I was about 5 or 6 years old when the "punk rock" episode of Quincy came on, and I just knew that was some action I wanted in on. However, they didn't exactly have punk rock clothes available on the blue light rolling rack at the K-Mart in Killeen, Tx, so I had to improvise. I spent the rest of the night doodling skeletons on one of my good Sunday vests, just absolutely sure I was gonna blow everyone's mind when I showed up in it.
I stroll in the next day wearing this hideous fucking thing, and of course everyone made fun of me and made me feel like a turd. At that moment, at 5 years old, that awkward little ragamuffin very likely turned into the pretentious shithead I am today.
I had myself convinced I had made something out of complete face-melting awesome, and couldn't comprehend why people weren't absolutely tripping over themselves to tell me the same. But to everyone else, I was just a snot-nosed little dumb-ass in a ruined vest still sticky from cheap fabric paint. I probably smelled funny too, because fuck it why not.
If I was still the kind of person that gets drunk, here would be the part where I would make a big retarded stink about what the fuck did those kids know because I really did turn out to be some sort of fancy-pants punk rock fringe artist. It's obviously just a coincidental twist of fate, somehow not my fault at all, that this "fringe artist" seems pretty much indistinguishable from a self-absorbed, career-impaired recovering alcoholic with a headful of useless trivia and terrible ideas and attitudes regarding how I conduct myself doing the things I love the most, just drifting between temp agency contracts and only picking up freelance work when it "inspires" me.
When it comes down to it, I'm still that stinky little dickweed in his stupid vest.
I've changed my religion and underlying philosophy more often than I change my underwear. I've experimented with black magic and viral marketing. I drank like I was entering a contest. All I've learned was that my art would have been my art anyway, and that I should have done even more of it, regardless of "inspiration".
I'm a weird guy, I like weird stuff and I make weird stuff. Over the years I've discovered more than a few people that like the weird stuff I make. That's fine and all, but it doesn't make me somehow superior than, say, the guy who draws Garfield gushing about lasagna over and over and over, steady as the drone of a Buddhist meditation bell. At least he's drawing a paycheck for his, um, drawings. All this poncing around like I'm a goddamn savant hasn't done me a damn bit of good.
Because really, it doesn't mean a rat's ass in the long run. I've been just as successful with projects I agonized over as ones I just let happen the way they were meant to. And realistically, the chance of me making a connection to the fraction of a percent of the population that even give art a second thought drops to zero when it's all trapped in my head. I have no excuse.
Time to put that fucking vest back on. Maybe I've gained a little better sense of humor since the last time.
Or maybe, just maybe, it's finally in style this year.
Showing posts with label Ralf23 Rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ralf23 Rant. Show all posts
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Am I Doing This Right?
November 2009.
I all of a sudden thought this was great advice... there may have been drinking involved.
"The secret is," I rambled, "to have more people laughing with you than at you. So what you gotta do to maximize that ratio is learn to laugh at yourself."
"That way," I continued, "before you know it, you will be laughing with them... at you."
I all of a sudden thought this was great advice... there may have been drinking involved.
"The secret is," I rambled, "to have more people laughing with you than at you. So what you gotta do to maximize that ratio is learn to laugh at yourself."
"That way," I continued, "before you know it, you will be laughing with them... at you."
Trapped.
August 2009.
My dreams are cruel.
I don't get the power of flight, or the experience of exploring vast, uncharted worlds. No, my dreams typically just actualize those small, subtle changes in fate that make every waking experience poignant and disappointing.
Even with that realization, I would still sleep all fucking day if I could.
My dreams are cruel.
I don't get the power of flight, or the experience of exploring vast, uncharted worlds. No, my dreams typically just actualize those small, subtle changes in fate that make every waking experience poignant and disappointing.
Even with that realization, I would still sleep all fucking day if I could.
Why Do I Long For My Parent's Imaginary Childhood?
April 2009.
Sometimes I look around at everything that's going on, and I feel like it's all gone wrong somehow. And when I say everything, I mean everything. Not only the result of my own bad decisions, but the whole path all of time and space has taken to converge on the spot I occupy. I wonder, then, where I do belong.
