Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Funny or Die's Presidential Reunion
Funny or Die's Presidential Reunion! Featuring Will Ferrell, Dana Carvey, Jim Carrey, and Chevy Chase (my VERY favorite) reprising the presidents past and back to haunt Barack as he grumbles about the Consumer Financial Protection Agency.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Ms. Swift, Autotune and the Narcissism Epidemic
I didn't watch the Grammy's last night because it saddens me to see the visceral collapse of the music industry; and I was unsurprised upon hearing how badly Taylor Swift performed. However, I suffer from schadenfreude, which finally got the best of me this afternoon when I sought out the above clip. Of course I was delighted to see that she was...how shall I say it...goddamn mother fucking awful! Swift's inability to sing her way out of a paper bag, coupled with her clear lack of awareness about just how badly she sings, is sickly fascinating to me. "How can this girl not know she is a sucky singer??" I first wondered after seeing her perform on Saturday Night Live in January, 2009 - where after finishing her second song with nary a note in tune, she cracked a wide grin and hopped up and down with the excitement of victory. She was also awful at the 2008 Country Music Awards where she mumble-sings in monotone while modeling a beautiful gown for her fellow blonde republicans and their cowboy-hatted beaus. Such horrific displays of performative shame lead me to think the narcissism epidemic may be in effect with Ms. Swift.
The narcissism epidemic was first noticed by college professors in the early 2000s when Generation Me students (those born in 1982 and later) began expecting their grades would be elevated based on effort alone. This was deemed a symptom of the self-esteem focused parenting style of the 90's...i.e. the "everyone deserves a ribbon" even if they don't mentality. As a result, professors reported their students had little awareness of their strengths and weaknesses and had not developed methods to compensate for any skill disparities. This lack of awareness was accompanied by an over-inflated sense of accomplishment and a belief that they would and should be rewarded and acknowledged for everything they tried regardless of the relative quality of their output...as long as their effort was marked by panache.
Taylor Swift most certainly demonstrates this epidemic at least in part. She is a catchy songwriter, with a particularly good instinct for lyrics with broad relatability; and she most certainly has a girl-next-door kind of charisma that attracts people's interest. These are great strengths. But she is completely unaware of just how badly she represents those strengths when she performs those songs herself. In fact, such outward ignorance of her clear vocal weakness allows for questions about her strengths. "Did she really write those songs?" I wonder after hearing such poor delivery of them. Now, I won't speculate on any sense of entitlement she might feel to the various accolades she's received because that would require a more intimate knowledge of her personality than I have. But I will say those accolades act to reinforce the belief that sometimes plagues members Generation Me...that mediocrity will be rewarded. Unfortunately, mediocrity is still mediocre, no matter how unapologetically it is delivered; and in the long run mediocrity is unlikely to leave an indelible mark on the world regardless of how many gold statues it collects. Rather the outcome is more likely to resemble the image of Shelley's "Ozymandias."
OZYMANDIAS
By: Percy Blythe Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Jonathan Haidt's TEDTalk on the Difference Between Liberals and Conservatives
I grew up in the smack dab middle of the pro-life, pro-gun, pro-God Midwest. In fact, I grew up in a county with fewer democrats than palm trees; and my dad, a lifelong republican, spent 25+ years of his career in elected offices. In addition to my dad’s professional party affiliation, my parents are active social conservatives who converted to Catholicism in their late 50’s and proceeded to spend two years of Fridays "praying" outside abortion clinics. While they stray from the traditional conservative platform on gun control, and they are displeased with the work of George W. Bush and his crony Dick Cheney, who my father likens to the devil, they do believe in low taxes, small government, intelligent design, preventing stem cell research, and that God made marriage for a man and a woman – the very values the left is quick to denigrate as "stupid," “selfish,” "regressive" and "small-minded."
Meanwhile, the right is just as likely to call the left “selfish,” “Godless,” “anti-American,” “baby killers.” Each side is equally convinced of their “rightness” in assessing what’s best for the country as a whole; and each is equally convinced that those who disagree with them are hell-bent on running this country into the ground. While the left and the right have always been at odds with each other, it seems the level of angry self-righteousness in partisan politics has risen in recent years to a level that’s not only distasteful but counter-productive.
Perhaps this is the result of a culture turned on by contention. Even Obama’s victory on a wave of “work-togetherness” rhetoric hasn’t been able to steamroll what has become a seemingly inherent love of hatred. In short we LOVE to hate even more than we love to be right…or at least more than we love to DO right. Both sides would rather stubbornly refuse to work with the party in power than allow for the possibility that they may have valid points to consider. With partisan media pundits, the louder someone hates, the louder we get to hate back. A show of respect for someone with a different belief has come to seem deferential and undesirable.
As long as this verbal volleyball match continues, nothing will be accomplished and while each side will blame the other, the truth is that both are at fault because both are engaged in a self-righteous refusal to let the other side be right about anything…and neither side is right about everything. But, when we absolutely, unequivocally BELIEVE we are right, that someone else is wrong…we are at an impasse…and when that disagreement turns angry and judgmental as it has in recent years, how do we overcome that impasse?
