Putting much stock into the Mayan doomsday calendar—the one that predicts the end of the world in 2012—is ludicrous. The Earth is not going to crumble or explode; John Cusack is not going to fly a plane between two collapsing buildings, and why should he? Just pull up, guy from Say Anything. I don’t have thousands of hours in the cockpit, but you know… That’s just common sense.
Be that as it may, I am certain that society as we know it is at its end. Look around you! We are in the eighth season of American Idol. We officially stopped scraping the bottom of the barrel six years ago. We’re now officially pulling up the pile of shit the barrel was resting precariously on. Look at the Gulf Coast—look at either fucking one, really—and see nothing but abject destruction. New Orleans just pulled out of Katrina and here is this big oil slick, ready to penetrate with a rapist’s gusto; over in the Middle East, you still have people blowing themselves up for imaginary creatures. I have said that I am a smart man, but mostly I’m just diabolical. But even I can see that this is just not sustainable.
Some of you may know me from “Onward & Downward,” my previous column on Reactionary Century. In it, I brutally removed the skin of pop culture and peered deep into the soft tissue to discern why we—not just Americans, but humanity as a whole—were intent on rewinding all of the progress we had made. My new column, “The Post-Modern Times,” takes this to the nth degree. In it, I’m going to examine all aspects of society and demonstrate how life in the pre-apocalypse is going to inform the end times and ever after.
Today, I want to talk about my own personal Armageddon. These things are like eels: try to control it and you’ll get shocked by electricity and piss your pants. For me, it’s my ambition. Deep down, I understand that I am incredible. Some might even say I’m a “generational voice” (that quote is attributed to me), but for some reason, I cannot be bothered.
My ambivalence boils down to my sense of entitlement. I have discussed this on my blog (http://ad-rob.blogspot.com), but this generation grew up knowing nothing other than this: once you graduated college, there was a posh job waiting to pay you $40,000 starting to come in and wreck up the place. And even before I graduated college—when I was laid off the first time before I fucking graduated motherFUCKER—I knew this wasn’t the case. But it can be hard to disconnect the things with which you’ve been hardwired. Even though I know that nothing is going to come to me because of my innate talent and ability, I still feel that with time it will all fall into place. I can toil on my masterpiece for years, never showing it to anyone, hoping to be discovered for my raw, unbridled genius; indeed, my talent is like a proud mustang, waiting to be broken. But you have to play the game. That’s a lesson that’s always been apparent, but we frequently choose not to see it. At what point do you stop letting life do the living and take control?
Before I start to sound like a Diablo Cody screenplay, I’ll leave you with this: there is no reason to life. No divine path, higher calling, or greater meaning. What you want, you have to carve from bone and gristle and pain. And every second you don’t, you contribute to the mutilation of the future. Have a good night!
Monday, May 10, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
My Event Horizons
Morality: Even after everything I've done (jokingly trying to get a friend to kill herself, treating people like garbage for fun, casually shirking my professional and personal responsibilities, and subconsciously pushing away those close to me), people still allow me back into their lives. If I wasn't so grateful, I'd think it was kind of pathetic. The fact that people can forgive--that I can forgive myself--is powerful. It resounds in the soul with a deep vibrato. My status as a complete monster is, as of yet, unconfirmed. But many would consider me a magnificent bastard. This is a trade-off that increases the stats on the back of my trading card.
Profession: Regardless of my current socioeconomic stature, I refuse to give up hope. I mentioned it last time, but even as a member of the "trophy generation," I cannot abide by an alien definition of success. Ambition is easy to dislocate. Work ethic: decidedly more so. With the twin attack power of gumption and oomph, things will work out as planned. Well... You know, once I have a plan.
More to come.
Profession: Regardless of my current socioeconomic stature, I refuse to give up hope. I mentioned it last time, but even as a member of the "trophy generation," I cannot abide by an alien definition of success. Ambition is easy to dislocate. Work ethic: decidedly more so. With the twin attack power of gumption and oomph, things will work out as planned. Well... You know, once I have a plan.
