the dead zone

Think we're getting soft? Salon reader says "heck no!"

2005-06-09T15:30:00.000-04:00

On Monday, Salon.com contributor Ayelet Waldman posted an article entitled Blast From the Past. Be forewarned, you may have to sign up for a free subscription in order to read the piece in its entirety. The crux of the story chronicles a boring suburban soccer mom coming to grips with the admittedly shocking and disturbing decision of her grade school children to...play dodgeball. As laughable as that may seem, take a gander at the response of Aaron Singer, devoted Salon reader, and alpha male extraordinaire.

When she was 11, Ms. Waldman protected herself from dodgeball by covering her head with her hands. Apparently, she is resigned to face the game in the same way as an adult. Ms. Waldman must know that someone else's kid is currently experiencing all the misery over dodgeball that she herself so vividly recalls. I am sure that, had one of the jock's parents at her junior high school succeeded in banning the game, she would not have objected. Among the pantheon of institutionally ensconced childhood games, dodgeball clearly stands apart as an analogue for childhood teasing -- allowing pleasure to be taken in causing pain and humiliation; singling out the weak and physically punishing them. That her children enjoy the game doesn't excuse Ms. Waldman's acquiescence.

-- Aaron Singer

They Might Be Unctuous

2005-05-09T23:22:00.000-04:00

I caught about 30 minutes of something called "Gigantic (A Tale of Two Johns)," which turned out to be a rather shallow and unremarkable documentary of quirk-rock geeks They Might Be Giants. Johns Linnell and Flansburgh were amusing in that "you tolerate their droll musings because they're hapless geeks" sort of way, and for the most part, I've loved TMBG for over a decade. I've probably seen them peform live (in some capacity) at least a dozen times, and even had Dial-A-Song on my speed dial at one point. No clue if that number still works.

Anyway, the last few minutes of an otherwise idle bit of nostalgia were marred by one Ira Glass, host of NPR's wildly popular This American Life. I'm not going to get into a critique of that program - I'd sooner wear a Klan hood in Harlem than tolerate NPR and the horrid "cool jazz" lead ins and outs of All Things Considered. Ira Glass, however, stuttered, fumbled, and lisped his way through what amounted to some of the most irritiating and genuinely embarrassing 5 minutes of screen time I've ever seen.

Glass, who for all intents and purposes is to Hipsterdom what Rip Taylor is to comedy, tried fruitlessly to make some garbled point about how he wished Linnell and Flansburgh weren't actually in They Might Be Giants so they could enjoy They Might Be Giants, and how great they'd think the sound was if they were just fans of They Might Be Giants rather than members of They Might Be Giants, and what a burden it must be to know that they can't enjoy the sound of They Might be Giants without creating that sound because...they're in They Might Be Giants. Just watching that hipper-than-thou nitwit try to be "lucid" about an utterly banal rock band was sickening enough, but the fact that people tune into a syndicated radio program hosted by a pretentious 50 year old wearing horn-rimmed glasses and an Urban Outfitters wardrobe is downright insulting. My darling girlfriend, normally so proper and ladylike actually started yelling "shut the fuck up" at the tv screen.

If you happen to pass Ira on the street, or run into him at a David Sedaris reading, grab him by his boney shoulders and ask "You couldn't possibly have been this big of a douche growing up, what the fuck happened?"

Stop trying to be so cute, affected and smug and just cough up an original thought, stupid.

And I say that you're full of shit - part 2

2005-05-03T00:00:00.000-04:00

It's been a long time coming, but I'll finally admit that I just don't get "blogging." I've kicked around the internet for the better part of 11 years, and the longer I dabble in cyberspace, the less relevant a publicly viewable private journal seems to me.

All things considered, I understand the growing importance of the blog as an alternative news source. As each and every mainstream media outlet is riddled with corruption, tainted by agenda, and compromised by spin, I fully recognize the need for a viable voice articulated by the little guy. Sure, I never paid attention to a word Dan Rather said - and like every reasonably intelligent person, stopped acknowledging the guy after that whole wacky "Kenneth" incident - but I sleep better at night knowing that Joe Citizen has a keener eye for Photoshop trickery than CBS News. Even if the little guy is nothing more than a passel of smug and powerless poly sci grads, they got it right while Dan Rather was busy formulating a clumsy exit strategy via early retirement.

And that's all well and good. I respect intrepid little gnomes like Jeff Jarvis, industriously (attempting to) legitimize their forums, whoring themselves deftly within the mainstream's aureole, and ranting with unabashed vim and vigor so as to affect credibility. When Jeff goes on the Howard Stern Show to expose the Gestapo tactics of the FCC, and erroneously lauds Howard as a champion of free speech, I can still hold my chin up proudly. At the end of my long and thankless day of manual labor, I'm happy that someone's taking the time to expose evil and doesn't have the surname Bush, Cheney, or Rumsfeld. That's one of those proud-to-be-an-American things, right?

