The radical shift in presidential politics in this country has really driven home one undeniable fact: Those who consider themselves entitled to unbridled, unregulated and destructive success have nothing but contempt for the rest of us.
The AIG bonus debacle aside, banking institutions in general, and I’m including credit companies since they are also banks, truly believe themselves to be above the rest when it comes to what they should be able to get away with. They have become convinced, by all appearances, that they are indestructible and irreplaceable. The banking system in general isn’t broken, though. You can’t break what was never intended to work.
Watching these executives bask in government bailout money like Roman senators during the final days of that empire’s dominance in the known world is disgusting, yes, but it ain’t the cause of the problem. These arrogant, smug SOB’s are merely a symptom of a disease that began at the turn of the Twentieth Century.
Banks used to be independent operations, sometimes linked through a networking system, sometimes consisting of more than one location, but certainly not the massive institutions we know of today. In fact, corporations as we know them today didn’t exist either. It would have been impossible, of course, to create multinational conglomerates in a world without telephones in every building not to mention slow transportation, so the slow emergence of corporations was confined to the United States at first.
You might laugh, but corporations were only allowed to exist for the public good in those days. Their purpose was to consolidate the resources and materials of more than one company so a common goal could be achieved. Here’s the best part: Once that goal was achieved, they were to be disbanded within a timely fashion! That’s right. In order to avoid monopolies and companies with too much power over the entire country, corporations were supposed to be heavily regulated, temporary entities.
However, greed always prevails in America. Working with what must have been the sleaziest and most unethical attorneys in this nation’s early history, corporate moguls found a way to use the language anti-slavery amendment to cause corporations to be seen as individuals with the same rights as you or I. Eventually, as they gained power, their rights exceeded ours to the point where they now have the ability to destroy lives in the name of economic progress. It doesn’t help that there are generations of people who go along with this without question because they can’t imagine a different or better system.
This insured that banks would rise to prominence. They are, after all, the ones that control the flow of money to the other corporations. Sadly, with the creation of the Federal Reserve Bank, which is not really a bank at all but a series of privately –owned companies loosely connected and unanswerable to the federal government, banks became the policy-making bodies we know today. I lean left on most issues but even I’d like to kick FDR’s ass for that one.
Seven decades later we have the mess inherited by President Obama. “Inherited” is a word he uses quite often and with good reason. Republicans tend to blame Democrats for bad economies begun by Republicans and ignore good economies begun by Democrats by claiming some previous Republican kick started the whole thing. That’s not to say that either party is always in the right or in the wrong but the facts speak for themselves. Clinton’s economic boom was supposedly due to Reagan’s discredited trickle down approach while Bush II’s downturn was supposedly due to Clinton’s policies. Despite logical inconsistencies like that, Fox News continues to be allowed to renew its broadcasting license.
For too long have corporations and bankers held this country hostage with downsizing, outsourcing and societal pressure. For too long have they bought our politicians, judges and police officers while forcing their victims to form activist groups with little to no influence in the corridors of power. The last straw was when they started buying up our supposedly free presses and consolidating them into corporate-friendly conglomerates.
The top executives of these companies exist in another dimension than the rest of us. It is a dimension not of sight and sound, but of arrogance and self-entitlement, a dimension of unconcerned assholes sucking up resources we can’t spare so they can live the good life. But these same people will turn around and blame everything on the supposed “lazy poor.” They’ve been so effective at this that many Americans are convinced one must be lazy in order to be poor at all.
We now have a president who seems hell-bent on making these people accountable for both their actions and their inactions. Sometimes I have to pinch myself because I have trouble believing this is really happening. A sitting president whose main focus would traditionally have been on appeasing Big Business to ensure re-election is actually cracking down on them like a federal agent on a task force? Have we finally elected one of our own?
Too soon to tell, wouldn’t be prudent at this juncture, as George HW Bush would have said if Dana Carvey was speaking for him.
However, I do feel confident enough to say I’m feeling something I’ve never felt before, although I can’t quite place my finger on it…Oh, I know…INCLUDED! I feel like this country might actually be partially owned by me and that my elected officials are my employees. I know, I know. It’s muy loco but I can’t help myself.
My God. I think I’m in love~
(More on this as the romance deepens)
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
LIKE HEMORROHOIDS ON A 9-YEAR-OLD INVALID,
CALL OF THE WEEK RETURNS!!!
