Like having your best friend berate you.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Dash-a-peppah
The work fellas and I got to talking about Tom & Jerry and I came across one of my all-time favorite episodes.
My sister and I would sing that last song for hours on end.
My sister and I would sing that last song for hours on end.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Get out of here, Nebulon! No one likes your style.
I have tech tonight for the show. Tech is notoriously excruciating. Sitting there. While people focus lights and figure out sound cues. As my grandfather used to say, it's for the birds. To make it interesting, I'll do it naked. Or on fire. Or both.
A bit of dialogue that occurred to me while eating hot dogs at Grays Papaya yesterday:
MAN 1: Do you know the origin of the hot dog, Jack?
MAN 2: No.
MAN 1: Heaven, Jack. The answer is heaven.
I found out today that one of the people I work with is a lawyer. This fact surprised me a great deal because I always thought of him as an incompetent fuckface. Speaking of fuckface, I'm reminded of names my dad used to call me (bear in mind he was never very clever):
1. Fuckface
2. Boner
3. Asshole
4. Shithead
5. No Common Sense
6. Gabriel Don (during his clean phase or when I had done something wrong)
7. Dingleberry
8. Dickhead
9. My son (when he thought he was being pious. Though, he doesn't know what the word pious means)
None of these names were ever said in anger, oddly enough. Not that it mattered. I always took comfort in the fact that I was smarter than he could ever be. And, that he isn't really my father. Still, they were a crude man's lexicon of love and affection.
My favorite and telling ongoing exchange he had was with his brother (my uncle):
UNCLE: What's up?
DAD: My dick! Wanna suck it?!
Good times. Good times.
A bit of dialogue that occurred to me while eating hot dogs at Grays Papaya yesterday:
MAN 1: Do you know the origin of the hot dog, Jack?
MAN 2: No.
MAN 1: Heaven, Jack. The answer is heaven.
I found out today that one of the people I work with is a lawyer. This fact surprised me a great deal because I always thought of him as an incompetent fuckface. Speaking of fuckface, I'm reminded of names my dad used to call me (bear in mind he was never very clever):
1. Fuckface
2. Boner
3. Asshole
4. Shithead
5. No Common Sense
6. Gabriel Don (during his clean phase or when I had done something wrong)
7. Dingleberry
8. Dickhead
9. My son (when he thought he was being pious. Though, he doesn't know what the word pious means)
None of these names were ever said in anger, oddly enough. Not that it mattered. I always took comfort in the fact that I was smarter than he could ever be. And, that he isn't really my father. Still, they were a crude man's lexicon of love and affection.
My favorite and telling ongoing exchange he had was with his brother (my uncle):
UNCLE: What's up?
DAD: My dick! Wanna suck it?!
Good times. Good times.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Chivalry really is dead
After rescuing a turkey sandwich from the deli so it could take refuge in my stomach, I opened the door for an older woman who was entering as I was leaving. I'm used to not getting a "thank you," because New Yorkers, for the most part, can't be bothered with trifling things like courtesy or decency. I have never, however, gotten a sarcastic "thank you." Until today. The woman reacted to my holding the door for her as if I told her that her son in the army is a cunt and I hope he gets shot in the face by friendly fire. She then spat the "thank you" at me to the tune of "what have you done for me lately" and hefted her aged girth through the door with the haste of Gabe Silva at a popcorn store (wait, why am I slamming myself? She's the jerk! Jerk).
Anyway, I hope she trips over her own awful feet and lands face first into the buffet, preferably into the macaroni salad because it isn't particularly good there.
Anyway, I hope she trips over her own awful feet and lands face first into the buffet, preferably into the macaroni salad because it isn't particularly good there.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Press Play
Matt turned me on to Cee-Lo. If I haven't turned you on, I apologize. Wait...wait, what?
name="myflashfetish" align="middle"
type="application/x-shockwave-flash"
pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" />
I made this MySpace Music Player at MyFlashFetish.com.
type="application/x-shockwave-flash"
pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" />
I made this MySpace Music Player at MyFlashFetish.com.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
Yeah, I'm going to have to ask you to go ahead and eat my stool
As the major pharmaceutical giant, hereafter dubbed, simply, MPG, I work for continues to fire its redundant employees into the East River, the workload I face everyday gets simultaneously voluminous and meager at the same time, an impossible working model of the existential being, an entity that is nothing and everything all at once. The effect this has on our humble office is that of a sense of overwhelming responsibility coupled with the reality that there's nothing to do. It's a lot like being a boxer waiting in the locker room before a fight, and discovering that the bantam weight you were going to take on is being replaced by a rape-hungry android from another dimension. Because you can't even begin to fathom what that even means, all you can do is sit fatly on the locker room bench in a state of suspended, albeit terrified, animation and await the otherworldly ass torture you're about to receive.
This isn't the first time our office has been expecting unwanted butt sex. We've been reamed many times (and if you knew which MPG I worked for, you'd know they can go all night, baby). What we employees fear most during these business dark ages is not the threat of work but the threat of idle work, an oxymoronic masterpiece of which my boss may be both originator and master. Some of these tasks are so unbearably devoid of skill or difficulty that one assumes there's some sort of trick to it, some hidden snag for which a poor dope of an employee can be drawn and quartered. Surely he isn't serious (is he?) when he says he wants these labels removed, mounted on an 8 1/2 by 11 piece of yellow letter size paper, encased in liquid carbonite, and immediately throw away? No sane, sensible human being could POSSIBLY want that to happen. Could they? But by the time you ask that question, it's too late. Eight hours have fleetingly passed by and you've found yourself high as a kite off of adhesive remover and wrist-deep in your coworker's entrails (adhesive removal having the unfortunate side-effect of lycanthropy which really hasn't been registered with the FDA...and should).
Bear in mind that my boss speaks in cryptic riddles that would make the Sphinx talk lion and shit human. He doesn't just mix metaphors, he purees the fucking things until what was once trite business speak becomes a new, wonderful lexiconic nightmare. The game is easy, take any bullshit corporate phrase, truncate it, add the end of another one, and then throw in a mad tangent. It goes something like this:
1. "Let's run that up the flagpole and see who buys Abe Vigoda's farm."
2. "Let's just think outside the ballpark figure and I think we can all wear a dress on this thing."
3. "Six of one thing, half an Abe Vigoda."
4. "Abe Vigoda!"
I may have gotten sidetracked. Oh well. Congratulations to a certain title holder out there...
This isn't the first time our office has been expecting unwanted butt sex. We've been reamed many times (and if you knew which MPG I worked for, you'd know they can go all night, baby). What we employees fear most during these business dark ages is not the threat of work but the threat of idle work, an oxymoronic masterpiece of which my boss may be both originator and master. Some of these tasks are so unbearably devoid of skill or difficulty that one assumes there's some sort of trick to it, some hidden snag for which a poor dope of an employee can be drawn and quartered. Surely he isn't serious (is he?) when he says he wants these labels removed, mounted on an 8 1/2 by 11 piece of yellow letter size paper, encased in liquid carbonite, and immediately throw away? No sane, sensible human being could POSSIBLY want that to happen. Could they? But by the time you ask that question, it's too late. Eight hours have fleetingly passed by and you've found yourself high as a kite off of adhesive remover and wrist-deep in your coworker's entrails (adhesive removal having the unfortunate side-effect of lycanthropy which really hasn't been registered with the FDA...and should).
Bear in mind that my boss speaks in cryptic riddles that would make the Sphinx talk lion and shit human. He doesn't just mix metaphors, he purees the fucking things until what was once trite business speak becomes a new, wonderful lexiconic nightmare. The game is easy, take any bullshit corporate phrase, truncate it, add the end of another one, and then throw in a mad tangent. It goes something like this:
1. "Let's run that up the flagpole and see who buys Abe Vigoda's farm."
2. "Let's just think outside the ballpark figure and I think we can all wear a dress on this thing."
3. "Six of one thing, half an Abe Vigoda."
4. "Abe Vigoda!"
I may have gotten sidetracked. Oh well. Congratulations to a certain title holder out there...
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Orphans of the Digital Era
I'll be appearing in Jack Condon's "Orphans of the Digital Era" on Saturday, August 4th at 5 PM as part of the Riant Theatre's Strawberry One-Act Festival. I'll be a cowardly, paranoid doomsayer. And I play one in the play too. Ho ho ho.
Come and vote. Make Jack famous!
Come and vote. Make Jack famous!
Sunday, July 22, 2007
But I'm getting ahead of myself...
I'd be the first to admit that I have a tenuous relationship with my emotions. I suppose it has a great deal to do with the fact that most things aren't worth getting that excited about. Even as Matt, myself, and hundreds of others ran wide-eyed from what we all assumed was the great, groaning collapse of yet another skyscraping giant last week, I remained nonchalant in my terror, barely able to see the logic in running fast enough to dislodge my iPod from its holster. It was a costly item, after all.
Which reminded me of the iPod's purchaser and the gray twilight in which we parted ways forever, our grainy faces twisting in a nightmare diffusion. In those early morning hours, I can remember fighting to care, to summon something beyond mere contempt and incredulity. But it wasn't there. My sentiments were trite approximations. The idea of being upset. The notion of being heartbroken. A child playing at betrayal and affection. And as the curtain fell on that tired old farce of a pairing, I never shed a tear.
All that being said, it's sometimes a bit of a shock when I feel within me a wellspring of emotion that defies logic and control. I learned long ago to never follow your heart because your heart is a fool, and that treacherous path down which your foolheart leads you terminates at the back of the dragon's throat. Unfortunately for us poor dopes, fools can be woefully charming, and we find ourselves singing while we're singeing.
