As a staunch Irish Catholic and someone who likes to think of himself as "Old Skool," I obviously approve whole-heartedly of the aggressive, even draconian physical, psychological, and emotional chastisement of children. As I have none of my own yet --barring the pug who rules my apartment with a chubby, iron paw--I freely substitute my students, and on rare occasion, random children in the supermarket. There are few things so satisfying in this world as slapping the wrist of a strange child with a wooden ruler (like you don't carry them on you at all times, too) as he reaches on tippy toe to snatch a bag of Double Stuff Oreo cookies from the shelf. Finding that perfect mix of utter disgust and disappointment on my face is difficult, I'll admit, but my acerbic "God hates fat children, Oreo-lover" usually overrides any facial nuance the lad may have missed.
Imagine my shame, then, to have found that I am behind the times in this necessary, revered pastime. Simpleton that I am, I always assumed to only berate children for their own shortcomings, but truer prophets than myself have thankfully seen the primrose path of abusing kids for their parents' flaws. Take, for instance, My Beautiful Mommy, a book ostensibly in the same spirit as Everyone Poops and The Gas We Pass: The Story of Farts. But unlike these insightful tomes, which are designed to help explain the foul realities of the body to kids, My Beautiful Mommy is intended to explain the vile realities of their mothers' narcissism.
Now, the issue isn't about cosmetic surgery per se, nor about the fact that it has become prevalent enough in our culture that there are now books explaining it to children. The true beauty of this little gem is that the primary symptom needing surgical remedy is stretch marks--specifically, stretch marks resultant from pregnancy. In other words, it's essentially Junior's fault that Mommy needs to go under the knife. And here I thought accusing them of stealing the best years of your life was enough!
And there is absolutely no evidence of bias, no lingering stench of opportunistic "tweaks" on reality. For instance, the cosmetic surgeon himself looks like Superman in scrubs, and when we are privileged with a glimpse into Mommy dearest's mind, we see this very Hercules--this time in a suit--planting a tiara upon a newly "did up" Mommy. I'd be concerned that this Adonis was invading the fantasies of America's housewives, but he isn't really the most articulate chap, according to page 1: "Blah, Blah, Blah, Tummy, Blah, Blah, Blah, Nose." So the bastard may be staggeringly good looking, physically statuesque, obscenely rich, and enchanting to the fairer sense, but I've got my pointy verbal barbs. Oh, how I hope they sting.
"But I can't even read, Colonel Gentleman," you might say. "Is there any way to psychologically abuse my child from the comfort of my own double-wide trailer?" Have no fear, disembodied hillbilly voice! Like some sort of twisted perpetual motion machine of despair, you can plant a seed at birth that will cripple your child emotionally from the moment it can comprehend human speech. Or at least, you could until Johnny Law got involved. Apparently, some leftist nut job of a judge stepped in and made a Hawaiian child a ward of the court so that they could change her name. And what was it? Talula Does the Hula. I shit you not. Hell, just calling the kid "Talula" by itself is skating on thin, rotted ice, but to then blatantly reveal her favorite pastime in the same stroke? She may as well be that guy from the fraud protection commercials who has a truck with his Social Security number drive around downtown Manhattan. The poor kid was so damaged by the name that even her best friend didn't know her true identity, and instead was asked to simply call her "K." Apart from strategically positioning her little friend to tacitly agree with anything she says ("Do I want to suffer through Don't Mess With the Zohan....K"), why the hell would she choose that letter? If you're going to lie, why not use a full name? Clearly, the child has been damaged already by the moniker...so why bother changing it now?
My favorite part of the whole story, though, is the list of other names that have been banned, and on occasion, allowed: "Fish and Chips, Yeah Detroit, Keenan Got Lucy, and Sex Fruit...But others were allowed, including Number 16 Bus Shelter [always nice to be named after the place you were conceived, eh?] and tragically, Violence."
So it seems my dreams of simply smacking my children and occasionally locking them in the basement are merely average, even pedestrian. Thankfully, my wife has no intention of letting our DNA mingle anytime in the foreseeable future, so I have time to plan. And now that my brother has taken the BAR exam, he's officially a lawyer and can warn me about the most obvious legal pitfalls that might prevent me from constructing a truly magnificent warren of psychological torment for my progeny. Sure, my kids will be all kinds of fucked up, but I guarantee that if you give them a birthday present, you'll be getting a thank you card within the week. Of course, it'll be covered with their desperate pleas for liberation, but oh, what stunning penmanship.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Mantastic! ~Fin~
While the use of tildes on either side of the word "Fin" might suggest some sort of ominous dorsal ridge skimming the water, my intention here was the unnecessarily inclusion of a foreign word in a pretentious grasp at sophistication, one so very commonplace that its dependence on cliche only screams to the world that I'm a hack. Clearly I'm trying to get into character here in the hopes of better understanding dear Prof. Chiarella, an effect I mean to heighten through the donning of a turtleneck and the quick application of Crisco to my face to enhance my already pallid glow to downright sickly, vampirish levels:
41) Speak to a waiter so he will hear, curiously, appears immediately adjoining 42) Talk to a dog so it will hear, clearly betraying the rosy impression our host has of those in the service industry.
