Honest to Badness . . .

2011-01-25T15:26:00.000-08:00

“It was a human sausage.”

This morning – this exceptionally cold, eyelashes-frozen-together morning, as I stood there in the train, thawing off in the moist heat of some Asian woman’s armpit, I had what one might call an “epiphany” (smart people refer to these things as they really are: brief run-ins with impending mental collapses).

This epiphany (as so many of these darling things are) was as delightfully simple as it was infuriatingly complex. And as the local train from Queens to Manhattan lurched to another stop where three perfectly spherical women were allowed to live out the metaphor of being a round peg trying to fit into a square hole, the silent mantra echoed in my head.

“Jeph?” it said to me.

My eye twitched involuntarily.

“Y...Yes?” I called back.

“You’re standing in an Asian woman’s armpit. You’re standing in an Asian woman’s armpit. You’re standing in an Asi–”

I shook my head and looked away from the floor, where I had hitherto diverted my attention (and, more importantly, my nose). But what I saw was even more disconcerting.

Our train car had become a human-fucking-sausage, jam-packed with frowning faces, flushed cheeks and the odd protruding limb here and there. Those few “lucky” people that had managed to snag seats looked equally uncomfortable with their bags lifted to their chins and shoulders shrugged up to their ears. When the train stopped, a wave of bodies rippled throughout the car, never breaking as the flexible human membrane always managed to inadvertently support one another.

Now, New Yorkers are, most assuredly, a different sort of breed of people altogether. They’re less patient than, say, the drawling, pleasant time-killer of your average Texan. They’re dirtier than, oh, you know...rats. Smiling pains them so much, that by the time they’ve reached the age of forty, their faces hold the constant of expression as of one who is always – always – smelling something foul.

As heinous as all these attributes sound, you really do still have to wonder, when it’s all said and done, what sort of person would do this to themselves? I mean, I don’t care what you’ve done or haven’t done in your life that you’re upset about – I don’t care if you're Judas or Jeffrey Dahmer – you don’t deserve this.

It’s eight o’clock in the morning. I’m already going somewhere I don’t want to go, to do something I don’t want to do, to get paid a wage half what I should be getting – WHY MAKE THINGS THAT MUCH WORSE?!

In a world where you don’t matter – at fucking all – why should every second of your life have to be such a blatant reminder?

On being utterly incompetent

2010-11-13T07:50:00.001-08:00

There are certain things I simply don't get.

This goes beyond the ordinary complaints about why women are allowed to do anything but have children, or why euthanasia and abortion aren't made into mandated practices for certain (most) individuals and circumstances. It's actually a good deal more frustrating than all that.

Every morning, as I don the costume of one who's succumbed to the dull practices of corporate American life, a few things cross my mind. The first being, of course, "Why?" -- why what? -- why everything. The second, "After I figure out how to put this tie on, I'm going to learn to tie a proper sailor's knot, so I can hang myself in some construction yard." The third comes more in the form of -- not so much a realization as a general...habit of sorts. I open my laptop, go to YouTube and, as I do every morning, follow a tutorial on how to tie a half-windsor.

Every morning.

It donned as me, as I was laying long strips of toilet paper across the toilet seat, that I also had no idea how to work the toilet seat covers you find in so many restaurants and, as it was in this case, airports. It's not that I haven't tried. Quite in fact, I've tried any number of times -- to horrid and discouraging effect. Either the little flap down the center (am I supposed to tear that off? -- what do I do with that?) droops into the water and gets sucked in before I get my cheeks to the seat, or -- well, something -- something else happens.

Point is, it's never been pretty.

And the other point is, something must be wrong with me.

Even after dozens of repetitions, I simply cannot process certain things and actions -- not even those which require the most rude of our wide arsenal of motor skills.

People like to come up with all manner of excuses for their shortcomings. Like "big-boned" people, people who are "just too creative to think like that," or people who, you know, "need" marijuana to sleep.

I'm just going to accept it for what it is, though.

I must be retarded. And if there were a line for an extermination camp-styled facility, you'd better believe I'd be right up front.

