What I Like

(Robert & Shana ParkeHarrison)

I like putting explanatory names in front of Jesus. i.e. Chocolate Jesus, Supply-Side Jesus, Wrong-Eyed Jesus, Action Jesus, Post-Modern Jesus.

I like The Blues. You can't beat the blues. i.e. Taj Mahal, Mississippi John Hurt, Tom Waits, Muddy Waters, Screamin Jay Hawkins.

I like wit. There is a good joke for nearly every situation. A good joke is almost necessary for every situation.

I like great art. Great art is not what you like, it's what I like.

I like cookie dough icecream and chocolate white russians.

I like worrying about money. I like the idea of not worrying about money.

I like pictures of my Dad with his new bicycle equipment, or in exotic places.

Of course, I like Marigold.

Handicapped Poop

Do you ever feel guilty about pooping in the only handicapped stall? Well, damn it, you shouldn't. You don't need a special sticker to poop on the cleanest, best stocked toilet in the place.

Still, I feel guilty about it. I envision a horrible wheelchair related pooping accident happening due to my selfish asshole. At least I wash my hands afterwards, like Pontius Pilote.

This Movie Is Not For You

We just went to see The Forgotten, starring The Bald Guy from ER who said "SHIT" or "BALLS" or something similarly shocking on prime time television. Hey! You think this is Steve writing this, but it's actually his very clever wife. Or is it? How could you ever now for sure?



Seriously, this movie falls apart in almost every way it could. Julianne Moore is good in it, but why? Didn't she read the script and say, "What kind of end is this? Is the writer some 5th grade Stephen King fan? Aliens? Seriously?" There were some good moments that make you jump, but Dragonfly (staring the glamorous Kevin Costner) had those too, and boy, did that suck. But at least that didn't involve Aliens. If you like lame, sentimental StarTrek movies without the costumes or phasors or spaceships or characters you might marginally care about or O'Hara, then this movie might be for you. Except you hate Gary Sinise, so forget it.

Political Dreams

I had a wacky dream the other night and maybe I will tell you about it now. It was a nightmarish dream, very similar to your typical horror film. It involved the normal set up: stupid teenagers hear of a satanic ritual and during a drunken party decide to have some fun by recreating the ritual. Of course, things go horribly wrong when things go exactly as they were supposed to. And then whole generations get eaten . . . blah, blah, blah. My dream started exactly the same and the "monster" that they were invoking actually appears in the locked closet where they had set the innocent voodoo doll. As the dumb, inebriated teenagers continue to chant away, our hot-bodied heroine trying desperately to stop them to no avail, the "monster" is increasingly powerful and eventually breaks out his closeted confines. An evil-eyed, drab-suited, crusty old Republican (who kind of looks like Karl Rove) steps ominously out! Instantly all the teenagers are converted into zombie-like republicans themselves, except our pretty, young heroine who adverts her eyes. The newly converted republican zombies would then go out into the world to throw more parties where they would "innocently" eat the brains of the next generation of teenagers. When our gorgeous heroine attempts to fight back against the Republican strong-hold, they easily reduce her influence by spending lots of money and calling her an inconsequential liberal Commie.

I woke up in a hard sweat. Those Republicans were way more scary than any Michael Myers, or Chucky.

Head and Shoulders Above The Rest

AMAZING!

Duane Michals spoke here at SCAD last night and I was lucky enough to be in the audience. He is a great conceptual photographer that was very influential on me when I was trying to take pictures. Why don't I do that anymore? Anyway, I once had a project that I had to emulate a particular photographers style in order to learn from his or her technique. I almost used Duane Michals work, but I didn't have a decent story thought up that would be anywhere near as funny and/or profound his usually are. So I copied Jerry Uelsmann's work. Badly.

Duane Michals was an incredibly animated old man. It was like the thoughts were piling up so fast in his brain that his mouth was too slow in getting them out. He stressed lots of stuff. Important stuff. And not just for wannabe photographers. Profound modern social wisdom and how the Republicans are all liars. And he told this joke:

A guy walks into a bar and sees a giant jar filled with hundred dollars bills. He asks the bartender, What's with all the money? He responds, If you put a hundred dollars in the jar and then perform three tasks you can take the whole jar home. Shit! thinks the man, That must be several thousand dollars. What are the three tasks? Number one, says the bartender, is drink a gallon of scotch. Number two: There is a pitt bull out back that has a nasty tooth ache and it has put him in a very bad mood for a long time. I want you to extract that tooth. And number three involves the one hundred year old virgin lady that lives upstairs. You need to sexually satisfy her until she screams.

