Happy Holiday Angst

I'm not even bothering to weigh in on the "War on Christmas" issue. Frankly, I have more important things to do, like organizing my socks by threadcount.

Fortunately, there's someone out there willing to take this thing to the mat for the betterment of all mankind.

Note: You just thought I was a frothing mass of cynical, vitriolic rage.

I only wish I could say I disagreed...

Mmmm, tryptophan...

Well, friends, it's once again that time of year when we as citizens of these Altered States of America come together to reminisce about what it is that makes this country great, to link arms and hearts in the timeless, ageless embrace of brotherhood, and to pay homage to the beautiful and noble traditions of bygone days.

Wait, no, that's what we do at Grateful Dead tribute concerts.

What we have this week, on the other hand, is Thanksgiving.

This, of course, is America's State-sanctioned engorgement day, the inaugural feast of a 30+ day extravaganza of epicurean delight not entirely unlike those with which victorious barbarian hordes once punctuated the razing of entire civilizations.
Immediately after we finish ingesting the traditional wagonload of food, we stagger rubber-legged over to the sofa where we take up a peculiar sessile lifestyle for the duration of the afternoon--or possibly the year, depending on the quality of the sweet potato pie.

Next, of course, comes the obligatory Marathon of Mediocre Football, of which every American male over the age of 11 months is required to partake on penalty of death. This debacle lasts between three and thirteen weeks, depending on the volume of pre- and postgame analysis you are able to survive. It is permissible to leave the television set for brief periods for the purpose of coping with the requirements of biology--this becomes especially critical after the fourth helping of Aunt Jem's Green Bean Surprise--but these trips should be kept to a minimum, and any absences of a duration greater than ten minutes can only be excused by the presence of a turkey sandwich.

This brings me to that greatest of all Thanksgiving traditions: Leftovers. You see, it is forbidden, under federal law, to provide, for a family of four, a Thanksgiving meal weighing less than 3.7 metric tons. This leads to quite a stunning array of excess gustables, naturally. It is customary to have the consumption of leftovers adhere to the following pattern: 1) Second dinner, which is generally a scaled-down version of the primary Thanksgiving meal; 2) Snack course, wherein those are fed who could not be roused from their food-induced stupor in time for Second dinner; 3) Sandwiches. Ah, sandwiches. Herein lies the true art form--some would even say spiritual experience--of Thanksgiving. At no other time during the year does the humble sandwich take on such majesty of form and proportion. A good post-Thanksgiving sandwich can--and indeed should--be so designed and constructed as to nearly replicate the dining experience. That is, they should contain: Everything. That's right. Everything. You cannot--this point cannot be overstated--cannot over-stock a proper holiday sandwich. Simple slices of turkey or ham on bread will get you laughed out of the kitchen this time of year. A good rule of thumb is this: If you can carry your sandwich on a standard paper plate, it is under-constructed. The true masters can even, with a lifetime of practice and dedication, erect sandwiches of such breathtaking scope and scale that the sandwiches themselves will begin, if left to their own devices, to undergo geologic processes. It is not my intent to suggest that you attempt such feats of sandwich making, but it is helpful to know the full range of one's art.

But wait! There's more! Once we're done, we get to clamber up bright and early, drag our bloated, lethargic carcasses down to the local Circus of Capitalism, and fight to the death with other shambling, over-fed hulks over a parking space so distant from the actual entrance that no fewer than three Sherpas will be required to lead the assault on the front door. Once inside, the real havoc begins, as thirty-seven thousand people are suddenly unable to recall how they could possibly have lived their entire lives without a battery-operated tie rack or a titanium-plated salad fork (particularly at such ridiculously low prices!). Plus, we mustn't forget: Christmas is only one month away, and peace on earth and goodwill toward men can only be found at selected Pottery Barn locations.

I love the holidays, don't you?

Seriously, though. I'm mightily curious about the sorts of holiday experiences all you wonderful boys and girls out there have had. Drop me a line, or better yet, post your holiday memories in the comment section here. Who knows? Maybe one of us is holding on to a tradition in the making.