What I have to learn is that having feelings doesn't make me special. We all have feelings, dummy. And what seems like a deep throb of shared passion to some could be a simple warmth to others, nothing more. This is not to discredit either perception. Each is valid. But let's not drag another into the maelstrom with us against their will.
It should be said, though, as a final ambiguous thought, that what I overlook in brandishing an impassioned result is the journey itself. It's that experience, that present essence, that existential now that is most important.
Easy, Gabe. Easy.
Which reminded me of the iPod's purchaser and the gray twilight in which we parted ways forever, our grainy faces twisting in a nightmare diffusion. In those early morning hours, I can remember fighting to care, to summon something beyond mere contempt and incredulity. But it wasn't there. My sentiments were trite approximations. The idea of being upset. The notion of being heartbroken. A child playing at betrayal and affection. And as the curtain fell on that tired old farce of a pairing, I never shed a tear.
All that being said, it's sometimes a bit of a shock when I feel within me a wellspring of emotion that defies logic and control. I learned long ago to never follow your heart because your heart is a fool, and that treacherous path down which your foolheart leads you terminates at the back of the dragon's throat. Unfortunately for us poor dopes, fools can be woefully charming, and we find ourselves singing while we're singeing.
What I have to learn is that having feelings doesn't make me special. We all have feelings, dummy. And what seems like a deep throb of shared passion to some could be a simple warmth to others, nothing more. This is not to discredit either perception. Each is valid. But let's not drag another into the maelstrom with us against their will.
It should be said, though, as a final ambiguous thought, that what I overlook in brandishing an impassioned result is the journey itself. It's that experience, that present essence, that existential now that is most important.
Easy, Gabe. Easy.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
I hear what you're singing
Last night Colin Hay played the Canal Room with the aid of a small band and a woman who was possessed by the devil, if he were a burlesque dancer. Despite adversity (i.e. s pair of drunken men who "loved" everyone and had to be removed by a poor man's Ving Rhames), Colin Hay delivered a great performance. I'm a big fan of his song "Waiting for My Real Life to Begin," which he played albeit with a more rock based arrangement. Normally, I wouldn't post song lyrics, but these lyrics have always stricken me:
WAITING FOR MY REAL LIFE TO BEGIN
Any minute now, my ship is coming in
I'll keep checking the horizon
and I'll stand on the bow, feel the waves come crashing
Come crashing down down down, on me
And you say, "be still my love
Open up your heart
Let the light shine in."
Don't you understand
I already have a plan?
I'm waiting for my real life to begin
When I awoke today, suddenly nothing happened
But in my dreams, I slew the dragon
And down this beaten path, and up this cobbled lane
I'm walking in my old footsteps, once again
And you say, "Just be here now,
Forget about the past, your mask is wearing thin."
Let me throw one more dice
I know that I can win
I'm waiting for my real life to begin
Any minute now, my ship is coming in
I’ll keep checking the horizon
And I'll check my machine, there's sure to be that call
It's gonna happen soon, soon, oh so very soon
It's just that times are lean
And you say, "be still my love
Open up your heart, let the light shine in."
Don't you understand
I already have a plan?
I'm waiting for my real life to begin
On a clear day, I can see, see for a long way.
On a clear day, I can see, see for a long way.
WAITING FOR MY REAL LIFE TO BEGIN
Any minute now, my ship is coming in
I'll keep checking the horizon
and I'll stand on the bow, feel the waves come crashing
Come crashing down down down, on me
And you say, "be still my love
Open up your heart
Let the light shine in."
Don't you understand
I already have a plan?
I'm waiting for my real life to begin
When I awoke today, suddenly nothing happened
But in my dreams, I slew the dragon
And down this beaten path, and up this cobbled lane
I'm walking in my old footsteps, once again
And you say, "Just be here now,
Forget about the past, your mask is wearing thin."
Let me throw one more dice
I know that I can win
I'm waiting for my real life to begin
Any minute now, my ship is coming in
I’ll keep checking the horizon
And I'll check my machine, there's sure to be that call
It's gonna happen soon, soon, oh so very soon
It's just that times are lean
And you say, "be still my love
Open up your heart, let the light shine in."
Don't you understand
I already have a plan?
I'm waiting for my real life to begin
On a clear day, I can see, see for a long way.
On a clear day, I can see, see for a long way.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Networking
The Book I Write's own Kath Weems mentioned to me last night that she was watching one of my favorite movies: Network. I got to thinking today that Network's oft quoted line "I'm as mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore" evokes in me a sense of bittersweet nostalgia. Bear in mind I wasn't alive during our nation's more politically charged decades, but culling what I can from various newsreels, accounts, even the fiction of America's past paints a strikingly different picture of this country's willpower, its drive, its purpose. While reading People's History of the United States, you come across tales of workers' rebellions, fights for equality, demonstrations of our collective need to have our voices heard. From the perspective of a 21st century human, all of that conviction seems futile and quaint. Really? In America? Citizens giving a shit? Impossible.
And this loss of conviction among the masses isn't a result of a loss of power. The same forces who ruled the populous from America's inception are still present and they're still scared of that body's potential to coagulate and grow. Unfortunately they've gotten adept at diffusing and diluting the frustration and energy of the people. Why should I care about my fellow man when I have a flat screen TV? Why should I pay extra taxes for national health care so some deadbeat can prosper from my obligatory charity? All I want to do is go to work, go home, turn on the game and have a beer. And the minute, opiate net of distraction tightens its plush leather hold all the while whispering the incessant mantra of fearmongers and kings into your ear. Everything's ok inside the net.
There used to be a time that when we were getting fucked, we'd get angry. And we'd unite. In a country where everything's been bought and sold since the beginning and the voice of the people probably didn't really matter anyway, the ability to unite was our only power. People would DIE rather than suffer mistreatment. This no longer applies to the modern American. When the government unzips his trousers and fires that expectant glare in our direction, we bend ourselves over the bed and take what's coming to us. Because that's how we keep our plasma TV. That's how we maintain that modest income. That's how we insure our own safety in a country we've been told is filled with danger and sin.
With that in mind, I give you a snippet of Howard Beale's speech from Network. This was 31 years ago. As George Carlin says, "When's this shit going to end? When's this shit going to go away?":
And this loss of conviction among the masses isn't a result of a loss of power. The same forces who ruled the populous from America's inception are still present and they're still scared of that body's potential to coagulate and grow. Unfortunately they've gotten adept at diffusing and diluting the frustration and energy of the people. Why should I care about my fellow man when I have a flat screen TV? Why should I pay extra taxes for national health care so some deadbeat can prosper from my obligatory charity? All I want to do is go to work, go home, turn on the game and have a beer. And the minute, opiate net of distraction tightens its plush leather hold all the while whispering the incessant mantra of fearmongers and kings into your ear. Everything's ok inside the net.
There used to be a time that when we were getting fucked, we'd get angry. And we'd unite. In a country where everything's been bought and sold since the beginning and the voice of the people probably didn't really matter anyway, the ability to unite was our only power. People would DIE rather than suffer mistreatment. This no longer applies to the modern American. When the government unzips his trousers and fires that expectant glare in our direction, we bend ourselves over the bed and take what's coming to us. Because that's how we keep our plasma TV. That's how we maintain that modest income. That's how we insure our own safety in a country we've been told is filled with danger and sin.
With that in mind, I give you a snippet of Howard Beale's speech from Network. This was 31 years ago. As George Carlin says, "When's this shit going to end? When's this shit going to go away?":
I don't have to tell you things are bad. Everybody knows things are bad. It's a depression. Everybody's out of work or scared of losing their job. The dollar buys a nickel's work, banks are going bust, shopkeepers keep a gun under the counter. Punks are running wild in the street and there's nobody anywhere who seems to know what to do, and there's no end to it. We know the air is unfit to breathe and our food is unfit to eat, and we sit watching our TV's while some local newscaster tells us that today we had fifteen homicides and sixty-three violent crimes, as if that's the way it's supposed to be. We know things are bad - worse than bad. They're crazy. It's like everything everywhere is going crazy, so we don't go out anymore. We sit in the house, and slowly the world we are living in is getting smaller, and all we say is, 'Please, at least leave us alone in our living rooms. Let me have my toaster and my TV and my steel-belted radials and I won't say anything. Just leave us alone.' Well, I'm not gonna leave you alone. I want you to get mad! I don't want you to protest. I don't want you to riot - I don't want you to write to your congressman because I wouldn't know what to tell you to write. I don't know what to do about the depression and the inflation and the Russians and the crime in the street. All I know is that first you've got to get mad.
You've got to say, 'I'm a HUMAN BEING, Goddamnit! My life has VALUE!' So I want you to get up now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the window. Open it, and stick your head out, and yell,
'I'M AS MAD AS HELL, AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE!'
Monday, July 16, 2007
I believe premiums are our future...
...pay them well and let them screw your day.
This weekend found our hero in sunny New Jersey, where he competed in several friendly competitions while highly intoxicated with his best friend Paul and Paul's girlfriend Alicia. Results:
Bowling: I won one game out of three! My highest score was 133. Paul's was 148 because he throws the ball overhand, the jerk. My game declined exponentially after the bowling lane implemented the "cosmic" lighting scheme half way through our tournament, replete with black lights and neon balls (which felt a little like being in an alien strip club).
Minigolf: We opted for an authentically posh country club style minigolf course (how authentic? No blacks!) which sported an easy course and a hard one (ooh!). We chose hard, because we like it hard and because it's just minigolf, goddamnit. Right? Wrong. The course was brutal. No cutesy puddles masquerading as water hazards here. Full on, rushing streams and intricate holes designed by MC Escher (which is also a porn I once had...Intricate Holes). Paul and I scored dead even at 70. The par for the course was 65. We stink. But we stink together.
