Being Misled...

Being misled is a cornerstone of humanity. From the Trojan Horse all the way to "Compassionate Conservatism", we have an innate desire to package disappointment as something slightly less disappointing; To offer someone something, only to give them something else and hope they don't notice.

In other words, welcome to Hollywood.

Thinking back, I have experienced this all my life. Let's take a little trip down "memory lane", which, if I'm correct, will be called "Human RAM lane" in about 20 years.

Having grown up in NYC, 7-11 was an exotic, almost unknowable experience to me; like sex with an Norwegian. As a child, I saw the commercials on TV, but since there were none anywhere near me, the idea of one grew to mythic proportions.

It was my Godot; always talked about, but never there.

One fall evening in the spring of 1988 my family took a trip to Washington, DC, home of DIY punk and DIY drive-by shootings.

We were there with my oldest brother while he undertook the macabre charade that is "the college search".

I remember taking the requisite sight-seeing drive around town with the fam; "look! there's the Washington Monument!" "look, there's the Lincoln Memorial!" "look! there's Marion Barry smoking crack and having sex with a cheap call-girl!"

These were things I had never seen before, and they didn't fail to impress. But what was the one thing I was most looking forward to? 7 fucking 11.

7-11! The Gourmet Eatery I had only heard about during the commercial breaks on "DuckTales"...well, certainly I must go there post-haste.

We were driving:

"Dad!" I exclaimed, "can we go to the 7-11?"
"Good God" he responded, "why on earth would you want to do that?"
"I wanna go!!! I wanna go!!!"
He looked at me with a mixture of hatred and sorrow. To my family, the concept of a chain store was about as exciting as a weekend trip to Buchenwald circa 1944. In fact, I didn't even enter a fast-food establishment until I was 18.
"Sorry, kid, we've got to run to dinner".
"Can't we go there for dinner?"
"Uh, no, we have reservations"
"Can we go after dinner?"
My mother looked at my father with a "be nice to him even though he's being an annoying brat" look.
"Sure".

We went to the fanciest restaurant in DC, which fit it nicely with my family's lack of chain food experience. We're gourmands, which is French for "extremely picky and annoying". We were served and the food was amazing, but I wasn't paying attention.

Like a teenager awaiting the results of his SATs...I was a giddy mess. All I could think about were those amazing commercials; multi-colored frosty drinks, huge "gulps" of soda, and toys that tied in to the latest blockbuster film. It was my Xanadu.

I remember exactly what happened when bow-tied waiter came up:

"Still have room for desert? We were rated best in Washington".
My family eagerly ordered delicious sounding things; a la mode this, double chocolate that. My turn.
"No desert for me!" I excitedly exclaimed.
"Are you sure? We've got some really great choices"
My mother looked at me.
"Matt, seriously, are you sure? Everything here is great"
"Nope! I'm waiting until after!"
The waiter looked at my mother, she embarrassingly spoke:
"He's excited because we're going to 7-11"
He laughed "Really?"
"Yes!!! We're going!!!!" I shrieked.
"Well, I still remember my first time. It's never as good as it is then"
As a child, I lost the irony.
"Yay!!!!"

I can specifically remember that my mother ate a fudgy brownie covered in whip cream and gooey chocolate sauce. When my mother wants you to eat something she goes "mmmm" loudly, to underscore how much you're missing.

Needless to say, she was pulling an "mmmm" fest.

But I stood strong. I turned down every offer of a bite, because I was saving room in my tummy for whatever scrumptious delights awaited me at the wondrous 7-11.

Then we got there I and have never been so disappointed in my life.

This wasn't like it was in the commercials. I half-expected it have a velvet rope and a bouncer; checking the names of all the excited kids waiting patiently for their sugary delights.

Instead, it was illuminated with a dull flickering florescent light and the only occupant was a middle aged Indian gentleman.

My mother looked at me as if to say "sorry" and "I told you so" at the same time. This was the same look she gave me when I graduated film school.

Morbidly disappointed, I went back to the hotel with a mini-pack of Oreos.

Advertising's not just about making a product look good, it's about making the consumer believe whatever the product is...they need it.

And believe me, as long as there are gullible 7 year olds around (mentally or physically), companies will still market crap as gold-covered crap. I hope my story will illuminate this for a wayward child.

Probably not so much.

New Post Coming Tomorrow, but for now...a bit of depressing news:

Britain's far right party won some seats in the elections this week. Their leader, Nick Griffin has said things like this:



and



Yeah, he said "organized Jewry" and now he's the British equivilant of a congressman. He's one of those "Britian for the British, Deport Those That Aren't 'Pure Blood'" type people.

From the above article:

Right-leaning governments came out ahead in Germany, France, Italy, Belgium and Spain, while far-right parties that excoriated Muslims, immigrants and minorities gained strength in the Netherlands, Hungary and Austria.

Something to think about.

Living in Los Angeles has taught me a few lessons.

The bird poops on an electrical wire. The crack whore struts like she owns the place. My neighbor, who starred in a VH1 reality show, screams at her boyfriend about everything and nothing. A douched-out fratbag zooms down my block going 80 in an $80,000 Mercedes, just to reach a stop sign 3 seconds earlier then he would have otherwise.

Living in Los Angeles has taught me a few lessons. First; New York City is fucking awesome. It's a Mecca; I am a Jihadist and it's my Allah. I want to walk. I want to talk about things that aren't 'industry'. I want a cover of my magazine to be Larry David and Woody Allen. I want to drink at a bar at 3am.

But no, I'm not going to Bash LA. Sure, almost everyone I meet has ISSUES. Not 'itsy bitsy, let's drink whiskey and talk about your issues' issues...like 'mommy raped me while I was beaten with a bible' issues. The entertainment industry is fed by those people; hungry for approval, scarred by the past and narcissistic because it just makes sense.

Don't you love how someone says "not to blankity blankity blank", then they "blankity blankity blank"?

Needless to say, there are a lot of positives about living in a giant metropolitan sprawl. I like driving, for one. I think I'm fully OK with never being in a packed, sweaty, vomit-inducing subway again. When I first got here I used to say "nothing beats the subway; I can get anywhere, anytime...no traffic"...

But then I discovered "This American Life" and singing loudly to myself; traffic jams became an excuse to escape. Being in your car is kinda like being in the shower, except you're a lot dirtier. Sure, that fucker that cuts you off is annoying, but it's all OK because you're having your own little Karaoke Party. "Sister Christian" never sounded so good.

Then there's Hispanic food. Here's the difference between Los Angeles and everywhere else in the US; an El Salvadorian Immigrant is COOKING your food rather than delivering it.

Actually, he's delivering it too...but he's delivering what his cousin cooked. And, I gotta say; good hispanic food is about as delish as any food (except Jewish Deli food; but it gets close)

Even all the industry bullshit is OK. I mean, it's not, because if I have to be in the same room with another jackass wearing a blazer and teeshirt talking on their iPhone about "the deal", I'll kill myself...but: I do like the idea that we're all out here for the same reason. If I want to get a crew together, whatever the price, I just have to make a phone call or two. Anywhere else in the world it becomes a Wellian nightmare of begging, borrowing and crying.

