Undoubtedly, digital television is better than the old analog. The national switcheroo going on--due to culminate in February--seems to be going relatively poorly, but, nonetheless, the switch to digial is long overdue.
Nonetheless, the process seems bittersweet. While the technological world I inhabited as a child has long since gone--a phone with a wire attached to the wall? Who uses that?! Who even has a landline?--the digital revolution sort of seals the deal, separates the past from the present.
What is left from those days of my childhood, the early 1980s?
Pay television is gone. Perhaps you’re confused? If you’re under a certain age you are most definitely. But I mean pay television, not cable. Long ago, there were certain channels that broadcast over the airwaves, and to which you could subscribe. If you watched them without the box that came with the subscription, they were jumbled lines, though the soundtrack usually seemed fine. They would show newer movies, uncensored, and were much like HBO was when it started out, though, as I said, over the air.
Looking back, such technologies seem quaint, even ridiculous. Anyone could just go out and buy a decoder—and often did. But still, I remember being upset that my family didn’t subscribe to the local pay station, called Prevue, and playing on Channel 27 in my hometown (the station has since become WUNI-TV, the city’s only Spanish-language station—at least it’s worthwhile, right? Not some stupid CW crap) each night I would watch as the station came on the air: At first, the logo would come on, the music would play, they’d announce the movie…and then the signal would scramble.
I wanted that goddamned channel!
Further up the dial, and a little bit further up in years, there was V-66. WVJV-TV, Channel 66. I don’t know if they had such stations in other parts of the country, but in Boston it was awesome. It was a frickin’ music video channel like MTV—but it broadcast for free! Anyone with a TV and an antenna could watch it. We didn’t have MTV, so previous to that the only way I could see music on television was to watch Solid Gold or, if I stayed up late, Friday Night Videos on…was it NBC? And then, a certain magical moment, typing through stations (the TV we had had buttons on the front, arranged like a phone. If you wanted channel 44, you would type 4-4. I used to type through all the numbers once in a while to see if there was a new station. Every so often, I would be rewarded; I remember being pleased at finding channel 44, 64 and 68, but none so much as V-66!) I came across the V.
The station wasn’t just a lame attempt at recreating MTV—it was the real deal. Remember the video for A-ha’s “Take on Me”? They premiered it. Unfortunately, V-66 faded and was replaced by the Home Shopping Network, later replaced by WUNI. But the memories remain. I’m told someone’s making a documentary on it.
Also—kids of the future will no longer have any understanding of the difference between VHF and UHF. Actually—do they understand that now?!
Remember, though? Remember when the UHF stations were generally those independent stations? They weren’t part of any network—they were usually just some local station putting stuff out. I can still hear their jingles—they all had their own jingles. They were much simpler than TV now; if you woke up early, you would see them “signing on”—that is, turning off the rainbow-like test pattern, announcing that they were going to begin their broadcasting day, playing the national anthem, and explaining t you where their transmitters were… And who doesn’t remember falling asleep by the TV, only to wake up to the national anthem as these stations “concluded their broadcast day”? Between opening and closing they would show an amalgamation of syndicated shows, religious programming, and movies—sometimes uncensored and free (as Channel 27 did, after it was Prevue and before it was the home shopping. I remember turning on the TV, turning on that broadcast station, seeing an announcement that “the following movie is rated ‘R’ and is not appropriate for younger viewers,” and then watching the full, uncut, nudity-included, Animal House.)
Of course, most nights you wouldn’t watch The Movie Loft (Channel 38); you’d be watching one of the three networks that the rest of America was watching: ABC, NBC or CBS. I remember these networks, now fallen giants with the parasitic Fox and CW networks nibbling at them, in their prime. They were what people watched—they played things, and the next day people talked about what they had just seen. They were pretty much divided by audience—NBC was young and hip; CBS was pretty much for old people (think “Murder, She Wrote”). And though there were less channels, there was almost always something worth watching; I really can’t think of anything on TV now better than Cheers; it seems unimaginable that someone could consider Law and Order better than Hill Street Blues.
VHF and UHF… The UHF stations were exciting. There were a couple knobs on most TVs…the one with the VHF stations and the letter “U,” which let you use the second knob, which sort of just turned waywardly until you found a station. I remember many late nights playing with the antenna and the UHF know trying to get the movie show Elvira hosted to come in, not trying to get rid of the snow—that would be impossible—just trying to minimize it.
