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642660 Men's History Month [10 Aug 2010|02:16 pm]
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If you could present any award at the MTV Movie Awards, which one would you want to present? Which celeb would you want up on stage with you?

Sponsored by MTV Movie Awards

View 140 Answers



The night the wife cooked lobster, I did the dirty deed of dropping the stunned monsters head-first into the boiling pot. "This is my first time killing my own food," I said.

"Do you feel like an animal?"
"A barbarian."
"You're their Hitler, aren't you. Oh, no --"
"What."
"Their brains are leaking out into the water." those less fortunate
"Good! It's best that they not think too hard about this."

+ + +

"I might be thinking too hard about this, but 'manly man' doesn't quite capture what I'm trying to get at. The man I'm thinking of takes the old-school manly man and updates him with the best qualities of other types of men."
"How about -- you know how Jerry Lewis called himself a total director?"
"He did?"
"Yeah, because he had total control over his films. You can call your type of man the total man."
"Hmm hmm hmm hmm. I like it."
"That way, you and Jerry Lewis can have another thing in common, besides your humility."
" Be nice. "

+ + +

We must begin by recognizing the fictional nature of the total man. He's a superhero who can crawl on walls, form luminescent green solid objects at will, surf at light speed through the vacuum of space, see through your clothes, and smash things. As a corporation, he combines the best practices of Google, Gazprom, GE, and United Fruit Company. Jesus and Hitler are his right and left hands. Like the Geto Boys, he can't be stopped.

+ + +

The total man must be assembled out of myth because the everyday world is sick with poor excuses for manhood. In Pittsburgh, a 48-year-old systems analyst named George Sodini shot up an aerobics class, killing 3 women before turning the gun on himself. His blog explained that he had not had sex in 19 years and that life held nothing in store for him. In Germany, a 39-year-old computer expert named Armin Meiwes dined together with his Internet date, 43-year-old Bernd-Jurgen Brandes, also a computer expert. Their meal: Brandes' penis, which Meiwes had amputated with Brandes' consent. (The two had met on a cannibal forum.) In Austria, Josef Fritzl, a 73-year-old former electrical engineer and son of a Nazi stormtrooper, was convicted of rape, incest, enslavement, and murder after it was found that he had locked away his daughter for 24 years in a secret dungeon he'd built below his house, in the process fathering 7 children with her (1 of whom died shortly after birth, having received no medical attention), 3 of whom were also kept in the dungeon, untouched by natural light. Fritzl's son/grandson Stefan, 18 upon his release from the 5'6"-tall dungeon, stood for the first time to his full 5'8" height. In Arizona, in the parking lot of a state welfare office, a 48-year-old unemployed trucker and known dickhead named Faleh Almaleki rammed his Jeep Grand Cherokee head-on into 20-year-old Noor Almaleki, his own beautiful daughter, crushing her head and spine. Her crimes: being hot, having a boyfriend, moving in with her boyfriend -- thereby staining her family's name in the eyes of the only community that matters: Muslims with penes. In South Korea, Lee Seung Seop, a 28-year-old industrial boiler repairman who'd recently gotten fired from his job for chronic lateness and dumped by his girlfriend, collapsed in an Internet café and died of an exhaustion- and dehydration-induced heart attack. He'd been playing Starcraft for 50 hours straight (minus pee breaks). In China, selective abortions have resulted in 32 million more boys under the age of 20 than girls, a surplus that is likely to create the planet's highest concentration of pudwhacking, WoW-mastering virgins-for-life. If they're lucky.

+ + +

I don't know, man. There's evil, and then there's just plain badness, and then there's some evil again. So what. One time, I had a conversation with a sharp dude about the lack of meaningfulness of the label "evil". To an Islamic fundamentalist, we're evil, ladies who dress slutty (wear normal clothes) and bring shame upon their fathers are evil, and suicide bombers are the ultimate heavenly good, and we're not mere minutes away from changing his mind and heart any more than he's mere minutes from talking Cheryl into going back in time and covering up those Tiegs; and isn't that our planet's ultimate game? Swaying people's minds and hearts. That and/or exterminating one another using brute force. All relativism and fatalism aside, being able to identify evil in other men doesn't help me become a better man. Pointing out evil in other men doesn't require imagination; it's easy, and that's why you see so many people doing it. Kevin Shields the cat brought fleas into my house, and now fleas are the tangible embodiment of evil in the world to me. I've bathed Kevin half a dozen times with cat shampoo, combed him with a flea comb, dropped flea drops on his back, sprayed him with organic flea killer, put a flea collar on him, dusted the entire basement with diatomaceous earth, given him a whole-body diatomaceous dirt bath, and sprayed a pungent organic insecticide everywhere. Now it smells like a jungle and feels like a jungle, because the indestructible fleas still live. Now I feel phantom crawly things on me, whether or not they're there. Calling evil evil will achieve nothing. Fog bombing the house with toxic chemicals might.

+ + +

Whatever happened to the man of tomorrow of yesteryear? -- smiling, fit, reciprocating the adoring gazes of his wife and their beautiful children, wearing a jetpack. No, we are staring down into our fucking phones, updating the Panopticon about our current whereabouts, regurgitating Internetspeak and Internet jokes, getting yelled at by an array of bosses, building shrines to our faces tilted just so, tanning, moisturizing, customizing, crying, cutting, dressing like weasels or dads, eating at stupid restaurants, shutting ourselves in, going into credit card debt, not getting wet, taking seduction lessons from guys with faux-hawks and Chinese tattoos, still not getting wet, letting ourselves go. Well, at least we've got our jobs.

+ + +

An article by Hanna Rosin in The Atlantic has claimed that women now comprise, for the first time, a majority of the workforce in America. My own search of the Bureau of Labor Statistics' site -- and a quick phone call to the BLS for confirmation -- contradicted that claim; as of July 2010, women do comprise 49.7% of nonfarm employees, but that category doesn't include self-employed workers, a category dominated by men. (Including self-employed workers, women make up 46.6% of the workforce.) Still, Rosin's article's point is well taken: things done changed, and now the American household's got two economic sheriffs. With nearly three women earning a college degree for every two men, and with the jobs with the largest projected growth being dominated by women, it appears as if the new sheriff is better equipped than the old sheriff to handle these lean times.

+ + +

Female-headed households are a subject near to my heart because I'm the product of one. My father was an insurance salesman whose income fluctuated dramatically throughout his career. I think of him now as a Willy Loman-esque broken man, except whereas Willy deludes himself that his big break is just around the corner, my father has meekly accepted that life did not go the way he thought it would. My mother's steady (forty years, one job) paycheck saved our family from financial ruin, though not from the chaos of unreasonable debt -- 32 years into their mortgage, my parents don't own their house. My mother's leadership extends from her personality -- socially robust where my father is shy, goal-oriented where he is distracted by process, upbeat where he is self-doubting. My father panics; and my mother, for better or worse, gets things done. I was 9 or 10 when I noticed that the two of them had in many ways flipped the traditional script. She signed the checks; he cooked; I cultivated fictional male role models.

+ + +

Perhaps my parents were ahead of their time, and now a post-feminist America has caught up to them. Women will bring home the bacon, and men will be caregivers, and this new equilibrium is what will finally, finally make most people un-neurotic. Men will cook the bacon that women brought home, and nobody will secretly think of those men as dick-tuckers. Maybe. Maybe my female friends will stop lamenting the lack of high-caliber men in their lives. Men will evolve. Where do we go from metrosexual? Dream bigger: the man of tomorrow will learn how to get consistently laid for being a nice guy who is attentive to the stated needs of his partner. Chicks won't dig jerks, and dudes will wake up and appreciate that true beauty is on the inside, thereby loosening hot chicks' stranglehold on male attention, and monkeys will fly out my butt, and Toto, who's being carried away by the flying monkeys, barks, "Hey, I don't mind this!" -- though only other dogs understand.

+ + +

I made a list of 33 iconic men to help me think about the future and how I am going to live through it. My version of the total man is a Frankenstein monster cut and pasted from these icons; and I submit that heterosexual men will find the list's archetypes relevant whether or not they identify with these individual men. Jesus and Hitler were purposefully excluded.

  1. John Wayne (26 May 1907 - 11 Jun 1979)
    john wayne,movies,westerns

    For those interested in custom-building the total man, it is important to know all of his factory settings. By historical default, the total man speaks slowly, carries a big stick, and knows how to fire it. He is what's commonly referred to as a man's man -- a boss who is feared, loved, and (above all) respected. However violent a man he might be, he abides by a moral code. He has never shot a man in the back. Whatever happens, the total man doesn't cry about it. He's tough, and his tolerance for men who aren't is low. He chooses doing something about it over talking about it, 100% of the time. "John Wayne" as pop-cultural shorthand for default masculine values is something that every subsequent iteration of masculinity must build upon, reject, and distort. Although he looks square next to, say, Robert Downey Jr's Iron Man, certain tenets of Wayne's man-code are unlikely to be overturned by future man-courts. In The Shootist, his last movie, Wayne articulates the whole of the law in five clauses: "I won't be wronged, I won't be insulted, and I won't be laid a hand on. I don't do these things to other people, and I require the same from them."

    Note that the non-fictional John Wayne -- Marion Robert Morrison by birth -- never went to war. Wayne's third wife argues that the friction between his mythical status as war hero and his RL draft deferment is directly responsible for Wayne's later political conservatism. She writes, "He would become a 'superpatriot' for the rest of his life trying to atone for staying home."

    Kim Fowley, rock'n'roll impresario (and himself a rather iconic dude), remarks,
    "They say when Theda Bara took on the USC football team that the guy who came closest to getting her off was John Wayne, so she said, ‘You oughta be in movies.’ She got him his first audition and that’s how he got in the movie business. It may have been another actress, but somebody of that vintage literally needed a football team to get off. So there are women like that. What was your question again?"

    Wayne was married three times, and his third wife, Pilar, was 29 years his junior. Of living men, Vladimir Putin strikes me as perhaps the most Wayne-like. Oddly but strongly, the fictional Omar Little also comes to mind.


  2. Woody Allen (1 Dec 1935 - )
    Consider the lobster.

    Mythically speaking, Allen (born Allen Stewart Konigsberg) is the anti-Wayne. His primary asset -- being funny in a way that Wayne can't dream of -- is offset by a litany of what would be considered fatal weaknesses in Wayne's world: Allen can't shut up, can't shut off his interior monologue, and can't stop explaining himself. His continuous hand-wringing proceeds from an inability to trust anyone. He'll alternate between second-guessing himself and second-guessing those around him, which isn't a viable long-term strategy for the total man. The total man has to trust himself or follow somebody he trusts more than himself, but Allen chooses both and neither. Somehow, he manages to try too hard and give up too easily. He fears physical confrontation and loves urban comfort. He's the sports fan to Wayne's sportsman. To grasp in an instant the essential absurdity of Woody Allen, picture him on a galloping horse. Picture him kayaking. Nevertheless, Woody Allen is a giant swinging cock in the annals of manhood precisely because he fills the negative space around the monolith that is Wayne, transforming background into foreground.

    Note that neurotic weaklings have always existed, but that Allen's rise as a protagonist coincides with the sexual revolution of the 1960s/'70s and the rise of second-wave feminism. His greatest innovation was to provide other neurotic weaklings a plausible model for attracting members of the opposite sex -- through humour, narcissism, in-your-face displays of sadness, and strategic deployment of cultural expertise. Of course, he was still a jerk, just like John Wayne, but the jerk is in the details. Whereas Wayne's wild west is a virtual sausage party, Allen inhabits a world full of female foils and villains. That's no accident; that's an adaptation. The post-feminist era of masculinity might be synopsized as an invisible tug-of-war between Wayne's phallocentric isolationism and Allen's gynocentric imperialism. It's a fairer fight than it looks.

    Ultimately, the total man has to eliminate or transcend Woody Allen -- not because he's evil (I doubt it.) or disgusting (I don't doubt it.), but because he's unbearably sad. Of all the weaknesses that he's remodeled into charming quirks, his sadness is the one that seems the most authentic and the least redeemed by comedy. He's a man who searches for redemption in art and in attention to small moments, in hearing Rhapsody in Blue while staring at the Brooklyn Bridge, because the rest of his life is a vanilla milkshake of cowardice. The total man salvages the black comedy and the attention-paying, and calls bullshit on the stupid-fucking-white-man stuff.

    Number of times Woody Allen has been married: 3
    Number of years older he is than his third wife: 35
    Icon preferable to Woody Allen, if you're looking for sadness and mental self-entrapment: David Foster Wallace


  3. Clint Eastwood (31 May 1930 - )
    clint eastwood,movies

    Eastwood, perhaps the planet's most perfect anti-nerd, has never played Dungeons & Dragons in his life. Nevertheless, he makes a marvelous case for adopting chaotic neutral -- the alignment of the unreliable loner -- as the total man's official alignment. That is to say, his highest value is his own freedom, and although he does not enjoy being party to the suffering of others, he sees no duty to intervene in others' affairs when he has no chance of personal gain. He is selfish, pragmatic, unsentimental, but not totally lacking in mercy. He knows he has to be unfair sometimes; and when what goes around comes around, he greets it like an old friend. He equates pity with disrespect, and therefore expects no pity from others. He makes few friends, and he avoids depending on what friends he does have. He responds poorly to being ordered around, and aligns himself with groups only when doing so might further a specific personal goal -- and then only temporarily. He prefers acting to reacting. He travels light and has no need for what the womenfolk call "closure". If Clint Eastwood is the total man, then the total man is prepared to die alone, unloved and unmourned.

    (Yes, I have been watching spaghetti westerns, thanks to the informative, enthusiastic recommendations of my good friend Brian.)

    Number of wives/domestic partners Clint Eastwood has had: 4
    Number of years older he is than his current wife: 35


  4. Paul Newman (26 Jan 1925 - 26 Sep 2008)
    paul newman,joanne woodward

    The total man loves his wife like you wouldn't believe. The reason you wouldn't believe it is that, according to a 2002 National Center for Health Statistics report,

    • for brides under 18, 48% of marriages end in divorce within 10 years

    • for brides 18-19, 40% ...

    • for brides 20-24, 29% ...

    • for brides 25 and older, 24% ...