Recently, I came across this TEDTalk by Jonathan Haidt on the moral roots of liberals and conservatives, which addresses the moral matrix in which both ends of the continuum are locked. I think it's worth a few minutes of your time; while some will find themselves trying to defend their own judgments about conservatives or liberals as valid in today's world, I think Haidt's offers information that can help us re-approach each other in ways that are both more respectful and also more effective.
Jonathon Haidt on the Differences Between Liberals and Conservatives
Meanwhile, the right is just as likely to call the left “selfish,” “Godless,” “anti-American,” “baby killers.” Each side is equally convinced of their “rightness” in assessing what’s best for the country as a whole; and each is equally convinced that those who disagree with them are hell-bent on running this country into the ground. While the left and the right have always been at odds with each other, it seems the level of angry self-righteousness in partisan politics has risen in recent years to a level that’s not only distasteful but counter-productive.
Perhaps this is the result of a culture turned on by contention. Even Obama’s victory on a wave of “work-togetherness” rhetoric hasn’t been able to steamroll what has become a seemingly inherent love of hatred. In short we LOVE to hate even more than we love to be right…or at least more than we love to DO right. Both sides would rather stubbornly refuse to work with the party in power than allow for the possibility that they may have valid points to consider. With partisan media pundits, the louder someone hates, the louder we get to hate back. A show of respect for someone with a different belief has come to seem deferential and undesirable.
As long as this verbal volleyball match continues, nothing will be accomplished and while each side will blame the other, the truth is that both are at fault because both are engaged in a self-righteous refusal to let the other side be right about anything…and neither side is right about everything. But, when we absolutely, unequivocally BELIEVE we are right, that someone else is wrong…we are at an impasse…and when that disagreement turns angry and judgmental as it has in recent years, how do we overcome that impasse?
Recently, I came across this TEDTalk by Jonathan Haidt on the moral roots of liberals and conservatives, which addresses the moral matrix in which both ends of the continuum are locked. I think it's worth a few minutes of your time; while some will find themselves trying to defend their own judgments about conservatives or liberals as valid in today's world, I think Haidt's offers information that can help us re-approach each other in ways that are both more respectful and also more effective.
Friday, January 22, 2010
The Problem of Heidi Montag
This week, Heidi Montag revealed her new look to the world. After a whopping ten plastic surgeries, Montag has altered her slightly quirky face into that of the transsexual wife of an Orange County republican.
Almost as soon as these pictures broke, a collective cry rang out. She was such a pretty girl!! Why would she do this!!??? What is wrong with her??!! What kind of doctor would conduct such a surgery??!! Where are her parents??!! What kind of message is she sending to her young fans??!! It's all wrong wrong wrong!! Except that on some level it's not.
Heidi Montag is a walking metaphor for the inconsistent message women and girls receive about their appearance and its relationship to their worth in our culture. While girls are regularly TOLD that their intelligence, humor, and competence are valued, women of proven intelligence and humor continue to be subjected to commentary about their appearance. Whether it's Hillary Clinton, who endured far more physical scrutiny than Obama during the 2008 primaries, including one piece by Republican blogger Emily Miller that focused on her cankles, or Tina Fey, who's impressive list of comedic accomplishments receive secondary coverage to her nerd chic appeal, the message is clear. Intelligence, wit, and competence are not enough for a woman's physical appearance to avoid scrutiny.
Meanwhile, the only industries where women have consistently made significantly more money than their male counterparts are the modeling industry and the sex industry, both of which expect their women to meet certain appearance ideals but neither of which requires mental facility. In spite of lip service to the contrary, money has a quantifiable relationship to value and power in our culture. The fact that we choose to pay women far more on average for being supremely beautiful and for acting freakishly sexual than we pay them for being competent intellectually is not lost on girls and young women.
In effect, Heidi Montag is telling her young female fans the unfortunate truth that they already instinctively know - their looks have at least as much value as their personal qualities; and she is as much a victim as she is a metaphor for this confusing message. This is why she failed to see the irony in espousing the message "beauty's really within," during her post-op interview with Good Morning America's Juju Chang (http://tinyurl.com/y8pnddb). After all, our culture gives excessive lip service to the "beauty is within" mantra while outwardly placing far more importance on external beauty. Therefore, what's wrong with her embodying the same hypocrisy?
Some have suggested the problem lies not in this hypocritical message. Rather, Montag has been labeled an addict. Perhaps she is. But this is not singly important. Such over-indulgence is bound to happen in a culture that places a high value on physical appearance while offering a myriad of plastic surgery options. Moreover, our culture is largely accepting of plastic surgery as a means to improve self-esteem (a further admission of the importance of looks). According to a Consumer Attitudes Survey conducted in 2008, 56% of women approve of cosmetic surgery and 31% would consider having it themselves. To be sure, Montag was not heavily criticized after her first breast augmentation and nose job. This was seen as within the realm of acceptable tweaking. But when does that tweaking become unacceptable? It's only when someone radically changes their appearance in the way that Montag has that we cry foul. But, in a culture with questionable integrity regarding the qualities it claims to value most in women, can we really be that surprised by someone like Heidi Montag? Perhaps the greater crime is the perpetuation of the myth that looks don't matter when their value is so obvious.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Knowing the Why: The Importance of Clear Purpose in the Face of Artistic Commercialization
Ok artists of the world...here's what I want to know: What is your point? What is the specific unifying purpose behind your work? Why should anyone care about it? Whether you are a musician, an actor, a writer, a comedian, or a painter...you need to have something to say that extends beyond a self-indulgent look-at-me-and-how-good-I-am-at-what-I-do mentality if you expect to be truly relevant and/or find lasting success. And now, as the relationship between commerce and art evolves in the face of technology, there is an even greater need for us artists to develop a clear and specific sense of purpose that we can articulate with confidence. Without it we may lose the very creative flexibility and freedom we so value.