I guess I'm getting used to LA. No, it'll never be NYC, but there's only one NYC. That's my hometown and that's why my number is 917 and my driver's lie-sense says that I live on the upper west side...but I'm used to the land of Angels. No, it's not "Under The Bridge", but maybe it's...OK.

My friend's wife created a Tee shirt line that says "I Stomach LA" (rather than "I Love LA"), and I think that's basically what's going on here. The only problem is that I have a consistent stomach ache...

I got a Blackberry and all of a sudden things started happening.

I got a Blackberry and all of a sudden things started happening.

"things started happening" and "blackberry" usually mean business meetings, quiet evenings with giant bags of cocaine and violent prostitute beatings. For me, this was not exactly true.

For me...it was subtle.

The first change I noticed was that I shaved more. "This is what it's like to feel skin!" I proclaimed. I was "barebacking" my cheek, and it was odd. No longer was "once every week and a half-ish" good enough. It was now a concern of mine to "look good".

Next, I started wearing Button Down Shirts. You may wonder why those three words are capitalized. I DARE you to tell me why they shouldn't be.

Gone were ironic tee shirts I bought in 1998 and hellos were waved to Banana Republic's finest. I like them striped, dark and pressed, just like my womens. If that doesn't make sense, dear reader, I encourage you to use your imagination. If that doesn't work, use "The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus"...it worked for Terry Gilliam.

As the halcyon days of laying in bed writing naked, playing Wii naked and BBQing meat naked slowly became obsequious evenings at The Standard, drinking 12 dollar vodka-tonics, I began to realize something about myself.

I'm a fucking douchebag.

Could it be that putting my phone on the table during dinner to check and see if I got an email is rude?

Could it be that determinedly typing away on a tiny little screen while other people attempt to hold a conversation with me is impolite?

Is it possible that updating my Twitterberry in the throws of sexual passion is a "faux pas"?

Yes, yes, and why the fuck not?

I am a man of the 21st century and it is my duty to be impolite. It's my duty to be a huge douchebag.

"Paying Attention" to what people say is so 1992. People are lucky if they can belch out 10 words of polite conversation before texting a friend.

Personally, I long for the days of rotary phones, an MTV that played music and email addresses that were nothing but a long string of numbers with a comma inserted randomly somewhere.

Sadly, this is not to be. It's the 21st century and, like John Connor, I was one of the last non-douchebag resistance.

I lost though and now I'm checking my Twitterberry to see if someone's @ replied me. Actually I forgot what I was writing.

I'm sorry, what were you talking about?

My thick brown glasses sighed loudly.

I smiled an upsidedown frown. It didn't suit me. Neither did 'Brooks Brothers' for that matter, but that was neither here nor there.

She was watching American Idol like a pop-culture hawk starving for mouse carcasses. Glibly she mumbled, "I want Adam to win".

I hadn't a clue of what she spoke. I read books and smoked clove cigarettes and wore a beard of ironic v-neck teeshirts; how could I watch the dreaded television? The lowest form of low since the combination of khakis and the 'tied over the shoulder' sweater.

My thick brown glasses sighed loudly.

"Are we like, going to a bar or something?", I snorted. I thought that it might sound piggish, but the snort was more 'Jewish Phlegm-y'.

"But American Idol is tonight. The finals; a veritable Coup de grâce of singing cacophony".
"Yeah, but I want a beer. I want a beer so much that I want it covered in more beer; like a pilsner or something; then I want that beer wrapped in a Bud Light can, covered in a fine hops 'n barley-flavored dutch chocolate. That's how much I want beer at this moment."
She looked at me.
"OK", I admitted, "I'm an alcoholic. What are you going to do? Have an intervention? Remember the macabre charade the last one turned into?"

That particular charade ended up becoming a drunken game of charades, where I crudely attempted a parodic imitation of a large policeman with a breathalyzer and stun gun.

She finally relented: "OK, you want to go to an alehouse? Go for it, just don't expect me to go with you".
"We can play Sex And The City tonight". I knew this was her weak spot; I also knew it required a night of pretending to be Miranda.
"I'll be Carrie!" She's always Carrie.

So we went out (damn high heels) and wowed passersby with our witty repartee, confident single-hood and emotional empathy.

Late that evening, while fending off Mr. Big when Carrie went to the bathroom, I thought to myself: "It could be worse; I could be watching American Idol".

She LOL'd Lonely As a Cloud

April O'Neil wrote something in her journal.

A journey begins with a step.

A step begins with a move.

A move begins with a thought.

A thought begins with an idea.

An idea begins with an education.

"Great", she thought; "Now all I have to do is get an education".

She wasn't unintelligent, she just didn't have an education. She had a PHd in life, as she remarked in polite company, but that was about as impressive as a PHd from Devry. Her dog had more training than she; two years of community college were about equivalent to a degree in "Walkies" from Poocherstein University.

She was not happy in life; married at 18 to a young evangelical, she lost her faith in God on the macabre charade that was her wedding night. God simply couldn't exist, as there was no explanation for the collection of odd, dangly things contained in her husband's pants. He knew there was something awry when she screamed "There is NO GOD!" the second he removed his TMNT boxers.

They divorced when he caught her cheating on him loudly while she slept. "Oh Shlomo!" she screamed. "Do it again!".

The sad thing was she didn't truly love Shlomo, the town Mohel, she just loved what he did for a living.

Alone, working a crappy receptionist job and spending most of her evenings Googling "lulz", April knew that her life must have a purpose, but that purpose was probably stuck between the cushions or under the couch.

One night, while idly looking up old middle-school acquaintances on Stickam, God arrived.

She was surprised for a multitude of reasons; first, that God existed. Second, that God Was A Taco.

Yes, the Almighty God was a crispy pollo grande with extra cheese. Also, he had the worst salsa breath in recorded history.

"April! Boweth downeth to meeth!"
"Did you just say Meth? Bow to down to Meth?"
"Oh, sorry, I was just being poetic", he said, taco-shell lips flip-flopping, "I meant me-eth"
God Continued.
"Listen April, life is short and you're wasting it; get out every once in a while; travel, shoot a hobo, watch two elephants crap on each other".
"But God, I have a crappy job, no money, generic third complaint about why I'm inactive. How can I take a journey?".
"That's simple, April; the only journey worth taking is a journey within yourself. Take that first step now. Close your eyes and imagine yourself wherever it is you want to be".

She closed her eyes and saw the majesty that only the mind could provide; hardcore pron, EPIC FAILS and teh awesomeness.

She realized her true calling; she was to be a vacuous internet meme. Of course saying "vacuous internet meme" is kinda like saying "huge large burger", but she got the point.