    -- and of the remaining intact marriages, you have personally witnessed far, far too many that appear to be loveless, sexless, respect-less, and/or otherwise magick-less. In the whole of your experience, if you're lucky, you personally know of maybe one marriage that seems as cool as the marriage of Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward; and when you visualize these marriages -- both the one you personally know and the one you have imagined for Paul and Joanne (your good friends, in your head), they are lit through the same hazy filter used for sitcom versions of heaven. In unreal life, these blessed couples endure; and you secretly find comfort in the proven existence of oases of improbability in the desert of probability. Yes, Paul was married once before and probably cheated on his first wife with Joanne. You are aware, and you have deemed this imperfection humanizing and instructive. After all, the total man learns from his mistakes.

    Number of times Paul Newman was married: 2
    Number of years older he was than Woodward: 5


  5. Seth Rogen (15 Apr 1982 - )
    Click to make him skinny.

    The total man has decided that his looks and weight are less important than hers. His fame and his goofy irreverence, neither of which are likely to disappear anytime soon, are what make him desirable. They never thought he was cute when he was doing open mike night, but he's not bitter about it. The total man surrounds himself with male friends who have similar goofy interests. He's not bothered in the slightest that this might all look a little gay to the non-casual observer; the total man has an acute case of rampant homophilia. He knows that to isolate himself is to diminish himself. Dogs who travel as a pack have a much better chance of stopping a moose.

    Times married: 0
    Is he Canadian: Yes


  6. Denzel Washington (28 Dec 1954 - )
    the anti-creep

    Some days, it seems as if Denzel Washington is the last leading man on the planet still getting jobs as the strong, silent type. Russell Crowe, too, maybe. What the fuck happened?! Why are we now deluged by sensitive girlyman protagonists who are using the big screen to indulge in a two-hour therapy session designed to help them finally let go of their dead wives and overcome their fear of failure/people who are different from them/intimacy with a woman/killer wind? That's what we find attractive now? I remain skeptical and vaguely amused, as well as nostalgic for a form that peaked before I was born: the western. Bring that beat back! Let Denzel Washington play a small-time rancher who accidentally gets mixed up with train robbers; I don't care about historical plausibility.

    Washington is the best good guy working today and one of the best good guys o.a.t. He's equally at home in MLK mode (neutral good, to those of you who speak elf) or Malcolm X mode (chaotic good), but I wouldn't mind seeing him in Clint Eastwood mode (chaotic neutral; see above) a bit more, before he gets too old to administer savage beatdowns to saloons full of wicked, unwashed horse thieves. Washington reminds me that the total man is constantly forgetting to reward the bad behaviour of others.

    Did you know that Denzel Washington has been pulling a Newman? He's been married to the same woman, Pauletta Pearson Washington, since 1983. In 1995, Denzel declined to kiss co-star Kelly Lynch for a scene in the film Virtuosity. Lynch explained, "Denzel felt strongly that white males, who were the target audience of this movie, would not want him to kiss a white woman." But I wonder if he and his wife have rules about such things. It can't be easy, being married to a guy whose first name is synonymous with mass, spontaneous female orgasms.

    Times married: 1
    Number of years younger he is than his wife: 4


  7. Hunter S. Thompson (18 Jul 1937 - 20 Feb 2005)
    Road trip!

    The total man surveys his surroundings and declares, with absolute objectivity, "There's no fucking rules, dude."

    Married: 2
    Years older than second wife: 35


  8. Michael Cera (7 Jun 1988 - )
    Dick Tucker

    The total man's immune system reacts efficiently to remove all traces of Michael Cera from the body. At the same time, the total man is vaguely thankful that women do not all share the same taste in men, and that there will always be specialty niches for men who are full of uncomfortable pauses, meek body language, and strong preferences for music that sounds the way a vegan hamburger tastes.

    Married: 0
    Canadian: Yes


  9. George Michael (25 Jun 1963 - )
    Choose gay marriage.

    The total man wouldn't dress like George Michael (born Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou), shave like George Michael, or hang out in public toilets waiting for action like George Michael; but he would be happy to sing, believe in love, and have faith like George Michael.

    Married: 0
    Gay: Yes
    Golden gay:  ?


  10. George Clooney (6 May 1961 - )
    runs funny

    Whether or not the total man is honest with other people, he must be honest with himself. George Timothy Clooney, perhaps the world's most famous bachelor, may seem to be just a normal, extraordinarily handsome actor with a respectable, boring body of work; but there is one admirable thing about him that's rare nowadays. He is honest in affairs of the heart. The Cloon was married once, from 1989-93, before his star had risen. Since then, he has bounced from one beautiful young lady to another while publicly swearing that he will never be married again. Not getting married is a smart policy for a man of his status, given how U.S. divorce laws favour a gold-digging wife, but what impresses me is that he's been up-front about his policy to his ladyfriends. If they get their hopes up, that's on them. When a man gets married -- assuming it's a traditional marriage -- he's explicitly stating, "I'm never fucking a woman besides my wife again, no matter how many attractive women throw down their panties before me at the mere sight of my face." The Cloon has decided that he cannot say anything to that effect and mean it, and I think women respect him for it. Of his ex-wife, he says, "I probably –- definitely -– wasn't someone who should have been married at that point. I just don't feel like I gave Talia a fair shot." The total man admits his errors, not out of humility but out of loyalty to science.

    Married: 1
    Gay:  ?


  11. Toshirō Mifune (1 Apr 1920 - 24 Dec 1997)
    CLICK TO FIGHT

    Anybody who has watched a Japanese movie knows that there's a whole lot of bowing going on in Japan. Women bow to men; men bow to women; subjects bow to their rulers and vice versa; and equals bow to one another. All bows aren't created equal. There are bows for greeting, farewell, apology, deference, gratitude, and when you get hit by a sword. Generally, the lower you bow and the longer you hold it, the more respect you convey. Everybody's got his own style. Some people tend to look servile when they do it, and some look like they are beginning a sequence of complicated pantomimes. Toshirō Mifune never looks servile or like a mime when he bows, or when he does anything. As far as I am aware, the man never had an uncool moment in his life. He dressed cool and fought with a sword cool, and he taught the total man to move with strength and grace.

    Married: 1
    Number of children by wife: 2
    Number of children by mistress: 1


  12. Morrissey (22 May 1959 - )
    breeder

    The total man is not embarrassed that you know exactly how much he loves to be loved. Evade the tackles of the beefy event staff, run up on stage, and rip the shirt from his back. He believes that he deserves love of this quality, and he believes that it was all luck. What a wanker he is! What a wanker he would be not to enjoy this moment! The total man believes and disbelieves his own hype.

    Married: 0
    Gay: Ask him, ask him, ask him


  13. Groucho Marx (2 Oct 1890 - 19 Aug 1977)
    groucho marx,marx bros,movies,schiphol

    Originally, I had Bugs Bunny in this slot, but then I remembered that Groucho was the RL Bugs Bunny, the hero who was never at a loss for words, and never at a loss, period. Thanks to Groucho, the total man understands that a joke, if it is good enough, can make a defeat a victory; and a victory, a defeat. Now the total man is slippery, ungraspable to his enemies, and forgetful of whether he even has enemies. It becomes difficult to hold a grudge when you have never lost.

    I like this picture of Groucho waiting at Amsterdam Airport Schiphol in 1958 with Eden Hartford, his third wife, and Melinda Marx, his 11-year-old daughter by a previous marriage. Maybe it is a meaningless accident of a moment, and maybe it tells a big story. Note the little separation between Groucho and Eden; they'd been married for four years by this point; had that been enough time for their magick to dim, if there had been magick? Maybe Eden was happy at all times except when Melinda was around, who was a reminder to Eden that Groucho did not belong wholly to her. Eden might be shooting a cold glance at Melinda, who is sitting close to her father, who adores her. She's showing the beginning of a smile. Seven years later, the tone-challenged Melinda is embarking on an ill-fated career as a pop star. Eleven years later, Groucho and Eden are getting divorced. Win, win, win, win.

    Married: 3
    Years older than third wife: 40


  14. Tom Waits (7 Dec 1949 - )
    textbook junk shot

    From the anti-George-Michael, a.k.a. Thomas Alan Waits, the total man steals a feeling of hospitable decay, of being at ease with beat-up old junk. He knows he'll be beat-up old junk, too, soon enough; and junk-dealing is as good a method as any for cultivating future self-respect.

    Married: 1
    Number of different versions of Waits' "Way Down in the Hole" that have been used as the theme song for The Wire: 5


  15. James Bond (1953 - )
    Batmobile

    The total man enjoys romantic works of art because they show him the man that he might be, and probably never will be, unless some sort of miracle happens. Miracles happen all the time, according to ICP, so why shouldn't he be ready? To that end, he watches whatever James Bond comes his way -- Connery, Moore, it doesn't matter. To allow oneself to inhabit the character and to allow the character to inhabit oneself -- that is what matters. What matters is to move with the smoothness; to get loved by that delicious Pussy Galore; to use all the gadgets (unlike the riff-raff, who let the gadgets use them); and to scoff at danger.

    1953 gave birth to a twin assault on male fantasy: Ian Fleming's first Bond novel appeared, and Hugh Hefner invented Playboy. Coincidence or conspiracy? Bond's popularity paved the way for the perfection of the British spy hero in the 1960s by Patrick McGoohan, who was a good deal smarter, harder, and weirder than any Bond.

    Number of Bond books by Ian Fleming: 14
    Number of Bond movies: 22


  16. R. Kelly (8 Jan 1967 - )
    I have to pee.

    The total man possesses far more mistakes than regrets. His restless imagination is forever pushing him forward into the next episode.

    Married: 1
    Children: 3
    Number of counts of videotaping himself having sex with an underage girl R. Kelly was indicted on: 14
    Number of counts of videotaping himself having sex with an underage girl R. Kelly was found not guilty of: 14


  17. R. Crumb (30 Aug 1943 - )
    robert crumb,comix

    Everything old was better and more real than everything new, and nobody gets it because they're all too hypnotized by shined-up shit, because people are no smarter than goldfish; and the only solution is to get the hell out of America. That's why the total man is a curmudgeon. He's a terrible, terrible human being who gets loved only because he is a genius; and he realizes how unlucky and unloved he would be were it not for his gift -- which makes him, if anything, only more cranky.

    If he were less of an asshole but just as curmudgeonly and an even more unlikely candidate for fame, he'd be Harvey Pekar.

    Married: 2
    Wives who are cartoonists: 1
    Children: 1
    Children who are cartoonists: 1


  18. Mike Tyson (30 Jun 1966 - )
    I'm going to fuck you in the ass ... you faggot ...!!

    The total man is full of pain, but he has noticed that pain is not an inert gas. Pain always reacts with other elements and gets made into something else -- tears, poems, bottles, needles, punches, and sometimes heavyweight championship belts.

    In Allen Iverson, pain reacted with hubris and love to form basketball's most notorious ball hog. Hunter S. Thompson's chronic back pain reacted with boredom and an extremely low tolerance for boredom to form a bullet to the head. Mike Tyson will tell you that he converted his mental pain into other men's physical pain. I always knew the dark side of the Force was real. Drew Ailes once said of Tyson, "Although not a violent degenerate myself, uh ... I think it's important to have empathy for these horrible creatures."

    Halfway around the world, Manny Pacquiao is busy playing Kenobi to Tyson's Vader.

    Married: 3
    Vegan: Yes


  19. Notorious B.I.G. (21 May 1972 - 9 Mar 1997)
    big sleep

    Enemies make the man. The total man intuits the potent mixture of humour and sentimentality. You're nobody 'til somebody kills you.

    Married: 1
    Children from previous relationship: 1
    Children from marriage: 1
    Current ages of children: 17, 13


  20. Tupac Shakur (16 Jun 1971 - 13 Sep 1996)
    Thug Heaven

    The total man accepts the thrill/danger of competition. He has discovered that fearlessness can start as make-believe fearlessness, anger as make-believe anger, and war as make-believe war.

    Married: 1
    Duration of marriage in years, before divorce: 1


  21. Barack Hussein Obama (4 Aug 1961 - )
    high five

    The total man knows the game inside and out. He can measure precisely the value of friends and enemies. He knows what to say to control damage, and he knows when to say nothing and let his opponent run out of emotional steam. The total man has lost before and is fully aware that he can lose again. He is aware of the danger of not thinking far enough ahead, and the danger of thinking too many moves ahead. His constantly-shifting target is the equilibrium point between trying too hard and being too passive. As critical to his success as "ready" and "aim" are, he knows he will be judged only on "fire". Inside all of this gamesmanship, his head and heart are ruled by two ideas:

    • "We can be good."

    • "We can cooperate."

    If he is wrong, you bastards, come and get him.

    Married: 1
    Years older than his wife: 2


  22. J.D. Salinger (1 Jan 1919 - 27 Jan 2010)
    literazzi

    If he is to do anything good at all, the total man needs some alone time.

    Married: 2
    Years older than his second wife: 40


  23. Marlon Brando (3 Apr 1924 - 1 Jul 2004)
    UPDATION going on

    The more eccentric, difficult, or ostensibly assholic the total man is, the more fiercely his loved ones will attest to his kinder, gentler, more sensitive side.

    Married: 3
    Gay: Somewhat
    Years older than his third wife: 17
    Children: 12
    Adopted children: 1
    Children by wives: 5
    Children by his housekeeper: 3
    Children by anonymous: 3


  24. Klaus Kinski (18 Oct 1926- 23 Nov 1991)
    She's into weird.

    Batshit crazy is not a dealbreaker.

    Married: 4
    Years older than his fourth wife: 41


  25. Werner Herzog (5 Sep 1942 - )
    That is his wife.

    Given that nature is

      "full of obscenity ... fornication and asphyxiation and choking and fighting for survival and growing and just rotting away";

      and that

      "the trees are in misery, and the birds are in misery; I don't think they sing; they just screech in pain";

      and

      "taking a close look at what's around us, there is some sort of a harmony; it is the harmony of overwhelming and collective murder"

    -- the total man must not avert his eyes.

    Married: 3
    Years older than his third wife: 28


  26. Harrison Ford (13 Jul 1942 - )
    Don't be afraid of my snake.

    In a pinch, gun over sword.

    Married: 3
    Years older than third wife: 22


  27. David Lynch (20 Jan 1946 - )
    your FUCKING phone

    No, the total man won't tell you what he meant. Just watch the fucking thing again.

