-I intentionally ignored the story yesterday. Husbands cheat sometimes. Wives cheat sometimes. Families are torn apart every day. When it happens to famous families it's easy to stand on the outside and judge and speculate and poke fun, but really, why bother? For a cheap, sleazy thrill? Pointless. But now that pictures of Arnold's mistress were all over the internet today, I have to join the peanut gallery.
Mr. Schwarzenegger isn't exactly a subtle guy is he? From the time he swallowed his first tablespoon of Brewers' Yeast, he went one way, and rigidly adhered to that path of pure machismo. Marry the prim and proper debutante, do other things with the voluptuous Latina. It's pretty much the way every man thinks, but I suppose it's a matter of perspective whether Schwarzenegger should be commended or condemned for actually behaving that way.
- I just had my last math class. Very broken up about that.
- How long is President Obama going to wait to intervene in the NFL labor dispute?
- I want to thank everyone for their kind words and support of this blog, but honestly I'm upset at the total dearth of vitriol and rancor on my comments page. Maybe anyone prone to leaving an angry comment can sense the merciless self loathing in the writing and realizes there is nothing they can say to make me feel any lower. Still, like the saying goes, "You're no one in this world until someone sends you an anonymous death threat."
- The last thing is the opening paragraph from my novel length manuscript A Better Place To Die. Just felt like putting it on here. If anyone wants to read more let me know in the comments or on Facebook. Have a good night everyone.
It was still a while before sunrise. Time here isn't measured the way it is on Earth, and the rabble get all bent out of shape when someone tries to convert it over, but between you and me, since this is my story, and you're the only one reading it, and Earth time is what we both know best, it was somewhere around four AM. Somewhere around four AM. The time frame in which the most prolific chaos imaginable is perpetrated throughout the universe. Traipsing through a dark and scary forest, I was engaged in a variety of nonsense myself that morning.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Drunk Blog
*Originally written and posted May 12. There was some type of technical problem with the website and it went missing until today (5/17). Luckily the smart folks at Google were able to pull it back from the cyber abyss.*
Feeling a little agitated, angry and sad today. Why? Who cares. Everyone has their own tale of woe. The degree to which people pretend to care about other people's problems is determined by how close they are, or what they might be looking for in return. Our blogger/blogee relationship indemnifies us against all of that ridiculousness.
And even if it didn't, I'm not sure I could explain what is bothering me anyway. In order to do that I would first have to have some basic understanding of my own emotions. I'd have to view the world from a broader vantage point than that of my own narrow sociopathic desires for ego satisfaction and manipulative control. The truth is I wouldn't know a real emotion if it walked up to me and stuck it's thumb in my eye.
Worse, I'm not bothered by that. I'm a chubby, smirking meat suit puffed out around a soulless black hole. And I don't care. So yeah I'm feeling a little agitated, angry and sad today, and the why of it doesn't matter. What does is how I'm handling it. How?, you ask. I'm on my way to being very, very drunk.
I don't drink often. However, like other things I don't do often (pay my bills, vacuum my living room, overlook others' shortcomings) when I do do it, it's always a bigger deal than it needs to be. I can count on one hand the times I've been intoxicated and not revisited my past three days digestive history. Yeah I'm what regular drinkers call an amateur. Shockingly another thing I am incompetent at. I'm sincerely awed and humbled by those real drinkers who at two AM are still debating the early years of the transcontinental rail road with a glassy eyed panel of bar side experts, but are up, showered and ready to go to work four hours later. That's not me.
Part of the problem is I got a late start in my drinking endeavors. I didn't have my first taste of alcohol until I was twenty four. Hard cider on draft. Many more followed, interspersed with shots of Grand Marnier for some reason. At the end of the night I was stumbling down the main street of College Park, Maryland hollering about how wonderful life is, pausing once in a while to vomit all over the side walk. A proud moment to be sure, and one I'll be reenacting this evening, I have little doubt.
Here's my hypothesis as to why I do this to myself sometimes. I am genetically predisposed to taking things wayyyyy too seriously. My parents drag neurosis behind themselves like the heavy chains weighting down that first prick ghost who comes to warn Ebenezer Scrooge about the lousy night he's going to have. To avoid the same burden, I taught myself to play a meditative game I call The Quiet End.
To play along at home imagine all of your problems and worries surrounding you like an angry mob, ripping every piece of positive energy out of you through your throat. Next picture the mob, now satisfied, walking away, and slowly dissolving into the ether. The background fades away too, and soon there is nothing but you, standing alone on the precipice of eternity, staring out into the void. Oblivion. Keep staring. There. There it is. See that? That was Oblivion winking at you, telling you nothing matters and therefore everything is possible. Life is good again, and you can go back and take on the world. The thing is, I'm not good enough yet at seeing Oblivion every time. She seems to appear much easier when I'm drunk. So I do this to myself sometimes to remember how she looks, and how her blink looks, and how nothing really matters, and how everything is possible.
Feeling a little agitated, angry and sad today. Why? Who cares. Everyone has their own tale of woe. The degree to which people pretend to care about other people's problems is determined by how close they are, or what they might be looking for in return. Our blogger/blogee relationship indemnifies us against all of that ridiculousness.
And even if it didn't, I'm not sure I could explain what is bothering me anyway. In order to do that I would first have to have some basic understanding of my own emotions. I'd have to view the world from a broader vantage point than that of my own narrow sociopathic desires for ego satisfaction and manipulative control. The truth is I wouldn't know a real emotion if it walked up to me and stuck it's thumb in my eye.
Worse, I'm not bothered by that. I'm a chubby, smirking meat suit puffed out around a soulless black hole. And I don't care. So yeah I'm feeling a little agitated, angry and sad today, and the why of it doesn't matter. What does is how I'm handling it. How?, you ask. I'm on my way to being very, very drunk.
I don't drink often. However, like other things I don't do often (pay my bills, vacuum my living room, overlook others' shortcomings) when I do do it, it's always a bigger deal than it needs to be. I can count on one hand the times I've been intoxicated and not revisited my past three days digestive history. Yeah I'm what regular drinkers call an amateur. Shockingly another thing I am incompetent at. I'm sincerely awed and humbled by those real drinkers who at two AM are still debating the early years of the transcontinental rail road with a glassy eyed panel of bar side experts, but are up, showered and ready to go to work four hours later. That's not me.
Part of the problem is I got a late start in my drinking endeavors. I didn't have my first taste of alcohol until I was twenty four. Hard cider on draft. Many more followed, interspersed with shots of Grand Marnier for some reason. At the end of the night I was stumbling down the main street of College Park, Maryland hollering about how wonderful life is, pausing once in a while to vomit all over the side walk. A proud moment to be sure, and one I'll be reenacting this evening, I have little doubt.
Here's my hypothesis as to why I do this to myself sometimes. I am genetically predisposed to taking things wayyyyy too seriously. My parents drag neurosis behind themselves like the heavy chains weighting down that first prick ghost who comes to warn Ebenezer Scrooge about the lousy night he's going to have. To avoid the same burden, I taught myself to play a meditative game I call The Quiet End.
To play along at home imagine all of your problems and worries surrounding you like an angry mob, ripping every piece of positive energy out of you through your throat. Next picture the mob, now satisfied, walking away, and slowly dissolving into the ether. The background fades away too, and soon there is nothing but you, standing alone on the precipice of eternity, staring out into the void. Oblivion. Keep staring. There. There it is. See that? That was Oblivion winking at you, telling you nothing matters and therefore everything is possible. Life is good again, and you can go back and take on the world. The thing is, I'm not good enough yet at seeing Oblivion every time. She seems to appear much easier when I'm drunk. So I do this to myself sometimes to remember how she looks, and how her blink looks, and how nothing really matters, and how everything is possible.
First Rage HOF Inductees
Unless I fall victim to some freak catastrophe between now and June 12, I'll be in Canastota NY that day to watch the International Boxing Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony (www.ibhof.com). My eager anticipation of that event, coupled with today's painfully boring news stories, has motivated me to make good on a promise from a few blogs back to name the first inductees into my Rage Hall of Fame.
In No Particular Order:
1. The Time That Jack-A** Substitute Teacher In Tenth
Grade Put Me In An Arm Bar
He was white. So am I. Had I been otherwise he wouldn't have even considered touching me. Bad idea for a white substitute teacher at a Rochester city high school to attack a non-white student if he wants to be invited back. But he knew he could get away with attacking me. I'm guessing he got a heads up that I was the class trouble maker, which is absurd. I didn't show up to class enough to be the class trouble maker. Regardless. "I'm not going to take any of your crap today understand?" he grunted. Ooooooo-kay. Whatever you say pal. Nice job establishing your dominance over the class.
Every day for the past nineteen years I've begged god for the opportunity to meet this piece of human filth again under different circumstances, where I assure you there would be a different outcome. Yes that's a macho, d-bag statement to write. Also a true one. Today I'll stop all of that though. I'm able to do so by inducting this memory into my Rage Hall of Fame.
2. The Time My First Grade Gym Teacher Went Berserk
Ms. Somersault. Her real name was almost as absurd. It's as if she based her profession on her last name. Unfortunately for her she wasn't born to Mr. And Mrs. Commodities-Broker so she had to become an elementary school gym teacher.