45) Break another man's grip on his wrist. Why am I not surprised that Prof. Chiarella sees masculinity as predicated upon enacting his favorite scenes from an episode of Walker Texas Ranger or any of Steven Segal's exquisite canon of work? Personally, I have found squealing in pain and bawling like a hungry infant to be the best bet, for inevitably the man's man clutching you wil turn away in disgust, at which point you kick him in the small of the back or break your bottle of Bartles & Jaymes "Body Shot Lime" over his head.
46) Tell a woman's dress size. Never out loud. Not if you want to live.
52) Step into a job one one wants to do. Like reading your work, sir?
55) Point to the north at any time. Thanks, Daniel Boone. How very rustic of you, defying our savage, contemporary days of GPS phones and sedentary, indoor existence. I hope that little skill comes in handy at the tenure meeting when your department chair tells your sorry ass your scholarly acumen is no longer required.
59) Write a thank you note. Fair enough. And what sort of note does our sage recommend?
Thanks for having me over to watch game six. Even though they won, it's clear the Red Sox are a soulless, overmarketed contrivance of Fox TV. Still, I'm awfully happy you have that huge high-definition television. Next time, I really will bring beer. Yours,
Wow, not only did he come off as his usual pretentious self, but he also made himself seem a cheap, ungrateful prick. Of course, it would definitely ensure a second invite from me, if only to ambush him in my living room and hold a dry-cleaning bag over his head until he stopped fighting.
61) Cook bacon. Yes. A hundred times YES. Put it on anything and everything: burgers, sandwiches, salads, even your children will be better human beings with a few strips of bacon judiciously hidden amidst their flaxen curls.
62) Hold a baby. ...nestled in bacon. Obviously. Get them used to the heady aroma of grilled pork early on, and if you're really lucky and they end up smelling vaguely of bacon for the rest of their lives, then that's just all the more reason to hug your delicious progeny every single day.
64) Know that Christopher Columbus was a son of a bitch. You mean we're not supposed to desperately cling to the oversimplified lessons of our second grade history class? Okay. "I loved the very idea of Christopher Columbus. I loved the fact that Irish kids worshipped some gnome who drove all the rats out of Ireland or whatever, whereas my hero was an explorer." Wait a second...what the fuck was that? A gnome? Rats? No wonder the Irish kids on your block beat the sweet shit out of your chubby ass at every opportunity. I'm tempted to track you down next week myself and tell you Saint Patrick sends his regards, courtesy of Lefty McUppercut and Righty Fitzsuckerpunch.
That's it. I'm done with this guy, lest my paroxysms of rage give me a stroke. I think I'll instead turn to some student papers now; at least they have something intelligent to say.
41) Speak to a waiter so he will hear, curiously, appears immediately adjoining 42) Talk to a dog so it will hear, clearly betraying the rosy impression our host has of those in the service industry.
45) Break another man's grip on his wrist. Why am I not surprised that Prof. Chiarella sees masculinity as predicated upon enacting his favorite scenes from an episode of Walker Texas Ranger or any of Steven Segal's exquisite canon of work? Personally, I have found squealing in pain and bawling like a hungry infant to be the best bet, for inevitably the man's man clutching you wil turn away in disgust, at which point you kick him in the small of the back or break your bottle of Bartles & Jaymes "Body Shot Lime" over his head.
46) Tell a woman's dress size. Never out loud. Not if you want to live.
52) Step into a job one one wants to do. Like reading your work, sir?
55) Point to the north at any time. Thanks, Daniel Boone. How very rustic of you, defying our savage, contemporary days of GPS phones and sedentary, indoor existence. I hope that little skill comes in handy at the tenure meeting when your department chair tells your sorry ass your scholarly acumen is no longer required.
59) Write a thank you note. Fair enough. And what sort of note does our sage recommend?
Thanks for having me over to watch game six. Even though they won, it's clear the Red Sox are a soulless, overmarketed contrivance of Fox TV. Still, I'm awfully happy you have that huge high-definition television. Next time, I really will bring beer. Yours,
Wow, not only did he come off as his usual pretentious self, but he also made himself seem a cheap, ungrateful prick. Of course, it would definitely ensure a second invite from me, if only to ambush him in my living room and hold a dry-cleaning bag over his head until he stopped fighting.
61) Cook bacon. Yes. A hundred times YES. Put it on anything and everything: burgers, sandwiches, salads, even your children will be better human beings with a few strips of bacon judiciously hidden amidst their flaxen curls.
62) Hold a baby. ...nestled in bacon. Obviously. Get them used to the heady aroma of grilled pork early on, and if you're really lucky and they end up smelling vaguely of bacon for the rest of their lives, then that's just all the more reason to hug your delicious progeny every single day.