    Wives/domestic partners: 5
    Years older than current wife: I'll guess 30


  28. Andy Kaufman (17 Jan 1949 - 16 May 1984)
    Click to fight!

    The total man doesn't tell the joke. He lives the joke.

    Married: 0
    Bastard children who were put up for adoption: 1


  29. Homer Simpson (1987 - )
    boner, Simpson

    Homer Jay Simpson is a cautionary tale to the total man -- about how if he were a fat, crude, lazy, ignorant slob, everyone would stop loving him, even his family. Ha, ha, no they wouldn't!

    Married: 1
    IQ: 55


  30. David Letterman (12 Apr 1947 - )
    Click to zoom out.

    The total man has imagined his whole life as one long, continuous appearance on Late Night with David Letterman, in which his main objective is to not get his ego destroyed by Dave's understated, offhand mockery; and maybe -- if he's lucky -- get in a few good jabs that cause Dave to stop, grin downwardly, shoot the camera a wry look, and reshuffle his index cards before resuming the conversation.

    Married: 2
    Years he was with Regina Lasko before marrying her: 23


  31. Bob Dylan (24 May 1941 - )
    He's no Pacquiao.

    The total man will answer your question without hesitation, in a manner that suggests he heard a different question altogether.

    Married: 2
    Divorced: 2
    Years older than second wife: 13


  32. Bruce Lee (27 Nov 1940 - 20 Jul 1973)
    THANK YOU COME AGAIN

    The total man synthesizes many styles into "no style"; he is concerned not with originality but with making the strongest possible Jeet Kune Do. The wildness of his legend is directly proportional to the simplicity with which he lives. He was water, and now he is still water.

    Married: 1
    Years older than wife: 4


  33. Poll #1604140 the thirty third man
    Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 14

    Insert archetype here




+ + +


THE COUNTDOWN:
(again w/ 100% functional links)

33-20Collapse )
19.  ADRIANO CELENTANO "Stai Lontana Da Me" (2.0 MB) -- Full of whoops, yelps, howls, growls, grunts, falsetto swoops, evil laughs (?), coughs, and James-Brown-esque sexual punctuation, this song is a catalogue of manly utterances. Google translates the song's title as "You're Away from Me", but Celentano sounds pretty happy about it, because now he is boning something like 10 other ladies. The trombone part is so cool.

Bonus track:
DUDLEY MOORE & PETER COOK "Bedazzled" (2.2 MB) -- a classic masterpiece of aloofness, a trait in men that women have historically found irresistible
Link102 did it come

641660 how to bring that beat back [22 Jun 2010|12:28 am]
[Tags|, , ]
[mood |hyperhyper]
[music |ICE CUBE "Dirty Mack"]

VoicePost Help
701K 3:57
“All this time, how could you not konw”

Transcribed by: lostcosmonaut


what do a photographer, a wedding photographer, a Facebook photographer, a photojournalist, and a Japanese tourist have in common? They all will sooner or later be dead. Which group of people are th winningest people in th world --

A.  Tea Party people
B.  poets
C.  Filipinos
D.  Zapatistas
V.  vegetarians
VI.  alcoholics
VII.  lesbians
VIII.  women who do some equestrian shit
IX.  millionaires
X.  billionaires
Y.  Zen masters?

None of th above, says Shannon Burns: "Little boys. Whatever their faults, these people know how to live." My own studies have found nothing to contradict her assessment. Little boys -- say, up until age 5 or 6 -- are far better @ doing what they're doing and feeling what they're feeling than I am, that is for sure. I try, and they don't.

return to my space

Little kids generally, but especially little boys. Th girls have it socialized out of them earlier, starting th first time someone calls them pretty. Have you noticed what happens when you put a suit on a little boy? He hates it! Call him handsome as much as you want; that shirt is not staying tucked.

notorious fatty of Eden Center

Unlike a grown man, a little boy cries when he wants to cry. He'll do it in public w/o hesitation or ambivalence. There is no such thing as "making a fool of himself". He will say, "I love you, Mommy." Just like that, in th middle of cartoons. I love you, Mommy. Where does he get this shit? I love you, Daddy. Where does it go, when he is old?

I wake up whenever.

Of course, he is a terror; and getting him to play quietly is like th war on terror -- you might win some battles, but will th war end? No, it will not, not while he is a little boy. Getting an apology from him is a long-drawn-out thing. He wanted or didn't want a thing; and he did everything in his power to get or avoid it; and everybody here knew what he did or didn't want because he expressed it openly and w/o deception, in accordance w/ his feelings. Are you trying to tell him that he wasn't feeling what he was feeling?

Th American way of life must be extinguished or defended @ all costs.

A little boy does not ask, "Am I drawing this right?"

Life is meaningless now that th NBA season is over.

You may show him how to achieve a certain effect on th page, and he may learn from or be influenced by yr drawing; but his first idea is always his own, and if left to his own devices he will execute his idea perfectly.

Sky, trees, DP me.

Again, w/o apology, nor tentativeness.

Th Hobbit

Nor humility.

How's that hopey changey thing working out for you?

He might get nervous around a beautiful woman, but not because she is beautiful, only because she was getting all up in his face trying to hug him and so forth.

robot farmer

If little boys could drive automobiles, nobody would get to their destinations. Where little boys are from, there are no roads. You can drive on th grass if you want, in circles, throwing earth clods. If little boys could drive, everybody would be dead and/or not @ their destinations.

tyranny of nephew

Th other day while driving, I thought, "I'd rather be typing." But how? About what? Am I typing this right? All of nature shouted out answers to me.

EMBIGGEN

Every time I stepped on th accelerator, th gas didn't flow from my gas tank to my engine. It went from my gas tank into a wormhole whose other end was a hole in th ocean's floor. What would Jesus do? W/ my whole heart I put th whole pedal to th whole metal and kept on truckin'.

+ + +


TH COUNTDOWN:
(again w/ 100% functional links)

33-21Collapse )
20.  FENWYCK "Mindrocker" (4.2 MB) -- Overlapping pulses (slow one = bass, fast one = fuzz) simulate thrusting into a girl while a bee smoking an L circles yr head @ constant velocity.
Link86 did it come

640660 splinter [09 Apr 2010|06:49 pm]
[Tags|, ]
[mood |hyperhyper]
[music |GAME THEORY "Like a Girl Jesus"]

mouth-to-mouth resuscitation woke me up. It was th wife. "Are you all right?" she said.

I said, "I'm fine. It was a bad dream."
"I thought so. You were breathing funny."
"Really? I was running. I might have been out of breath. A supervillain was chasing me."
"A supervillain!"
"Yeah. His superpower was ... OK this is not going to sound very scary, but his power was giving people splinters."
"Haha, oh no!"
"It was terrifying, though. I was playing w/ th band Wilco. Robyn Hitchcock was th guest vocalist, and I was th extra percussionist -- th Bob Nastanovich of th band, if you will. We were playing a family-oriented theme park because Wilco's fortunes had declined and that's where they had to play, as th headliner for a lineup that included dolphins who did tricks. I have to tell you this now because if I go back to sleep, it will be gone."
"K."
"After our set but before th encore, I sat on a wooden bench and got a splinter in my thumb. Only it wasn't from th wooden bench. It was from th supervillain, who could give you splinters from a distance."
"You just knew that?"
"I just knew that. I deserted Wilco and ran to th Philippines to get out of th range of his power. I ran to Nan's house or my grandma's house. Nan was there. She cooked me food, as always. I thought I was safe. But when she brought me th food, she said, 'Ow, I got a splinter in my hand.' I ran away from th food and th house to protect my family, because I knew he wasn't after them, he was just after me."
"You just knew this?"
"I just knew this. I ran to Virginia and dialed 911 on my cell phone. An automated menu came up, but I panicked because it was in Spanish. One of my superpowers was that I could understand a little Spanish even though I never studied it. I listened to all th menu options, but not one of them was for supervillains. 'If a gay guy has touched you, press 1.' That was definitely not it, but it was th closest match, so I pressed it."
"My poor babby."
"Another automated voice came up: 'We're sorry, a gay guy touching you is not a crime.' I ran and ran as th splinter guy bore down on me. When I got to New York City, he caught me. He caught me, Rudy Giuliani, and Rudy Giuliani's mistress, and he was about to fill our whole bodies w/ splinters."
"And that's when I saved yr life."
"And that's when you saved my life. If I weren't a married man, I'd be a dead man."

I wonder if my dream life is sick w/ supervillains because my waking life lacks them. I wonder if it's an immense waste to be surrounded by superfriends when we've given ourselves no mission, nobody to fight -- if that's why my little corner of th Internet died. Too many friends, not enough fight scenes. I've got a tiny splinter in my right hand's palm that appears to be made of my own super-condensed flesh. I pick @ it and extract it, but it comes back a week later. "Pick on somebody yr own size," it says.

My nephews, meanwhile, don't worry about a thing.


small driving from Th MZA on Vimeo.
two individuals drive a small car until they get too cold to feel their hands


+ + +


TH COUNTDOWN:
(now w/ 100% functional links)

33-22Collapse )
21.  SISTER NANCY "Bam Bam" (4.5 MB) -- "Bam Bam" (1982) is one of those perfect old songs I completely missed and now have to play 66 times in a row to make up for lost time. Where have you been my whole life, perfect bass line, overwhelming sonic pass rush? Th quarterback is sacked!

Bonus tracks:
FREAKWATER "Out of this World"
(6.3 MB) -- one acoustic guitar, three chords languorously strummed, one plain Jane voice, one cello played through a cathedral, one pedal steel finishing move, just another loser's liberating final breath

FRANCO "Mario" (19.7 MB) -- Th absolute truth is that I want all people to think of me when they hear this sermon, when they hear Franco singing my name over and over -- me, one Mario out of millions. In addition, I want th lyrics to mean whatever listeners want them to mean. Mario, you are th greatest, you are th worst, you fucked my wife, now you must die by my hand, Mario, you owe me 20 bucks.
Link70 did it come

639660 lostcosmo noughts [21 Jan 2010|11:19 pm]
[Tags|, , , , , , , , , , , ]
[location |United States, Virginia, Vienna]
[mood |hyperhyper]
[music |VYBZ KARTEL f/ SPICE "Ramping Shop"]

Shouldauldacquaintancebeforgotwellwhatcan you do

in this dream I am sleep-writing a blog, and when I wake up I do not remember having created it; later I happen upon it while doing a search on 1970s porn goddess Carol Connors. "This is a good blog," I say, adding it to Google Reader, and wonder why its author seems to update always @ 3:00 a.m.

Merry 2010 from Hicksville. Missed you. Zup? My good friend Christopher invited me to join a new literary movement. Say what? Too hardcore! May I call what we do typing instead of writing? Writers "submit" their "work" to "magazines" and get "paid"; typists just type. Typists type sentences wherever they can and don't worry much about paragraphs. Typists don't get writer's block and don't fuss about themes, plots, three-act structures, character growth, descriptions, or staying on topic. I'll list my top 6 60-minute-long dro-funk mixes of th June 2009 to August 2009 era. I'll show you vulnerability from th other side of some bulletproof glass. Ladies love cool vulnerability. Don't forget th bulletproof glass, which protects me from everybody around me's careless bullets, and you from my grenade of a temper. I've got a temper like you would totally believe. Jokes are bulletproof glass; th Internet is bulletproof glass; what else? Poems, fiction, and art generally: all bulletproof.

Decade of love
I've been in love before, but I never earnestly discussed wedding cake w/ another human being until last year. On European Imperialism Day week-end, Samantha and I drove up to Oswego, NY, her hometown, where I met her parents for th first time. They love Glenn Beck. I once wrote a komik book whose last chapter reads like a lust letter to President Obama.

44 Presidents | Order from Amazon.com

"Are you nervous?"
"Nope. I doubt yr parents are as weird as you think they are."
"It's safer if we stay quiet about politics."
"You love safety. Does this mean I'm not to bring up Zapatistas and how cute they are?"
"Maybe we can 'forget' to give them a copy of your book."
"Cool w/ me. I'll talk about normal things th whole time, and they'll see I'm normal."

We rolled into Oswego late @ night after several hours of driving through heavy rain and fog. Samantha's mum had booked us into a bed and breakfast run by an Indian family. Above each bed, a tiny pair of OshKosh overalls had been slung from a stick -- décor that suggested, to our dismay, crucifixions of toddlers.

Hail Satan

That's th problem w/ Indians, isn't it. They're still angry about getting raped, swindled, smallpox'd, and marched onto reservations. These are people who never got over losing their buffalo, and now their anger takes th form of suburban voodoo against th white man and his babbies. Actually, this bed and breakfast was th other kind of Indian. My point is, being surrounded by black magick ain't no thing to me; my wife is from space.

Meeting her parents went a lot better than it might have. I'd thought about talking about team sports, my go-to topic for first meetings w/ regular-guy guys. (If th guy is into pro basketball, I'm in luck.) Samantha's dad likes golf -- not my strength -- but he likes dogs and I like dogs, so we discussed that in an absolutely normal way. Her mum had four Twilight books out on th coffee table. Perfect.

"I notice you're a Twilight fan."
"You read those, too?"
"Nope. I heard a lot about them!"
"Oh you know, it's good, silly fun. I got into the books after seeing the movie. Have you seen the movie?"
"Not yet, no."
"Well, I've got the DVD if you and Sami want to watch it tonight."

-- which is how Samantha and her mother and I ended up watching Twilight together, all reeled by ancient force lines into a world where love means always having to storm out of th room all of a sudden. I can say this: it kind of makes sense while you're watching it. Afterwards, exhausted by th spectacle of teen romance and flush w/ th success of being perceived as normal, I fell asleep next to S. on her mum's twin bed. That night I dreamt of hovering silently above a toilet that was also a bottomless canyon, peeing a waterfall, becoming one w/ it, a human waterfall. I could pee for-ever, thought my dream watery self, orgasmic w/ th relief of being emptied. When I woke up, my pants were drenched down to th knee, and th first couple layers of bedding were also soaked, th wet spot slowly creeping toward my sleeping wife. No! This hadn't happened since that one time in college when I was ultra-blitzed, and before that, not since kindergarten. I popped out of bed, ran to th bathroom, tried to finish peeing -- nothing -- and den spooled a glove of toilet paper around my fist, ran back to th bed, and dabbed furiously @ th wet spot. Perhaps I could take care of this w/o waking th wife. A dozen trips to th toilet paper dispenser later, I realized it was hopeless, which left only two reasonable courses of action: wake up th wife, explain my situation, remove th be-pissed beddings, throw them and my pants in th washing machine, and put everything back th way it was before anybody else woke up; or jump in my car and drive, and keep on driving, and never come back. My wife's face in repose, lit by th bathroom light's diffuse reflected glow, contained a billion different futures.