Lately, my fantasies have found me in some sort of variation of 1963 or so. The tv area in the living room is sunken; a faux-bamboo bar graces the downstairs den, next to the billiards table. I compulsively wear a suit in public, but when it's time to work, I don a short-sleeved dress shirt and a green tea-shade like you imagine an old accountant would wear. I draw a vaguely-liberal syndicated comic strip from my work-space and occasionally paint signs for local businesses; the wife writes trashy but clever pulp stories and catches the occasional shift from the steno pool. Our son has a pop-top collection and several lovingly-detailed "Famous Monsters" kits ordered from the back of a comic book.
Thursdays we invite the neighbors over for fondue and listen to bebop and tropical music. Every other Saturday we hire a babysitter and unwind at the tiki bar, dance almost a little too scandalously. When the routine of working at home gets tedious, we take a break and have a meal at the local diner; silvery, pod-like, almost futuristic looking.
The neighbors rib me for my politics and spotty church attendance, but they know I'm an upstanding, dues-paying Mason and give generously to charity every Christmas...
Wait.
Who is this person who's life I keep fantasizing about? How is it possible for me to be nostalgic about a time a decade and a half before I was even born?
Am I finally hearing that voice, that ghost that turns men my age conservative? That lulls them with fantasies of an imaginary past with supposedly more clearly-defined ethics, and makes them pointlessly stubborn and reactionary when having to confront changes going on globally, more and more frequently, that truly have no real precedent? That makes them relentlessly impatient, demanding impossibly simple solutions for impossibly complex problems?
Is this what it's voice sounds like to me?
Sometimes I look around at everything that's going on, and I feel like it's all gone wrong somehow. And when I say everything, I mean everything. Not only the result of my own bad decisions, but the whole path all of time and space has taken to converge on the spot I occupy. I wonder, then, where I do belong.
Lately, my fantasies have found me in some sort of variation of 1963 or so. The tv area in the living room is sunken; a faux-bamboo bar graces the downstairs den, next to the billiards table. I compulsively wear a suit in public, but when it's time to work, I don a short-sleeved dress shirt and a green tea-shade like you imagine an old accountant would wear. I draw a vaguely-liberal syndicated comic strip from my work-space and occasionally paint signs for local businesses; the wife writes trashy but clever pulp stories and catches the occasional shift from the steno pool. Our son has a pop-top collection and several lovingly-detailed "Famous Monsters" kits ordered from the back of a comic book.
Thursdays we invite the neighbors over for fondue and listen to bebop and tropical music. Every other Saturday we hire a babysitter and unwind at the tiki bar, dance almost a little too scandalously. When the routine of working at home gets tedious, we take a break and have a meal at the local diner; silvery, pod-like, almost futuristic looking.
The neighbors rib me for my politics and spotty church attendance, but they know I'm an upstanding, dues-paying Mason and give generously to charity every Christmas...
Wait.
Who is this person who's life I keep fantasizing about? How is it possible for me to be nostalgic about a time a decade and a half before I was even born?
Am I finally hearing that voice, that ghost that turns men my age conservative? That lulls them with fantasies of an imaginary past with supposedly more clearly-defined ethics, and makes them pointlessly stubborn and reactionary when having to confront changes going on globally, more and more frequently, that truly have no real precedent? That makes them relentlessly impatient, demanding impossibly simple solutions for impossibly complex problems?
Is this what it's voice sounds like to me?
Fetish For The Amateur.
March 2009.
"When you make a thing, a thing that is new, it is so complicated making it that it is bound to be ugly. But those that make it after you, they don't have to worry about making it. And they can make it pretty, and so everybody can like it when others make it after you." - Pablo Picasso
I'm at the thrift store, in the pants aisle, and I happen upon a pair of khakis with a series of ones and zeroes, scrawled in sharpie, spiraling from the belt loops down to the cuffs of the legs.
And I'm looking at the binary pants, wondering (and marveling more than a little) at how and why these even came into being and how they even managed to cross my path. And it seems, suddenly, like a very dramatic symbol, maybe even an indictment, of my existence.
It's not even a matter of keeping an eye out for the strange. These otherworldly, inexplicable orphans of aesthetic just seem to find me; whether it's what was obviously some parent's home-brew attempt to knock-off a popular toy for their kid, an angry, spastic cassette tape recorded in a den 20 years ago, a floppy disk of some hobbyist's fanfic dungeon crawler that never left the basement, a bizarre home-made fashion statement, or a zine found under a shelf at a bookstore. There's is not even enough information available to trace the path of this thing from it's place of origin.