64) Know that Christopher Columbus was a son of a bitch. You mean we're not supposed to desperately cling to the oversimplified lessons of our second grade history class? Okay. "I loved the very idea of Christopher Columbus. I loved the fact that Irish kids worshipped some gnome who drove all the rats out of Ireland or whatever, whereas my hero was an explorer." Wait a second...what the fuck was that? A gnome? Rats? No wonder the Irish kids on your block beat the sweet shit out of your chubby ass at every opportunity. I'm tempted to track you down next week myself and tell you Saint Patrick sends his regards, courtesy of Lefty McUppercut and Righty Fitzsuckerpunch.
That's it. I'm done with this guy, lest my paroxysms of rage give me a stroke. I think I'll instead turn to some student papers now; at least they have something intelligent to say.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Mantastic! Part deux
It appears I have betrayed you once more, dear reader, fleeing from my responsibilities as a blogger for other duties, and in so doing leaving you hanging in the wind. Sure, I can promise I'll never do it again, but we all know that's a lie, if not a particularly convincing one. But allow me to say that I won't let virtually another month lapse between posts again. I promise.
At least part of my absence is explainable, though. You see, I was in the Sierras playing Dungeons & Dragons for a week straight. Yes, nestled in the trees and rock, in passages where no cellular reception dare stray and where savage men with long beards and no hygiene rein supreme, there I was feverishly rolling my twenty-sided die (poorly, more often than not) and seeing my paladin spread righteous justice throughout a corrupt and evil land. Oh, if only the rest of my life were as simple as that week, where virtually every decision can be made through the fortuitous roll of a die. I sit now at my desk on campus, trying to make myself work on my dissertation, but clearly I have failed my Will save. Somewhere in the world a twenty-sided die has skittered across a tabletop, coming to rest with a 1 staring skyward like the fiery eye of Sauron.
So if I can be of no service to myself, allow me to be of service to you and continue our journey through the trite and staggeringly inane world of Tom Chiarella's "The 75 Skills Every Man Should Master." And let me warn you: these ones are worse than the last batch.
21) Argue with a European without getting xenophobic or insulting soccer. Reminding them that we bailed their ass out of World War II (or stomped their ass, if you're talking to a former Axis power) is completely fair game, though. I recommend telling them they'd be speaking German now if it wasn't for us. If it's a German, compliment him on his lederhosen.
22) Give a woman an orgasm so that he doesn't have to ask after it. Forgiving the pronoun confusion and all the deliciously Freudian things it suggests, as a Catholic, I can't endorse this whole communicating during sex thing. I'm even on the fence about eye contact. Instead, may I humbly suggest a gong placed on the nightstand, which upon orgasm, your partner hits with a mallet. Should one find oneself in flagrante delicto without your gong present, simply shouting "Yahtzee!" should suffice.
25) Drive an eightpenny nail into a treated two-by-four without thinking about it. Thanks for "sexing up" this one, as "hit nail into wood" might threaten to undermine the man who considered this an essential aspect of his identity.
27) Play gin with an old guy. While I would prefer drinking gin with an old guy--and recommend not calling hiim "old guy"--this item only becomes truly hilarious when you take it in stride with the subsequent tip.
28) Play go fish with a kid. Fair enough. His first bit of elaboration recommends "You talk their ear off," which is great when you glance above and see he warns that the "old guy" will "drown you in meaningless chatter, tell stories about when they were kids this or in Korea that." Oh I see. This older gentleman's story about serving in a war or living through the Great Depression is 'meaningless chatter,' but the author's stories about "when you were a kid this or in Vegas that" are utterly apropros: "So after we dumped the hooker's body in the laundry shoot we went downstairs, did some blow, and took a piss on the roulette wheel. Do you have any 8's? How old is your mom, kid?"
30) Feign interest. Preach on, Dr. Chiarella! Your take on masculinity is refreshing and fascinating! It's doesn't make me want to drive an eightpenny nail into my eye socket at all!
33) Hit a jump shot in pool. By now, we should not be surprised that this superflous and largely impractical shot is just the type of thing to catch Sir Douche's attention. A new revelation, however, is that our gracious author seems to have difficulty describing fundamental spatial relations. Observe: "Make the angle of your cue steeper, aim for the bottommost fraction of the ball, and drive the cue smoothly six inches past the contact point, making steady, downward contact with the felt." Actually, if you drive the cue six inches past the "bottomost fraction of the ball" in a steady downward motion, you'll put your cue through the felt and into the slate underneath. Bloody hell, is there anything this asshat knows how to do well?
40) Speak to an eight-year-old so he will hear. This, of course, bears upon the Go Fish fiasco from above, so allow me to help our befuddled author with how to accomplish this feat: call the kid "Child," regardless of age or gender, or perhaps "Hey you, tax deduction"; shout at them, reaching spasmodically for your belt as if about to wrench it off and brandish it menacingly in the air; confide that you're actually their father, but don't let daddy know, then wink at their mother over their little shoulder, pat them on the back, and tell them to get lost.
More to come, sooner rather than later this time. I left a significant number out this time around, as I was literally choked by contempt and couldn't will my fingers to type; feel free to comment with your own response to those others, assuming you can stifle your gag reflex.