She turned to God and thanked him. Got smiled a big taco smile and flew away in a puff of salsa fart breath.

"Now, all I have to do is become an internet meme".

And that, my friends, is the story of her blog: April's Salsa Fart; updated everyday with Fart Pix, Fart Vids and EPIC Fart Fails. It's currently being developed into a novel and an MTV reality series.

April realized that in this modern day and age, an education begins with a journey and not the other way around. The internet allows you to throw everything at a wall to see what sticks, take a journey without an education, idea, thought, move or even a step.

It's the Cliff's Notes version of life and that's totally OMFG LOL LULZ with April.

Putting the grapes back on the vine

You are a distant, innocent spec of nothingness resting on an incomprehensibly large greatness. This greatness neither notices you nor will acknowledge your existence, because you are such a giant nothing; a never will, a never was. Your smug sense of self importance is a huge mask of ignorance, a macabre charade of limited experience and close mindedness. 

You are nothing and the fact that you think you're something means that you're an even smaller nothing. 

"This, you have to admit", the teacher spoke.

The class of 5 year olds looked confused. Hebrew school had taken a strange turn for this group of kindergardeners; one minute it was all apples and honey, and the next a depressing diatribe of diffuse downers. To put it colloquially; "Ms. Johnson's scary!".

Irving Shacter, the proud, yet incredibly schlubby principal opened the door:

"Ms. Johnson, a word we can speak?"

When they got outside, Mr. Shacter was more frank:

"To the students you speak like this?"

"Well, Irving, don't you think they deserve to know the truth?"

"We're not in the truth business, Ms. Johnson; this is a religious school".

"But don't they deserve to know that life is a giant void and we spend our hours fruitlessly attempting to fill it with meaninglessly inconsequential wastes of time?"

"You mean 'are we going to teach Atheism in a Hebrew school'? No. Now get back to those students; I can see Peter Sachs eating a sandwich of boogers and paste".

Dejected, Ms. Johnson solemnly walked back to class.

"Well, kids; I guess it's time we get back to teaching you about Noah's Ark."

A handsome young Jewish boy raised his hand.

"Yes, devilishly handsome young Jewish boy?"

"Ms. Johnson; don't be down. We all know that these stories aren't actually true".

"You do?"

The entire class exclaimed: "yeah".

"Yeah, but if we stop pretending like we believe it, we don't get grape juice and challah on Fridays. Grape juice and challah is pretty amazing".

That's when Ms. Johnson realized; religion isn't about actually believing in anything, it's about getting cool stuff when you pretend to believe in stuff.

A class-wide group hug ensued, with the exception of Peter Sacks who was rushed to Mount Sinai hospital with an acute case of septic shock brought on by excessive paste-eating.

"I am a wet blanket dousing the fire of your loins"

"I am a wet blanket dousing the fire of your loins", he thought.

What better way to Twitter-flirt, or "Twirt", than to write extremely provocative innuendos cloaked in a mask of humor and uneasy awkwardness? After all, why change what's worked for 20-odd years?

That's when he looked up and realized that the term "Twirt" was just ridiculous. So were the terms "weblebrity" and "mukluk".

Flirting over direct message was nice, but not as nice as flirting in person, and not even close to as nice as watching the Director's Cut of "Apocalypse Now". Her responses "LOL" and "WTF OMG LOL" belied the inherent macabre despondency of the situation; Each three letter acronym was another knife to the heart; Each four letter acronym was another knife to the heart, stab to the stomach and rape of the anal. I won't even go into five letter acronyms.

He closed Twitter. What good was it doing him anyway? He couldn't express himself correctly anyway; "If Carneades was correct in saying 'nothing can be known; not even this', then how the hell am I supposed to figure out the 7th season of 24?"...is more than 140 characters.

YouTube Comments In Real Life

Life would be easier if you could have a Greek chorus of youtube commenters giving feedback on your every move.

You eat a turkey sandwich...three horny loners watch.

"LOL ROTFLMFAO! This is definitely going on 4chan".
"Your stpud and gay. LAMME!"
"Now that you've read this dunt stop. Send this msg to five friends within an hour or you'll die".

"Outstanding advice!" you think, "maybe I'm funny when I eat a turkey sandwich, but I'm also stupid and gay. If I don't pass that information on to five of my friends, I will surely die".

You're sitting in a bar, looking for some hot action. An unremarkable, pizza-faced hobbledehoy gazes at you from across the room.

"Cum check out my free webcam. Sexy live shows!"; his every exclamation is underscored by a flapping jowl. "xxxxcamsexy.info NOW!".

He holds out a picture of a young, attractive girl sitting on a bed, staring into the camera.

"That's me telling you this; sexy time sex...SEX", he finishes his whiskey, shakes his head and takes a deep breath. His work day is done.

You take home a very valuable lesson; things aren't always what they seem. The second valuable lesson; "that girl I cybered with on the 'sex chat good times' message board was probably an overweight man" was briefly learned, but then immediately forgotten later that same night after three vodkas.

So what can we learn about people who comment on videos on youtube? A small cabal of Jews control the world, apparently. Also, youtube commenters are borderline retarded.

Check out this video, for instance:



Some of the amazingly adroit comments include " Is it just me, or is the person really playing it an overweight caucasian person?", " I love how its a skinny white guy playing guitar hahahah", " that fat wight guy is good" and " yah this is so freaken bad and fake"

Is he fat? Is he skinny? How on earth does anyone think that "white" is spelled "wight"?

These are all questions...

Cinco de Gringo

Ed Hardy? More like Dead Farty.

I have no idea what that means, but I thought of it yesterday while shopping at my local Ralphs not-so-supermarket. Note the inappropriate lack of punctuation in the name.
Ralphs? As in several Ralphs own the supermarket?

Anyway; cinco de mayo there is like a scene out of Yevgeny Zamyatin's bleak distopian nightmare, "We". Fleas the size of rats sucked on rats the size of cats, and ten thousand peoploids split into small tribes.

That and about 1000 white people got sombreros, chips and a margarita mix (all labeled "cinco de SAVINGS!") in exchange for their last vestige of dignity.

Someone please explain to me why it's totally acceptable to co-opt a culture for a day in an inherently simplistic and racist way. That's like dressing in blackface and a dashiki while eating fried chicken and watermelon during Kwanzaa; except that's not "in" right now; racism against Mexicans is.

Well, I for one, say "Mexican't" to racism.

Monday night I went to a godawful Mexican place in West Hollywood and it was a totally Mexican't experience. The waiter was a mid-west valley girl type, the host was an effete white manboy and the chefs were third season rejects from "Hell's Kitchen". They offered things like "a light mole reduction sauce". In fact, the only Mexicans I saw were the busboys; Pancho Villa Jr. and Emiliano Zapata III.

Sadly, no revolution was forthcoming and the food tasted like Mexican food prepared by a retarded blind midget after they donated their face to Connie Culp. Why do white people think they can out-minority minorities?