I'm fascinated by the amateur. I'd even say I have a fetish for it. Happy accidents, unreproducible coincidences. Bands who were doomed from the beginning, writers and artists whose undocumented life story trailed off into god-knows-where after they had left their dreams behind. These professionally-clueless stabs at a brutal, unforgiving universe. Discovering the gems amongst these has provided many of my most rewarding and enjoyable experiences.
And I think of the things I do, my strange and arcane obsessions and influences, and the effects on my artistic output. I mean, simple logic infers that if all of your main influences have severely limited appeal, then the appeal of your output would be even smaller... the "shrugs and shaking heads", as NeonEmu used to describe her observed audience reaction to my performances. Even positive reviews of my art include the disclaimer that I need to hire someone to "explain why what I do is good", which isn't terribly reassuring on reflection.
It's not like I don't appreciate craftsmanship, and I'd hate to think that anyone would step away from something I created and not understand how much work and how much thought went into it. Just because I allow chaos a lot of breathing room in my finished products shouldn't detract from the premeditation and structure of the composition.
But any trip down the aisle of a department store or a scan of the radio dial will betray that "craftsmanship" isn't exactly what most people are seeking out, at least "craftsmanship" by any definition I recognize.
Originally, Chicken McNuggets were fried in beef fat. In later years, they switched to vegetable oil, and sales suddenly plummeted. Soon they figured out that adding artificial beef flavoring to the Chicken McNuggets brought sales back up to previous expectations. I wonder sometimes if that is the "craftsmanship" I'm expected to utilize.
You'd think at this point in my career, I'd at least be enough of a failure to be interesting.
And no, I didn't buy the stupid pants.
"When you make a thing, a thing that is new, it is so complicated making it that it is bound to be ugly. But those that make it after you, they don't have to worry about making it. And they can make it pretty, and so everybody can like it when others make it after you." - Pablo Picasso
I'm at the thrift store, in the pants aisle, and I happen upon a pair of khakis with a series of ones and zeroes, scrawled in sharpie, spiraling from the belt loops down to the cuffs of the legs.
And I'm looking at the binary pants, wondering (and marveling more than a little) at how and why these even came into being and how they even managed to cross my path. And it seems, suddenly, like a very dramatic symbol, maybe even an indictment, of my existence.
It's not even a matter of keeping an eye out for the strange. These otherworldly, inexplicable orphans of aesthetic just seem to find me; whether it's what was obviously some parent's home-brew attempt to knock-off a popular toy for their kid, an angry, spastic cassette tape recorded in a den 20 years ago, a floppy disk of some hobbyist's fanfic dungeon crawler that never left the basement, a bizarre home-made fashion statement, or a zine found under a shelf at a bookstore. There's is not even enough information available to trace the path of this thing from it's place of origin.
I'm fascinated by the amateur. I'd even say I have a fetish for it. Happy accidents, unreproducible coincidences. Bands who were doomed from the beginning, writers and artists whose undocumented life story trailed off into god-knows-where after they had left their dreams behind. These professionally-clueless stabs at a brutal, unforgiving universe. Discovering the gems amongst these has provided many of my most rewarding and enjoyable experiences.
And I think of the things I do, my strange and arcane obsessions and influences, and the effects on my artistic output. I mean, simple logic infers that if all of your main influences have severely limited appeal, then the appeal of your output would be even smaller... the "shrugs and shaking heads", as NeonEmu used to describe her observed audience reaction to my performances. Even positive reviews of my art include the disclaimer that I need to hire someone to "explain why what I do is good", which isn't terribly reassuring on reflection.
It's not like I don't appreciate craftsmanship, and I'd hate to think that anyone would step away from something I created and not understand how much work and how much thought went into it. Just because I allow chaos a lot of breathing room in my finished products shouldn't detract from the premeditation and structure of the composition.
But any trip down the aisle of a department store or a scan of the radio dial will betray that "craftsmanship" isn't exactly what most people are seeking out, at least "craftsmanship" by any definition I recognize.
Originally, Chicken McNuggets were fried in beef fat. In later years, they switched to vegetable oil, and sales suddenly plummeted. Soon they figured out that adding artificial beef flavoring to the Chicken McNuggets brought sales back up to previous expectations. I wonder sometimes if that is the "craftsmanship" I'm expected to utilize.
You'd think at this point in my career, I'd at least be enough of a failure to be interesting.
And no, I didn't buy the stupid pants.
Shape-Shifter.
November 2008.
Dig out your favorite pic of your ex; I know you still have one. You don't have to admit it to me.
We're going to play a game called Shape-shifter.