At least part of my absence is explainable, though. You see, I was in the Sierras playing Dungeons & Dragons for a week straight. Yes, nestled in the trees and rock, in passages where no cellular reception dare stray and where savage men with long beards and no hygiene rein supreme, there I was feverishly rolling my twenty-sided die (poorly, more often than not) and seeing my paladin spread righteous justice throughout a corrupt and evil land. Oh, if only the rest of my life were as simple as that week, where virtually every decision can be made through the fortuitous roll of a die. I sit now at my desk on campus, trying to make myself work on my dissertation, but clearly I have failed my Will save. Somewhere in the world a twenty-sided die has skittered across a tabletop, coming to rest with a 1 staring skyward like the fiery eye of Sauron.
So if I can be of no service to myself, allow me to be of service to you and continue our journey through the trite and staggeringly inane world of Tom Chiarella's "The 75 Skills Every Man Should Master." And let me warn you: these ones are worse than the last batch.
21) Argue with a European without getting xenophobic or insulting soccer. Reminding them that we bailed their ass out of World War II (or stomped their ass, if you're talking to a former Axis power) is completely fair game, though. I recommend telling them they'd be speaking German now if it wasn't for us. If it's a German, compliment him on his lederhosen.
22) Give a woman an orgasm so that he doesn't have to ask after it. Forgiving the pronoun confusion and all the deliciously Freudian things it suggests, as a Catholic, I can't endorse this whole communicating during sex thing. I'm even on the fence about eye contact. Instead, may I humbly suggest a gong placed on the nightstand, which upon orgasm, your partner hits with a mallet. Should one find oneself in flagrante delicto without your gong present, simply shouting "Yahtzee!" should suffice.
25) Drive an eightpenny nail into a treated two-by-four without thinking about it. Thanks for "sexing up" this one, as "hit nail into wood" might threaten to undermine the man who considered this an essential aspect of his identity.
27) Play gin with an old guy. While I would prefer drinking gin with an old guy--and recommend not calling hiim "old guy"--this item only becomes truly hilarious when you take it in stride with the subsequent tip.
28) Play go fish with a kid. Fair enough. His first bit of elaboration recommends "You talk their ear off," which is great when you glance above and see he warns that the "old guy" will "drown you in meaningless chatter, tell stories about when they were kids this or in Korea that." Oh I see. This older gentleman's story about serving in a war or living through the Great Depression is 'meaningless chatter,' but the author's stories about "when you were a kid this or in Vegas that" are utterly apropros: "So after we dumped the hooker's body in the laundry shoot we went downstairs, did some blow, and took a piss on the roulette wheel. Do you have any 8's? How old is your mom, kid?"
30) Feign interest. Preach on, Dr. Chiarella! Your take on masculinity is refreshing and fascinating! It's doesn't make me want to drive an eightpenny nail into my eye socket at all!
33) Hit a jump shot in pool. By now, we should not be surprised that this superflous and largely impractical shot is just the type of thing to catch Sir Douche's attention. A new revelation, however, is that our gracious author seems to have difficulty describing fundamental spatial relations. Observe: "Make the angle of your cue steeper, aim for the bottommost fraction of the ball, and drive the cue smoothly six inches past the contact point, making steady, downward contact with the felt." Actually, if you drive the cue six inches past the "bottomost fraction of the ball" in a steady downward motion, you'll put your cue through the felt and into the slate underneath. Bloody hell, is there anything this asshat knows how to do well?
40) Speak to an eight-year-old so he will hear. This, of course, bears upon the Go Fish fiasco from above, so allow me to help our befuddled author with how to accomplish this feat: call the kid "Child," regardless of age or gender, or perhaps "Hey you, tax deduction"; shout at them, reaching spasmodically for your belt as if about to wrench it off and brandish it menacingly in the air; confide that you're actually their father, but don't let daddy know, then wink at their mother over their little shoulder, pat them on the back, and tell them to get lost.
More to come, sooner rather than later this time. I left a significant number out this time around, as I was literally choked by contempt and couldn't will my fingers to type; feel free to comment with your own response to those others, assuming you can stifle your gag reflex.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Mantastic! Part 1
I'm ashamed to admit it, but when I saw a link to an article entitled "The 75 Skills Every Man Should Master" my cursor flew toward its blue text like a bee to the expectant, be-dewed flower, a metaphor which makes all too obvious my desperate need to find out what makes a 'real man.' As far as I know, self-indulgent floral imagery was scratched off the "dude roster" about the time opium went out of style.
As is my way, I was almost immediately filled with righteous contempt upon the reading of this man's list, so much so that snarling and/or rabid dog imagery is entirely appropriate. And it wasn't simply because some cock-knocker took it upon himself to itemize masculinity--shit, I'll take all the help I can get. It was the absurd crap he was peddling as significant, undermined all the more by the asinine elaborations following most points. But like the Incredible Hulk, my best work is fueled by pure rage, and as I read on, I couldn't stem the flood of bitter rejoinders to this man's commentary on the male sex. And so, because I clearly had a good kindergarten teacher, I've decided to share. As a courtesy (read: humanitarian gesture), I'll spare you the whole 75 and will furthermore deliver my thoughts on the rest only in fits and starts over the course of multiple posts.