"Samantha."
"..."
"Samantha, wake up."
"What is it, babby."
"Don't divorce me, but something happened."


Decade of science
Th noughts were when I came to regard scientific method as our sanest guide to living, because it is th one system of human thinking that has no choice but to admit when it is wrong.

Decade of flames
Yeah, I flamed a lot of people. Yes, I'm sorry. No, I don't regret it.

As a shortcut to intimacy (male bonding, male/female bonding, community bonding), as a method of intellectual and ideological self-definition (and Other-definition), and as an experiment in emotional navigation (especially in containing, redirecting, and repurposing one's own feelings of anger and irritation) -- th flame was unparalleled.

Decade of livejournal
All y'all.

Decade of not being nerdy
My good friend Kristin Bird expressed a perfect anti-nerd manifesto --

the most important part of writing, for me, is to not be nerdy. ever. to never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever be nerdy.

-- which inspired me to be more mindful of my nerd tendency and to eliminate counterproductive nerd behaviour. Let us not fuck around, though: I started out as a nerd; I still engage in nerdy interests; I am still and probably always will be a nerd, especially relative to John Wayne, Johnny Knoxville, Cary Grant, Tom Jones, Bob Dylan, Jennifer Herrema, or Denzel Washington. And nerds have given us many good things -- annotated versions of difficult books, Criterion Collection restorations, exhaustively catalogued discographies, rare bootlegs, Dungeons & Dragons, Google Reader, etc. But here's why it's worth pushing back against our currently pro-nerd culture: we're all going to die.

Nerds are good; some of my best friends are nerds; but nerd culture is out of balance. When I die, I don't want to look back on a life of cataloguing minutiae, a life of pedantic arguments w/ fellow nerds, of being an expert, of "grammatical correctness", of fiddling w/ gadgets, and of over-explaining th unexplainable. That our current culture rewards tech nerds and art nerds alike -- that being @ th top of today's nerd hierarchy confers actual social cachet -- is what magicians call misdirection from what's going on for real: more and more people wasting more and more time on empty nothing. In th '00s I decided I'd rather be known for creating something than for reacting to someone else's something. I wanted my life to contain more movies and fewer movie reviews. Fewer mashups. Fewer links. Less porn. More "I can't stop fucking you!" Being present in this moment and enjoying this moment is a tough enough job w/o all these distractions. Please re-twat this.

Decade of ladies
First ladyfriend (1996-2002): dumped her. Second ladyfriend (2002-2004): she dumped me. Third ladyfriend (Dec 2005 - Jun 2006): she dumped me. Fourth ladyfriend (Aug 2007 - Feb 2008): somebody dumped somebody. Wife (Jul 2009 - death do us part): not technically married, not worried about jinxing it.

Decade of magick
Say th thing that you want most in this world, out loud. Write it down
in big letters. Burn th paper using a wooden match. Eat th ashes. Pretend you are dying and you never got th thing you most wanted in this world. Do a little death bed dance. Ah have covered this topic a great many times.

Decade of getting older
Like most of you, I started off th decade ten years younger. My hair is really going now; soon ah'll have to decide to cut it v. short because nobody has ever made long hair w/ a bald spot work. I have not binge-drunk in @ least two years. My neck and hands are still in constant low-level pain -- though perhaps not much worse than ten years ago?! When I lived in Brooklyn last year, my knees started hurting due to trying to save subway fare by walking long distances. When playing beerball or rocking out, I am more careful about throwing my body around -- no health insurance. There are now actual nuances to my political thinking, not just infinite bad guys. I'm eating better and less, keeping my weight just below 150 (still an all-time high). I'm far less eager to please th cool people. I'm no longer nervous around pretty girls. My beard has gotten thicker. My writing has improved. My eyesight's th same as ever (bad). My sex drive has decreased slightly, but not too much, which is a good thing because in my opinion it was irritatingly high before. I have learned to respect my hot temper and treat it like a neurotic, aggressive dog: don't make eye contact w/ it! Don't feed it until it is in a calm, submissive state! Be a calm, assertive pack leader: take it for lots of walks, and divert its focus away from th enraging antics of yappy little dogs. My temper will love me if I don't let it lead me. I'm 0.75 inches taller than I was @ 26.

Decade of slang
Still do not LOL naturally, but I BRB like a polar bear eats fish. I like to stack my paper to th ceiling, and I love when you kill me wid di tightness. After a decade of hard work creating my own dialect, my only invention w/ which I am 100% pleased is vanillain -- even if only Eran, Héctor, and I have ever used it.

Decade of shout-outs
Dunno if this is good or bad -- probably mostly bad -- but shout-outs are now a primary measure of respect between colleagues and of closeness between friends. Nobody wants to listen to a hip-hop song that is made of 100% shout-outs, and nobody wants to read a blogue entry that is just a roll call of other bloggeurs ...

... except mebbe th ones being shouted out, for whom it brings a peculiar mix of affectionate gratitude and narcissistic pleasure. Looks like we're stuck w/ it for now. Th shout-out as social currency has reached absurd extremes on sites such as T*mblr and Tw*tt*r, where all one has to do to "deserve" getting shouted out is to shout out somebody cleverer than oneself! That's a democratization of cleverness -- in that each shout-out becomes a "vote" of sorts -- and also a form of communism -- in that any "wealth" or "prestige" created by cleverness is redistributed over a large number of "workers". It should be remembered that none of these new manifestations of friendship and respect are as good as hanging out together on th porch drankin' th beers. May you all have porches.

Decade of plagiarism
If I have conversed w/ you, chances are good that I have plagiarized you. Maybe I shouted you out for it; maybe I didn't. Carlos Mencia is a plagiarist. Bob Dylan is a plagiarist. Youtube is a plagiarist. Anybody who plays blues is a plagiarist. Aga Muhlach Experience are plagiarists. Rock'n'roll is a plagiarist. Anything worth playing is worth stealing, and anybody who steals an idea has to do it in a spirit of generosity, like a Japanese rockabilly dude. He copies out of love. There is not one thread of originality on his body. There is no "getting away w/ it". He don't apologize! He just plagiarize!

Decade of shuffle
One song after another after another, twenty thousand songs in one place, and only God knows which one's up next. This is th mode of listening that most closely simulates our relationship w/ th universe.

Decade of addiction
Th Internet and nothing else.

Decade of colour
Eran and Fuck You Crew introduced me to hip-hop (Oct 2003). I guess for a long time after that I wanted to be black. And den for some time I didn't really wish I were black, @ which point Th Wire came out on DVD, and I thought maybe I did want to be black, again. Den Th Wire ended (Mar 2008), and Kanye West became an even bigger nerd than he already was, and I forgot all about being black. Den a few months later (Jan 2009), President Obama was sworn in. As you can see, one thing leads to another.

Now I think my mission in life is to help people see that being whatever colour they are is cool + beautiful, even if it's not "black", but especially if it's my precise shade of brown.

Decade of shark-jumping
There are more things jumping th shark right now than have jumped th shark in any previous moment.

Decade of fame
Although being interested in th lives of famous people will never stop being cool and inevitable, it is unquestionably much cooler to invest our attention in th lives of our own personal friends. Through th simple power of paying attention, we grant our friends th same magickal aura commonly reserved for movie stars, rich people, and th talentless offspring of movie stars and rich people. Fifteen years ago, I set out to make everybody I know ultra-famous, using nothing but mind-beams. Now all of that fame has come true -- metaphorically, functionally, and in a handful of cases, literally. My friends are rock stars, artists, cartoonists, writers, typists, filmmakers, and totally regular people w/ regular jobs. I don't have time to read TMZ and ONTD because, thanks to el jay and other social networks and th godforsaken "blogosphere", my spare time is filled w/ keeping up on people I know and admire. Th noughts was a decade of being minimally aware of th goings-on in tabloid newspapers, due not to an intentional boycott but, rather, to natural selection. I know what happened w/ Tiger Woods, but it is a night-light next to th roaring campfire that is th life of

Billy Ray Wellsliamtheruiner

Stacie P.flightviolation

Dennis Crosbytwitchywrote

my lawyerinertiacrept

Dylan Goingthemannnnnnnnnn

Natalie Guevarabismarcky

Drew Ailesconformity

Lexie Kierpills

etc.

Decade of no fucking rules, d00d
sami gale,boobzone

Decade of suicide
Charles Monroe Schulz died in th '00s. Johnny & June died in th '00s. My Uncle Val died; my Tito Winston died; and my Mama Angeles died. Beyond that, most deaths went in one ear and out th other; but I'll always recall th suicides of Dominguin "Gordon" Meuse and David "Foster" Wallace because suicide is "special". I learned how "peculiar" th pain of suicide is to those left standing -- th peculiar guilt and th peculiar feeling that I am simultaneously lucky and unlucky. Th idiotic, useless anger @ th dead man and th buried envy towards th dead man, who found a way out of this stupid life that I am still stuck in. Every day, an irresistible urge to imagine myself in th dead man's shoes gave way to a ruthless impulse to mine this tragedy for art. It took me nearly five years to get here, but now suicide is normal to me. As w/ other kinds of chronic pain -- carpal tunnel syndrome, eczema, bum knees, and acid reflux -- you find a way to work around it. You figure out how to keep th dead guy on screen w/o hearing Incredible Hulk's theme over top of it.

Decade of time travel
My 26-year-old self is standing there back @ th decade's beginning looking "ahead" ten years. He sees me typing this and says, "Whuddayaknowed? If thet's my future, ah'm a-do my best to stay alive."

+ + +


TH COUNTDOWN:

33-23Collapse )
22.  MATUMBI "Wipe Them Out" (4.0 MB) -- Th wife's top song about exterminating th white man, and now mine, too. How about you.
Link100 did it come

638660 if it ain t rough it ain t right [11 Nov 2009|11:33 am]
[Tags|, , , , ]
[mood |hyperhyper]
[music |PETE ROCK & C.L. SMOOTH "If It Ain't Rough It Ain't Right"]

men are not attractive. On 26 September 2009, a month's worth of rain landed on Metro Manila in a single day. @ least 464 people were reported dead, and th storm caused @ least $237 million in damages (according to Wikidpedia). I shrugged and attended two benefit concerts.

After three months of my living in Brooklyn, somebody finally broke into my car. I looked up my precinct's police's number on th Internet and called them.

"Hey, yes, my car got broken into last night, and I'm not sure if there's anything anyone can do. Is it even worth reporting?"
"I'm sorry to hear that. You have to call 911."
"911, really? Hmm hmm OK. It didn't seem like enough of an emergency. I just thought you guys might want to update yr stats or whatever."
"Yeah, if you call 911, they'll send an officer out there to take a statement from you and investigate the crime scene. Just stay with your car and don't move anything."
"I already moved it so as not to get a parking ticket. Couldn't we skip th crime scene investigation and go straight to rounding up some troubled Mexicans?"

Shattered safety glass looks like potted plant pebbles. I drove my wife to work w/ no passenger-side window, but it didn't matter due to global climate change. People are wearing short sleeves in November. Are you worried about th kind of Earth you're leaving yr children? Do you have faith in their intelligence and problem-solving abilities? Is suffering inevitable, anyhow, so who cares? Are you planning on having children? I called up Two Guys Auto Glass, and they said $195, and it would be ready tomorrow. And den I called up Joe's Auto Glass in Park Slope, and they said $120, and it would be ready today. Joe's son showed me how to break into a car w/o making a sound, using a screwdriver. Thanks, Joe!

When I think about Megatron's shiny new window, I hear "I Shall Be Released"'s first few lines --

They say ev'rything can be replaced,
Yet ev'ry distance is not near.
So I remember ev'ry face
Of ev'ry man who put me here
.

-- and recall when my BFF Diego Muhlach's brother drowned. Diego was playing a mixtape I'd made for him that had "I Shall Be Released" on it, and when Diego's dad heard th song, he cried for his dead son and for everything that was left behind. Diego's dad gathered his remaining sons around him and took their faces in his hands and said, "Don't you dare die before me."

When I talk up my and Sascha's book, it makes our publisher happy, which in turn makes me happy because he's a cool guy, even though promoting my and Sascha's book does not in and of itself make me happy. I made a Facebook fan page for our book

44 Presidents | Order from Amazon.com

so that people would have somewhere to go to jizz all over it, and so when people saw that other people were jizzing all over our book, it would make them want to get out their jizz for our book, too. There is now a place for that.

Women are attractive, though. All men have to help them are jokes and guitars. Acrassicauda, Iraq's most famous metal band, fled to Syria, den Turkey, den New Jersey, den New York, to escape violence in Baghdad. Allegedly, their headbanging was mistaken for how Jews pray. On Monday, my roommate and BFF Rome hired me to work on th film crew for Acrassicauda's first music video -- 12 hours in a dark warehouse w/ nothing but men.

Fake smoke smells like an oppressive combination of dirt and maple syrup.

No metal band would write lyrics about how much they love to flee violence, yet here are Acrassicauda, face-to-face w/ their own inescapably newsworthy story. Th world is so doomed, we might as well try to squeeze every last bit of metal out of every day.

Light is how we see one another.

Th important part is, use yr whole heart, but never, ever be desperate. Don't be desperate for people to love you or give you money. Never be desperate to be understood. How can we act w/ our whole hearts and not be desperate? Especially when th heart -- it wants what it wants. I can't stand th word girlfriend. I told my wife,

20091109_tonyladder

"What if we got married just because I don't like how girlfriend sounds, but I love how wife sounds?"

People get married because they love each other more than any other two people in history have ever loved each other. Two, five, seven, or twelve years later, they get divorced because they hate each other more than any other two people in history have ever hated each other. I know what marriage is. It means one day, one person is going to have to bury th other. That's metal. If you're not metal enough, don't get married.

20091109_standin

She said, "What if we get married for a normal reason such as we are the best people for each other, but you can call me your wife starting immediately if you want?"

Deal.