Take a good look at your ex's face. Look at it from several angles, and try to build the face you saw when you first met and when you first started dating. The face in your mind, built from all the sneaky little glances you took when you thought they didn't know you were looking. An image you may have worked on for months or years of quiet curiosity.
Once you've got that image firmly solidified, move it temporarily out of mind. This next part of the game is much harder. Take a couple of nice deep breaths.
Go at the picture anew, look at it from several angles, and try to build the face you saw when you believed you really, finally had something special. The image you held onto throughout the rough times. Sure they had their faults, and their idiosyncrasies, and things that drove you downright crazy. But it could be worked through, because this is the one you who understands you best. And this is what they looked like to you.
Clear your mind one more time. This next part, to be honest, could be easier or harder, depending on circumstance and the kind of person you are.
Look at the picture one last time. See the person you saw when it was all over. That lying snake, that suffocating bitch, or perhaps even worse, the person you no longer love anymore. The image you hold on to as you look for a new apartment, reacquaint yourself with your friends, and probably just through the first few incredibly awkward blind dates you have with other people.
If you've been playing the game right, you should have completely lost track of the fact you've been looking at the same damn picture.
Speaking of that picture, which image do you see now? If it's been long enough ago, none of the previous images should appear. The face alters frequently, shifting shape.
If consequence brings the two of you together, the same thing occurs. You see that cute little thing they do with their lip, that clever little offside glance, then you catch that inappropriately arrogant sneer, those pissy little affectations and strange sudden broad declarations... It's hard to tell when to be on guard or feel comfortable.
You know what? We're all doing that. I'm completely confident at least one person reading this wound up playing that "Shapeshifter" game with one of my pictures. And all you have to look forward to is playing this game again.
It's not a bad argument for arranged marriages.
Dig out your favorite pic of your ex; I know you still have one. You don't have to admit it to me.
We're going to play a game called Shape-shifter.
Take a good look at your ex's face. Look at it from several angles, and try to build the face you saw when you first met and when you first started dating. The face in your mind, built from all the sneaky little glances you took when you thought they didn't know you were looking. An image you may have worked on for months or years of quiet curiosity.
Once you've got that image firmly solidified, move it temporarily out of mind. This next part of the game is much harder. Take a couple of nice deep breaths.
Go at the picture anew, look at it from several angles, and try to build the face you saw when you believed you really, finally had something special. The image you held onto throughout the rough times. Sure they had their faults, and their idiosyncrasies, and things that drove you downright crazy. But it could be worked through, because this is the one you who understands you best. And this is what they looked like to you.
Clear your mind one more time. This next part, to be honest, could be easier or harder, depending on circumstance and the kind of person you are.
Look at the picture one last time. See the person you saw when it was all over. That lying snake, that suffocating bitch, or perhaps even worse, the person you no longer love anymore. The image you hold on to as you look for a new apartment, reacquaint yourself with your friends, and probably just through the first few incredibly awkward blind dates you have with other people.
If you've been playing the game right, you should have completely lost track of the fact you've been looking at the same damn picture.
Speaking of that picture, which image do you see now? If it's been long enough ago, none of the previous images should appear. The face alters frequently, shifting shape.
If consequence brings the two of you together, the same thing occurs. You see that cute little thing they do with their lip, that clever little offside glance, then you catch that inappropriately arrogant sneer, those pissy little affectations and strange sudden broad declarations... It's hard to tell when to be on guard or feel comfortable.
You know what? We're all doing that. I'm completely confident at least one person reading this wound up playing that "Shapeshifter" game with one of my pictures. And all you have to look forward to is playing this game again.
It's not a bad argument for arranged marriages.
Taser-Fried Chicken.
August 2008.
So they say the average person has three multi-million dollar ideas a year. Okay, I actually read that in a book. A fiction book...
So, maybe I shouldn't be quoting that like it's a "fact".
Anyway.
While napping away a break at work, I awoke with what could have been one of my three... And it came to me in three words-
Taser. Fried. Chicken.
What I was picturing was something along the lines of a mix between Benihana and Mongolian Barbecue. You chose the individualized elements of your personal sauce (teaspoon of cayenne, 1/2 a cup of wine sauce, teaspoon of crushed garlic, etc)... the chicken meat is soaked in it and then tazered into deliciousness on your table in front of you.
Not sure about the fine details of it. The only science I can reference is the Mr. Wizard where they cooked the hot dog with the forks plugged into the light socket... We may have to develop a special "culinary taser" to do the job.