Anybody out there?

I'm relatively certain that that comment link at the bottom of my posts works.

You know, I'm just saying...

Something in the air...or perhaps the water

On many a fine Friday afternoon such as this one, when I've just put the finishing touches on the final task and can now brush off the cinders of what has proven to be a very trying week indeed, it has been my habit to spend a little time--at least an hour or two--randomly bitching about all the things which invariably bother me (which, incidentally, are likely very simliar to the things which were bothering me last week, and the week before...). Today, however, I just can't bring myself to it, for a number of reasons: I'm about to embark upon a weekend to which for various reasons, mostly relating to the general tryingness of the preceding week (see above), I have been particularly looking forward; The weather is brisk, clear, and chilly, precisely as it ought to be the week before Thanksgiving; Next week is Thanksgiving, which happens to be my particular favorite holiday. The upshot, gentle reader, is that I seem to be positively brimming over with good cheer, and I am not, so far as I know, even remotely inebriated.

Quite an unprecedented and alarming turn of events, don't you think?

Maybe I'm coming down with something...

Meanwhile, if you like George Harrison, the ukelele, and low-fi web video--and who doesn't?--have a gander at this. (Work safe, but not everything else you'll find in the neighborhood is.)

And Now You Know...

Things I've learned in the last forty-eight hours:

Mashed potatoes can turn pink, if you leave them in the refrigerator long enough.

Red rubber lungs make a very poor promotional tool. (But would be a great name for a rock band, I have no doubt.)

At 97 dB, even Cirque du Soleil sounds like Megadeth.

Most people believe that a PowerPoint presentation on organic fertilizer would become homicidally boring after ten minutes. They are dead wrong. The correct figure is something like 3.7 minutes.

K-Y Jelly is not suitable for use in construction...of anything.

Baleful Chronology

I do seem to have the most abysmal timing with these things. I finally start feeling my oats and set my face to the figurative wind, all ready to begin churning out reams of introspection, philosophy, political musings, and random, inexplicable--and possibly illegal--notions just at the one point in the year when I have absolutely no time whatsoever to devote to such things. At this moment, I conservatively estimate that there are no fewer than 37.5 things on my to-do list more imminently pressing than derivative satire-verse, and approximately 1,074 whose precedence outweighs that of culinary masochism, but, selfless blogHero that I am, I bring them to you nonetheless.

How Time Flies

I'll be damned. Another six months eroded off the end of my life, and not one single blogpost--no rants, no screeds, no tirades, no psychological assault of the world at large, not so much as a solitary invective--to show for it. I ought to be ashamed, ought I not, dear friends? Then again, as I remind myself each time my behaviour passes a new and heretofore unreachable threshhold of ass-hattedness, if I went around feeling guilty for everything I ought to feel guilty about, I'd never get anything done.

Anyway, it appears that I have returned, at least for the time being. Wait, careful, you'll overwhelm me with your enthusiasm.

Balls.

I just realized this morning that it was just over three years ago that I first gouged my initials in the wall here, and I've been crayoning the place with my own delightfully incoherent brand of madcap pontification ever since. True, in so doing I have been about as regular as a yak full of Portland cement, but my heart has ever been in the right place, except when it wasn't.

In any event, I can't help but relfect on how much this blog--I still, as I pointed out so long ago, hate that word--has changed. In the beginning I think I mostly enjoyed the sound of my own voice, and be damned if no one read, cared about, or even understood what the hell I was saying. Later, my loyal if somewhat obtunded little blog followed me down a particularly nasty little bolthole, where together we walked fast, whistled loudly, and frolicked hysterically in the odd ray of sunlight. Just call it Blog, the magic dragon. Time bustled on, and life continued to happen to me with alarming frequency. Then one day, I was not so interested in the friendly, sheltering wings of Blog anymore, but in his teeth, his claws. The blog became flagship of my navy of the absurd as I tilted against the windmills and pinball tables of the universe. Finally, in our most recent iteration, it has served as the silent taproom in which I could sit and mull, and occasionally as the sunset grove in which I could rest a spell and chant myself to sleep with the song of drunken philosophy.