Perhaps the need for purpose sounds obvious to some. But, sometimes what is obvious in theory is absent or at least under-developed in practice. For example, a musician might say something like, "I want to write great songs that really move people to think." A writer might say "I want to write stories that give voice to voiceless characters." A comedian might say, "I want to be edgy and make people laugh at their own discomfort." These may sound like valid purposes...but they aren't specific enough. If a musician wishes to make people think...she must have a clear idea of what she wants them to think about. A writer who wants to give voice to the voiceless must have a sense not only of whose voice she seeks to embody but also of the value in doing so. And a comedian who wishes to make people laugh at their own discomfort should have a specific idea she wants to communicate through that discomfort.
Many artists resist the notion of specificity of purpose because they see it as an artistic failure in the face of commerce; and they believe they must be fully un-tethered in order to create successfully. However, this is a misunderstanding of specificity, which is not synonymous with limitation. Rather, specificity is the unification of our varying artistic interests into a definable singular vision. A great variety of things may inform, inspire, and impact our work. But we MUST be able to synthesize those influences into a succinct and focused vision. Without that specificity, our audience becomes difficult to define, our work becomes unruly and vague and our overall success cannot be calibrated.
Take for example, Lady Gaga. In her work, she primarily seems interested in challenging and examining notions of celebrity. What is it? Is it real or a created construct? How does it relate to artistic expression? How can it be useful? How is it destructive? What does it say about us as a culture? Now, there are many aspects to Lady Gaga’s music, performance, and overall presence. She has an outrageous sense of fashion. Her performance is marked by suicide and murder imagery. She has a strong interest in issues of gender and in gay iconography. But these different aspects act primarily as tools to comment on celebrity…which is the driving purpose behind her work.
Comic Sarah Silverman is another example. Silverman is obviously inspired by a wide variety of political, racial, religious, and gender-based issues. But her work is primarily interested in pointing out and challenging hypocrisy in prejudicial thinking. Her ironic endorsement of various forms of bigotry, which creates discomfort in her audience, forces that audience to consider their own prejudices. Race jokes become not about race…but about the ridiculousness of prejudice…and this is what she wants her audience laughing at and thinking about.
There is no doubt that modern commerce has impacted the life and work of the artist. But our answer to this as artists cannot be a stubborn refusal to acknowledge commerce. Instead, we must understand that a focused, specific artistic vision is NOT a failure of art in the face of commerce. Rather, it is the best way to keep control of our creativity and to build and maintain artistic relevance. For if we aren’t sure what it is we’re doing, and why we are doing...if we can’t articulate it clearly and confidently, someone in marketing will; and that is when art fails in the face of commerce.
Perhaps the need for purpose sounds obvious to some. But, sometimes what is obvious in theory is absent or at least under-developed in practice. For example, a musician might say something like, "I want to write great songs that really move people to think." A writer might say "I want to write stories that give voice to voiceless characters." A comedian might say, "I want to be edgy and make people laugh at their own discomfort." These may sound like valid purposes...but they aren't specific enough. If a musician wishes to make people think...she must have a clear idea of what she wants them to think about. A writer who wants to give voice to the voiceless must have a sense not only of whose voice she seeks to embody but also of the value in doing so. And a comedian who wishes to make people laugh at their own discomfort should have a specific idea she wants to communicate through that discomfort.
Many artists resist the notion of specificity of purpose because they see it as an artistic failure in the face of commerce; and they believe they must be fully un-tethered in order to create successfully. However, this is a misunderstanding of specificity, which is not synonymous with limitation. Rather, specificity is the unification of our varying artistic interests into a definable singular vision. A great variety of things may inform, inspire, and impact our work. But we MUST be able to synthesize those influences into a succinct and focused vision. Without that specificity, our audience becomes difficult to define, our work becomes unruly and vague and our overall success cannot be calibrated.
Take for example, Lady Gaga. In her work, she primarily seems interested in challenging and examining notions of celebrity. What is it? Is it real or a created construct? How does it relate to artistic expression? How can it be useful? How is it destructive? What does it say about us as a culture? Now, there are many aspects to Lady Gaga’s music, performance, and overall presence. She has an outrageous sense of fashion. Her performance is marked by suicide and murder imagery. She has a strong interest in issues of gender and in gay iconography. But these different aspects act primarily as tools to comment on celebrity…which is the driving purpose behind her work.
Comic Sarah Silverman is another example. Silverman is obviously inspired by a wide variety of political, racial, religious, and gender-based issues. But her work is primarily interested in pointing out and challenging hypocrisy in prejudicial thinking. Her ironic endorsement of various forms of bigotry, which creates discomfort in her audience, forces that audience to consider their own prejudices. Race jokes become not about race…but about the ridiculousness of prejudice…and this is what she wants her audience laughing at and thinking about.