Which. Sounds. Awesome.
So if anyone has a taser and a 12-pack and wants to formulate a business model with me, you know where to find me.
So they say the average person has three multi-million dollar ideas a year. Okay, I actually read that in a book. A fiction book...
So, maybe I shouldn't be quoting that like it's a "fact".
Anyway.
While napping away a break at work, I awoke with what could have been one of my three... And it came to me in three words-
Taser. Fried. Chicken.
What I was picturing was something along the lines of a mix between Benihana and Mongolian Barbecue. You chose the individualized elements of your personal sauce (teaspoon of cayenne, 1/2 a cup of wine sauce, teaspoon of crushed garlic, etc)... the chicken meat is soaked in it and then tazered into deliciousness on your table in front of you.
Not sure about the fine details of it. The only science I can reference is the Mr. Wizard where they cooked the hot dog with the forks plugged into the light socket... We may have to develop a special "culinary taser" to do the job.
Which. Sounds. Awesome.
So if anyone has a taser and a 12-pack and wants to formulate a business model with me, you know where to find me.
"You Know What This Is? It's A Piece Of Bunny Fur."
December 2007.
So one of the things I got for Christmas this year was the baby book my mom kept up with until I enrolled in kindergarten. The following is an exerpt:
Dec 26th, 1980-
...We were outside feeding the animals and you found a piece of bunny fur. It had a little spot of dried blood on it and you showed it to me. You said that you found a kitty and it has a sore on it. You wanted me to take it in the house and make it better- put some medicine on it. I tried to tell you it wasn't a kitty and that it was a bunny and that it was dead- that there was nothing we could do for it. You just kept looking at it and said- maybe we could put it in the chicken house (you meant the little pen I put the hurt chickens in) and maybe it would get better. I explained to you again that it was dead and we couldn't help it. I guess you accepted that- I put the fur over in the weeds and when your father came home you showed it to him.
You asked "Do you know what this is?- It's a piece of bunny fur..."
You were so serious- it was a precious happening to me."
So one of the things I got for Christmas this year was the baby book my mom kept up with until I enrolled in kindergarten. The following is an exerpt:
Dec 26th, 1980-
...We were outside feeding the animals and you found a piece of bunny fur. It had a little spot of dried blood on it and you showed it to me. You said that you found a kitty and it has a sore on it. You wanted me to take it in the house and make it better- put some medicine on it. I tried to tell you it wasn't a kitty and that it was a bunny and that it was dead- that there was nothing we could do for it. You just kept looking at it and said- maybe we could put it in the chicken house (you meant the little pen I put the hurt chickens in) and maybe it would get better. I explained to you again that it was dead and we couldn't help it. I guess you accepted that- I put the fur over in the weeds and when your father came home you showed it to him.
You asked "Do you know what this is?- It's a piece of bunny fur..."
You were so serious- it was a precious happening to me."
GROUND RULES.
August 2006.
YES, SOME OF THESE SEEM IRONIC NOW IN HINDSIGHT. SHUT THE FUCK UP.
Hunter S. Thompson described a chunk of his life as "being shot out of a beautiful cannon in some sort of X-Rated Peter Pan movie". I can't say that I've ever identified with that. But I have faced my share of weirdness so far, and have a few survival tactics I would like to share, many of them VERY recent lessons.
Here we go:
1) NEVER DOUBT YOUR OWN SANITY. Reevaluate EVERY motivation, cast doubt on all your most treasured beliefs and intentions, but remain convinced of your own sanity. Some people may think you're crazy, but as soon as YOU believe it, EVERYONE will quickly become convinced.
2) Never date anyone that genuinely believes you are a "genius". That person will eventually (and very soon) run from you SCREAMING.
3) If you've brewed up an incredibly good, absolutely scathing remark that you're sure will win an argument with someone you intend to run into again, you're definitely better off keeping it to yourself.
4) Try it a couple of times, but after that, try not to drink alone. It's an interesting experience to feel the release of inhibitions with absolutely no one to reel you back in, but it can turn into a pretty pathetic routine.
5) Don't be the only person drinking at a public function. It really looks bad. Especially when that function is a family gathering.
6) Every opportunity you can get, try to weasel a naked photo or two from a significant other, preferably during a sex act. Often a well placed wank can prevent a pathetic 4AM phone call, begging for forgiveness for all you did wrong, you lousy drunk misguided fuck-up.
