Happy New Year. I'm planted firmly on my couch eating a Tombstone pizza, watching the 60's choke to death on its own hubris in GIMME SHELTER, armed with a multi-colored snubnose cap gun, the packaging of which warns you to basically never use it in or out of the house, lest you hurt yourself or be killed by the police. Caps aren't included, so the take-away seems to be, "Don't give the cops a reason to kill you, son." As to why all the symbolism, I can't rightly say. It wasn't consciously planned, anyway. Maybe I wanted to hit you over the head with as many different reminders of death as possible. Either way, it's undeniable that's what we'll remember about this year: the mountain of young corpses. The sheer tonnage of lost potential and talent is nothing short of incredible. You'd never believe it if you didn't see it every single day. Loss was our stock-in-trade, death our gross national product. Author Don DeLillo once argued years ago that the news has replaced the novel as the tragic narrative of our time, and I think that's undeniable now. Plastic gun to my head, if I had to write a single-sentence description for a book about 2014, it'd have to read, "Everyone dies and a plane disappears." That's right: That commercial airliner, MH370, is still missing.
Back to the movie, Jagger's watching 18-year-old Altamont crowd member and lime green suit enthusiast Meredith Hunter get stabbed to death by a Hell's Angel for pulling a revolver out in a fight. There's a feeling watching it that his real offense was having a white girlfriend, but that sort of thing is merely unprovable conjecture. Hunter is helicoptered away, and with him the last positive vibes of the 60's. The Hell's Angel, Alan Passaro, would go on to be charged with murder and acquitted on the grounds of self-defense after 12 and a half hours of jury deliberation. If nothing else, our legal system is consistent. Being a generous man, I may even give Passaro the benefit of the doubt. It's entirely possible Hunter drew his gun with the intention of using it, letting his killer off the hook. If that's the case, this Hell's Angel is miles further in the right than any trigger-happy officer you've seen lately. At this point, I'd take Sonny Barger and crew back then over the units we have now. Safer.
But enough looking back. It's hazardous in large doses. I'm not one to eulogize, nostalgia trips don't suit me and year-end lists are opinion. Something good happened this year, somewhere, probably. Maybe even to you. If so, congratulations. I, for one, am looking forward to the next one. I'll spare you my resolutions and won't ask for yours. Your actions say everything, and it all comes down to compulsions, anyway. Whatever you're compelled to do, you're gonna do it, come Hell or high water. If you're not, I see you sprinting through the frozen wasteland of early January before grinding to a shuddering halt in mid-January, the proud owner of more gym/musical/artistic/gardening/brewing/what-the-fuck-ever equipment you'll never use again. Take a seat. Ask yourself what it is you really, actually want to accomplish, even if it's nothing. That's fine, too. What matters is that your answer is genuine. Now more than ever, do not bullshit yourself or anyone else. It's a disgusting waste of time.
I want to keep this short, so in closing, whatever it is you actually want to do, if anything, do the shit out of it forever and don't look back on your journey to becoming whoever it is you're supposed to be. Time marches relentlessly onward and you're almost half done with this trip already, so I suggest you get going.
1.01.2015
3.07.2014
Spin
Two weeks ago. It's Friday night and my head suddenly wants to destroy itself. I'm stumbling to the bathroom, navigating a tailspin, piloting a paint shaker. Pushing the door with a numbing hand, I’m just in time to watch the entire night fall into the toilet. Even when there’s nothing left, my stomach continues to ring itself out like a bar rag, and I’m grateful for it. Such a strain acts as a kind of internal distraction; something else for my brain to focus on as I sit there waiting for the room to stop moving. Before too long I bring myself to my feet, flush the toilet, take one step into the hallway and immediately drop like a set of car keys as another bomb goes off in my head. Everything is spinning clockwise at 96,000 miles an hour and I can't raise a hand to steady myself. My only attempt at standing sends me into the wall and ending up prostrate to a black cat like an Egyptian slave. There is nothing I can do but lay on the floor in a sweaty heap and wait till this hellride ends. Thing is, I'm not alone. This isn't even my house. Still, even when that other person is dealing with this sudden situation in the best way possible and helping more than she realizes just by being there, I'm the one pushing my head into the carpet for the foreseeable future.
“Are you okay?” I hear her ask, equally curious and scared.
“No.”
Let's back up a little.
Early Thursday morning I go with a couple friends to hike at Pinnacles National Park. Seven miles of awesome views, pitch black caves lit by cell phones and ever-present condors circling for any dying hikers. I feel great the entire time. Afterwards, we go to Five Guys and I eat my weight in fries, because that’s just how much they give you and that’s just how stupid I am.
“How much do you weigh?”
“One-thirty. Why?”
“No reason.”
I get home, empty my Camelbak and see I'd only drank around 20 ounces of water. That’s basically one bottle and a big sip. I feel fine, but that’s not okay for a seven mile hike. I chalk it up to carelessness on my part and continue with my day, confident that nothing fucked up is going to happen or anything.
