:: Oh god, not another self-referential posting...
Someone last night pointed out that there's really no reason to have a blog unless you want people to read it, which implies that the author believes that 1) the material posted to said blog is worthy of reading in and of itself and/or 2) the author is in possession of a sufficient level of irresistibly glib charismatic magnetism such that simply having met him or her will inspire a lifetime of devoted viewing.
Either of these assertions is somewhat arrogant, and it has sparked a sort of existential blog dilemma: what is the telos of this rambling random rant that bears my name? I'm not recording a travel log, reporting news from the far reaches of the globe, or providing enlightening political insight. Nor am I in a position to receive privileged information which I feel must be disseminated to the masses.
So do my humble musings fall into the aforementioned narcissistic categories and exist solely for the purpose of self-aggrandizement? Hopefully I've tempered this temptation with enough self-effacing entries (see: elementary school pics) to ward off the demons of egocentrism, but I must humbly ask you, loyal reader, to remain ever-vigilant of this scourge, lest I vitiate your desire to return again and again (which I'm not even sure exists in the first place).
(and yes, I realize that it's pretty self-involved to both acknowledge all this and to dedicate an entire entry to discussing it)
Sam, Casie, Nora, and Nate invited me over for Thanksgiving. Not only did I have a great time, but they forced leftovers upon me, allowing for a tasty and nutritious reminder of last night's fun. Of course I took pictures (the honeymoon with my camera isn't yet over).
Against my better judgement, I will share these. They are pictures of me from 6th grade. Please remember that if you don't have anything nice to say about them, you don't need to say anything at all (because I already agree with you).
:: Then what the hell does the wardrobe represent?
I just found out last night that C.S. Lewis’ Narnia Chronicles were an extended, hyper-elaborate Christian allegory. I didn’t know that, but apparently I was the only one. That sucks. Why didn’t anyone tell me that? I was 7 for crying out loud, and devoid of the necessary religious inculcation to pick up on the allusions. Now it’s tainted forever. Stupid religion. All I wanted was a well-crafted escapist fantasy.
I guess though that for pure, unmitigated (and downright zany) escapism-with-a-moral, you can’t beat religion. But then again, I never believed that Narnia was real, even when I was 7...
:: Mr. Show-me-your-best-drunken-buffoon-impression
Sundays are generally boring. The impending work/school week looms and threatens, focusing your attention on the days ahead while robbing you of any enjoyment derived from the day at hand.
Yesterday, in a markedly successful attempt to alleviate Sunday’s powerful ennui, I happened to meet some friends at a local watering hole where they offer 2-for-1 bloody marys on weekend afternoons. Uh oh.
After drinking my weight in tomato juice, I stumbled outside with the others in an attempt to mosey on down to one of their apartments for a nice communal viewing of ‘The Sopranos’. As we walked down Houston, someone in the group noted that Mr. Show creator and comedy demi-god David Cross had just passed us.
Now I’m a huge fan of Mr. Cross’, but not usually the type to run up to celebrities and gush, ask for autographs, etc (though as a child I was once held by Ernest Borgnine, but seeing as I could not yet talk I believe this to be the doing of my mother). Thank god I had downed 10 stiff drinks, transforming me from a mild-mannered average man-child into a raging, drooling stalker.
Whirling around, I ran back to find him entering a corner deli to retrieve some cash from an ATM. Having just attempted to use the very same ATM mere hours before (to finance my drinking venture), I knew the machine in question was out of order. This was a double-edged sword: I now was able to simply stand outside the deli and wait for him (good), but it now looked to him like I had been standing outside a deli waiting for him (bad). As he emerged, I began the conversation (read: drunken and aggressive accosting) by immediately complimenting him on a sketch I found particularly funny, without so much as a “hello”, “excuse me”, or “hands up, cracker-ass sucka foo!”, because naturally every famous person has no train of thought outside of constantly reviewing their body of work, and I’m sure he was already thinking of that particular sketch anyway, so why bother with an introduction? The next few minutes are still very hazy, but I do recall that I continued to, well, gush frenetically for a few minutes as we walked down the block to the next deli. I said goodbye and let him enter the establishment, but then urgently remembered another hilarious bit from one of his stand-up routines. I rushed back to the deli, knowing he would be using the ATM (good), but now appearing like I wanted to mug him (bad).
“Bytheway - your crack baby impression is hysterical,” I blurted out, causing him to turn quizzically only to find me upon him once again. “I’m freaking you out now,” I astutely noted, “I’m really going to leave this time.”
“Ok,” he said. And those were our parting words.
I bet yesterday was just another boring Sunday in the life of David Cross. It sure as hell wasn’t for me.
