EMBARRASSMENT, LIFE GOALS, HUMOR, VANITY, HYGIENE & GENITALIA
I'm playing catch up. It's fine. We'll make it work.
Am I embarrassed by my failure to achieve the few life goals I've set, deflecting my legitimate desires for progression and/or stability in order to keep things fun, humorous, entertaining in ways that almost cheaply serve my own vanity, not even bothering to symbolically maintain proper hygiene by washing the sad indulgences of misogyny from my genitalia?
That may just be some rambling bullshit, but what if it isn't?
Let's work backwards. It seems that most of the straight men I know are very turned off by the penis. They don't enjoy my nudity, and act as if dealing with another cock would be the worst thing that could ever happen. I think this comes from a stubborn denial of imagination, as if even entertaining the notion of dueling uber-peni would cause some sort of internal meltdown.
But I don't think there's anything wrong with dick. I certainly enjoy all sorts of activities involving my own, and to be honest, I'm a bit curious about sexual activity involving others. After seeing and feeling so many blow jobs, I think it's pretty weird to not wonder what the other end would be like. At the very least it's called empathy, and it's one of the most important qualities in the world.
But here's where the divide comes in. I don't feel any of the complex intricacies of thought and emotion that women do as far as receiving pleasure or power from pleasuring a man. I understand the concept from my proclivities towards cunnilingus, but for now I'm just addressing my feelings regarding boners in my face. What's different for me is that I have neither the curiosity nor the desire to please another man. Maybe it's narcissism, but seeing his face, his o-face, to me, seems so much worse than his peen.
It's a complicated issue.
As far as vaginas, I'm not sure that I'm a bigger fan of anything else in the known universe. They're not all perfect, and by that I simply mean that they're not all perfect for me, which is fine. I prefer a twat with character. None of this vapid vag, stale tail, ho-hum cum bum crap. Save the lackluster sackbusters for somebody else. Your perfectly pruned patches of pubic placidity can play pussy-pet for other people's penasia.
I'm not sure what's happening here.
Luckily, this works out as far as propagating the species.
Because we want to stay involved with each others uglies. There's good stuff there, if you take care of it. Not so much the grooming (ugh, the grooming), but the cleaning. That fusion smoothie in our underpants, for those of us who wear them, is a daily reminder that stink exists. I'm not even much for hygiene, but you have to have at least a hooker's bath a few times a week (that's your face, pits, ass & crotch, the last two being a bit of a combo. Has anyone else called a chode "the ball pit?" Coined and minted.)
Actually, I hate being hygienic. No, that's incorrect. I hate grooming (ugh, the grooming). Hygiene is important, even though people overdo it. This two shower a day shit? That's no good. Maybe two a week.
My vanity is mostly internal. I try to look or smell pleasant enough, but I can't commit much time or especially money to that. Do as much primping as you need fellas, I'll be arrogant with attitude and wit. I certainly spend my time with the mirror, but it's mostly basic maintenance. Nose hair, acne, dandruff, etc. I suppose that could be called vanity, but it could also be called hygienic.
It could also be called fuck you.
Because I'm operating under the assumption that other guys are going for and may achieve quite often the idea of magazine hot, I focus more on jokes. And it is a focus. I spend a lot of time and mental energy on shaping humor. There's research, development, experimentation; I'll compose a tweet for twenty minutes.
I love a good clean joke as much as I love a dirty vagina, and I love a dirty joke as much as a good clean asshole...
I have never found a philosophy that makes as much sense to me as laughter. It's somehow a zen like joy of violent understanding. My biggest goal in life is to make people smile, but the largest facet of that is laughter.
My other life goals all pale in comparison to this one. Do I want to write for a living? Sure. Do I want to travel, everywhere, anywhere? Of course. Do I want to stay within the magic and rapture of true love, share my life with others, age with any sort of extended family that lives in comfort from my actions? Absolutely.
But I'll also drive a truck for $11 an hour in Dallas if we can all keep laughing together. And I'll do it completely free of embarrassment.
Almost completely free.
I maybe shouldn't have talked about the penis stuff so much.
No Shame!
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Sex, Love, Romance
Sex is great. The only bad sex I've ever had is when I'm
disappointed in myself during or afterwards for cheating on myself
emotionally. Becoming conscious of the fact that you don't want to be
with this person, at least in this way, should occur sooner but, hey,
I'm selfish and emotionally lazy and a drunk guy. I'm not saying that
this happens all the time, or even often. I just mean to relate the fact
that this feeling, a feeling I am solely responsible for creating and
dealing with, is to me the definition of a bad lay.
Because sex is great. Having great sex correlates to anything else in life, in that you just have to be present and nice. It sounds simple, but a lot of people overthink it or are afraid to let go or have watched too many pornos and just want to jackhammer and snake tongue (oh how I hate the snake tongue. I like to almost treat the vagina as another mouth and just make out with it, the ass or hips like the head that you occasionally caress with your hands, the inner thighs the neck...) I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with those things. It does, however, take both people committing to the moment to elevate it to it's best. Do it together.
I can't speak for other people and the things they've been through that have brought them to whatever reservations or feelings they have regarding sex, and I wouldn't want to be that kind of asshole, though I'm sure that I frequently am.
I certainly can't speak for women. Without running this tangent for too long, I just want to throw out the basic idea that men don't understand the concept of accepting that level of invasion. Having my finger up my ass will never allow me to comprehend a lifelong inundation of "things will be put inside of you, and some you're supposed to enjoy, the most." Men don't have to come to terms with their body & sexuality that way. I can't imagine that prepubescent journey. You throw in a universal sense of male dominance and it's just another reason, maybe the biggest, that I don't really know what shit is like for women. Speaking as a man (straight and white at that), yes, the pleasure of penetration certainly speaks to our greater approach to a world preset for us.
I'm probably overstepping here.
The point is that confidence in yourself, not necessarily your image or even your sexuality, but in your ability to share life with everyone, makes everything better, including sex. What am I talking about here?