Poker: Paul destroyed me in poker. However, we only played games where I was naked and could only have one card. Then we played cards. What?
Also, we watched a show called 2057 which explores what the future holds for mankind fifty years from now with the help of physicist and "futurist" Michio Kaku whose head appears on some of those CUNY ads in the New York subway system. Kaku is a genius simply because he has convinced people that being a "futurist" means something. Actually, it was an early 20th century art movement celebrating the triumph of man over nature. And to some extent, that's what this new brand of scientific futurism is: cheating nature with the aid of technology. However amazing the show 2057's medical/scientific/technological predictions are, my favorite episode was one entitled "The Body" in which they simulate how the future's medical teams would handle a near fatal accident. A future man falls out of a second story window (after tripping over a Roomba) and suffers life endangering injuries. Despite cheating death several times during the episode with the aid of future technological marvels, his biggest obstacle is INSURANCE. Yup, in the future, according to 2057, not only will we not have universal health care, but insurance companies will have the ability to monitor us 24 hours a day to make sure they have as much evidence possible to deny us coverage. In fact, the show depicts future man pouring a substitute liquid in the toilet in lieu of his own urine because his insurance company has equipment analyzing his egestion and he wants to keep his premiums down. IN THE FUTURE, WE WILL BE ABLE TO USE A FUCKING LASER PRINTER TO COMPLETELY RECONSTRUCT A HUMAN HEART, BUT THE BIGGEST OBSTACLE TO YOUR CONTINUING HEALTH WILL STILL BE INSURANCE.
Or, at least, that's the moral I got from the story. I've had a lot of coffee.
This weekend found our hero in sunny New Jersey, where he competed in several friendly competitions while highly intoxicated with his best friend Paul and Paul's girlfriend Alicia. Results:
Bowling: I won one game out of three! My highest score was 133. Paul's was 148 because he throws the ball overhand, the jerk. My game declined exponentially after the bowling lane implemented the "cosmic" lighting scheme half way through our tournament, replete with black lights and neon balls (which felt a little like being in an alien strip club).
Minigolf: We opted for an authentically posh country club style minigolf course (how authentic? No blacks!) which sported an easy course and a hard one (ooh!). We chose hard, because we like it hard and because it's just minigolf, goddamnit. Right? Wrong. The course was brutal. No cutesy puddles masquerading as water hazards here. Full on, rushing streams and intricate holes designed by MC Escher (which is also a porn I once had...Intricate Holes). Paul and I scored dead even at 70. The par for the course was 65. We stink. But we stink together.
Poker: Paul destroyed me in poker. However, we only played games where I was naked and could only have one card. Then we played cards. What?
Also, we watched a show called 2057 which explores what the future holds for mankind fifty years from now with the help of physicist and "futurist" Michio Kaku whose head appears on some of those CUNY ads in the New York subway system. Kaku is a genius simply because he has convinced people that being a "futurist" means something. Actually, it was an early 20th century art movement celebrating the triumph of man over nature. And to some extent, that's what this new brand of scientific futurism is: cheating nature with the aid of technology. However amazing the show 2057's medical/scientific/technological predictions are, my favorite episode was one entitled "The Body" in which they simulate how the future's medical teams would handle a near fatal accident. A future man falls out of a second story window (after tripping over a Roomba) and suffers life endangering injuries. Despite cheating death several times during the episode with the aid of future technological marvels, his biggest obstacle is INSURANCE. Yup, in the future, according to 2057, not only will we not have universal health care, but insurance companies will have the ability to monitor us 24 hours a day to make sure they have as much evidence possible to deny us coverage. In fact, the show depicts future man pouring a substitute liquid in the toilet in lieu of his own urine because his insurance company has equipment analyzing his egestion and he wants to keep his premiums down. IN THE FUTURE, WE WILL BE ABLE TO USE A FUCKING LASER PRINTER TO COMPLETELY RECONSTRUCT A HUMAN HEART, BUT THE BIGGEST OBSTACLE TO YOUR CONTINUING HEALTH WILL STILL BE INSURANCE.
Or, at least, that's the moral I got from the story. I've had a lot of coffee.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
She is...the Highlander
For those who've fucked off to Scotland this week:
I think that's what I need. To yell at my audience more.
I think that's what I need. To yell at my audience more.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Friday, July 06, 2007
It gives us paws
By now, I'm sure you've all visited Cats That Look Like Hitler. But have you been to Cats That Look Like Idi Amin? If you haven't, uganda!
Ugh. I disgust myself sometimes.
Ugh. I disgust myself sometimes.
As was the fashion at the time
I've had the distinct opportunity and, dare I say (dare, DARE), the pleasure to observe the clothing trends of the Upper East Side lately, and let me tell you, it's ahead of its time. Most New York neighborhoods have their specific style: the delightful dirtbags of the East Village, the frustratingly fabricated hipsters of Williamsburg, the stiflingly tasteful yentas of the Upper West Side. No single area of this metropolis, however, captures that extraordinary blend of an old folks' home mixed with a clown college like the Upper East Side.
I've often wondered where elderly mimes go when they retire, and it's somewhere around East 75th Street and 1st Avenue. Within a forty minute breakfast at a diner, I saw samples from what appeared to be the Super Mario Brothers summer wear collection as well as clothing which seemed to be the result of what happens when a middle aged woman runs crotch first into a curtain store. Seriously, everyone looked like washed up magicians' assistants (I expected someone to be walking a giant white tiger). My favorite, by far, had to be a brightly dressed gentleman who looked like Joe Pesci as an Indian chief (and, who somehow stole Pablo Picasso's shirt).
Of course, the clothes don't make the man. Except in the Upper East Side, where you might overhear things such as:
"I eat a bunch of peanut butter, then I go right to bed."
"Meh, she's on her period!"
"The way she thinks, the first bad thing I eat, BOOM, I'm dead instantly."
"Hand me that pancake make-up, I gotta go outside and scare the shit out of a child by presenting him with a balloon that looks vaguely like a poodle."
Well, maybe I didn't hear the last bit, but I felt it.
I've often wondered where elderly mimes go when they retire, and it's somewhere around East 75th Street and 1st Avenue. Within a forty minute breakfast at a diner, I saw samples from what appeared to be the Super Mario Brothers summer wear collection as well as clothing which seemed to be the result of what happens when a middle aged woman runs crotch first into a curtain store. Seriously, everyone looked like washed up magicians' assistants (I expected someone to be walking a giant white tiger). My favorite, by far, had to be a brightly dressed gentleman who looked like Joe Pesci as an Indian chief (and, who somehow stole Pablo Picasso's shirt).
Of course, the clothes don't make the man. Except in the Upper East Side, where you might overhear things such as:
"I eat a bunch of peanut butter, then I go right to bed."
"Meh, she's on her period!"
"The way she thinks, the first bad thing I eat, BOOM, I'm dead instantly."
"Hand me that pancake make-up, I gotta go outside and scare the shit out of a child by presenting him with a balloon that looks vaguely like a poodle."
Well, maybe I didn't hear the last bit, but I felt it.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Daunting to say the least
When you're learning to play the guitar, it's sometimes helpful to watch professionals work. However, when that professional is Andy Mckee, it can be daunting not only because he can play the hell out of a guitar, but because he also plays what appear to be boats.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Your moment of zen
At today's audition, I was treated to an epic, Socratic dialogue between two actor degenerates involving "what's funny." I wanted to beat them both to death with the plastic chair I was sitting on.
To top it all off, one of them pulled out what I thought was the motherboard off of Deep Blue, but it turned out to be a cartoonishly big cellphone from which he had to remove a blast shield before using. Just at the peak of my fury, I was delighted to hear the following:
ASSHOLE: Hey, Debra? Yeah, it's Pete Assenfeffer. Listen, I'm a little tied up here at this callback, so I was wondering if I could swing by to your audition a little later. And you're located on 27th right? You know I'm bad with directions. (Jerk-style laugh followed by awkward silence) What? Oh...this is Pete. Assenfeffer. Pete, right.
That's right, baby. No one knows who you are. And that, my friend, is what's funny.
To top it all off, one of them pulled out what I thought was the motherboard off of Deep Blue, but it turned out to be a cartoonishly big cellphone from which he had to remove a blast shield before using. Just at the peak of my fury, I was delighted to hear the following:
ASSHOLE: Hey, Debra? Yeah, it's Pete Assenfeffer. Listen, I'm a little tied up here at this callback, so I was wondering if I could swing by to your audition a little later. And you're located on 27th right? You know I'm bad with directions. (Jerk-style laugh followed by awkward silence) What? Oh...this is Pete. Assenfeffer. Pete, right.
That's right, baby. No one knows who you are. And that, my friend, is what's funny.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Art Finkelstein
Mike Sanzone is having another art opening (ooh!) on Thursday, July 5th (6 - 8PM). He'll be showing along with four other artists at the Mercer Gallery. The line-up includes:
Eileen Cubbage
Earl Barret Holloway
Ellen Letcher
Michael Sanzone
Taylor Kane Schwarzkopf
Mercer Gallery is on 55 Mercer Street. If you can't make the opening, the show runs from July 3 through July 14, so you have plenty of time to check out some masterful work.
Eileen Cubbage
Earl Barret Holloway
Ellen Letcher
Michael Sanzone
Taylor Kane Schwarzkopf
Mercer Gallery is on 55 Mercer Street. If you can't make the opening, the show runs from July 3 through July 14, so you have plenty of time to check out some masterful work.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Pennsylvania is for lovers
My sister Georgina graduated from Bangor Area High School on Friday and I was not there to hear the woeful guest bloviating of Wilford Ottey who, when I graduated from the very same high school some ten plus years ago, served as the school's superintendent. He now resides in Colorado doing Lord knows what, but whatever it is, I hope it has little to nothing to do with education. Ottey's strength lies in cutting young people down, partly because his embittered faux scholarship won't let him admit to himself that he's a fantastic failure, but mostly because he's just a dick. A sample of his wonderfully trite wit:
MY MOTHER: My son graduated with your daughter Alice. He lives in New York now.