Once at an assembly, one of Mrs. Somersault's colleagues disciplined me for some sort of nonsense. When they were done and walking away, I made a rude gesture behind their back. Ms. Somersault appeared out of the ether (the way adults always seemed to be able to do back then) and grabbed my arm with one hand, and my middle finger with her other, yanking it in a motion I'm going to guess she was unaccustomed to. "What if I ripped this finger right off your hand? Huh? Would you like that?" she hissed.
Ms. Somersault was not an attractive woman. Life is unfairly mean to ugly women. I'll also concede that despite all of my criticism of teachers and the education system, that teaching is a hard job. However even with those very generously granted caveats there is never any reason for a so called educator to try and tear the finger off the hand of a six year old. But now, almost thirty years later I can stop my daily prayer for bad things, very, very bad things to feast upon Ms. Somersault at a cellular level. The memory goes in the Rage Hall of Fame and I can walk away.
3. The Time My Birth Mother and Her Lesbian Life
Partner Walked Through The Mall Wearing
Matching Dog Collars.
Unfortunately I was with them. This was by design. They had to prove their open homosexuality to the world by walking through a crowded public place holding hands and wearing odd leather accessories, and I, as my mother's son, had to be part of this ceremony.
Just wish they would have told me about it before we went to the mall. Just wish that mall hadn't of been less than a mile from my Junior High...on a Friday evening, when all of that Junior High's popular kids were there hanging out. On the outside it's easy to say that what my mother and her "life partner" did was brave. It was the late eighties, still years before homosexuality became so trendy.
And yeah, maybe it was brave. Or maybe it was an extremely selfish sh***y thing to do. Either way, as of right now it doesn't matter to me any more. The memory now hangs in The Rage Hall of Fame.
In No Particular Order:
1. The Time That Jack-A** Substitute Teacher In Tenth
Grade Put Me In An Arm Bar
He was white. So am I. Had I been otherwise he wouldn't have even considered touching me. Bad idea for a white substitute teacher at a Rochester city high school to attack a non-white student if he wants to be invited back. But he knew he could get away with attacking me. I'm guessing he got a heads up that I was the class trouble maker, which is absurd. I didn't show up to class enough to be the class trouble maker. Regardless. "I'm not going to take any of your crap today understand?" he grunted. Ooooooo-kay. Whatever you say pal. Nice job establishing your dominance over the class.
Every day for the past nineteen years I've begged god for the opportunity to meet this piece of human filth again under different circumstances, where I assure you there would be a different outcome. Yes that's a macho, d-bag statement to write. Also a true one. Today I'll stop all of that though. I'm able to do so by inducting this memory into my Rage Hall of Fame.
2. The Time My First Grade Gym Teacher Went Berserk
Ms. Somersault. Her real name was almost as absurd. It's as if she based her profession on her last name. Unfortunately for her she wasn't born to Mr. And Mrs. Commodities-Broker so she had to become an elementary school gym teacher.
Once at an assembly, one of Mrs. Somersault's colleagues disciplined me for some sort of nonsense. When they were done and walking away, I made a rude gesture behind their back. Ms. Somersault appeared out of the ether (the way adults always seemed to be able to do back then) and grabbed my arm with one hand, and my middle finger with her other, yanking it in a motion I'm going to guess she was unaccustomed to. "What if I ripped this finger right off your hand? Huh? Would you like that?" she hissed.
Ms. Somersault was not an attractive woman. Life is unfairly mean to ugly women. I'll also concede that despite all of my criticism of teachers and the education system, that teaching is a hard job. However even with those very generously granted caveats there is never any reason for a so called educator to try and tear the finger off the hand of a six year old. But now, almost thirty years later I can stop my daily prayer for bad things, very, very bad things to feast upon Ms. Somersault at a cellular level. The memory goes in the Rage Hall of Fame and I can walk away.
3. The Time My Birth Mother and Her Lesbian Life
Partner Walked Through The Mall Wearing
Matching Dog Collars.
Unfortunately I was with them. This was by design. They had to prove their open homosexuality to the world by walking through a crowded public place holding hands and wearing odd leather accessories, and I, as my mother's son, had to be part of this ceremony.
Just wish they would have told me about it before we went to the mall. Just wish that mall hadn't of been less than a mile from my Junior High...on a Friday evening, when all of that Junior High's popular kids were there hanging out. On the outside it's easy to say that what my mother and her "life partner" did was brave. It was the late eighties, still years before homosexuality became so trendy.
And yeah, maybe it was brave. Or maybe it was an extremely selfish sh***y thing to do. Either way, as of right now it doesn't matter to me any more. The memory now hangs in The Rage Hall of Fame.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Obligatory Political Rant
The problem with this blog is that I'm the one writing it. Let me boldly suggest that that's the problem with most blogs. Blog writers have a lot of the same psychological traits as serial killers (or in the case of female bloggers, Munchhausen By Proxy Syndrome perpetrators).
Let's list a few of those cliche characteristics together, we've all seen the same Discovery Channel shows. Marginalized, or a feeling of being marginalized in some way by society, under-employed, exaggerated ego, inflated sense of superiority, feelings of cough mumble sexual inadequacy mumble, and so on. If I was a real human being, living an actual life, a life like one of the three make believe Aidans of my day dreams for instance, the last thing on my mind right now would be Donald Trump's decision not to run for president, and the morons in the media's reaction to that decision.
Enforcer For An Outlaw Biker Gang Aidan would be too busy dividing his attention between the voice of his nineteen year old stripper girlfriend in the ear piece of his blue tooth explaining why she's decided not to go with Fireball Heaven by The Strolling Eddies as the song for her last dance anymore, and the GPS on the dashboard of the rented Cadillac as it guides him to St. Louis where he plans on fire bombing one thing and bludgeoning to death something else.
Billionaire Aidan would still be In Cannes, blissfully unaware of The Donald's decision as he watches his nineteen year old stripper girlfriend flirt with Channing Tatum at the bar across the room while he finishes an interview with a business journalist from Chinese television about his recent acquisition of Estonia's main wireless Internet provider.
Third World Dictator Aidan, being half owners with Trump of a gulf course outside of Memphis, would have heard of his buddy's decision, but would be too busy trying on bizarre, wholly contrived military uniforms for the approval of his nineteen year old stripper girlfriend to care one way or the other.
Sadly I am none of those Aidans. I'm normal, boring, d-bag Aidan, so naturally I have to have some thoughts about Trump and the "journalists" covering him.
Trump's decision not to run, if in fact he was ever really considering running at all, is cynical, self serving and all too predictable. Unfortunately the main stream media's response is all the more so.
Oh how happy they are with their "nanny nanny boo-boo" columns on Huffington Post about how they knew all along, and how Trump is a self promoting blow hard who glommed on to the absurd birther issue to garner as much hard and fast attention for himself as he could. "Once again" they smugly sneer, "we're right, and all of you lowly vermin who dare think for one moment Obama is less than a living god are wrong, and we wish you all the best in finding enough spare change in the rented furniture of your trailers to donate to the Newt Gingrich campaign."
They are so busy ridiculing Trump and his birth certificate idiocy that they aren't addressing the larger, far more important issue; why are so many people so angry and dissatisfied right now? It's that anger that a prodigious opportunist like Trump was able to so expertly exploit, and it's that anger that is the real story. Instead of facing down the tough questions involved in that subject however, they would rather admire their reflections in their fancy journalism diplomas and feel like they know something the rest of us don't.
The fact that millions of disenfranchised Americans were duped by the machinations of a selfish billionaire should bring a tear to their eye, not a smile to their face.
Let's list a few of those cliche characteristics together, we've all seen the same Discovery Channel shows. Marginalized, or a feeling of being marginalized in some way by society, under-employed, exaggerated ego, inflated sense of superiority, feelings of cough mumble sexual inadequacy mumble, and so on. If I was a real human being, living an actual life, a life like one of the three make believe Aidans of my day dreams for instance, the last thing on my mind right now would be Donald Trump's decision not to run for president, and the morons in the media's reaction to that decision.
Enforcer For An Outlaw Biker Gang Aidan would be too busy dividing his attention between the voice of his nineteen year old stripper girlfriend in the ear piece of his blue tooth explaining why she's decided not to go with Fireball Heaven by The Strolling Eddies as the song for her last dance anymore, and the GPS on the dashboard of the rented Cadillac as it guides him to St. Louis where he plans on fire bombing one thing and bludgeoning to death something else.
Billionaire Aidan would still be In Cannes, blissfully unaware of The Donald's decision as he watches his nineteen year old stripper girlfriend flirt with Channing Tatum at the bar across the room while he finishes an interview with a business journalist from Chinese television about his recent acquisition of Estonia's main wireless Internet provider.
Third World Dictator Aidan, being half owners with Trump of a gulf course outside of Memphis, would have heard of his buddy's decision, but would be too busy trying on bizarre, wholly contrived military uniforms for the approval of his nineteen year old stripper girlfriend to care one way or the other.
Sadly I am none of those Aidans. I'm normal, boring, d-bag Aidan, so naturally I have to have some thoughts about Trump and the "journalists" covering him.