No wonder so many have failed, thinks the guy. I could never do all that crazy stuff. So he sits down and drinks a few beers. After thinking about it, he works himself up to try the challege. He drops a hundred dollars in the jar and quickly downs the gallon of scotch wiskey. No problem. So he then steps out back to complete the second task. Even through the wall everyone can hear the mauling that is going on outside. There are barks and thumps and squeals and screams. After several minutes of this, the guy steps back in. He is a bloody mess with fresh cuts and bruises all over his torn body. But he is still ready to go. He says, Alright! Now where's this old lady who needs a tooth extracted?

You Got The Fire?

Why can't these "survivors" light a stinking fire? They knew they would be on the show. Why didn't they go here or any other survival webpage or handbook and then practice, practice, practice. And then practice some more. I want to try to do it myself now. Maybe tomorrow, behind the house, I can try. If I'm successful the whole neighborhood can burn in the glory of my new found skill. Or maybe not.

This would be a good skill to have under my hat, although, especially given my desire for a vast humanity-born apocalypse. If I were to live through it, I would not die like Downtown Party Barbie would. Unless she had a gun, and I the last working pink corvette. Maybe I could entice her to share her military strength and downtown beauty in exchange for my supreme survival knowledge and rugged good-looks. We would spawn a new race of gorgeous human beings that are both incredibly intelligent and ambidextrous. The other mutants that happened to survive the political, nuclear showdown would follow us like puppies, showering us with gifts and servicing our needs. Of course, I would share my fire knowledge with no one, even my pretty, pretty babies. My subjects have to request a fire and I would get to them in my leisure. This would keep the hierarchical system firmly in place with me (and Downtown Party Barbie) on top!

It will be glorious! I'm sorry you won't be able to join us in our little society, but you will be dead. You didn't know how to start a fire.

Pull Your Head Out of Your Art

"In the brave new world of post-modernism, the individual is no longer anchored in time or space. Both have been rendered obsolete in life as they have in science, because they are beyond normal human comprehension and based on assumptions that are subject to doubt." H.W. Janson, History of Art Vol. II

Listen to that crap. I like a lot of contemporary art, but I hate all that stupid "intellectual" post-modernist thinking. Get over your puny selves, I say. How, Mr. H.W. Janson, do you define "normal human comprehension"? If by that you mean a five year-old doesn't get it off hand, then I am with you when you say time and space are confusing. But to say that ideas of time or space are OBSOLETE in life and especially in science is pure ignorance. And because you post-modern artists/authors have pondered everything worth pondering and still can't get past the disjuction between Newtonian and quantum physics, you are an ass and not worth listening to. Sure, you might come across an interesting idea or visual by accident with your flawed logic, but so do children. So get off your lame high horse, and stop being so classist.

Also, no one likes the over-used reference to Brave New World; it stinks of freshman composition class.

Sandman Has A Ball

Sandman goes to the Chuck-E-Cheese to remind him of the good times he used to have. Skee Ball was always his favorite sport. Other than raiding the outskirts of Anchorhead. Those bastards!


Oh! Don't cheat Sandman! Tilt! Tilt!


Look how excited he is when those glorious tickets come streaming forth! Sandman can hardly wait to get a fantastic prize!

Garden State

This has won the prestigious My New Best Movie Ever Award. My favorite scene was when Zack and Natalie were doing the dodge-the-fire-arrow dance. Watching this movie made me wish that I was depressed so that I could have a great story like Mr. Zack Braff does. Damn it! Why can't I be depressed? I'm sick of being so gay all the time. Is there a pill I can take?

The Station Agent

This has won the prestigious My New Best Movie Ever Award. I know that I am "Like four months late" on this as I was with Bubba Ho-tep, but that's just the way we do it. If you haven't seen The Station Agent, go and rent it now. It is like a quieter and arguably better Lost In Translation (which is great, don't get me wrong). I am sad that I can't be best friends with the three main characters. I don't really get the train thing, but I get having an offbeat obsession. Mine is square rigged wooden boats from the dawn of sail to the late 1600's. I couldn't really care less about boats, sails or no, after that. I don't envy Fin's solitude, but I do envy his devotion. It is really cool to see a person delve as deep as they can go into a subject. Well-rounded people never do anything great. You have to specialize; make a thing your thing. Besides silly boat models and watching TV, I'm hoping I find my thing.