OTTEY: Oh? Does he work in a restaurant? (followed by some tweed covered snort, no doubt)
Go fuck yourself, Ottey. No amount of pretending to fight the good fight for education will cover for the fact that people despise you. I hope you fall down a flight of stairs after tripping over that "Great American Novel" manuscript you've no doubt been working on since the late Italian Renaissance.
Anyway, I may have missed the actual graduation, but I was able to attend the party. I arrived Saturday night and sat on the trampoline watching my brother Gunner take on my youngest sister Gracey in a no-holds-barred wrestling match in which Gunner received a titty-twisted that made him scream not like a girl, surprisingly, but like a 40-something year old adult woman. The aftermath:
As is our custom during family gatherings, my siblings and I hang around each other and run away from other members of the extended family. It's like a game of sorts in which we try to entertain each other at the expense of everyone else. It makes us happy in a totally antisocial way. However, Georgina was in good spirits despite being surrounded by family:
Specifically, being around our sister Gillian:
Gillian, Gracey, Gunner, Georgina, and I then decided to suck all the helium out of the party balloons. This was hilarious only to us.
Also, I met my newest cousin who is adorable. Her name is Brynn and she loves stairs (not the stairs Wilford Ottey is supposed to fall down):
At the end of the day, it occurred to me that I will probably not ever have a need to come back to my home town again, now that my family is moving out to Arizona in a few weeks. I'll miss it. For all its faults, it had a certain simple beauty.
MY MOTHER: My son graduated with your daughter Alice. He lives in New York now.
OTTEY: Oh? Does he work in a restaurant? (followed by some tweed covered snort, no doubt)
Go fuck yourself, Ottey. No amount of pretending to fight the good fight for education will cover for the fact that people despise you. I hope you fall down a flight of stairs after tripping over that "Great American Novel" manuscript you've no doubt been working on since the late Italian Renaissance.
Anyway, I may have missed the actual graduation, but I was able to attend the party. I arrived Saturday night and sat on the trampoline watching my brother Gunner take on my youngest sister Gracey in a no-holds-barred wrestling match in which Gunner received a titty-twisted that made him scream not like a girl, surprisingly, but like a 40-something year old adult woman. The aftermath:
As is our custom during family gatherings, my siblings and I hang around each other and run away from other members of the extended family. It's like a game of sorts in which we try to entertain each other at the expense of everyone else. It makes us happy in a totally antisocial way. However, Georgina was in good spirits despite being surrounded by family:
Specifically, being around our sister Gillian:
Gillian, Gracey, Gunner, Georgina, and I then decided to suck all the helium out of the party balloons. This was hilarious only to us.
Also, I met my newest cousin who is adorable. Her name is Brynn and she loves stairs (not the stairs Wilford Ottey is supposed to fall down):
At the end of the day, it occurred to me that I will probably not ever have a need to come back to my home town again, now that my family is moving out to Arizona in a few weeks. I'll miss it. For all its faults, it had a certain simple beauty.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
A Public Service Announcement from FODJ
For all New York commuters taking the A/C line to their destinations in Manhattan and Brooklyn after 11 PM, you know what? Don't bother. Don't fucking bother. It'd be easier for you to build your own train by carving it out of a solid block of marble. Actually, let me know when you're finished with that, because I would gladly take it over the MTA, which I'm convinced is a company whose sole purpose is acting as the most elaborate joke ever played on humankind ever. And the punchline is you don't get anywhere.
Have a problem with the MTA's service? Confused about why it's taking a half hour for a train to arrive? Why not ask one of the countless Cro-Magnons in blue vests who meander thoughtlessly around the platforms looking for people to annoy? You'd get a more enthusiastic and knowledgeable response from Ol' Shakin' Boots at the Gap (see post below).
Sure, there's track work (I'm sorry, "necessary track work," as opposed to the track work where the contractors bang on a rail with a crowbar for no reason). Sure, this track work is causing delays. You'd think when you ask one of the TWENTY contractors waiting on the platform the simple question "What in the fuck is going on?" at least one of them would know. No. No no no. No, they've made a solemn pact never to read the company memo beyond "TO ALL EMPLOYEES." If company memos even EXIST at the MTA. And what are these contractor's contracting? I hope they're contracting fucking trenchfoot because they certainly deserve it, and God knows they stand around idly long enough to let the sick shine in.
Seriously, if you're a company with a virtual monopoly on transportation, I understand the strong urge to fuck with your customers. I mean, what are you going to do? Ride a bike? Not at 11 PM, Lance Armstrong. In fact, let me know how that pans out when you get jumped and viciously beaten with your own handle bars. But come on, there are simple customer relation techniques that even CHILDREN SELLING LEMONADE ON THE ROADSIDE have a better grasp on than the MTA. For instance, when the kid runs out of lemonade, she puts up a sign that reads "NO LEMONADE." We, as customers, appreciate that. It saves time when you're not waiting for a product that's never going to come. So, when the ridiculous "track work" is causing major delays, why not mention that? Why not put up a few signs or say something, ANYTHING? Maybe your customers would like to plan an alternate route, most likely on another train WHICH YOU ALSO HAPPEN TO OWN. Maybe your customers will start a rebellion and throw their own shit at the token booths.
It's funny how certain topics can render one inelegant. But the MTA is a not-to-delicately constructed pack of retards.
(It took two hours for me to get home a couple of nights ago. It takes less than two hours for me to get home to Pennsylvania. I'm sorry for the trite post, but I get upset...)
Have a problem with the MTA's service? Confused about why it's taking a half hour for a train to arrive? Why not ask one of the countless Cro-Magnons in blue vests who meander thoughtlessly around the platforms looking for people to annoy? You'd get a more enthusiastic and knowledgeable response from Ol' Shakin' Boots at the Gap (see post below).
Sure, there's track work (I'm sorry, "necessary track work," as opposed to the track work where the contractors bang on a rail with a crowbar for no reason). Sure, this track work is causing delays. You'd think when you ask one of the TWENTY contractors waiting on the platform the simple question "What in the fuck is going on?" at least one of them would know. No. No no no. No, they've made a solemn pact never to read the company memo beyond "TO ALL EMPLOYEES." If company memos even EXIST at the MTA. And what are these contractor's contracting? I hope they're contracting fucking trenchfoot because they certainly deserve it, and God knows they stand around idly long enough to let the sick shine in.
Seriously, if you're a company with a virtual monopoly on transportation, I understand the strong urge to fuck with your customers. I mean, what are you going to do? Ride a bike? Not at 11 PM, Lance Armstrong. In fact, let me know how that pans out when you get jumped and viciously beaten with your own handle bars. But come on, there are simple customer relation techniques that even CHILDREN SELLING LEMONADE ON THE ROADSIDE have a better grasp on than the MTA. For instance, when the kid runs out of lemonade, she puts up a sign that reads "NO LEMONADE." We, as customers, appreciate that. It saves time when you're not waiting for a product that's never going to come. So, when the ridiculous "track work" is causing major delays, why not mention that? Why not put up a few signs or say something, ANYTHING? Maybe your customers would like to plan an alternate route, most likely on another train WHICH YOU ALSO HAPPEN TO OWN. Maybe your customers will start a rebellion and throw their own shit at the token booths.
It's funny how certain topics can render one inelegant. But the MTA is a not-to-delicately constructed pack of retards.
(It took two hours for me to get home a couple of nights ago. It takes less than two hours for me to get home to Pennsylvania. I'm sorry for the trite post, but I get upset...)
Monday, June 04, 2007
Can that be enough with Catherine Hepburn already?
I'll preface this post by writing that I'm all for equal opportunity employment. Regardless of how much of a lie that is, I feel it needs to be stated for obscure legal purposes. Still, it is a nice, warm feeling to know that somewhere in this country, a below average citizen is making his/her mark in either the food service or retail industry. Provided, of course, that their level of involvement is kept to doling out pleasantries, making sure all the antifreeze is facing front, and staying away from the normals. It's when this last task is ignored that problems arise. When I go shopping, which is rare, I don't like being nagged by the staff. To extrapolate from there, I don't like being nagged by retarded staff. It's bad enough to have some disinterested teen who just flunked Earth Science recommend a cute blazer for the summer, but to have someone with a crippling disease encouraging you to try on a pair of slacks while they're in the throes of whatever havoc their horrible flesh-eating hair cancer is inflicting on their bodies does NOT make me want to buy things.
Just before I traveled to Munich, I went to the Gap on the corner near where I work to stock up on clothes because I dress like an Irish potato farmer. They had recently hired a woman who clearly has Parkinson's Disease. Well, initially I suspected she was just excited about clothes. Who wouldn't be? But her quaking continued to the point where I started to feel uncomfortable. Now, here's where most people argue "well, that's your problem, sir. You have an issue with her terrifying disease." And my response is yes, you're goddamned right. I do, in fact, recognize that it's entirely in my head that the situation is uncomfortable. And as I see it, the Gap has done this to me. I spent $250 that day because I couldn't say no to this quivering old woman, admittedly because I am chock full of guilt and fear. Did I think she'd have a major episode if I didn't buy the blazer? No. But I did suspect that her manager privately beats her with the ol' switch in the employee break room when she's not playing up her malady to sell Polos. "Make it shake, Suzy. Or no bonus."