And, still, that's all well and good. But what's this whole blogging thing really about? Every time I turn around, I see CNN, MSNBC, and FoxNews telling me that online journals are the proverbial cutting edge in electronic communication. Not only is this shit, like, less than a year old, but before MTV gave us the big A-OK, no one even dared dream of recording his thoughts on a website. Thank god AOL told us we can use the internet for something other than pornography, movie piracy, and stemming Lars Ulrich's cash flow, now we actually have a viable means of free expression on the internet! The dirty little secret our corporate friends are quick catching wind of is that saying nothing, and lots of nothing, elicits huge attention these days.

While some of the news bloggers were smart enough to use this tool effectively, an overwhelming number individuals are quite content to squander it. For the rest of the recreational blogging community, when it comes right to down to it, most of you have fuck all to say. Lots of smarmy, self-important tripe about how original or unoriginal you are, fairly shallow and obvious opinions on crappy comics, music, and anime, and horrible existential analyses of trivial personal relationships. Guess what. If you fucked some whore and she didn't call you back, it's not a cosmic crisis. If you're pissed because your new third floor walk-up doesn't accomodate the pink and gold champagne sparkle wallpaper quite like you hoped it would, work it out yourself. If your ugly friend broke her neck in the half pipe at Warped Tour while wearing bad makeup, I'm not going to send her flowers.

I'm fast learning that the internet really is only useful for stealing music and reading about UFOs, the rest of it is just dross. First there were bulletin boards, then newsgroups, then chat rooms, then forums, then instant messaging and so on. And while each was flawed in its own way, at least all encouraged something resembling communication. Then the blog caught on, and people have found that they're a lot happier talking when other people can't really talk back, and for that reason alone, the whole thing stinks. If it's all about self-indulgence, and self-gratification, do we really need to glorify this nonsense?

Please, if you're stupid enough to waste your time and money on garbage, delusional enough to think the rest of us are in any way altered by observations like "my friends don't realize that underneath it all I am but a drone, a slave to an existence I've long since grown weary of, and a life I can't endure to without the gentle shoulder of narcotics...insobriety is my boon companion on this mortal coil," please, cease writing. Your lives are insipid, your sentiments are trite, and your lust for attention is nauseating. Stop it.

Schadenfreude

2005-04-01T07:00:00.000-05:00

Is it wrong to wish death on someone? I often have a difficult time wrapping my head around that little moral dilemma.

Recently, my girlfriend posted something in her blog suggesting that violent sex criminals (pedophiles, rapists, etc.) be allowed to participate in human medical experimentation. I guess the thought is that if embryonic stem cell research is verboten under the law of staunch pro-lifers, then cutting into living, breathing criminals who, ironically, are quite unpopular with the staunch pro-life crowd, is peachy keen. I quite like the idea. And although my girlfriend intends the use of human guinea pigs to help assist our doctors in finding cures for diseases (and, in small part, as a particularly brutal bit of vengeance exacted upon the animals who rape our women and children), I'm led to wonder if the primary appeal is that her plan just gets rid of a bunch of people wasting space and resources.

To anyone who hasn't been living under a rock for the past month, you know that some vegetable called Terri Schiavo is all the rage. Exactly why she's been made the poster child for vegetative martyrdom is beyond me - there are several thousand Americans in the same condition she was, and none seem to have Jeb and George Bush holding daily vigils for them. Alas, Ms. Schiavo was a good Catholic woman in that wacky Florida place that seems to have all the conspiracy theorists in a tizzy, and suddenly it became a matter of supreme importance to the American public. And, by the way, of even greater importance to our uniquely compassionate American media.

Considering this woman had spent nearly 15 years utterly incoherent, and that she was a figure of no importance in my life or anyone I care about, I couldn't even begin to bring myself to give the slightest fuck about the entire situation. Call me cold or insensitive, but when I eventually started paying attention to this latest bit of media-contrived fantasy (and believe me, I held out until about a week ago), the only question I asked was "why the fuck are they wasting my time with this bullshit?" For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why anyone was supposed to care about her welfare and life expectancy, or, more specifically, the plight of her mind-numbingly annoying family and their petty attempt to besmirch their jizzbucket son-in-law.

I don't consider myself a nihilist by any stretch, nor do I subscribe to any particular religion or belief structure that would in any way influence my opinion on this woman's right to choose her fate, but after seeing about thirty minutes worth of video in which Ms. Schiavo's method of communication solely consisted of "grrrrs" "gahhhs" and "gnrrrrs," I couldn't think of a single justifiable reason that court time, tax payer dollars, and, more importantly, the attention of Jeb and Dub should be wasted on this woman's feed tube. If watching this woman suffer and wither in a sterile hospital bed for 15 years while her parents also babble incoherently doesn't provide overwhelming proof that the right to death is every bit as beautiful as its more popular right wing cousin, I don't know what does.