St. Patty's Day! I know, let's all wear "Fuck Me, I'm Irish" buttons, beat up gay people and drink Guinness until we impregnate the closest Gaelic piece of arse. Well, white people; you ain't gonna out drink, fight or fuck the Irish, so it's about time to give up that dream.

And for all you people who move to NYC and start going to Jewish Delis and watching Woody Allen movies...to be Jewish you need to face 2000+ years of hardship and persecution and inexplicably feel guilty about it. Using the word "nosh" in polite company does not a Jew make.

I think we should create a holiday called "Cinco de Gringo" and everyone dresses up as white people, drink PBRs and start wars, rape land and enslave those that look different from us. And remember, enslavement can be physical, economical OR mental! Or all three!

My Top Five Most Said Phrases During The Day

1) "Time To Use My Sinus Rinse!"
2) "She Was Pregnant When I Met Her"
3) "Maybe If I Hit Reload, I'll Have a New Facebook Notification"
4) "Oh Well, No New Notifications"
5) "This Uncontrollable Sobbing Will Stop If I Drink Vodka at 3PM".

Plus:
"Man! If I only had a guitar, 15 years of practice, a driving passion and a unique talent, Id be a big time rock star."

Random Thoughts 'O The Day

The phrase "don't cry over spilled milk" doesn't really take into account "crying while spilled milk murders and rapes your neighbors within earshot".

Is love still blind for a blind person? Or is it "love is sighted" for them?

Jews aren't money hungry, they're "getting the coat at cost" hungry.

I'm easily distractible which is a word I just had to add to my web browser dictionary. What kind of web browser doesn't have "distractible" in its dictionary? I guess it's time to stop using Mosaic. I wonder if my Geocities personal page is getting any hits from aol users looking at alt.binaries.Geocities.arcane.references.

If Axl Rose was a 10 year old fat Mexican kid who looks nothing like Axl Rose would he look like this?
Fat Baby is Strong Baby!

I am not getting older, everyone around me is just getting a lot younger and speak a strange internet acronym based language.

I'm not gaining weight, the world is just contracting at an imperceptibly fast rate.

In 1993, I took neither side the "whoomp! there it is" or "whoot! there it is" war. I preferred the less well known "whoopie goldberg! there it is". That's probably why I was so unpopular in middle school.

"Nobody walks in LA" except when you're filling up your gas tank and an insane drunk hobo walks up to you to ask for money/to read his "manifesto".

The word manifesto sounds like a type of basil leaf-derived sauce created by stereotype Italian mobsters. "Aaay, taste this fuckin' manifesto, you goombatz!".

14 year olds who make fun of 18 year olds because they wear late-80s Run DMC style hip hop clothing should be gently reminded that in 4 years they'll be dressing like The Spice Girls and wearing $80 vintage "Silverchair" tee shirts. Fashion is macabre cyclic charade.

being outraged is better than being enraged

I died slightly when I was 30.

My heart raced, my head pounded and a slight numbness rang through my fingers. I thought it might be the end, or at least what the end might feel like.

I woke up at 9am on a Tuesday, blinked, and it was 4pm next Wednesday. I had a dream about being older; and when I woke up, the dream came true.

I thought about my job and realized that it was just something that distracted me from life. I thought about my life and realized it was just something distracting me from my job.

I went to the doctor, who made me wait for 45 minutes because people who had appointments after me arrived before me.

When I came through the door he smiled.

"How are we feeling today?"
"I feel too old to be young, but too young to be old".
"Wow! That sounds like a trite insight into the intrinsic truth of human nature."
He got me there.
"Touche!"
"What it sounds like to me," He said, "is that you've got a case of the 'being aware of the transience of time'. The only cure is to stop paying attention."
"How do I do that?"
"Well, there's TV. Pop culture blogs, alcohol, skat porn. Anything that will take your mind off your mind."
"Gossip girl?"
"Now you're talking!"

I hopped in my car and bought some McDonalds. I thought this was an appropriate first step; I ate just enough to give me the runs and constipation at the same time.

I got home, turned on MTV just in time for a "The Hills" marathon. It felt a little weird and I vomited for the first hour; but after the initial shock to the system, things seemed to fall in place.

Time set itself right. Well, maybe time didn't set itself right, but I didn't notice the gaps. In fact, I didn't notice much.

I was OK with sitting around the house staring idly at the ceiling. It didn't bother me at all that I wasted a night looking at Perez Hilton, because my concept of value was greatly diminished. Soon, I paid no mind to museum visits, British Sitcoms and Italian cinema from the 1960s. All the pop culture noise and bland sameness allowed me to forget what I might be missing out on.

Time became an abstract concept instead of a stark reality. It no longer came and went with each passing breath; it just happened, like water running through your fingers in a shower.

When you fill your time with vapid, superficially unimportant things, time loses all its value. You're no longer missing out on things; things just happen around you.

I finally knew what it was like to be an American. Each day passed, but I didn't notice each day passing because I was too busy not noticing each day passing. I voted for the most handsome candidate and became outraged at things other people were outraged about because being outraged is better than being enraged.

I bought a flat screen TV and when that didn't fill the void, I bought a super fucking huge cinema display for my computer. These things became exponentially more important as I became exponentially less important.

And when I died, it all made sense. Because there's no questions when you aren't paying attention.

I'm Bound To Insult You

I hate silence.

I would rather be savaged clumsily by a spork than sit in uncomfortable silence.

There's a grating, unnerving feeling when people sit in silence. I can't really explain it. Not talking to someone is essentially the same as screaming "I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY TO YOU, YOU FETID SACK OF COW TURD!!" at them.

So, that's why I ramble on and on and on. It's how I keep myself sane.

It's also how I get in a lot of trouble.

You see, the more one talks, then more one is likely to say something highly insulting or embarrassing to the other person. At least, that's the way it works for me.

Take, for example, a poker game that I had a week or so ago.

End of the night, everyone sort-of making their way out the door, the remaining few just idly sipping whiskey...

Barack Obama came up. (preface, I'm a huge Barack supporter and went around PA passing out fliers, making phone calls, etc for him)

I was attempting to express my pride and amazement that someone like Barack could win the election. How did it come out? An expression that more closely resembled a KKK recruiting pamphlet.

"When I was a kid, my dad told me that the US would elect a black man as president before they'd elect a Jew. I was like 'no way...how could that ever happen'! 'How could the US elect a black guy before they elected a Jew?'"

So the silence crept in and I felt like I needed to back up or keep chugging; basically cause some sort of car wreck...

"I didn't mean it like that; I just didn't think that anyone would actually vote for a black person to be president"

Of course, what I meant was that I didn't have the faith that a black person would ever be elected president because of our country's chequered past. Judging by the dropped jaws and piercing stares, it must have come across as "who could ever believe that an inferior race would be elected!".