But enough of my pre(r)amble. I feel like the host who delivers an unnecessarily long prayer before a sumptuous banquet, forcing my beloved guests to suffer needlessly while satisfaction sits mere inches away. Consider my supplication to a silent deity complete. Let us feast:
1) Give advice that matters in one sentence. Yes, God forbid you construct an idea so complex that grunts or gesturing with the femur in your hairy palm won't suffice.
2) Tell if someone is lying. Good call, pal. I should hope "You're a clever writer" raises a warning flag.
3) Take a photo. Whoa there, Ansel Adams. Don't set the bar too high for the rest of us.
5) Name a book that matters. "Catcher in the Rye does not matter," he usefully opines. Really? Tell that to John Lennon.
8) Not monopolize the conversation says the douche who wrote a four page document listing 75 things he feels a true man knows how to do.
9) Write a letter. I can get behind that. Hell, I sealed a photocopy of a seventeenth-century letter with red wax. I'm down. Let's see what else he has to say. "So easy. So easily forgotten." Okay. Trite but whatever. Anything else? "A five-paragraph structure works pretty well." Oh you son of a bitch.
12) Show respect without being a suck-up. Man, no one appreciates obsequious groveling like they used to.
13) Throw a punch and 14) Cut down a tree, in my humble opinion, should only count if you punch down a tree. Also, you are automatically disqualified if, upon successfully felling the mighty trunk, a lush beard does not immediately sprout from your face.
16) Tie a bow tie. I actually agree completely. No joke. Looking like a tool afterward is just gravy if you ask me.
17) Make a drink, in large batches, very well. I would recommend using a bathtub. If the air isn't dangerously combustible like a meth lab, you're not making it strong enough. In fact, why not just make your moonshine in your meth lab? Two birds, one stone, baby.
and today's final entry...
19) Approach a woman out of his league. Now, let me start by saying I whole-heartedly support this, mainly because I think every true man must know how to court failure, and experiencing the sweet sting of bear mace in your tear ducts is a thrill everyone should savor at least once. But what makes this entry so delicious to me is the writer's non sequitor of an explanation afterwards, which I have quoted in its entirety:
"Ever have a shoeshine from a guy you really admire? He works hard enough that he doesn't have to tell stupid jokes; he doesn't stare at your legs; he knows things you don't, but he doesn't talk about them every minute; he doesn't scrape or apologize for his status or his job or the way he is dressed; he does his job confidently and with a quiet relish. That stuff is wildly inviting. Act like that guy."
I wish I could make stuff like that up. I really do. Its profundity is thick, almost overwhelmingly so, the sort of potent morsel that you cannot immediately swallow, but must chew leisurely amidst your back teeth as you assimilate its constituent ingredients. That first line alone... There are men sitting in monasteries who don't have enough time to figure that one out. Just imagine, then, what bounty the next few items have in store for us. I, for one, cannot wait.
As is my way, I was almost immediately filled with righteous contempt upon the reading of this man's list, so much so that snarling and/or rabid dog imagery is entirely appropriate. And it wasn't simply because some cock-knocker took it upon himself to itemize masculinity--shit, I'll take all the help I can get. It was the absurd crap he was peddling as significant, undermined all the more by the asinine elaborations following most points. But like the Incredible Hulk, my best work is fueled by pure rage, and as I read on, I couldn't stem the flood of bitter rejoinders to this man's commentary on the male sex. And so, because I clearly had a good kindergarten teacher, I've decided to share. As a courtesy (read: humanitarian gesture), I'll spare you the whole 75 and will furthermore deliver my thoughts on the rest only in fits and starts over the course of multiple posts.
But enough of my pre(r)amble. I feel like the host who delivers an unnecessarily long prayer before a sumptuous banquet, forcing my beloved guests to suffer needlessly while satisfaction sits mere inches away. Consider my supplication to a silent deity complete. Let us feast:
1) Give advice that matters in one sentence. Yes, God forbid you construct an idea so complex that grunts or gesturing with the femur in your hairy palm won't suffice.
2) Tell if someone is lying. Good call, pal. I should hope "You're a clever writer" raises a warning flag.
3) Take a photo. Whoa there, Ansel Adams. Don't set the bar too high for the rest of us.
5) Name a book that matters. "Catcher in the Rye does not matter," he usefully opines. Really? Tell that to John Lennon.
8) Not monopolize the conversation says the douche who wrote a four page document listing 75 things he feels a true man knows how to do.
9) Write a letter. I can get behind that. Hell, I sealed a photocopy of a seventeenth-century letter with red wax. I'm down. Let's see what else he has to say. "So easy. So easily forgotten." Okay. Trite but whatever. Anything else? "A five-paragraph structure works pretty well." Oh you son of a bitch.
12) Show respect without being a suck-up. Man, no one appreciates obsequious groveling like they used to.