So things changed. We eventually got cable, back when MTV still played music, and VH1 played music for seemingly old people. How exciting it was that we had almost 60 stations in 1988, all thanks to Greater Media Cable! I was able to see all these previously hidden stations, like Nickelodeon, with its “You Can’t Do that On Television.”
Now all that, like my childhood itself, is gone. Channel 56 is, I think, CW; Channel 25 is Fox. Stations seem to run around the clock now, and there are millions of stations on cable. With all the networks, there doesn’t seem to be a distinction between VHF and UHF (a distinction so culturally ingrained that a movie was made about these low budget stations, starring Weird Al, and called, simply, “UHF”).
And now there will actually be no more VHF and UHF—everything is merged. The past is gone; the shows are gone; even the electronic format they were in is gone.
But at least I can still watch them on Youtube.
22 December, 2008
09 December, 2008
I haven't posted in such a long time
It's almost as if this blog is defunct. But I can assure you that it's not, that this blog is still happily in existence. Were it not, you would not be reading these lines at this very moment.
I hope that you have enjoyed this post, and I would like to thank all of the people who have offered me the tremendous inspiration to write it.
Check here soon for more of this wit.
I hope that you have enjoyed this post, and I would like to thank all of the people who have offered me the tremendous inspiration to write it.
Check here soon for more of this wit.
30 September, 2008
Hippie dictatorship
I have a job working for a political organization. The reason I took the job, which is quite low pay, was so that I could do work that is meaningful and helpful, so that I could work to change the world for the better—you know, the typical live-poor-but-feel-good-about-making-a-positive-impact type of thing. Unfortunately, as I've come to realize over the past few years, in actuality, my work consists mainly of dealing with the United States Postal Service, UPS and Greyhound; writing out checks; and, especially, filling out forms.
Of course, there are breaks from such drudgery: sometimes, when the mail comes, there is a package for me with a political magazine. Aside from that, though, I’m usually doing paperwork and filling out those forms (there’s a particularly exciting—and, I’m using the term “exciting” as a synonym for a term that would be a combination of both “boring” and “dreadful”—form that I have to fill out for the USPS pretty soon).
Given all of the above, I jumped at the chance to go out and do field work, to take a trip to the state of Maine. I was to attend a booth my organization had set up at the Maine Organic Farmers Association fair. A small town fair! How could that not be fun!
Unfortunately, my timeat the fair consisted mainly (get it?!) of sitting behind a table and listening to others talk (the people from my organization in Maine made a point of saying that it’s best if people from Maine have someone else from Maine to speak with…I guess I was just non-Maine backup), sitting in the cold, and listening to lots of stuff about Bolivia. Don’t get me wrong—Bolivia’s all nice and good, and Evo Morales is a stand up guy, but we do have some important things to talk about here in this country. You know… what is that thing that everyone’s doing on November 4? Oh, that’s it: the elections.
While there was some talk of this important event in our nation’s history (the Democratic Party of Maine had a table, as did Planned Parenthood and the League of Young Voters), I was listening to Bolivia-speak for hours, and was seated at a table next to a woman who seemed completely and totally obsessed with the Zapatistas in Mexico.
In any case, it was at this festival that I learned that the Dead Kennedys song, “California Uber Alles” is no joke. I always thought the idea of a hippie dictatorship was hilarious—until I spent a few days under the yoke of such a regime.
For those who don’t remember, here are the lyrics:
"California Uber Alles"
I am Governor Jerry Brown
My aura smilesAnd never frowns
Soon I will be president...
Carter Power will soon go away
I will be Fuhrer one day
I will command all of you
Your kids will meditate in school
Your kids will meditate in school
[Chorus:]California Uber Alles
California Uber Alles
Uber Alles California
Uber Alles California
Zen fascists will control you
100% natural
You will jog for the master race
And always wear the happy face
Close your eyes, can't happen here
Big Bro' on white horse is near
The hippies won't come back you say
Mellow out or you will pay
Mellow out or you will pay
[Chorus]
Now it is 1984
Knock-knock at your front door
It's the suede/denim secret police
They have come for your uncool niece
Come quietly to the camp
You'd look nice as a drawstring lamp
Don't you worry, it's only a shower
For your clothes here's a pretty flower.
DIE on organic poison gas... etc.