That night, I go out to eat sushi with my friend Dave. I reach for the door and feel everything start pulling to the left. The world sort of forces me to the ground and I sit there for a few minutes on the cement walkway, struggling to stay upright, wondering what the hell is going on. A Good Samaritan sees this and gives me a bottled water that’s somehow already cold. I thank her and realize whatever this is has died down. I take a breath before standing and we walk in. I don’t say much of anything the entire time, but not because I’m embarrassed or confused. It just feels like something in my head shut off and I’m operating on auxiliary power. Can’t brain. For the time being, I do not know what to say. Dave picks up the slack, because that’s what he does. As he speaks I stare at a fake plant near the door, trying and failing to focus on a single spot. I excuse myself to use the bathroom and just stand in there until my reflection stops moving. After dinner I drive home, which I probably shouldn’t have, even for the short distance back, because as soon as I sit down I am on the floor again, rolling around and wondering what the fuck is going on. Shutting my eyes somehow makes it worse. That alone isn’t weird enough, so my right arm starts to go numb, because WHY NOT. I call my parents to come take me to the hospital, losing feeling in my face as I speak.
The waiting room of San Leandro Hospital might best be described as a lost souls room with basic cable. Purgatory connotes that your situation will change and you’ll get to leave eventually. These folks are regulars. Some people just wear it like a birthmark. I can see it plain as day once I’m able to get a fix on someone without them breaking left. A few of them sleep through the wait, perched awkwardly in their chairs to keep the pain to a minimum or up on a table with the magazines pushed aside because who cares or a spot on the floor basically not in the way. I’m sitting across from my folks nearest the intermittently-unmanned registration windows, flanked by a security guard I’m reasonably sure I can take even in my current state. Mom and Dad look at me, their phones, or the door to their left. Anything else outside this loop would’ve just been depressing to focus on. Before too long, the opportunity to get an admission sheet and clipboard presents itself. I do my best impression of someone that can see straight and feel things and walk over to the desk without incident.
“Just go ahead and fill this out and bring it back and we’ll call your name when we’re ready for you, okay?” The desk clerk instructs me in a dead voice. Asks me without curiosity.
“Thanks…” I smile wanly, utter the name on his tag and forget it immediately.
I go back to my seat and fill out the sheet with my wrong hand. The numbness subsides as I finish and hand it back to no one. I go to tell my folks, both buried in their phones, and decide not to. Weeks pass. A man in the corner shifts in his chair, stifling a cough. Canned laughter emanates from the TV. I suppress the urge to tell them those are the same laughs from the Golden Age of Television and those are all dead people laughing and instead I say nothing and wonder why I do stuff like that. By and by I hear a woman with a heavy Southern accent somehow drawl my name.
After an EKG featuring another short attack, blood work done by a cute nurse I instinctively flirt with, a CT scan I had to be wheeled to because policy and a lot of waiting in a hospital gown to maybe hear the words “brain cancer”, they told me my blood and brain were fine and diagnosed me with labyrinthitis. Vertigo. Contrary to popular belief, vertigo isn't necessarily triggered by heights. It's an inner ear problem that affects your equilibrium, and it can happen wherever. Basically, calcium crystals that your body normally absorbs while you sleep get built up in your inner ear and throw off your balance, usually triggered by a sudden movement of the head. There are a few ways this can happen. In my case, after being sick for a long time, the illness manifested as vertigo, which isn't uncommon and is an entirely different type of shitty thing you don't want from walking pneumonia, which I had.
Just to be sure, I told the doctor about the hike and not drinking enough. He dismissed dehydration as the cause, but said delayed reactions can happen. Anyway, they told me it's temporary and to take it easy for a while. Sure thing. They also mentioned a slight potassium deficiency which explains the numbness, so they gave me an orange soda-looking drink that tasted like if Windex had sugar in it. Whatever works. The next night, I’m out with my friend Liz. We have a lot of fun eating too much Brazilian barbecue and bombing around San Francisco. We go back to her house and everything is going fine until it absolutely is not.
“Are you okay?” I hear her ask, equally curious and scared.
“No.”
Let's back up a little.
Early Thursday morning I go with a couple friends to hike at Pinnacles National Park. Seven miles of awesome views, pitch black caves lit by cell phones and ever-present condors circling for any dying hikers. I feel great the entire time. Afterwards, we go to Five Guys and I eat my weight in fries, because that’s just how much they give you and that’s just how stupid I am.
“How much do you weigh?”
“One-thirty. Why?”
“No reason.”
I get home, empty my Camelbak and see I'd only drank around 20 ounces of water. That’s basically one bottle and a big sip. I feel fine, but that’s not okay for a seven mile hike. I chalk it up to carelessness on my part and continue with my day, confident that nothing fucked up is going to happen or anything.
That night, I go out to eat sushi with my friend Dave. I reach for the door and feel everything start pulling to the left. The world sort of forces me to the ground and I sit there for a few minutes on the cement walkway, struggling to stay upright, wondering what the hell is going on. A Good Samaritan sees this and gives me a bottled water that’s somehow already cold. I thank her and realize whatever this is has died down. I take a breath before standing and we walk in. I don’t say much of anything the entire time, but not because I’m embarrassed or confused. It just feels like something in my head shut off and I’m operating on auxiliary power. Can’t brain. For the time being, I do not know what to say. Dave picks up the slack, because that’s what he does. As he speaks I stare at a fake plant near the door, trying and failing to focus on a single spot. I excuse myself to use the bathroom and just stand in there until my reflection stops moving. After dinner I drive home, which I probably shouldn’t have, even for the short distance back, because as soon as I sit down I am on the floor again, rolling around and wondering what the fuck is going on. Shutting my eyes somehow makes it worse. That alone isn’t weird enough, so my right arm starts to go numb, because WHY NOT. I call my parents to come take me to the hospital, losing feeling in my face as I speak.