Gay Wrongs

2010-09-21T21:23:00.000-07:00

To be frank (and Frank is such a lovely person to be), I think it’s quite obvious that our very narrow definitions of “right” and “wrong” are not just teetering on the edge of utter desuetude, but have been violently shoved off into the abyss by what can only be described as a beautiful, streamlined utilitarianism. They were dispensed so quickly and so noiselessly—a blunder, I think, but one that a utilitarian would be wont to make in the absence of any reason to perform the execution otherwise—that only a handful of the Neanderthals (see: Tea Party) were able to tear themselves from sniffing their forefingers before plodding over the edge after them.

But I’m not going to argue about which is morally or ethically apropos, in regards to the issue of homosexuals on the battlefield. I quite honestly couldn’t care any less about what you or anyone else thought was “right,” by any measure of the imagination, nor would I ever presume to impose my opinion (on this matter or any other) on anyone else.

I would instead appeal solely to logic here, and this should be a very simple matter for all parties involved.

What is most astounding in this entire silly situation is the degree to which we have so complicated War. It is no secret that animals compete for success in the wild, and that there is no logical distinction that can be drawn between man and beast in this (or, as we continue to dissect the matter, any) respect. No matter how misanthropic you are, the pointlessness of your mundane career, the number of Israelis you take out with you when you self-destruct—the end result, so long as you continue to abide by governing forces that are human (this includes you, you sociopaths out there, as you still are governed by your interest in yourself and self-preservation) is that you fit into a very complex system working toward a very obvious goal: the preservation of the human species.

There is competition among the human species, naturally, just as there is interspecies competition in any animal. Now, ordinarily, these interspecies competitions are resolved by that golden Darwinian anthem of “survival of the fittest,” and so it was for humans for many, many generations. Yet suddenly, onto the scene there appeared a code of conduct in war—a way of carrying out what one might not just call a victory but a noble victory instead. Introduce the atom bomb some time later, and the rules change again, this time, out of sheer paranoia that someone might make a Hiroshima out of New York City.

Rules, you see, to keep the species alive, but giving the nations a continued opportunity for war.

We may still compete, and someone may still come out the victor. This may be done in one of two ways, or a combination of both: 1) out of sheer numbers and by way of attrition; or 2) by being on the team with the more sophisticated weaponry.

The Americans have the potential to utilize both options 1 and 2 simultaneously.

But you know what makes more sense? Clinging on to a desperate sense of morality, rather than bolstering its troops with more bodies. I mean, I know if I were a heterosexual soldier with bullets whizzing past my head, grenades exploding a few meters from my cover, and exploding Allah-crazed idiots running all over the place, my primary concern would be whether or not Jim was thinking about fucking me in the ass.

Now is the time to be asking ourselves where our priorities really lie.

2010-09-14T19:58:00.000-07:00

“Isolation is the best environment for creativity.”

The words struck me hard—hard enough, it would seem, to knock me out of bed and into the computer chair. Shaken, and all but in a cold, melodramatic sweat, I sit now, contemplating not only the veracity of these words but their applicability, as well. And I find myself once again placed before the chasm of existential doubt, a yawning, inescapably obvious unimportance ahead of me, and that fleeting sense of pride I’ve never been able to turn around and face.

It is by no coincidence that this phrase should stem from the mind of a very accomplished writer (Orson Scott Card), nor that its significance should be anything less than as dazzling and multifaceted as any diamond worth a look at. On the surface, the easiest of conclusions we might draw from the phrase would be that humble artistic honesty, a confession of somber loneliness as per the demands of mastering so difficult as a task as having an idea—and, moreover, recording said idea into something anyone else would be interested in hearing about. “I can’t write without being left the bloody hell alone.” It’s simple. It’s trite. Yet it is superficial, and it’s not the whole enchilada.

The world is obsessed with endings. It’s written into our very adages—“a means to an end,” “the end is nigh,” “the end”—to such a degree that we have developed a very special relationship to endings, not unlike addiction. The perpetual race to the finish line is preempted by the ending of our wait to begin the race; the book is read in order that we might finish it; a painter begins, not to begin (that would be profane), but to finish. We fornicate and finish.

We build our religions on endings. Christianity encourages you to cast this life in the discard pile and skip your happy, winged ass to heaven to hang out with a bunch of other equally boring people. Jesus himself was a completely tragic case of one being wholly (har-har) addicted to his work—so much so that he couldn’t wait to die the first time, and now can’t wait to kill the rest of us get this show on the road and wrap up this nasty business of time. Meanwhile, the Muslims are literally ticking time bombs, and the Mormons are only looking forward to infinite dicking in their endings (yet another pun).