Come to think of it, maybe nothing has changed so very much after all.

So I've come back to it for a while. Maybe for good, but I wouldn't believe it if I were you. Maybe this time I'll say something that someone needs to hear, even if it is only me.

...and eat the glass

Nights like this, when I'm tired and more than a little mentally drained, I occasionally sit alone in what I very generously think of as my office, the hum of my aging computer trebling in my ears like a profoundly disturbing mechanical cricket, eyes closed, trying desperately to imagine what it must be like to be me...

I just finished the last few pages of a bullshit treatise on the ethical and epistemological ramifications of the conception of evil...it's so stilted I feel like if I stand on my chair I can just about see my own asshole. It's a few thousand words of you-asked-for-it, you-got-it, opinion-on-demand academic whoremongering, but, hey, that's me, Big Al's House of Pedantry and All-Nite Coin-Op Sophistry (Revelations While-U-Wait).

I had a chance to take a turn around a gallery opening at the girls' camp across the lake (former finishing school turned liberal arts extravaganza tous filles across town). Far be it from me to have an opinion about art, but some of this stuff ran down the backs of my eyeballs like three-day-old truckstop coffee.

There was more, but I forget.



END COMMUNICATION

In No Particular Order...

Here are a few things that have been on my mind lately:

Steroids: Am I the only one homicidally bored by the great fucking three-ring legal circus that has sprung up around professional baseball? Am I the only one more than mildly concerned about the state of our legal profession--from the lowliest ambulance chaser right straight on up the the top of Capitol Fucking Hill--in that it can find no better or nobler jurisprudential exercise than to niggle over the bylaws of what is, ultimately, at very bottom--and Americans, I'm sorry, but someone needed to say it--just a goddamned game? I'm sorry, but did I miss a memo or something? When was I supposed to have started giving a shit whether or not a bunch of overpaid testosterone farms walk around jacked to the gills on poorly-purified bull hormones? I do not. I don't care if the coach steps onto the field during the seventh-innning stretch and personally injects the entire outfield with the metabolic equivalent of liquid oxygen. Not only do I think it is a waste of time to attempt to legislate the use of steroids, not only do I think they should be permitted, I think they should be fucking mandatory. You heard me. It seems to me this wouldn't be an issue save for the complaints of the three guys in the majors who aren't using. Now, never let it be said that I'm not a proponent of fair play. So let's even the playing field. From now on, let's just all agree that no one sets foot on a major-league field without testing positive for some kind of performance-enhancing chemical. If you ask me, chemical augmentation doesn't go far enough. Frankly, with some players' salaries in the seven- and even eight-figure range annually, if I'm going to a game, I expect to see some fucking cyborgs in the dugout. And what of those players who wish to maintain the sanctity of human athletic competition and feel that the use of drugs tarnishes the spirit of the game? Pay 'em thirty grand a year for the next four or five years, ground their Learjets, and see how long they stay noble. Else, they can get a real job, like everyone else.
I repeat: Just a fucking game.

Hockey: In a similar vein, I wish to go on record as officially rescinding my status as a fan of NHL hockey. Somewhere along the way, my friends, we have lost sight of the fact that sports exist solely for the entertainment of the public, not as entities in and of themselves which we, the public, are bound to support financially. If they thought they weren't getting paid well before, I wonder how they'll feel after a gameless season? Yet another example of the consequences of artificially elevating a hairball confederation of mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging nimrods with only one marketable skill to the social status of heads-of-state. Greedy motherfuckers. Fuck 'em. I'll read a book.

The World Bank: I haven't decided just where I stand on the World Bank as an entity, but I do think that it provides opportunity for some interesting commentary on the state of our fetid little global community. After all, in what shape must we be as a world that, for at least one brief moment, appointing an aging Irish rockstar to the headship of a powerful, international fiduciary institution seemed like the better of two choices?