Trump's decision not to run, if in fact he was ever really considering running at all, is cynical, self serving and all too predictable. Unfortunately the main stream media's response is all the more so.
Oh how happy they are with their "nanny nanny boo-boo" columns on Huffington Post about how they knew all along, and how Trump is a self promoting blow hard who glommed on to the absurd birther issue to garner as much hard and fast attention for himself as he could. "Once again" they smugly sneer, "we're right, and all of you lowly vermin who dare think for one moment Obama is less than a living god are wrong, and we wish you all the best in finding enough spare change in the rented furniture of your trailers to donate to the Newt Gingrich campaign."
They are so busy ridiculing Trump and his birth certificate idiocy that they aren't addressing the larger, far more important issue; why are so many people so angry and dissatisfied right now? It's that anger that a prodigious opportunist like Trump was able to so expertly exploit, and it's that anger that is the real story. Instead of facing down the tough questions involved in that subject however, they would rather admire their reflections in their fancy journalism diplomas and feel like they know something the rest of us don't.
The fact that millions of disenfranchised Americans were duped by the machinations of a selfish billionaire should bring a tear to their eye, not a smile to their face.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
When You Walk Through The Garden
Sure the mid-east is burning, the mid west is flooding, there's high ranking French politicians raping hotel maids, and crazy English guys chopping off women's heads in supermarkets, but all that's on my mind this rainy, pre-armageddon, Sunday afternoon is how I really, really wish they'd made more seasons of The Wire. Man what a good show.
Of all those great characters and amazing actors, my favorite (other than Omar played by Michael Kenneth Williams who stole the show) was Stringer Bell, brought to life by Idris Elba. He was close to James Gandolfini-Tony Soprano good. Elba is in Thor right now. I'm sure he's good in it, but I have absolutely no intention of confirming that hypothesis.
If I wanted to waste my time and money I'd go see Prom. Aimee Teegarden is just adorable isn't she? Sarcasm in that last sentence? Probably not as much as there should be. Anyway Elba also stars on BBC America's Luther right now. Yeah he's great in it and the show is worth watching because of him and a decent supporting cast, but the story lines are so absurd they make stupid American cop shows like CSI (where inexplicably all of these bankrupt municipalities are able to spend between 10 and 15 million dollars per murder investigation) look like, well like The Wire. If the quality of police work in England is even 1 percent as half-a**ed as it appears on Luther, than anyone looking for an entrepreneurial opportunity should move to London and start a crime syndicate.
Of all those great characters and amazing actors, my favorite (other than Omar played by Michael Kenneth Williams who stole the show) was Stringer Bell, brought to life by Idris Elba. He was close to James Gandolfini-Tony Soprano good. Elba is in Thor right now. I'm sure he's good in it, but I have absolutely no intention of confirming that hypothesis.
If I wanted to waste my time and money I'd go see Prom. Aimee Teegarden is just adorable isn't she? Sarcasm in that last sentence? Probably not as much as there should be. Anyway Elba also stars on BBC America's Luther right now. Yeah he's great in it and the show is worth watching because of him and a decent supporting cast, but the story lines are so absurd they make stupid American cop shows like CSI (where inexplicably all of these bankrupt municipalities are able to spend between 10 and 15 million dollars per murder investigation) look like, well like The Wire. If the quality of police work in England is even 1 percent as half-a**ed as it appears on Luther, than anyone looking for an entrepreneurial opportunity should move to London and start a crime syndicate.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
"Give Me The Justice Department, Entertainment Division"
Richard Dawson playing the role of Damon Killian, the sociopathic host and executive producer of the futuristic game show The Running Man, delivered that line in the movie by the same name in 1987. In the film, Dawson's character, and the show he ran, were supposed to be villains, exaggerated monsters presiding over an omnipotent entertainment industry catering to the worst, base desires of the blood starved masses.
But as a ten year old kid at the time, I didn't see what the problem was. I loved Family Feud. I loved Richard Dawson. Damon Killian wasn't such a bad guy either. And the idea of a TV show where violent felons compete in a protracted obstacle course of mortal combat and catastrophic mayhem seemed like a great idea. It still does.
For almost twenty five years now I've waited for this nightmare vision of television's future to come to life. But no. TV is still boring. Maybe not as boring as it was in 1987, but certainly not as exciting as it should be. When American Gladiators came on a couple of years after Running Man I got excited...needlessly. The show was nothing but meat heads in spandex throwing Nerf balls at retired gym teachers. Survivor's debut tantalized me similarly. But that was an even bigger let down, turning out to be little more than the highlight reel of a two week deprivation experiment. I'm not saying ten days without cheeseburgers and loved ones is easy, however it's a little less challenging (and entertaining) then fending off a four hundred pound lunatic with a chainsaw.
To illustrate my point further, the biggest news out of Hollywood this past week was that Ashton Kutcher blah blah blah Sheen blah blah blah Men blah blah blah. Yawning. DAG NABBIT WHERE'S THE FLIPPING ENTHUSIASM? This is SHOW business. Entertain me. Every person I know has a great idea for a TV show. Here's one of mine.
When Gaddafi is captured in a couple of months, instead of detaining him until a kangaroo court (comprised of lesser men who were too weak to overthrow him without America's help) sends him to the gallows, he should be sent to a secret location in Burbank instead. Every week the deposed dictator will then preside over the fates of four contestants represented by celebrity spokespeople from Mike Tyson, to Gloria Estefan, to Oscar The Grouch and Joe The Plumber.
Each spokesperson will have to try to convince the third world strong man of the validity of their randomly selected subject. Mike Tyson speaking on behalf of contestant Bob Jones from Ceder Rapids, would have to attempt to convince Gaddafi of the value of vouchers for charter schools, while Oscar The Grouch repping contestant Sarah Bronkowski from Portland, Oregon would try to persuade him about the benefits of solar energy, and so on. The three losing contestants will be taken out and shot (not really, but Gaddafi won't know that) and the weekly winner gets a hundred thousand dollars.
Now that's entertainment. Come on TV executives. For god sakes, step it up. In the immortal words of Jessica Savitch (Youtube her) "This is Primetime Television here folks."
But as a ten year old kid at the time, I didn't see what the problem was. I loved Family Feud. I loved Richard Dawson. Damon Killian wasn't such a bad guy either. And the idea of a TV show where violent felons compete in a protracted obstacle course of mortal combat and catastrophic mayhem seemed like a great idea. It still does.
For almost twenty five years now I've waited for this nightmare vision of television's future to come to life. But no. TV is still boring. Maybe not as boring as it was in 1987, but certainly not as exciting as it should be. When American Gladiators came on a couple of years after Running Man I got excited...needlessly. The show was nothing but meat heads in spandex throwing Nerf balls at retired gym teachers. Survivor's debut tantalized me similarly. But that was an even bigger let down, turning out to be little more than the highlight reel of a two week deprivation experiment. I'm not saying ten days without cheeseburgers and loved ones is easy, however it's a little less challenging (and entertaining) then fending off a four hundred pound lunatic with a chainsaw.
To illustrate my point further, the biggest news out of Hollywood this past week was that Ashton Kutcher blah blah blah Sheen blah blah blah Men blah blah blah. Yawning. DAG NABBIT WHERE'S THE FLIPPING ENTHUSIASM? This is SHOW business. Entertain me. Every person I know has a great idea for a TV show. Here's one of mine.
When Gaddafi is captured in a couple of months, instead of detaining him until a kangaroo court (comprised of lesser men who were too weak to overthrow him without America's help) sends him to the gallows, he should be sent to a secret location in Burbank instead. Every week the deposed dictator will then preside over the fates of four contestants represented by celebrity spokespeople from Mike Tyson, to Gloria Estefan, to Oscar The Grouch and Joe The Plumber.
Each spokesperson will have to try to convince the third world strong man of the validity of their randomly selected subject. Mike Tyson speaking on behalf of contestant Bob Jones from Ceder Rapids, would have to attempt to convince Gaddafi of the value of vouchers for charter schools, while Oscar The Grouch repping contestant Sarah Bronkowski from Portland, Oregon would try to persuade him about the benefits of solar energy, and so on. The three losing contestants will be taken out and shot (not really, but Gaddafi won't know that) and the weekly winner gets a hundred thousand dollars.
Now that's entertainment. Come on TV executives. For god sakes, step it up. In the immortal words of Jessica Savitch (Youtube her) "This is Primetime Television here folks."
Friday, May 13, 2011
Wrestling With The Nation's Identity.
*Blogger.com is having some technical issues which their support page says they have almost got the better of. My blog from yesterday May 12 "The Drunk Blog" is a temporary casualty of those issues. Supposedly it will be re-posted soon. Here is today's.*
I'm a pro-wrestling fan. It's an aspect of my personality I've spend countless hours explaining, defending, and justifying. I'm not doing any of that today however. I'm not in the mood. It's fake? Really? More proof exists for the existence of Hulk Hogan than the divinity of Jesus of Nazareth, but no one calls the Pope a piece of dumb white trash. But I digress. Seriously. I'm not getting dragged into that quagmire right now. My point is this. I am a fan, and therefore a follower of sports entertainment. And in that capacity I have noticed some current problems with pro wrestling which also plague American society at large.