13) Throw a punch and 14) Cut down a tree, in my humble opinion, should only count if you punch down a tree. Also, you are automatically disqualified if, upon successfully felling the mighty trunk, a lush beard does not immediately sprout from your face.
16) Tie a bow tie. I actually agree completely. No joke. Looking like a tool afterward is just gravy if you ask me.
17) Make a drink, in large batches, very well. I would recommend using a bathtub. If the air isn't dangerously combustible like a meth lab, you're not making it strong enough. In fact, why not just make your moonshine in your meth lab? Two birds, one stone, baby.
and today's final entry...
19) Approach a woman out of his league. Now, let me start by saying I whole-heartedly support this, mainly because I think every true man must know how to court failure, and experiencing the sweet sting of bear mace in your tear ducts is a thrill everyone should savor at least once. But what makes this entry so delicious to me is the writer's non sequitor of an explanation afterwards, which I have quoted in its entirety:
"Ever have a shoeshine from a guy you really admire? He works hard enough that he doesn't have to tell stupid jokes; he doesn't stare at your legs; he knows things you don't, but he doesn't talk about them every minute; he doesn't scrape or apologize for his status or his job or the way he is dressed; he does his job confidently and with a quiet relish. That stuff is wildly inviting. Act like that guy."
I wish I could make stuff like that up. I really do. Its profundity is thick, almost overwhelmingly so, the sort of potent morsel that you cannot immediately swallow, but must chew leisurely amidst your back teeth as you assimilate its constituent ingredients. That first line alone... There are men sitting in monasteries who don't have enough time to figure that one out. Just imagine, then, what bounty the next few items have in store for us. I, for one, cannot wait.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Long Time No See
So it seems I've been lagging on the whole 'blog' thing again. My apologies. Allow me to catch you up on the exciting events of my life from the past three weeks: 1) I still haven't started writing the second chapter of my dissertation; 2) grading student papers still corrodes my soul, and more importantly, keeps me from working on my dissertation more; 3) my brother graduated from law school this weekend.
This final point merits more discussion. My brother, two years my junior, has just recently graduated from Hofstra law school. Finally, one of my father's sons will make an adequate wage. My family flew out to see him walk, which ended up working well this time, since he had arrived late to his own graduation when he received his B.A., prompting my father to fly into a fit of such intense Irish rage that Saint Patrick granted the souls of Purgatory a momentary respite from their cleansing flames in appreciation. Everyone was on time this year, though, and to make the pot even sweeter, Kelly and I got to spend the weekend in New York and visit some very good friends we don't get to see nearly enough.
On a related note, I don't sleep on planes. Ever. I must have traded away the ability to do so for never getting cavities, or some other inane deal with Satan. Anyway, I actually used some of that time this weekend to draw, something that I haven't done for well over a year, which is saying something, considering how often I used to sketch when I was younger. I thought I'd post the results now that I've finished the piece.
This final point merits more discussion. My brother, two years my junior, has just recently graduated from Hofstra law school. Finally, one of my father's sons will make an adequate wage. My family flew out to see him walk, which ended up working well this time, since he had arrived late to his own graduation when he received his B.A., prompting my father to fly into a fit of such intense Irish rage that Saint Patrick granted the souls of Purgatory a momentary respite from their cleansing flames in appreciation. Everyone was on time this year, though, and to make the pot even sweeter, Kelly and I got to spend the weekend in New York and visit some very good friends we don't get to see nearly enough.
On a related note, I don't sleep on planes. Ever. I must have traded away the ability to do so for never getting cavities, or some other inane deal with Satan. Anyway, I actually used some of that time this weekend to draw, something that I haven't done for well over a year, which is saying something, considering how often I used to sketch when I was younger. I thought I'd post the results now that I've finished the piece.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Happy Birthday, O' Upstart Crow
Last week, at least as far as we know, was Shakespeare's birthday (April 23rd, or at least we suspect so, since he was baptised on the 26th and typically it was a three day delay). If he were a vampire, he'd be 444 years old now, which would be weird on a number of levels. Putting aside for the moment any images of Shakespeare roaming the streets at night, marauding for flesh, I thought I might put my expertise in the English Renaissance to use and offer a number of things you might do over the next few days to help celebrate the bard's birthday, things that will help you relive those glorious days of Elizabethan and Jacobean London in which Shakespeare thrived:
1) Blame all venereal disease on the French, specifically syphilis, which you should simply call "The French Disease."
2) Use a silken handkerchief for a prophylactic. You might be historically rigorous and use some sort of silken bow or tie to cinch your "little gentleman's cloak," or acknowledge the unbridgeable divide between then and now by slapping a couple of rubber bands on for good measure.
3) Relieve yourself into a bucket or bedpan for as long as you can stand the stench, and then casually toss your "night soil" out a second-story window into the street below. Bonus points if at least some of your filth lands on a passerby.
4) Draw your sword on a stranger for an imagined slight. Here's a good one: "taking the wall" of someone meant walking alongside the wall when coming against someone walking the opposite direction, thereby forcing the stranger to take the far side and thereby inevitably walk closer to, or in, the gutter and all the delicious filth that entailed (see #3). So, the next time someone coming against you politely cheats towards a building/wall, quickly stab him or her in the stomach with your shank.