Postscript: Why did I buy a digital camera and start carrying it around if not to take pictures of myself with famous people I happen to run into on the street? That was a major blunder.
Post-Postscript: If anyone knows David Cross, his comedy partner Bob Odenkirk, or anyone remotely famous, please apologize profusely for me.
Epilogue: David Cross and Bob Odenkirk went on to continue their prolific and successful career, entertaining millions of people. Morland died naked in a gutter, destitute, unloved, and incessantly raving about his one brief encounter with Mr. Cross.
Moral: When someone asks you if you’re a god, you say yes.
Last night, they treated their developers to dinner. There were about 70 people total, split evenly between Nokia employees and the aforementioned developers.
You don't know happiness until you've downed 8 pints of Newcastle, completely immersed in a melange of Fins and Texans.
Side note: I now empathize greatly with the translators at the U.N.
I don't really have a high metabolism, but for whatever reason, my fingernails grow close to an inch every day*. Clearly the worst (but necessary) side-effect of the current heightened airport security is that I am stripped of any means by which I could potentially trim these keratin-based nusances. I feel like Lion-O from Thundercats.
Ironically, I think I could better threaten someone's safety with said sharp talons than with a nail-clipper.
1) Read this old blog entry about my having to sell my car. Please note that it was a 1994 GMC Safari minivan - one of two identical incarnations produced by GM and sold under different brands.
2) Now take a look at this article, from the current issue of The Onion. Note the year and make of the car to which the article was devoted: A 1994 Chevy Astro - the second incarnation.
The pathos I feel for Dennis Schram is deep and intense.
Thank god the Nokia shirt they made me wear is three (3) sizes too large, so that I look like some twisted J2ME clown. That was really cool of them.
Why does everybody feel the need to crowd around the entrance to the exhibit halls so they can be the first ones in when the doors open to the public? This isn't the new Lord of the Rings movie. My developer badge permited me to enter early, but I had to throw some serious bows to get past the teeming masses of dorkitude.
Vegas is so derranged. As the plane landed last night, Gram Parsons' Sin City came on the ol' ipod, and I couldn't have thought of a more apropos tune.
All this and I haven't even manned the booth yet. Or eaten. Baguettes anyone?
They searched my bag. I had three mobile phones and an ipod in my jacket, and they searched my bag because I was carying promotional postcards. I actually had to justify carrying them. God forbid I give someone a paper cut.
Irving Welsh, author of Trainspotting, describes what drew him to the subject matter of his latest work, Porno:
It's not a very pornographic book, really. I wasn't so much interested in the pornography itself as the pornographic sensibility, that kind of vicarious, intrusive thing about liking to see people get fucked.if not physically, then metaphorically. You can't see people getting fucked physically on TV because of the censorship laws, but you can see it happening metaphorically, with all this schadenfreude TV, this humiliation TV. To me, that's pure pornography, without the sex.
And to think I used to wonder why Wynona Rider's trial was such a frenzy of media attention. Guess we all just harbored a latent desire to see her get nailed (by the cops).
This topic is so rife with double entendres I'm going to quit before I offend someone.
So tomorrow I'm off to Comdex (with a convenient weekend layover in LA) for a week. Comdex is like the Oscars, the Olympics, and Ozfest all rolled into one, but for nerds. We're showcasing our fine product in Nokia’s booth, and they have established some pretty strict dress regulations. I shan’t be able to wear anything except the Nokia-branded shirt and black pants... as if standing in a little kiosk, owned by someone else, peddling our wares isn’t demeaning enough.
Anyway, the point being that I could be blog-impared for a week (not yet sure if I’ll bring my trusty notebook computer), so forgive the cyber-absence. The plus side is that it will probably be a great wellspring of anecdotes.
I’m also a great and powerful wizard. If you make me angry, I will use my magic.
Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov served as General Secretary of the USSR after Breshnev's death. While his tenure lasted only 15 months (Nov 1982 to Feb 1984) he still managed to make a lasting impression. His political actions were notoriously complex and oscillatory: he was a strong proponent of disarmament and increased collaboration with "fraternal" states, yet upon taking power, he disconnected the USSR from the international telephone network and made it nearly impossible to export books (the few who were permitted still had to pay a 100% customs duty). Odd behavior for a man who once condoned the deposition of Khrushchev "because he was inconsistent in... policy".
He also wrote politicized poetry.
"POWER CORRUPTS" by Y.V. Andropov (translated)
Some trouble-maker has yelped
That power corrupts people
And every smart-alec confirms it
Already for many years in a row
Not noting - and here's the misfortune
That more often people corrupt power
Say what you will about the man, but at least leaders used to believe sufficiently in their ideology that they would create prose (even if the belief was feigned, I appreciate the effort).