More to come.
Friday, April 30, 2010
The Straits of Magellan
The pop-fuzz of the light bulb burning out haunted me. Things have a certain transience, and it's sad. When all you take for granted is light, the room for improvement is narrowing.
I intellectually kidnap every idea I've ever had. When something strikes me--for instance, when I was in college, I had this great idea about superheros in a dorm setting, a kind of Dawson's-Creek-meets-the-X-Men kind of thing--I feel the need to share this idea with someone. And as soon as I open my mouth--as soon as the syllables come out--Seth Green has that shit wrapped for a comic, or a shitty CW series, or some other abomination. This guy has sleeper agents all over the country, listening in to what I'm doing, taking all the credit. "Bitter" does not even begin to describe my feelings towards his work; it's entertaining, yes, but only so far as abortions can be entertaining. My work is pure like a rich, untapped vein of gold, while his is accessible and marketable. That's not art! That's robbery. I would stop short of saying he needs to go to prison and be raped, but you know... He needs to go to prison and get raped.
On the other hand, I'm curious about the "ownership of ideas." Our modern economy is built upon this principle. Seriously, look at some of this high-level shit going on, like this Goldman Sachs debacle. They're in trouble for making theoretical bets on hypothetical situations. I'm not defending their actions--i.e. the manipulation of livelihoods in order to eek out profit--but that's some Grade-A mental arithmetic right there. Who am I to judge Seth Green (a talented guy, who seems pretty cool in his own right) for taking the ethereal from me? Do you punch a dude in the face for breathing your air? "Hey, prick," you seethe, "That's my fucking oxygen."
It's a dangerous precipice. "Intellectual property" and the copyright laws that define it are muddy and open to interpretation and just disgusting on a whole. I'm not sure I've seen these laws used to enforce the sanctity of an idea so much as I've seen them employed to secure the exploitation of a property. Who gives a shit? A good idea is universal. If his--Seth Green's--interpretations of my work are more suited to mainstream predilections, what right do I have to be pissed off? My hat's off, sir. Well done.
That being said, I'm not going to tell another living soul my idea for my new story until the rights have been sold at auction to a publisher. I will use the industry parlance to describe it, however: "It's a genre-straddling work of epic proportions; it redefines the modern interpretation of family and identity."
Isn't this fun? Hyperbole is an excellent diversion. I was telling a friend tonight how our generation feels this sense of entitlement, and she said it's because we're "the trophy generation," which means rewarded for showing up to the contest. Or responding to the internet invitation. I think this is apt. For one, I apply this line of reasoning in my everyday life--"Hey, I took a pretty good shit a few minutes ago. Complete elimination! Way to go!"--with great results. The discord between reality and this nega-reality--which is informed by media and, most damning, our parents--is staggering.
But I don't really care. I just took an amazing shit. What do I have to worry about?
I intellectually kidnap every idea I've ever had. When something strikes me--for instance, when I was in college, I had this great idea about superheros in a dorm setting, a kind of Dawson's-Creek-meets-the-X-Men kind of thing--I feel the need to share this idea with someone. And as soon as I open my mouth--as soon as the syllables come out--Seth Green has that shit wrapped for a comic, or a shitty CW series, or some other abomination. This guy has sleeper agents all over the country, listening in to what I'm doing, taking all the credit. "Bitter" does not even begin to describe my feelings towards his work; it's entertaining, yes, but only so far as abortions can be entertaining. My work is pure like a rich, untapped vein of gold, while his is accessible and marketable. That's not art! That's robbery. I would stop short of saying he needs to go to prison and be raped, but you know... He needs to go to prison and get raped.