Sure, there was no suede/denim secret police, but they were pretty dictatorial. The banned smoking, alcohol and drugs. I understand banning illegal drugs and smoking. But a beer? You can’t drink a beer? It’s frickin’ organic! On top of that, they decided it was necessary to put a general ban on…coffee. Why? Who knows?
Reeling from the hippie-fascist rules, I quickly went for the ice-cream booth, so that I could get a chocolate covered ice-cream cone, or at least a chocolate shake. Since the other stuff was expensive, and the shake (which came in a Dixie cup) cost “only” six dollars, I decided to opt for a chocolate one.
“Sorry!” said the young woman at the counter. “No chocolate here!”
The Zen fascists gave me a maple shake—the closest thing they had to a regular flavor. “Just like vanilla,” she said.
Of course, there are breaks from such drudgery: sometimes, when the mail comes, there is a package for me with a political magazine. Aside from that, though, I’m usually doing paperwork and filling out those forms (there’s a particularly exciting—and, I’m using the term “exciting” as a synonym for a term that would be a combination of both “boring” and “dreadful”—form that I have to fill out for the USPS pretty soon).
Given all of the above, I jumped at the chance to go out and do field work, to take a trip to the state of Maine. I was to attend a booth my organization had set up at the Maine Organic Farmers Association fair. A small town fair! How could that not be fun!
Unfortunately, my timeat the fair consisted mainly (get it?!) of sitting behind a table and listening to others talk (the people from my organization in Maine made a point of saying that it’s best if people from Maine have someone else from Maine to speak with…I guess I was just non-Maine backup), sitting in the cold, and listening to lots of stuff about Bolivia. Don’t get me wrong—Bolivia’s all nice and good, and Evo Morales is a stand up guy, but we do have some important things to talk about here in this country. You know… what is that thing that everyone’s doing on November 4? Oh, that’s it: the elections.
While there was some talk of this important event in our nation’s history (the Democratic Party of Maine had a table, as did Planned Parenthood and the League of Young Voters), I was listening to Bolivia-speak for hours, and was seated at a table next to a woman who seemed completely and totally obsessed with the Zapatistas in Mexico.
In any case, it was at this festival that I learned that the Dead Kennedys song, “California Uber Alles” is no joke. I always thought the idea of a hippie dictatorship was hilarious—until I spent a few days under the yoke of such a regime.
For those who don’t remember, here are the lyrics:
"California Uber Alles"
I am Governor Jerry Brown
My aura smilesAnd never frowns
Soon I will be president...
Carter Power will soon go away
I will be Fuhrer one day
I will command all of you
Your kids will meditate in school
Your kids will meditate in school
[Chorus:]California Uber Alles
California Uber Alles
Uber Alles California
Uber Alles California
Zen fascists will control you
100% natural
You will jog for the master race
And always wear the happy face
Close your eyes, can't happen here
Big Bro' on white horse is near
The hippies won't come back you say
Mellow out or you will pay
Mellow out or you will pay
[Chorus]
Now it is 1984
Knock-knock at your front door
It's the suede/denim secret police
They have come for your uncool niece
Come quietly to the camp
You'd look nice as a drawstring lamp
Don't you worry, it's only a shower
For your clothes here's a pretty flower.
DIE on organic poison gas... etc.
Sure, there was no suede/denim secret police, but they were pretty dictatorial. The banned smoking, alcohol and drugs. I understand banning illegal drugs and smoking. But a beer? You can’t drink a beer? It’s frickin’ organic! On top of that, they decided it was necessary to put a general ban on…coffee. Why? Who knows?
Reeling from the hippie-fascist rules, I quickly went for the ice-cream booth, so that I could get a chocolate covered ice-cream cone, or at least a chocolate shake. Since the other stuff was expensive, and the shake (which came in a Dixie cup) cost “only” six dollars, I decided to opt for a chocolate one.
“Sorry!” said the young woman at the counter. “No chocolate here!”
The Zen fascists gave me a maple shake—the closest thing they had to a regular flavor. “Just like vanilla,” she said.
12 August, 2008
China -- repressive?
So, given that the Olympics have pushed China even further into the world spotlight, even more criticism has been piled upon the Communist Party and government, those villains, that have ruthlessly brought more people, both in raw numbers and per capita, out of poverty than, not just any nation in the world, but any nation in the history of the world.
Obviously, crimes like this seem to have gone unnoticed. How dare they provide a better life for the vast majority of their people! What villains!