+ + +


TH COUNTDOWN:

33-24Collapse )
23.  PHYLLIS DILLON "Don't Stay Away" (3.7 MB) -- Ms Dillon creates a delusional narrator whom U can't feel sorry 4 because her voice is 2 strong, 2 sweet 2B defeated.
Link149 did it come

637660 would you like them in a house [01 Sep 2009|11:11 am]
[Tags|, , , , , , ]
[mood |hyperhyper]
[music |PET SHOP BOYS "Being Boring"]

one night, a rhythmic shaking awoke me. It was my main man Billy Ray in my bed doing it w/ a girl I once did it w/. What th? What did I ever do to them? W/o a good night's sleep, my fever would never go down. Billy Ray said, "Now I'm going to scoop you," and th girl said,

"Now, baby, scoop me now."

Den he put his cock in her ass, and she kept saying, "Oh, God, Billy," and he kept saying,

"Scoop, scoop a doo, scoop a doo, scoop a doo-bay doo-bay doo."

Feigning sleep, I heard every word. Suddenly, she was saying Billy Ray's name faster and in a feral way: "Billy, Billy, Billy Rrrray." Had I ever made her come like this? As they climaxed together, th girl said,

"Uh-oh, my period." And den she peeled th condom off of him and drank his come and licked her own blood from her lips. I fell back asleep. When I woke up again, they were gone, and it was summer's hottest night in New York City. My windowless bedroom had a fever. I crawled in front of th electric fan and let it blow warm air in my face. I stepped out into th living room -- which also had a fever -- where Kevin Shields greeted me angrily.

"There's no escaping it, dogface," he said. "Inside, outside, asleep, awake -- th fever follows us."

"Little cat-brain," I said, "a fever that doesn't kill you is doing you a favour."

my hot roommates

+ + +

Kevin and I are alive and uncomfortable in Brooklyn. I'm in love w/ a genius, jobless, and chronically shirtless. Kevin wishes his kind could be shirtless, stares longingly @ th door, and pees in secret places. He didn't piss, shit, or eat for 24 hours after our arrival, but he did crawl into bed w/ me that first night, muttering curses. "You're all I've got. What a fucking nightmare!" A subway train passes 20 feet from our living room window, and it took him a whole day to figure out that th big dragon is always approaching but is never going to enter our apartment. I'm edging towards broke and mustn't apologize for being socially avoidant. Our giant loft apartment is a real social butterfly, though, accepting a constant stream of visitors who are unanimously impressed by its length, high ceilings, and complete lack of silence. One wall is decorated w/ clocks devoted to different time zones: Oslo, Rome, Ghent, Cairo, Manila, Queens. That's what it's like to cross from one end our apartment to th other. Miraculously, little kids can cover th epic distance in under one second.

What can't he do?

Dangerous Drew Ailes of Fuck You Crew fame came a-visiting from th wilds of Minnesota and fell a little in love w/ th big city. We took a long, romantic walk along th beach in Long Beach and talked about how we're both recalcitrant fuckups. Whenever Drew and I get in a conversation, what it mostly boils down to is interviewing each other about how to get happiness and what it means to be happy in th first place. I get th impression that Drew gets th impression that less than 10% of people are happy, and more than 90% of people are miserable; therefore, it is necessary to completely ignore what @ least 90% of people do to get happy.

If you are one of th less than 10%, and you are reading this, would you like to drink a beer w/ me and Dangerous Drew Ailes in th future?

20090816_mintesinotdrew

"Life is crazy good," Rome Petersson said to me this a.m.   I said,
"Emphasis on crazy. I never woulda guessed two months ago that I would be verb verb adjective to proper noun, a noun I only just verb."
"Yeah, homie, that's crazy. High five! Obviously, I'm not good at giving people the don't-do-that-crazy-thing advice."
"I just wish I could write on th Internet."
"What is it, like writer's block?"
"I guess so. It's probably because I never update while I'm on vacation, and this whole place is giving me an optical illusion that I'm still on vacation."
"I know what you can do to fix that vacation feeling."
"..."
"Work!"
"Thanks, yeah."
"Maybe work would feel even more like a vacation, though. That's how I feel sometimes. Like not working is normal, and when I work it's a weird-ass vacation from not-work."
"Yes, it felt good working on those film shoots last week, but mebbe all work feels good when you're not working w/ assholes. This will sound cuckoo, too, but my real job is updating. When I don't update, I am like only half a man. I mean, writing is th reason people like me in th first place, so when I don't do it ..."
"Is it weird that you haven't been writing, but a few people still like you?"
"... or do they!?"

I've been going around taking pictures of shapes of light for God only knows what reason. I hate Flickr, I hate F-bk, I hate Tumblr, and el jay is too dead to hate. I hate el jay! My pictures of shapes of light pile up in my inbox, and th more there are, th more greedy I get. I could make a whole album of beefcake pictures of Rome; a whole picture post of me, John A., and Andy demolishing th furniture in my old apartment in Hicksville using nothing but a hammer, scissors, screwdrivers, and an axe.

There's something about freezing these moments, though, that resists any of my neuroses about sharing/not-sharing, good art/bad art, and documenting/forgetting, just as there's something un-neurotic about just sitting down and writing, independent of whether anyone will like me for it. It's v. nice just to do it and not think about where it's going or what it's for. I saw a staircase in th reptile house @ th Bronx Zoo that was notable in no way that I could discern except that it happened to be in front of me, and I happened to be looking @ it.

20090827_rephouse
20090726_towersofwater

In th same way, I have been doing my best simply to enjoy th company of th extraordinary people who surround me. I need my roommates in order to be able to afford to live here, and I moved here essentially to be closer to them and make movies together and publish a magazine together -- big, complicated projects whose success can be easily measured by longevity and popularity -- but th feeling of being around people who know me well and who love me and whose jokes always make sense to me cannot be measured. Samantha and I drove out to th beach; we ate a popsicle, took camphone shots of th popsicle, and got a little sunburnt; and that was th extent of our outing. My favourite day this month failed to advance th plot in any way.

I'm reminded of another conversation Rome and I had on th rooftop of his previous apartment.

"I used to want people to love me for who I was, not for what I did, but that was totally stupid. They're the same thing."
"I agree! -- which is why no lawyer would ever want to date me and my broke ass."

dee light

"New York City is no place for sissies," Natalie says. I say it is also no place for people who insist that others "love them for who they are". On every block, this city hits you w/ a cold, hard, green reality check -- everybody hustling to make a buck off everybody else. You drive across a bridge, you pay too much. You drink vitaminwater, you pay too much. If you're a paying customer, if you're selling something I want, I love you. If you don't know whether you're walking north or south, den why are you walking?

20090827_boom

"Jean-Luc Godard," I tell Samantha, "made a film about th May-December romance between Jean Genet (played by my dead roommate Gordon) and a lady named 'Caro' (played by you) -- a stand-in for Anna Karina, obviously -- in which Godard argues against th coupling by showing Genet/Gordon to be a bumbling, neurotic, Woody-Allen-esque fool who is unable to complete everyday administrative tasks such as renewing his expired driver's license. Th film takes place entirely inside a circular DMV building, inside which various queues snake in every direction w/ no apparent rhyme or reason. In his quest to locate th correct queue for license renewal, Genet/Gordon is handicapped by having to wear rollerskates he doesn't know how to control. 'Caro' (again, that's you) is beautiful, graceful, and wearing a black outfit accented in red. Do you recognize that part?"

"The black outfit?"

"Accented in red!"

"No, I don't."

"Th third time I met you, you were wearing a black outfit and red shoes."

"Oh! You made fun of those shoes."

"I didn't mean it. I love them. Anyway, in th movie, I am either an extra or holding th camera or watching th finished movie later in a theater. Gordon, who is also my grandfather, dies in th movie; but I leave th movie theater and go to his funeral in real life."

"This is starting to be a little sad."

"Very sad. Except I don't know how to be sad. I'm sitting there @ th funeral fully comprehending that I should be crying right now. And den my friend Raul shows up @ th funeral, too, and he whips out his violin and starts playing th original Star Trek theme in a way that reveals a tremendous amount of secret pathos in th piece. I notice that th strings of Raul's violin are made of strips of film taken from th cutting room floor of Godard's movie, and I cry and cry."

"..."

"Th end."

"Mario, my dreams aren't anything like your dreams."

"That's all right, everybody's different. Weird thing is, I don't know why Raul's in there. I mean, we're friends, I like him, but I never hang out w/ th dude. He's th token black character of my dream."

"So he's a black man, and he teaches you how to get in touch with your emotions ..."

"Ohmygod, you're right! I dreamed a Magick Negro movie."

20090823_buff

Lately, whatever I have dreamed and whatever I have written down has come true. After I dreamed about working on a crew for a Godard film w/ a handicapped protagonist, I worked on an actual film crew for an ice cream commercial in which th lead actor wore a giant ice cream cone suit that made him effectively blind. Not long after I writ about President Coolidge's extraordinary extraterrestrial wife, I met her in person. Luckily, Coolidge's wife was single. All I have to do to get a job in New York City is write down

Give me

soft serve getting hard

something to do, New York City
in a large font size and really mean it.

20090823_boomop

What shall it be, and won't my whole heart listen closely to th greater forces @ work and tell me what happens next? Walk th dogs, operate th booms, file th files, cast th spells, shoot th shit, and write th great Internet novels? What would it be like to write stories for a living like Los Bros Hernandez, David Lynch, or Sparky Schulz? Which came first, th job or th vacation? My and Sascha's handsome book's release date has been pushed back to 25 September. We won't see much money from it; but I want it to do well, anyhow, because if it does well, mebbe somebody will let me do another one.

Guy Raz interviewed us about it for NPR's All Things Considered. I'd prepared a statement th day before th interview --

from Th MZA
to John A_____ <*******@npr.org>
date Wed, Aug 12, 2009 at 3:44 PM
subject Re: 44 Presidents contact

John,

Idea for tomorrow's interview: the 44 Presidents project is rooted in "Internet culture". It was created by two bloggers working remotely from opposite sides of the country. Most of its "facts" were lifted directly from Wikipedia without reference to primary sources. The voice used for the presidents was inspired by Facebook's (now obsolete) third-person status updates. The web version of 44 Presidents "went viral" when it was linked by somebody on Metafilter. Not coincidentally, the book's cover features the first U.S. president who understands the difference between Youtube and TV. Given the absurdity and instantaneousness (and attendant disposability) of Internet culture, is it possible to make a work of art that is slow, thoughtful, and wholehearted, but still worships the Internet? That was the unspoken challenge behind the making of this book.

I hope this helps you form your questions.

regards
mario.

-- but Guy Raz was a real pro and kept me off balance th whole time, and of course we ended up talking about what he wanted to talk about, stuff that was more entertaining for radio.

"I see here at one point in the book that Calvin Coolidge claims his skin is silver. How did you come across this information?"
"Wikipedia was having a really crazy day that day, Guy."

In th end, NPR balked @ using only our noms de plume on th air (and on their web site), and @ th last minute -- after having already edited our piece -- they killed it. This photograph is th only evidence that it happened:

I was n.a.f.

My first month in New York has suggested that I am happy as fuck doing nothing but also h.a.f. being busy and engaging in activities that are new to me. In a nutshell, my cheeks are on fire, and being happy is easy. We're animals, and we know how to please ourselves. We're also superheroes, which is unfortunate because superheroes are never happy pleasing only themselves. If we knew how to make other people happy or how not to give a shit if other people were happy, we would be happy all th time; and we would not be Spider-Man. It's hard to disagree when you're enveloped by 8 million other people in skintight stupid costumes.

20090827_flaming


+ + +


TH COUNTDOWN:

33-25Collapse )
24.  TEENAGE FANCLUB "Broken" (7.3 MB) -- Some of my favourite songs are simple phrases repeated over and over. I like this one whether I'm feeling weak or strong.

Bonus track that is opposite in mood, similar in repetition, but a question instead of a statement:

D'ANGELO "Untitled (How Does It Feel?)" (9.9 MB)
Link73 did it come

636660 holding you is th new past [23 Jul 2009|10:55 pm]
[Tags|, , , ]
[mood |hyperhyper]
[music |IDLEWILD "Readers & Writers"]

andy tells me to go home and maybe write down what I'm feeling, just for myself, to organize my thoughts. I say, "Yeah, maybe, except why would I do that? I already know what my thoughts and feelings are. It's only communicating these things to y'all that's giving me pause." Sometimes when I am troubled I stay up all night doing repetitive tasks such as editing ID3 tags in iTunes, and my cat stays up, too, doing repetitive tasks such as licking his own snaj. Driving to work, I'm singing along to Beyoncé's "Halo" w/ feeling, making a hand motion to steady th air before me. Love this song! Now I'm idly forking th remains of my Peruvian rotisserie chicken. Pipes is gently mocking me: "Your sentences keep trailing off," she says. "Is it because you suddenly understand all cheesy love songs?" Nope, it's not that. Ah always got those songs. What's not to get? Gravity can't forget, so pull me back to th ground again.

"How does your stomach feel?" asks Andy.
"You're asking me if I have butterflies?" I say.yahahahaha

It's much stranger than that. I have butterflies and th caterpillars they metamorphosed from, in one stomach. They are spanning and squeezing time. I thank th past for getting me this far, and th future for being smaller and less powerful than my feelings. I tell Pipes, "It's like everything that happened before ..."

"... was JUST PRACTICE?"
"No, no! That's not what I was about to say. You're enjoying this, aren't you."

I enjoy practice time AND game time. What if everything that happened before was tennis, and everything that happens from now on is competitive eating? What if practice and game are one? What if sea monkeys really existed? I met someone, a lady, and I don't know how, but now I am certainly, certainly crazy in a totally normal way. It reminds me of eating a quarter-ounce of mushrooms and asking nearby trees to drive me to a hospital or keep me company while I die. There's still a lot of practice I have to do before I'm used to this.

girls

"Samantha," I find myself saying, "you're what would happen if I created a fake profile of a lady on a dating site and filled it w/ every quality that would make me want to get to know a lady, and den forgot that I made it and later tried like a total retard to send it a message, except den it actually answered back and was a real person who agreed to go on a date w/ me. It's like a magick. Thus, I have to ask -- were you sent by my enemies to destroy me?"

"That depends," she says. "You're not about to axe-murder me, right?"

"That depends," I say. "Is this 1892? Axes might be th tabloids' weapon of choice den."