1) Too Much Is Expected of Women.
Women in the world of wrestling today are expected to be pretty, to be talented actresses and models, to be in amazing physical condition, to be willing to show their breasts in Playboy, and to be able to wrestle at the highest levels of skill. Wrestling companies are relying too heavily on their female entertainers right now in an attempt to differentiate their product from their main competition, the mixed martial arts industry. It's a band-aid on a more serious problem, and one which will ultimately do more harm than good.
The same problem exists in today's American life. Corporate greed's gutting of the middle class has mandated dual income homes, making it necessary for women to work at least one job while still delivering and raising children, and unfortunately, more often than not, being largely responsible for the up keep of their households. I'm not saying women can't handle it, or in many cases aren't choosing this life style for themselves. But what I am saying is that if this current dynamic is the new cultural norm, expect some serious growing pains to result from it in the next twenty to thirty years.
2) Abject Cluelessness About Fending Off
Aggressive Competition
When The Rock left sports entertainment for Hollywood (a move he is now reversing because of his unfortunate inability to read a script) he left two heirs apparent: John Cena and Brock Lesnar. Cena has done an admirable job as wrestling's alpha-dog, while Lesnar took a cue from half of wrestling's fans and left town for the greener pastures of mixed martial arts. I have the same attitude towards MMA as I do Impressionist Paintings; I couldn't care less, but I respect the talent involved. One of wrestling's appeals to me is completely lacking in MMA. Humor. But I understand why this is also one of MMA's qualities which makes it so popular. The no nonsense intensity of the octagon provides a refuge against the chronic, excruciating ambiguity of everyday life. Wrestling celebrates that ambiguity. Unfortunately its irony and sarcasm haven't saved pro wrestling's profits lost to UFC, and they can't seem to figure out what to do about that.
Hmm can you think about any humorless, monolithic competitor The United States might be facing right now? A competitor we don't have the first semblance of a clue about how to deal with? The kind of competitor whose idea of irony is... well I'll stop there. I want to be able to do business in China one day, and they probably already have a file on me.
3. A General Feeling of Malaise and Pointlessness
Wrestling has fallen into a rut. Constant "heel turns" and title changes, too many pay per views, too many homogeneous characters. The problem is worse than simple boring content however. Every wrestling show I watch has a faint feel of desperation to it, like no one really knows why they're there or what they're supposed to be doing, or who they're doing it for. It's the exact same vibe I get walking through the grocery store, or the hallways of the college I go to. Everyone is just going through the motions, and that becomes less satisfying and more troubling to all of us with each passing day.
I'm a pro-wrestling fan. It's an aspect of my personality I've spend countless hours explaining, defending, and justifying. I'm not doing any of that today however. I'm not in the mood. It's fake? Really? More proof exists for the existence of Hulk Hogan than the divinity of Jesus of Nazareth, but no one calls the Pope a piece of dumb white trash. But I digress. Seriously. I'm not getting dragged into that quagmire right now. My point is this. I am a fan, and therefore a follower of sports entertainment. And in that capacity I have noticed some current problems with pro wrestling which also plague American society at large.
1) Too Much Is Expected of Women.
Women in the world of wrestling today are expected to be pretty, to be talented actresses and models, to be in amazing physical condition, to be willing to show their breasts in Playboy, and to be able to wrestle at the highest levels of skill. Wrestling companies are relying too heavily on their female entertainers right now in an attempt to differentiate their product from their main competition, the mixed martial arts industry. It's a band-aid on a more serious problem, and one which will ultimately do more harm than good.
The same problem exists in today's American life. Corporate greed's gutting of the middle class has mandated dual income homes, making it necessary for women to work at least one job while still delivering and raising children, and unfortunately, more often than not, being largely responsible for the up keep of their households. I'm not saying women can't handle it, or in many cases aren't choosing this life style for themselves. But what I am saying is that if this current dynamic is the new cultural norm, expect some serious growing pains to result from it in the next twenty to thirty years.
2) Abject Cluelessness About Fending Off
Aggressive Competition
When The Rock left sports entertainment for Hollywood (a move he is now reversing because of his unfortunate inability to read a script) he left two heirs apparent: John Cena and Brock Lesnar. Cena has done an admirable job as wrestling's alpha-dog, while Lesnar took a cue from half of wrestling's fans and left town for the greener pastures of mixed martial arts. I have the same attitude towards MMA as I do Impressionist Paintings; I couldn't care less, but I respect the talent involved. One of wrestling's appeals to me is completely lacking in MMA. Humor. But I understand why this is also one of MMA's qualities which makes it so popular. The no nonsense intensity of the octagon provides a refuge against the chronic, excruciating ambiguity of everyday life. Wrestling celebrates that ambiguity. Unfortunately its irony and sarcasm haven't saved pro wrestling's profits lost to UFC, and they can't seem to figure out what to do about that.
Hmm can you think about any humorless, monolithic competitor The United States might be facing right now? A competitor we don't have the first semblance of a clue about how to deal with? The kind of competitor whose idea of irony is... well I'll stop there. I want to be able to do business in China one day, and they probably already have a file on me.
3. A General Feeling of Malaise and Pointlessness
Wrestling has fallen into a rut. Constant "heel turns" and title changes, too many pay per views, too many homogeneous characters. The problem is worse than simple boring content however. Every wrestling show I watch has a faint feel of desperation to it, like no one really knows why they're there or what they're supposed to be doing, or who they're doing it for. It's the exact same vibe I get walking through the grocery store, or the hallways of the college I go to. Everyone is just going through the motions, and that becomes less satisfying and more troubling to all of us with each passing day.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Rage Hall of Fame
Three words angry people hate. Let it go. Obviously it's not that easy. No one, not even the morons who say things like 'let it go' (although they come real close), view the world in such profoundly simplistic terms.
"Let It Go" is no different than telling a meth addict to Just Say No or a victim of a brutal assault to get up and shake it off. However chronic anger isn't viewed through compassionate eyes like substance abuse or physical victimization, even though the damage done to society by festering rage is every bit as detrimental if not more so. But here's the but. At some level, mumble there's some truth to it mumble. What? Fine, I surrender. There's some truth to it, THERE'S SOME TRUTH TO IT. I'll admit that. One or two of the older emotion scorching ruminations broiling in the Enraged mind do need to be purged on a regular basis, (like say weekly) even if it's just done to make room for new ones. This isn't letting go though. It's archiving.
To let go is to admit defeat by diminishing our entire thought process. A thought capable of simply being let go of, suggests that that thought was never worth having in the first place, which impugns an angry person's entire world view. That only makes an Enraged more ferocious.
Archiving is different. To archive is to say to the memory: "Alright, here we are, you and me. I know that no matter what I do, that I can never accept you into the normal fold of my thinking because you will always remind me of my powerlessness at a given point in life, or my lack of material or mental resources. You will always humiliate me and cause me to feel badly about myself. No amount of revenge will make things right between you and I. The best I can hope is that you taught me something useful. So here. Take you place on the wall in the den of my mind. You've earned it. But our relationship of antagonizer and antagonizee is over as of right now."
That's archiving. It's putting things in their proper place and I can accept that. It's taken a long time to get to that point, but I'm here now. So... The Aidan Baker (and my aggravation over having to use my middle initials on this blog to distinguish myself from the Canadian Avant-garde rocker, will not be going in anytime soon) Rage Hall of Fame opens today. Stay tuned to future rants for the naming of the first inductees.
"Let It Go" is no different than telling a meth addict to Just Say No or a victim of a brutal assault to get up and shake it off. However chronic anger isn't viewed through compassionate eyes like substance abuse or physical victimization, even though the damage done to society by festering rage is every bit as detrimental if not more so. But here's the but. At some level, mumble there's some truth to it mumble. What? Fine, I surrender. There's some truth to it, THERE'S SOME TRUTH TO IT. I'll admit that. One or two of the older emotion scorching ruminations broiling in the Enraged mind do need to be purged on a regular basis, (like say weekly) even if it's just done to make room for new ones. This isn't letting go though. It's archiving.
To let go is to admit defeat by diminishing our entire thought process. A thought capable of simply being let go of, suggests that that thought was never worth having in the first place, which impugns an angry person's entire world view. That only makes an Enraged more ferocious.
Archiving is different. To archive is to say to the memory: "Alright, here we are, you and me. I know that no matter what I do, that I can never accept you into the normal fold of my thinking because you will always remind me of my powerlessness at a given point in life, or my lack of material or mental resources. You will always humiliate me and cause me to feel badly about myself. No amount of revenge will make things right between you and I. The best I can hope is that you taught me something useful. So here. Take you place on the wall in the den of my mind. You've earned it. But our relationship of antagonizer and antagonizee is over as of right now."
That's archiving. It's putting things in their proper place and I can accept that. It's taken a long time to get to that point, but I'm here now. So... The Aidan Baker (and my aggravation over having to use my middle initials on this blog to distinguish myself from the Canadian Avant-garde rocker, will not be going in anytime soon) Rage Hall of Fame opens today. Stay tuned to future rants for the naming of the first inductees.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Him Down Stairs
I have absolutely nothing to say today, but an overwhelming urge to say it. No choice but to make it a hodge-podge day.