Hello Tommy

Johnny Ramone just died. That leaves only Tommy. The rest of the Ramone family is in heaven saying, “Hey, where's Tommy? Someone find Tommy.”1 Not that I want Tommy to die, but can The Ramones be a happy family without him?

1 They Might Be Giants lyrics from “We’re The Replacements”

Brother

Chris is gone. Also, he will never read this . . . or watch The Apprentice like you do. That's why you are better. I got up at five this morning to drive him to Jacksonville (two hours there and two back). Then I had just about five hours of classes. It seems like there are lots of interesting people in my classes, three or four of them in the same three classes I'm in.

New Job, New Quarter, Less Chris

Chris leaves in a few days, and that will cut both ways, like Bryan Adams' knife. We will have an early bird drive down to Jacksonville, FL on Thursday, and then back in time for first day of classes, rock 'n roll style. I am itching for them to start, so that I can get back to being a productive human being, like Yahoo Serious in his prime.

Like the hand-shake drugs I bought downtown, my new job was incredibly casual and lacking in responsibility. I sit butt down in a chair by the door, saying hi to the few people who might wonder in, "Yo, dawg." Yesterday, Al Franken laid it down harsh to the liars for seven hours straight, with a little internet thrown in. I guess this means approximately 15 hours of reading and internet porn per week. Which adds up to a whopping $75/week! That will more than handsomely pay off my consistent downtown drinking debt.

Mom's Birthday

I almost forgot to say: today is my Mom's birthday! Since 2001 it is almost impossible to let this day slip by without remembering that something important happened today. It is unfortunate that it takes a terrible disaster to cement a mother's birthday into her son's head, but there it is. Anyway, Mom doesn't read this (and I feel very guilty about it), but maybe some day soon she will be given the opportunity.

Job

Oh, yeah. I got a job yesterday. It was so easy, I'm almost annoyed. I get to part-time monitor art galleries on campus, which will be alternately easy (I sit in a chair waiting for people to come in) and a good "art world" experience. I start on Monday. The only problem is, it pays $5.25 an hour. I am a slave for SCAD now. It will be good to have a little extra money on top of Marigold's big income.

Last night Chris and I tried to go see The Mercy Seat at the Jinx. However, we didn't want to be out at some downtown bar on a Friday night until three in the morning, so we sadly came home. We were out there for an hour, until 10:30, and the opening band wasn't going to start for a while still. We also came home for the reason that we were getting confused with the other 19-year-old, drunken, southern frat boys. They really are so charming.

Smack, Smack

Here’s one of those things that annoy me: chewing gum. I usually avoid it, for the aforementioned reason, but occasionally it finds it’s way between my teeth. This fine eve was one of those rare times, and I knew I would regret my unfortunate gum smacking decision. But it was presented in the place of an after-dinner mint, and who could refuse that? Not me.

Some of the gum games I will immediately play is rolling the gum up like croissants, or dividing it up into even, smooth balls, or flattening it to as thin as it will go on my outer gums. I cannot stop these stupid tongue and gum games from happening, even if I tried. It’s like breathing, only more so. The only thing I do not do is blow bubbles. That’s disgusting.

After an hour of chomping my stale, rigid, tasteless gum, I was frustrated, annoyed, and perplexedly angry. Why must my jaw be hurting like this? Why can’t I salivate anymore? Why are others upset with me? Did I mention that I chew gum with my mouth open? I do. And now you, too, are irritated with me. Once I realize that I can actually take the gum out of my mouth and throw it away, oh, so relieved am I. All of a sudden the world is fresh and new, no longer burdened with unnecessary open-mouth chewing. And everybody now loves me, no longer avoiding me like the glue-sniffing pervert I am.

St. Peter at The Gates:

“Okay, okay people. Stay organized, for God’s sake. All right, Next. Hey! You’re the 37,354th Iraqi to die from Desert Storm II, give you take a thousand. Who can bother to keep count of you people?”

There is a commotion near the back of the line. It looks like someone is pushing his or her way to the front.

