanda Sykes.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
When I was 17 years old, I decided that I wanted to learn how to play the bass guitar. I’d been going to punk rock shows for a few years and had a lot of friends who were playing in different bands at the time as well. That Christmas my parents gave me enough money to buy a bass and an amp from a friend of mine. It was one of the coolest feelings to finally be able to rock out! In all honesty, it was actually terrible, but everyone has to start somewhere.
Over the next 6 months I begged anyone who knew anything about guitar to show me some of the basics and of course where the hell the fucking switch was that is secretly placed on every guitar to persuade girls to think that you’re cool. After months of gleaning tips, having impromptu guitar lessons and practicing the tabs I printed off the internet, I finally got the hang of playing my axe! I finally got to rock!
It was so fulfilling to be able to play a whole song. Unfortunately, I never got to serious about playing due to not being in a band or having much time on my hands to get any better. Deep down I knew it wasn’t my thing anyway, but I am glad that I learned to make some halfway decent music come out of a piece of wood. From time to time I think about picking it back up again and maybe even messing around with a guitar that has six strings instead of four.
Other than knowing a few chords I pretty much suck at guitar, but that doesn’t keep me from playing some classic air guitar when I’m driving down the street. There isn’t a genre, band or song that I can’t keep up with when I’m rocking out with my invisible Stallion of String (side note: I rarely listen to heavy metal. i.e. Cryptopsy, Children of Bodom, etc).
I am the King of Rock n’ Roll, while I blare the radio going 90mph. The greatest part about playing air guitar is that you really can’t mess up. You might miss a note, but the music isn’t affected by it. Your only job is to rock and look cool doing it!
Tonight while I was playing a little air solo for my girlfriend and the rest of the interstate, it struck me how air guitar is very similar to real life. When we play air guitar we act like we know exactly what we’re doing. Not only that, but we do it with style. When in reality I think a lot of us are like the 17 year old version of “me”, we’re just trying to make the damn thing sound cool.
Most people can play all three chords of The Trogg's “Wild Thing”, but who the hell knows how to play Frank Zappa’s “Hungry Freaks, Daddy”? Much like those hard times in life when we don’t know how to stay in rhythm or even what the fucking notes are to the song, we just fake it to get by. Just hand me my make believe Fender Stratocaster and I’ll show you how it’s done. I think the younger “me” had it right though, we need to humble ourselves and learn a thing or two from one another, instead of always trying to play lead guitar all the damn time.
Just make sure that you don’t take advice from an “air” drummer though, they’re worse than faux-guitar players. No one even pays attention to the drummer in real life, why the hell would they care about what a fictitious one has to say?
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
All in the Family a.k.a Why my mother is (mostly) responsible for my father having 8 children and causing me to lose sleep at night!
In the last two minutes I have had one of the most profound thoughts ever regarding my family. It touches everyone in the immediate group. My father was married to my mother for 27 years before she decided that she did not want to be married to my father anymore. That is not the point though. Before he married my estranged mother he was previously joined in union to another woman whose nickname was “bitch”. When I was a child they wouldn’t tell me what her nickname was and I always thought that it would be something cleverer than bitch.
During my father’s first marriage he had a son who took on his name and I haven’t seen him in more than a decade. He became a biologist of some sort and even discovered a new species of plant. I don’t know what he named the plant but I hope it has something to do with our surname. It would probably be our only claim to fame as a family other than the fact that our ancestors use to paint themselves blue and get trashed before defending the homeland from the English.
Back to the epiphany, during my parent’s relationship they pro-created and begat my brother and I, so all in all, my father has three children. My oldest blood brother is now 28 years old and currently has four children and counting. Himself, two of his children and his girlfriend who is the mother of the latest addition to the family, live with my father, who doesn’t charge them rent. His ex-beast lives in
Talking about all of these kids brings up a good question. How long does childhood last? Most people would say that eighteen years should probably be the max. As we all know that’s not always the case. If eighteen is the cutoff then my father actually has 6-8 children, which probably means 7. It just depends on how you look at it. Since my father partially supports my brother and has for the most part for the last 5-6 years and my brother is 28 he is potentially in his second childhood, meaning his is now on round 2 of age 10.
Now if my mother only gave birth twice, how is she responsible for eight children? Well, let me explain, to give her the benefit of the doubt, we’ll go ahead and discount one of those children and knock it down to seven. She didn’t have a hand in my Dad’s first son.