- If you haven't seen The Original Kings of Comedy in a while, or ever, get it into your Netflix queue. I was watching some clips on Youtube earlier from the sadly gone and greatly missed Bernie Mac's portion of the concert. I couldn't breathe.
- I learned in biology class this morning that all strains of the flu begin at their basic level in birds. This is probably common knowledge for most people but I was heretofore unaware. I hate birds. I've hated them for many years, and even before I began actively hating them I never held them in very high regard. Alfred Hitchcock is a hero of mine. There are two main things about the man which I admire. First he showed that misanthropic, other-than-handsome fat guys can be very successful in the entertainment industry. Second he hated birds and actors. If you're going to hate something, you can't go wrong with either of those.
- I have an insane neighbor who lets his yappy (but I'll admit cute) dog outside, and stands in the door way watching it. The moment the dog starts to bark, which never takes longer than three seconds from the time its been let out, the man says "Well come back in if you're going to bark like that." This happens countless times throughout the day from the early morning until very late into the night.
- From this moment on I vow to not let my father's inability/refusal to properly integrate his cell phone into his life frustrate me.
- Thinking of writing a new novel lately, but no one, other than my poor, long suffering dad who I poked fun of in the previous point, read the last one. And rejection letters? "Send us a self addressed stamped envelope so we can send you a form letter six months from now telling you what a pile of trash you are." Gets old fast. That's why the writers who make it have to really, REALLY love to write. To paraphrase Hannibal Lecter, I myself, do not. I just like acclaim and attention. There are far easier routes to that end then birthing another unwanted, unsolicited manuscript into this cold, mean world.
- Part of my humor has always been imagining people I know, from casual acquaintances at work, to the closest of friends and family, having to interact with each other in awkward social situations. From my vast knowledge attained in my two community college psychology classes I'm guessing this is because that as a child of divorced parents I probably used to imagine my mom and dad still together (significantly hilarious in its own right), and then from there it was a short jump to picturing other scenarios like my rigid, scathingly sarcastic Grandpa Jim, Jake, a fast talking African American manic depressive I met in group therapy a few years ago, and my third grade teacher in catholic school Sister Anna D'Ohucchi, all trying to change the flat tire on a car together. Now I do this with my "friends on chat" group at any given time on Facebook. I picture these often vastly disparate people trying to search for buried treasure on an island or riding in a hot air balloon together. Try it yourself. It's funnier than hell.
- I'm not so sure about the ethics of college homework. We paid our money to be there, leave us the hell alone. Sure, test us on the material, fine. But all these papers and BS, nope. Something is wrong with that equation.
- Sorry January Jones, the new sexiest woman on television is Brandi Passante from Storage Wars. Yyyyyyyuppp.
- When you do the right things or are in the right place for where you want to be in life, there will be signs indicating that. Guaranteed.
-Who's Arnold Schwarzenegger going to end up with? I'm genuinely curious about that.
Have a great night everybody.
- If you haven't seen The Original Kings of Comedy in a while, or ever, get it into your Netflix queue. I was watching some clips on Youtube earlier from the sadly gone and greatly missed Bernie Mac's portion of the concert. I couldn't breathe.
- I learned in biology class this morning that all strains of the flu begin at their basic level in birds. This is probably common knowledge for most people but I was heretofore unaware. I hate birds. I've hated them for many years, and even before I began actively hating them I never held them in very high regard. Alfred Hitchcock is a hero of mine. There are two main things about the man which I admire. First he showed that misanthropic, other-than-handsome fat guys can be very successful in the entertainment industry. Second he hated birds and actors. If you're going to hate something, you can't go wrong with either of those.
- I have an insane neighbor who lets his yappy (but I'll admit cute) dog outside, and stands in the door way watching it. The moment the dog starts to bark, which never takes longer than three seconds from the time its been let out, the man says "Well come back in if you're going to bark like that." This happens countless times throughout the day from the early morning until very late into the night.
- From this moment on I vow to not let my father's inability/refusal to properly integrate his cell phone into his life frustrate me.
- Thinking of writing a new novel lately, but no one, other than my poor, long suffering dad who I poked fun of in the previous point, read the last one. And rejection letters? "Send us a self addressed stamped envelope so we can send you a form letter six months from now telling you what a pile of trash you are." Gets old fast. That's why the writers who make it have to really, REALLY love to write. To paraphrase Hannibal Lecter, I myself, do not. I just like acclaim and attention. There are far easier routes to that end then birthing another unwanted, unsolicited manuscript into this cold, mean world.
- Part of my humor has always been imagining people I know, from casual acquaintances at work, to the closest of friends and family, having to interact with each other in awkward social situations. From my vast knowledge attained in my two community college psychology classes I'm guessing this is because that as a child of divorced parents I probably used to imagine my mom and dad still together (significantly hilarious in its own right), and then from there it was a short jump to picturing other scenarios like my rigid, scathingly sarcastic Grandpa Jim, Jake, a fast talking African American manic depressive I met in group therapy a few years ago, and my third grade teacher in catholic school Sister Anna D'Ohucchi, all trying to change the flat tire on a car together. Now I do this with my "friends on chat" group at any given time on Facebook. I picture these often vastly disparate people trying to search for buried treasure on an island or riding in a hot air balloon together. Try it yourself. It's funnier than hell.
- I'm not so sure about the ethics of college homework. We paid our money to be there, leave us the hell alone. Sure, test us on the material, fine. But all these papers and BS, nope. Something is wrong with that equation.
- Sorry January Jones, the new sexiest woman on television is Brandi Passante from Storage Wars. Yyyyyyyuppp.
- When you do the right things or are in the right place for where you want to be in life, there will be signs indicating that. Guaranteed.
-Who's Arnold Schwarzenegger going to end up with? I'm genuinely curious about that.
Have a great night everybody.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Let Them Eat Lab Grown Monster Shank
So it's spring and ohhhh my how 'bout those (insert gender to which you are most attracted here). For me it's women. I'm happy about that. I like my male friends too much to want to complicate things. Women in May. Grrrrrrrrr. But it's more than just the normal lust laden Spring fever I'm feeling right now. Maybe it's because the past winter was so unending and merciless but the arrival of this long awaited nice weather has caused my glands to churn up some kind of testosterone hybrid, a T Plus, a super charged cave man quality, macho spike in my blood that has me feeling beastly. Yesterday there were bag pipers playing near my house for some reason. I don't know if there was a parade I wasn't aware of or what, but regardless of why they were being played, their effect on me was palpable. The sound awakened a dormant Highlander war instinct in the Scottish portion of my DNA. All I wanted to do was don a kilt and go battle a neighboring tribe. The ice cream man drove by ringing his happy bell. My instincts roared at me to run outside and attack him, forcing the hapless SOB to watch me pack one ice cream sandwich after the next into my voracious, sneering mouth. I did some push ups and went for a short, wheezing, fat guy jog instead, but the physical activity did nothing to scratch the itch. And I know I'm not the only one walking around with an itch that needs to be scratched.
There's an abundance of restless, unused energy in the populous these days. Not just Spring time energy, but a vestigial kind too, energy left over from the thousands of years we needed it to plow fields and somehow turn wool we sheered an hour earlier into a pair of pants. It's always there, but in times of global chaos like we're in now, people are much more keenly aware of it. I don't know what can be done, but I do know, when left unfocused, that it's this energy which leads to trouble. In tough times it's the fuel that causes torches to be lit and guillotines to be sharpened. I've mulled over some solutions to help my pals in the richest one percent avoid that kind of trouble. Not surprisingly each one is more absurd than the next.
Everyone loves the Chip N Dale rejects beheading each other on Spartacus, but a real life return to The Arena poses too many problems in this modern age, so that's out. Cordon off America into a landscape of independent city states and manipulate them to war with each other? I think there's potential in that one, but you'd have to think it would take a lot of leg work to get up and running. My best thought owes much to the throngs of people hoping for a real life 'zombie day' but involves unleashing a bio-engineered species of giant man eating monsters on the country instead. I'm sure the technology exists, and really the idea is not without its checks in the PRO column. Five dollar a gallon gas doesn't seem so bad when you're buying it to flee from something trying to devour your family. Neighbors who go out of their way not to talk to each other would become fast friends if doing so meant defending their neighborhoods from an encroaching colossus. No time to sit and fume, zoning out in front of Pawn Star reruns while contemplating how much you hate your job and your house and your life, when there is something at that moment headed your way to make dinner out of you. Unleashing giant man eating monsters could rejuvenate the fleeting sense of community in America, uniting people in their slaying of them, bringing citizens together as they dine on cuts of the beasts' barbecued flesh afterwards. It would give people a new sense of purpose... and might even save some poor, unsuspecting ice cream men from grievous bodily harm and otherwise happy go lucky bloggers from extended prison terms as well.
There's an abundance of restless, unused energy in the populous these days. Not just Spring time energy, but a vestigial kind too, energy left over from the thousands of years we needed it to plow fields and somehow turn wool we sheered an hour earlier into a pair of pants. It's always there, but in times of global chaos like we're in now, people are much more keenly aware of it. I don't know what can be done, but I do know, when left unfocused, that it's this energy which leads to trouble. In tough times it's the fuel that causes torches to be lit and guillotines to be sharpened. I've mulled over some solutions to help my pals in the richest one percent avoid that kind of trouble. Not surprisingly each one is more absurd than the next.