7) Never turn down the opportunity to:
a) skinny dip
b) write something into drying concrete
c) legally destroy something very large
d) perform onstage
e) have sex someplace really improper or public if you're sure to get away with it, or watch 2 attractive people you don't have inconvenient feelings for have sex
8) Nobody wants to hear how hot their recent ex was. They wanna hear what an ungrateful bitch he/she was first, then they wanna hear how hot all your single friends are.
9) NEVER talk about an unfinished project. My whole life, it seems, is a queue of projects awaiting release from the curse of "premature unveiling".
10) The two most important people you will EVER have in your life are:
a) The one that gets the most your jokes, and
b) The one that refuses to take the most of your bullshit
11) Laugh as LOUDLY and as OFTEN as possible, even if noone else gets the joke. Fuck em, at least someone's having fun. It definitely helps to have 10a around though.
YES, SOME OF THESE SEEM IRONIC NOW IN HINDSIGHT. SHUT THE FUCK UP.
Hunter S. Thompson described a chunk of his life as "being shot out of a beautiful cannon in some sort of X-Rated Peter Pan movie". I can't say that I've ever identified with that. But I have faced my share of weirdness so far, and have a few survival tactics I would like to share, many of them VERY recent lessons.
Here we go:
1) NEVER DOUBT YOUR OWN SANITY. Reevaluate EVERY motivation, cast doubt on all your most treasured beliefs and intentions, but remain convinced of your own sanity. Some people may think you're crazy, but as soon as YOU believe it, EVERYONE will quickly become convinced.
2) Never date anyone that genuinely believes you are a "genius". That person will eventually (and very soon) run from you SCREAMING.
3) If you've brewed up an incredibly good, absolutely scathing remark that you're sure will win an argument with someone you intend to run into again, you're definitely better off keeping it to yourself.
4) Try it a couple of times, but after that, try not to drink alone. It's an interesting experience to feel the release of inhibitions with absolutely no one to reel you back in, but it can turn into a pretty pathetic routine.
5) Don't be the only person drinking at a public function. It really looks bad. Especially when that function is a family gathering.
6) Every opportunity you can get, try to weasel a naked photo or two from a significant other, preferably during a sex act. Often a well placed wank can prevent a pathetic 4AM phone call, begging for forgiveness for all you did wrong, you lousy drunk misguided fuck-up.
7) Never turn down the opportunity to:
a) skinny dip
b) write something into drying concrete
c) legally destroy something very large
d) perform onstage
e) have sex someplace really improper or public if you're sure to get away with it, or watch 2 attractive people you don't have inconvenient feelings for have sex
8) Nobody wants to hear how hot their recent ex was. They wanna hear what an ungrateful bitch he/she was first, then they wanna hear how hot all your single friends are.
9) NEVER talk about an unfinished project. My whole life, it seems, is a queue of projects awaiting release from the curse of "premature unveiling".
10) The two most important people you will EVER have in your life are:
a) The one that gets the most your jokes, and
b) The one that refuses to take the most of your bullshit
11) Laugh as LOUDLY and as OFTEN as possible, even if noone else gets the joke. Fuck em, at least someone's having fun. It definitely helps to have 10a around though.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
What Would Jesus Do On American Idol?
January 2006
What was I doing in Midland, Texas?
More importantly, what was I doing in Midland, Texas watching American Idol?
Well the answer to the first question is that I was on a work trip, but the second question may never be answered.
If there is a moral to American Idol, it is "don't even bother, leave it to the 'experts'", and it reaffirmed my growing paranoia(?) that absolutely nothing on TV is real.
I was reading in Lenny Bruce's autobiography about how he worked for one of those early game shows where even though the "grand prize" was supposed to be thousands of dollars, the "contestants" just received $25 a day and went home with nothing, "win" or "lose". You make more money (even accounting 50s dollars vs 00s dollars) getting on Jerry Springer.
Look hard enough, you can find the politics in everything. Even in a show that celebrates the crushing of dreams, the producers must have taken perverse pleasure in bringing out two aspiring businessmen; one an entrepreneur, one an inventor. They spent an uncomfortable amount of time watching the first consistently mispronounce the name and motto of his own company several times, and the latter describe over and over what was an admittedly simple device.
"You're useless, I'm bored." said Simon to the latter, and told the former that there "would be no next time". Leave it to the experts indeed. Not only are your dreams of stardom stupid, but your other ideas and plans as well.
