Monday, January 12, 2009
Crybaby
As an adult, I try to operate as much in the "adult world" as possible. My friends are all well into their twenties, decently educated and have similar adult interests. I consume alcohol, drive cars, shop in the "men's" department, and even enjoy the carnal company of a willing female from time to time. While my humor, hygiene, and life goals have really not changed since age thirteen, I am slowly assimilating to adult culture. I have no problem with getting old and hardly ever desire the whimsical endeavours of my more youthful days. I love being able to make my own decisions and take responsibility for my mistakes. I have spent nearly a quarter of a century working hard in school, joining the workforce, and etching out strong relationships that have been vital to my development. That is precisely why I have a an extreme dislike for babies (hate seems like a really cruel word).
Now I know what you're thinking, "Weren't you at one time a baby? Wouldn't it be self-destructive , misanthropic, or even nihilistic to condemn the natural order of life." Of course not. See I don't have any problem with the living, breathing baby. I mean a lot of babies grow up an do extraordinary things. Michael Douglas was a baby. Even James Brown was a baby at some time. I have a problem with the role of babies in our society. See babies can do whatever they want and be completely oblivious to any ramifications. They're like shaved cats that don't know how to clean themselves. I challenge a baby to do any of the things I do on a daily basis. Let's go down the list. They can't feed themselves, they can't wash themselves, they can't walk on two feet, they can't talk, and they don't know how to use toilets. They have no idea how much their parents or guardians have to work to keep them alive. In fact, you probably don't know what pain in the ass a baby is until you have one of your own. To make it worse, everyone seems to gawk and gape at babies like they're some sort of sparkling engagement ring behind foggy glass. Smitten spectators like to squeeze, pinch, hold, and, for some Godforsaken reason, talk in cartoonish voices to babies. All the time the baby stares blankly with fishbowl eyes and creepily squeezes his pudgy fingers. His legs dangle like shrink wrapped bologna at a deli counter and drool cascades from his little mouth. His role has been defined by the adults that surround him.
Of course most of my animosity towards babies stems from severe envy. When I finally entered the adult world, I felt as though I had just gained access into some exclusive club. Now that I have been an adult for some time, I realize that this "club" is shit. Babies really have it down. As an adult, I have to work, acquire food, keep a socially acceptable level of hygiene, pay for my less-than extravagant lifestyle, and not fuck up too bad. On the other hand, babies are on a constant vacation. They get to eat liquidy food (sweet!) and don't have to worry about any bills. Furthermore, they can shit and piss themselves whenever they want and are forced to suck on titties to survive. They shower in a sink and get a little celebration if they talk or walk. Whenever I see babies, I am reminded of all the societal norms that constantly dictate how I live my life. Fuck it, age ain't nothin' but a number. I'm takin' it back. Fuck you babies and your pampered lifestyle. Try living just one day in my world.
Now I know what you're thinking, "Weren't you at one time a baby? Wouldn't it be self-destructive , misanthropic, or even nihilistic to condemn the natural order of life." Of course not. See I don't have any problem with the living, breathing baby. I mean a lot of babies grow up an do extraordinary things. Michael Douglas was a baby. Even James Brown was a baby at some time. I have a problem with the role of babies in our society. See babies can do whatever they want and be completely oblivious to any ramifications. They're like shaved cats that don't know how to clean themselves. I challenge a baby to do any of the things I do on a daily basis. Let's go down the list. They can't feed themselves, they can't wash themselves, they can't walk on two feet, they can't talk, and they don't know how to use toilets. They have no idea how much their parents or guardians have to work to keep them alive. In fact, you probably don't know what pain in the ass a baby is until you have one of your own. To make it worse, everyone seems to gawk and gape at babies like they're some sort of sparkling engagement ring behind foggy glass. Smitten spectators like to squeeze, pinch, hold, and, for some Godforsaken reason, talk in cartoonish voices to babies. All the time the baby stares blankly with fishbowl eyes and creepily squeezes his pudgy fingers. His legs dangle like shrink wrapped bologna at a deli counter and drool cascades from his little mouth. His role has been defined by the adults that surround him.