Yes, love. Love each other. Another simple truism that shouldn't even have to be said, but probably can't be said often enough. Aside from the basic benefits of the golden rule and improving sex, the ability to empathize will just allow you to live. The more you understand what everyone else is going through the less alone you'll feel, and the less you'll annoy everyone else with your bullshit problems.
"Nobody gets me!"
No, tons of people get you. We all get each other, we've just come up with more interesting ways to try to ignore it. Like me, with that shit about women earlier. What was the subject?
Ah, love. You can't love with the limited worldview of me, myself and I. You have to go bigger, because the world is bigger, and the more you narrow your scope the more you segregate yourself.
Now, in a less all-encompassing 60's sing-along way, love between two people is it's own animal.
There's plenty of science to back up the drive for humans to mate, but don't we like to believe that there's something else? Something special that propels us to earn that next level of understanding and shared experience with this particular person? True love, if you will, and I will.
Nature's sorcery can work in some fucked up and awesome ways that draw you to people who are beautiful just for you. It's a kind of love that you can't extend to everyone, though you'll try with some and fail, wonderfully. True love is a kind of magic that human beings can't create. It's a more difficult love, one in which the pursuit of the previously stated ideas of respect and understanding can be as life-affirming as the payoff.
Romance - I'm talking fairy tales. That's right, motherfucker, what? Romance is a belief, a faith. It's idealism. Sometimes it's disguised within a greater illness, but in it's purest form, romance is just a bubble that never pops. It's a commitment to keeping magic alive. It's true love in action.
Because we all have to work at all of these things in order for them to succeed. Such is life.
Romantic true love sex is the best because it's earned. You've been through the previous gauntlet and know that you're sharing the best parts of the best things with the best person, and as much love as you can have for yourself, your friends, your family and everyone else, the love, romance, and sex that you fully experience with this person makes you live all the other ones better.
And it doesn't have to be true love sex to be great. That's just one kind of magic sex.
Sex, Love & Romance are responsibilities. Take the time to do them right.
Because sex is great. Having great sex correlates to anything else in life, in that you just have to be present and nice. It sounds simple, but a lot of people overthink it or are afraid to let go or have watched too many pornos and just want to jackhammer and snake tongue (oh how I hate the snake tongue. I like to almost treat the vagina as another mouth and just make out with it, the ass or hips like the head that you occasionally caress with your hands, the inner thighs the neck...) I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with those things. It does, however, take both people committing to the moment to elevate it to it's best. Do it together.
I can't speak for other people and the things they've been through that have brought them to whatever reservations or feelings they have regarding sex, and I wouldn't want to be that kind of asshole, though I'm sure that I frequently am.
I certainly can't speak for women. Without running this tangent for too long, I just want to throw out the basic idea that men don't understand the concept of accepting that level of invasion. Having my finger up my ass will never allow me to comprehend a lifelong inundation of "things will be put inside of you, and some you're supposed to enjoy, the most." Men don't have to come to terms with their body & sexuality that way. I can't imagine that prepubescent journey. You throw in a universal sense of male dominance and it's just another reason, maybe the biggest, that I don't really know what shit is like for women. Speaking as a man (straight and white at that), yes, the pleasure of penetration certainly speaks to our greater approach to a world preset for us.
I'm probably overstepping here.
The point is that confidence in yourself, not necessarily your image or even your sexuality, but in your ability to share life with everyone, makes everything better, including sex. What am I talking about here?
Yes, love. Love each other. Another simple truism that shouldn't even have to be said, but probably can't be said often enough. Aside from the basic benefits of the golden rule and improving sex, the ability to empathize will just allow you to live. The more you understand what everyone else is going through the less alone you'll feel, and the less you'll annoy everyone else with your bullshit problems.
"Nobody gets me!"
No, tons of people get you. We all get each other, we've just come up with more interesting ways to try to ignore it. Like me, with that shit about women earlier. What was the subject?
Ah, love. You can't love with the limited worldview of me, myself and I. You have to go bigger, because the world is bigger, and the more you narrow your scope the more you segregate yourself.
Now, in a less all-encompassing 60's sing-along way, love between two people is it's own animal.
There's plenty of science to back up the drive for humans to mate, but don't we like to believe that there's something else? Something special that propels us to earn that next level of understanding and shared experience with this particular person? True love, if you will, and I will.
Nature's sorcery can work in some fucked up and awesome ways that draw you to people who are beautiful just for you. It's a kind of love that you can't extend to everyone, though you'll try with some and fail, wonderfully. True love is a kind of magic that human beings can't create. It's a more difficult love, one in which the pursuit of the previously stated ideas of respect and understanding can be as life-affirming as the payoff.
Romance - I'm talking fairy tales. That's right, motherfucker, what? Romance is a belief, a faith. It's idealism. Sometimes it's disguised within a greater illness, but in it's purest form, romance is just a bubble that never pops. It's a commitment to keeping magic alive. It's true love in action.
Because we all have to work at all of these things in order for them to succeed. Such is life.
Romantic true love sex is the best because it's earned. You've been through the previous gauntlet and know that you're sharing the best parts of the best things with the best person, and as much love as you can have for yourself, your friends, your family and everyone else, the love, romance, and sex that you fully experience with this person makes you live all the other ones better.
And it doesn't have to be true love sex to be great. That's just one kind of magic sex.
Sex, Love & Romance are responsibilities. Take the time to do them right.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
No Shame 10 & 11: Friends & Family
FAMILY & FRIENDSHIP
Well, that's really all there is to it, yeah?
Well, that's really all there is to it, yeah?
No Shame 9: High School
HIGH SCHOOL
I was in the very first class to ever attend Lake Highlands Freshman Center. Yes, they built a separate building and hired a separate staff for exclusively the ninth grade. I have no idea why this happened, but I went and had a pleasant enough time. By that point I was at least getting high every weekend, if not more often. I also think that freshman year marked the end of my church phase.