The waiting room of San Leandro Hospital might best be described as a lost souls room with basic cable. Purgatory connotes that your situation will change and you’ll get to leave eventually. These folks are regulars. Some people just wear it like a birthmark. I can see it plain as day once I’m able to get a fix on someone without them breaking left. A few of them sleep through the wait, perched awkwardly in their chairs to keep the pain to a minimum or up on a table with the magazines pushed aside because who cares or a spot on the floor basically not in the way. I’m sitting across from my folks nearest the intermittently-unmanned registration windows, flanked by a security guard I’m reasonably sure I can take even in my current state. Mom and Dad look at me, their phones, or the door to their left. Anything else outside this loop would’ve just been depressing to focus on. Before too long, the opportunity to get an admission sheet and clipboard presents itself. I do my best impression of someone that can see straight and feel things and walk over to the desk without incident.
“Just go ahead and fill this out and bring it back and we’ll call your name when we’re ready for you, okay?” The desk clerk instructs me in a dead voice. Asks me without curiosity.
“Thanks…” I smile wanly, utter the name on his tag and forget it immediately.
I go back to my seat and fill out the sheet with my wrong hand. The numbness subsides as I finish and hand it back to no one. I go to tell my folks, both buried in their phones, and decide not to. Weeks pass. A man in the corner shifts in his chair, stifling a cough. Canned laughter emanates from the TV. I suppress the urge to tell them those are the same laughs from the Golden Age of Television and those are all dead people laughing and instead I say nothing and wonder why I do stuff like that. By and by I hear a woman with a heavy Southern accent somehow drawl my name.
After an EKG featuring another short attack, blood work done by a cute nurse I instinctively flirt with, a CT scan I had to be wheeled to because policy and a lot of waiting in a hospital gown to maybe hear the words “brain cancer”, they told me my blood and brain were fine and diagnosed me with labyrinthitis. Vertigo. Contrary to popular belief, vertigo isn't necessarily triggered by heights. It's an inner ear problem that affects your equilibrium, and it can happen wherever. Basically, calcium crystals that your body normally absorbs while you sleep get built up in your inner ear and throw off your balance, usually triggered by a sudden movement of the head. There are a few ways this can happen. In my case, after being sick for a long time, the illness manifested as vertigo, which isn't uncommon and is an entirely different type of shitty thing you don't want from walking pneumonia, which I had.
Just to be sure, I told the doctor about the hike and not drinking enough. He dismissed dehydration as the cause, but said delayed reactions can happen. Anyway, they told me it's temporary and to take it easy for a while. Sure thing. They also mentioned a slight potassium deficiency which explains the numbness, so they gave me an orange soda-looking drink that tasted like if Windex had sugar in it. Whatever works. The next night, I’m out with my friend Liz. We have a lot of fun eating too much Brazilian barbecue and bombing around San Francisco. We go back to her house and everything is going fine until it absolutely is not.
5.30.2012
The Torment of Existence Weighed Against the Horror of Nonbeing
Some of my most developed ideas and questions and descriptions have come to me while I was in the bathroom. This is no exception. I was staring into space, my mind running through endless loops of contingency for situations the brightest minds in history have all assured us will never happen, when I started to imagine the American popular psyche itself as of right this second. Please allow me the time to tell you something you've heard a thousand times before. Show you something you've seen evidence of in a thousand different episodes of a hundred different shows on TLC, The History Channel, Bravo, et al: America is reaching the end of its patience with its own projected image. If TV, more to the point "reality" TV, is supposed to be a kind of cultural prism, what would the original beam of light running through it look like? What's behind the infighting and child worship and bottomless pit of train wreck voyeurism? Who the hell is watching this stuff?
If I could distill or personify an entire cultural landscape, I would imagine it to look like the average "American" family, if an average still exists. Overweight-yet-still-malnourished red staters with three tow-headed kids, the lot of them not much for reading. A family that, while taking their annual portrait at Walmart, taking pains to keep every hair in place and every smile genuine and toothy and not the least bit awkward, will very slowly begin to realize the camera isn't a still camera, but a video camera. The overly-complimentary photographer in the navy blue polo doesn't work for Walmart.
He's a cameraman for a new reality TV show based on the popular People of Walmart site, being paid to impersonate an employee and keep them there and coax them to just keep smiling and hold still for one second longer because this looks really great, everybody. So they oblige. Seconds seem like hours. The family remains stock still, all the while preening with its collective best face, but now wondering when the hell he's gonna press the damn button already. Weeks pass. The mood changes, as does the image, ever so slightly decaying into confusion. This is where the episode gets interesting.
Still holding. Beads of sweat start forming. Still not getting it. Smiles begin to curl. Fangs appear.
"Sorry guys, just one more quick secoond. You're doing great."
So yeah. That's the collective popular psyche right this second: A family taking pictures at Walmart that's been preening for too long and is about to get sick of the whole thing.