All I'm saying is when have you EVER heard of ANYONE talk about wanting or needing store staff to assist them in a clothing purchase? Besides specialty places like sporting goods shops or dildo emporiums? Never. People like to be left alone. In fact, I can't imagine asking an employee at the Gap anything that could possibly help me decide on a garment. Except maybe:
"Can this shirt be used to strangle a medium-sized person, roughly your weight and build?"
"Do these pants come in a size you?"
"I like snuff films. Will these t-shirts go with that?"
"I'd like to wear what you're wearing right now."
"What are a 'clothes?'"
"Why don't you drop dead?"
And even when someone has been helpful, they dissolve the entire illusion by bringing you up to the counter, like a freshly caught salmon, in order to mark you as their commission. The friendship's over, baby. I want my money. In fact, I'll be damned if I didn't see the Parkinson's lady get eerily still after the sale was made. I suppose it could be a trick of the light. Or a conspiracy. In the Gap. What am I talking about?
Just before I traveled to Munich, I went to the Gap on the corner near where I work to stock up on clothes because I dress like an Irish potato farmer. They had recently hired a woman who clearly has Parkinson's Disease. Well, initially I suspected she was just excited about clothes. Who wouldn't be? But her quaking continued to the point where I started to feel uncomfortable. Now, here's where most people argue "well, that's your problem, sir. You have an issue with her terrifying disease." And my response is yes, you're goddamned right. I do, in fact, recognize that it's entirely in my head that the situation is uncomfortable. And as I see it, the Gap has done this to me. I spent $250 that day because I couldn't say no to this quivering old woman, admittedly because I am chock full of guilt and fear. Did I think she'd have a major episode if I didn't buy the blazer? No. But I did suspect that her manager privately beats her with the ol' switch in the employee break room when she's not playing up her malady to sell Polos. "Make it shake, Suzy. Or no bonus."
All I'm saying is when have you EVER heard of ANYONE talk about wanting or needing store staff to assist them in a clothing purchase? Besides specialty places like sporting goods shops or dildo emporiums? Never. People like to be left alone. In fact, I can't imagine asking an employee at the Gap anything that could possibly help me decide on a garment. Except maybe:
"Can this shirt be used to strangle a medium-sized person, roughly your weight and build?"
"Do these pants come in a size you?"
"I like snuff films. Will these t-shirts go with that?"
"I'd like to wear what you're wearing right now."
"What are a 'clothes?'"
"Why don't you drop dead?"
And even when someone has been helpful, they dissolve the entire illusion by bringing you up to the counter, like a freshly caught salmon, in order to mark you as their commission. The friendship's over, baby. I want my money. In fact, I'll be damned if I didn't see the Parkinson's lady get eerily still after the sale was made. I suppose it could be a trick of the light. Or a conspiracy. In the Gap. What am I talking about?
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Jump to the jam boogy woogy jam slam...
...bust the dialect I'm the man in command.
Sorry I haven't posted in some time, but I've come over all queer. I got myself involved with a li'l play. If you like New York in June, how about me? What the fuck am I even talking about?
The play is:
Carlo Goldoni's "The Liar" (a commedia dell'arte farce)
Where: SEA (Society for the Educational Arts), 107 Suffolk Street (bet. Delancey and Rivington), 2nd Floor
When: Thursdays and Fridays 8pm, June 7th through June 29th
Contact: 212-591-0358 for reservations
I'm told there are additional matinees on Saturdays at 1pm. I'd call, because I have my head way up my ass.
Sorry I haven't posted in some time, but I've come over all queer. I got myself involved with a li'l play. If you like New York in June, how about me? What the fuck am I even talking about?
The play is:
Carlo Goldoni's "The Liar" (a commedia dell'arte farce)
Where: SEA (Society for the Educational Arts), 107 Suffolk Street (bet. Delancey and Rivington), 2nd Floor
When: Thursdays and Fridays 8pm, June 7th through June 29th
Contact: 212-591-0358 for reservations
I'm told there are additional matinees on Saturdays at 1pm. I'd call, because I have my head way up my ass.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
I like the melody but you can't dance to it
Insane, hate-mongering religious fanatics are hilarious. So is bashing Canada. So is co-opting a popular benefit song from the eighties in order to spread paranoid, delusional notions of shit-eating ignorance and Armageddon. I give you "God Hates the World:"
I'd hate to point out the more glaring contradictions in this chart-topper, but the biggest question I have is, if God in fact hates the world and it's "too late to change His mind," (in re: the hellish and violent destruction of said world), then why do these vicious sinners, who are from what I can tell limited to homosexuals (and BELIEVE me, I live in constant and sweaty fear of homosexuals, ESPECIALLY in Washington Heights. They'll steal your sneakers, man), need to repent at all? Isn't their ship pretty much already sunk? And if it is, don't they essentially win because they've brought the Apocalypse to your door with their actions? If I were one of the "sinners" mentioned, I'd be laughing in the streets. Sure, I'd be going to Hell, but I'd take a little pride in the fact that I had a hand (or a penis in a man's ass) in ending the ridiculous bullshit the mortal world has in it by the truckloads. And you know what I'm talking about. Football, Hot Pockets, Axe Body Spray, obesity treated as a disease, the word "resilient," Tyra Banks, parent/teacher conferences, competitive consumerism, Tucker Carlson, guys named "Chad," the FCC, morally irresponsible spiritualists who post superstitious garbage on Youtube. It would all go away in a giant ball of fire. And let me tell you, if heaven had some of the earthly delights of this world waiting for its true believers, like heavenly Starbucks or heavenly McDonalds, I'd opt for Hell any day. Especially if Dane Cook's going to heaven.
Also, check out how they're flying the Canadian flag upside down in the background. Nothing worse than CANADIAN homos.
I'd hate to point out the more glaring contradictions in this chart-topper, but the biggest question I have is, if God in fact hates the world and it's "too late to change His mind," (in re: the hellish and violent destruction of said world), then why do these vicious sinners, who are from what I can tell limited to homosexuals (and BELIEVE me, I live in constant and sweaty fear of homosexuals, ESPECIALLY in Washington Heights. They'll steal your sneakers, man), need to repent at all? Isn't their ship pretty much already sunk? And if it is, don't they essentially win because they've brought the Apocalypse to your door with their actions? If I were one of the "sinners" mentioned, I'd be laughing in the streets. Sure, I'd be going to Hell, but I'd take a little pride in the fact that I had a hand (or a penis in a man's ass) in ending the ridiculous bullshit the mortal world has in it by the truckloads. And you know what I'm talking about. Football, Hot Pockets, Axe Body Spray, obesity treated as a disease, the word "resilient," Tyra Banks, parent/teacher conferences, competitive consumerism, Tucker Carlson, guys named "Chad," the FCC, morally irresponsible spiritualists who post superstitious garbage on Youtube. It would all go away in a giant ball of fire. And let me tell you, if heaven had some of the earthly delights of this world waiting for its true believers, like heavenly Starbucks or heavenly McDonalds, I'd opt for Hell any day. Especially if Dane Cook's going to heaven.
Also, check out how they're flying the Canadian flag upside down in the background. Nothing worse than CANADIAN homos.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
I don't know much about art, but I know what I like
My familiarity with Glenn Beck is limited, but his opening monologue here about the freedom of speech and its endangerment is one of the more concise digests of the subject I've seen. This is important. Believe me, I understand the fight against bigotry and hatred, but taking away one's ability to TALK about that bigotry and hatred doesn't make it go away. In fact, the less bigots are able to opine on ideas prejudicial, the more likely they'll strap a crude collection of M-80s and newspaper to a Baptist church. Like it or not, certain groups will ALWAYS hate other groups. However, those groups should be allowed to speak their minds.
Humor, however, is a different story. Humor, for some, is the only thing that makes life remotely livable. To mistakenly observe that our modern humor has become crass and insensitive is to ignore thousands of years of comedy. You're different, I'm different, we laugh about it. That's the way it's been for centuries. It's these very observations of how different we are that bring us together, whether it be flaws, quirks, generalizations, idiosycrosies, trends, desires, dreams. Jesus Christ, even those nauseating videos about the comedic power of pets are only funny because animals AREN'T humans. Are we going to have a fucking special interest group protecting the defamation of cats now?
Anyway, here's the clip. It's the first few minutes that are worth the viewing. After that, we get analysis. And we all know how shitty analysis can be.
Humor, however, is a different story. Humor, for some, is the only thing that makes life remotely livable. To mistakenly observe that our modern humor has become crass and insensitive is to ignore thousands of years of comedy. You're different, I'm different, we laugh about it. That's the way it's been for centuries. It's these very observations of how different we are that bring us together, whether it be flaws, quirks, generalizations, idiosycrosies, trends, desires, dreams. Jesus Christ, even those nauseating videos about the comedic power of pets are only funny because animals AREN'T humans. Are we going to have a fucking special interest group protecting the defamation of cats now?
Anyway, here's the clip. It's the first few minutes that are worth the viewing. After that, we get analysis. And we all know how shitty analysis can be.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
In Kalamazoo zoo zoo zoo zoo
In lieu of recording my popular travelogue series in which I ridicule the Midwest in my own particularly embittered way, I will be ridiculing the Midwest in a simple, angry prose because I forgot my microphone.
My trip to Kalamazoo started with my arrival at LaGuardia in a gypsy cab that I'm still convinced was the automobile equivalent of a ghost ship. It had all the charm of my grandmother's living room, each pleather seat protected by an additional plastic covering that looked as if they'd been applied with a tape gun. After Spooky Cabberson and I parted ways, I proceeded to check-in. Now, there's something wonderfully horrifying about learning your driver's license has expired by way of an airport security guard telling you so. Airport security guards have similar senses of humor as former concentration camp prisoners, so my easy charm and lopsided smile only seemed to have an inverse effect on her increasingly sagging face. I'm not sure if it's possible for someone to achieve a "gravelly" face, an adjective usually reserved for a person's vocal tone, but our special guard gave me the ol' Stonepuss. After producing a health care card (apparently this is a suitable alternative, though it doesn't have a picture on it), I was allowed to proceed to the x-ray zone where one is required to take all his clothes off.