Ostensibly, I'm not a guy who embraces the whole of humanity, loves unconditionally mankind's prerogative to procreate and rut endlessly, cherishes the golden chasm that is the womb, the true cradle of civilization, etc., etc., but can you really blame me for wanting Terri Schiavo to finally put us out of our misery?

All around me I see evidence of overcrowding, overpopulation, too many cars, too many people stopping to sight-see in the middle of bustling sidewalks...just a whole bunch of lemmings whose parents couldn't be bothered to stop rutting long enough to cut down on the one or two extra morons they decided to selfishly shit into existence. So, when our media decides to capitalize on the final days of what amounts to little more than a drooling, mewling cabbage trapped in a woman's body, how can you not want her to drop dead?

There's presently no way of establishing exactly what Terri Schiavo's mental state was in the days and weeks leading up to her death, so there's no way of knowing whether removing her feed tube two weeks ago was truly the humane thing to do. It seems to me that pulling the plug on this latest bit of disingenuous journalism is exactly what our heinous tabloid media deserves, and if it happens to take Terri Schiavo with it, tough luck.

Oh shit, the Pope's on his way out the door.

Break Blow Bore

2005-03-07T17:15:00.000-05:00

Every so often, some chronically outspoken artist approaches obsolescence, and suddenly feels the need to restate the obvious for the widest possible audience. I'm not quite sure how they do it - and much like a stand up comic refusing to tell a joke he knows will bomb, it truly requires talent to understand when you've reached the end of your tether. I don't consider myself savvy or erudite enough to recognize my place in the art world - if one even exists for me. Nor could I claim to have come within a country mile of that zenith all the great ones surmount before their inevitable plunge into irrelevance. But I'd like to think if I ever do get there, I'll have sense enough to make my descent into cold asphalt last only a few seconds.

Evidently, Camille Paglia's created something of a stir with the impending release of her "new" book Break Blow Burn: Camille Paglia Reads Forty-three of the World's Best Poems. And unless we are to believe that she's spent most of her savings on a significant public relations machine (which I doubt), then Ms. Paglia's decided that years of fringe feminism, fringe academia, and fringe politics don't sound an adequate death knell. Ms. Paglia, never one to resist the opportunity to illuminate, has compiled forty-three of her favorite poems - from masters and contemporary obscurities alike - in the hope that you too will realize "In our voracious 24-hour news cycles, we're rafting down the roaring river of media. It's exciting and exhilarating, but it's good to remember that SOME things last--and they're in art!"

If this sounds not unlike Chuck D. pitching the power of public libraries to inner city kids, you're right. To her credit, Camille Paglia's making a pretty bold statement about the marginalization of western culture: we're being robbed of our identities by government, our passion and zest stolen by the endless prioritizing and deprioritizing of computers and technology, and our very souls eroded by the disposability of so-called modern art. Fine. Obvious? Yes. Though typically melodramatic, I doubt many people would disagree with her. How many people don't cringe, or even shed a tear, when another repetitious pop song about some guy's favorite rims goes double platinum?

I think the more frightening notion, however, is not that we're unaware of this slip into triviality, but that few people are really prepared to do anything about it. And while apathy and indifference may be the intended effects of billions of dollars worth of rap videos, action movies, and reality tv, perhaps spending too much time resting on the laurels of generations past is a far greater problem.

Ms. Paglia, to her credit, sat down and read a bunch of her favorite poems, and stuck them in a book. Many of them were written by a bunch of dead people - mostly men - who, while undoubtedly brilliant, have seen their own relevance slip, regardless of what purists like Ms. Paglia would like to believe. "At this time of foreboding about the future of Western culture, it is crucial to identify and preserve our finest artifacts... As a student of ancient empires, I am uncertain about whether the West's chaotic personalism can prevail against the totalizing creeds that menace it. Hence it is important that we reinforce the spiritual values of Western art, however we define them."

And while some people might recognize "chaotic personalism" as a call to arms, most will be content to condescend. Ms. Paglia says "Read poetry and FEED THE SOUL! Poetry makes you NOTICE things--to see significance in the insignificant." Remember the golden age, when we cultured people knew what the value and import of life really was? Remember when the true artist adhered to outmoded forms and ideals? Remember when the sophisticates among us knew how to decry everything that didn't conform with our narrow perceptions of taste, class, and expression? I sure can't.

So, instead of attempting to move with the times, adapting to a changing landscape (regardless of how offensive it may seem to some of us), embracing the opportunity for limitless free expression accorded by advancements in technology, science, and media, those of us who've exhausted all means of original contribution will repeat the same clichés over and over again.