On the other hand, I'm curious about the "ownership of ideas." Our modern economy is built upon this principle. Seriously, look at some of this high-level shit going on, like this Goldman Sachs debacle. They're in trouble for making theoretical bets on hypothetical situations. I'm not defending their actions--i.e. the manipulation of livelihoods in order to eek out profit--but that's some Grade-A mental arithmetic right there. Who am I to judge Seth Green (a talented guy, who seems pretty cool in his own right) for taking the ethereal from me? Do you punch a dude in the face for breathing your air? "Hey, prick," you seethe, "That's my fucking oxygen."
It's a dangerous precipice. "Intellectual property" and the copyright laws that define it are muddy and open to interpretation and just disgusting on a whole. I'm not sure I've seen these laws used to enforce the sanctity of an idea so much as I've seen them employed to secure the exploitation of a property. Who gives a shit? A good idea is universal. If his--Seth Green's--interpretations of my work are more suited to mainstream predilections, what right do I have to be pissed off? My hat's off, sir. Well done.
That being said, I'm not going to tell another living soul my idea for my new story until the rights have been sold at auction to a publisher. I will use the industry parlance to describe it, however: "It's a genre-straddling work of epic proportions; it redefines the modern interpretation of family and identity."
Isn't this fun? Hyperbole is an excellent diversion. I was telling a friend tonight how our generation feels this sense of entitlement, and she said it's because we're "the trophy generation," which means rewarded for showing up to the contest. Or responding to the internet invitation. I think this is apt. For one, I apply this line of reasoning in my everyday life--"Hey, I took a pretty good shit a few minutes ago. Complete elimination! Way to go!"--with great results. The discord between reality and this nega-reality--which is informed by media and, most damning, our parents--is staggering.
But I don't really care. I just took an amazing shit. What do I have to worry about?
Friday, April 23, 2010
The Tipping Point
It is deceptively simple how quickly a life can topple. This is a fact I learned only hours ago.
Complacency is a killer. My whole life has been predicated on the notion that "life happens," which is to say that fate or destiny or the invisible hand of god shuffles us around some game board. God, I can't believe that I built my life around that theory. When you write it out, it makes a lot of things just seem arbitrary. My inability to act in my life--no momentum, no effort, nothing--has just cost me the single most important thing in my life.
Sitting here, watching the cursor blink as it waits for my keystrokes, I feel hollow. Watching the person I have loved for so long explain that she can not stand by while I wallow in mediocrity, that she can not trust me because it's always words and no action... What have I done with my life? How did I get here?
How do you measure the potential of a person? I was brilliant yet unambitious in school, charismatic yet cold in social settings; at my jobs, I had a tendency to rise to the top of me field. Those indicators alone should demonstrate that I had potential. Or does it? Can you fake potential? Deep down, am I still that person that's going to really be somebody, or am I always going to be this sad sack?
Worse still: Can you squander potential? Have I procrastinated so long that I'm doomed to this existence--a hollow shell of a person who wakes up, puts on a mask, and goes about his day? That will not do.
I refuse to be that person any longer. My life choices--no, my life indecision--has cost me too much. This is my tipping point--I will no longer be a zombie. Today has been, categorically, the worst day of my life, bar none. But tomorrow I'm going to get things in order. I'm going to build something for myself. At every turn, I have disappointed. That changes now.
I will always, always love you, Terri. I will be the person you saw in me. I am so sorry that this had to happen. It would be so easy to resent you for this, to hate or revile you for upending my life, but you did not do this malice. That's what made it so hard.
Complacency is a killer. My whole life has been predicated on the notion that "life happens," which is to say that fate or destiny or the invisible hand of god shuffles us around some game board. God, I can't believe that I built my life around that theory. When you write it out, it makes a lot of things just seem arbitrary. My inability to act in my life--no momentum, no effort, nothing--has just cost me the single most important thing in my life.
Sitting here, watching the cursor blink as it waits for my keystrokes, I feel hollow. Watching the person I have loved for so long explain that she can not stand by while I wallow in mediocrity, that she can not trust me because it's always words and no action... What have I done with my life? How did I get here?