A few days later, I found myself at the house of a good friend of mine, discussing internet culture with his girlfriend.

She spoke of her distrust of Twitter, and I picked up on it.

"Yeah, I mean, there are all types of vain, narcissistic weirdos taking pictures of their meals and tweeting 'this is what I'm eating'. What's up with that?"

I then realized that her boyfriend tweets all day and 90% of them are pictures of his meal with a "this is what I'm eating" tag on it.

I quickly tried to correct myself...

"uh, except your boyfriend, he's always taking pictures of interesting food. I completely understand why he does it. It's not vanity or narcissism when he does it. More of an art..."

So she's not responding and I think maybe I've taken it a little to far with the "more of an art" comment...too much silence, right?

"Well, as much of an art as Twittering can be, I mean, obviously an idiot could Twitter, not that your boyfriend is an idiot"

She was watching "The Hills" as we spoke and later on in the conversation (during a lull) a very sexy condom commercial came on.

I felt the need to butt in.

"Not to be too puritanical, but isn't this show for 15 year old girls?"

Note, we had just had a conversation about how this was one of her favorite shows. Of course, I was referring to the too-sexy commercial on, not the fact that a 28 year old girl was watching the show, but she didn't pick up on it.

"Uh, I guess, but you know, it's funny, that's why I watch it"

"Yeah, but I mean, how can they show that crap to little kids?"

She looks offended and stays quiet. I realize that she has no idea I'm talking about the condom commercial, and that I'm probably insulting her.

"Oh, I was talking about the condom commercial, I don't think this show is for 15 year olds, I just meant that was part of the demographic. The show can be enjoyed on different levels, you know? Like, if you're 15 you can enjoy it as an MTV reality show, and if you're older, you can enjoy it as..."

I lose track and try to quickly come up with something.

I can't.

"Anyway, I certainly didn't mean to imply this show is just for 15 year old girls!"

15 minutes later she went to bed and I didn't see her again for the next two days that I stayed at her house.

So, you get what it's like spending an uncomfortable night with me. I'm bound to insult you, your significant other, or your race. Perhaps all three.

Just know I didn't mean it.

Recovering Sick Days

I am slowly recovering from a particularly annoying case of the flu. Bedridden for 4-plus days, I spent the long, solitary hours in a bright white room covered in Kleenex and TheraFlu packets.

I'm fairly certain that nothing brings back vivid childhood memories than sick days at home. Sure, there's a difference; at the age of 8, 4 sick days doing nothing is a heavenly blessing from Jeebus; at the age of 28, it's a macabre exercise in the realization of how quickly life is passing you by.

Still, there's nothing like a good old sick day.

It brings me straight back to ear aches and sniffles at my childhood home at 88th street and Riverside Drive, watching bootleg World War II-era Superman and Bugs Bunny cartoons that my dad picked up from a street vendor at 96th and Broadway.

Occasionally, it might be something else; Star Trek II, Doctor Who, any one of a dozen Marx Brothers movies...even when I was sick, they made me feel better. Something about good watchin'...makes for a wonderfully constant healer.

Lacking ability to do much besides lay half-unconscious with my laptop on my stomach, I went to southparkstudios.com and watched probably close to 80 South Park episodes. Of course, I slept through about 50 of them, but I gotta say; even though the slightest laugh might have caused a painful coughing fit, it was worth it. South Park got me through the sickness; distracted me enough, kept me company enough, made me smile enough. Thank goodness for good programming.

My grandmother, who passed away last year at 98, was basically bedridden for the last 25 years of her life. "Bedridden" in this case is defined as "Anti-socialism" as opposed to "Too Sick To Move", but in any case, the gal kept herself going by watching TV day and night. Certainly nothing I would condone (I canceled my cable long ago), but something I can understand. Being kept company doesn't always mean there's anyone else with you.

Anyway, the first attempt I made to go outside was to drive over to Rocket Video to rent some British sitcoms. While there, I encountered 2 20-ish year olds arguing which Marx Brothers movie they should rent for an upcoming Acid Trip. I guess good entertainment can also keep your Id and Superego company.

downtown LA at 7am

there's a darkness rising in the streets
hazy glow of a stray mourn
skyscraped scars of a distant city
as fog suffocates the breathless air

up go the golden cold night lights
they awake with a squint and a sigh
the beams creep in with a scream unseen
til they just whimper and die

3 Cult Artists Worth The Hype

Cult artists tend to elicit a "love it or hate it" reaction; I used to think that I was generally in the "unpopular middle" on most of them, until I realized that it absolutely depends on your mood. I fucking love these musicians at certain times. Most other times I'm at sort of a "crunchy whatever"...an "eh", if you will.

Here are some great artists and some great times to listen to them.

On A Quiet, Rainy Day:

SYD BARRETT:

Ahh, the sound of someone mentally breaking down. That's either his two solo albums or the gentle sobbing that comes from my bathroom each night around 1am.

Originally the leader of the first (and in my approximation, best) incarnation of Pink Floyd, Syd had a bit of a breakdown; staring blankly ahead during a lip sync performance on American Bandstand, strumming his detuned guitar at random intervals during live shows, and writing a song called "Have You Got It Yet", which he introduced to his band mates by never playing any chords in sequence, asking the rest of the Floyd to follow along, and shouting "have you got it yet?" every few seconds.

In any case, they stopped picking him up for gigs at some point in 1968; his managers, thinking he was the star of Floyd, got some solo albums together.

The two records, "The Madcap Laughs" and "Barrett" consist of strange, almost rambling songs. Some are melodically captivating, some emotionally evocative, all pretty fucking weird.

His voice has an odd ethereal quality; he's almost not there. I would liken it to someone who is really, really exhausted; it's the last karaoke song of the night and all the wine is putting him to sleep. Yet, it's somehow special.

He strums his acoustic guitar wildly, changing time signatures willy-nilly, occasionally playing chords that he probably shouldn't be playing. His backup band seem to be playing catch up, confused as to where he might be going next (they haven't got it yet).

The more rambling songs are something to behold; they really feel like he just sat down, started playing his guitar and sang whatever strange things that came into his head. Take the lyrics of the track "Rats" off his 1970 album "Barrett":

Blam, splattered, tactile, engine heaving,
quacky, squeaky, dormy, roofy, wham
I`ll have them mind blown broken
jardy, cardy, smoocho, poocho, paki, puffi
splosh eat moxy, very smelly, cable, gable,
splinter, shaddle top the seam he`s taken off

Half poetic, half "Huh"?...all pretty interesting. If you're going to give him a shot, be prepared to be full of sadly fun whimsy.

No Good Trying off 1969's "The Madcap Laughs"
Great song, odd lyrics, listen to his backing band (the superb Soft Machine) attempting to play "catch up"...



Gigolo Aunt off 1970's "Barrett":
One of his most "pop oriented" songs, which tells you something:



Barrett moved back in with his mom after some unproductive sessions in 1974 (financed by David Bowie). He died in 2006.