There is no doubt that modern commerce has impacted the life and work of the artist. But our answer to this as artists cannot be a stubborn refusal to acknowledge commerce. Instead, we must understand that a focused, specific artistic vision is NOT a failure of art in the face of commerce. Rather, it is the best way to keep control of our creativity and to build and maintain artistic relevance. For if we aren’t sure what it is we’re doing, and why we are doing...if we can’t articulate it clearly and confidently, someone in marketing will; and that is when art fails in the face of commerce.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Summer '96
Words: hip-roofed, decant, summer, housecoat, footrub, ashtray, lilac, interruption, insurance, platform
This was written in fall, 2000 without the 30 minute limit. It was the early inspiration for my 10 in 30 poems.
Summer '96
The summer we lived in the
Hip-roofed house by the highway,
I worked two jobs, one as a temp
For an insurance company and
One as a dancer, so that
He could finish recording
His second CD without the
Interruption of employment.
Once after a particularly
Rough night at my platform
Job, I returned home to find him
Sitting, feet-up, and watching
Dateline re-runs while decanting
Brandy from flask to glass and
Flicking ashes over the couch I bought.
"Since when did you perceive
Permission to sit around like
My grandmother at the old folks
Home, waiting in her housecoat
For her next feeding or footrub?"
I demanded, hoping for a fight
Or a fuck or both.
He squinted at me like the lilac
Eyed hero of an action flick
As he crushed his cigarette
Into the ashtray his niece made
For him in her art class and said
"Come here baby." And to his
Embrace I succumbed.
Meanwhile, others are playing
Basketball at the 24-hour Y on 38th,
Or dancing to disco covers
At that club on College, or
Planning their shopping lists
During midnight bouts of insomnia,
While waiting for their lovers
To roll over and kiss them
On the back of their neck before
Drifting off to sleep again.
This was written in fall, 2000 without the 30 minute limit. It was the early inspiration for my 10 in 30 poems.
Summer '96
The summer we lived in the
Hip-roofed house by the highway,
I worked two jobs, one as a temp
For an insurance company and
One as a dancer, so that
He could finish recording
His second CD without the
Interruption of employment.
Once after a particularly
Rough night at my platform
Job, I returned home to find him
Sitting, feet-up, and watching
Dateline re-runs while decanting
Brandy from flask to glass and
Flicking ashes over the couch I bought.
"Since when did you perceive
Permission to sit around like
My grandmother at the old folks
Home, waiting in her housecoat
For her next feeding or footrub?"
I demanded, hoping for a fight
Or a fuck or both.
He squinted at me like the lilac
Eyed hero of an action flick
As he crushed his cigarette
Into the ashtray his niece made
For him in her art class and said
"Come here baby." And to his
Embrace I succumbed.
Meanwhile, others are playing
Basketball at the 24-hour Y on 38th,
Or dancing to disco covers
At that club on College, or
Planning their shopping lists
During midnight bouts of insomnia,
While waiting for their lovers
To roll over and kiss them
On the back of their neck before
Drifting off to sleep again.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Purple Haze
There are no public displays of purple
In my parent’s home.
Too loud for the décor taste
Of midwestern consevatives who drive
Astrovans and Rivieras.
Purple IS the bad boy pin-up and
Stretch jean rebellion of
Their teenaged daughter
Who rains funk rock royalty in
Boas and butt-less pants and
Refracts light through flyaway locks
Of glam slam bottom thumpers.
Purple is wah-wah innovation and
Screaming boots with colorless tops
Stretched over unimagined nipples
On a cold Hollywood night.
It offends the meek and the chic alike.
It is a bad hangover,
Or the hidden shade of republican lingerie.
In my parent’s home.
Too loud for the décor taste
Of midwestern consevatives who drive
Astrovans and Rivieras.
Purple IS the bad boy pin-up and
Stretch jean rebellion of
Their teenaged daughter
Who rains funk rock royalty in
Boas and butt-less pants and
Refracts light through flyaway locks
Of glam slam bottom thumpers.
Purple is wah-wah innovation and
Screaming boots with colorless tops
Stretched over unimagined nipples
On a cold Hollywood night.
It offends the meek and the chic alike.
It is a bad hangover,
Or the hidden shade of republican lingerie.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
15 Things Every Woman Wishes Her Man Knew
1.) A little dirty talk in the bedroom is awesome … but at some point you need to shut the fuck up or you are going to talk us right out of an orgasm.
2.) If I tell you to spank me … I expect you to spank me hard enough that it stings a little and I expect the sound to be full, not tinny. (Sorry, I'm a musician).
3.) I'd rather make out for an hour than have you go down on me for an hour. I mean, seriously, if you've been down there an hour to no avail … you've failed.
4.) Good conversation is a greater turn-on than any gift you could dream of buying.
5.) Compliments that we can discern by looking in the mirror are not as effective as those we cannot.
6.) Don't ever begin a sexual encounter with the line "Are you ready for some big dick in you?" You will be joked about for years and years and years to come. Trust me.