How do you measure the potential of a person? I was brilliant yet unambitious in school, charismatic yet cold in social settings; at my jobs, I had a tendency to rise to the top of me field. Those indicators alone should demonstrate that I had potential. Or does it? Can you fake potential? Deep down, am I still that person that's going to really be somebody, or am I always going to be this sad sack?
Worse still: Can you squander potential? Have I procrastinated so long that I'm doomed to this existence--a hollow shell of a person who wakes up, puts on a mask, and goes about his day? That will not do.
I refuse to be that person any longer. My life choices--no, my life indecision--has cost me too much. This is my tipping point--I will no longer be a zombie. Today has been, categorically, the worst day of my life, bar none. But tomorrow I'm going to get things in order. I'm going to build something for myself. At every turn, I have disappointed. That changes now.
I will always, always love you, Terri. I will be the person you saw in me. I am so sorry that this had to happen. It would be so easy to resent you for this, to hate or revile you for upending my life, but you did not do this malice. That's what made it so hard.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
"I'll have the face rub, yeah? But I don't know if I'll have the bum tube."
This is the plan for now: write one blog per day for the next two weeks. That way I'll be funny more consistently!
Let me tell you about my god damn brakes.
Did you know this about cars: cars are the worst fucking invention ever. They have this incredible feature where as soon as you buy it, a guy from the dealership comes to your house at night, leers into the bedroom window, and violently masturbates. Even when you know he's there! Especially when you know he's there. When he's finished, he walks over to your car and rubs his feces all over it. You may be asking yourself, "Is this hyperbole? Can I buy this line of reasoning?"
You know he is there.
I bring this up because my car is apparently rubbish. Like, shit-from-a-butt style. My brakes are essentially gone; the only thing saving you from becoming twisted metal when I'm on the road is tire-to-the-ground friction. Obviously, I don't want to kill anyone (in that manner), so I took the ol' car in for an estimate.
Three hours later, the guy tells me it's going to be $1,992. One thousand nine hundred ninety-two dollars and some cents.
Firstly, it's a little offensive to add cents to a bill that big. "Excuse me, sir," the rapist says, violently squirming inside of you, "But I just finished raping your family. Enjoy that knowledge." This is a good analogy: going to a car garage is a lot like being a rape victim; it's a question of powerlessness. There is no way that you are going to be able to identify all the problems with your car unless you are some Asperger's savant. In a garage, the guy could say, "Shit, man... Your galactronix matrix is leaking mallerious fluid. We can, uh... We can fix that."
What do you say? What could you possibly say to that?
When the guy--who otherwise seemed quite personable--showed me the estimate, the first words out of my mouth were, "You are a liar." I am not kidding around; I verbalized the fact that this guy was playing jokes on my wallet and my masculinity. He looked at me for what felt like a minute--a long, piercing gaze, designed to size up what kind of shit I was going to toss at him--and finally said this: "Well, this is just a suggestion."
Perhaps I'm ignorant on stuff like this, but does this kind of bullshit happen at, say, a barbershop? Does the barber take a look at your hair and say, "Hey, I can give you a little Justin Bieber on top, but I could also trim your pubes, you know." All this time, the belt remains buckled, pants snugly at your waist.
And what did I get for my troubles? More work. I am continuing to search for a body shop that can fix my car without breaking my asshole. I'll keep you posted.
Let me tell you about my god damn brakes.
Did you know this about cars: cars are the worst fucking invention ever. They have this incredible feature where as soon as you buy it, a guy from the dealership comes to your house at night, leers into the bedroom window, and violently masturbates. Even when you know he's there! Especially when you know he's there. When he's finished, he walks over to your car and rubs his feces all over it. You may be asking yourself, "Is this hyperbole? Can I buy this line of reasoning?"
You know he is there.
I bring this up because my car is apparently rubbish. Like, shit-from-a-butt style. My brakes are essentially gone; the only thing saving you from becoming twisted metal when I'm on the road is tire-to-the-ground friction. Obviously, I don't want to kill anyone (in that manner), so I took the ol' car in for an estimate.