"I don't know what year it is, either. We have so much in common."

"Samantha."

"Yes?"

"You make time go by funny."

something happened

No, I absolutely do not know what happens next, and barely know what has happened thus far or what is happening as we speak. I'll make some shit up for my Internet diary, and mebbe that made-up shit'll come true, too.

Samantha says, "Let's skip this whole boyfriend girlfriend business."

I say, "Have you thought of any names for our daughter?"

She says, "Now that I'm president and you're First Gentleman, you need a signature issue." I choose th revival of public libraries as th center of public life in America. I feel just like Michelle Obama -- infinitely supportive of my partner, yet also fully my own thing. I feel like being sweet because I have 100 nice things to say about th president per minute.

What else, what else? U.S. unemployment drops back down to 4.5%. China takes climate change seriously. Cold winters return to D.C., as do hot summers and temperate springs and falls. Whoever is supposed to be in love w/ you will soon be in love w/ you, if they aren't already -- I mean all of you. Fuck if I know. Just say something out loud or write it down in a notebook. If it steps off th page and gets real, I'm not crazy. I feel more normal than ever. I feel like I fit in w/ people and am surrounded by 100 Secret Service agents whom I don't need because my enemies don't care about me because they are too busy getting loved, too. I keep th Secret Service agents because I enjoy th company.

gallery hopping


+ + +

TH COUNTDOWN:

33-26Collapse )
25.  LIFE W/O BUILDINGS "Sorrow" (9.5 MB) -- A song for when you are happier than you have probably ever been. It's called "Sorrow" because you're feeling that way about difficult people: sad that they have slipped away, sad that you're one of them, thankful that they taught you how to live w/ them, thankful that difficult people never bored you, thankful that they've slipped away. Tons of you know this song but mebbe not th Darth Vader one below.

BEYONCE "Halo" (7.1 MB)

BIG STAR "I'm in Love w/ a Girl" (2.5 MB)

DARTH VADER "Darth Vader Ukelele" (2.5 MB)
Link89 did it come

635660 forces at work [11 Jul 2009|11:55 am]
[Tags|, , ]
[mood |hyperhyper]
[music |IVORY JOE HUNTER "Can't Explain How It Happened"]

when nothing is happening, I know exactly what to say about it. I know how to talk about enjoying nature and summer, beer, a movie, and Wikipedia. I like to construct a story from nothing or from v. small things such as this chihuahua I'm babysitting this week-end -- too emotional to be a cat, too portable to be a dog, caught forever between worlds. That's a story that writes itself. It's when lots of things are happening around me all @ once -- when there are too many beginnings, endings, and middles -- that th story, or my ability to perceive it, really comes apart. August is full of what th story-minded might regard as plot: Kevin Shields and I will be moving away from Hicksville to a new and bigger town where they have no tolerance for slow people. We'll be living w/ three sweet human beings

Romeromolio


Natbismarcky


Dylanthemannnnnnnnnn


and praying we don't all murder one another before this is through. No more solitary confinement and no more throwing dirty clothes on th sofa. My and Sascha's wee book is now @ th printer in Hong Kong and becomes a generally available three-dimensional object on 25 Aug. Would you like to

pre-order it on Amazon?

Nixon, Dubya get pwned by barcode

(People w/ that Kindle witchcraft can get it now.)

My good friends will be relieved to know that I'll have no steady job and will be running around committing crimes and hemorrhaging dollars full time. Ahh, plot. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week ...... plot! Natalie, Rome, Shannon, Jenelle, and I are collaborating on a publishing venture named

Halo Halo

after Beyoncé's song, which goes like this:

I can feel yr halo halo halo
I can see yr halo halo halo
I can feel yr halo halo halo
I can see yr halo halo halo oo-oooohh!

Samantha and I have been collaborating on a performance art piece titled, "Whose Feelings Are Crazy, Yrs Or Mine?" -- in which I state out loud whatever happens to be th most excessive feeling that I am feeling, and she replies, "You think that's crazy? Check this out ..." and one-ups my feeling, forcing me to feel a feeling that can out-crazy everything that has gone before. After six or seven rounds of this, real time travel occurs worldwide, and Brian Wilson wakes up in whatever times he was made for.

Thing is, I don't know how any of this stuff fits into th story. Remember when I "moved" to California for 10 days? No? I do, but my body doesn't. My body cannot recall and be inhabited by my own feelings of disappointment, longing, embarrassment, and regret. I remember it as comedy, one comic chapter in a long string of comic chapters of an Internet novel. That's what writing is good for, maybe.

I met Mark Leidner in person, finally

Mark Leidnertrembyle


-- who in a way completes my collection of old school livejournalists. I hope he and everybody else I have RL met don't mind my putting it in such a vulgar way. They all can collect me, too, anyhow, if they want. Point is, something fundamental has changed now in this corner of th Internet. Mebbe th use of our livejournals as a social tool is history. Ah'll always be happy to meet people for shooting of th shit, but mebbe this place won't be th center; and for th first time since inviting myself to th party in 2002, I feel exactly nothing about this. My livejournal is not my BFF. You're my BFF. My livejournal is just a location where I make things, plagiarize things, synthesize and juxtapose things, react to my world, and call it art. What I remembered when I talked to Mark Leidner face to face, drink to drink, and cigarette to cigarette, is that I don't care about works of art as sacred things or beautiful things or things to be proud of. MFA students, says Mark, aim to write poems that are "beautiful arrangements of words". So what, he says. So what! I can't stop smiling about that or about how much we smoked. If a poem doesn't feel as good or bad as a single stupid cigarette w/ a cool bro, what use is it?

Ashby lent me Pictoplasma: th Character Encyclopaedia, a rad book full of characters who'd been designed by character designers. I'd been ignorant of character design's teeming subculture, and its existence now terrifies me on some level -- not a level whereon I'd have to avert my eyes, a different level, one on which I might have nightmares bad enough to make me wake up kicking. Behold! Nightmares!

Luke Chueh

Shit reminds me of an alternate universe in which Japan won WWII by dropping th bomb on Disneyland, and this is how we combat our grief, w/ page after page of cute, vaguely Japanese figures.

20090709_fumarmola

Each figure has a v. limited palette of emotions -- usually just one emotion, actually, expressed to a colourful extreme.

pig destroyer

Th real horror? In this universe there are no stories, only characters. No panel-to-panel development and no victories. No defeats, either. Only you and yr perfection of a face reproduced on a million plastic bottles of Pocari Sweat.

Genevieve Gauckler

You are smiling forever, crying forever, blowjobbing, murdering, rocking, or eating soup forever, eating soup like there's no tomorrow,

Aaron Stewart and Rinzen, respectively

which is heaven to you, or hell if you're not into soup. I'm into it, and I like everything that has been handed in my general direction. My BFFs are geniuses of one sort or another, my nephews are savages, my comma splices are shameless, my Obama is young, black, president, and not assassinated, and Asterios Polyp is th comix miracle. My feelings are terror, pride, impatience, sloth, heat, hyperness, fearlessness, patience, magick, height, bad self-haircut, I love you, flossing regularly, and a million other things all @ once w/ my whole heart. In times when no story is forthcoming, being all th characters simultaneously is th next best thing.

recurse
organs


+ + +

TH COUNTDOWN:

33-27Collapse )
26.  FEELIES "Forces @ Work" (9.8 MB) -- A song that understands calm exteriors / hyper interiors better than any other song I've heard. Since many of you have it already, here's another, lesser-heard song that is shaping up to be a fucking timeless masterpiece and a classic:

ALLEN IVERSON "We In Here Talking about Practice" (3.9 MB)
Link64 did it come

634660 hoverparty [22 Jun 2009|05:16 pm]
[Tags|, ]
[mood |hyperhyper]
[music |IDLEWILD "Circles in Stars"]

lately whenever I have hung out w/ my nephews I have felt all crazy inside -- crazy like I would not only kill w/ my bare hands whatever monsters bothered them, but also rend th monsters' flesh until I arrived @ their monster entrails, which I would den grill and eat. If I reach a point @ which I won't bother to cook th monster guts before eating, I hope some concerned loved one will intervene on my behalf and tell me to stop, it's over. It's over. I'll say,

"Jesus, what happened? Is this why th world is violent th way it is?"

he reminds me of me at that age in that he likes cake

come to amon baby

they got him a cake in th shape of a choo choo train

pit bull ...... terrier

animal planet

11 percent success rate

and Godzuki

train ...... wreck

sometimes I see th future adult face in th baby face

his bro likes cake too

now he can't breathe

a dozen wet naps later


+ + +

TH COUNTDOWN:

33-28Collapse )
27.  JOHN FAHEY "Jaya Shiva Shankarah" (7.0 MB) -- A crazy tension builds throughout this tune that belies its prettiness.
Link70 did it come

633660 anything happened [16 Jun 2009|11:19 pm]
[Tags|, , , ]
[mood |hyperhyper]
[music |FEELIES "Tomorrow Today"]

yesterday I was feeling some feelings regarding whether anything could happen. "Yes," I sensed, "it can." A deep-sea fish named the barreleye (Macropinna microstoma) has sensitive, tubular green eyes enclosed within a see-through canopy reminiscent of a fighter jet's. Its eyes rest pointing straight upward to spot silhouetted prey from below, and can rotate forward to see in front of it when it swims up to feed.

inside th cockpit, two fat green pilots

A wise man named Kevin Garnett said, "Impossible is nothing." It must have seemed to him that he would play for the sorry, no-account Minnesota Timberwolves for all time. Then, like a barreleye escaping a Portuguese man o'war, he rotated his tubular green eyes, swam as fast as he could for the light, and won a championship ring. In 1981, an upstart New Zealand band named The Clean proclaimed, Anything could happen, and it could be right now/ The choice is yours, so make it worthwhile. Their singer sounded like a man who'd already made 1000 big choices and gotten kicked in the dirt for 500 of them. Today they are world-famous legends in certain neighbourhoods and never have to pay for their own beer. Then there is Arnel Pineda, current lead singer of Journey and former star of Manila's hotel bar band scene, whom Journey's guitarist discovered one night while surfing Youtube looking at videos of people covering Journey songs. Pineda's band's covers were the most faithful of all, and the rest is rakenrol history.

What can't happen? Rome's little brother is named Mintesinot, which in Ethiopian means, "What can't he do?" Since President Obama has been in town, everybody here has been asking that question, too. We're feeling all of these feelings, the way Peter Parker felt them after his hand got bit by the radioactive spider. I'm walking home staring down at my hand, opening and then closing it, feeling the tinglings of danger all around me: a man nearby who is texting while driving; a lump in the breast of a 64-year-old woman, my mother's sister, in Quezon City; something about an election in Iraq? Iran. I'm waiting for a Galactus-size supervillain to put his giant foot down and say, "No, we can't."

Yesterday, Ivy told me her new plan is to master the frisbee. I said, "Well, do you know the three basic throws?"

She said, "No, I haven't checked Google yet." (They are the forehand, the backhand, and the hammer.)

Today, I thought of a fourth useful throw: the Shadowcat, which is to throw it such that it passes, ghost-like, through a solid object. Almost as soon as I thought of that, I said to myself, "Well, that can't happen. The constituents of a frisbee, its atoms, are governed by quantum mechanics, in which all manner of impossible-seeming shit can happen. The frisbee itself, though, is still bound by boring Newtonian physics, in which walls matter." This dawning of reality caused me to spend the rest of the day feeling deeply as if anything couldn't happen. Deeply.

Anything could happen, and it could be right now
The choice is yours, so make it worthwhile
Well here I am in the big city/ I got no heart and I got no pity

The day before yesterday, a sunny Sunday, my hangover was a mother breastfeeding twin infants all day long. It hurt, and I stayed in bed and cursed being old as fuck. Anything couldn't happen on Sunday; but on Saturday night, casually throwing back pints with Ally and Stacey until closing time and talking about the power of being cool and letting the food swim to you, anything could happen. On Friday, feet aching from walking all up and down Manhattan wearing the wrong shoes, carrying a dead cell phone with no charger, I felt that anything couldn't happen. The day before that, belly filled with the best bowl of ramen of my life, head filled with the sound and vision of Goran Bregović & his Weddings & Funerals Orchestra, surrounded by gypsies and my genius friends, I was pretty sure that anything, again, could happen. Poor, dead Arthur Lee's words came to me, as they tend to do in these scenarios. I think people are the greatest fun. We rushed the stage, ignoring the barely-committed event staff. A towering, shaved-headed black man wearing a little tan cap moved toward me, making his way back through the crowd.

"Rome!" I yelled. "It's Major Howard 'Bunny' Colvin from The Wire!" Rome instinctively spread his arms wide to hug Major Colvin, who generously hugged back. Overcome with strong feelings, I also swooped in to hug Major Colvin. He smiled and took me in his arms. It felt like being hugged by a small village. I wanted to tell him, "Anything is happening right now, Bunny," but no air was in my lungs.

Later, I described the encounter to Eran over a milkshake and fries. "Mario," he remarked, "it sounds like you had trouble separating the art from the artist."

"Yes," I laughed. "That has always been my problem."

+ + +

TH COUNTDOWN:

33-29Collapse )
28.  TH CLEAN "Anything Could Happen" (2.5 MB) -- I like where he says, Well here I am in the big city/ I got no heart and I got no pity. Of course you got pity, tough guy! Lots of you already have this Clean song, so here's another one most of you probably don't have -- a good, hard, time travel sex time song:

LEE MOSES "Time and Place" (LP version) (2.7 MB)
Link94 did it come

632660 our prayer [03 Jun 2009|11:11 am]
[Tags|, , , ]
[mood |hyperhyper]
[music |JAY-Z "Moment of Clarity"]

dear,

Thank you for this food. Thank you for taro boba smoothies, tongue tortas, Ray's Hellburgers, pickled green tea leaf salads, lechón, and pho. Thank you for shark fin siomai. Please help me do the right thing and not be too neurotic. Give me calmness and powers when I need them most. What would Joe Montana do? Yesterday I woke up feeling something in a big way and called my little brother to announce it.

"John A."
"What it is."
"I'm gonna do it."
"Do what, move to New York?"
"Yeah, you are the first person to know besides me."
"Cool, so August 1 is the thing?"
"Yeah, I guess we have to talk about a bunch of stuff that has to happen before then. I just decided a couple minutes ago."
"What made you finally work it out?"
"Nothing. I just felt it and stroked it like Kobe Bryant."
"Gross, I mean cool! You're taking it strong to the hole."
"I'm feeling it. I'm taking it strong to the hole, she said. This must be how Kobe Bryant feels all the time."