Random Memories: I wore a sweater vest the first day, got caught looking up cheerleaders skirts in the stairwell, experienced the cliche of a teacher recommending Catcher in the Rye to me, learned that I suck at Geometry, rocked a mohawk for a week, had a Spanish teacher who loved Sarah McLachlan so much that he had posters (plural) of her up in his classroom, started driving all the time
By sophomore year I was getting stoned every morning before school and every afternoon immediately after. Sometimes during lunch. We would hide joints within ball point pen casings. I was more of a fan of the early morning sessions because my first period class was art, unlike my poor bastard friend who had AP chemistry. I had been turned away from honors science in seventh grade and never went back. It was odd how most of the popular jock/prep kids were also in the AP classes, but I only hung out with them at school. In tenth grade, my social circle outside of academia consisted mostly of the drug kids. I had my first substantial crush that year, in that the girl knew who I was and we talked on the phone all the time. It may have been my first experience as the non-threatening kind of gay friend, but holy shit I'm just now remembering that those were the first breasts I saw in person that weren't in public... we didn't hook up or even make out or anything. Close to kissing once, lots of boner hugs and some cuddles. Okay, I guess I was that friend and it's sad, but I recently found out that she had a kid and moved to New Orleans and died last year, so now who's sad?
Random Memories: First time doing acid, first job (video store), first breasts seen & touched (different girls), first teacher I openly flirted with, second suspension for skipping school, favorite class ever: analysis of visual media, brought my video camera to school with me (yes, I was obsessed with American Beauty when it came out), got caught smoking pot and was sent to therapy for fourth (fifth?) time
I spent the next summer working with my dad full time as an electrician and realized I didn't really know him. I found his laid back asshole charm to be winning and worthy of emulation. I worked enough to buy my first car and decided that I would move in with him and his Canadian wife.
No Shame? The girl, the first crush gay friend girl, actually moved during sophomore year about five minutes from my dad's house in southeast Garland. That was a big factor in my decision, as well as my first encounter with what I believed at the time to be serendipity. Alas, the girl moved back to Dallas within a few weeks of my moving there.
So, my best friend had started correspondence school, where you do the lessons on your own and mail them in before proctoring an exam through a trusted adult. It seemed like a good gig that wasn't overly expensive, and it would allow me to keep working, so I went for it. It was boring, but I received dual credit for a few classes and managed to gain some college hours (the only ones I would ever get). The classes were through Texas Tech, so I guess that's kind of my college?
Random Memories: Really started getting fat, had money and was removed from friends, ate all/whatever I wanted, could buy porn & cigarettes at nearby gas station
By the next summer I was burnt out on school and electrical work, so I found a job at the Angelika and took my last few exams and just gave up on furthering my education. I was 17 and within a few months was working 50+ hours a week at $9/hour. I also dropped around 40 lbs and discovered that women liked me and I liked them and alcohol. That's pretty much when it started going downhill.
I received my G.E.D. the next September.
I was in the very first class to ever attend Lake Highlands Freshman Center. Yes, they built a separate building and hired a separate staff for exclusively the ninth grade. I have no idea why this happened, but I went and had a pleasant enough time. By that point I was at least getting high every weekend, if not more often. I also think that freshman year marked the end of my church phase.
Random Memories: I wore a sweater vest the first day, got caught looking up cheerleaders skirts in the stairwell, experienced the cliche of a teacher recommending Catcher in the Rye to me, learned that I suck at Geometry, rocked a mohawk for a week, had a Spanish teacher who loved Sarah McLachlan so much that he had posters (plural) of her up in his classroom, started driving all the time
By sophomore year I was getting stoned every morning before school and every afternoon immediately after. Sometimes during lunch. We would hide joints within ball point pen casings. I was more of a fan of the early morning sessions because my first period class was art, unlike my poor bastard friend who had AP chemistry. I had been turned away from honors science in seventh grade and never went back. It was odd how most of the popular jock/prep kids were also in the AP classes, but I only hung out with them at school. In tenth grade, my social circle outside of academia consisted mostly of the drug kids. I had my first substantial crush that year, in that the girl knew who I was and we talked on the phone all the time. It may have been my first experience as the non-threatening kind of gay friend, but holy shit I'm just now remembering that those were the first breasts I saw in person that weren't in public... we didn't hook up or even make out or anything. Close to kissing once, lots of boner hugs and some cuddles. Okay, I guess I was that friend and it's sad, but I recently found out that she had a kid and moved to New Orleans and died last year, so now who's sad?
Random Memories: First time doing acid, first job (video store), first breasts seen & touched (different girls), first teacher I openly flirted with, second suspension for skipping school, favorite class ever: analysis of visual media, brought my video camera to school with me (yes, I was obsessed with American Beauty when it came out), got caught smoking pot and was sent to therapy for fourth (fifth?) time
I spent the next summer working with my dad full time as an electrician and realized I didn't really know him. I found his laid back asshole charm to be winning and worthy of emulation. I worked enough to buy my first car and decided that I would move in with him and his Canadian wife.
No Shame? The girl, the first crush gay friend girl, actually moved during sophomore year about five minutes from my dad's house in southeast Garland. That was a big factor in my decision, as well as my first encounter with what I believed at the time to be serendipity. Alas, the girl moved back to Dallas within a few weeks of my moving there.
So, my best friend had started correspondence school, where you do the lessons on your own and mail them in before proctoring an exam through a trusted adult. It seemed like a good gig that wasn't overly expensive, and it would allow me to keep working, so I went for it. It was boring, but I received dual credit for a few classes and managed to gain some college hours (the only ones I would ever get). The classes were through Texas Tech, so I guess that's kind of my college?
Random Memories: Really started getting fat, had money and was removed from friends, ate all/whatever I wanted, could buy porn & cigarettes at nearby gas station
By the next summer I was burnt out on school and electrical work, so I found a job at the Angelika and took my last few exams and just gave up on furthering my education. I was 17 and within a few months was working 50+ hours a week at $9/hour. I also dropped around 40 lbs and discovered that women liked me and I liked them and alcohol. That's pretty much when it started going downhill.