Scientists love endings too, being intrinsically drawn to that same mystery which compels religious idiots—only their efforts are more directed to an understanding on how the Big Crunch might occur, when, and just how we might prevent it (rather than sheepishly consigning ourselves to ultimate death, doom and destruction).

In each circumstance, we assume there is, somehow, a prize to be had at the end. We’ve been conditioned to believe so. If we push a button, we get an elevator. If we give a blowjob on the corner of 63rd and Queens Blvd., we get $20. We wait for a response to the end of our plight—or to the end of any activity in general.

Yet it is only in our group setting, where amongst material things and in observation and interaction of said material things (anything from pencils to elephants, I mean), that our thoughts turn to these endings. We are able to reflect upon them, so long as we remain completely affixed with them; they are there to serve as a reminder of what must, inevitably, collapse.

Yet alone, immersed within ourselves, there is creation. An echo of this truth can be found in the Bible: “In the beginning, there was nothing. Then God said, let there be Light.”

I don’t think people contemplate the depth of this excerpt hard enough. I mean, in the beginning, there was nothing. Fucking. Nothing. And I am by no means endorsing the Bible here, especially Christian (and I’ll bastardize the word by applying it here) thought.

Religion is really like Science’s stupid older brother who made all the mistakes, got into drugs, and now has a beer gut and several illegitimate children. For they both suppose, generally, the exact same things—a beginning and an ending, when it boils down to it.
And both versions of this beginning require, by virtue of being a beginning of everything, a nothing. An isolation.

In Christianity’s case, the isolation of the deity from void; in Science’s case, the isolated singularity; and in my case, and perhaps every other writer I know, isolation of the self.
You see, as in religion, science and the psyche, creation bursts from within. It is only a matter of collapsing hard enough inward that you find something worth creating.

Voodoo and Segues

2009-03-16T17:48:00.001-07:00

Cemeteries were incredible.

Met with a voodoo priestess this afternoon. She was higher than a kite and utterly fantastic.

The food here remains disappoints. But we didn't come here to eat.

Going on a Vampire Tour later tonight.

Don't ride Segues. You look stupid as hell.

Beignets and Sunrises

2009-03-16T04:11:00.001-07:00

Gonna watch the sun rise in the city. We're suckers for freshly baked pastries and (ridiculously) strong coffee. A friend of ours said Cafe du Monde at 5:00 am or nothing at all. She was right.

2009-03-15T20:11:00.001-07:00

The moment I set foot on Bourbon Street, I knew exactly everything there is to know about life. That’s not some alcoholic quip, either; I’m being genuine. The raucous music blended too smoothly a cocktail when mixed with the pungent odor of sex in wanting. I saw the worn teets of mothers and mothers of mothers; the naked joy of man in ecstasy of music and toxin; the love of two being shared with many.
I can't say more on this now; there's far too much to do, and I've got a lot to prepare for.

Fwd: Arrived

2009-03-15T17:16:00.000-07:00

First Stop

2009-03-15T10:52:00.001-07:00

Our race against the gas light took us into a curious new world.

We pulled up to the gas station. Given the Texas Chainsaw Massacre dÃ©cor, Hunter decided it'd be best if he stayed in the car.

Inside a woman who was probably named Ruth rang up my fuel purchase while I examined the jars on the counter: pickles, pickled eggs, pickled pigs' feet, pickled pigs' tongues.

They're gonna love us here.

The Way to New Orleans

2009-03-15T06:29:00.000-07:00

Hunter and I started out, clearly not at five am. Just changed the
voice of our sweet-talking navigator, Ma'Riah. Pronounced just like
that. Emphasis on the "Riah."

Hunter's already halfway nauseous. If he happens to fall out of the
car, I'm leaving him.

"You Might Not Reich This"

2009-03-04T08:21:00.000-08:00

Eight in the morning. In pre-coffee time, it's as good as four in the
morning. I walked with heavy, begrudging steps to Anthropology, bleary-
eyed and grumpy, when a little orange cat gave me a squeaking command:

"Come pet me, you shithead."

I complied, but stopped in mid-scratch. There before me, in wrought-
iron, a giant swastika--with a cute little flower at its center.

My initial thought: clearly, I'd stumbled upon a Nazi cult.

My second thought: --or perhaps, as Hitler wrote in Mein Kampf, the
architect adopted it because it "looks good."