While there's no denying the brilliance of poets like Whitman, Blake, Donne, Herbert, and Yeats (just to name a few of Paglia's heroes), telling us to use the same means of motivation that applied 50 or more years ago, may no longer be of relevance to us. And maybe, just maybe, the insignificant - whether a fruit fly or a fading feminist - is just too damn boring to care about anymore.

You'll always be Jeff Spicoli to me

2005-03-01T00:00:00.000-05:00

This past Sunday night, my girlfriend and I were too busy watching Look Who's Talking to be bothered with more than a few minutes of the Oscars. As much as I enjoy Hollywood Elite masturbating Hollywood Elite, we had a far more fulfilling evening watching John Travolta rub elbows with a toddler. I love my girlfriend. Anyway, poor little Marty Scorsese got shafted again - if you didn't win for Raging fucking Bull, how are you going to win with a movie starring Luke Brower? - and a former hack comic is now an A-list celebrity. OHHHHHH AHHHHHH

Early this morning, however, I did manage to catch (thanks to Opie & Anthony) the one lone bright spot of the evening, and probably the defining moment of the entire Oscar experience: a shit-faced Sean Penn stumbling onstage to present the award for best actress. Let's forget for a moment that the guy from Boys Don't Cry put on a dress and won the best actress Oscar, and let's forget for a moment that I can't think of a single reason why I should plunk down $12 to see this boring, contrived piece of sentimentalist shit. Let's focus instead on how notorious bad boy-turned liberal moan momma Sean Penn took a few moments to enlighten us as to Jesus Christ's 2005 incarnation, Jude Law.

This self-important dullard, the guy who was used as a propaganda piece by Saddam Hussein, waddled onstage in a coke-induced haze with an open collared shirt, and perpetuated every liberal cliche imaginable by responding literally to a Chris Rock joke. After commenting on Jude Law's obscenely long recent credits list, Chris alluded to the complete absence of the mediocre Brit from this year's nominations list, and said "Who's Jude Law?" Just a little self-deprecating wackiness from Hollywood, a two-thirds joke at best, but Sean Penn, completely devoid of anything resembling comedic wit, didn't get it. "Forgive my compromised sense of humor, but I did want to answer our host's question about who Jude Law is." And he even managed to elicit applause from a handful of equally humorless cokeheads by telling us "He (Jude) is one of our finest actors." You know damn well that every single tuxedo meat puppet movie asshole that clapped in support of Jude Law the Movie Star crushes the souls of Hollywood outsiders daily, uses nonsense like LOLOLOL ROFLMAO in day-to-day conversation with his jizzbucket boy producer buddies, dines at Spago while having a hearty chuckle over that lucrative Cool Runnings sequel they just greenlighted, and then spends the rest of the evening shamefully surfing Craig's List in search of tranny hookers who perform full toilet service.

Thanks for setting the record straight, Sam I Am. We all thought Chris Rock had missed out on those landmark works of cinema Gattaca, The Wisdom of Crocodiles, and Alfie. It's a damn good thing you've spent the past 20 years doing your utmost to prove that "All I need are some tasty waves, a cool buzz, and I'm fine." wasn't your professional zenith. The truth is that Sean Penn is so preoccupied with being viewed as a credible artist and as an ersatz left wing politician, that he's basically forgotten how to laugh at his frat brothers. And in relinquishing all semblance of funny, poor old Sean has nestled himself firmly within Hollywood Elite's most crowded and saddening clique: hired whores who take themselves way too seriously. Maybe Team America had a point after all.

And by the way, the big shocker in Million Dollar Baby is that Clint Eastwood euthanizes her at the end, so now you don't have to see it either.

Pope Manneken Pis

2005-02-22T22:40:00.000-05:00

If you were able to pry yourself away from Paris Hilton's Blueberry address book over the weekend, you might have noticed a brief, albeit noteworthy piece about Pope John Paul's upcoming tell-all entitled Memory and Identity. Replete with an endless stream of antiquated views on common sense issues and lengthy accounts of myriad Soviet plots to assasinate him, even the most devout Catholic could readily question the utlity of this book. Indeed, a man who probably condemned split pea soup after watching the Exorcist, and still believes he possesses a magical chalice that will ward off dragons, goblins, and assorted winged demons, can't have anything of relevance to say in 2005, right?

Well, hold your horses right there, Longshanks, because apparently our beloved geriatric in a tall hat has a real flair for shock and awe; you see PJP decided to sound off on two of the most crucial issues of our time: abortion and HOMOSEXUALS. As is espoused by most of the truly evolved, progressive, and informed people of the world, if were weren't busy butchering fetuses and allowing grown men to put their sex organs in other men's rectums, our world really would be a veritable utopia. And dear old fossil Pope doesn't deviate.