7.) If you want us to come to your house, ask us explicitly. Don't hint around in an effort to make us ask. We might totally be up for coming over and getting naked … but we won't invite ourselves … and if we're not yet ready to come over, we'll be flattered that you asked … and probably go home and masturbate while fantasizing about the next time you ask us over.
8.) We know you want to have rock star sex … whatever your version of that is. We are happy to fuck you in front of mirrors and in hotels and in bar bathrooms and to be flipped into eight different porn positions every once in awhile … but just know that getting flipped into too many different positions absolutely diminishes our ability to reach orgasm. For that, you must find the angle and work it consistently until mission accomplished. When you flip positions you always lose the angle. ALWAYS! And too many ups and downs in the female orgasm cycle without actually reaching orgasm will prevent orgasm altogether. As such, your version of rock star sex … is not our version or rock star sex. Just know this.
9.) Girls who "LOOOOOOVE" to give blowjobs and rarely want to have sex do not have orgasms often or, possibly, ever.
10.) If you prevent us from touching our clits during sex we will dump you.
11.) Pull our hair. Why else do you think we grow it?
12.) A mechanically perfect lay that lacks sensuality is not better than a mechanically imperfect lay that is very sensual. However, a mechanically perfect lay is always better than a quick shooter … no matter how sensual the quick shooter is.
13.) On the same note as 12, there is no excuse for habitual quick shooting. We are not THAT hot. You are not THAT turned on by us. Habitual quick shooting means you are an inconsiderate, insensitive jackass. While your response to this may be "Who cares, I'm only there for me," we all know that secretly you are hyper-sensitive to the suggestion that you are a bad lay … which you are. In fact you're the worst kind of bad lay. Fix it, whatever it takes, or expect to be repeatedly and viciously dumped.
14.) Just because your ex-girlfriend found it unbelievably hot when you wore a Pluto mask does not mean we will find it hot. However, we might be totally into Darth Vader capes and light sabers. Learn to improvise.
15.) Make us laugh or you won't be around long.
2.) If I tell you to spank me … I expect you to spank me hard enough that it stings a little and I expect the sound to be full, not tinny. (Sorry, I'm a musician).
3.) I'd rather make out for an hour than have you go down on me for an hour. I mean, seriously, if you've been down there an hour to no avail … you've failed.
4.) Good conversation is a greater turn-on than any gift you could dream of buying.
5.) Compliments that we can discern by looking in the mirror are not as effective as those we cannot.
6.) Don't ever begin a sexual encounter with the line "Are you ready for some big dick in you?" You will be joked about for years and years and years to come. Trust me.
7.) If you want us to come to your house, ask us explicitly. Don't hint around in an effort to make us ask. We might totally be up for coming over and getting naked … but we won't invite ourselves … and if we're not yet ready to come over, we'll be flattered that you asked … and probably go home and masturbate while fantasizing about the next time you ask us over.
8.) We know you want to have rock star sex … whatever your version of that is. We are happy to fuck you in front of mirrors and in hotels and in bar bathrooms and to be flipped into eight different porn positions every once in awhile … but just know that getting flipped into too many different positions absolutely diminishes our ability to reach orgasm. For that, you must find the angle and work it consistently until mission accomplished. When you flip positions you always lose the angle. ALWAYS! And too many ups and downs in the female orgasm cycle without actually reaching orgasm will prevent orgasm altogether. As such, your version of rock star sex … is not our version or rock star sex. Just know this.
9.) Girls who "LOOOOOOVE" to give blowjobs and rarely want to have sex do not have orgasms often or, possibly, ever.
10.) If you prevent us from touching our clits during sex we will dump you.
11.) Pull our hair. Why else do you think we grow it?
12.) A mechanically perfect lay that lacks sensuality is not better than a mechanically imperfect lay that is very sensual. However, a mechanically perfect lay is always better than a quick shooter … no matter how sensual the quick shooter is.
13.) On the same note as 12, there is no excuse for habitual quick shooting. We are not THAT hot. You are not THAT turned on by us. Habitual quick shooting means you are an inconsiderate, insensitive jackass. While your response to this may be "Who cares, I'm only there for me," we all know that secretly you are hyper-sensitive to the suggestion that you are a bad lay … which you are. In fact you're the worst kind of bad lay. Fix it, whatever it takes, or expect to be repeatedly and viciously dumped.
14.) Just because your ex-girlfriend found it unbelievably hot when you wore a Pluto mask does not mean we will find it hot. However, we might be totally into Darth Vader capes and light sabers. Learn to improvise.
15.) Make us laugh or you won't be around long.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Axl Rose...speaker of the central Indiana experience.
Axl Rose grew up 30 minutes north of my hometown. Thus, perhaps it's un-ironic that his lyrics relate so well to the stories of people I've known.
He lost his mind today
He left it out back on the highway
I-65
It was a late November day when Eric L. drove the thirty miles north up I-65 to Purdue University where he desperately hoped to win back his ex-girlfriend, Sarah. As one can imagine, Sarah stayed safely locked behind steel door as Eric, in the midst of “I can’t live without you depression,” begged, kicked, and threatened suicide.