My brother having four children is mainly her fault though. Here’s why, when my blood brother was 21 he was attending a local university. Apparently there was a homosexual professor who my brother thought was hitting on him. Regardless of whether he was or not my brother confided in my mother. She encouraged him to quit school, which is ironic because my whole family believes my mother to now be a lesbian, we’re only 98.7% sure about that, but only because she’s never came out of the closet. Looking back though she probably only encouraged him to quit because she knew that’s what he wanted to hear and was sick of hearing him bitch about it. Regardless, it was still bad advice.
Secondly, a year or so later my brother was living with his now ex-beast when my mother’s religious side took over and she told my brother to marry his beast lover. He had no ties to her, but decided to marry her due to the pressure of pleasing our mommy dearest. He’s always been a momma’s boy. When he married the beast it obviously and directly contributed to three out of his four children. His fourth son was probably spawned with his latest girlfriend because he was so excited about having sex with a human being with a soul that he forgot to wear protection. That’s still my mom’s fault.
Now my father is up to having four children now, since he has already raised and supported my brother one time and he’s currently doing it again, so he counts as two. My brother has four children and since my father technically provides for those children too, since he pays for my brother he then gains four more children. Due to the fact that two of them live out of state, he really only has six. If the ex-beast decides to give up the other boy he will then gain seven, which is inevitable. My father stopped reproducing that I know of, over 25 years ago, yet he keeps gaining more and more offspring. Maybe what they say about Irish Cock is true and especially around the holidays, it’s the gift that keeps on giving.
The catalyst that sparked this eye, opening discovery was my brother having to go to work this morning to try and pay for half of his children. If my mom hadn’t encouraged my brother to drop out of school and get married, he would probably not have any children and be a sales manager of a fortune 500 company and not have to work on the weekends. If he didn’t have to work on the weekends he could’ve helped my father load my bed into his truck this morning to bring to me, but now I have to go at least one more weak of tossing and turning on a shitty futon because of my mom’s bad advice. Thanks Mom.
Friday, December 01, 2006
We should never underestimate the laziness of those who have nothing to gain. For by gaining something they no longer are allowed to retain the status of being a deadbeat. Being a deadbeat probably has its perks. One day I hope to be a dead beat with no responsibility, but first I must handle those tasks at hand, which in the end wouldn’t really allow me to be a true dead beat. Sleeping would be my favorite part of being a dead beat. I don’t sleep enough, but I would probably be a busy dead beat, I would be the least of deadbeats. They probably wouldn’t accept me if they ever congregated I would be too busy trying to be a dead beat that I would cancel out that true meaning of the lifestyle. Maybe I’ll just focus on being a busy body, but I would probably need at least three grande sugar-free chai lattes a day to maintain being a true busy body. The only problem with being a busy body is that you have to be around other people. People get on my nerves and I enjoy being by myself a lot. That’s probably why I think I would like to be a dead beat. No one likes to hang around with a dead beat and a dead beat doesn’t really care. Similarly, no one really wants to be around a busy body, but a busy body does care. I should probably not aspire to be either, but possibly look into exterminating these behavior types from the human race with a ray gun that I could get from the future by creating a time machine. Where are Emmit Brown and Marty Mcfly when you need them? Well, I haven’t seen Christopher Lloyd in a movie in quite some time and Michael Fox [sounds weird leaving the “J” out doesn’t?] was getting bashed by Rush Limbaugh last time I checked. How could that guy bash anyone? He’s a pill-popping fattttttttt head who likes to hear the sound of his own voice, but then again, most of us do. If we could only get over being so selfish we might actually truly live. Ahh, but survival mode is what keeps us alive, but that really has nothing to do with loving the sound of your own voice, but then again I am a blogger. Blog.Blag.Blug.Bludgeon. Murder is an interesting action, the taking of one’s life. My father doesn’t approve of books about serial killers. Not that he has a problem with the subject, but he primarily doesn’t agree with glorifying evil for the sake of writing. He thinks it’s unoriginal. He’s probably right, but at the same time, this is a man who has read every murder mystery book on the face of the planet. Sue Grafton has to be doing double letters on her books by now. AA is for anal adventure. BB is for backbreaker. CC is for cumming cunts. Hmm…maybe she should write pornographic novels. I think everyone has thought about being in a porno before. You get paid to have sex. Most people would probably deny this, but most people deny anything that might seem shameful. Sleazy people are intriguing because they don’t have shame. That’s frightening in the same thought because who knows what they’re capable of. I don’t want to be a porn star though. I’ve met a porn star before. She was nice. She seemed like she would bake a batch of oatmeal cookies before she would allow someone to shock her with a cattle prod while in a spread eagle position. Free bird is such a great song. It’s sad how rednecks and frat boys across