Guerrilla Life *or* Steal This Post!

Part I.


If you've read more than three words on this page, you should be able to deduce that one of my primary modes of recreation entails bitching about other peoples' inferior world views, particularly insofar as those world views center on politics. This should beg the question of the astute mind: "Well, alright, then, but what do you believe we, as [insert political/social/cultural/sexual affiliation here], should be doing?"

That's a fair question, friend, and here's my answer: Nothing. Not one damned thing.

Now that's to say that I don't think some things ought to be changed, or others done differently, because I most certainly do. It's simply a matter of perspective, really. You see, given world enough and time, even a simple man can bludgeon his way through even the most difficult problem. What sets the wise man apart, then, is his ability to simply circumvent that problem and get on with his life. The fact is that regardless of where you stand on any given issue, the political trade winds will eventually shift and you'll either find yourself becalmed--as with Howard Dean--or facing an unforgiving headwind of unpalatable political philosophy--as is the case for almost every liberal in America at present. So what do we, the disillusioned, the disenfranchised, the dyspeptic, do about it? After all, the one unifying characteristic of every socio-cultural edifice is that attempting to alter it from the outside is, to once again quote the late, great Douglas Adams, "like attacking a lunatic asylum with a banana." Allow me, therefore, to answer your question by whipping out my trusty paintbrush and painting you a few thousand words. Assume you're driving down the expressway one afternoon and some disgruntled god deposits a concrete wall in your path forty feet high and eight feet thick. Now, as I see it, you have a couple of options. One, you reach over and crank up All Things Considered, floor it, and plough your Volvo into the fucker head-on doing ninety and hope for the other side. Two, you can leap out onto the pavement, slip into your handy-dandy Nomex ninja gear and scale. Or, third, you can hang onto your latte, hit the shoulder, and keep right on truckin'. I don't know about you, but I'm shootin' for the latter, myself.

The way I look at it, an unfavorable political system is a lot like that concrete wall: a massive, insensate threat to my happiness. Unlike the driver reacting to the wall, however, a citizen coping with an unfavorable government really only has a couple of options in terms of response. You could decide to go balls-out: take it to the streets,try to set the night on fire, take out the dick of mass mob democracy and stick it to the man. Yeah, you could do that, if you happen to have three or four million really good friends and nothing much to do for the next five-to-eternity. Otherwise? Hit passing gear and drive on around, friends.

We do it all the time, really. We mostly don't even think about it. Case in point: Marijuana. Legal? No. Available? How many pounds do you want? Ditto for online music. Broke, bored, or just determined to cornhole the RIAA, whatever your reasons, you can't be imposed upon to actually pay for music. But then, heavens oh my, Napster bites it, and what of you, Mr. and Mrs. Consumer? Are you reduced to raiding your porn-and-booze budget in order to shell out for the latest soulless corporate pseudo-rock mega-release? I should think not. As long as you have a broadband connection and a little patience, you need never pay for another Matchbox 20 album again.

Why, then, can not the same principles be applied throughout the spectrum of socio- political endeavor? Why don't we, in other words, obey our government the same way we obeyed our mothers when we were thirteen? You know what I mean. You're a teenager, sitting on your favorite beanbag in a darkened basement, headphones jacked into the turntable, scarfing down brownies and marveling at the mystical serendipity with which the liquid-chrome chords of your newest Zeppelin album sync up with the action on the silent television screen. Your mom shouts down that, damn it all, you still haven't taken out the garbage. Now, you can't yell back that you're too fucking wasted to find the floor, let alone the curb, and so you can't help her out right now. No, but you sure as hell can't actually get up. After all, those brownies are fucking solid, man. So what do you do? "Sure, Mom, I'm on it! Honest, this time!"

We all know how that works out, don't we?