Of course most of my animosity towards babies stems from severe envy. When I finally entered the adult world, I felt as though I had just gained access into some exclusive club. Now that I have been an adult for some time, I realize that this "club" is shit. Babies really have it down. As an adult, I have to work, acquire food, keep a socially acceptable level of hygiene, pay for my less-than extravagant lifestyle, and not fuck up too bad. On the other hand, babies are on a constant vacation. They get to eat liquidy food (sweet!) and don't have to worry about any bills. Furthermore, they can shit and piss themselves whenever they want and are forced to suck on titties to survive. They shower in a sink and get a little celebration if they talk or walk. Whenever I see babies, I am reminded of all the societal norms that constantly dictate how I live my life. Fuck it, age ain't nothin' but a number. I'm takin' it back. Fuck you babies and your pampered lifestyle. Try living just one day in my world.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Real Reality, part 1
Thread count is important, he thought. Thread count is not just a casual allusion to status in cocktail party discussion but, rather, one of those subtle references to a man's character, his true spirit. Thread count was, in fact, the single factor in determining Fred's living arrangement. He had moved into the basement apartment with his girlfriend Lori, two years ago after a passionate discussion in the "Bedding" department of Linens 'N Things (or maybe it was Bed, Bath, and Beyond).
"Baby, I know it's a little more money but think about the thread count." Lori's blue veins seemed to stretch back her eyebrows as she prepared to defend her position. "Goddamn," is what Fred thought but, "Fuck," is what he said, a strategically placed expletive to conceed his defeat and introduce the obligatory, impotent reply.
"Fuck, I don't even know what thread count means." Truthfully, Fred had heard the both the word "thread" and "count" but never in such a definitive progression. He briefly connected them to a sports term. The veins in Lori's head receded, as if to signify her victory and slide in to collect her winnings. She lectured Fred, elevating thread count as the defining characteristic in blanket shopping. Clearly, the thread count not only exposed the quality and distinctiveness of the brand, but also spoke unequivocally about the deep sense of comfort potentially connected to the particular piece of bedding. Lori examined various fabrics, noting the prestige based on thread count. Fred was not only dazzled by Lori's seamless flow of words on an obscure subject, but her to equip Fred with the tools necessary for future shopping. Fred could not live without her, he thought. Two weeks later, Fred agreed to move into Lori's apartment.
"Baby, I know it's a little more money but think about the thread count." Lori's blue veins seemed to stretch back her eyebrows as she prepared to defend her position. "Goddamn," is what Fred thought but, "Fuck," is what he said, a strategically placed expletive to conceed his defeat and introduce the obligatory, impotent reply.
"Fuck, I don't even know what thread count means." Truthfully, Fred had heard the both the word "thread" and "count" but never in such a definitive progression. He briefly connected them to a sports term. The veins in Lori's head receded, as if to signify her victory and slide in to collect her winnings. She lectured Fred, elevating thread count as the defining characteristic in blanket shopping. Clearly, the thread count not only exposed the quality and distinctiveness of the brand, but also spoke unequivocally about the deep sense of comfort potentially connected to the particular piece of bedding. Lori examined various fabrics, noting the prestige based on thread count. Fred was not only dazzled by Lori's seamless flow of words on an obscure subject, but her to equip Fred with the tools necessary for future shopping. Fred could not live without her, he thought. Two weeks later, Fred agreed to move into Lori's apartment.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Friday, April 22, 2005
Professional Wino
American society embraces the rhythmic flow of social development. Elementary school tempts the appetite with finger painting and nap time, but those dreams are soon crushed with the commencement of middle school. Thirteen is a beacon of awkwardness. Hair spurts in the dark crevasses of your body. There are weird explosions that make the Darth Vader cartoon pictures on your bedsheets look like the marshmallow man. Finally, these changes happen at the precise time that appearance and civility rises to the forefront. In elementary school the teachers asked you to bring a change of clothes in case you soiled yourself during recess. Involuntary bodily functions were a normal occurence and fully embraced. At thirteen, sweat glands suddenly decide to come out and play, and instead of being the guy that gets picked last in kickball, they act like the asshole who yells "penis" during the school production of "The Sound of Music."
Of course the fine folks who crafted the public education institutions decided to throw all these thirteen year olds into an old building, lined with linoleum floors and barbaric lockers. The thirteen year olds spend six hours of their day in these buildings learning things that they will never remeber and slowly discovering that the blond girl in the front row of biology class makes it difficult to stand up when the bell rings. In a few years of middle school all the kids are assumed to have worked their kinks out and realize that deodorant is a necessary daily application. Thus, the young people are sent to the next rung called high school. Here the students learn business by selling drugs and discover the least amount of effort to put forth to get through to the next level. Ironically these important lessons are just a side effect of the institution, unintended yet accomplished. Finally, when a student's time has expired in high school, most students go to more school. College, however, begins the long circle back to childhood. For the first time in awhile choice, and not just the illusion of choice is available for the student. There is a plethora of class choices and even choices for teachers. Most students even move away from their home.