I'm admittedly pretty cynical, but even my skepticism was thrown for a loop by the cowboy. I thought to God I had hallucinated the whole absurd fucking thing, if someone hadn't mentioned it the next day.
C'mon now. Goddamn.
He lives in a "town with only four people" but his family has FIVE people! Feral animals have more human interaction than you'd infer he had from his back story. How did he find out about the contest? And notice he's the only one they had footage of from his ranch home.
C'mon now. Goddamn.
And they're gonna coach Feral Cowboy McChucklehead through his audition and tell him he can make it to the next level if he gets a vocal coach (which will, coincidentally, be a hidden "sixth" occupant of his four person village, I'm sure). The thought that there is anyone in the world that takes any of this crap seriously is absurd. Like "Please God tell me I'm still asleep or on drugs" kind of absurd.
And then, to cap it all off, I had an epiphany about God. Or rather about Jesus.
Specifically, how he talks about "not being of this world", and about people like him who are also "not of this world", and all about "rejecting the world" and such. What if he's not talking about sin? What if he's talking about the completely ludicrous nature of politics and pop?
When you see how the constant court battles of Marilyn Manson sound exactly like the court battles of Lenny Bruce 50 years before which sound like the battles of Oscar Wilde 50 years before which sound like the court battles of Aaron Burr 50 years before which sound like the same troubles suffered by Diogenes and Aleister Crowley and Voltaire and Giordano Bruno and De Sade and Socrates and even Jesus. The world devouring those that "are not of it".
Aleister Crowley believed that this condition of "not being of the world" was actually the potential for genius. I am inclined to agree.
What was I doing in Midland, Texas?
More importantly, what was I doing in Midland, Texas watching American Idol?
Well the answer to the first question is that I was on a work trip, but the second question may never be answered.
If there is a moral to American Idol, it is "don't even bother, leave it to the 'experts'", and it reaffirmed my growing paranoia(?) that absolutely nothing on TV is real.
I was reading in Lenny Bruce's autobiography about how he worked for one of those early game shows where even though the "grand prize" was supposed to be thousands of dollars, the "contestants" just received $25 a day and went home with nothing, "win" or "lose". You make more money (even accounting 50s dollars vs 00s dollars) getting on Jerry Springer.
Look hard enough, you can find the politics in everything. Even in a show that celebrates the crushing of dreams, the producers must have taken perverse pleasure in bringing out two aspiring businessmen; one an entrepreneur, one an inventor. They spent an uncomfortable amount of time watching the first consistently mispronounce the name and motto of his own company several times, and the latter describe over and over what was an admittedly simple device.
"You're useless, I'm bored." said Simon to the latter, and told the former that there "would be no next time". Leave it to the experts indeed. Not only are your dreams of stardom stupid, but your other ideas and plans as well.
I'm admittedly pretty cynical, but even my skepticism was thrown for a loop by the cowboy. I thought to God I had hallucinated the whole absurd fucking thing, if someone hadn't mentioned it the next day.
C'mon now. Goddamn.
He lives in a "town with only four people" but his family has FIVE people! Feral animals have more human interaction than you'd infer he had from his back story. How did he find out about the contest? And notice he's the only one they had footage of from his ranch home.
C'mon now. Goddamn.
And they're gonna coach Feral Cowboy McChucklehead through his audition and tell him he can make it to the next level if he gets a vocal coach (which will, coincidentally, be a hidden "sixth" occupant of his four person village, I'm sure). The thought that there is anyone in the world that takes any of this crap seriously is absurd. Like "Please God tell me I'm still asleep or on drugs" kind of absurd.
And then, to cap it all off, I had an epiphany about God. Or rather about Jesus.
Specifically, how he talks about "not being of this world", and about people like him who are also "not of this world", and all about "rejecting the world" and such. What if he's not talking about sin? What if he's talking about the completely ludicrous nature of politics and pop?
When you see how the constant court battles of Marilyn Manson sound exactly like the court battles of Lenny Bruce 50 years before which sound like the battles of Oscar Wilde 50 years before which sound like the court battles of Aaron Burr 50 years before which sound like the same troubles suffered by Diogenes and Aleister Crowley and Voltaire and Giordano Bruno and De Sade and Socrates and even Jesus. The world devouring those that "are not of it".
Aleister Crowley believed that this condition of "not being of the world" was actually the potential for genius. I am inclined to agree.
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