I received my G.E.D. the next September.
Friday, November 9, 2012
No Shame 8: Childhood
CHILDHOOD
So how do I write about my childhood without a sense of shame or bemoaning my youthful standards of disappointment and embarrassment; without a petrifying nostalgic ache that will prohibit me from understanding what the fuck happened?
I suppose it doesn't have to be autobiographical. I could discuss the generalities of preadolescence, comparing eras and social standings in order to wrap my mind around the plaguing issues in the modern young. I could avoid the pedophile jokes because they're not really funny anymore. I could also just sit here and weep.
I may have over-written the introduction because, hey, I tend to do that and fuck you, but also because I may begin to spiral downwards into incoherent psychoanalysis for the rest of this post. I have so many bitter resentments from childhood that rarely bubble up, largely due to my feeling the need to contain and subdue said resentments in order to make my parents feel better about our relationships. It all goes in the cancer ball. Is that what ages me?
I can't really discuss childhood without addressing adulthood, a concept that I feel is ambiguous if existent. People seem eager to reach this label, and I understand the reasoning behind measuring certain achievements in that manner. You've made it to the next level, so you must be doing something right. There's also a basic need to simply do what's next, to move forward. It's exciting to live differently and progressively. Little answers along the way create the comfort that you have some things figured out, that life is manageable, that getting up and cleaning and working and shitting are necessary routines in order for the balance of existence, the moments of clarity and happiness and peace and harmony and-WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING?
I'm sorry, that was running away from me into Plato's cave of cocaine dorm talk or some shit.
Not that it was completely without merit or would have never reached a cohesive point. There was direction there. It was just overwrought.
What I may have gotten to eventually is that I'm not sure where childhood becomes adulthood, because everyone I meet who wants to be a grown up is incredibly childish. Every story I've heard and moral I've learned has taught me that most embodiments of adulthood that I consistently witness are, for lack of a better word, bad. This isn't an endorsement for infinite childhood, though the idea could be well argued, and I'm about as far from the right person to point this sort of thing out as you can possibly get.
I just don't think that the stages are as clearly defined as they once might have been, and perhaps that's a part of what's contributing to or even causing this current overwhelming of arrested development in America (boo-ya!)
I could also be a slow child who's had too much coffee and doesn't understand anything, in which case please do not touch me.
So how do I write about my childhood without a sense of shame or bemoaning my youthful standards of disappointment and embarrassment; without a petrifying nostalgic ache that will prohibit me from understanding what the fuck happened?
I suppose it doesn't have to be autobiographical. I could discuss the generalities of preadolescence, comparing eras and social standings in order to wrap my mind around the plaguing issues in the modern young. I could avoid the pedophile jokes because they're not really funny anymore. I could also just sit here and weep.
I may have over-written the introduction because, hey, I tend to do that and fuck you, but also because I may begin to spiral downwards into incoherent psychoanalysis for the rest of this post. I have so many bitter resentments from childhood that rarely bubble up, largely due to my feeling the need to contain and subdue said resentments in order to make my parents feel better about our relationships. It all goes in the cancer ball. Is that what ages me?
I can't really discuss childhood without addressing adulthood, a concept that I feel is ambiguous if existent. People seem eager to reach this label, and I understand the reasoning behind measuring certain achievements in that manner. You've made it to the next level, so you must be doing something right. There's also a basic need to simply do what's next, to move forward. It's exciting to live differently and progressively. Little answers along the way create the comfort that you have some things figured out, that life is manageable, that getting up and cleaning and working and shitting are necessary routines in order for the balance of existence, the moments of clarity and happiness and peace and harmony and-WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING?
I'm sorry, that was running away from me into Plato's cave of cocaine dorm talk or some shit.
Not that it was completely without merit or would have never reached a cohesive point. There was direction there. It was just overwrought.
What I may have gotten to eventually is that I'm not sure where childhood becomes adulthood, because everyone I meet who wants to be a grown up is incredibly childish. Every story I've heard and moral I've learned has taught me that most embodiments of adulthood that I consistently witness are, for lack of a better word, bad. This isn't an endorsement for infinite childhood, though the idea could be well argued, and I'm about as far from the right person to point this sort of thing out as you can possibly get.
I just don't think that the stages are as clearly defined as they once might have been, and perhaps that's a part of what's contributing to or even causing this current overwhelming of arrested development in America (boo-ya!)
I could also be a slow child who's had too much coffee and doesn't understand anything, in which case please do not touch me.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
No Shame 7: Books
BOOKS
Being in the middle of a book makes you forget that you are going to die.
Actually, I guess that's the purpose of most things in life, but I still find novels to be my favorite distraction.
I enjoy non-fiction as well, but it's so prevalent. I wouldn't necessarily say that it's easy, at least not easy to do well, but it's certainly easy to find. In the way that we usually choose to believe, the world is non-fiction, and while we all obviously enjoy a clever way of reporting on reality, it has its limits, self-imposed or not.
Fiction, on the other hand, is more fun. It's fantasy, it's romance, it's escapism in the best possible form, one that leaves the larger part of imagination to the escapee.
I can trace genuine epiphanies in my life to the books that caused them more easily than people or events. That doesn't seem entirely fair to the overwhelmingly informative and substantial people I've encountered, but part of being blocked off emotionally is that you have more of your "A-HA!" moments by yourself. By meeting said people and experiencing said events, the seeds were planted for later understanding. Along come the right words strung together in the right way and BOOM! Growth.
Oh, I guess that's what learning is. Or maturation. Or life. All the same.
Kurt Vonnegut is pretty much responsible for my lingering faith in humanity.
I'd like to set aside an entire day to do nothing but slowly revisit "Siddhartha".
Few things get me through heartbreak like Nick Hornby's "High Fidelity" (though Rob Sheffield's "Love is a Mix Tape" is an endearing cousin).