"There is still, however a legal extermination of human beings who have been conceived but not yet born. And this time we are talking about an extermination which has been allowed by nothing less than democratically elected parliaments where one normally hears appeals for the civil progress of society and all humanity."

Ignore for a moment the inevitable outrage from our Jewish brethren bemoaning the lack of a Toddler holocaust, and focus instead on all of the peoples devastated and pillaged by genocide throughout the ages. Try telling Ethiopians, Armenians, Russians, Rwandans, Jews, Yugoslavs, and on and on and on that an unwed, unemployable, single mother-to-be opting to terminate a pregnancy rather than bring another little seven pound, eight ounce resource sucker into the world is akin to a charming holiday in the Gulags. I'm sure anyone who had a family member led by Turkish gendarmes in a death march through Anatolia will agree that a rape victim pleading for abortion rights is equally atrocious.

But strap in, folks, the fun doesn't end there. On the seemingly endless homosexual scourge, The Pope weighs in with the following peppy panacea:

"It is legitimate and necessary to ask oneself if this is not perhaps part of a new ideology of evil, perhaps more insidious and hidden, which attempts to pit human rights against the family and against man."

Now, I'm not a homosexual man. Although I've dabbled, fantasized, and ogled Brad Pitt just like every other guy, I'm quite content with my decision to embrace the female form exclusively. That said, I'm also smart enough to realize there's no inherent evil present in a man who happens to prefer the company of other men.

As far as I can tell, the true evil present nowadays in the gender war has more to do with the advent and blossoming of the dreaded metrosexual scourge: a breed of whiney, self-loathing, momma's boys who've fallen into the trap of mistaking decent fashion sense for confidence, irony for humor, and insecurity for vulnerability. If there really is danger present in Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, it's that we as a soceity have produced a man so soft, feeble, and spineless that he's relying exclusively on cues from men who don't want to sleep with women to help him sleep with women. Creepy? Yes. And just a tad askew, if you ask me.

Unfortunately for the Pope, he's so completely out of touch that he views Queer Eye as merely a cog in an extraordinarly well lubed international machine designed to gay up all of our strongest male archetypes. All of the true alpha male macho assholes could never be born gay. They'd fight it with every ounce of their fiber, draw upon all of their testosterone, and tattoo every inch of their verile, masculine figures to avoid pushing back when a gleeful young man aims for penetration.

What I find most interesting about all of this is how the Pope openly decries choice when it concerns child breath, but warmly and loving embraces choice when homosexuality is a possiblity. Sort of. In Pope World, men have the choice to reorient their sexuality as they see fit, but they must always choose no. Ignoring all genetic evidence to the contrary, when the time comes for a man to firmly commit to a sexual orientation his choice is clear: straight to pussy, or straight to hell. Still, I'm sure we'd all agree that it's better than being a woman and having no choice at all.

Now if only the Pope would sound off on something of real importance like steroids in baseball.

Yeah, but she looks like Ruth Buzzi.

2005-02-15T22:20:00.000-05:00

Has anything set back the progress of womankind more than Sex in the City? I don't think so. The fact that people not only watch this garbage regularly, but subscribe to the notion that being an ugly, fashion catastrophe, fag hag with three friends in the entire world - a lesbian posing as a beard for a guy with one testicle, a middle aged b-movie actress who serves as the token "out there" girl/walking syringe, and a legitimately attractive prude married to an impotent man who bathes with his mother - just can't help be being so damn hip and cool! Supposedly, the late 90's version of the informed, intelligent, socially conscious woman is grotesque, cliched, snobby, and criminally unfunny. It's cute for girls to sit around and just be girls - demeaning men, talking about feritility and vaginal hygiene issues, arguing over which flaming homosexual has the biggest penis, etc. - while that goddamn gargoyle Sarah Jessica Parker parades around town in Louis Vuitton's Ethopian Refugee Fall line looking every bit the unfuckable witch we're expected to pretend she isn't.

What crisis will Carrie endure this week? Bergdorf Goodman runs a sale on a combination feather boa-chamise-anorak but in some wacky quirk of fate forgets to stock size zero! An exquisitely-dressed gay man, later revealed to having recently suffered a stroke, purses half of his lips in Samantha's general direction and madness ensues. Or maybe they all just sit around, drink beers, fart, eat junk food and masturbate each other because "doing gross guy stuff is good for chic New York girls sometimes...even if it means throwing up bile for six hours and leaving skidmarks in your Sunday Victoria's finest."