Also, China has been accused of oppressing minority groups within their own borders. For example, China viciously allows Tibetans to be exempted in from the one-child policy, in a malicious attempt to preserve the culture of the people of Tibet. Also, they cruelly offer state assistance to the preservation of the Tibetan language!
And then China is accused of mistreating other minority groups and organizations. For example, here is a video that one of those groups, the East Turkistan Islamic Movement, made:
How sweet and lyrical! They are such humane people--look at the pretty fireworks they've even put at the beginning. Everyone likes fireworks. Except for those evil Communists Chinese!
In all honesty, I hope that China has an easy time of killing of the entire leadership of this disgusting ETIM group. If protecting your nation against crazed religious fanatics who want to turn part of your country into a Taliban-style state is oppression, then I'm for it.
Go China! The only reason I'm rooting for the U.S.A. in the Olympics is the only good reason: America's my country, and I love it. But I can't help but smile at China's successes.
Obviously, crimes like this seem to have gone unnoticed. How dare they provide a better life for the vast majority of their people! What villains!
Also, China has been accused of oppressing minority groups within their own borders. For example, China viciously allows Tibetans to be exempted in from the one-child policy, in a malicious attempt to preserve the culture of the people of Tibet. Also, they cruelly offer state assistance to the preservation of the Tibetan language!
And then China is accused of mistreating other minority groups and organizations. For example, here is a video that one of those groups, the East Turkistan Islamic Movement, made:
How sweet and lyrical! They are such humane people--look at the pretty fireworks they've even put at the beginning. Everyone likes fireworks. Except for those evil Communists Chinese!
In all honesty, I hope that China has an easy time of killing of the entire leadership of this disgusting ETIM group. If protecting your nation against crazed religious fanatics who want to turn part of your country into a Taliban-style state is oppression, then I'm for it.
Go China! The only reason I'm rooting for the U.S.A. in the Olympics is the only good reason: America's my country, and I love it. But I can't help but smile at China's successes.
27 July, 2008
Gonorrhea, and remember: Spit, don't swallow! (the Listerine, that is)
The most unpleasant tasting of all the world's moutwhashes, Listerine, is currently occupying my thoughts.
Why, you ask? Perhaps I should say that it's not actually the mouthwash itself that is keeping me preoccupied--otherwise, why would I be thinking of that specific brand? Why wouldn't I be thinking of Scope or Act? Or maybe debating with myself the merits and the cons of each? Act is dentist approved, and has the delightful dispenser top, but Scope has T-whatever, which does something very important to your teeth or mouth or breath. And, though Act is equipped with the luxurious dispenser top, its users must go forth and find their own cup in which to pour it (that perfectly metered dose!) before they happily swish it through their teeth. Scope, however, comes with its own cup--it's what the bottle cap doubles as (absolutely fucking brilliant!)
Actually, perhaps Listerine would be the odd man out in this discussion. What does it have going for it? It has a cup-like cap, true, but it's only cup-like--not an actual cup. The best that can be said about Listerine is that it is like that old Energizer bunny--it keeps on going and going...and going.
It has become, at least in its original variety(now there are all sorts of "less harsh" forms of the product on the shelves), sort of the crazy old man of mouthwashes.
"You young whippersnappers," the bottle might say. "You little bastards with your T-whatever and cups for tops. In my day we didn't care about 'cool mint refreshment flavor,' goldurnit! We cared about killing bad breath. Ugly yellow and bad-tastin'--that's what a mouthwash should be! Why, no one respected us old timers if we didn't hurt the mouths of those who used us! You little pansy kids, with your hootin' and hollerin' about mint flavors--you never even cured a single case of gonorrhea! I cured my fair share of gonorrhea in the 1800s, goldurnit... You sons o' bitches. I ain't changin' nothing."
"Um, grandpa?" says little Act. "Did you say gonorrhea?"
"You're damn right I said gonorrhea. I cured it! What have you ever cured?"
Listerine was, maybe a hundred years ago, marketed as a cure for the clap (as well as floor cleaner, but I don't want to digress from my digression). I found this information on the internet while searching for more information on the poisoning qualities of mouthwash (more on that in a minute).
Now, how the fuck would you use Listerine to cure the fucking clap?! I've never had the clap, but I assume that they give you some kind of pill to get rid of it.