Everyone loves the Chip N Dale rejects beheading each other on Spartacus, but a real life return to The Arena poses too many problems in this modern age, so that's out. Cordon off America into a landscape of independent city states and manipulate them to war with each other? I think there's potential in that one, but you'd have to think it would take a lot of leg work to get up and running. My best thought owes much to the throngs of people hoping for a real life 'zombie day' but involves unleashing a bio-engineered species of giant man eating monsters on the country instead. I'm sure the technology exists, and really the idea is not without its checks in the PRO column. Five dollar a gallon gas doesn't seem so bad when you're buying it to flee from something trying to devour your family. Neighbors who go out of their way not to talk to each other would become fast friends if doing so meant defending their neighborhoods from an encroaching colossus. No time to sit and fume, zoning out in front of Pawn Star reruns while contemplating how much you hate your job and your house and your life, when there is something at that moment headed your way to make dinner out of you. Unleashing giant man eating monsters could rejuvenate the fleeting sense of community in America, uniting people in their slaying of them, bringing citizens together as they dine on cuts of the beasts' barbecued flesh afterwards. It would give people a new sense of purpose... and might even save some poor, unsuspecting ice cream men from grievous bodily harm and otherwise happy go lucky bloggers from extended prison terms as well.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Cranky This Morning
A few words about the media's coverage of Manny Pacquiao. In no other sport are the game time victories of that particular sport's top athlete(s) covered in conjunction with their off field accomplishments. The very thought of doing so is absurd. Imagine if every time Kobe and The Lakers won a game, in addition to summarizing the lay ups and assists, the writer also described the success of each players' stock portfolio? Ludicrous. It just wouldn't happen. Yet every time Manny Pacquiao wins a fight, the ensuing articles and broadcast stories give a superficial, almost dismissive recap of his jabs and left hooks, before brushing all of that aside and going into elaborate detail about his political success in the Philippines. This is endemic of the main stream media's arrogance and elitism.
Let me stop there for a moment. I understand that last line is a pat sound byte of right wing lunacy. Conservative commentators have made major news organizations villains in their fanciful tales told to propagate false consciousness in the working class. That's not what I'm doing. I understand George Soros hasn't instructed hack sports journalists to write lousy articles about Manny Pacquiao as part of a communist plot to subvert our precious bodily fluids. What I am saying however is that the spoiled, never-had-to-work-an-honest-day-in-their-lives, Ivy League MA in Journalism news editors who oversee these stories find prize fighting to be an affront to their sophisticated sensibilities. If it was up to them they would ignore the sport entirely. Why don't they? Because they answer to bosses, who answer to bosses, who work for the CEOs who run news organizations' parent companies which earn hundreds of millions of dollars each year from domestic and international boxing pay per view buys, and do so because contrary to these news editors' snobbish biases, boxing is a highly strategic, extremely cerebral living chess match, requiring levels of physical superiority and mental acuity as stringent, if not more so, than any other form of competition known to mankind. So when this sport's most talented figure and prolific money earner fights, news editors have to make room to cover it.
But they don't have to be happy about it. Their constant mentioning of Pacquiao's election to the Philippine House of Representatives is nothing more than juvenile passive-aggression with which they feel they are somehow distancing themselves from boxing's distasteful presence. "Yes Pacquiao threw some punches in the brutal human cock-fight his poverty marred childhood forced him into, but that ugliness is just a means to a more noble end. He is after all a congressman in his beloved homeland. Isn't that splendid?" This condescending arrogance is an unmitigated assault on the sport of boxing and its millions of followers. Every American, fight fan or otherwise, should be appalled. Have a nice Sunday everybody.
Let me stop there for a moment. I understand that last line is a pat sound byte of right wing lunacy. Conservative commentators have made major news organizations villains in their fanciful tales told to propagate false consciousness in the working class. That's not what I'm doing. I understand George Soros hasn't instructed hack sports journalists to write lousy articles about Manny Pacquiao as part of a communist plot to subvert our precious bodily fluids. What I am saying however is that the spoiled, never-had-to-work-an-honest-day-in-their-lives, Ivy League MA in Journalism news editors who oversee these stories find prize fighting to be an affront to their sophisticated sensibilities. If it was up to them they would ignore the sport entirely. Why don't they? Because they answer to bosses, who answer to bosses, who work for the CEOs who run news organizations' parent companies which earn hundreds of millions of dollars each year from domestic and international boxing pay per view buys, and do so because contrary to these news editors' snobbish biases, boxing is a highly strategic, extremely cerebral living chess match, requiring levels of physical superiority and mental acuity as stringent, if not more so, than any other form of competition known to mankind. So when this sport's most talented figure and prolific money earner fights, news editors have to make room to cover it.
But they don't have to be happy about it. Their constant mentioning of Pacquiao's election to the Philippine House of Representatives is nothing more than juvenile passive-aggression with which they feel they are somehow distancing themselves from boxing's distasteful presence. "Yes Pacquiao threw some punches in the brutal human cock-fight his poverty marred childhood forced him into, but that ugliness is just a means to a more noble end. He is after all a congressman in his beloved homeland. Isn't that splendid?" This condescending arrogance is an unmitigated assault on the sport of boxing and its millions of followers. Every American, fight fan or otherwise, should be appalled. Have a nice Sunday everybody.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Barbara in Cleveland, You're On The Air
Too much on my mind today, and my attention span is paying the price. That means the usual three loosely related paragraphs I would normally write require far too much concentration. I have to go Larry King style.
- The Kentucky Derby is hard to think about in any terms outside of Onion headlines. "Impending Knee Cappers' Strike Sends Derby Betting To Record High", "Archarcharch Wins Derby, Tells Stunned Reporters He Plans On Throwing Hat Into 2012 Republican Primary, "Derby Attendees Show Shockingly Little Concern For Economy, Poor In General" and so on. You have to love The Onion.
- I don't know where Ibiza is, but I do know it doesn't rhyme even remotely with Africa. I'm a fan of J-Lo's. I've watched The Cell and Maid in Manhattan countless times. But I just can't give her a pass on that one.
- Went to the first communion of the son of a good friend of mine this morning. It kind of warmed my heart to see all the Alternative Life Style Uncle Bruces and Ex-Con Cousin Chucks and all the other godless heathen interlopers like myself put on uncomfortable clothes and go sit in uncomfortable pews for an hour to pay respect to something greater than ourselves. It reminded me, why despite all my anger and cynicism, I actually love being alive. I'm not even going to make fun of the fact that the priest, while making the analogy between the body of christ and other food that is "good" for us, mentioned more than once that his favorite fruit is the banana. I have to remember that not everyone in the world spends the bulk of their existence setting up or knocking down punchlines.
- Fired up the lawn mower and showed the grass blades who their God is for the second time in as many weeks. I actually like mowing the lawn these days. Sign I'm getting old.
- Matters of the heart tend to be too complicated.
Alright, so really only the last comment was done in true Larry King style. It takes a media icon to state the obvious with authority. I miss Larry King on TV. Sure, like everyone else I rarely watched his show for more than five minutes every few weeks, but I derived a great deal of comfort knowing he was there. Piers Morgan has a quality, but I'd be very surprised if television has heard the last of Mr. King.
- The Kentucky Derby is hard to think about in any terms outside of Onion headlines. "Impending Knee Cappers' Strike Sends Derby Betting To Record High", "Archarcharch Wins Derby, Tells Stunned Reporters He Plans On Throwing Hat Into 2012 Republican Primary, "Derby Attendees Show Shockingly Little Concern For Economy, Poor In General" and so on. You have to love The Onion.
- I don't know where Ibiza is, but I do know it doesn't rhyme even remotely with Africa. I'm a fan of J-Lo's. I've watched The Cell and Maid in Manhattan countless times. But I just can't give her a pass on that one.
- Went to the first communion of the son of a good friend of mine this morning. It kind of warmed my heart to see all the Alternative Life Style Uncle Bruces and Ex-Con Cousin Chucks and all the other godless heathen interlopers like myself put on uncomfortable clothes and go sit in uncomfortable pews for an hour to pay respect to something greater than ourselves. It reminded me, why despite all my anger and cynicism, I actually love being alive. I'm not even going to make fun of the fact that the priest, while making the analogy between the body of christ and other food that is "good" for us, mentioned more than once that his favorite fruit is the banana. I have to remember that not everyone in the world spends the bulk of their existence setting up or knocking down punchlines.
- Fired up the lawn mower and showed the grass blades who their God is for the second time in as many weeks. I actually like mowing the lawn these days. Sign I'm getting old.
- Matters of the heart tend to be too complicated.
Alright, so really only the last comment was done in true Larry King style. It takes a media icon to state the obvious with authority. I miss Larry King on TV. Sure, like everyone else I rarely watched his show for more than five minutes every few weeks, but I derived a great deal of comfort knowing he was there. Piers Morgan has a quality, but I'd be very surprised if television has heard the last of Mr. King.