Sadly for me, I once watched this show with an ex-girlfriend. I only wish I could make regular withdrawls from her bank account as reparations. Dare I say, I even liked the show (a little). Soon you realize that the show is little more than a venting point for a bunch of undesirables to get revenge by painting repellantly lazy, catty, stuck-up stereotypes with dubious physical attributes as "desirable," and more importantly, "strong." You see, the 90s woman is tough not because she's got her life together, or because she's intelligent, classy, and independent, but because she's acquired all of the most despicable qualities of the pig men who wouldn't date them, or wouldn't turn down the football game long enough to listen to them. In short, male chauvinists seem to be taken seriously, so why shouldn't the female model be taken with the same gravity? And of course all of this would be fine if this "comedy" were actually funny, and not so damn cute and prissy, and brimming with the grade school morality of a Full House script. Maybe that Laugh In humor passed for comedy back when Carrie's hairstyles were appropriate, but it stinks now.

And I say that you're full of shit

2005-02-15T12:05:00.000-05:00

For the past few years, I've been working on this theory that overexposure to the internet, and more importantly, overexposure on the internet, are akin to experiences like Agent Orange, Napalm, and the Ludovico Treatment. Without a doubt, the number of insignificant, misift youths who think the rest of the civlized world has the time and inclination to pour through the dizzying minutiae of their latest spurned fling with a Hot Topic cashier. And then there's Alan Keyes recently outted daughter, Maya Marcel-Keyes, who despite her courage in making an obviously difficult and very "adult" decision by publically embracing her homosexuality, probably shouldn't be saying much of anything.

More alarming than outspoken, computer savvy kids, however, is the rapid increase of blogging within the so-called adult community, and the exponential growth of those uniquely confused individuals who've come to view "blogs" as legitimate news sources. While I've never been one to believe much of what is said on television, whether it be the liberally-applied bias of CNN, or the uncompassionate conservativism of Fox News, I'm having an even harder time accepting scoops proffered by unemployable netgeeks, and porn addicts who surf Drudge after they blow a load all over the screen. Sure, you can tell me those stereotypes have long since been rendered obsolete, but it many respects they haven't. Have we actually reached the point where electronic guerrilla media is more respectable than seasoned journalists? Tell me what you think.

She's got a nice arm, too.

2005-02-10T00:40:00.000-05:00

And for the record, my girlfriend throws a football well for either gender...although she needs to stop patting herself on the back for indulging in my mindless male activities. Ask me to play with dolls or wear makeup sometime and see if I spend the rest of the day gloating about it.

But in all honesty, she totally made my day and I love her for getting muddy.

Spit vitriol, not swallow.

2005-02-09T21:30:00.000-05:00

Television annoys me to no end. Utterly bereft of soul, spirit, originality, and (hudla hudla) reality, television programming is far and away our culture's lowest ebb. My girlfriend turned on the Nick and Jessica trainwreck last night, and after thirty seconds I was ready to engage in a full blown knife plunge. Not only do I loathe that cutie patootie stuck up bitch and her talentless, proto-hunk lackey husband, I'm brought nearly to the point of rage that episodes of Nova, and even fucking Mythbusters, are being ignored so that people too stupid to realize their own relationships stink can be entertained by a couple of rednecks arguing over who left the seat up. Guess what. It's awful when you live it, and ten times more awful when you're watching others play-act it.

Hopefully, the reason reality television will ultimately fail is because people can only stand so much of that contrived, horseshit, dogshit, "oh honey, we're beautiful multi-millionaires, but life sucks because I think chickens have dorsal fins and gills" nonsense before they either run through shopping malls shooting people, or start filming their own amateur porn and snuff films in bulk. If you have no discernable talent, and haven't had to do a day's worth of credible work in your life, guess what, you're a fraud. "Honey, remember those fuzzy dice slippers with 68 karat dimaond spots on them you gave me for Bastille Day? Oh, silly goose I am, I went out to walk our little rat dog and stepped in that scary homeless guy's poop...um...while wearing those slippers! Oh no, should we run out and buy a new pair or should I put these in the toilet and flush a few times? You're the smart one, tell me." Score one for eternal female subservience, and score a million for insurmountable human ignorance.

Ok, I feel better now.

This sort of thing is my bag, baby.

2005-02-09T13:00:00.000-05:00

In the past few days another unusually attractive twentysomething public school teacher has been arrested for performing fellatio on a 13 year old boy, a mohel is believed to have passed herpes orally to a number of babies during circumcisions, and instances of groping on Tokyo subways are through the roof. As sensational as these stories are, all pale when compared with the tragicomic tale of one Donald Thompson. Mr. Thompson, or Judge Thompson as he is known to frequenters of Oklahoma's Creek County Court, was recently unseated after 20 years on the Creek County bench for repeatedly using a penis pump under his robe.