Was there actually a generation of men who, after maybe getting too drunk on absynthe and spending a wild, hallucinogenic, night out, really used Listerine to cure their STDs? How did they do it? Did they just open the bottle and dip their penis in it? What would happen if their penises got stuck in those old glass bottles? Did women just pour it in?
And during those days, when men would dip their tackle into a bottle--was it still marketed as a mouthwash as well? "Kills bad breath--great for the clap!" or "Use only on the penis and mouth."
Imagine all the marriages that were broken up by some bratty, inquisitive kid asking his mother, "Mommy, why did daddy put his penis in the mouthwash?"
"Oh, no, honey! Don't think that! I was just... My penis looked a little dirty, you know, and I didn't want to have to get water, and I saw this bottle of Listerine here, so I figured I might as well... Oh, no baby, don't take the suitcase! I just thought it was dick lotion! Dick aftershave...? No, don't go! Sweetie!"
Now I worry--my roommate is a relatively promiscuous older Russian guy. And, for those who don't know many Russians, they tend to be a little bit--ok a lot bit--behind the times when it comes to things like what to do if they catch the clap--and this chelovek seems like he's not the person who's going to lay any Russian stereotypes to rest.
Does anyone know of a polite way, a subtle way, to ask their roommate, "Hey man... You haven't put your dick in my Listerine have you?" How do you slip that into conversation--hopefuly in a less offensive fashion than the way a person slips their genitalia into another person's bottle of mouthwash? Also, is there anyone who can translate that into Russian?!
In any case, dicks in a Listerine bottle aren't originally what I wanted to discuss: I'm worried that I may have accidentally poisoned myself.
Sometimes, you see, I get lost in thought when I'm doing some mundane thing--like using mouthwash. Unfortunately, when lost in thought, one loses a little bit of common sense. Therefore, it is understandable that, in an unthinking fashion, I replaced the non-cup cap on the bottle while swishing my mouth, walked out of the bathroom--and swallowed.
What to do...? Should I just not worry? Should I put my finger in my throat? Should I use this opportunity for a lot of unsafe sex?! Any advice would be appreciated. It seems like a bad thing to do, to swallow it--they warn you not to do so on the bottle...
Poor former first-lady of Massachusetts Kitty D.
Why, you ask? Perhaps I should say that it's not actually the mouthwash itself that is keeping me preoccupied--otherwise, why would I be thinking of that specific brand? Why wouldn't I be thinking of Scope or Act? Or maybe debating with myself the merits and the cons of each? Act is dentist approved, and has the delightful dispenser top, but Scope has T-whatever, which does something very important to your teeth or mouth or breath. And, though Act is equipped with the luxurious dispenser top, its users must go forth and find their own cup in which to pour it (that perfectly metered dose!) before they happily swish it through their teeth. Scope, however, comes with its own cup--it's what the bottle cap doubles as (absolutely fucking brilliant!)
Actually, perhaps Listerine would be the odd man out in this discussion. What does it have going for it? It has a cup-like cap, true, but it's only cup-like--not an actual cup. The best that can be said about Listerine is that it is like that old Energizer bunny--it keeps on going and going...and going.
It has become, at least in its original variety(now there are all sorts of "less harsh" forms of the product on the shelves), sort of the crazy old man of mouthwashes.
"You young whippersnappers," the bottle might say. "You little bastards with your T-whatever and cups for tops. In my day we didn't care about 'cool mint refreshment flavor,' goldurnit! We cared about killing bad breath. Ugly yellow and bad-tastin'--that's what a mouthwash should be! Why, no one respected us old timers if we didn't hurt the mouths of those who used us! You little pansy kids, with your hootin' and hollerin' about mint flavors--you never even cured a single case of gonorrhea! I cured my fair share of gonorrhea in the 1800s, goldurnit... You sons o' bitches. I ain't changin' nothing."
"Um, grandpa?" says little Act. "Did you say gonorrhea?"
"You're damn right I said gonorrhea. I cured it! What have you ever cured?"
Listerine was, maybe a hundred years ago, marketed as a cure for the clap (as well as floor cleaner, but I don't want to digress from my digression). I found this information on the internet while searching for more information on the poisoning qualities of mouthwash (more on that in a minute).
Now, how the fuck would you use Listerine to cure the fucking clap?! I've never had the clap, but I assume that they give you some kind of pill to get rid of it.
Was there actually a generation of men who, after maybe getting too drunk on absynthe and spending a wild, hallucinogenic, night out, really used Listerine to cure their STDs? How did they do it? Did they just open the bottle and dip their penis in it? What would happen if their penises got stuck in those old glass bottles? Did women just pour it in?