Of course all this is predicated on the idea that reality TV is made up of real people, basically like you and me, and not paid actors. This is almost never the case. These victims of a heinous prank had no intention of becoming famous; no intention of being the butt of a nationally televised joke. At the expense of their collective dignity, this makes for much more compelling television and may be the next step forward in reality TV: Remove the victims' awareness and see what happens. All debts to Candid Camera aside, that may be the only way to revive a stale premise before finally killing it. What good is calling it "real" if it's soft-scripted and everyone is aware of the cameras? That's not reality TV. That's TV. Remember, COPS was a long time ago.
If I could distill or personify an entire cultural landscape, I would imagine it to look like the average "American" family, if an average still exists. Overweight-yet-still-malnourished red staters with three tow-headed kids, the lot of them not much for reading. A family that, while taking their annual portrait at Walmart, taking pains to keep every hair in place and every smile genuine and toothy and not the least bit awkward, will very slowly begin to realize the camera isn't a still camera, but a video camera. The overly-complimentary photographer in the navy blue polo doesn't work for Walmart.
He's a cameraman for a new reality TV show based on the popular People of Walmart site, being paid to impersonate an employee and keep them there and coax them to just keep smiling and hold still for one second longer because this looks really great, everybody. So they oblige. Seconds seem like hours. The family remains stock still, all the while preening with its collective best face, but now wondering when the hell he's gonna press the damn button already. Weeks pass. The mood changes, as does the image, ever so slightly decaying into confusion. This is where the episode gets interesting.
Still holding. Beads of sweat start forming. Still not getting it. Smiles begin to curl. Fangs appear.
"Sorry guys, just one more quick secoond. You're doing great."
So yeah. That's the collective popular psyche right this second: A family taking pictures at Walmart that's been preening for too long and is about to get sick of the whole thing.
Of course all this is predicated on the idea that reality TV is made up of real people, basically like you and me, and not paid actors. This is almost never the case. These victims of a heinous prank had no intention of becoming famous; no intention of being the butt of a nationally televised joke. At the expense of their collective dignity, this makes for much more compelling television and may be the next step forward in reality TV: Remove the victims' awareness and see what happens. All debts to Candid Camera aside, that may be the only way to revive a stale premise before finally killing it. What good is calling it "real" if it's soft-scripted and everyone is aware of the cameras? That's not reality TV. That's TV. Remember, COPS was a long time ago.
12.13.2011
Dead People
Dead friendships can say a lot. It's a weird thing having to cut ties with people who turn a psychological corner. Their beliefs become so alien that this person you've known for so long and grown close to is now totally unrelatable. You find out how much you can take from people, and really how much you're asking from them in the first place. Burning bridges light beginnings and endings, I guess.
I had a friend who was really effeminately gay. One of the nicest, most open and warm people I'd ever met. He hadn't said so outright, but it was hard not to assume; all the trappings of the stereotype were there. He moved to California from Arkansas as a 24-year-old virgin. I asked him about it once, a month or so after we'd met, and he told me he just hadn't found the right person yet. I started reading between the lines. What I was hearing was, "I've lived in a small town in Arkansas my whole life. I've never been able to be myself, at least not in public, without fear of being crucified. I would've died hung up with a sign on my back that said "THE ONLY GOOD FAGGOT". I moved out to California to be able to live my own life around people who accept me." Time would prove my assumptions right.
Some months after that talk, to the suprise of no one, he finally came out. To his friends, sure, but mostly to himself. He gave himself the gift of a real identity. I remember him posting a clip from Pinocchio the afternoon he told me. Subtle, I know. I was really proud of him for being able to take that step and embrace himself that way. It was cool watching him become more active in the gay community and immerse himself in a culture he'd been reading about and following forever.
Then it got weird. Maybe it was overcompensation or making up for lost time, but he'd disappeared into the lifestyle for a while and didn't come up for air for a long time. I'd hear from him now and again when he'd invite me to parties with his new friends. I never ended up going, and after a while he'd stopped asking me. It just wasn't my scene.
A couple years later, after he'd gotten to be something of a regular in the gay clubs and leather bars, I heard he hooked up with some bad people who had some shitty beliefs. They slowly convinced him to become a Bug Chaser, someone who wants to get AIDS in order to gain power over the stigma and fear of, in their words, inevitable infection. Think of it as black people using the word "nigger", only way, way worse. It's fatalism at its most literal and bizarre. I remember when he told me he'd been infected. I agreed to meet him after not talking to him for a while, just trying to sort out my own feelings about it. He sent me a text message.
"Can you meet me for lunch?" I already knew the story before he told me.
"Okay. When?"
We meet at Mel's on his lunch hour. Seeing this coming a mile away, I basically just sit there, taciturn. I am about to watch my friend publically declare himself a zombie. A coming-out party for the walking dead. Roy Orbison's "Running Scared" starts up.
"I did it," Dead Person tells me. "I'm positive." The smile on his face probably belies the fear he's feeling, but I tune out more every second. Over his shoulder, I see a hot redhead waitress at the corner booth. I think about fucking her in the bathroom and coming on her shirt so she can't keep wearing it. Rack focus to Dead Person, still talking.
"...figured, 'Why get treatment?', you know? I mean, the pills are so fucking expensive and it's really just delaying..." Dead Person explains to me, but mostly to himself. Not a word of it gets through. I am somewhere else.