Friday, May 6, 2011
A Failing of The Flesh
I'm in awe of intelligent people. The knowledge they possess, the problems they are able to solve...astounding. I am not an intelligent person. While reading the Cinco De Mayo page on Wikipedia yesterday my head started to spin. After muscling my way to the end, all I got out of it was that there was a battle somewhere in Mexico a long time ago, and somehow the French were involved. However while I am not intelligent, I do understand a couple of things. One of those, is that people who are intelligent, and the intelligent person domain of technology, continue to fail the rest of us in so many ways, that you would need one of their smarty pants mathematical formulas to calculate the figure.
The vast array of topics falling under the 'short comings of technology' umbrella constitute about a third of my daily tirades so it's safe to assume the subject will have a prominent role on this blog page. My bone of contention with technology today? It's heretofore colossal ineptitude at making us comfortable in our own skin.
1. Tattoos
"It's a Strong Flower because, well my Grandma just passed, and she always called me her little flower, and she was a strong woman so to honor her I got this picture of what I call a Strong Flower tattooed on my forearm with the Latin words for Strong Flower in cursive around my wrist." In its own way, a very sweet, meaningful gesture. Still, at thirty the woman who got that tattoo at nineteen may come to understand that she has honored her grandmother's memory by becoming a powerful, independent, loving woman and mother herself, and that maybe the "Strong Flower" tattoo is, at that point in her life, a little silly. Technology's current solutions should she seek its removal are woefully limited. Lights, lasers, special reverse inks, and the patch of skin will still be far from its pre tattooed condition? They're kidding right? Are we still hunters and gatherers? Obviously great minds are working hard on this now as the need for skin "re-canvasing" is becoming a more common situation, but come on. Progress should be much further along.
2. Skin Tone and Body/Facial Hair
As I said above I am not intelligent. Another thing I'm not...handsome. In fact I am Traditionally Unhandsome. Some hallmarks of this classic look are shockingly pale skin and enough back hair to knit a Christmas scarf. Fortunately I am the only human being on the planet dissatisfied with their complexion and hair situation. I sleep better at night knowing no one else in the Human Family has to suffer similarly. It's a tremendous weight off my shoulders to know there aren't BILLIONS of other people with the same exact concerns. Everyone else enjoys tanning salons and shaving, and waxing, and spending thousands of dollars on laser treatments, and the feeling of having hair in places where they don't want it, when they don't want it there, or not having it in places where and when they do. I'm the only one with that complaint, so you're right Technology, keep turning a deaf ear. Forgive me for forgetting who the smart one is.
I mean, MIT and Stanford are still in business right? An android should be typing this right now while I contemplate the universe in a transcendental state from the comfort of my hover mattress. Instead I have to go now because I need to spend half an hour shaving my face with a sharpened piece of metal and a bowl of hot water like a Mesopotamian sheep herder. You haven't heard the last of me Technology. I assure you.
The vast array of topics falling under the 'short comings of technology' umbrella constitute about a third of my daily tirades so it's safe to assume the subject will have a prominent role on this blog page. My bone of contention with technology today? It's heretofore colossal ineptitude at making us comfortable in our own skin.
1. Tattoos
"It's a Strong Flower because, well my Grandma just passed, and she always called me her little flower, and she was a strong woman so to honor her I got this picture of what I call a Strong Flower tattooed on my forearm with the Latin words for Strong Flower in cursive around my wrist." In its own way, a very sweet, meaningful gesture. Still, at thirty the woman who got that tattoo at nineteen may come to understand that she has honored her grandmother's memory by becoming a powerful, independent, loving woman and mother herself, and that maybe the "Strong Flower" tattoo is, at that point in her life, a little silly. Technology's current solutions should she seek its removal are woefully limited. Lights, lasers, special reverse inks, and the patch of skin will still be far from its pre tattooed condition? They're kidding right? Are we still hunters and gatherers? Obviously great minds are working hard on this now as the need for skin "re-canvasing" is becoming a more common situation, but come on. Progress should be much further along.
2. Skin Tone and Body/Facial Hair
As I said above I am not intelligent. Another thing I'm not...handsome. In fact I am Traditionally Unhandsome. Some hallmarks of this classic look are shockingly pale skin and enough back hair to knit a Christmas scarf. Fortunately I am the only human being on the planet dissatisfied with their complexion and hair situation. I sleep better at night knowing no one else in the Human Family has to suffer similarly. It's a tremendous weight off my shoulders to know there aren't BILLIONS of other people with the same exact concerns. Everyone else enjoys tanning salons and shaving, and waxing, and spending thousands of dollars on laser treatments, and the feeling of having hair in places where they don't want it, when they don't want it there, or not having it in places where and when they do. I'm the only one with that complaint, so you're right Technology, keep turning a deaf ear. Forgive me for forgetting who the smart one is.
I mean, MIT and Stanford are still in business right? An android should be typing this right now while I contemplate the universe in a transcendental state from the comfort of my hover mattress. Instead I have to go now because I need to spend half an hour shaving my face with a sharpened piece of metal and a bowl of hot water like a Mesopotamian sheep herder. You haven't heard the last of me Technology. I assure you.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Read Closely For A Secret Message
Once thought of as only a symptom of chronic, prolific mental illness, delusional paranoia has existed as a dirty little secret for far too long. Fortunately that's changing. The 9/11 folks, The Birthers, and now The Corpsers, all deserve credit for this positive change in societal norms. As a long time sufferer myself, I'm stepping boldly into the dawn of this new judgement free age, shedding the shackles of shame, and publicly decrying three plots you and you loved ones should be very, very worried about.
1. The Sleep Epidemic
As few as ten years ago The American Medical Association recommended 6 hours minimum nightly sleep for adults. Now that number has increased to between 8 and 10 hours. Meanwhile researchers have failed to provide any conclusive evidence that human beings slept at all prior to the year 1867. Pharmaceutical companies, alarm clock makers and mattress manufacturers are literally stealing our lives. Be aware.
2. The Myth of Grandparents
Sure they say they're related to us, but can they prove it?
3. Old Barns
We've all driven down country roads and seen these insidious structures lurking behind the facades of otherwise placid rural homesteads. What's going on inside them? What's being stored? What's being manufactured? It's not all rusty tractor parts and cobwebby furniture I assure you. And sure, whiskey stills, meth labs, marijuana gardens, pipe bomb workshops and serial killer s/m dungeons are part of the story, but they compose only a small portion of the entire picture. What else are those clever salt of the earth up to in their clapboard laboratories of mayhem? Society can not abide the innate safety hazards associated with a flying lawn mower or a 1979 American sedan powered by four Harley engines and a pot belly stove. More worrisome still is what the government may be storing in these so called "barns". A large number of farm owners receive money in government crop subsidies. Are we really supposed to believe the government isn't asking for something in return? "Store this UFO wreckage Farmer Brown." "Why sure, I'd be glad to young fella'." It's for these reasons that I'm calling for the creation of a government funded, third party monitored website called www.barnwatch.gov (not a real link) where concerned citizens can have twenty four hour, seven day a week video access to every private barn, shed and out building in the united states. The mystery has been allowed to fester for too long.
We must remain ever vigilant America. The Truth is the inalienable God given right of the people.
1. The Sleep Epidemic
As few as ten years ago The American Medical Association recommended 6 hours minimum nightly sleep for adults. Now that number has increased to between 8 and 10 hours. Meanwhile researchers have failed to provide any conclusive evidence that human beings slept at all prior to the year 1867. Pharmaceutical companies, alarm clock makers and mattress manufacturers are literally stealing our lives. Be aware.
2. The Myth of Grandparents
Sure they say they're related to us, but can they prove it?
3. Old Barns
We've all driven down country roads and seen these insidious structures lurking behind the facades of otherwise placid rural homesteads. What's going on inside them? What's being stored? What's being manufactured? It's not all rusty tractor parts and cobwebby furniture I assure you. And sure, whiskey stills, meth labs, marijuana gardens, pipe bomb workshops and serial killer s/m dungeons are part of the story, but they compose only a small portion of the entire picture. What else are those clever salt of the earth up to in their clapboard laboratories of mayhem? Society can not abide the innate safety hazards associated with a flying lawn mower or a 1979 American sedan powered by four Harley engines and a pot belly stove. More worrisome still is what the government may be storing in these so called "barns". A large number of farm owners receive money in government crop subsidies. Are we really supposed to believe the government isn't asking for something in return? "Store this UFO wreckage Farmer Brown." "Why sure, I'd be glad to young fella'." It's for these reasons that I'm calling for the creation of a government funded, third party monitored website called www.barnwatch.gov (not a real link) where concerned citizens can have twenty four hour, seven day a week video access to every private barn, shed and out building in the united states. The mystery has been allowed to fester for too long.
We must remain ever vigilant America. The Truth is the inalienable God given right of the people.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
First Things Bleeping Last
"A blog topic about show business? Really? I didn't know you could talk about that sort of thing on the internet."
Yes it's unnecessary and cliche but those adjectives can be used to describe a lot of the things I do. I am however (baring any especially newsworthy occurrences) restricting my entertainment industry blogging to one day a week. We'll see how well that works.