It only occurred to me once seated in a hulking mass of plastic and metal several thousand feet in the air that because I had an expired driver's license, I am an expired driver, and I would not be able to rent a car as was arranged by the gods of Pfizer. My initial panic was followed by heart palpitations and imagined cardiac arrest.
The most poignant difference between Kalamazoo and New York City is not how hilarious the name Kalamazoo is (just say "York" over and over again and bask in its silliness). What sets the people of Kalamazoo apart from New Yorkers is that they're all robots. Robots programmed to be pleasant, regardless of how rude or dismissive a guest to their fair town is behaving. An actual exchange:
ME (exhausted and irritable): I'd like to get a wake-up call tomorrow morning.
DESK WOMAN: I'm sorry, sir?
ME (semi-sarcastically): I would love a wake-up call tomorrow morning. 6:30 AM.
DESK WOMAN (no sense of sarcasm whatsoever): Well, I'd love to set that up for ya!
This happened at the coffee bodega the next morning as well:
COFFEE GIRL: That'll be $3.20. Would you like a receipt?
ME: I would love one.
COFFEE GIRL: Well, I'd love to give you one!
I bet you would. What the fuck is going on here? And speaking of "fuck," no one swears in Michigan. Well, at least on a normal day. It turns out that, under stressful circumstances, Midwesterners lose their cool and go batshit insane. While awaiting the flight back to Detroit, a certain nuclear family was a little late for their plane. The father was a little uptight:
WIFE: Dale, we don't have a lot of time.
DALE (face red and enraged): NO SHIT!
Huh. Now, the Kalamazoo airport isn't big. They have two gates. But, I couldn't help but laugh at the father who, following his family's somewhat awkward passage through security, yelled "RUN!" at his children. Now, I'm no sociologist, but I'm pretty sure screaming "RUN" in an airport (that kept playing a terror alert announcement over the intercom, by the by) isn't the best tactic to ensure one's seat on a plane. Who knows what happened to that family. I'd like to think they made their place. I'd also like to think they were shot execution style in a pasture adjacent to the airfield.
What I'm trying to say here is that it isn't all that shocking that most serial killers come out of the Midwest, frothing at the mouth and carrying a sack full of baby torsos. They put a lot of time into being affable, however, for the most part, it's all an elaborate hoax. In New York, sure, we have a great deal of crime and murder, but it's pretty straightforward crime and murder. We wear our hearts on our sleeves. Midwesterners let that shit seep into the very deepest crevasses of their souls and after awhile, whattya know, they have to meticulously peel the skin off of a seventh grader. It's nature's law.
Anyway, I'm glad to be back. This weekend, I'll be going home to Pennsylvania and its subtle racism. God bless the USA.
My trip to Kalamazoo started with my arrival at LaGuardia in a gypsy cab that I'm still convinced was the automobile equivalent of a ghost ship. It had all the charm of my grandmother's living room, each pleather seat protected by an additional plastic covering that looked as if they'd been applied with a tape gun. After Spooky Cabberson and I parted ways, I proceeded to check-in. Now, there's something wonderfully horrifying about learning your driver's license has expired by way of an airport security guard telling you so. Airport security guards have similar senses of humor as former concentration camp prisoners, so my easy charm and lopsided smile only seemed to have an inverse effect on her increasingly sagging face. I'm not sure if it's possible for someone to achieve a "gravelly" face, an adjective usually reserved for a person's vocal tone, but our special guard gave me the ol' Stonepuss. After producing a health care card (apparently this is a suitable alternative, though it doesn't have a picture on it), I was allowed to proceed to the x-ray zone where one is required to take all his clothes off.
It only occurred to me once seated in a hulking mass of plastic and metal several thousand feet in the air that because I had an expired driver's license, I am an expired driver, and I would not be able to rent a car as was arranged by the gods of Pfizer. My initial panic was followed by heart palpitations and imagined cardiac arrest.
The most poignant difference between Kalamazoo and New York City is not how hilarious the name Kalamazoo is (just say "York" over and over again and bask in its silliness). What sets the people of Kalamazoo apart from New Yorkers is that they're all robots. Robots programmed to be pleasant, regardless of how rude or dismissive a guest to their fair town is behaving. An actual exchange:
ME (exhausted and irritable): I'd like to get a wake-up call tomorrow morning.
DESK WOMAN: I'm sorry, sir?
ME (semi-sarcastically): I would love a wake-up call tomorrow morning. 6:30 AM.
DESK WOMAN (no sense of sarcasm whatsoever): Well, I'd love to set that up for ya!
This happened at the coffee bodega the next morning as well:
COFFEE GIRL: That'll be $3.20. Would you like a receipt?
ME: I would love one.
COFFEE GIRL: Well, I'd love to give you one!
I bet you would. What the fuck is going on here? And speaking of "fuck," no one swears in Michigan. Well, at least on a normal day. It turns out that, under stressful circumstances, Midwesterners lose their cool and go batshit insane. While awaiting the flight back to Detroit, a certain nuclear family was a little late for their plane. The father was a little uptight:
WIFE: Dale, we don't have a lot of time.
DALE (face red and enraged): NO SHIT!
Huh. Now, the Kalamazoo airport isn't big. They have two gates. But, I couldn't help but laugh at the father who, following his family's somewhat awkward passage through security, yelled "RUN!" at his children. Now, I'm no sociologist, but I'm pretty sure screaming "RUN" in an airport (that kept playing a terror alert announcement over the intercom, by the by) isn't the best tactic to ensure one's seat on a plane. Who knows what happened to that family. I'd like to think they made their place. I'd also like to think they were shot execution style in a pasture adjacent to the airfield.
What I'm trying to say here is that it isn't all that shocking that most serial killers come out of the Midwest, frothing at the mouth and carrying a sack full of baby torsos. They put a lot of time into being affable, however, for the most part, it's all an elaborate hoax. In New York, sure, we have a great deal of crime and murder, but it's pretty straightforward crime and murder. We wear our hearts on our sleeves. Midwesterners let that shit seep into the very deepest crevasses of their souls and after awhile, whattya know, they have to meticulously peel the skin off of a seventh grader. It's nature's law.
Anyway, I'm glad to be back. This weekend, I'll be going home to Pennsylvania and its subtle racism. God bless the USA.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Monday, April 30, 2007
...the hell...?
Imbued Within's masterblogger Matt forwarded me this link to Grapples, a fruity Frankenstein's monster of apples and grapes brought to us by the wonders of science. These delightful mutations "Look like an apple. Taste like a grape." What other ungodly olios does modern technology have in store for us?
1. Waterfelon: a robust, juicy sex offender. Filled with seeds.
2. Brezeer: from the German "brezel," this is a hodgepodge of pretzels and beer. It's already ready already! And shaped like a breast! To eat! To drink! To dreat!
3. Chanties: chocolate panties. Exciting? Sure.
4. Corn on the Bob: the freshest sweet corn poured over my Uncle Bob.
5. Zoudini: magic and produce.
TO THE COMMENTS!!!!
1. Waterfelon: a robust, juicy sex offender. Filled with seeds.
2. Brezeer: from the German "brezel," this is a hodgepodge of pretzels and beer. It's already ready already! And shaped like a breast! To eat! To drink! To dreat!
3. Chanties: chocolate panties. Exciting? Sure.
4. Corn on the Bob: the freshest sweet corn poured over my Uncle Bob.
5. Zoudini: magic and produce.
TO THE COMMENTS!!!!
Your Definitive Source for Douchebaggery
Someone from Bowling Green, Ohio reached my site by Googling "commercial work in new york." Now, I'll let everyone wallow in that delicious irony for a second. There...uncomfortable yet? Good.
However cynical I may be about the commercial acting world, I wouldn't want my new Ohio friend to leave my blog without first gathering at least a modicum of sagely advice. So, I offer the following hot tips that may just help the fresh, young actor in the New York commercial scene:
1. Send headshots constantly and make sure you include cute little notes along with your picture. Casting agents and directors like nothing more than sifting through mounds of airbrushed nonsense only to be greeted with an eye-catching quip like "I've got the goods" or "let's make magic together."
2. When you arrive for the audition, talk loudly and incessantly. You're sure to draw attention to yourself by bloviating like a braying jackass. Feigning friendship or interest in the lives of the casting directors is also a plus.
"Hey, how's that baby doing? She walking yet?"
"She's dead."
3. During the audition, ignore all improvisation rules and make it about you. It's important that you run this puppy, because chances are this red-cheeked asshole doesn't know how to make things up. Make sure to dominate the situation regardless of how nonsensical the words coming out of your mouth may be.
4. After the audition, make sure to say in an obnoxious, boastful voice to your fellow actors "you can all go home. I nailed it" or some other trite bullshit that EVERY SINGLE ACTOR IN THE HISTORY OF THE BUSINESS HAS EITHER THOUGHT OF OR SAID SO PLEASE STOP DOING IT...YOU'RE NOT SPECIAL.
5. On your way out, make sure everyone knows that you teach improv at some fake school somewhere so that you can lure some poor dope into dropping hundreds of dollars on learning the art of making shit up.
6. Take a long walk off a short pier.
I hope this has been entertaining, as well as informative. You could take my advice, or ignore all the above and be a real person. NOBODY'S doing that right now. Who knows? Maybe it'll catch on.