Dear, please continue not giving me insight into my own decision-making processes; I somewhat enjoy the sensation of being buffeted by strong, invisible winds beyond my comprehension and control. But I am terrified of everything outside of the suburbs. Help me to float steadily in the general direction of what terrifies me. I don't want to be alone, but I don't want to be around people. Kevin Shields doesn't count. I can do a number two with the door wide open, and Kevin doesn't care or judge. All I do is nothing, and all he does is nothing. Help me do something difficult, something like law school or loving my enemies. I'm not interested in law school; that's just an example. I'm interested in being the best writer in English in the world. I'll sell you my so-called soul if you multiply my skills by however much it takes to be the best writer in English in the world -- as good as Erwin Castillo, Herman Melville, Joann Sfar, or David Markson. Make me write faster; make me write in a day the amount of sentences I normally write in a month. Make them all not need editing of any sort. I'll practice; I'll sacrifice; just give me the strength. Give me a thing that lets me google right in my head. That way, I'll be able to google and play sports at the same time. Let me write anything -- diary entries, young adult novels, special reports for The Economist, pornographic screenplays, the insides of bottlecaps, anything. You can keep any fame and money in excess of what it takes to get me from one project to the next. All I want is some playing time and the ability to see several decades into the future. Winning, as you know, has never been my strong suit.

If I am to be a jerk, dear, please let me be one of whom people might say, "Well, he was a jerk, but he sure could shoot the damn basketball." Help me treat people fairly, in the manner of Omar from The Wire. Help me love my enemies through one of two means: my own miraculous generosity, or my enemies' mysterious loveableness. Protect my BFFs from danger of all kinds. Hell, bless everybody. When emergencies happen, let nobody believe that they have been singled out and personally cursed. Allow us the grace to shift on the fly into problem-solving gears. Where imperfection is a necessity, let us throw a party in the name of imperfection. Thus spake Flaming Carrot: "Ah, life! Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week! Life!" Please allow people to love themselves. I've been having this gay idea that people fight one another not just because fighting is fun, but because they hate themselves. Some people hate themselves secretly, while others are quite open about it. Either way, the object is to firebomb everybody around you so that you're not alone in the wreckage. I'm aware of exactly how sexy that all is, which is why we can't stop it without some outside help.

Oh, dear. And if there is no outside? Every prayer is a to-do list and nothing more. To whom should I address my wholehearted gratitude for my luck thus far? Thank you, Roddy Woomble. Thank you, President Jefferson. Thanks, Mum. Thanks, Pops. Happy birthday. Thank you, Kevin Shields from My Bloody Valentine. Thank you, Amon baby; now let's blow your nose. Ready?

20090516_lapboy

My dear, I pray for my relationship with prayer to become less complicated. I pray that praying for something to happen or not to happen will stop sounding like a joke. I pray that the joke will be funny. In prayer, time's expensive architecture will collapse, and thanking will be the same as hoping. Thank you for the Goran Bregović concert that made me cry out of joy next week. Please don't let President Obama get assassinated in the first 100 days. Help me end this prayer in a way that pleases both me and you. My pleasures are the most intense known to man: praying and doing nothing. Thanks for nothing; I owe you one.

+ + +

TH COUNTDOWN:

33-30Collapse )
29.  DE KIFT "Nauwe Mijter" (5.0 MB) -- Let's pretend this is a prayer in Dutch set to a reverse-Bo-Diddley beat. The narrator reminds me of John Doe from X. Even though John Doe's voice is a bit different from this narrator's, Doe's world-weary drawl fits right into this tune. This prayer is up there with other great pop prayers such as Jay-Z's "Moment of Clarity" and Johnny Cash's "Oh, Bury Me Not" because they would make good soundtracks for walking down the street or riding a horse down the street in slow motion, preparing either to die or save the whole town.
Link104 did it come

631660 you drowning senior citizen [12 May 2009|02:42 pm]
[Tags|, , , ]
[mood |hyperhyper]
[music |ZOMBIES "This Will Be Our Year"]

an iconic redneck from my high school died last month of cancer. We weren't friends at all -- I didn't have any -- but I clicked through 120 photographs of him on Facebook, anyhow. The Facebook miracle mirrors the miracle of capitalist democracy generally: absolute access to things we didn't know we wanted. A box on his profile contains "Recently divorced, no children. moved back home after surgery." A lady whose maiden name I recognize has commented on his wall,

When I read that you had passed my hear sank. I finally got to talk to you again and now you're gone. I'm so glad we had the chance to talk again, I only wish I could have told you what an impact you had on me. You were the first man I fell for and you will always have a very special place in my heart. To his family, I am so sorry for your loss. Please know I will never forget him and feel like one of the luckiest people in the world to have known him. I truely will never forget him.

His profile keeps detail to an efficient minimum:

Political Views: Republican Party
Religious Views: Christian
Activities: Learning to walk again.
Favorite Music: Country
Favorite TV Shows: live sports
Favorite Movies: Tombstone
Favorite Quotations: Your a daisy if do

A dude who played with me on my first soccer team (age 7, "Purple Panthers") has commented,

I wish we had reconnected before your passing. Despite you being gone, your legend lives on. No one whose life you touched will ever forget that devious smile or your incredible way to make any situation infinately more fun. Thanks for also giving me the world's coolest Dodgeball nickname in elementary school.

I am reminded of U.S. Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton, who, at Lincoln's deathbed, said either "Now he belongs to the ages" or "Now he belongs to the angels." Had Stanton been "walling" his remarks, we would not have this doubt, just as we have no doubt that my iconic fallen classmate's final "status update" was,

is looking for a Dalmation if anyone can help.

I'm struck again by how beautiful and old everybody in my high school class now looks. Their tiny profile pictures feature multiple heads. Their hairlines have scooted to make room for foreheads that wrinkle when they smile (often). My hair has thinned considerably, too, and my body aches all over, but I got carded for cigarettes this a.m., and white people still do double takes when I tell them I'm 36. That new vampire movie tells us Wolverine was born in 19th-century America, but he obviously doesn't ache the way I do. Is that why he ticks me off -- because his main power is that he ages at a crawl, but he doesn't even appreciate it? My Netflix review states, "Here's what's offensive: a guy that old -- somebody who has lived through the Civil War, WWII, Vietnam -- he shouldn't be a boring, clueless jock; he should have a UNIQUE PERSPECTIVE ON LIVING." Instead, he says things to the effect of, "Let me show you my animal nature!" I really hate him because I've been around forever, too, and my animal nature is just a stupid, stupid thing that nobody would ever admire me for showing them. In another vampire movie, a little old lady (young lady) named Eli neither celebrates nor denies nor disrespects her animal nature. She goes about her bloody business (or hires an assistant to do it) with no trumpets, which strikes me as a much more sane, normal, believable, grown-up attitude for a vampire to have.

I built a moat around Kevin Shields' food, and the ants surrendered. He thanks me by not doing anything differently whatsoever. He sits on my leg as I lie on my stomach on my bed, typing. He wakes me up at 6:00 a.m. -- breakfast -- and gets a far-off look in his eyes, spanning time, when I scruff him. Just a big baby, an old baby. A nice lady I met at a party loaned me a picture book by Maira Kalman, The Principles of Uncertainty, which contains the most vampiric, handsome portrait of Lincoln I have ever seen.

20090511_prettylincoln

I need blood, yes, but I also need love, it says. Eli, Kevin, Abe -- they say the same thing in the same Old School Monster manner, using nothing but their eyes and their powerful mutant minds.

+ + +

TH COUNTDOWN:

33-31Collapse )
30.  BIG STAR "Thirteen" (3.5 MB) -- In related vampiric news, this is my iTunes' creepiest song. 'Sfunny, I was just talking to James M. and Brian B. about how lyrics are unimportant, and this song is a perfect argument both for and against that argument. It's a lovely tune whose singing and sunny/morose guitar-picking grabbed me by the throat before I ever knew what its narrator was saying. Now that I know, I feel just like a monster and somebody that a monster killed. (Many of you already have this song; if you want a different one, ask.)
Link103 did it come

630660 burning through my darkest night [04 May 2009|10:16 pm]
[Tags|, , ]
[mood |hyperhyper]
[music |MILLS BROS "I Wish"]

how I can watch a whole season of Th Wire in one day but fail to finish Tarkovsky's Th Mirror (1975) in five days is a mystery to me, but I prefer never to blame th artist. Unlike advertising, education, and politics, all art is a gift; it begins when we accept it and ends when we say, "No, thank you." If I'm trapped in Th Mirror's first half-hour for five days, it's because I keep saying yes @ 2 in th a.m. when my body's not ready to give its full attention to ... whatever it is that Th Mirror is all about -- family, God, wizardry? A boy on a black and white television program gets cured of his stuttering problem by a hypnotist. A blonde lady sitting on a log fence smokes a cigarette. A powerful gust of wind flattens tall grasses for a moment as a middle-aged doctor crosses a field carrying a satchel. Barn's on fire. It looks like magick is about to happen when I fall asleep on th couch w/ th cat. Ah, well. Tomorrow we'll try again.

My cat has a little ant problem. They've formed a line from a crack in th wall to his food bowl. Lately they have been queuing up whether there is food in there or not. What I have mostly done in life up to this point is say yes to stories I don't understand. Yes to accidents and other people's bright ideas. No to planning for th future. They never used to do this. I wash th bowl after cat's done eating, and still they come. I wet a paper towel w/ hot water and wipe out a couple meters' worth of black soldiers. They call in reinforcements -- extra protein for cat, right?

What I love about Wong Kar-wai's last movie is that there is no Internet in it. "Some things are better on paper," says Norah Jones' character, who scribbles musings about blueberry pie on postcards to Jude Law. There's no way he can write her back -- no kommentary, no liking. She has to trust not only that her correspondence is reaching him but that he gets what she's saying. So much of growing up is learning not to trust anybody to help you or understand you and especially not to trust accidents, which are for poor people. "I did that on purpose" is our childhood's second lie, right after "I didn't do that." Too bad babies don't come out of th womb already speaking.

Meanwhile, th Internet favours improbable stories to such an extent that now any story can appear probable and therefore normal. A mouse riding a cat riding a dog? Everybody I know now thinks that that is normal, thank God. Let that be normal in America. Let everything I like be normal. Let my favourite song have 23 million hits on Youtube. She says, "I never really had a doubt," but I can't tell from how she sings it if Beyoncé is secretly surprised that an angel showed up on th scene, or if she truly thinks that this is just something that happens.


Th comix shop guy was having a conversation w/ a customer about Xbox 360 and how different being 12 now is from being 12 back in th Stone Age.

"Man, when I was 12 I was playing D&D with my mom's 30-year-old friend who let me smoke weed for the first time."
"Yeah, these days if you was hanging out with a 12-year-old that wasn't yours, people would have some questions about you."
"God, or they would put me on TV or something. It wasn't a big deal back then. You ever play D&D high?"
"High on Skittles, maybe."
"It was pretty intense. I was like, 'This is it. I am really on Middle Earth.'"

That's where people go when Regular Earth is too much for them, right? I both feel and don't feel those people. My novel takes place primarily on Regular Earth, but sometimes I strongly feel that th story needs something extra -- more travel, money, spider strength, enemies -- and my allegiance to Regular Earth won't allow me to fabricate these things. I have to leave my basement and my cat and get out there

alive alive alive alive

and make plot happen and allow other plot to happen and stop being so in love w/ th cartoon piano and simultaneously terrified into paralysis by th regular piano. I mean, somebody had to put th velcro on th cat's paws and th dog's back, and little kids don't just spontaneously burst into Coldplay. I didn't plan on liking Coldplay, but I reckon now I do.

+ + +

TH COUNTDOWN:

33-32Collapse )
31.  RADIOACTIVE SAGO PROJECT "Astro" (5.3 MB) (Will take a stab @ translation if anybody's interested.)
Link106 did it come

629660 there is a wave that hit it [21 Apr 2009|08:08 pm]
[Tags|, , , , ]
[mood |hyperhyper]
[music |DENNIS ALCAPONE "Rocking to Ethiopia"]

hey, man, your suicide graduated from college! It all ended/began four years ago yesterday, and I couldn't think of a fitting tribute, so I turned off my phone and went to bed with the lights on (including the sun). When I woke up, your mum had left me a voicemail message. We've been calling each other on the day, the last four years, just to say hello and "I just wanted to say hello, you know?" I called her back, and now we're going to be Facebook friends; can you dig this 2009 world? She lives in North Carolina now -- near where Adam and family live, outside Raleigh -- and has a good new job working for the North Carolina Department of Health, helping Mexican families whose kids have a high chance of being retarded, something like that. Her second granddaughter is on its way, any second now -- Adam and Allicia's second daughter, your second unmet niece! Now I have two nephews my own self; we'd have so much in common if I were dead. So much can stay the same in four years. Eran and I still don't shy away from making suicide jokes at your expense. This is, of course, entirely your fault for dying of smoke on 4/20. Nobody will make me believe that you weren't laughing it all up when you drafted the plans. Hitler's birthday? Columbine H.S. deathiversary? You knew, you fucking asshole. Over the weekend I went to Portland, OR, to hang out with my cool friends after they all helped me find a cheap last-minute plane ticket to Seattle. The plan was

Fri drive Megatron from work (dogs) --> parking garage near BWI
parking garage shuttle bus --> BWI
17:05 BWI --> 19:11 PHX
20:02 PHX --> 23:03 SEA
crash in Caitlin's bathtub
Sat 07:30 train w/ Cait --> PDX
be happy
Sun 16:20 train --> SEA
10:25 SEA --> 06:12 (Mon) CLT
07:55 CLT --> 9:17 BWI
shuttle bus --> parking garage
drive Megatron --> work (dogs)

It was a fairly tight plan that I could have fucked up at any of its joints, but I didn't wait long: I missed my flight to Phoenix. Too much beltway traffic I neglected to account for. Life is hard, you know? Of course you do. Life is hard, and if you're a lifelong fuckup, it's harder. At the US Airways counter, a nice moustachioed man told me all flights to SEA and PDX the rest of the day were full. Come back tomorrow a.m., he said. Tomorrow! Is this America, or is this Soviet Union? Oh, it is Soviet Union? I killed myself then. No planning, no excuses. I texted Sascha and Cait -- "Now I'm going to kill myself. See you tomorrow." -- and then I just did it! It was freeing, you know? Of course you do. None of my life's failures mattered anymore. The number in my bank account was now irrelevant. Climate change, the economic downspurt, the Jews, the Christians, the Muslims, and the bomb -- they were all somebody else's problem now. Sascha texted me back, suggesting that Portland was a "living-centric" sort of town and that I should seriously consider delaying my suicide, but it was too late. And you know what, Gordon? I had a very famous weekend! On the Coast Starlight from Portland to Tacoma, Cait and Noah and I made an absolutely-safe-for-work one-page jam comix. A scrawny black cat named Gizmo forced me to spoon it. Jenelle made me a black forest ham and cave-aged Gruyère crêpe (not pictured) with honey mustard and an extra egg. I got to control the crêperie's iPod during the peak drunk hours of midnight to 3:00, and one customer said, "Nice music" during Chamillionaire's "Grown and Sexy"; and I said, "I know. I'm a selector." Theo Ellsworth shook my hand and thanked me for reading his book. It was me that he had had in mind when he drew it, he admitted. Maria Sputnik's and my comix story, "44 Presidents", was nominated for an award at Stumptown Comix Fest. I'm not sure if it won. (The award was for Best Work Of Art Made, Thus Far.) I commented back and forth with Stacie P., just like on the Internet, except she was there in front of me, animated and beaming. My attorney and I sat on two stools made from tree stumps and bullshitted about the future, just like we always did when I was alive. I told him,

"I'm just like everyone else, I'm good at the things I've practiced a lot. It's just that the things I've practiced a lot are really stupid, like updating the Internet, and going to a town one day, and leaving the next day."