Taking a Nap On a Beach:


SCOTT WALKER:
If I was to say "An industrial Josh Grobian singing over barren, yet complex musical landscapes" would you want to listen? Probably not. So I won't say it.

Scott Walker was a huge pop star in the 1960s, reemerged in the mid-1970s with an album that continues to "inspire" David Bowie (IE, he continues to "rip it off") and now releases a record every 10 or so years.

He is so unclassifiable as an artist, that I am simply unable to come up with words to describe his music.

My favorite album of his is 1995's universally praised Tilt, something that will lull you into a sense of false security with a minute or two of ambient rattling, then blow your mind with abrupt dissonant percussion, orchestral bursts and operatic wailing. Oh, and lyrics about everything from the trial of Adolf Eichmann to the endangerment of the buffalo.

Bowie, again, used that album as the blueprint for everything from his 1995 album "Outside" to his 2002 album "Heathen".

If Tilt sounds like too much of a drag to you, a good starting point might be his four tracks on The Walker Brothers' 1978 album "Nite Flights"; Can meets Genesis meets Roxy Music hybrid which is worth the price of several admissions. Hey, Bowie even covered the title track. Enough Bowie for you? Only one more reference, I promise...

If you're interested in pushing your musical horizons into bleak, dark, insanely intellectual territory, than this is the man for you. If "ten piece orchestra, wailing guitars, loud organ, lyrics about Europe in the summertime" turn you off, don't bother.

Oh, and there's apparently an amazing documentary on him which actually was just in theaters (produced by none other than David Bowie!). I missed it, but it'll be in my Netflix queue...if I had a Netflix queue...

Tilt off 1995's Tilt
The poppiest song off the album...it's about leather, Buffalo mothers and the enviroment. That makes it sound waaaay worse than it is...




Night Flights off 1978's Night Flights
It's poppy, but also a little mysterious...gotta love it...and the processed violins...



Taking A Shower After The Museum Of Modern Art:

CAPTAIN BEEFHEART:

Yeah, it's totally cliché to use the words "cult", "captain", and "beefheart" in the same blog post, but what the hell.

I really appreciate (almost) everything this guy's done. From his early bluesy cuts to his last album, 1982's Ice Cream For Crow. His music is cosmic, jagged, fucking strange and wonderful.

Famed BBC DJ John Peel did a pretty good job of defining him. In discussing his 1968 masterwerk, Trout Mask Replica, he wrote:

If there has been anything in the history of popular music which could be described as a work of art in a way that people who are involved in other areas of art would understand, then Trout Mask Replica is probably that work.

Beefheart's beat-poetry-meets-proto-punk-riffs-sung-in-a-blues-howl always appealed to me in a way that most music doesn't; artistically. His music sounds like a Pollock painting, without the vomit stains. It's music that belongs in the MOMA; the wine and cheese set say they like it, but it's just because they don't understand it; the rest of us enjoy it on a visceral level; it's poetry we can bob our heads to.

Not everything has to make sense. Things can be beautiful without being beautiful.

He's inspired everyone; from Sonic Youth to Bloc Party. He even inspired ME. I think this was the first song I wrote the music AND lyrics for at 23...why not post it here? I was listening to a lot of Beefheart at the time. Don't judge...


Anyway, pick up Trout Mask Replica, which lands on everyone's top albums of all time (Rolling Stone said #58...I would say about #25).

Sweet Bulbs off 1968's Trout Mask Replica:
A great track about...what I'm assuming is the vagina...but I'm not sure. Not sexual, it's evocative, dense, and jagged with poetic lyrics that will have you grabbing your "pocket guide to explaining poetry"




Zig-Zag Wanderer off 1967's Safe As Milk
I hear this blaring often in Hipster Bars' Jukeboxes. It's easily digestible, but full of enough cache to fit into a hobbledehoy's 2009 "songs I tell people I like" playlist.




Anyways, if you don't like any of these people it's probably because you don't like any of these people. Profound, I know.

Give 'em a listen, maybe it will open up your musical horizons.

10 Years Since Highschool: A Religious Parable

A weird, unsettling creepiness comes over me when I realize that it was a solid 10 years ago that I graduated from high school.

10 years: Enough time for a child to be born and develop a highly distasteful interest in Miley Cyrus. Enough time for a group of nomadic midgets to reach the summit of the Matterhorn, using only gerbils for warmth and company over the long, endless nights.

At some point, staring at 17 year old girls went from "checking them out" to "a cause to call child protection services"

And what about those fancy pants dreams? Sure, all those amazing things you knew you were going to accomplish by 25 seemed plausible in 1998, but now they are a far-off reverie; a post-modern fairy tale, as it were.

Something remotely close to a spec of a tangent of something you want to do seems good enough.

Those friends that haven't at least compromised? Daddy's getting pretty sick of writing the rent check every month.

So the truth? You're always going to be playing catch up with time; it's always going to be a few steps ahead of you. As you age, time moves at an exponentially faster rate, so you're going to fall exponentially further behind.

Is there anyway to catch up? Probably not. You've got shit that will help you pass the time, like primetime TV or a sex worker who's dead inside, but no way to slow it down.

I do have a theory on something that might help. Have you noticed that if you're having fun (going out to dinner, having a good conversation), time fucking flies past, but when you're not (going to the gym, waiting on line at the DMV) it moves super slowly...

Well, maybe the key to life is to not enjoy yourself. Do mundane, vacuous things that cause you to recoil in pain at the slightest thought of doing them. Talk to an ill-informed moron, go to see a "mothers bring your kids in free!" matinée movie, write a buddy comedy for Owen Wilson and Shaquille O'Neal.

If you do that, I guarantee you life will seem endless.

Until you age to the point where death is looking at you while tapping his watch.

Although I guess that's where booze comes in.

This week I was in a retiree community known as "Florida" visiting my father. I haven't seen so many people drunk off their ass since I went to my Irish ex-girlfriend's family reunion/whiskey drinking contest.

I thought getting uncontrollably drunk becomes socially unacceptable at some point in your late-20s, but this appears to not be the case...I guess it's totally cool to get drunk all the time until you die.

At least it makes life a little more bearable. Hell, if I was 77 and living it up in Florida, I might take up a heroin habit.

I guess my main point is; live in the moment, don't live in the moment, time is precious, time doesn't matter. Whatever, it makes no difference, you should just be happy you're however old you are at this very moment, because it only gets worse from here.

Speaking of high school...is it just me or does the poster for the latest "hilarious body swap comedy" 17 Again (cunningly not 18 Again):


Look suspiciously like the cover of David Bowie's 2003 album Reality?

Pandora Judges Me...

Pandora is a revolutionary 21st-century-type radio station that finally I tried using tonight after having several people (including my 67 year old pop) rave about it for a while.

Basically you tell it what songs you like, and it creates a playlist around those songs. Sounds simple, right?