There was a show on the Cartoon Network last night called "Groovenia". The premise was that two young, poorly-rendered-in-low-budget-CGI, artistic lovers were being crushed by the boredom, homogeneity, and pragmatism of their home planet (the motto of which was "we hope you've had a beige day") so they escape to the planet Groovenia, where everything is fun and all the citizens want to do is party. The problem is, there are the "normals" - evil robots who care for nothing but money (their leader even has an antenna in the shape of a $) - that demand rent from these liberated and colorful denizens of Groovenia. Luckily, Jet and Glindy (the protagonists) splatter them with bright, vibrantly-colored paint, and the robots start to dance, albeit unwillingly. Even as their bodies succumb to the groovy rhythms, they curse the free-wheelers and swear revenge.
Are you kidding me?
I've never seen a more naive, transparent metaphor for the dreams and fears of a delusionally-idealistic young artist who thinks that they can just escape their current situation and flee to some bohemian mecca without consequences. This was not a show targeted at youngins; it was on at 10:30 on a Sunday night as part of their Adult Swim line-up of programming, so I would hope that anyone watching would be world-wise enough to laugh out loud (and not with but at the show). I tried to interpret the show from several teleological perspectives (i.e. its purpose - what was the intent of its creators?). Could it be an attempt at:
Subversion? No. If their aim was to try to buck the status quo by providing a positive scenario about those in danger of having their hopes crushed by an uncaring, money-driven society, they've grossly missed the mark. The money-hungry types against whom the show purportedly rails probably don't even know the channel exists. The marginalized niche of ostracized thirteen year-olds (the only demographic to which this show could possibly seem relevant) is comprised of those who are either too cool or too depressed to watch the Cartoon Network. And everyone else is way too cynical to find this "Andy Wharhol meets The Jetsons meets a huge chip on the shoulder" tripe appealing.
Humor? No. The show just wasn't funny.
Satire? No. This isn't a sufficiently established genre or concept to satirize... I couldn't even begin to imagine what the hell it could be mocking if not itself (in which case, I laud their ability to produce material of such extreme avant-garde postmodernism that people have no hope of recognizing it as such).
Showcasing their star power? Yes. The characters were voiced by the likes of Paul Reubens (a.k.a. Pee-wee Herman) and Dennis Hopper (who has inhaled enough ether that I wouldn't be surprised if he was unable to distinguish between this show and the real world - he probably thought he was doing a documentary).
I just can't think of any other reason why someone would create "Groovenia". It disseminates the same singular, misguided mentality that clogs up my subway ride with Williamsburg hipsters every morning, each one thinking they are a pillar of artistic purity liberated from the chains of financial oppression.
Sorry... preachy hyper-polarized tv that claims the world is black and white really irks me when it's sandwiched between some damn good shows: (1) (2) (3).
And I know preachy blog entries are almost as bad... feel free to put me in my place via the "comments" section.
Josh asked me if he could link to my site from his (I immediately acquiesced with glee), and I realized I should reciprocate. I couldn't stop at just one, so I added links to others I know. What the banal "link sidebar" lacks in originality, it makes up for with implicit flattery.
I've organized them in alphabetical order - no one get offended - while making sure to maintain the fine line that discerns friend from coworker (for no particular reason other than an organizational tool). What about semi-strangers who read this blog and become desperate to converse, mock, or worship me? So far, that seems a little far-fetched, but rest assured that if I make the acquaintance of someone online, I'll try to think of an alliterative category for them.
If I've forgotten anyone, or been too presumptuous in my fervent link-lust, I entreat thee to let me know.
How many times have you seen "must be a proactive self-starter with vigorous initiative", or something analogous in a job description? That type of usage, as well as others, have inculcated us so deeply that one can't really think of the word "proactive" without positive connotations.
"Let's be proactive about this."
"We need more proactive solutions."
"I'd like a proactive burger with fries."
This draws my ire.
Isn't being a good reactor (in the non-atomic-energy sense) a positive trait? Isn't the ability to react fluidly and competently an asset? Most assuredly so, but it seems to be taboo to emphasize this. I think it might be a distinctly American tendency to shun pride in one's reactivity - this is after all a "do" culture that loathes waiting above all else. Yes, it's better to prevent problems before they arise versus always have to perform damage control, but no amount of planning, no matter how detailed and robust, will prevent unpredictable results. When the partially-hydrogenated corn extract hits the fan, you need a competent reactive agent (sounds like a pitch for a cleaning solvent).
So why can't job adverts include this? I guess "must possess a ostensibly improbable taoist synthesis of prescient, asserted, motivated decision-making / action-taking and smooth reflexive unexpected-problem-solving. Preternatural calm, clairvoyance, and steely nerves a plus" just doesn't have the same pop.