Three hours later, the guy tells me it's going to be $1,992. One thousand nine hundred ninety-two dollars and some cents.
Firstly, it's a little offensive to add cents to a bill that big. "Excuse me, sir," the rapist says, violently squirming inside of you, "But I just finished raping your family. Enjoy that knowledge." This is a good analogy: going to a car garage is a lot like being a rape victim; it's a question of powerlessness. There is no way that you are going to be able to identify all the problems with your car unless you are some Asperger's savant. In a garage, the guy could say, "Shit, man... Your galactronix matrix is leaking mallerious fluid. We can, uh... We can fix that."
What do you say? What could you possibly say to that?
When the guy--who otherwise seemed quite personable--showed me the estimate, the first words out of my mouth were, "You are a liar." I am not kidding around; I verbalized the fact that this guy was playing jokes on my wallet and my masculinity. He looked at me for what felt like a minute--a long, piercing gaze, designed to size up what kind of shit I was going to toss at him--and finally said this: "Well, this is just a suggestion."
Perhaps I'm ignorant on stuff like this, but does this kind of bullshit happen at, say, a barbershop? Does the barber take a look at your hair and say, "Hey, I can give you a little Justin Bieber on top, but I could also trim your pubes, you know." All this time, the belt remains buckled, pants snugly at your waist.
And what did I get for my troubles? More work. I am continuing to search for a body shop that can fix my car without breaking my asshole. I'll keep you posted.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
On the Self
A coworker today asked which parent I identified with most. Most questions that are asked of me can be easily answered, but this one was much more difficult. Physically, my father and I are nearly identical; strangely, this is a trait my girlfriend has found to be attractive. What does that mean? Does she want to fuck my dad? Does she want to fuck both of us? These are the kinds of questions that keep me up at night.
But strictly speaking, I don't necessarily identify with either of my parents on a psychological level. They are conservative, supporting crazy shit like a flat tax and open gun rights and yadda yadda. These are ideas that I find repulsive in a literal sense. Don't get me wrong--my parents are fine people, and have done a great job raising a crazy kid, but I can't look at them and see myself. Apparently this is something you are supposed to see.
When I think about the people who've influenced my way of interpreting life, I am equally confounded. I think it's because I draw on everything around me. When I wake up in the morning, I am a blank slate, and I choose who I want to be that day. Granted there are a few commonalities between personas (I really like comics and my life's dream is get punched by Iron Mike Tyson), but overall, I like to keep people guessing.
Or do I? I don't know. I think being a randomized person (a fleshy iPod on shuffle) is a more romantic idea than actuality. More likely is that I'm in love with the idea of shifting; of being a different person from day to day. Almost certainly is that I want to avoid the eventuality of soul searching and discovering the person deep down.
I think I'd like what I find, but most others may not. Just a chance I don't want to take at the moment.
But strictly speaking, I don't necessarily identify with either of my parents on a psychological level. They are conservative, supporting crazy shit like a flat tax and open gun rights and yadda yadda. These are ideas that I find repulsive in a literal sense. Don't get me wrong--my parents are fine people, and have done a great job raising a crazy kid, but I can't look at them and see myself. Apparently this is something you are supposed to see.
When I think about the people who've influenced my way of interpreting life, I am equally confounded. I think it's because I draw on everything around me. When I wake up in the morning, I am a blank slate, and I choose who I want to be that day. Granted there are a few commonalities between personas (I really like comics and my life's dream is get punched by Iron Mike Tyson), but overall, I like to keep people guessing.
Or do I? I don't know. I think being a randomized person (a fleshy iPod on shuffle) is a more romantic idea than actuality. More likely is that I'm in love with the idea of shifting; of being a different person from day to day. Almost certainly is that I want to avoid the eventuality of soul searching and discovering the person deep down.
I think I'd like what I find, but most others may not. Just a chance I don't want to take at the moment.
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