And during those days, when men would dip their tackle into a bottle--was it still marketed as a mouthwash as well? "Kills bad breath--great for the clap!" or "Use only on the penis and mouth."
Imagine all the marriages that were broken up by some bratty, inquisitive kid asking his mother, "Mommy, why did daddy put his penis in the mouthwash?"
"Oh, no, honey! Don't think that! I was just... My penis looked a little dirty, you know, and I didn't want to have to get water, and I saw this bottle of Listerine here, so I figured I might as well... Oh, no baby, don't take the suitcase! I just thought it was dick lotion! Dick aftershave...? No, don't go! Sweetie!"
Now I worry--my roommate is a relatively promiscuous older Russian guy. And, for those who don't know many Russians, they tend to be a little bit--ok a lot bit--behind the times when it comes to things like what to do if they catch the clap--and this chelovek seems like he's not the person who's going to lay any Russian stereotypes to rest.
Does anyone know of a polite way, a subtle way, to ask their roommate, "Hey man... You haven't put your dick in my Listerine have you?" How do you slip that into conversation--hopefuly in a less offensive fashion than the way a person slips their genitalia into another person's bottle of mouthwash? Also, is there anyone who can translate that into Russian?!
In any case, dicks in a Listerine bottle aren't originally what I wanted to discuss: I'm worried that I may have accidentally poisoned myself.
Sometimes, you see, I get lost in thought when I'm doing some mundane thing--like using mouthwash. Unfortunately, when lost in thought, one loses a little bit of common sense. Therefore, it is understandable that, in an unthinking fashion, I replaced the non-cup cap on the bottle while swishing my mouth, walked out of the bathroom--and swallowed.
What to do...? Should I just not worry? Should I put my finger in my throat? Should I use this opportunity for a lot of unsafe sex?! Any advice would be appreciated. It seems like a bad thing to do, to swallow it--they warn you not to do so on the bottle...
Poor former first-lady of Massachusetts Kitty D.
25 June, 2008
The importance of tolerance
UPDATE: I've been told that this post comes off as an insane "rant." Upon re-reading it, it does seem that this is exactly what the post is, or at least what it appears to be. However, people who know the guy mentioned below, and who have had to endure sharing an apartment with this person--they could easily relate to and understand the seemingly insane tendencies expressed. Trust me on this.
"I feel like I can tell you anything."
A number of people have told me that. For those of you who know me, it's obvious that the aforementioned statement could be taken in the following way:
"Wow, insert name of guy writing this blog. You truly are a vulgar motherfucker. I can't believe your vile, filthy sense of humor, and I don't think that there's anything I could tell you, outside of a racist joke, that would really offend you. I can't believe that joke you just said about shoving a banana into a camel's--"
Well, you get the picture. But, perhaps to your surprise, this isn't what a lot of people mean. A good deal of people have said the former statement to me, meaning:
"You know blog-writing guy, you're just such a tolerant person, so able to accept people for who they are, I could tell you anything about myself, any devious thing I've done, any vile thought, and you'd just accept that people make mistakes."
For those of you who really know me, you'd know that both of these interpretations are true. Oftentimes, my humor is truly vulgar and, sometimes, downright pornographic. The only thing I require in humor is that it be clever, and it certainly helps if the humor pushes the boundaries of good taste.
But, as with anything, there are exceptions. Racist, sexist humor is not appreciated (which may be why people think I'm a prude at NYC comedy clubs. Seriously: The joke about fucking a goat in the ass while murdering a village? That was fucking hilarious! The joke about slapping your wife, or the "humor" about Black people on welfare? Stick to the goat fucking).
There are exceptions to the tolerance quality as well. There are just some personality traits in people that I can't fucking stand. You broke into a little old lady's house while high on heroin after having sex with your mother and cousin, while simultaneously performing felatio on a baseball team--the fucking Yankees no less!--and then went on kill the old lady's puppy? Well, you know, people make mistakes. But when it comes to the asshole trait--you best be fuckin' off, young man.
I started writng this post, and then rewrote it with the preceding very long introduction after reading the following line, in someone's blog:
Mucho thanks to Trace for all the help with National Grid and getting an electrician.
Ok...calm down...