Or perhaps, out of his Hindu, Greek, Native American, or any number of
very old cultures--this architect chose the swastika to represent
peace, the sun, and life.

Parallax is the phenomenon by which, if you held up a finger and
closed one eye, your finger would appear in one spot; yet when you
switch eyes, your finger appears to move, even though it did not.

Look at something with both eyes, people.

Further testing...

2009-03-02T00:14:00.000-08:00

Text

Testing...

2009-03-02T00:13:00.001-08:00

>
>

Ahem...

2009-03-01T23:58:00.001-08:00

Well. That was embarrassing.

Erm, ah...

Show went well... those several months ago.

On with even less news, I'm sure.

Upcoming Concert Reviews

2008-08-13T23:05:00.000-07:00

In the coming days, look here for the latest reviews of the following upcoming NINE INCH NAILS shows:

- Aug 15 2008 Ford Center Oklahoma City, Oklahoma
- Aug 16 2008 Toyota Center Houston, Texas
- Aug 18 2008 American Airlines Center Dallas, Texas

Kara Walker Art Exhibit at the Modern

2008-07-19T07:23:00.000-07:00

Their impressions of the Kara Walker exhibit, My Complement, My Enemy, My Oppressor, My Love (spare me):

Walker is among the most complex and prolific American artists of her generation. Over the past decade, she has gained national and international recognition for her room-size tableaux depicting historical narratives haunted by sexuality, violence, and subjugation through the genteel eighteenth-century art of cut-paper silhouettes. Set in the American South before the Civil War, Walker’s compositions play off stereotypes to portray, often grotesquely, life on the plantation, where masters, mistresses, slaves, women, and children enact a subverted version of the past. — The Modern, Fort Worth

There is a reason you can’t count on contemporary journalism for reports on Events and the like in largely commercial publishings—a reason journalist Kevin Richardson (freelance, Dallas) would extol so eagerly the work of something so far removed from the adventurous, compelling and otherwise aesthetically appealing world of modern art.

It’s because, I’m afraid, he wanted to be published. At the end of the day, he needed a buck. And in a world littered with the scraps of the ideas of Kara Walker and other like-minded people, to broadcast a review as visceral as the one forthcoming would earn you either a vicious haranguing or worse—a comfortable spot in front of your computer, blogging on the matter instead of having people actually read it.

Ahem. On with the review.

The Modern in Fort Worth is an architectural masterpiece that has for many years provided the metroplex with a veritable nexus of culture, refinement, sophistication and the sharp edge of the new. As a rule, I attend every new exhibit made aware to me; so it was with great eagerness that I rushed to the new feature, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and completely expectant of something typically wonderful.

A small, bracketed disclaimer greeted those unfamiliar with Kara Walker’s work, advising all that that this exhibit of hers was intended for mature audiences only. I paid my student fair, nodded mirthfully to the suicidal ticket girl and headed in.

From then on, my mirth quickly plummeted to a feeling I can only describe as an arm-wrestling match between frustration and boredom, while pure, unadulterated rage fucked both of them in the ass. Clever shadows imitating fellatio performed by a talented, big-lipped and underaged black girl on a skinny, six-year-old white boy were plastered onto the walls; a woman who appeared rearing up like a horse as a man slipped under her skirt and lifted her off her feet played their nasty charade in front of everyone; the haunting music of a 1930s movie chorus played to a grainy, black-and-white video of paper puppets, featuring some nonsense about “Dead Nigger Gulch” and grandpa and whatever; and finally, in a “bold” attempt at tapping into automatic writing (while keeping with the theme, of course), canvases were littered with aggressive words of hate—a giant letter so dull and devoid of any artistic merit that I found myself, for once, incapable of reading (though it had something to do with someone getting her pregnant—or—or something).

I left the museum feeling uninspired and less intelligent for having endured the whole thing. Reviewers have commented on Walker’s knack for unveiling deep, human truths and exploring the ugly side of the past; but what I found instead was the same, boring approach to the same boring topic of racial prejudice.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with voicing your thoughts on past crimes; but to do so with the aggression and the fervor as thought it were happening now?—spare me.

Avoid this exhibit like the plague.

The Scope of Things to Come . . .

2008-07-12T12:23:00.000-07:00

I, Puck, hereby solemnly swear to provide you with the whole, ugly truth and nothing but the whole, ugly truth, so help me Dog.