Not entirely. The playlist is created based around certain aspects of your chosen songs (the beat, the harmonies, the rhythm), but not other, perhaps more important aspects (decade of song, genre of song, if the other songs are good at all). So, when I create a playlist around the layered, ethereal "The Model" by Kraftwerk, the 80s pop-crapfest "She Bop" by Cyndi Lauper is the first song that comes up.

Same type of thing happened when I tried to create a glam rock playlist. Bowie's "Suffragette City", T-Rex's "Ballrooms Of Mars", Lou Reed's "Walk on The Wild Side"...what do I get?

A Pavement b-side. Now, I'm as pensive, stop/start dynamic, indie-rock as the next guy, but if I want to listen to fey wobblers singing about tranny sex blanketed in intricately melodic guitar lines, then "Cut Your Hair" isn't my first choice.

Plus, I get the feeling like Pandora is judging me. They have little explanations of why they choose certain songs for you. "Based on what you told us, we're playing this track because it features complex melodies and subtle harmonies"...or whatnot.

Well, I consider myself a connoisseur of fine music; a lone cowboy riding his ear-shaped horse from genre to genre in search of complex, yet satisfying musical deliciousness.

Pandora, on the other hand recommends songs for me because they contain "simple, repeated melodies", "basic rock song structures" and "a dynamic male vocalist". So, Pandora thinks I'm a gay simpleton.

Stop judging me Pandora! Oh, and when are you going to start carrying "Christ Truck"? Get on that...

Mundane, Attractive and Vacuous

Bess was hotter than the burnt embers that stoked the fire in my vacant heart.

Not only did she have "a body that wouldn't quit", she had a body that had recently been promoted to Regional Manager of Sales.

She was pretty fucking hot.

How an Italian mercenary like me ever ended up marrying her is beyond me.

OK, I'm lying. I'm not Italian. I'm Jewish. And I'm not a mercenary, I'm a manager of Accounts Payable at Fenstein, Phlegmberg and Clamcheese, INC.

And we weren't married...yet. It was more of a stalker/stalkee relationship; I pathologically followed her every move, and she lived her life, occasionally enjoying discount Indian food.

But, this beaut beyond beauty will be mine. Soon they will call me "Moshe: The Sexiest Jew Who Fondles All Sorts Of Attractive Lady Types".

I'll just have to change my name to Moshe first. I'm actually Shlomo, which is about as bad a name as my parents could have chosen, except for maybe Gaylord. My last name is Suckscock, so, I mean, I'm fucked either way.

In any case, I wanted to be the Porgy to this delicious slice of Bess. But how?

I gathered up all my courage and decided to talk to her.

"Bess!"
"I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"Yes, I'm that creepy guy who was masturbating outside your window last night."
"Oh, my stalker!"
"I prefer sexy lady connoisseur"
"Either way, you watched me poo"
"I bet your poo smells like chocolate roses"

That visual did nothing for me, so I decided to open up the conversational floodgates.

"Well, I've gathered up all my courage, Bess. I want to talk to you. Tell me a little about yourself."
"OK, I was the cheerleader type in high school, but then I'm like "fuck that, I'm not daddy's little whore any more. Little Lolita's a woman, daddy". I've spent the last five years addicted to crystal meth and managing a Hopewell, New Jersey Quiznos. I don't know if it was the crank, but those sandwiches are fucking nasty".
"They are pretty disgusting"
"So what about you? What are you looking for?"
"Well I'm looking for someone intellectually curious, you know, someone who'll genuinely be interested in listening to NPR. Also, someone who knows how to write a good email. No letter "U" for "you", no TTYLs, no Twitter speak".
"Good luck, it's the 21st century; no one can spell anymore, books are a thing of the past, anal play is a rich sexual tapestry. Get with the times."

Knowing that she'd never be my "it" girl, I decided to drug her and take her back to my place. Sure, it was somewhat illegal, but so is drunk driving, and that didn't stop Linsday Lohan. Yes, I'm a modern day Lindsay Lohan...without the vicious drug and alcohol problem and rampant lesbianism.

She came back to my place; we spoke of God, Groucho Marx and discount hummus. It was an enlightening conversation, because I realized one true fact:

Just because someone is attractive, doesn't mean they have anything remotely interesting to say whatsoever...

I can't believe I'm just finding that shit out now.

I mean, sure. You see someone attractive and you automatically give them an intellectual pass. Idiotic things they say are "cute", vacuous things "sweet", racist things "humorous"...

You're blinded by their good looks.

Bored after speaking for 4 minutes, Bess spoke up.

"Do you have anything to do here? I mean if you're going to kidnap me and NOT rape me, you've got to provide at least some sort of entertainment..."
"I'm afraid the only socially acceptable form of home entertainment I have is this travel Scrabble."
"What about not socially acceptable?"
"Oh, then there's "sitting in deafening silence while idly checking my email"...that's my favorite past time".
"Well, it's your lucky day, Shlomo, because I love uncomfortable silences."

That's when I realized that even though she was stupid, vacuous and had virtually nothing interesting to say whatsoever...she actually enjoyed NOT talking to me.

Imagine being in a relationship with someone you don't have to interact with. It would be a dream come true.

So I married her. We never had kids, talked to each other or had any physical interaction of any sort. We only met at funerals and when we both needed to go to the bathroom: It was the perfect relationship.

Cows Have A Magnetic Sixth Sense...Or Something

Scientists have discovered (based on taking a close look at Google Earth) that cows align themselves along a North/South axis, which appear to indicate that they have some sort of "sixth sense" of magnetism.

Well, further studies (based on taking a really close look at Google Earth) seem to reinforce this; showing that cows align themselves in all sorts of fun, different directions when they are standing next to power lines. Those lines emit a low level magnetic field, thereby "crossing their magnetic wires".

So are we about to enter an age of fashionable cow-compasses? Will geneticists create "pocket bovines" and market them to grizzled old mariners looking for a good larf while sailing about the globe? Probably not.

What this says to me, in a pretentiously simplistic way, is that there is some sort of incomprehensible symmetry to everything. It's not necessarily some divine deity, but something necessarily divine about these bovines' magnetism.

As science learns more (and takes a super intense look at Google Earth), we're going to discover all sorts of seemingly inconsequential little pieces; tiny fragments of an unknowably large whole.

Personally, I can't wait. Well, I'll probably be dead before we even being to partially understand the tiniest amount of knowable information...but my great-great-great-great grandson might find it interesting. Well, somewhat interesting...ooooor not actually interesting at all.

My guess? One day, everyone standing in a southern direction will fall off the face of the earth, leaving the hyper-intelligent cows ready for the "Great Cow Uprising" of 2046. Our only defense? Worcestershire SauceBot: a half human, half peppery condiment killing machine created by the human resistance (let by H.J. Heinz).

Holy Cow!

humorous 2001 ramblings circa 2009

At some point during college, I had another "web log", which I wouldn't classify as a blog because is was so morbidly under-updated; but I certainly wrote as much uninteresting crap there as I write here.