Life in these times, much like your teen years, is an intractable guerrilla warfare, pure and simple. The goal of the system is conformity, control, ease of management. Our goal is personal happiness. As in any such war, our 'enemy' can only be victorious by winning, whereas we need only to survive--or in this context, continue to be happy in spite of attempts by others to impose unfavorable circumstances upon us--in order to have won. A couple of easy examples: First, for you poor, put-upon conservatives, we'll take prayer in schools. Law books say no, I say who cares. Pray till your lips fall off, who's going to know? And even if they do, it's protected in the Constitution. What the hell are you waiting for, anyway, an engraved invitation? And I'm not forgetting you, my liberal brothers. We'll take on homosexual marriage. This one's a little tougher, unfortunately. But I've got two words for you: Common Law. It has to start somewhere, and, if you're patient, it'll be legal eventually. Now, I know it's not an ideal solution, and it's unfair, and blah blah blah. One of the most important things to remember about dissidence is that you don't debate inertia with a concrete wall, and you don't dicker principles with a mindless force like a government. All you do is pilfer every little bit of happiness you can, and wait for the system to change.

The system always changes. And change starts on the other side of the wall

So Then I Got To Thinking...

I happened to stumble on this interesting bit of pie-eyed fluff this morning. Seems Mr. JIMWICh favors a mass partyline shift for all democrats into the welcoming arms of the Green Party. Initially, my impression was: "Guh." I mean really now, if we're really fighting for our political lives against the Cute 'n' Cuddly Conservatives, can we be expected to win by joining forces with a party who has, to date, failed to win anything more substantial than a free Coke at the movies? If a bunch of you guys happen to want to join hands and dance round a big fucking tree later on, give me a call; I usually go in for all the touchy-feely hippie bullshit anyway, and besides, a peace rally is a great place to meet girls who are willing to believe that you are a decent, respectable person with whom they should have sex. (Just kidding, honey. I love you. Honest)

A great plan on a number of fronts, really: sex, hallucinogens, campfire singalongs, cool hemp clothing, and, on a more serious note, a legitimate drive to protect the fragile ecosystem, which would obviously not survive the night without the intervention of mankind--and don't mind my eye-rolling, it's congenital.

Also a lousy plan, for most of the same reasons.

Come on, liberals. Do you really think we're going to be taken seriously prancing about with slick little slogans like "Ecological Wisdom" on our sweat-stained hemp T-shirts? The best we could hope for, with this Green-friendly strategy, is that the Neo-Cons become so overwhelmed with mirth that they all choke on their Snowy Owl brisquet and die.

I say, if it's a move you all want, then let's stop fucking around and move. Literally.
Not just to California, but preferably to a whole other fucking continent. Let the bastards have this place. It stinks of them anyway.

In all seriousness, however, I recognize that the Green party has done a great deal for American ecological awareness and have further made great strides in re-shaping our political environment. Therefore, with much humility, I beg the forgiveness of any Green party affiliates I may have offended with the previous rant;

Also, if any of you guys are in the neighborhood, could I maybe score some schwag?


END COMMUNICATION

It Should Be Illegal...

To be this friggin' stupid.

Have you ever done something so stupid, so embarrassingly idiotic that you had to stop suddenly and look around to make sure no one was watching?
Just now, I sat here in front of my trusty computer, blazing my tottering, slew-footed one-man path through the uncharted heart of darkest Internet, all the while chewing grimly on the end of a fluorescent yellow highliter. A fateful popup diverted my attention for a moment, and in that moment I realized that I had shipped a mouthful of fruity-tasting day-glo slime.

That's right.

I chewed my way through the damned thing.

Right the fuck on through.

Damned if I'll ever forget the sight of that little glob of luminous yellow muck bleeding through the water in the toilet bowl, lingering grudgingly, almost accusingly, like the final trace of some act of unspeakable evil...

Fortunately, nobody saw anything, so I felt a little better for a while. Then I thought to myself:

This is far from the dumbest thing I've ever done.

Didn't taste too bad, though...