“Come on people! What’s the hurry? I’m the only game in town, so I’ll get to you . . . Wait a minute . . . is that Sarge? The Thousandth Soldier. I saw your picture in the paper. You just come up here sir! I want to shake you hand. Move out of the way you hordes of AIDS victims, you Sudanese riffraff, you Chechen street dogs. Goddamned dead Caribbean hurricane scum. And I don’t want to hear another pip out you, emaciated, malnourished children.”

“Sarge, do you want anything to drink? What are your feelings on Ann Coulter and The War On French Culture? I hate those stuck-up French bastards, too. They stink up the place.”

“Why don’t you go right on through? There’s a sweet mansion on the highest cloud all blinged out specifically for you up there. Oh, and seventy-two virgins. Have fun! . . . What a fantastic guy. Next. Oh, great. Another load of Arabs.”

For you those of you about to cast shame on me: This is satirical. I would hope that this is obvious, but you never know. I would never trivialize death, especially American death. Especially white, American death. Especially attractive, white, American death. This is about “main-stream” coverage of current events. I would really be much happier, if I could get relevant news coverage of important events in the world without having to dig. It shocks and awes me that news organizations have “slow news” days wherein they insert local human-interest stories. For those of you that are sick to death of how depressing the news is, and really like the coverage of good news, like newborn kittens and good-looking firemen, turn it off. Don’t watch. Stay in your “Best of all possible worlds” cave. Or watch the 700 club. For me, I want to know when a country like South Korea elects a new President, and that he won on anti-American rhetoric. This is important stuff and we really don't care. I.E. what exactly happened in Jakarta? What's happening in Gaza, Sudan? Can we get as much time devoted to these stories as we get to John Kerry's Viet Nam Service? Quick answer: No, it doesn't sell here.

Technology Plows Ahead

"LG Electronics has unveiled a revolutionary TV refrigerator, which will soon go on sale in the Middle East. The TV and refrigerator combination follows research that found most housewives want to use the kitchen as a space for hobbies, entertainment, and leisure – as well as for cooking. But LG's earlier Internet refrigerator was not successful."

This is what one might see on their TV refrigerator if one were to be watching the Olympics and baking a green bean casserole in the kitchen:

3:50 A.M. God

God visited us this morning at approximately 3:50 A.M. He/She did not knock politely, or slip in gently through dreams like we constantly pray for. God struck us out of our slumber with great fury and gnashing of teeth, St. Paul style. Three deafening cracks (symbolizing the holy trinity) and blinding light (His/Her wisdom is unseeable) whipped us from our sleepy state into one of excitement and zeal. What the fuck was that, indeed.

Batman - Buttman

Another related Batman story: Batman and Commissioner Gordon become gay lovers. But Gordon starts to abuse the batsignal. Then he starts to abuse Batman. Batman always blames the extra bruises on the "bad guys.” Robin, always gay from the day he was born, has secretly, or not so secretly, lusted after Bruce/Batman for many years. In fact, Robin only joined up with Batman in the hopes of one day converting him to his team. When he finds out about Batman and Gordon he is heart broken and jealous. He can’t control himself, and with his flaming rage he terrorizes the streets of Gotham.

Batman

This morning I woke up tired, and predictably fell back asleep. This happens every morning, since my corporate departure. It is nice to lay in sleepy laziness, and I thank the heavens that I am afforded the luxury. But still, I wish I was one of those motivated people, like my Dad. He gets up early every morning and goes for a long bike ride or a walk to pick oranges or other such physically and mentally healthy activity. Shouldn't I have inherited these "early bird" genes? Maybe I did, but perhaps I squandered them in my reckless youth.

While I was wasting time looking the ceiling this morning, I thought about Batman. He is obviously one of those really motivated people, like my Dad but times ten. How does he run a hugely successful corporation, swing with the other upper crust at billion-dollar parties, womanize, knit smart sweaters, and fight the forces of evil night after night? I couldn't do it. Even with all the inherited wealth and personal revenge motivation, I couldn't do it. Maybe his trick is that he's a fictional character. I don't know, I'm not one to judge.

Even so I thought Batman could do with a dose of exhaustion reality in a story just for him:

Bruce Wayne was tired. The last few weeks of constant action and boardroom meetings were getting him down. His performance level was edging on dangerous, for himself. So he gets to work, in his free time, on a sleeping pill. A super sleeping pill. This pill would be able to knock you out and give three solid hours of pure REM, and you would wake up refreshed and ready for a complete 21 hour day. So after much labor, he figures it out (for he's a chemistry genius too, didn't you know?), and starts to take them daily.