I have yet to finish "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" but I respect pretty much everything that Dave Eggers is trying to do.
I quite often carry a copy of Richard Brautigan's "Trout Fishing in America" around with me, as it can sometimes reflect a life which I can almost see inhabiting.
The same can be said for Denis Johnson's "Jesus' Son" in darker times.
I was a different person during and after "Zorba the Greek" (a person I would not mind rediscovering).
However, I have to say that the one author, or perhaps even book, that made me want to write, is Tom Robbins' "Still Life with Woodpecker".
It was culturally diverse, inventive, enthralling, romantic, hilarious, profane, erotic, enlightening, exciting and more than anything eye-opening. It was the template for a kind of writing I didn't realize was possible, certainly not within myself (though I'm not making a comparison). It wasn't as genuinely insightful or easily intelligent as Vonnegut, nor was it as laugh out loud funny as Christopher Moore. It was an odd middle, one that embraced equal parts outlaw mentality and magic.
It is far from the greatest book ever written, and I often wonder how it holds up. In a way it doesn't really matter, because it had the impact that it did on me, regardless of what my understanding of its content and context would be today. I had seen and heard a voice that awakened me to a style I still embrace. It's writing with pizazz, with gusto, with disregard to certain rules, grammatical or otherwise, as long as where it takes you is exciting or new or just devilishly adventurous.
It might also give you a greater appreciation of redheads, make you look differently at a pack of Camel cigarettes, or just allow you to sink into the rapture of literary masturbation.
The 1-2-3 of "Still Life with Woodpecker", "Cat's Cradle" and "Lamb" is probably the most important influence on what I attempt to do to this day. Film, television and music get more time, talk and reference, but books have driven me towards what I find to be my singular passion in life outside of people (and we'll get to the monumental importance of that passion later).
Being a more avid reader makes you a better writer.
Also, chicks dig a guy who's well-read.
But not in a show-offy kind of way, so there goes that.
Being in the middle of a book makes you forget that you are going to die.
Actually, I guess that's the purpose of most things in life, but I still find novels to be my favorite distraction.
I enjoy non-fiction as well, but it's so prevalent. I wouldn't necessarily say that it's easy, at least not easy to do well, but it's certainly easy to find. In the way that we usually choose to believe, the world is non-fiction, and while we all obviously enjoy a clever way of reporting on reality, it has its limits, self-imposed or not.
Fiction, on the other hand, is more fun. It's fantasy, it's romance, it's escapism in the best possible form, one that leaves the larger part of imagination to the escapee.
I can trace genuine epiphanies in my life to the books that caused them more easily than people or events. That doesn't seem entirely fair to the overwhelmingly informative and substantial people I've encountered, but part of being blocked off emotionally is that you have more of your "A-HA!" moments by yourself. By meeting said people and experiencing said events, the seeds were planted for later understanding. Along come the right words strung together in the right way and BOOM! Growth.
Oh, I guess that's what learning is. Or maturation. Or life. All the same.
Kurt Vonnegut is pretty much responsible for my lingering faith in humanity.
I'd like to set aside an entire day to do nothing but slowly revisit "Siddhartha".
Few things get me through heartbreak like Nick Hornby's "High Fidelity" (though Rob Sheffield's "Love is a Mix Tape" is an endearing cousin).
I have yet to finish "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" but I respect pretty much everything that Dave Eggers is trying to do.
I quite often carry a copy of Richard Brautigan's "Trout Fishing in America" around with me, as it can sometimes reflect a life which I can almost see inhabiting.
The same can be said for Denis Johnson's "Jesus' Son" in darker times.
I was a different person during and after "Zorba the Greek" (a person I would not mind rediscovering).
However, I have to say that the one author, or perhaps even book, that made me want to write, is Tom Robbins' "Still Life with Woodpecker".
It was culturally diverse, inventive, enthralling, romantic, hilarious, profane, erotic, enlightening, exciting and more than anything eye-opening. It was the template for a kind of writing I didn't realize was possible, certainly not within myself (though I'm not making a comparison). It wasn't as genuinely insightful or easily intelligent as Vonnegut, nor was it as laugh out loud funny as Christopher Moore. It was an odd middle, one that embraced equal parts outlaw mentality and magic.
It is far from the greatest book ever written, and I often wonder how it holds up. In a way it doesn't really matter, because it had the impact that it did on me, regardless of what my understanding of its content and context would be today. I had seen and heard a voice that awakened me to a style I still embrace. It's writing with pizazz, with gusto, with disregard to certain rules, grammatical or otherwise, as long as where it takes you is exciting or new or just devilishly adventurous.
It might also give you a greater appreciation of redheads, make you look differently at a pack of Camel cigarettes, or just allow you to sink into the rapture of literary masturbation.
The 1-2-3 of "Still Life with Woodpecker", "Cat's Cradle" and "Lamb" is probably the most important influence on what I attempt to do to this day. Film, television and music get more time, talk and reference, but books have driven me towards what I find to be my singular passion in life outside of people (and we'll get to the monumental importance of that passion later).
Being a more avid reader makes you a better writer.
Also, chicks dig a guy who's well-read.
But not in a show-offy kind of way, so there goes that.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
No Shame 6 & 24: Visual Art/Food
VISUAL ART
So, not music? Is that what this means? Did we change arts & crafts to visual arts? I just did fucking TV, movies & theatre, so what? Paint? Photography? Needlepoint? Could I ask any more questions?
I have to be honest, I have far less to say about the broad topic of visual art than I do about food... seriously, I got nothing.
I have a great admiration and appreciation of anyone who contributes anything to the general idea of art, creation, stimulation, what have you, but I'm tired right now, and I just don't have the energy to discover something deep within that truly captures how I feel about the current state of patchwork & food art.
Speaking of, a great deal of my current impatience/irritation is coming from hunger. I'm cooking a pot of bourbon baked beans with brown sugar and a pan of beer brats, because I'm nothing if not a connoisseur of alliterative manly meals & meats.