After being run off by some of Sarah’s male friends, Eric, now drunk and enraged, returned to Lebanon where he first procured a shotgun from the Wal-Mart at the edge of town…and then shells from the Big Lots across the street. Suicide on the brain, he drove to a cornfield outside of town and began chugging a bottle of Wild Turkey. Just as he was loading the shell meant for his temple, the cops cruised by, noticed his oddly parked car and generally fucked up his plans in the immediate.
Not in the mood to deal with any kind of authority, Eric cranked his engine and flew out of that field with cops in full pursuit. The cops chased Eric through backroad Boone County, past pig farms, and cornfields, and abandoned schools and random country marts. At some point, Eric hit a patch of railroad tracks at 100 mph and crashed his car into a cornfield. The cops closed in. Eric, hoping to be gunned down in a haze of police bullets aimed his shotgun right at them. "Stay the fuck away, or I swear I'll fucking shoot YOU!"
Now, had Eric been in a different town or the son of a different family, his actions most surely would have gotten him shot...killed...dead just like he wanted. But Eric was not so lucky. Instead officer Rex H., a friend of his father's, approached with the hope of talking some sense. Eric shot him in the arm...full on begging them to end it. Instead the cops arrested him and he was sent him to prison.
While in prison, Eric was diagnosed manic-depressive. "Halleluia," cried his mother, Susan. "I've been asking doctors since he was five for help." After his release from prison, Eric walked about town glassy eyed, perfectly postured, heavily medicated. It was only a matter of time…but his parents were hopeful. In fact, his mother was so hopeful that she believed that Eric’s prison buddy should live with them after his release. “People who’ve been in prison, need help and support,” she would say when people questioned her judgment.
Michael moved in with Eric’s parents the day he was released from prison. Michael got a job with Eric’s construction crew. Everything was fine until Michael broke into the home of Eric’s grandmother, Ruby. Robbery may have been the motive…but when Ruby surprised Michael, he beat her nearly to death…and went back to prison.
A few years later, Eric finally succeeded in accomplishing his long held goal. He went quietly...pills and liquor...and carbon monoxide. No chance for failure. No need for a note. By then everyone knew it had only been matter of time.
I imagine that each day Eric lived, his only comfort was the thought that suicide was always an option...until finally it was his only option..."finally," he thought, "finally." That's what I'd think anyways.
Here I am, I'm you're rocket queen
I might be a little young but honey I ain't naïve.
Like Rabbit of famed John Updike novels, Scott S. was a big fucking shining star! Not only was he the perfect stereotype of the small town high school athlete with his his solid B minus average and membership in National Honor Society but also he volunteered his precious star time to various church organizations. A star who licked Jesus's asshole on the weekends...could he be any more perfect, the town wondered aloud?
So, imagine the orgiastic excitement when, after 4 years as a star college athlete at a nearby university, Scott returned to Lebanon to coach basketball and, in his spare time, teach math to high school students. One of our own heroes had returned to nurture new heroes for the future. The town glittered with pride. Several girls, who as 5th and 6th graders had witnessed Scott's heroics on the court, glittered too.
In the summer prior to Scott's first year as a teacher, he enjoyed his small town trophy status by buying liquor for teenaged parties populated mainly by kids soon to be his students. Two of his favorite party mates Julie and Alicia, 15 and 16, respectively, were the chosen ones. To their delight, they were invited to meet Scott in a most intimate fashion. Although the affair with the younger girl was short-lived, thus securing her the prideful reputation as a teacher fucking slut, Scott carried on an affair with the older girl until her dad found out...18 months later.
Fortunately for Scott, the town was in love with him and couldn't bear to let him go down in flames. He was allowed to quietly resign without a public shaming...and two years later, he married the girl in question. An inevitable divorce followed. No longer able to teach, and too drunk on his small town fame to leave, Scott frames houses and fucks 20-something divorcees who bow at his rock star cock with reverence. “Oh Scott” they probably stammer, “I remember when you played football in high school…me and my friends used to stare at your ass in those tight pants…and now here I am…here we are…you…me…that tight quarterback ass in my hand. Who’d have ever imagined?”
I used to love her
But I had to kill her...again
It was 3 a.m. one morning in 1990, when a startled trucker called Lebanon Police to report blood all over the checkout counter at the Holiday Inn. When police arrived they found Vicki H., the night desk clerk dead. Next to her body was a golf-putter covered in blood.
In the 1970's, Jacob R. was the married father of a hot perky titted adopted daughter. Everyone knew he fucked her but no one ever did anything about it. I mean she was adopted...so it wasn't quite as bad...not bad enough to butt in and save a child...but certainly gossip worthy.
One night after yet another argument with his daughter regarding her repeated attempts to run away, she threatened to call the police...this according to the neighbor who overheard the argument. Instead, the girl was never seen again. Jacob didn't frantically search for her..."she just up and ran away again, I guess," he said, while dragging on a marlboro and sipping a Bud.
Due to her history of such attempts, the police accepted this as a logical explanation and the case was dropped. Two years later, Jacob's house mysteriously burnt down, killing his wife. It happened in the 10 minutes after he left the house to visit the Dairy Queen for a Dilly Bar.
Accelerant was found in the basement, arson was suspected but couldn't be proven.