They work great! He is back to his young ass-kicking self again. Crime is down and stocks are up. But then weird things start to happen. Flashes out of the corner of his eye. A muscle tick at the worse time. He is still a winner still, he is Batman after all, but something's happening. The visions get more real and intense, nightmarish, but he's not tired, strong actually, and getting more and more testy. The daily business and bachelor responsibilities become just as frightening and terrible. He fights harder and harder with his imaginary demons and crawls back to his three-hour bed every morning.

Then one night the unimaginable happens: the bad guy beats Batman. With an army of snakes and netherworldly beasts, the insane fiend tears Batman to pieces. The screen/page goes black.

Several weeks later Bruce wakes up from a mild coma. The newspaper reports a Gotham in turmoil due in part to his insane behavior and subsequent absence as both Batman and Bruce Wayne. Alfred nurses him back to health, and pitches the super sleeping pills. Bruce/Batman resumes his daily life as before the sleeping pills, but this time with a firm understanding that he's only human.

Oh, and one more thing: Bubba Ho-tep is awesome.

Chris cracked one of my CD cases tonight. Everyone should take note: I am neurotic about CD collection maintenance. Someone with CD's in wrong cases, or worse, out of cases and spread out fractal-style around the stereo, makes my toes curl. I feel a strong desire to organize and alphabetize them immediately. If you are one of these people, you are NOT allowed to borrow a CD. Anyway, I was reading sad, sad Dougy Coupland when Chris threw the CD case across the room and said, "Well, Soooorry." So I wrote this:

We work so hard for so long to earn enough money to buy nice things. And then the nice things get cracked, broken, worn, frayed, and tired. So we try to stop this, freeze them in their fresh, nice state by not ever using anything after we have bought it. Starwars figures stay in their plastic packages for eternity. But that's absurd so we use it, turn it on, play with it, sit on it, take it for a spin, and the inevitable happens. It turns to shit. This is the dilemma of capitalism. Of the middle-class. Of America.

Frances Blues

Marigold is forcing me to read another Douglas Coupland book, Life after God. It is quick and good so far, like Marigold said. I was reading it earlier with the TV news on mute in the background, a giant fire ball of destruction named Frances spinning our way. It now looks like Frances might not blast the hell out of us, and keep the annihilation centered on Florida and it's voting public. But still I almost wish it would come our way. Call me an apocalypse freak, but I like the idea of the world ending in small and drastic ways. For instance, I would like the power to go out for a few days and some major street flooding. No deaths or billions of dollars of property damage, but something to shake us up a bit. (On that note, earthquakes are also fun, in my sick way) I think one of the attractions of nature-induced destruction is the revenge factor. We humans crap all over this fine planet and it deserves a little payback every now and then. And that IS personal. Mother Nature is out to even the board up, show us we ain't all powerful like we would like to think.

Also, like the instant satisfaction of popping your ears after hours being plugged, the instant downfall of our vast civilization, both technologically and socially, is incredibly interesting to me. Maybe I want my life to be like a novel or movie, and because I'm not personally doing anything about that, I want nature to. Douglas Coupland says, "When you are young, you always expect that the world is going to end. And then you get older and the world still chugs along and you are forced to re-evaluate your stance on the apocalypse as well as your own relationship to time and death. You realize that the world will indeed continue, with or without you, and the pictures you see in your head. So you try to understand the pictures instead." Yeah, but that's not as fun as mass destruction. So I guess I haven't gotten old enough yet to try to understand the pictures in my head.

I am not good at Scrabble. Terrible. Word combinations do not float into my head and grace my tiles. I have never even gotten close to coming in second place in a three person game. This is what happened last night. The words in green are mine.

Marigold won handily with a score of 269 (with not one, but two scrabbles). Chris got 199, but he put down words like, "sync" and "unextend." We didn't let him get away with "et" or "ve" although. I, sadly, scored only 100. But at least I made 100. "Everybody's got to have goals." Marigold says as she snickers. Nobody really likes playing with me, because I ruin the game with two or three letter words, even in the beginning.

On a side note, a huge hurricane is gunning for us by this weekend and we haven't stocked up on liquor yet. Maybe when Sara gets here for her vacation, we can all have a blast holing up in some crappy motel room, drinking, and playing scrabble over and over again.