Feeling completely uninspired tonight, I'll cut-and-paste bits and pieces of my 2001 AOL HOMETOWN web blog here, for your unenjoyment. This was right after I discovered The Onion, which has since become a national phenomenon, or at least something that's good for a quick, short larf amongst college-age stoners.

THIS JUST IN: Amazon.com User Writes Devastating Review Of Guns N Roses Album

PENNINGTON, NJ- On or about January 22, Pennington area native "BonJovi 1986" wrote a devastating review of the Guns N Roses album "Appetite for Destruction" on Amazon.com, the online store with "The Earth's Biggest Selection". Typing in all capital letters to underscore the urgency and anger of his review, Mr. 1986 writes, "IDOITS WHO LISTAN TO THIS GLAM GARBAGE ARE JUST STUPID. AXL SOUNDS LIKE SREECHING TIGER WHO SUCKS". He continued on saying, "IF YOU WANT TO HERE REAL MUSIC LISTEN TO 'SLIPPERY WHEN WET". BON JOVI RULES/!!.1!" When contacted at his second floor studio apartment over the local Hooters, the reviewer clarified his position, "Hopefully, one day I shall climb the Amazon.com hierarchy, and rise up to become one of the top 1000 reviewers. Once that happens I can gain the respect and admiration that I deserve and people will finally understand that GNR sucks ass, and Bon Jovi totally rules". Guns N Roses management could not be reached at press time.

Your Parents Hate You, Wish You Were Never Born

DATELINE USA-A new study has just been released revealing that your parents hate you and wish you were never born. The study, conducted by the University of Miami, was written after extensive interviews with your parents. It concludes that 100% of your parents think you are "a total disappointment...that wasn't worth the price of the condom that broke during intercourse". While there was agreement amongst your parents confirming your status as "a total loser", opinions differ as to why. Your Mother says, "The child never gives and always takes; like a vacuum. A fucking annoying vacuum." Your Father, on the other hand, takes a wildly different stance, "God. I can't afford shit anymore after paying that loser's way through college. And for what? I wish that fuck would just die so I could collect the insurance money". Dr. Richard Dickson, who helped conduct the study says the results weren't totally unexpected, "After preliminary interviews with relatives and friends, it was a forgone conclusion that you are a piece of crap. The only thing left needed was the generous government funding". You could not be reached for comment because you were crying in a corner, you fucking pussy.

Top Story: Baby Born Addicted to Crack, Unprotected Sex

QUEENS, NY- In a story that's becoming all-too common nowadays, Jessica Sharpe was born last week addicted to both crack and unprotected sex. Her mother, 17 year old crack whore Melissa Sharpe was "shocked" at the revelation. "That's total fuckin' bullshit", Sharpe said, "my baby ain't addicted to fucking nothing". When pointed to the physical evidence and her apparent double negative, Sharpe responded, "Well, she probably got it from her fucking father, whoever that is". She continued, "Now, where's my fucking thong? I gotta get back on the street before Vinnie finds out". When asked to clarify her statement, Sharpe replied, "Do you have any? I'll give you a BJ. I suck a good cock. C'mon man, I just need a taste". The only known cure for these addictions is a regiment of hard baby fucking and IV crack. "It'll be a long, arduous process" Dr Henry Stein of Queens Medical says, "but it'll eventually cure the baby of her addictions, at least until the age of 14".

Manic Depressive Sadomasochist Masturbates, Cries, Then Masturbates While Crying

Depressed Philosophy Major Ponders Existence Of Self, Acne

HAHAHAHAHAH

or actually,

BOOOOOO, that sucks...

Yeah, that one.

Well, what do you expect, I was 20. I would also sit around my dorm room writing poetry about despair or Bergman movies or something....

WORST PERSON IN THE WORLD...

Finding out that you're the worst person in the world isn't as bad as it seems.

Sure, you're a vicious fiend, hell bent on making life awful for all those around you, but at least you're the best at something. Who else can say that about themselves? Tiger Woods? Those two fat guys on motorcycles (best at being fat on a motorcycles?)
Well, the day I found out I was the worst person in the world was the BEST day for me. I had accomplished something.

Take that, doubting public! Matty has conquered something aside from that bottle of cheap whiskey!

Sure, I haven't conquered my career goals, maintaining basic hygiene, or my fear of Belgians; but there's always a first step. A first, depressingly morbid step.

You see, it's hard being a terrible person; it takes a ton of work. Take yesterday for example:

I used the phrase "dumb Mexican", while negatively referring to an old stereotype. Did my Mexican housekeeper hear the part about it being a "stupid old stereotype"? No. Did she hear "just another dumb Mexican"? Yes.

Worst person am I!

Last month, I was on a shoot with a gay PA (production assistant). I used the phrase "gay" to refer to something "lame". Immediately struck by neurotic guilt, I apologized to the PA in front of the 15 person crew.

"So sorry Bill! I'm not trying to insult gays...hope I didn't insult you!"

How was I supposed to know he's in the closet?

WORST EVER!!!

Or, let's take a magical journey back to 2002 when I was working as a barback in my brother's bar. Carrying some ice to the bar in a big tray, an African-American gentleman reached in, and tried to grab some ice.

"You can't do that, it's unhygienic" Said I.
He got indignant: "You don't want my black germs? You afraid I might turn your white women black?"
"No, it's just that customers aren't allowed to grab ice from the trays".
"You touch it."
"Yeah, I work here."
"So it's OK for a white boy to touch it, but black people can't work here?"
"Huh?"
"RACIST!!!"

I'm not sure I understand that one, but I'm also pretty sure it ties in to me being awful.

SO, these little things that you say, which are completely unrepresentative of who you are, define you. They are little, meaningless snippets that people use to assume big, meaningful things about you.

Why?

Because it's much easier making a snap judgment than a nuanced, informed opinion; just ask the American voter circa 2004.

IF:

a) GOD IS DEAD
b) GOD WAS NEVER ALIVE TO BE DEAD
c) GOD EXISTS AND IS ALL POWERFUL

THEN:

a) YOU'RE FUCKED
b) YOU'RE FUCKED
c) YOU'RE FUCKED

So let people think you're awful, say stupid things, be super awkward; the only judge that matters is yourself.

CHRIST TRUCK

Walking in a bowling alley parking lot I came across a massive truck with the words "Jesus Christ Is Lord Not a Swear Word".

The truck was so ungainly large that my friends and I weren't able to take a picture that captured the entire blasted driving contraption.

What was it? A portable mega-church? Something that houses a Utopian community of militant Evangelical Christians preparing for "The End Of Days"? Your guess is as good as mine.

Anyways, as soon as I saw it, this song basically wrote itself in my head. When I got home, I recorded it. I can't tell if it's unabashed idodicy or just borderline nincompoopery.

Let me know what you think.