Ok. Firstly, let's just dispense with the fact that this asshole--and, as we know, all asshole's posess the asshole trait, and everyone who posesses the asshole trait is, in fac,t an asshole--postedto his blog that his electricity went out. Whoopty-fuckin' do! Your electricity went out in the storm! Wow! Do I care? No. Go fuck yourself!
Lest I be accused of hypocrisy--see a few posts previous to this entry--let me point something out. I wrote about the electricity in my crib going out in a way that I thought would at least be humorous to people passing by on the virtual superhighway (is that term still in use? Hey, those of you 18 or under--do you know that phrase?). I tried to point out a few things funny, tried to write in a somewhat clever way, all that shit. This fucking douchebag just writes that his electricity has gone out:
So due to the storm last night, I was without power all yesterday and today it's getting shut off again so it can be fixed. Huge pine branch came down and ripped the power conduit off the house.
No idea when this will be all settled. Out of contact, off the grid until further notice.
Wow. What an exciting post. I read the papers, you know. Most people know there was a fucking storm. Most poeple know that some people lost power. If I didn't know you in person (unfortunately, this guy was a roommate years ago, at a shithole apartment in Massachusetts. We didn't get along very well.), you'd just simply be a person who affirms the relatively unimportant news that I saw without really caring: A bunch of people lost electricity.
Are there actually people who read blogs looking to figure out exactly who lost their electricity? Do they see on WCVB that 10,000 people in the Boston/Worcester area lost power--and then try to find them all on MySpace, Facebook, Blogger?
Anyway, forget all that. I didn't really mean to focus on it. Maybe he's just not very creative (judging by the "music" he used to play on his guitar, and now continues to play in public, a certain lack of creativity seems to be part of his personality. Also, a desire to torture others with revolting sounds...). What I really couldn't help but focus on was that line:
Mucho thanks to Trace...
Trace?! Who the fuck is "Trace"? Who is Trace, and not Tracey? That's such a pompous and ridiculous sounding name. I can't stand it. Maybe, for shorthand, he might call her "Trace"--but I doubt the representative at National Grid referred to herself as "Trace," and I doubt that they are at the level of friendship--given that she's seemingly only spoken to him when he called the energy company--that he can shorten her name. But even if he knew her so well as to call her "Trace"--couldn't he just call her that, and add the extra fucking "y" at the end of the name, just so he doesn't seem like such a pompous ass?
But then, that simple name thing by itself wouldn't be such an issue if he didn't offer her "mucho thanks." Really, when I hear people say "much xxx," I have to supress the urge to stab them in the throat.
"You want to go see Indian Jones? That would be mucho cool."
"There's a mucho great coffee place in the Slope!"
"Mucho love for fixing my computer."
It's not so much the word that bothers me. It's this sort of stupid, hipster slang that has come about--but only in the parlance of people who posess the asshole trait. People who wear too much tye-dye and hang around Washington Square Park, people who've barricaded their lives into the walls, virtual or real, of college campuses, shitty musicians who play pretentious prog-rock, people who really listen to shitty musicians who play pretentious prog-rock, these are the people. And, if that word was ever going to be good for use as slang, they've ruined it by their association with it.
Anyway, if you've read all this, thanks for reading my venting--I'm not sure whether I took offense more to the blog itself or to the person who wrote it: the pampered little rich boy who plays...guess?...shitty pretentious prog-rock...at all hours on a fucking loud-ass amplifier, who attempts to grope every girlfriend/female being/sentient creature you bring around the apartment.
"I feel like I can tell you anything."
A number of people have told me that. For those of you who know me, it's obvious that the aforementioned statement could be taken in the following way:
"Wow, insert name of guy writing this blog. You truly are a vulgar motherfucker. I can't believe your vile, filthy sense of humor, and I don't think that there's anything I could tell you, outside of a racist joke, that would really offend you. I can't believe that joke you just said about shoving a banana into a camel's--"
Well, you get the picture. But, perhaps to your surprise, this isn't what a lot of people mean. A good deal of people have said the former statement to me, meaning:
"You know blog-writing guy, you're just such a tolerant person, so able to accept people for who they are, I could tell you anything about myself, any devious thing I've done, any vile thought, and you'd just accept that people make mistakes."
For those of you who really know me, you'd know that both of these interpretations are true. Oftentimes, my humor is truly vulgar and, sometimes, downright pornographic. The only thing I require in humor is that it be clever, and it certainly helps if the humor pushes the boundaries of good taste.