I've often been a firm believer in the merit of presentation when it comes to food. I used to make my roommate jealous of my broccoli/ramen while he was enjoying $20 worth of takeout, sometimes with the simple act of placing my bowl on a plate. However, it's been a long day, and I have no house guests. Just a man-sized appetite for man things in my man mouth.
Am I going to pretend that I'm a cowboy while I eat these gourmet beans & franks straight out of the pot?
You're god damn right I am.
It's not quite art. It actually looks pretty gross... I'm eating it right now.
Godspeed, visual artists. Keep up the good work. I like to watch.
I know I half-assed this 2-for-1, but so what, this shit is so fucking delicious.
I swear to god, the next one is going to be really good.
So, not music? Is that what this means? Did we change arts & crafts to visual arts? I just did fucking TV, movies & theatre, so what? Paint? Photography? Needlepoint? Could I ask any more questions?
I have to be honest, I have far less to say about the broad topic of visual art than I do about food... seriously, I got nothing.
I have a great admiration and appreciation of anyone who contributes anything to the general idea of art, creation, stimulation, what have you, but I'm tired right now, and I just don't have the energy to discover something deep within that truly captures how I feel about the current state of patchwork & food art.
Speaking of, a great deal of my current impatience/irritation is coming from hunger. I'm cooking a pot of bourbon baked beans with brown sugar and a pan of beer brats, because I'm nothing if not a connoisseur of alliterative manly meals & meats.
I've often been a firm believer in the merit of presentation when it comes to food. I used to make my roommate jealous of my broccoli/ramen while he was enjoying $20 worth of takeout, sometimes with the simple act of placing my bowl on a plate. However, it's been a long day, and I have no house guests. Just a man-sized appetite for man things in my man mouth.
Am I going to pretend that I'm a cowboy while I eat these gourmet beans & franks straight out of the pot?
You're god damn right I am.
It's not quite art. It actually looks pretty gross... I'm eating it right now.
Godspeed, visual artists. Keep up the good work. I like to watch.
I know I half-assed this 2-for-1, but so what, this shit is so fucking delicious.
I swear to god, the next one is going to be really good.
No Shame 5: Theatre
THEATRE
I suppose by this spelling that we're meant to discuss "The Theatre". Satyr plays, the Globe, Steppenwolf, I don't know. I don't have much to offer on this topic.
I know that the first knock-knock joke comes from Macbeth, and that "playbill" is trademarked. I know that the theatre is of grave importance to many of my friends, and that I will often say that I am going to attend performances with which they are involved, and then do not. Usually my absence is due to a genuine lack of funds, time, transportation or any combination of the three. Other times, I've probably just been drunk. My mind sinks into the blackness of spiritual consumption until the vague reminders of the basic responsibilities of friendship grow dim.
Sometimes, when it comes to my attendance, in many ways, the house is dark.
I suppose by this spelling that we're meant to discuss "The Theatre". Satyr plays, the Globe, Steppenwolf, I don't know. I don't have much to offer on this topic.
I know that the first knock-knock joke comes from Macbeth, and that "playbill" is trademarked. I know that the theatre is of grave importance to many of my friends, and that I will often say that I am going to attend performances with which they are involved, and then do not. Usually my absence is due to a genuine lack of funds, time, transportation or any combination of the three. Other times, I've probably just been drunk. My mind sinks into the blackness of spiritual consumption until the vague reminders of the basic responsibilities of friendship grow dim.
Sometimes, when it comes to my attendance, in many ways, the house is dark.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
No Shame 4: Music
MUSIC
I suppose that I play an instrument. No, I play an instrument. I suppose that I play it well enough. Okay, before I slip into too much of an attempt at humility amidst braggadacio, (though the use of that phrase may have already defeated the purpose) let me just say that I play guitar, often, and know a lot of songs, and think that it sounds pretty good. I also have little to no idea what I'm doing when I play. I have very little technical knowledge about the instrument, or music in general. I can't read sheet music, I don't know what a sustained note is really doing, and I thought the last Radiohead album was dumb.
That came out of nowhere, but seriously, I don't need math music or whatever the fuck that was supposed to be. I'll come back to this. Or not, fuck it.
I had a friend in 5th grade who played guitar, and I thought it was really cool, and to make this part of the story quite short I'll say that I'm pretty sure my dad bought my brother and I guitars to distract us from his affair with his next wife. I went with said cool friend (fuck it, I'll name-check him: Woody Rosen) to the mall one day, and we found books of guitar tablature at Sam Goody (yeah, not just the mall you motherfuckers, but Sam fuckin' Goody). For every single one of the twenty dollars that I possessed, I purchased the complete Beatles songbook, consisting of nearly every Beatles song transcribed in the simplest of chords. And then I put it on a shelf and got way into my boners for a few years.
Then somewhere around 15 I became obsessed with Beatles b-sides, and dug back into the book. I learned them all, and discovered an unknown thirst for this particular sect of knowledge. If I liked a song, and it had a discernible melody, I wanted to know it, to master it.
Maybe not master. I just wanted to strum along. I always had an acoustic guitar, so rhythm was really my go-to sound. Besides, my fingers don't Flamenco.
I kept a notebook of every song I figured out. I still have one, an updated version, and I'm quite proud to say that it stretches from A-ha to Zevon.
Let me also say that I consciously avoided the 'sensitive guy playing guitar' thing as much as possible. I didn't even tell people. Was it because I was a fat teenager? Yeah, probably.
When I got older I used to joke that I had a guitar because I lived in a house with 3 other dudes in Denton, and by law one of us was required to be at the very least able to strum 3 or 4 90's songs for the purposes of drunken sing-alongs. The truth is that I still thoroughly enjoy it. It's therapeutic, and it's something I do for myself more than anyone else. Unless I'm drunk. Then we can play and sing and fuck and stuff.
While guitar has been fun and is a consistent source of various catharsis when need be, the instrument I have really always wanted to play is piano. Not fucking keyboards. Piano.