"This is my favorite Roy Orbison song." I'm so removed from the conversation as to be almost glacial. Legally dead inside.
"...So, what do you think?" Dead Person asks, maybe.
"...So sure of himself, his head in the air..."
Neither of us says anything for the rest of the song. We are two dead people listening to a dead person.
THE END.
I had a friend who was really effeminately gay. One of the nicest, most open and warm people I'd ever met. He hadn't said so outright, but it was hard not to assume; all the trappings of the stereotype were there. He moved to California from Arkansas as a 24-year-old virgin. I asked him about it once, a month or so after we'd met, and he told me he just hadn't found the right person yet. I started reading between the lines. What I was hearing was, "I've lived in a small town in Arkansas my whole life. I've never been able to be myself, at least not in public, without fear of being crucified. I would've died hung up with a sign on my back that said "THE ONLY GOOD FAGGOT". I moved out to California to be able to live my own life around people who accept me." Time would prove my assumptions right.
Some months after that talk, to the suprise of no one, he finally came out. To his friends, sure, but mostly to himself. He gave himself the gift of a real identity. I remember him posting a clip from Pinocchio the afternoon he told me. Subtle, I know. I was really proud of him for being able to take that step and embrace himself that way. It was cool watching him become more active in the gay community and immerse himself in a culture he'd been reading about and following forever.
Then it got weird. Maybe it was overcompensation or making up for lost time, but he'd disappeared into the lifestyle for a while and didn't come up for air for a long time. I'd hear from him now and again when he'd invite me to parties with his new friends. I never ended up going, and after a while he'd stopped asking me. It just wasn't my scene.
A couple years later, after he'd gotten to be something of a regular in the gay clubs and leather bars, I heard he hooked up with some bad people who had some shitty beliefs. They slowly convinced him to become a Bug Chaser, someone who wants to get AIDS in order to gain power over the stigma and fear of, in their words, inevitable infection. Think of it as black people using the word "nigger", only way, way worse. It's fatalism at its most literal and bizarre. I remember when he told me he'd been infected. I agreed to meet him after not talking to him for a while, just trying to sort out my own feelings about it. He sent me a text message.
"Can you meet me for lunch?" I already knew the story before he told me.
"Okay. When?"
We meet at Mel's on his lunch hour. Seeing this coming a mile away, I basically just sit there, taciturn. I am about to watch my friend publically declare himself a zombie. A coming-out party for the walking dead. Roy Orbison's "Running Scared" starts up.
"I did it," Dead Person tells me. "I'm positive." The smile on his face probably belies the fear he's feeling, but I tune out more every second. Over his shoulder, I see a hot redhead waitress at the corner booth. I think about fucking her in the bathroom and coming on her shirt so she can't keep wearing it. Rack focus to Dead Person, still talking.
"...figured, 'Why get treatment?', you know? I mean, the pills are so fucking expensive and it's really just delaying..." Dead Person explains to me, but mostly to himself. Not a word of it gets through. I am somewhere else.
"This is my favorite Roy Orbison song." I'm so removed from the conversation as to be almost glacial. Legally dead inside.
"...So, what do you think?" Dead Person asks, maybe.
"...So sure of himself, his head in the air..."
Neither of us says anything for the rest of the song. We are two dead people listening to a dead person.
THE END.
10.17.2011
Female Trouble
Reading articles or watching shows about female comedians is way more frustrating than it has any right to be. More often than not, the idea is still presented as something of an oddity, i.e. "isn't it crazy she's saying funny things AND has tits, you guys?" Depending on the story, it might even be an all-or-nothing deal; that either all female comics are funny, or none of them are. Point being, the writer already had a predisposition to loving or hating the thing they're writing about, so the story was immediately biased. This is ridiculous, as you wouldn't say the same thing about male comedians. "If you're a fan of Norm Macdonald, you'll also like Dane Cook" is a sentence that's never been said by anyone. Humor is a subjective thing, so not everyone is going to find all comics funny. Least of all if gender or looks are the defining characteristics, which they shouldn't be in the first place. Ideally, that should be a non-issue. But...
FOX News, the world's leading comedy site, posted an article essentially saying overweight or unattractive women comics are going the way of the fat, lonely dinosaur friend, in favor of hotter dinosaurs who might be just as funny, but are, you know, hotter. I'm paraphrasing, obviously. Here's the article that doesn't know what it's talking about.
Comedy should really be a meritocracy: If you're funny, that's all that matters. In reality, the gatekeepers(TV producers, club promoters, etc.) want someone they can market, and what's easier to market to America than a hot girl? Now, I have my own opinions about certain vagina jokesters(I got tired of writing 'female comics'). I like a lot of them, and gender isn't a factor in my fandom. They just have to be funny. Beyond that, some women, particularly those the TV/internet tell me I need to love or else I'm Double Hitler, I don't find funny. Again, it's all subjective.
For instance: Stop telling me Melissa McCarthy is funny. Stop that right now. Yes, she stands out from the women listed in the FOX article because she won an Emmy and America's love whilst being fat. That's not the issue. I just happen to not be a fan, and that should be fine. More than once, I've heard her compared to Chris Farley. I can only imagine she's flattered and sick of hearing that at the same time. Making that comparison just means Chris Farley was really funny when he was alive and not throwing stupid amounts of coke and booze into his face. Like most of the people I know(and you), I watched Tommy Boy a million times. Seeing Melissa McCarthy do a version of that hasn't yet won me over. Maybe I'm a weirdo, but you can't just be funny by proxy.