But, as with anything, there are exceptions. Racist, sexist humor is not appreciated (which may be why people think I'm a prude at NYC comedy clubs. Seriously: The joke about fucking a goat in the ass while murdering a village? That was fucking hilarious! The joke about slapping your wife, or the "humor" about Black people on welfare? Stick to the goat fucking).
There are exceptions to the tolerance quality as well. There are just some personality traits in people that I can't fucking stand. You broke into a little old lady's house while high on heroin after having sex with your mother and cousin, while simultaneously performing felatio on a baseball team--the fucking Yankees no less!--and then went on kill the old lady's puppy? Well, you know, people make mistakes. But when it comes to the asshole trait--you best be fuckin' off, young man.
I started writng this post, and then rewrote it with the preceding very long introduction after reading the following line, in someone's blog:
Mucho thanks to Trace for all the help with National Grid and getting an electrician.
Ok...calm down...
Ok. Firstly, let's just dispense with the fact that this asshole--and, as we know, all asshole's posess the asshole trait, and everyone who posesses the asshole trait is, in fac,t an asshole--postedto his blog that his electricity went out. Whoopty-fuckin' do! Your electricity went out in the storm! Wow! Do I care? No. Go fuck yourself!
Lest I be accused of hypocrisy--see a few posts previous to this entry--let me point something out. I wrote about the electricity in my crib going out in a way that I thought would at least be humorous to people passing by on the virtual superhighway (is that term still in use? Hey, those of you 18 or under--do you know that phrase?). I tried to point out a few things funny, tried to write in a somewhat clever way, all that shit. This fucking douchebag just writes that his electricity has gone out:
So due to the storm last night, I was without power all yesterday and today it's getting shut off again so it can be fixed. Huge pine branch came down and ripped the power conduit off the house.
No idea when this will be all settled. Out of contact, off the grid until further notice.
Wow. What an exciting post. I read the papers, you know. Most people know there was a fucking storm. Most poeple know that some people lost power. If I didn't know you in person (unfortunately, this guy was a roommate years ago, at a shithole apartment in Massachusetts. We didn't get along very well.), you'd just simply be a person who affirms the relatively unimportant news that I saw without really caring: A bunch of people lost electricity.
Are there actually people who read blogs looking to figure out exactly who lost their electricity? Do they see on WCVB that 10,000 people in the Boston/Worcester area lost power--and then try to find them all on MySpace, Facebook, Blogger?
Anyway, forget all that. I didn't really mean to focus on it. Maybe he's just not very creative (judging by the "music" he used to play on his guitar, and now continues to play in public, a certain lack of creativity seems to be part of his personality. Also, a desire to torture others with revolting sounds...). What I really couldn't help but focus on was that line:
Mucho thanks to Trace...
Trace?! Who the fuck is "Trace"? Who is Trace, and not Tracey? That's such a pompous and ridiculous sounding name. I can't stand it. Maybe, for shorthand, he might call her "Trace"--but I doubt the representative at National Grid referred to herself as "Trace," and I doubt that they are at the level of friendship--given that she's seemingly only spoken to him when he called the energy company--that he can shorten her name. But even if he knew her so well as to call her "Trace"--couldn't he just call her that, and add the extra fucking "y" at the end of the name, just so he doesn't seem like such a pompous ass?
But then, that simple name thing by itself wouldn't be such an issue if he didn't offer her "mucho thanks." Really, when I hear people say "much xxx," I have to supress the urge to stab them in the throat.
"You want to go see Indian Jones? That would be mucho cool."
"There's a mucho great coffee place in the Slope!"
"Mucho love for fixing my computer."
It's not so much the word that bothers me. It's this sort of stupid, hipster slang that has come about--but only in the parlance of people who posess the asshole trait. People who wear too much tye-dye and hang around Washington Square Park, people who've barricaded their lives into the walls, virtual or real, of college campuses, shitty musicians who play pretentious prog-rock, people who really listen to shitty musicians who play pretentious prog-rock, these are the people. And, if that word was ever going to be good for use as slang, they've ruined it by their association with it.
Anyway, if you've read all this, thanks for reading my venting--I'm not sure whether I took offense more to the blog itself or to the person who wrote it: the pampered little rich boy who plays...guess?...shitty pretentious prog-rock...at all hours on a fucking loud-ass amplifier, who attempts to grope every girlfriend/female being/sentient creature you bring around the apartment.
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