Jacob was Vicky H's boyfriend at the time of her clubbing. He was the prime suspect in her murder...the only suspect...he did it. It's a quietly known fact amongst the police officers. But again, Jacob, the perfect criminal, had left only enough evidence to point to him but not enough to convict him.
The case remains unsolved today due to that convenient lack of evidence. Jacob continues to walk about town a free man. He might drink coffee at Titus' Donut Shop on Sunday mornings while reading the paper, play pool at Boone's Pub with college students home for the weekend, or shoot the shit with travelers who exit I-65 to stop at the convenience store, where he works.
Once as drifting 16 year-olds on our way to yet another concert, my friend Staci and I stopped at his convenience store...she wanted smokes, I wanted chocolate. "Are you 18?" asked Jacob of Staci, when she asked for her pack of Marlboro's. "Yeah," she lied. "Well, you girls sure are pretty enough to be 18," he slickered, eyes on her tits as he took her $5 and pushed over the cigs." "Whatever," we said, eyes rolling...as we turned, taut teenage asses in too short skirts and heels...his dick erecting as we sauntered off.
Welcome to the Jungle, Baby.
He lost his mind today
He left it out back on the highway
I-65
It was a late November day when Eric L. drove the thirty miles north up I-65 to Purdue University where he desperately hoped to win back his ex-girlfriend, Sarah. As one can imagine, Sarah stayed safely locked behind steel door as Eric, in the midst of “I can’t live without you depression,” begged, kicked, and threatened suicide.
After being run off by some of Sarah’s male friends, Eric, now drunk and enraged, returned to Lebanon where he first procured a shotgun from the Wal-Mart at the edge of town…and then shells from the Big Lots across the street. Suicide on the brain, he drove to a cornfield outside of town and began chugging a bottle of Wild Turkey. Just as he was loading the shell meant for his temple, the cops cruised by, noticed his oddly parked car and generally fucked up his plans in the immediate.
Not in the mood to deal with any kind of authority, Eric cranked his engine and flew out of that field with cops in full pursuit. The cops chased Eric through backroad Boone County, past pig farms, and cornfields, and abandoned schools and random country marts. At some point, Eric hit a patch of railroad tracks at 100 mph and crashed his car into a cornfield. The cops closed in. Eric, hoping to be gunned down in a haze of police bullets aimed his shotgun right at them. "Stay the fuck away, or I swear I'll fucking shoot YOU!"
Now, had Eric been in a different town or the son of a different family, his actions most surely would have gotten him shot...killed...dead just like he wanted. But Eric was not so lucky. Instead officer Rex H., a friend of his father's, approached with the hope of talking some sense. Eric shot him in the arm...full on begging them to end it. Instead the cops arrested him and he was sent him to prison.
While in prison, Eric was diagnosed manic-depressive. "Halleluia," cried his mother, Susan. "I've been asking doctors since he was five for help." After his release from prison, Eric walked about town glassy eyed, perfectly postured, heavily medicated. It was only a matter of time…but his parents were hopeful. In fact, his mother was so hopeful that she believed that Eric’s prison buddy should live with them after his release. “People who’ve been in prison, need help and support,” she would say when people questioned her judgment.
Michael moved in with Eric’s parents the day he was released from prison. Michael got a job with Eric’s construction crew. Everything was fine until Michael broke into the home of Eric’s grandmother, Ruby. Robbery may have been the motive…but when Ruby surprised Michael, he beat her nearly to death…and went back to prison.
A few years later, Eric finally succeeded in accomplishing his long held goal. He went quietly...pills and liquor...and carbon monoxide. No chance for failure. No need for a note. By then everyone knew it had only been matter of time.
I imagine that each day Eric lived, his only comfort was the thought that suicide was always an option...until finally it was his only option..."finally," he thought, "finally." That's what I'd think anyways.
Here I am, I'm you're rocket queen
I might be a little young but honey I ain't naïve.
Like Rabbit of famed John Updike novels, Scott S. was a big fucking shining star! Not only was he the perfect stereotype of the small town high school athlete with his his solid B minus average and membership in National Honor Society but also he volunteered his precious star time to various church organizations. A star who licked Jesus's asshole on the weekends...could he be any more perfect, the town wondered aloud?
So, imagine the orgiastic excitement when, after 4 years as a star college athlete at a nearby university, Scott returned to Lebanon to coach basketball and, in his spare time, teach math to high school students. One of our own heroes had returned to nurture new heroes for the future. The town glittered with pride. Several girls, who as 5th and 6th graders had witnessed Scott's heroics on the court, glittered too.
In the summer prior to Scott's first year as a teacher, he enjoyed his small town trophy status by buying liquor for teenaged parties populated mainly by kids soon to be his students. Two of his favorite party mates Julie and Alicia, 15 and 16, respectively, were the chosen ones. To their delight, they were invited to meet Scott in a most intimate fashion. Although the affair with the younger girl was short-lived, thus securing her the prideful reputation as a teacher fucking slut, Scott carried on an affair with the older girl until her dad found out...18 months later.