He said something like,

"Well, MZA, I'm not so sure it's stupid. Look at me. What I'm best at is evading boredom. That's my stupid thing. The thing I practice."

"You're very, very successful at it. I get it. I'm never bored, neither. It all just seems so effortless. I like going around meeting famous people and talking to them. And you know what the best, most suspicious part of it is? It takes no work at all."

My attorney poked me in the chest and shook his head.

"Millions of hours of work, MZA. Millions."

You see what we mean? I can't be dead yet, even if nobody treats me differently when I'm dead -- dog, even if everybody treats me better when I'm dead. I call a do-over. There's some real stuff that needs practicing. You've missed a lot in the last four years. We have a black president now. Let the haters try to come at him. I'm going to be there, taking bullets. There's an Internet novel to be finished. What do you mean? This IS the novel! Maria Sputnik and I have a wee book coming out that you can pre-order on Amazon! Well, you can't, but whose fault is that? Nat and Shanny and I have a big secret project that will make you turn over in your grave (in the good way, like a dolphin). Rome and I have a monster movie to complete, and it won't be anything like Jean-Luc Godard. I was watching some Godard shit the other night, and there's a beautiful Russian Jew girl in it who says, "Suicide is the only philosophical question of importance." She wants to be the first suicide in history who does it not out of sadness, nor for a belief, nor glory, but only out of a loving curiosity. Is that possible?

I was all, "Damn you, Godard, I wanna duel you to the death, but you're gonna make me remember this lady, forever." At the end of the movie, she stands up in a crowded Israeli movie theater and tells everybody to get out, that she has a bomb in her backpack. IDF snipers rush in and cut her down. They open the backpack: books. She loved books, just like you! And I was all,

I miss you. I don't care why you did it. Prince said, "I love U more than I did when U were mine." Bubbles from The Wire said, "Ain't no shame in holding on to grief. Long as you make room for other things, too." Allen Iverson said, "We talkin' bout practice! We talkin' bout practice! Practice!?" Practice being sad and not being sad with equal fervor. Practice saying goodbye until everybody lives in the same town.

+ + +


THE COUNTDOWN:
33.  AISLERS SET "Mary's Song" (7.3 MB)
32.  YOU AM I "Heavy Heart" (If anyone wants an mp3 of it, ask.)
Link104 did it come

628660 old dogs new tricks old tricks new dogs [13 Apr 2009|06:16 pm]
[Tags|, , , , , ]
[mood |hyperhyper]
[music |TEENAGE FANCLUB "Dumb Dumb Dumb"]

there's a little kid named 4 PoundZ who does rap who appears to operate out of his kid sister's bedroom somewhere in Chicago, whom th Youtube commentators love to crucify. "Those aren't my Barbies. They're my sister's," he rebuts, and even in 2009 -- 18 years after I signed up for my first e-mail address, innocently -- it is a moment of profound Internet weirdness. Yesterday I heard Big Star's "Jesus Christ" on repeat and thought Old Man Thoughts such as, "Music used to be much better, didn't it?"

We have to credit non-Christians, too, for Christianity's success. Unbelievers have had 2000 years to concoct a narrative to trump Christ's life/crucifixion/resurrection in th collective imagination, and th best they've come up w/ is th story of untrammeled upward social mobility driven by insatiable consumerism. Get wealth. Get stuff. Get envied. Get loved. Die wanting more. Even rappers who play w/ Barbies know this story by heart. It's simple, and it's got legs -- which you need if you plan on outrunning Jesus -- but I have to put my foot down like Peggy Lee. Is that all there is?

A few days before Obama became king, I had th misfortune of seeing Notorious (Tillman, 2009, 3.0 stars), in which Notorious B.I.G. is exposed as being just as boring and empty as any soccer mom. My love for his music, which makes me laugh and feel warm feelings, remains undamaged (as does my love for all soccer moms in my life), but damn it! Take away his beats and his flow and whatever images they trigger inside my brain, and what have you got left? Sitcoms, soap opera, and SUVs -- all of which we (you, me, Biggie, yr moms) pursue because it certainly beats loving our enemies or contemplating our alienation from our own culture. Does it? Den why does Jesus keep coming back from th dead every year -- same way, same channel -- bringing a promise of Something Bigger?

My search for new stories, including my own, continues undaunted. When people ask me how my novel is coming along, I say, "What do you mean? This IS my novel." This. When I am walking toward my car in my high school's parking lot, and my car subtly retreats from me as I approach it, and behind me my high school is Home Depot, and Home Depot is growing to th size of a Dubai skyscraper, and I wake up thinking, "That's th last time I make out w/ you inside my high school!" -- that is my novel.

When I watch a movie I really like, and one of its themes connects to a theme of a comix book I just read, and I have to tell my BFFs about it immediately, but den I don't because it's 4:00 in th a.m. -- that's my novel. When I give up shyness for Lent but don't really get to test it out because I never leave th house for a whole month, that is my novel. When I test out my new, artificial lack of shyness by making small talk (which I hate) w/ th proprietor of a dog-grooming shop, and that conversation leads to my acquiring a new client -- a golden retriever w/ a surgically-repaired hind leg who has to be walked w/ his ass in a sling for th next 4 weeks -- that's my novel, too. When I'm a mindless consumer. When I'm a mindful consumer. When feelings feelings feelings feelings. When I write about it on Neflix:

I love you, suicide bomber

Nothing happens in this novel except for small things. No funerals, weddings, or brand new babies occur. No Enrons get caught red-handed. Neither of my brothers goes to war. It ends 33 entries in th future w/ me typing painfully slowly and den clicking submit, causing th whole Internet to eat a fiery atomic Armageddon.

Last night's movie features a Gentile and a Jew bullshitting back and forth in French, which is generally all that happens in Godard's later movies.

"Tell me," says th Gentile. "Do writers know what they're talking about? Do they really know?"

"Of course not," says th Jew. "Homer knew nothing of battlefields, massacres, triumphs, or glory. He's blind and bored. He has to settle for recounting what others did."

"Possibly. There's a contradiction."

"Those who act never have the ability to say or think adequately about what they do. Conversely, those who tell stories don't know what they're talking about."

Since finishing Season 5 of Th Wire, I've given a lot of thought to th topic of how to keep audiences on th edges of their seats, and my new foolproof solution is to make th seats extra small, via hypnotic suggestion. How do you feel now? That seat is so small. Yr ass is so big. If that didn't work, my even newer foolproof solution is to talk about nothing except Obama's Portuguese water dog, our economic Armageddon, Obama's Portuguese water dog, Obama's Portuguese water dog, and girls. Blame David Simon, Ed Burns, et al., who kept me on th edge of my seat for 10 consecutive hours, using nothing but th American dream -- get wealth, get stuff, etc. -- but doing it in a way that made everyday clichés jump! Life is hard; and if you aren't hard, too, you're being disrespectful to life. Marlo Stanfield had a catchier way of putting it, but I forgot it.[1]

20090408_confrontdog

Now Th Wire's over, and we can grieve for a godforsaken TV show if we want; but th American city -- from th politicians @ th top to th heroin addicts @ th bottom -- stays th same. Same bullshit on repeat. My Dominican student made fun of my face (which I am secretly hoping will scar) and once mimicked me in White Person Voice, which went something like this:

"Cut it out, Angel."
"Cut it out, Angel."
"Did you just give me White Person Voice? Why did you do that?"
"I don't know."

He's a 16-year-old who reads like a third-grader, and all I care about is how many white people love Th Wire. This is what's wrong w/ America's education system. This is what's wrong w/ art, even great art. What good is a work of art that doesn't magickally remake th world in its image?

20090329_fourteen

I turn off th TV and pick up th comix. Between ornate drawings of magickal forests and biological cityscapes, Theo Ellsworth tucks th following no-nonsense caption:

Stories always get more complex the closer I look at them. Even the tiniest character could have whole worlds inside of them, and those worlds could be filled with characters that have stories of their own. I become terrified of losing myself.

I think of Natalie and how her whole thing seems to be figuring people out through persistent inquiry, deeper and deeper, and why I find that enterprise risky and admirable.

20090329_twirl

And th opposite of that, people who live like Meiko Kaji @ th end of Scorpion: Beast Stable (Shunya Ito, 1973, 8.0 stars), walking away from th scene of th crime (a pile of abused corpses), pushing continually onward into th sequel.

20090324_janitorback

Meanwhile, here's Jesus Christ on repeat, dying and coming back, and every time, he ends up saying, "Yup, you nailed me. Nope, my enemies still don't love me back." Mebbe next year, Christ. Nothing's sad as long as somebody's watching.

[2]

________

FootnotesCollapse )
Link108 did it come

627660 the brown something [18 Mar 2009|11:08 am]
[Tags|, , ]
[mood |hyperhyper]
[music |CYPRESS HILL "Th Phuncky Feel One"]

one of my tutoring jobs is a weekly two-hour session at a D.C. charter school assisting 10th-graders with reading comprehension. They lack all academic motivation, have little respect for me, and appear to be interested primarily in street-fighting, above even sports and fucking. I am certain that if allowed, my students would be happy to fill up the entire class period trading stories about who got jumped and why, the hilarious pleasure of seeing the drunken wobble of somebody who has just gotten punched hard in the head, and why anybody who fucks with them is going to have their ass sharpened. Their stories are filled with joyful sound effects that bear little resemblance to actual sounds of flesh and bone hitting flesh and bone. Ping. Donk. Buh, buh, buh, buh! I'm already tired of my fighting story, not because there really was no fight -- although that is true -- and not because I have had to tell it 100 times in the last two days, but because compared to my students' wicked tellings, mine looks sad, pale, and diagrammatic. Eran calls me the morning after to invite me to lunch.

"No can do," I say. "I'm still in New York."
"Gotcha. What are you doing?"
"Seeing 18th Dye tonight. I have a shiner."
"A shiner?"
"Yeah, Rome and I got attacked by a crazed graffiti guy."
"What happened?"
"I'll give you the cliffsnotes version. We were leaving a bar in Greenpoint -- me and Rome and Erikka -- and passed a Latino guy tagging the side of a restaurant. As we passed, he yelled out something like, 'This is what happens to gentrifiers!'"
"He actually said that?"
"Yeah, or something equally mega-gay. Anyhow, Erikka yelled back at him, 'Fuck you, your tag sucks!' She's conspicuously blonde and blue-eyed, you know, so this gentrification thing probably hits close to home. And he yelled back at us, but we just kept walking, and Erikka kept shit-talking the graffiti guy, and then for whatever reason, Rome joined in the shit-talking too, and I reckon I was complicit, too, because I was laughing at some stuff Rome was saying. When he said, 'Your tag looks like a tiny penis with herpes! Mas pequeña!' that might have been the final straw."
"Touched a nerve."
"Yeah, I guess the guy was a little sensitive about his art. Did I tell you his graffiti name? It was Bug."
"How big was this guy?"
"Maybe my height, 5'8", but stockier. Anyhow, he ran down the block after us, and at first he was trying to spray us with his spray paint can."
"Spray you? Why?"
"I don't know. That part was mega-gay, too, and he must have realized just how mega-gay he looked at that moment, trying to spray-paint Rome's jacket -- you know, 'I tagged your jacket, now what do you have to say, bitch!' -- and decided to take it to the next level. He also had a girl with him, so that probably upped the macho factor."
"Now it's all coming clear."
"Yeah, so he took a swing at Rome, while holding the spray can, and to me it didn't look like he connected? And Rome sort of pushed him away, and I went to stand between him and Erikka -- not approaching and not backing off -- and he sort of backed off a little. And I made a mistake: I thought it was over. Because he didn't seem all that committed to fighting. I didn't suspect he wanted to fight me for real! And I shouldn't have turned my back to him, but that's what I did. I turned to walk away, and he rushed up behind me and clocked me on my left eye. My glasses went flying. Someone called the police and an ambulance -- it turned out that the graffiti guy had caught Rome with the edge of the spray can right on his forehead. Blood everywhere. It needed 11 stitches."
"The two of you got your asses kicked by one smallish, sensitive graffiti artist named Bug?"
"If you really have your heart set on putting it that way." WWDMD?
"YahahahaHA naww mane, I just wanted to make sure I had the details straight. Oh! Jennifer just reminded me: happy birthday!"

He was nicehand of healing
20090316_zombie
Never turn yr back on a potential assailant'Wait it's your birthday?'
not quite as funny just then
I love yr whole face
th better to not see you w/

Sometimes you tell the story, and sometimes the story tells you. When my students ask me about the shiner, I am going to lie my face off.
Link131 did it come

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