5) Accuse a neighborhood woman of witchcraft. One sure-fire way of identifying a witch, according to common practice, was to burn a piece of thatch from her roof. If she came running, that meant she was a witch. And honestly, and poor son of a bitch still living under a thatch roof nowadays needs that kind of excitement in their poverty-stricken life anyway. Ha. Poor people.
6) Torture and execute Jesuit priests for sneaking into your country and covertly saying Mass. Alternately, if you want to play at being from the continent, declare the Queen of England the Antichrist and try to assassinate her. So long as your religious fervor burns bright, either choice is alright!
7) Die by 35.
8) Make jokes at the expense of the Irish and the Scots. Excellent options include jabs about their barbarity, quips about their ignorance, or simply oppressing them as a people ruthlessly for hundreds of years. To Hell or Connaught, right, you limey pricks?
9) Attend an execution during your free time. While hangings and beheadings are, obviously, your best bet, a close second would be pelting people in the stocks with rotten produce, rocks, or any leftover night soil from #3. Either way, make sure to shout and gesture wildly as if you were hammered drunk at a baseball game.
10) Become a candy-striper at your local hospital. Should you, in your expert opinion, decide the patient has 'bad blood,' simply apply leeches or just cut them open at the inside of the elbow--you know, where your heroin goes. If you find an amputee immediately post op, help close the wound by shoving a red-hot poker against it, or if you've got a small cauldron handy, pour boiling oil over it. The tingles, and the screams of inhuman agony, let you know it's working!
Isn't being a modern boring? If only we could be Early Modern all the time. Now that's how I want to live...at least until I hit 35.
1) Blame all venereal disease on the French, specifically syphilis, which you should simply call "The French Disease."
2) Use a silken handkerchief for a prophylactic. You might be historically rigorous and use some sort of silken bow or tie to cinch your "little gentleman's cloak," or acknowledge the unbridgeable divide between then and now by slapping a couple of rubber bands on for good measure.
3) Relieve yourself into a bucket or bedpan for as long as you can stand the stench, and then casually toss your "night soil" out a second-story window into the street below. Bonus points if at least some of your filth lands on a passerby.
4) Draw your sword on a stranger for an imagined slight. Here's a good one: "taking the wall" of someone meant walking alongside the wall when coming against someone walking the opposite direction, thereby forcing the stranger to take the far side and thereby inevitably walk closer to, or in, the gutter and all the delicious filth that entailed (see #3). So, the next time someone coming against you politely cheats towards a building/wall, quickly stab him or her in the stomach with your shank.
5) Accuse a neighborhood woman of witchcraft. One sure-fire way of identifying a witch, according to common practice, was to burn a piece of thatch from her roof. If she came running, that meant she was a witch. And honestly, and poor son of a bitch still living under a thatch roof nowadays needs that kind of excitement in their poverty-stricken life anyway. Ha. Poor people.
6) Torture and execute Jesuit priests for sneaking into your country and covertly saying Mass. Alternately, if you want to play at being from the continent, declare the Queen of England the Antichrist and try to assassinate her. So long as your religious fervor burns bright, either choice is alright!
7) Die by 35.
8) Make jokes at the expense of the Irish and the Scots. Excellent options include jabs about their barbarity, quips about their ignorance, or simply oppressing them as a people ruthlessly for hundreds of years. To Hell or Connaught, right, you limey pricks?
9) Attend an execution during your free time. While hangings and beheadings are, obviously, your best bet, a close second would be pelting people in the stocks with rotten produce, rocks, or any leftover night soil from #3. Either way, make sure to shout and gesture wildly as if you were hammered drunk at a baseball game.
10) Become a candy-striper at your local hospital. Should you, in your expert opinion, decide the patient has 'bad blood,' simply apply leeches or just cut them open at the inside of the elbow--you know, where your heroin goes. If you find an amputee immediately post op, help close the wound by shoving a red-hot poker against it, or if you've got a small cauldron handy, pour boiling oil over it. The tingles, and the screams of inhuman agony, let you know it's working!
Isn't being a modern boring? If only we could be Early Modern all the time. Now that's how I want to live...at least until I hit 35.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Still Waiting on Those Diplomatic Plates
This April marks my two year anniversary as a Marker's Mark Ambassador. Yes, you read that correctly. Yes, Maker's Mark, as in the whiskey. Don't pretend that you're surprised; I like to think that I'm on everyone's short list for likely candidates to represent the political interests of smooth, fine, and delicious Kentucky bourbon whiskey. Did I forget to mention it is also hand crafted? They actually make the whiskey out of human hands. Yeah, I couldn't believe that shit, either. Does it still count if said severed hands are clutching barley and wheat as they're hucked in the vat? I'll have to take this up with my dark masters in Kentucky.