But up until now, this horrible cycle is not really my point of concern. We all go through it, and it is as futile as trying to squeeze a condom over Star Jones' head. Perhaps, it has to do with my age or the effects of psychedelic drugs, but presently I am considering exactly what I want to do post college. The over fifteen years of schooling has taught me that I don't need anymore, and most of the jobs seem horribly unamusing and minimal in their benefits. However, their is one job I believe I am perfectly suited for: professional wino. Wino, as a profession, dates back centuries to ancient Greek society when highest breed of intellectual first decided to make an urn filled with alcohol a necessary accessory for any occassion. Over the years, the position has experienced many permutations, all of which were extremely necessary to the evoltuon of the entire industry. In 1875 in Oklahoma City, Carlyle Duncan made great strides for the wino community when he exposed himself to a statue of Grover Cleveland. He also marked the first chronicled occurrence of public urination. He was a great man.
There is a fragile, symbiotic relationship between the wino and straight society. Both benefit but neither realizes the extent of the others' influence. The man talking frantically to himself about the failures of capitalism is not only a spectacle on the sidewalk, but occupies police officers, obliterates insecurities in paranoid businessmen, and enhances the general ambience of any city. Conversely for the wino, the city provides a canvas for observations, the buildings and parks create places for congregation, and passer-bys even occassionally contribute money to his habit.
So after a few months of horrifying introspection and self-discovery I realize that professional wino is probably the best suited job for me. I really enjoy drinking and consider myself pretty good at drinking. Furthermore, drinking outside and in parks is one of my favorite activities. I have ideas but lack the motivation to actually do anything with them. Therefore, a public forum to voice my opininons would be very fitting. Finally, I hate showers and any type of soap with a passion only matched by my hatred of those miserable hacks at Fisher Price. So keep your eye out in the major cities because Im training to be a professional wino.
Of course the fine folks who crafted the public education institutions decided to throw all these thirteen year olds into an old building, lined with linoleum floors and barbaric lockers. The thirteen year olds spend six hours of their day in these buildings learning things that they will never remeber and slowly discovering that the blond girl in the front row of biology class makes it difficult to stand up when the bell rings. In a few years of middle school all the kids are assumed to have worked their kinks out and realize that deodorant is a necessary daily application. Thus, the young people are sent to the next rung called high school. Here the students learn business by selling drugs and discover the least amount of effort to put forth to get through to the next level. Ironically these important lessons are just a side effect of the institution, unintended yet accomplished. Finally, when a student's time has expired in high school, most students go to more school. College, however, begins the long circle back to childhood. For the first time in awhile choice, and not just the illusion of choice is available for the student. There is a plethora of class choices and even choices for teachers. Most students even move away from their home.
But up until now, this horrible cycle is not really my point of concern. We all go through it, and it is as futile as trying to squeeze a condom over Star Jones' head. Perhaps, it has to do with my age or the effects of psychedelic drugs, but presently I am considering exactly what I want to do post college. The over fifteen years of schooling has taught me that I don't need anymore, and most of the jobs seem horribly unamusing and minimal in their benefits. However, their is one job I believe I am perfectly suited for: professional wino. Wino, as a profession, dates back centuries to ancient Greek society when highest breed of intellectual first decided to make an urn filled with alcohol a necessary accessory for any occassion. Over the years, the position has experienced many permutations, all of which were extremely necessary to the evoltuon of the entire industry. In 1875 in Oklahoma City, Carlyle Duncan made great strides for the wino community when he exposed himself to a statue of Grover Cleveland. He also marked the first chronicled occurrence of public urination. He was a great man.
There is a fragile, symbiotic relationship between the wino and straight society. Both benefit but neither realizes the extent of the others' influence. The man talking frantically to himself about the failures of capitalism is not only a spectacle on the sidewalk, but occupies police officers, obliterates insecurities in paranoid businessmen, and enhances the general ambience of any city. Conversely for the wino, the city provides a canvas for observations, the buildings and parks create places for congregation, and passer-bys even occassionally contribute money to his habit.
So after a few months of horrifying introspection and self-discovery I realize that professional wino is probably the best suited job for me. I really enjoy drinking and consider myself pretty good at drinking. Furthermore, drinking outside and in parks is one of my favorite activities. I have ideas but lack the motivation to actually do anything with them. Therefore, a public forum to voice my opininons would be very fitting. Finally, I hate showers and any type of soap with a passion only matched by my hatred of those miserable hacks at Fisher Price. So keep your eye out in the major cities because Im training to be a professional wino.
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