A piano is an orchestra at your fingertips. It plunges below the depths of a bassoon and soars higher than the flight of a piccolo. Here's a piece of music I've listened to at least 80 times in the past year -
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IDI5bDdspc0
I don't think this is necessarily the kind of piano music I wish to play, but it's the style that I've been sinking into. The entire Midnight in Paris soundtrack has been dominating my life for the past 9 months or so. That's probably more of a statement on my life and mindset lately, that I consistently indulge Woody Allen walking around music.
Woody Allen plays jazz clarinet every Monday that he can at The Carlyle on Madison Avenue in New York.
I suppose that I play an instrument. No, I play an instrument. I suppose that I play it well enough. Okay, before I slip into too much of an attempt at humility amidst braggadacio, (though the use of that phrase may have already defeated the purpose) let me just say that I play guitar, often, and know a lot of songs, and think that it sounds pretty good. I also have little to no idea what I'm doing when I play. I have very little technical knowledge about the instrument, or music in general. I can't read sheet music, I don't know what a sustained note is really doing, and I thought the last Radiohead album was dumb.
That came out of nowhere, but seriously, I don't need math music or whatever the fuck that was supposed to be. I'll come back to this. Or not, fuck it.
I had a friend in 5th grade who played guitar, and I thought it was really cool, and to make this part of the story quite short I'll say that I'm pretty sure my dad bought my brother and I guitars to distract us from his affair with his next wife. I went with said cool friend (fuck it, I'll name-check him: Woody Rosen) to the mall one day, and we found books of guitar tablature at Sam Goody (yeah, not just the mall you motherfuckers, but Sam fuckin' Goody). For every single one of the twenty dollars that I possessed, I purchased the complete Beatles songbook, consisting of nearly every Beatles song transcribed in the simplest of chords. And then I put it on a shelf and got way into my boners for a few years.
Then somewhere around 15 I became obsessed with Beatles b-sides, and dug back into the book. I learned them all, and discovered an unknown thirst for this particular sect of knowledge. If I liked a song, and it had a discernible melody, I wanted to know it, to master it.
Maybe not master. I just wanted to strum along. I always had an acoustic guitar, so rhythm was really my go-to sound. Besides, my fingers don't Flamenco.
I kept a notebook of every song I figured out. I still have one, an updated version, and I'm quite proud to say that it stretches from A-ha to Zevon.
Let me also say that I consciously avoided the 'sensitive guy playing guitar' thing as much as possible. I didn't even tell people. Was it because I was a fat teenager? Yeah, probably.
When I got older I used to joke that I had a guitar because I lived in a house with 3 other dudes in Denton, and by law one of us was required to be at the very least able to strum 3 or 4 90's songs for the purposes of drunken sing-alongs. The truth is that I still thoroughly enjoy it. It's therapeutic, and it's something I do for myself more than anyone else. Unless I'm drunk. Then we can play and sing and fuck and stuff.
While guitar has been fun and is a consistent source of various catharsis when need be, the instrument I have really always wanted to play is piano. Not fucking keyboards. Piano.
A piano is an orchestra at your fingertips. It plunges below the depths of a bassoon and soars higher than the flight of a piccolo. Here's a piece of music I've listened to at least 80 times in the past year -
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IDI5bDdspc0
I don't think this is necessarily the kind of piano music I wish to play, but it's the style that I've been sinking into. The entire Midnight in Paris soundtrack has been dominating my life for the past 9 months or so. That's probably more of a statement on my life and mindset lately, that I consistently indulge Woody Allen walking around music.
Woody Allen plays jazz clarinet every Monday that he can at The Carlyle on Madison Avenue in New York.
No Shame 2 & 3: TV & Movies
TV - MOVIES
These work well as a couple. I was going to talk about the shift in quality storytelling from film to television, and even explore a tangent on the differences between television and TV, film and movies, art and entertainment, the way women masturbate and the way men masturbate (you get the picture (did you get those pictures?)) Then that idea became boring to me, and I think the point is made in the set-up, so let's do something else.
Random thoughts on television:
I miss Paul Reiser. Did you know that he co-wrote the Mad About You theme, and even played the piano on the track? I hope he's well.
Speaking of TV theme songs, the Monty Python one is actually American. I think it's Sousa... (looking it up)... yeah, Sousa.
The best thing on television right now is Homeland. Seriously, depending on the end game in either show, Homeland may be gunning for the Breaking Bad crown. And don't start with any of your Game of Thrones shit, because that show is overwrought and boring and just dumb. It's dumb. More like Lame of Thrones. Game of Thrown up in my fucking mouth.
I've seen maybe 2 & 1/2 episodes, and it really doesn't bother me. It also hasn't made me want to watch any more of it.
The other best show you may not be watching is Bob's Burgers. Hilarious. H. Jon Benjamin can do no wrong. Hilarious Jon Benjamin, with his Hobbit body and piercing blue eyes...
Shameless is also a good show.
Random thoughts on movies:
I miss Michael Keaton. And Kevin Kline. I suppose Kevin Kline still works more often than Michael Keaton, but I don't remember him doing anything noteworthy in the past ten years. If it were up to me, then pre-production of a film where Tom Hanks & Michael Keaton are brothers and Richard Dreyfuss is their exasperated father would already be underway. Richard Dreyfuss himself told me he would be on board in a brief Twitter conversation we shared recently. True story.
Also a movie where Jon Hamm & Chris Meloni are brothers, and maybe Elias Koteas as their weird older brother. I just like movies about brothers.
I suppose my third wish would be some movie that makes so much money that it solves a world issue or something. We could call it "Brotherhood".
A friend recently reminded me how great Fargo is, though it was actually filmed in Minnesota near the production of Mallrats, instead of North Dakota. It is also not a true story.
The best films I have seen from this year are, in no particular order - The Master, The Avengers, Beasts of the Southern Wild, Seven Psychopaths, Lawless, Argo, Moonrise Kingdom. Actually, that may be the correct order.