Fortunately for Scott, the town was in love with him and couldn't bear to let him go down in flames. He was allowed to quietly resign without a public shaming...and two years later, he married the girl in question. An inevitable divorce followed. No longer able to teach, and too drunk on his small town fame to leave, Scott frames houses and fucks 20-something divorcees who bow at his rock star cock with reverence. “Oh Scott” they probably stammer, “I remember when you played football in high school…me and my friends used to stare at your ass in those tight pants…and now here I am…here we are…you…me…that tight quarterback ass in my hand. Who’d have ever imagined?”
I used to love her
But I had to kill her...again
It was 3 a.m. one morning in 1990, when a startled trucker called Lebanon Police to report blood all over the checkout counter at the Holiday Inn. When police arrived they found Vicki H., the night desk clerk dead. Next to her body was a golf-putter covered in blood.
In the 1970's, Jacob R. was the married father of a hot perky titted adopted daughter. Everyone knew he fucked her but no one ever did anything about it. I mean she was adopted...so it wasn't quite as bad...not bad enough to butt in and save a child...but certainly gossip worthy.
One night after yet another argument with his daughter regarding her repeated attempts to run away, she threatened to call the police...this according to the neighbor who overheard the argument. Instead, the girl was never seen again. Jacob didn't frantically search for her..."she just up and ran away again, I guess," he said, while dragging on a marlboro and sipping a Bud.
Due to her history of such attempts, the police accepted this as a logical explanation and the case was dropped. Two years later, Jacob's house mysteriously burnt down, killing his wife. It happened in the 10 minutes after he left the house to visit the Dairy Queen for a Dilly Bar.
Accelerant was found in the basement, arson was suspected but couldn't be proven.
Jacob was Vicky H's boyfriend at the time of her clubbing. He was the prime suspect in her murder...the only suspect...he did it. It's a quietly known fact amongst the police officers. But again, Jacob, the perfect criminal, had left only enough evidence to point to him but not enough to convict him.
The case remains unsolved today due to that convenient lack of evidence. Jacob continues to walk about town a free man. He might drink coffee at Titus' Donut Shop on Sunday mornings while reading the paper, play pool at Boone's Pub with college students home for the weekend, or shoot the shit with travelers who exit I-65 to stop at the convenience store, where he works.
Once as drifting 16 year-olds on our way to yet another concert, my friend Staci and I stopped at his convenience store...she wanted smokes, I wanted chocolate. "Are you 18?" asked Jacob of Staci, when she asked for her pack of Marlboro's. "Yeah," she lied. "Well, you girls sure are pretty enough to be 18," he slickered, eyes on her tits as he took her $5 and pushed over the cigs." "Whatever," we said, eyes rolling...as we turned, taut teenage asses in too short skirts and heels...his dick erecting as we sauntered off.
Welcome to the Jungle, Baby.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Frock Rocker Rants - the background and disclaimer
So, let's just get one thing out of the way...I am a huge fucking cliche. Songs have been written about me...I have been immortalized in film...I am every daddy's nightmare. I am the girl who packed her car and drove west for the shining lights of Hollywood to become a fucking rock star. That's right I'm mama's fallen angel who after growing up tall and growing up right headed west 'cause she thought a change would do her good. That was almost seven years ago...and it's high time I started writing about it...if for no other reason than to make sense of what has become of my life. I should warn you...I have a standard issue musician mouth...in essence I speak in trailer hooker tongue. If this offends you...go read a fucking blog about gardening or debutante balls...both subjects I personally find deeply interesting...but only if I can talk about how fucking beautiful the rhododendrons look lining the walk way of hand laid stone. Anyways, more to follow about gardening...but for now...quick background for the purpose of perspective.
I'm the daughter of a midwestern judge. My mother is the kindest person I know. I have an older brother, who is now also a judge. It is my brother's fault that I pursued rock stardom. When I began to express an interest in playing guitar at 14, my brother said...and I quote "you'll never get a guitar...and if you do...you'll never learn to play...and if you do learn to play...you'll never play in a band." I was an obstinate child. Such doubt as my brother expressed sealed my future as a musician in a family full of lawyers. Had my brother never uttered such words, I'm certain I would be a high powered divorce attorney raking in bigtime Chicago money...my father would be proud...my brother would be proud...my mother would still pray for me. As is, they all pray for me...and they still want me to go to law school. I took the LSAT to whet their appetite...I scored a 167. Then, instead of applying, I joined a punk band. I'm still trying to decide whether this was the smartest or the dumbest decision I've ever made.
I'm the daughter of a midwestern judge. My mother is the kindest person I know. I have an older brother, who is now also a judge. It is my brother's fault that I pursued rock stardom. When I began to express an interest in playing guitar at 14, my brother said...and I quote "you'll never get a guitar...and if you do...you'll never learn to play...and if you do learn to play...you'll never play in a band." I was an obstinate child. Such doubt as my brother expressed sealed my future as a musician in a family full of lawyers. Had my brother never uttered such words, I'm certain I would be a high powered divorce attorney raking in bigtime Chicago money...my father would be proud...my brother would be proud...my mother would still pray for me. As is, they all pray for me...and they still want me to go to law school. I took the LSAT to whet their appetite...I scored a 167. Then, instead of applying, I joined a punk band. I'm still trying to decide whether this was the smartest or the dumbest decision I've ever made.
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