Whether it's your own doing or just a wave of media hype behind you, being a second-rate someone else is just an easy, stupid thing to be famous for. Besides, I'm sure she'd rather not be known as a female also-fat man-clown. Having someone thrust under my nose as being just like him, but with a vagina(crazy, I know), immediately makes me hate them. Realizing that was unfair to her as a performer, I decided the other day to make an effort to see what she can do. I watched Bridesmaids and her appearance on SNL. Not a peep. Not a titter. Sorry.
On the other hand, one look at my Twitter account shows I'm a fan of all kinds of funny ladies. If you're too lazy or just don't like Twitter, do me a favor and look up Amy Schumer, Sarah Silverman, Maria Bamford, Shelby Fero, Megan Amram, Jenny Johnson, Emily Heller, or any one of a thousand other really funny comedians. Not comediennes, Double Hitler.
The point of all this is twofold, so, points, I guess: Yes, there are some hot women comics. For every one of them, there's ten who look like Jim Norton. If you're funny, you should be able to get over on the strength of your material alone, man or woman. Even then, not everyone's going to like you. Further, making a blanket statement about female comedians and presenting it as the truth is not only inaccurate, but absurd. Then again, when did anything true ever come out of FOX News? Did I spend way too much time thinking about this? Probably. Did I have way too much fun writing a story with the phrase "vagina jokesters"? Definitely.
FOX News, the world's leading comedy site, posted an article essentially saying overweight or unattractive women comics are going the way of the fat, lonely dinosaur friend, in favor of hotter dinosaurs who might be just as funny, but are, you know, hotter. I'm paraphrasing, obviously. Here's the article that doesn't know what it's talking about.
Comedy should really be a meritocracy: If you're funny, that's all that matters. In reality, the gatekeepers(TV producers, club promoters, etc.) want someone they can market, and what's easier to market to America than a hot girl? Now, I have my own opinions about certain vagina jokesters(I got tired of writing 'female comics'). I like a lot of them, and gender isn't a factor in my fandom. They just have to be funny. Beyond that, some women, particularly those the TV/internet tell me I need to love or else I'm Double Hitler, I don't find funny. Again, it's all subjective.
For instance: Stop telling me Melissa McCarthy is funny. Stop that right now. Yes, she stands out from the women listed in the FOX article because she won an Emmy and America's love whilst being fat. That's not the issue. I just happen to not be a fan, and that should be fine. More than once, I've heard her compared to Chris Farley. I can only imagine she's flattered and sick of hearing that at the same time. Making that comparison just means Chris Farley was really funny when he was alive and not throwing stupid amounts of coke and booze into his face. Like most of the people I know(and you), I watched Tommy Boy a million times. Seeing Melissa McCarthy do a version of that hasn't yet won me over. Maybe I'm a weirdo, but you can't just be funny by proxy.
Whether it's your own doing or just a wave of media hype behind you, being a second-rate someone else is just an easy, stupid thing to be famous for. Besides, I'm sure she'd rather not be known as a female also-fat man-clown. Having someone thrust under my nose as being just like him, but with a vagina(crazy, I know), immediately makes me hate them. Realizing that was unfair to her as a performer, I decided the other day to make an effort to see what she can do. I watched Bridesmaids and her appearance on SNL. Not a peep. Not a titter. Sorry.
On the other hand, one look at my Twitter account shows I'm a fan of all kinds of funny ladies. If you're too lazy or just don't like Twitter, do me a favor and look up Amy Schumer, Sarah Silverman, Maria Bamford, Shelby Fero, Megan Amram, Jenny Johnson, Emily Heller, or any one of a thousand other really funny comedians. Not comediennes, Double Hitler.
The point of all this is twofold, so, points, I guess: Yes, there are some hot women comics. For every one of them, there's ten who look like Jim Norton. If you're funny, you should be able to get over on the strength of your material alone, man or woman. Even then, not everyone's going to like you. Further, making a blanket statement about female comedians and presenting it as the truth is not only inaccurate, but absurd. Then again, when did anything true ever come out of FOX News? Did I spend way too much time thinking about this? Probably. Did I have way too much fun writing a story with the phrase "vagina jokesters"? Definitely.
5.18.2011
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity
A young atheist in black dress clothes is sitting down to eat in a small hot dog shop. Being nearest the door, he's approached by a homeless man. Homeless Man looks gaunt, hungry and dirty. If you drew a picture of a homeless man, he would definitely eat it.
"Look, man, I just wanted something to eat. I just wanna get a hot dog, so if there's anything you can do to help me out, I'd appreciate it, man." There is a look of desperation in his face that belies all the drugs that might be coursing through his system at this very moment.
The Catholic restaurant worker sees this and makes her way over in a kind of resigned, routine manner, as if she's sick of this already. "Nope. Go on and stop bothering my customers with your begging." People love to be accused of begging, so naturally a compliment war starts up. Atheist decides to end it, Gloomy Gus that he is.