Today let's travel back in time to address one of the many horrible omissions and oversights by The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. This particular catastrophe concerns the 1992 nominees for best supporting actor, and more specifically, the fact that Chris Penn for his role as Nice Guy Eddie in Reservoir Dogs was not on the list. Here's who was.
- Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men. Obviously. Classic role, classic movie. Almost twenty years later I still haven't gone a week without hearing someone, somewhere throw out a "You can't handle the truth."
-Al Pacino in Glengarry Glen Ross. Again, fine. Some of the best on-screen dialogue ever written, delivered to perfection by a ridiculously talented cast, of which Pacino's star burned the brightest.
-Gene Hackman for Unforgiven. The winner. An iconic performance in my number one favorite movie of all time.
Now things get a little silly.
-David Paymer for Mr. Saturday Night. Talented character actor. Loved him in Mel Gibson's Payback. He showed a great sense of humor poking a little bit of fun at himself in a recent cell phone commercial. But while he gave a solid performance it wasn't remarkable. The film was the creative baby of Billy Crystal, who Hollywood loves, and for good reason. Unfortunately Mr. Saturday Night wasn't loved by critics or movie goers. Paymer's nomination was a consolatory gift to Billy Crystal.
Now things get preposterous.
Jaye Davidson. Who? The cross dresser from A Crying Game. A Crying Game? What the hell is that? It's an alright movie, but more importantly, a case study in the free media hype male full frontal nudity was able to get you back then. Nominated for having a male sexual organ, nothing more.
Chris Penn on the other hand gave a powerhouse performance in Reservoir Dogs. Like Pacino in Glengarry, Penn was surrounded by amazing actors, and he towered above them all. He was a physical embodiment of the film's dark humor and raw, bad guy machismo. Penn portrayed a career criminal straddling the line of requisite professionalism and the churning sea of anti-social rage simmering just below his surface to perfection. Brilliant, brilliant stuff. Unfortunately Hollywood was still trying to figure out Quentin Tarantino back then. While they were scratching their heads, they let an amazing performance escape the attention it was due.
Sadly Chris Penn passed away in 2006. His legacy lives on however, every time myself and the millions of other nerd-ish Tarantino fans watch Reservoir Dogs and recite each line verbatim. Nice Guy Eddie's are my favorite. I'm not the only one who feels that way. Thank you for that Mr. Penn. We really appreciate it.
Yes it's unnecessary and cliche but those adjectives can be used to describe a lot of the things I do. I am however (baring any especially newsworthy occurrences) restricting my entertainment industry blogging to one day a week. We'll see how well that works.
Today let's travel back in time to address one of the many horrible omissions and oversights by The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. This particular catastrophe concerns the 1992 nominees for best supporting actor, and more specifically, the fact that Chris Penn for his role as Nice Guy Eddie in Reservoir Dogs was not on the list. Here's who was.
- Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men. Obviously. Classic role, classic movie. Almost twenty years later I still haven't gone a week without hearing someone, somewhere throw out a "You can't handle the truth."
-Al Pacino in Glengarry Glen Ross. Again, fine. Some of the best on-screen dialogue ever written, delivered to perfection by a ridiculously talented cast, of which Pacino's star burned the brightest.
-Gene Hackman for Unforgiven. The winner. An iconic performance in my number one favorite movie of all time.
Now things get a little silly.
-David Paymer for Mr. Saturday Night. Talented character actor. Loved him in Mel Gibson's Payback. He showed a great sense of humor poking a little bit of fun at himself in a recent cell phone commercial. But while he gave a solid performance it wasn't remarkable. The film was the creative baby of Billy Crystal, who Hollywood loves, and for good reason. Unfortunately Mr. Saturday Night wasn't loved by critics or movie goers. Paymer's nomination was a consolatory gift to Billy Crystal.
Now things get preposterous.
Jaye Davidson. Who? The cross dresser from A Crying Game. A Crying Game? What the hell is that? It's an alright movie, but more importantly, a case study in the free media hype male full frontal nudity was able to get you back then. Nominated for having a male sexual organ, nothing more.
Chris Penn on the other hand gave a powerhouse performance in Reservoir Dogs. Like Pacino in Glengarry, Penn was surrounded by amazing actors, and he towered above them all. He was a physical embodiment of the film's dark humor and raw, bad guy machismo. Penn portrayed a career criminal straddling the line of requisite professionalism and the churning sea of anti-social rage simmering just below his surface to perfection. Brilliant, brilliant stuff. Unfortunately Hollywood was still trying to figure out Quentin Tarantino back then. While they were scratching their heads, they let an amazing performance escape the attention it was due.
Sadly Chris Penn passed away in 2006. His legacy lives on however, every time myself and the millions of other nerd-ish Tarantino fans watch Reservoir Dogs and recite each line verbatim. Nice Guy Eddie's are my favorite. I'm not the only one who feels that way. Thank you for that Mr. Penn. We really appreciate it.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
The High School Principal of Days
It's been said Tuesday is the most productive day of the week. Monday people are upset that it's Monday, Wednesday they are looking forward to Thursday, Thursday they are looking forward to Friday, Friday they call in or get drunk or stoned on their lunch break, and do the bare minimum to not get fired. But on Tuesday people begrudgingly commit to accomplishing something. However there's more to the Tuesday vibe than all that.
Being the capstone of the week for all these years has made Tuesday something of a prick. If you magically transformed all seven days into people and invited them over for a dinner party, Tuesday would be The Unamused. If you're a decent human being you might not have any idea what I'm talking about. If on the other hand you are a liar and a scoundrel like me, you know exactly what I mean. The Unamused is that one person we pray won't be in the room with us in any given situation. Not only are these people wholly invulnerable to our charm and shinery, but they expose us as the shallow hucksters we are. Worse, the more malicious of The Unamused sometimes go further, saying something which challenges us to put aside the B.S. and become more complete people. Depraved cruelty.
My high school principal was an Unamused. A brilliant man, talented teacher, and passionate educator, but the living embodiment of Tuesday in every way. He was even tall and pretty well built so, as is the case with Tuesday, you couldn't just sneak past him in the hall. You had to interact with him. These interactions always ended with my being rattled and him looking smugly satisfied, because while he forced an interaction, he also had no time or patience for my or anyone elses' nonsense. Just like Tuesday.
So my friends give Tuesday your best. He only gets 14.286 percent of our lives. And tomorrow is Wednesday, a sweet girl, always susceptible to a wink and a smile.
Monday, May 2, 2011
See Moms, It Can Always Be Worse
So Osama Bin Laden has been taken out by Navy Seals. This has its pros and cons, and the Political Me could go on and on and on about both sides. However Political Me comprises an infinitesimally small percentage of my being. The majority of The Aidan Baker Psyche is made up of the Selfish, Machiavellian Me, and hot damn that part of Me couldn't be happier. Not because America's Enemy Number One was finally put down. No. To Selfish Me that doesn't matter at all. What does matter is that he was eliminated so close to Mothers' Day.
Mothers' Day, like every holiday, involves a certain degree of make believe. Children pretend their mothers are June Cleaver, flawless, selfless caregivers always there for them with a warm cookie, a soothing hug, and an encouraging, loving word. Meanwhile mothers pretend their children were worth twenty hours of agonizing, life threatening labor and the forgoing of their bodies, careers, hopes and dreams. The better the mother/child relationship, the easier this day of pretending is for everybody. For those of us where it 'aint so good, that pretending is excruciating. And as every son or daughter in this situation knows, the ownness of blame for the strained relationship rests solely on our shoulders. We're the ones who are never on time, or don't know how to dress right, or didn't do the right thing at the right time, or didn't finish law school, or blew the inheritance, or got our seventh DUI. Mothers are the poor long suffering victims of circumstance who would drop dead but for their disappointment.
But this year my friends, that changes. We have a brief reprieve. This year mothers will have spent the entire previous week hearing the name and seeing the face of Evil Incarnate everywhere they turn. Each time a vapid news-bot puppet head says the words Osama Bin Laden, it is a chink in the armor of our mothers' shame. Sure we might have spilled paint on the eight thousand dollar Persian rug when we were six, or knocked up a waitress in our twenties who left the baby on their doorstep which they then had to raise, but we never orchestrated a multi national terrorist plot did we? Our double digit credit card debt is nothing compared to the murder of thousands of innocent people. This year when we show up for brunch, hung over and an hour late, we will once again be innocent babies in their loving eyes. Thank you Navy Seals. And God Bless The United States of America.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
The Art of The Deal
Say what you will about him, and for sure there is plenty that can be said, but last night at the White House Correspondents Dinner, Donald Trump got Barrack Obama to not only mention his name, but also the name of his television show, a brief summery of the plot of a recent episode, and Gary Busey. Let me say that again. Last night The President of The United States, the most powerful man in the world, spoke for several minutes about The Celebrity Apprentice, its cast of famous participants, and its star, The Donald himself. Yes the comments were meant to somehow mock or belittle Trump, and maybe they did. However what they DEFINITELY did was momentarily transform the leader of the free world, a brilliant orator, Nobel Laureate and this decade's most important human being, into a pitch man for a TV show. So hate him for his politics, marital history, hair cut, treatment of Merv Griffin or anything else but give credit where it is do. Donald Trump is a publicity maestro.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)