However cynical I may be about the commercial acting world, I wouldn't want my new Ohio friend to leave my blog without first gathering at least a modicum of sagely advice. So, I offer the following hot tips that may just help the fresh, young actor in the New York commercial scene:
1. Send headshots constantly and make sure you include cute little notes along with your picture. Casting agents and directors like nothing more than sifting through mounds of airbrushed nonsense only to be greeted with an eye-catching quip like "I've got the goods" or "let's make magic together."
2. When you arrive for the audition, talk loudly and incessantly. You're sure to draw attention to yourself by bloviating like a braying jackass. Feigning friendship or interest in the lives of the casting directors is also a plus.
"Hey, how's that baby doing? She walking yet?"
"She's dead."
3. During the audition, ignore all improvisation rules and make it about you. It's important that you run this puppy, because chances are this red-cheeked asshole doesn't know how to make things up. Make sure to dominate the situation regardless of how nonsensical the words coming out of your mouth may be.
4. After the audition, make sure to say in an obnoxious, boastful voice to your fellow actors "you can all go home. I nailed it" or some other trite bullshit that EVERY SINGLE ACTOR IN THE HISTORY OF THE BUSINESS HAS EITHER THOUGHT OF OR SAID SO PLEASE STOP DOING IT...YOU'RE NOT SPECIAL.
5. On your way out, make sure everyone knows that you teach improv at some fake school somewhere so that you can lure some poor dope into dropping hundreds of dollars on learning the art of making shit up.
6. Take a long walk off a short pier.
I hope this has been entertaining, as well as informative. You could take my advice, or ignore all the above and be a real person. NOBODY'S doing that right now. Who knows? Maybe it'll catch on.
Friday, April 27, 2007
AOL? LOL!
John Ness is crazy. A few months ago, John introduced to me the idea of doing a video sports blog in association with AOL. Well, more specifically, a video baseball blog, because I find most other sports repellent. In a lot of ways, I am like baseball: lazy, boring, and occasionally gay. Needless to say, I never thought John would actually pursue working with a marginally talented lunatic. So after Dan Aykroyd turned him down, he called me again.
I sent John a few "pilot" bits, the lighting and sound for which is reminiscent of dorm-room pornos. The only thing missing is the fake and incessant moaning of a drunken sorority girl. Here's one of them:
Believe me, watching my giant, melon head float in space even for a minute is terrifying. What is more terrifying is that the site John supervises gets something in the ballpark of 15 MILLION hits a month. It's got to be good. It's got to be smart. It's got to be a minute long each spot. Quick and hilarious. Like sex with me.
I sent John a few "pilot" bits, the lighting and sound for which is reminiscent of dorm-room pornos. The only thing missing is the fake and incessant moaning of a drunken sorority girl. Here's one of them:
Believe me, watching my giant, melon head float in space even for a minute is terrifying. What is more terrifying is that the site John supervises gets something in the ballpark of 15 MILLION hits a month. It's got to be good. It's got to be smart. It's got to be a minute long each spot. Quick and hilarious. Like sex with me.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Got change for a gold brick?
On Friday night, I went to see Hot Fuzz at the ol' bijou. As is required in the Jordan Barker Film Handbook, I bought a large popcorn and large soda. The cashier, a moron, fucked up the order. Here was my "change:"
And then we all laughed.
And then we all laughed.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Up Molests My Ear
Matt's cat called "Up" has an ear fetish which causes him to bore into the human ear like a starved honey bear digging for that sweet sweet ear gold.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
That's him. That's the one that got me.
As promised, I humbly offer a continuation of the Munich photo jamboree. When last we left Jordan and Stupid, a certain pie-eyed dildo took in the sight of the majestic Zugspitze with a fair amount of desensitized wonderment.
On to beer. Munich has lots, and it's great. Although Jordan looks displeased in this next picture, he's actually ecstatic, as many dreams had come true for him in the form of a liter of absolutely delicious beer. Or three. After we had several, we decided that maybe there just was a god after all.
Dummy had one too (one equals three hundred in "German"):
After ending pretty much every night with what we were calling "big beers," we would walk around historic parts of Munich paying little to no attention to any of it. Except:
The Rathaus (it's the Town Hall, but it's more fun to call it the Rat House. Or Palace of the Fallen Jew)
The sight of the 1972 Olympic games, which, according to this picture, Jordan built, apparently:
Das Schloss (for Matt):
I drunkenly wrote my name on this car. I was later tried for war crimes against all humanity:
Also, (and I mean the English "also" and not the German "also" which I think means "thus" or "go fuck yourself, college boy," which has led to phrases such as "Also, and get me a beer.") it will come as no surprise that I am a schmuck:
However much fun we had at the expense of Germany and their 72 letter words, it may have been one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen, with exception of Ireland and a whore's "office," (which can be ANYWHERE!).
OK. Here's one of the two of us loaded (jerks)...
On to beer. Munich has lots, and it's great. Although Jordan looks displeased in this next picture, he's actually ecstatic, as many dreams had come true for him in the form of a liter of absolutely delicious beer. Or three. After we had several, we decided that maybe there just was a god after all.
Dummy had one too (one equals three hundred in "German"):
After ending pretty much every night with what we were calling "big beers," we would walk around historic parts of Munich paying little to no attention to any of it. Except:
The Rathaus (it's the Town Hall, but it's more fun to call it the Rat House. Or Palace of the Fallen Jew)
The sight of the 1972 Olympic games, which, according to this picture, Jordan built, apparently:
Das Schloss (for Matt):
I drunkenly wrote my name on this car. I was later tried for war crimes against all humanity:
Also, (and I mean the English "also" and not the German "also" which I think means "thus" or "go fuck yourself, college boy," which has led to phrases such as "Also, and get me a beer.") it will come as no surprise that I am a schmuck:
However much fun we had at the expense of Germany and their 72 letter words, it may have been one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen, with exception of Ireland and a whore's "office," (which can be ANYWHERE!).
OK. Here's one of the two of us loaded (jerks)...
Monday, March 26, 2007
Munich 2006
At long last, I pestered Jordan enough that the pictures from the Munich trip are available for viewing. He's not talking to me anymore, but it's fun to reminisce about the short time I drove him to near suicide in a country notorious for its drinking and its penchant for violent nationalist sentiments. Let's begin at the top...OF GERMANY!!! HAHHAHAHAAA. Ugh, I fucking stink.
One of the highlights, by far, was our ascent of the Zugspitze, the highest point in Germany located in the Alps. And as we all know, the Lord Alps those who Alps themselves. In Germany, that joke was punishable by death about sixty years ago. The thought of traveling 9,000 plus feet in the air was daunting.
Upon our arrival, Jordan took to his lofty surroundings with a certain sense of rugged bravado.
I, on the other hand, was unimpressed and sought only a four letter word for "needlebox."
Nevertheless, we continued upward by cable car to the very zenith of Bavaria. All kidding aside, it was probably the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. And that's because they had a full service bar over 9,000 feet in the air. I love Germany.
Here are several shots of Jordan and me moments before we had to talk each other out of jumping:
Here's me and a bird. Moments later, we were married.
Here's Jordan seconds after I told him that the only way back down was by one continuous cable car drop:
Once safely off of the mountain, Jordan appeared triumphant. I, still, am unimpressed.
But of course, it all wasn't fun and games. Jordan and I also made a trip out to Dachau, one of the very first concentration camps built and utilized by the Nazi regime during Word War II. On the way, Jordan jokingly asked, "Do you think there's a McDonald's in Dachau?" We laughed a little. Then we cried:
Still, it takes a pretty insensitive human to be unmoved by the sight of one of the biggest atrocities in human civilization. What's a six letter word for "From concentrate, perhaps?"
Tomorrow: Drunken Delights, I'm a Schmuck, and Olympic Gold!
One of the highlights, by far, was our ascent of the Zugspitze, the highest point in Germany located in the Alps. And as we all know, the Lord Alps those who Alps themselves. In Germany, that joke was punishable by death about sixty years ago. The thought of traveling 9,000 plus feet in the air was daunting.
Upon our arrival, Jordan took to his lofty surroundings with a certain sense of rugged bravado.
I, on the other hand, was unimpressed and sought only a four letter word for "needlebox."
Nevertheless, we continued upward by cable car to the very zenith of Bavaria. All kidding aside, it was probably the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. And that's because they had a full service bar over 9,000 feet in the air. I love Germany.
Here are several shots of Jordan and me moments before we had to talk each other out of jumping:
Here's me and a bird. Moments later, we were married.
Here's Jordan seconds after I told him that the only way back down was by one continuous cable car drop:
Once safely off of the mountain, Jordan appeared triumphant. I, still, am unimpressed.
But of course, it all wasn't fun and games. Jordan and I also made a trip out to Dachau, one of the very first concentration camps built and utilized by the Nazi regime during Word War II. On the way, Jordan jokingly asked, "Do you think there's a McDonald's in Dachau?" We laughed a little. Then we cried:
Still, it takes a pretty insensitive human to be unmoved by the sight of one of the biggest atrocities in human civilization. What's a six letter word for "From concentrate, perhaps?"
Tomorrow: Drunken Delights, I'm a Schmuck, and Olympic Gold!
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
YOU DON'T BELONG HERE!
Sunday presented Washington Heights with its first Spring-ish day. The ominous drug-wielding parkas were cast aside for parkas wielding more drugs due to the lessened need of insulation. So, your hero, Superman, did something in a comic somewhere. This blog's hero, me, cried a little, then took a long walk through his neighborhood, an activity touted by both enterprising hookers and bored homosexuals.
Early Cathars believed that humans are essentially evil, and no argument here. However, sometimes on a not-quite-spring day, when the air is still crisp, yet devoid of winter's death-like embrace, one may sense that, despite our inherent evil, humanity might just have a chance.