Now, whether Donald Thompson used a penis pump in the privacy of his surely resplendent central Oklahoma dwelling is none of my business. Hell, I've been known to use masturbatory aids ranging from cock rings to week-old mangos. And as for spanking out a batch in his robe, well, we all like to play dress up now and then. There's one small problem with this picture, though...Judge Thompson was masturbating with a penis pump...during trials. In the midst of court proceedings ranging from murder trials to a $3.7 million libel suit, Judge Thompson was busy whooshing and pumping, sometimes daily according to witnesses. While it's worth pointing out that the charges are simply "alleged" at present, investigators collected carpet samples, robes and the chair from behind the bench, and found baby juice.

As further proof of the morbid absurdity of this story, consider the following excerpt from yesterday's USA Today:

"Thompson's court reporter, Lisa Foster, told authorities that she saw him use the pump at least 10 times during trials. She said the first time in court was in 2000, but she did not tell authorities. "I didn't want to be found dead in a ditch somewhere," she told The Associated Press.

Foster told authorities she saw Thompson use the device almost daily during the August 2003 murder trial of Kurt Vomberg, a man accused of shaking a toddler to death. The case ended in a hung jury. The whooshing sound could be heard on Foster's audiotape of the trial."

The Social Contract

2005-02-07T07:00:00.000-05:00

"I think many years ago an advanced civilization intervened with us genetically and gave us just enough intelligence to develop dangerous techonology but not enough to use it wisely. Then they sat back to watch the fun. Kind of like a human zoo. And you know something? They're definitely getting their money's worth."

More to come later in the day...hopefully in my own words.

Hide and Suck

2005-02-03T12:00:00.000-05:00

just a few bullet points for the day:

- At this point, The State of the Union and The Tony Danza Show are pretty much the same creature. A bunch of empty cliches uttered by a chimp in a suit, pressed in between a few hundred applause breaks. They share the same writers, too.

- How does Leonardo DiCaprio get a lifetime achievement award at 30? Unless it's an Honorable Mention, from the makers of Retrovir - just sort of a light brush to the chin and a hearty "thanks for keeping the ol' T-cell count up there, Q-Tip Physique Boy." - this tool shouldn't be winning anything.

- Avoid the new Robert DeNiro film "Hide and Seek" as one would avoid a dark-skinned, uncircumcised man attempting to light his shoes on fire. Awful. And stop telling me that little Progeria kid Dakota Fanning is cute. She isn't. Stop it. At least Elisabeth Shue spent ample time trying to win Dakota's affection by shoving her massive saline breasts in the kid's face.

- I've learned that a couple of black kids killing one out of the two million aspiring actresses in New York City is bigger news than the impending global warming catastrophe. Sure, in 25 years polar bears and walruses will begin turning up in your toilets, and the Great Barrier reef will turn yellow, but A NEGRO BOY SHOT A WHITE WOMAN IN HER MARGINALLY ATTRACTIVE FACE!!??! DID YOU KNOW SHE WANTED TO ACT??!?! Blech.

You see my baby loves to dance

2005-02-02T00:00:00.000-05:00

So my woman and I are locked in the midst of some type of limited skirmish - the kind of thing where two people start out with minor ad hominem attacks and then begin carpet bombing in widening concentric circles. I'm not quite sure why hostility seems to proliferate at an exponential rate, or why it seems that a completely objective, civilized debate can yield a Frankensteinian juggernaut in 30 minutes flat, but I'm pretty bummed by the whole thing. And not because I believe I've been wronged, understand, but because it feels as if I've temporarily lost a piece of my girl.

Although I'd expect this whole thing to reach a peace accord within a day or so, the very notion of going to bed without a proper resolution to our spat - much less going to bed without her by my side - is enough to sadden me greatly. It's funny how dependency encompasses all emotions; even when I was at my most bitter, I still wanted nothing more than to get in bed with her, wrap my arms around her, kiss her shoulder, and fall asleep, cradled by the scent of her neck.

My girlfriend is basically the shining achievement of my adult life - and this, believe it or not, is no small distinction. I'm sad, lonely, and upset, not so much as result of our "disagreement," but mostly because it reinforces just how dismal life is without her content, comfortable, and most importantly, next to me. Sure, all of this may appear to be a pretty clear indication of the brand of awful, metrosexual pantywaste-in-training I've morphed into, but if you knew her like I do, and had been lucky enough to call her "yours," you'd realize that trading in some male ego is a rather small price to pay.

Let them drink blood 'til they're drunk

2005-01-24T19:00:00.000-05:00

the Yellow Peril found its way to the mean streets of south Boston last week as a motley group composed mostly of disgruntled Chinese nationals, a few obligatory Iraqi dissidents, and one wayward Hispanic, supposedly forged an unholy alliance of Jihad Chow Fun for the express purpose of detonating a dirty nuke in the hometown of our World Series Champion Red Sox(!). But fret not, Beantown, the FBI response was akin to a gung ho "Sober up, Bostonians, your winter's going to last a whole lot longer this year."