Pulling a couple bucks from his wallet, Atheist says, "Here you go, man. Get what you like." Homeless Man takes the money.
"God bless you, man. Thank you so much." Homeless Man and Atheist talk for a bit. Homeless Man tells Atheist a hard luck story. Atheist sympathizes. Catholic Restaurant Worker tells Homeless Man to leave. Homeless man leaves and walks down the street. Catholic Restaurant Worker turns to Atheist, this close to wagging her finger.
"You shouldna gave him anything. Now he'll keep coming back," Catholic Restaurant Worker tells Atheist before grabbing a nearby chair and sitting a spell. Atheist digests this and goes back to the meal he has yet to even eat.
"You're not supposed to do that," Believer #2 pipes up from across the room in the same incredulous tone people give to someone vandalizing public property. "He's in here all the time. Now he's just gonna go down the street and buy some booze with your money," Believer #2 proclaims whilst sitting at a table with nothing at all in front of her. She may very well have been there since the dawn of man.
Atheist says with his mouth half-full of food, "Welp, nothing I can do about it now," Swallow. "Short of chasing him down for the money." Bite. Shrug. "Not gonna do that, so it looks like he got away scot free."
Catholic Restaurant Worker walks outside and watches where Homeless Man is going for a good few minutes, standing stock-still the entire time. Passersby notice her after a bit, wonder what she's looking at and look back. The statue speaks. "He's asking other people for money way down there," Superwoman informs the rest of the room before walking back inside and sitting down.
Atheist finishes his food and reads a chapter of the book about dead people he brought. Catholic Restaurant Worker and Believer #2 continue talking in a not-much-lower whisper. Atheist picks up his things and leaves.
Things we've learned today(or at least were reminded of):
1. Christians/Catholics don't give a shit about homeless people.
2. Homeless people may actually use the money given to them to buy booze and not food.
3. Neither gives a fuck about anyone that wants to help.
4. Thus, both sides are equally worthless to humanity.
G'night Everybody! :D
"Look, man, I just wanted something to eat. I just wanna get a hot dog, so if there's anything you can do to help me out, I'd appreciate it, man." There is a look of desperation in his face that belies all the drugs that might be coursing through his system at this very moment.
The Catholic restaurant worker sees this and makes her way over in a kind of resigned, routine manner, as if she's sick of this already. "Nope. Go on and stop bothering my customers with your begging." People love to be accused of begging, so naturally a compliment war starts up. Atheist decides to end it, Gloomy Gus that he is.
Pulling a couple bucks from his wallet, Atheist says, "Here you go, man. Get what you like." Homeless Man takes the money.
"God bless you, man. Thank you so much." Homeless Man and Atheist talk for a bit. Homeless Man tells Atheist a hard luck story. Atheist sympathizes. Catholic Restaurant Worker tells Homeless Man to leave. Homeless man leaves and walks down the street. Catholic Restaurant Worker turns to Atheist, this close to wagging her finger.
"You shouldna gave him anything. Now he'll keep coming back," Catholic Restaurant Worker tells Atheist before grabbing a nearby chair and sitting a spell. Atheist digests this and goes back to the meal he has yet to even eat.
"You're not supposed to do that," Believer #2 pipes up from across the room in the same incredulous tone people give to someone vandalizing public property. "He's in here all the time. Now he's just gonna go down the street and buy some booze with your money," Believer #2 proclaims whilst sitting at a table with nothing at all in front of her. She may very well have been there since the dawn of man.
Atheist says with his mouth half-full of food, "Welp, nothing I can do about it now," Swallow. "Short of chasing him down for the money." Bite. Shrug. "Not gonna do that, so it looks like he got away scot free."
Catholic Restaurant Worker walks outside and watches where Homeless Man is going for a good few minutes, standing stock-still the entire time. Passersby notice her after a bit, wonder what she's looking at and look back. The statue speaks. "He's asking other people for money way down there," Superwoman informs the rest of the room before walking back inside and sitting down.
Atheist finishes his food and reads a chapter of the book about dead people he brought. Catholic Restaurant Worker and Believer #2 continue talking in a not-much-lower whisper. Atheist picks up his things and leaves.
Things we've learned today(or at least were reminded of):
1. Christians/Catholics don't give a shit about homeless people.
2. Homeless people may actually use the money given to them to buy booze and not food.
3. Neither gives a fuck about anyone that wants to help.
4. Thus, both sides are equally worthless to humanity.
G'night Everybody! :D
5.15.2011
The Road To Nowhere
This Saturday marks the end of an era. I and others like me will bear witness to something we thought impossible. With a flash of blinding light, God will take back his faithful, unwavering flock. All else will suffer and burn in a literal Hell on Earth until October 21st, when the fire finally blinks out of existence.
At least, that's what some worthless people would like you to believe.
The truth, as you know, is no one's going anywhere on May 21st or any other day. At least not by divine intervention. This story of "The Rapture" coming on Saturday was made up and has been maintained by a Christian radio station and internet ministry called Family Radio. The short, short version is that the station's president/figurehead, Harold Camping, made this prediction a couple years ago. Soon after, billboards paid for by Family Radio and private citizens sprang up around the U.S. and in other countries to warn non-believers while advertising the station, which is broadcast in forty languages all over the world. To illustrate Camping's absurd logic, here's the bullshit equation he came up with as "proof" of The Rapture's date. According to him:
1. The number five equals "atonement", the number ten equals "completeness", and the number seventeen equals "heaven".
2. Christ is said to have hung on the cross on April 1, 33 AD. The time between April 1, 33 AD and April 1, 2011 is 1,978 years.