So, I embarked north-ish-ward. Now, if you've ever been to Washington Heights, chances are, you don't want to come back. The best parts of this derelict nightmare are laced with animal entrails and refuse, aggressive garbage (no one litters as thoughtfully and as much as a denizen of Washington Heights), and buildings where the rats and cockroaches may be the most conscientious inhabitants.
If one follows Fort Washington north to about 180th Street, he gets gang-raped. Just beyond that, there are a series of beautiful Tudor-style apartment buildings on Pinehurst Avenue that look like they belong in a another city, quite frankly. Most likely in England, about a couple hundred years ago.
The people who live here are a lot like the Gelflings in the Dark Crystal. They are largely oblivious to the fact that great danger lurks everywhere around them and that they, in fact, have butterfly wings (at least the females do).
North of that lay Fort Tryon Park. During the Revolutionary War, British run imperial spaceships docked here in order to infiltrate Inwood. When all they could find was Chimichurri trucks, their fucking heads exploded. However, one can still see the naval advantage of a route up the Hudson River, securing that last bastion of American pride and beauty, New Jersey.
As I stared at the majesty of the Hudson and the flowing, living history of it, I happened to glance down at the stone barrier before me.
Yeah...truer words have never been spoken.
Early Cathars believed that humans are essentially evil, and no argument here. However, sometimes on a not-quite-spring day, when the air is still crisp, yet devoid of winter's death-like embrace, one may sense that, despite our inherent evil, humanity might just have a chance.
So, I embarked north-ish-ward. Now, if you've ever been to Washington Heights, chances are, you don't want to come back. The best parts of this derelict nightmare are laced with animal entrails and refuse, aggressive garbage (no one litters as thoughtfully and as much as a denizen of Washington Heights), and buildings where the rats and cockroaches may be the most conscientious inhabitants.
If one follows Fort Washington north to about 180th Street, he gets gang-raped. Just beyond that, there are a series of beautiful Tudor-style apartment buildings on Pinehurst Avenue that look like they belong in a another city, quite frankly. Most likely in England, about a couple hundred years ago.
The people who live here are a lot like the Gelflings in the Dark Crystal. They are largely oblivious to the fact that great danger lurks everywhere around them and that they, in fact, have butterfly wings (at least the females do).
North of that lay Fort Tryon Park. During the Revolutionary War, British run imperial spaceships docked here in order to infiltrate Inwood. When all they could find was Chimichurri trucks, their fucking heads exploded. However, one can still see the naval advantage of a route up the Hudson River, securing that last bastion of American pride and beauty, New Jersey.
As I stared at the majesty of the Hudson and the flowing, living history of it, I happened to glance down at the stone barrier before me.
Yeah...truer words have never been spoken.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Yeesh...
OK already! There are two changes to the FODJ link bar:
Kath's blog URL is now ihatemusicals.blogspot.com
Anju's blog URL is now foxinthecity.net
Your mom's face's URL is olbutterface.org
These changes have been made to the hyperlinks to the right. Please make a note of it.
-The Management
Kath's blog URL is now ihatemusicals.blogspot.com
Anju's blog URL is now foxinthecity.net
Your mom's face's URL is olbutterface.org
These changes have been made to the hyperlinks to the right. Please make a note of it.
-The Management
Small observation
It occurs to me that part of the reason most people react to cockroaches as if confronting a anthropomorphic turd is that, in terms of evolution, our hysteric human reactions convince the cockroach that it needn't develop the ability to bite. Everybody wins.
(Listen, asshole, I know that on rare occasions, cockroaches bite humans. But it's largely harmless. What I'm saying here is if we were to not freak out when a giant golf ball-sized insect shoots across the bathroom floor like the light cycles in Tron, the cockroach may, as a species, decide it is no longer getting things done and needs to develop flesh-melting super venom. Bitch.)
(Listen, asshole, I know that on rare occasions, cockroaches bite humans. But it's largely harmless. What I'm saying here is if we were to not freak out when a giant golf ball-sized insect shoots across the bathroom floor like the light cycles in Tron, the cockroach may, as a species, decide it is no longer getting things done and needs to develop flesh-melting super venom. Bitch.)
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
We'd rather you say "axe wound"
America's battle with language continues. Not only is a comedy club (A COMEDY CLUB, PEOPLE!) banning use of the word "nigger" in its establishment, an act which is both cowardly and ineffective, a Westchester high school has suspended three honors students for their inclusion of the word "vagina" in a reading of (AND HERE'S WHERE IT GETS REALLY FUNNY! NOT FUNNY AS IN "THAT'S HILARIOUS," BUT FUNNY IN A "LET'S PUT A SHOTGUN IN THE MOUTH OF EDUCATORS EVERYWHERE" KIND OF WAY) The Vagina Monologues. The. Vagina. Monologues.
Now, John Jay High School principal Richard Leprine, who in this case is most certainly no one's "pal," claims he suspended the girls simply because they agreed not to say the word before the event. Sort of a breach of contract kind of deal. What he neglected to say was that he is a sniveling coward who censored a reading in order to protect his cowardly ass. Against the word vagina, no less.
His rationale, reportedly, is that young people (presumably grade school level children or retarded teenagers) attend these events. Young people who neither own a vagina (I own twelve) nor know what one is. Well sir, the Himalayan Vaginas are a Fascist sect occupying a stronghold just outside of Tibet. These Vaginas tend to be unkempt and odorous, maintaining a diet based largely on wild cockerel and salt water. Most Vaginas are violent and assail potential threats by trapping them in a suffocating embrace with promises of eternal love and devotion, only to later expel their victims as amorphous masses of bone and flesh. The heart is almost always entirely consumed.
Got off on a tangent. Sorry.
The fact that America's paranoia about language has spread from traditionally "offensive" words to actual biological terminology is actually pretty interesting. In some ways, it goes hand in hand with the increasing distrust of science and the deepening foothold of archaic Christian values, which have always included censorship in not only form but content (the Bible is one of the most butchered texts in history depending on who was controlling the edits at the time). In fact, any institution's pedagogy relies on the power of words to herd their constituents. It's important for America's government that the word "nigger" has weight in order so that they can trust that it still has the ability to disable people. It's important that stupid school officials THINK that the word "vagina" is going to cause a stink (ho ho) because as long as we keep fighting amongst ourselves and trying not to offend one another, our freedoms can be continually taken away from us.
They're turning language against us. As George Carlin (and probably countless linguists) has said in the past, words have no meaning in and of themselves. It's the intention with which they're used and the context in which they're deployed. How fucked up is it that a principal of a high school, a man who I can only guess went to college and did a bit of reading, is afraid of a single word? To what end? What purpose? Is he seriously shielding female children from knowing the biological term for what's between their legs, and saving male children from knowing what one is? Part of me (read: all of me) hopes that the children of Westchester never get the skinny on the word "vagina" and that their whole community dies out because couples are unable to procreate due to the assumption that what goes in a lady's pee hole is a fucking pine cone. Not only that, I hope Principal Richard "No Vaginas Here" Leprine's daughter is the first to experience it. Stupid, stupid Americans and their dumb company-endorsed education systems. How about we let McDonalds pick the socially appropriate word for womens' genitalia? "It was so hot, dude. She let me finger her Egg McMuffin."
This country sucks. (Well why don't you move, SOURPUSS!)
Now, John Jay High School principal Richard Leprine, who in this case is most certainly no one's "pal," claims he suspended the girls simply because they agreed not to say the word before the event. Sort of a breach of contract kind of deal. What he neglected to say was that he is a sniveling coward who censored a reading in order to protect his cowardly ass. Against the word vagina, no less.
His rationale, reportedly, is that young people (presumably grade school level children or retarded teenagers) attend these events. Young people who neither own a vagina (I own twelve) nor know what one is. Well sir, the Himalayan Vaginas are a Fascist sect occupying a stronghold just outside of Tibet. These Vaginas tend to be unkempt and odorous, maintaining a diet based largely on wild cockerel and salt water. Most Vaginas are violent and assail potential threats by trapping them in a suffocating embrace with promises of eternal love and devotion, only to later expel their victims as amorphous masses of bone and flesh. The heart is almost always entirely consumed.
Got off on a tangent. Sorry.
The fact that America's paranoia about language has spread from traditionally "offensive" words to actual biological terminology is actually pretty interesting. In some ways, it goes hand in hand with the increasing distrust of science and the deepening foothold of archaic Christian values, which have always included censorship in not only form but content (the Bible is one of the most butchered texts in history depending on who was controlling the edits at the time). In fact, any institution's pedagogy relies on the power of words to herd their constituents. It's important for America's government that the word "nigger" has weight in order so that they can trust that it still has the ability to disable people. It's important that stupid school officials THINK that the word "vagina" is going to cause a stink (ho ho) because as long as we keep fighting amongst ourselves and trying not to offend one another, our freedoms can be continually taken away from us.
They're turning language against us. As George Carlin (and probably countless linguists) has said in the past, words have no meaning in and of themselves. It's the intention with which they're used and the context in which they're deployed. How fucked up is it that a principal of a high school, a man who I can only guess went to college and did a bit of reading, is afraid of a single word? To what end? What purpose? Is he seriously shielding female children from knowing the biological term for what's between their legs, and saving male children from knowing what one is? Part of me (read: all of me) hopes that the children of Westchester never get the skinny on the word "vagina" and that their whole community dies out because couples are unable to procreate due to the assumption that what goes in a lady's pee hole is a fucking pine cone. Not only that, I hope Principal Richard "No Vaginas Here" Leprine's daughter is the first to experience it. Stupid, stupid Americans and their dumb company-endorsed education systems. How about we let McDonalds pick the socially appropriate word for womens' genitalia? "It was so hot, dude. She let me finger her Egg McMuffin."
This country sucks. (Well why don't you move, SOURPUSS!)
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