Shame is also an amazing film. It encapsulates the feeling of independent cinema. Also semi-famous penis & vagina.
So, TV & movies are both excellent. A marathon of SVU or a VH1 countdown is pretty much the best thing that can happen to my weekend these days.
And for that extra "No Shame" moment, let me share with you the fact that I recently watched the first 4 Twilight films back to back, to back, to back. Seriously, like 9 hours of just Twilight.
Let me say this: they're not as bad as I thought they'd be, each one is probably better than the last, and I want to see the last one just to know how it all plays out.
The first one is pretty bad though.
I think that went well.
These work well as a couple. I was going to talk about the shift in quality storytelling from film to television, and even explore a tangent on the differences between television and TV, film and movies, art and entertainment, the way women masturbate and the way men masturbate (you get the picture (did you get those pictures?)) Then that idea became boring to me, and I think the point is made in the set-up, so let's do something else.
Random thoughts on television:
I miss Paul Reiser. Did you know that he co-wrote the Mad About You theme, and even played the piano on the track? I hope he's well.
Speaking of TV theme songs, the Monty Python one is actually American. I think it's Sousa... (looking it up)... yeah, Sousa.
The best thing on television right now is Homeland. Seriously, depending on the end game in either show, Homeland may be gunning for the Breaking Bad crown. And don't start with any of your Game of Thrones shit, because that show is overwrought and boring and just dumb. It's dumb. More like Lame of Thrones. Game of Thrown up in my fucking mouth.
I've seen maybe 2 & 1/2 episodes, and it really doesn't bother me. It also hasn't made me want to watch any more of it.
The other best show you may not be watching is Bob's Burgers. Hilarious. H. Jon Benjamin can do no wrong. Hilarious Jon Benjamin, with his Hobbit body and piercing blue eyes...
Shameless is also a good show.
Random thoughts on movies:
I miss Michael Keaton. And Kevin Kline. I suppose Kevin Kline still works more often than Michael Keaton, but I don't remember him doing anything noteworthy in the past ten years. If it were up to me, then pre-production of a film where Tom Hanks & Michael Keaton are brothers and Richard Dreyfuss is their exasperated father would already be underway. Richard Dreyfuss himself told me he would be on board in a brief Twitter conversation we shared recently. True story.
Also a movie where Jon Hamm & Chris Meloni are brothers, and maybe Elias Koteas as their weird older brother. I just like movies about brothers.
I suppose my third wish would be some movie that makes so much money that it solves a world issue or something. We could call it "Brotherhood".
A friend recently reminded me how great Fargo is, though it was actually filmed in Minnesota near the production of Mallrats, instead of North Dakota. It is also not a true story.
The best films I have seen from this year are, in no particular order - The Master, The Avengers, Beasts of the Southern Wild, Seven Psychopaths, Lawless, Argo, Moonrise Kingdom. Actually, that may be the correct order.
Shame is also an amazing film. It encapsulates the feeling of independent cinema. Also semi-famous penis & vagina.
So, TV & movies are both excellent. A marathon of SVU or a VH1 countdown is pretty much the best thing that can happen to my weekend these days.
And for that extra "No Shame" moment, let me share with you the fact that I recently watched the first 4 Twilight films back to back, to back, to back. Seriously, like 9 hours of just Twilight.
Let me say this: they're not as bad as I thought they'd be, each one is probably better than the last, and I want to see the last one just to know how it all plays out.
The first one is pretty bad though.
I think that went well.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
No Shame November: Intro to Sports
A friend of mine created this writing prompt/experiment/further opportunity to indulge the vanity of most social media, and I have apparently decided that I have the free time to participate. I actually think it's a great idea, and I love having a topic. Here was her initial request:
"No Shame November
I’m trying out an idea for November where you post once a day (or don’t post one day, and post 2 in one day, or post 30 times one day… whatever you want) about one of the topics below. Yes, they are numbered, but no, you don’t have to do them in order.
Why “no shame,” besides the fact that it sounds good with “November”? Because I want everyone to write about each topic (whether it’s general thoughts or a specific story or “I hate [topic]” or any other way you want to write) COMPLETELY HONESTLY. It can be funny, sincere, psychotic… I don’t care! But there’s no shame. None. If you feel shame, I WILL COME TO YOUR HOUSE AND MURDER YOU."
- sports
- TV
- movies
- music
- theatre
- visual art
- books
- childhood
- high school
- family
- friendship
- sex
- love
- romance (yes, it’s different than love)
- embarrassment
- life goals
- religion
- politics
- humor
- vanity
- hygiene
- genitalia
- stereotypes
- food
- animals
- the dentist (because everyone has opinions about the dentist)
- technology
- social media
- blogging
- pimp a friend/website/organization
I'm not sure that I would go so far as to call myself "shameless", but I'm certainly not worried about being dishonest or having my writing suffer from a lack of self esteem. Pretension & pomposity will no doubt abound throughout the next 30 topics, which I will do in order, though perhaps not every day.
Also, I'll probably get a picture of my junk in there somewhere.
So, with the introduction out of the way, let's start with number one.
SPORTS
Sports are fun, and you should enjoy them. The worst thing about sports has been their corporatization.
I have absolutely no investment in professional sports. Emotionally, financially, or even racially. That said, I do enjoy having something to watch and root for, even if my support isn't wholehearted. Being caught in the zeal of any moment is usually worthwhile... no it isn't.
I've also learned to taper what used to be an admittedly over-inflated sense of contempt for the fervor surrounding said professional activities, in that they seem to bring great joy (and an enduring masochistic pain) to many that I hold near and dear. If it affects you it affects me, and besides, it would be hypocritical of me to begrudge anyone's proclivities towards what some might find to be a questionable recreational activity...
So, when it comes to sports, or anything else for that matter, I guess I'm pro-choice.
Yes, pro sports are like abortions. I don't really care for them, and they shouldn't be necessary, but if it's going to happen I do like to watch.
Hashtag #Prosportions
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)