3. If 1,978 is multiplied by 365.2422 days (the number of days in a solar year, not to be confused with the lunar year), the result is 722,449.
4. The time between April 1 and May 21 is 51 days.
5. 51 added to 722,449 is 722,500.
6. (5 x 10 x 17)2 or (atonement x completeness x heaven)2 also equals 722,500.
Head explode yet? Obviously none of that, save for the sheer arithmetic, maybe, makes any sense. Camping simply made this up out of whole cloth to draw attention to himself and Family Radio. It's a scare tactic; no more, no less. Not only that, he's pulled this before. Many, many times. His last prediction was for September of 1994. When that didn't happen, he made up some excuse about bad calculations and rechristened that day as the start of the "Tribulation Period". I'm assuming he'll do something similarly moronic this time. From what I've read, not even other Christian organizations believe this guy's line of bullshit.
Per Wikipedia: James Kreuger, author of the book Secrets of the Apocalypse - Revealed, has stated that while he believes the rapture is coming, Camping is incorrect in attempting to nail down a date. "For all his learning, Camping makes a classic beginner's mistake when he sets a date for Christ's return," writes Kreuger. "Jesus himself said in Matthew 24:36, 'Of that day and hour knows no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my father only.' "
Regardless, Camping's followers have been adamant about his prediction, some going as far as selling their possessions and spending their life savings in order to have nothing left on May 21st. Here's a short primer on the situation:
What's gonna happen when...nothing happens? Camping will make up some excuse, his followers will accept it and chalk it up to The Lord giving the world another chance or working in mysterious ways. That's how fucking dumb these people are. I do feel sorry for those that have planned their short-term lives around having nothing left after May 21st, though. Maybe Harold Camping can do something for them. After all, he'll be around to help. That is, if they can get to him before he's publicly strung up like Mussolini by his more vengeful former-believers.
Join me next time when I'll explore the other, better side of this ridiculous non-event, the Atheist "Rapture Parties" to be held around the country, including the American Atheists weekend convention in Oakland, CA. See you then.
At least, that's what some worthless people would like you to believe.
The truth, as you know, is no one's going anywhere on May 21st or any other day. At least not by divine intervention. This story of "The Rapture" coming on Saturday was made up and has been maintained by a Christian radio station and internet ministry called Family Radio. The short, short version is that the station's president/figurehead, Harold Camping, made this prediction a couple years ago. Soon after, billboards paid for by Family Radio and private citizens sprang up around the U.S. and in other countries to warn non-believers while advertising the station, which is broadcast in forty languages all over the world. To illustrate Camping's absurd logic, here's the bullshit equation he came up with as "proof" of The Rapture's date. According to him:
1. The number five equals "atonement", the number ten equals "completeness", and the number seventeen equals "heaven".
2. Christ is said to have hung on the cross on April 1, 33 AD. The time between April 1, 33 AD and April 1, 2011 is 1,978 years.
3. If 1,978 is multiplied by 365.2422 days (the number of days in a solar year, not to be confused with the lunar year), the result is 722,449.
4. The time between April 1 and May 21 is 51 days.
5. 51 added to 722,449 is 722,500.
6. (5 x 10 x 17)2 or (atonement x completeness x heaven)2 also equals 722,500.
Head explode yet? Obviously none of that, save for the sheer arithmetic, maybe, makes any sense. Camping simply made this up out of whole cloth to draw attention to himself and Family Radio. It's a scare tactic; no more, no less. Not only that, he's pulled this before. Many, many times. His last prediction was for September of 1994. When that didn't happen, he made up some excuse about bad calculations and rechristened that day as the start of the "Tribulation Period". I'm assuming he'll do something similarly moronic this time. From what I've read, not even other Christian organizations believe this guy's line of bullshit.
Per Wikipedia: James Kreuger, author of the book Secrets of the Apocalypse - Revealed, has stated that while he believes the rapture is coming, Camping is incorrect in attempting to nail down a date. "For all his learning, Camping makes a classic beginner's mistake when he sets a date for Christ's return," writes Kreuger. "Jesus himself said in Matthew 24:36, 'Of that day and hour knows no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my father only.' "
Regardless, Camping's followers have been adamant about his prediction, some going as far as selling their possessions and spending their life savings in order to have nothing left on May 21st. Here's a short primer on the situation:
What's gonna happen when...nothing happens? Camping will make up some excuse, his followers will accept it and chalk it up to The Lord giving the world another chance or working in mysterious ways. That's how fucking dumb these people are. I do feel sorry for those that have planned their short-term lives around having nothing left after May 21st, though. Maybe Harold Camping can do something for them. After all, he'll be around to help. That is, if they can get to him before he's publicly strung up like Mussolini by his more vengeful former-believers.
Join me next time when I'll explore the other, better side of this ridiculous non-event, the Atheist "Rapture Parties" to be held around the country, including the American Atheists weekend convention in Oakland, CA. See you then.
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