The funny thing--apart from the fact that I'm an ambassador for an alcoholic beverage--is that I have no idea how I came to receive this auspicious post. None whatsoever. About a year and a half ago when I mysteriously received a box of plastic cocktail straws and napkins from Marker's Mark, I just assumed it was some randomized promotion. Perhaps my regimen of persistent liver abuse had caught the eye of some Uncle Jesse-esque (Dukes of Hazzard Jesse, not that delicious manwich from Full House) hick in the moonshine business. But as the gifts got increasingly noteworthy, I realized I had somehow been inducted into a secret cabal, one whose firm grasp on power I could manipulate for my own ends. And while the term "secret cabal" isn't always seen in the most favorable of lights, let me assure you that we're dealing with some classy gentlemen here. First of all, they make Maker's Mark bourbon whiskey, which is easily the finest bourbon whiskey to be made on this planet or any planet for all time. And did I mention it was hand crafted? And smooth? Yeah, that too. More importantly, though, said cabal started sending me devices so clearly anachronistic that my fingers twitched spasmodically at the thought of implementing them in this, our age of futuristic plastic polymers and interwebs. For instance, some months back I was sent a stick of sealing wax and a Maker's Mark seal, so that I can seal envelopes closed with my new lords' mark as kings of yore did:
Clearly, the ascot-wearing sophisticates at the Maker's Mark compound know their ambassadors' twisted predilections intimately, as I understood the seal and wax as not a gimmick but an actual tool to be implemented immediately. So fervent was this belief that I used a photocopy of a 1608 letter to Nathaniel Bacon, folded in the fashion of Renaissance correspondence, upon which to test this gift (I'm not kidding; that's a photocopy from the Huntington of a 400 year old manuscript). Behold the glorious results, and in so doing transport yourself to a gilded age of chivalry and savage venereal disease:
The funny thing--apart from the fact that I'm an ambassador for an alcoholic beverage--is that I have no idea how I came to receive this auspicious post. None whatsoever. About a year and a half ago when I mysteriously received a box of plastic cocktail straws and napkins from Marker's Mark, I just assumed it was some randomized promotion. Perhaps my regimen of persistent liver abuse had caught the eye of some Uncle Jesse-esque (Dukes of Hazzard Jesse, not that delicious manwich from Full House) hick in the moonshine business. But as the gifts got increasingly noteworthy, I realized I had somehow been inducted into a secret cabal, one whose firm grasp on power I could manipulate for my own ends. And while the term "secret cabal" isn't always seen in the most favorable of lights, let me assure you that we're dealing with some classy gentlemen here. First of all, they make Maker's Mark bourbon whiskey, which is easily the finest bourbon whiskey to be made on this planet or any planet for all time. And did I mention it was hand crafted? And smooth? Yeah, that too. More importantly, though, said cabal started sending me devices so clearly anachronistic that my fingers twitched spasmodically at the thought of implementing them in this, our age of futuristic plastic polymers and interwebs. For instance, some months back I was sent a stick of sealing wax and a Maker's Mark seal, so that I can seal envelopes closed with my new lords' mark as kings of yore did:
Clearly, the ascot-wearing sophisticates at the Maker's Mark compound know their ambassadors' twisted predilections intimately, as I understood the seal and wax as not a gimmick but an actual tool to be implemented immediately. So fervent was this belief that I used a photocopy of a 1608 letter to Nathaniel Bacon, folded in the fashion of Renaissance correspondence, upon which to test this gift (I'm not kidding; that's a photocopy from the Huntington of a 400 year old manuscript). Behold the glorious results, and in so doing transport yourself to a gilded age of chivalry and savage venereal disease:
Much like a foreign prince lavishes gifts upon his heart's desire, so too did Maker's Mark continue to heap bounty upon me. The final nail in my bourbon-soaked (and thus even more flammable) coffin was the delivery of official Maker's Mark business cards, complete with my name, Ambassador number, and the serial number of my own cask.
Yes, my own cask. Squirreled away under the bluegrass hills of Kentucky, much like the hobbit holes of the Shire, squats a white oak barrel filled with delicious, smooth Maker's Mark bourbon whiskey with my name on it. Literally. Indeed, I almost like to think of it as my child, if you could split open your baby and fine whiskey would pour out. Of course, were that the case, we Irish probably would have died out a long time ago in feats of Swiftian barbarism. Ah, but we'd have died pissed out of our tree and happy.
And in the end, that's why I'm so proud to be a Maker's Mark ambassador, despite the fact that, in all honesty, I have no idea how I came to be one. I've polled the usual suspects and have been met with only confused, blank stares, as if a penis had started to grow from my forehead and staring at it was the only way to uncover the sacred mystery of its beginnings. Ironically, I've come to believe I was hammered drunk one night on the internet and signed myself up for it. I can't be sure, as the brain cells responsible perished in a chemical fire of sorts that very night. Nevertheless, I feel this sordid truth actually makes me qualified for the position. So while I continue to spread the good word about the smooth, sophisticated, almost white-oaky taste of Maker's Mark bourbon whiskey, sit back and enjoy a glass of delicious, fine, brownish Maker's Mark Kentucky bourbon whiskey. I'll be out killing a hobo to see if this office comes with diplomatic immunity.
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