It's ok, though, really. Our government never tires of Much Ado About Nothing, and luckily, its roving troupe seems to be casting endlessly. The ambiguously named "Mei Xia Dong," originally pegged as a male, turned out to have a vagina. Granted, much of Chinese sexuality seems to operate within a veil of ambiguity, but come the fuck on. The fact that Ms.(née Mr.)Dong has been in custody a mere two months and has no known ties to terrorism shouldn't really shock anyone. No legitimate information is available about anyone else involved in this latest terror plot either. Are they just making this shit up or what?

Even if you discount Knight Ridder's recent claims about the efficacy of the Sunni insurgence versus the impotence of Mother Green and Her Killing Machine, there are some cold hard facts about the war in Iraq worth digesting. In the past eight months, the average monthly bodycount of American soldiers as the result of hostile acts has increased by 65, while the average number of soldiers wounded has increased by 666. The average number of mass-casualty bombings is now up to a whopping average of 13 per month. And from November 2003 to October 2004, the average monthly attacks on coalition forces increased by 1665.

While I'm somewhat angered (but not remotely surprised) by the far left's whining over the Abu Ghraib saga, I'm having a hard time understanding how anyone could be naive enough to think that seeing a few of these savages ridiculed with potato sacks and broom handles is more egregious than the literally hundreds of instances of American soldiers and civilians having their charred, dismembered bodies hanged and kicked while people who consider running water a novelty say Go Allah Go Allah Go.

So Seymour Hersh tells us that President Bush has deployed commandos to Iran in an effort to unwravel its nuclear weapons program, and Nobel Laureate Shimon Peres has concluded that Iran is now the problem child in the Middle East. Not one to be outdone in the hyperbole department, ol' one working artery Dick Cheney seems pretty confident that Iran is now the biggest problem in the entire world. "The rulers of outlaw regimes can know we still believe those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves; and, under the rule of a just God, cannot long retain it," Cheney said moments before brandishing a broad sword and sipping from a golden chalice. It'll be interesting to see how all of those allies President Bush alluded to last week ("We honour your friendship, rely on your counsel, and depend on your help.") feel about turning another hovel of brown-skinned people into a sandbox. Who knows, there may even be a crudely-rendered WMD program uncovered this time.

All I know is that democracy continues to march farther and farther east, crude oil's up to nearly $50 a barrel, and I'm still paying $2.30 for a gallon of gasoline.

Yet, throughout it all, my girlfriend and I remain happily in love and await the evacuation of some damn persistent corn nibblets.

Merry Christmas

2004-12-24T19:45:00.000-05:00

You'll never fail like common people

2004-12-20T15:00:00.000-05:00

I was once deathly afraid of marriage. Well, not so much afraid as I was indifferent. Yes, indifferent. That was me. I was one of those happy people. I was one of those people who was so content to spend his days alone. And so content to spend his weekends alone. So content to spend his holidays alone. And then one day something happened. One day I woke up. One day I woke up and realized that my own memory simply wasn't enough to make all those weekends and holidays worthwhile.

My girlfriend and I have known each other for a little more than four years. While I've always loved her to some extent, these past six months have seen our situation intensify radically. Today she went home to spend Christmas with her family. People are supposed to do these things, and I'm told that they enjoy doing them. Funny how the only way I really can imagine spending my holiday is with her, and for that reason today is a pointedly disappointing day for me. It's somewhat horrifying to know (and understand) that concepts like unconditional love, commitment, and marriage, once so bitterly intimidating, have become the very image of comfort.

Now all of my dreams and memories and fantasies begin and end with her. I'll count down the seconds until I can see her again. I shall continue to feel the touch of her silken cheek on my shoulder each night, and welcome lucid dreams of her beautiful visage each morning. And I can't imagine ever wanting to find contentment alone again. And yes even happiness. I've found happiness this way, too.

She is the love of my life. And I can't imagine ever wanting to find comfort in indifference again.

being male, middle class and white

2004-12-07T02:00:00.000-05:00

so this whole blogging thing really fell by the wayside for me about nine months ago, not surprisingly around the same time I began tethering together some semblance of life, laughter, and love. the good news is that at no point in time did I run out of inflammatory opinions, pithy observations, and lewd comments about my designs on the female ass, I simply chose not share any of it with you dolts. whether or not the aforementioned love, etc. has been exhausted, or simply better understood by yours truly, I've found enough of a happy medium that I'm going to try giving this bullshit another whirl. In all probability my attention to this leper colony of mind-numbingly dull geeks who wake up one day and say "Hey, I've got AOL and my opinions matter too!" will wane in a day or two, and I'll find myself resuming an all too familiar favorite pastime: masturbating endlessly to women with huge asses.