Silly movements don’t die; they simply reorganize, dig in their heels, and harass people on their cell-phones. F’rinstance:
SCRIBE: What can I do for ye?
CUSTOMER: I was just wonderin’ if you guys charge to block phone numbers.
SCRIBE: No, we don’t. It’s a free service
CUSTOMER: Oh, great!
SCRIBE: Was there a number you needed to block today?
CUSTOMER: Yeah.
SCRIBE: Okay. You’re allowed to block up to five.
CUSTOMER: I only need to block one. It’s a solicitation call.
SCRIBE: Do you have that number right now?
CUSTOMER: (Checks his call history) I think I deleted it. Can I find it online?
SCRIBE: Absolutely.
CUSTOMER: Okay, I’ll do that and call back.
SCRIBE: Not a problem. Do you mind if I ask if this is a harassment issue?
CUSTOMER: Well, they’ve called me a few times but…not yet.
SCRIBE: Well, you do also have a legal option if it gets to that point.
CUSTOMER: Yeah, I know. Have you ever heard of the Promise Keepers?
SCRIBE: Yes!
CUSTOMER: That’s who’s callin’ me.
SCRIBE: REALLY?
CUSTOMER: I can’t believe they called and asked me for 100.00 and then hung up when I told ‘em no.
SCRIBE: The Promise Keepers hung up on you?
CUSTOMER: Yep. I don’t see how a Christian organization could do something like that. That’s not very Christian of them.
SCRIBE: I have to agree. (No, I don’t. That’s extremely Christian of them LOL!)
CUSTOMER: And they hung up. I wonder if they know there are people doing that.
SCRIBE: You bring up a good point; it could be someone running a scam.
CUSTOMER: That’s what I was thinkin’.
SCRIBE: But definitely call us when you get that number.
CUSTOMER: Yeah…they called me three times last week. I’ll wait and see if they keep calling.
SCRIBE: (What are you, a former member of Haven’s Gate? Block the fuckers!) Ok, anything else I can assist you with.
CUSTOMER: Nope, that’s it.
You know the economy is bad when the Promise Keepers have to resort to intimidation tactics to get theirs. So now instead of just intimidating women who don’t fit their narrow definition of femininity in the name of JAAAaaayyyyyyy-zuss, they’re going after people on their cell phones. Something smelled fishier than a French bordello with this one, though. I plan to look into it because I have that kind of free time.
First of all, how would a wackjob unit like the Promise Keepers have this guy’s cell phone number in the first place? Surely he gave it to them…unless he gives to some other Christian charity and that group passed on his phone number.
The investigation begins~
Silly movements don’t die; they simply reorganize, dig in their heels, and harass people on their cell-phones. F’rinstance:
SCRIBE: What can I do for ye?
CUSTOMER: I was just wonderin’ if you guys charge to block phone numbers.
SCRIBE: No, we don’t. It’s a free service
CUSTOMER: Oh, great!
SCRIBE: Was there a number you needed to block today?
CUSTOMER: Yeah.
SCRIBE: Okay. You’re allowed to block up to five.
CUSTOMER: I only need to block one. It’s a solicitation call.
SCRIBE: Do you have that number right now?
CUSTOMER: (Checks his call history) I think I deleted it. Can I find it online?
SCRIBE: Absolutely.
CUSTOMER: Okay, I’ll do that and call back.
SCRIBE: Not a problem. Do you mind if I ask if this is a harassment issue?
CUSTOMER: Well, they’ve called me a few times but…not yet.
SCRIBE: Well, you do also have a legal option if it gets to that point.
CUSTOMER: Yeah, I know. Have you ever heard of the Promise Keepers?
SCRIBE: Yes!
CUSTOMER: That’s who’s callin’ me.
SCRIBE: REALLY?
CUSTOMER: I can’t believe they called and asked me for 100.00 and then hung up when I told ‘em no.
SCRIBE: The Promise Keepers hung up on you?
CUSTOMER: Yep. I don’t see how a Christian organization could do something like that. That’s not very Christian of them.
SCRIBE: I have to agree. (No, I don’t. That’s extremely Christian of them LOL!)
CUSTOMER: And they hung up. I wonder if they know there are people doing that.
SCRIBE: You bring up a good point; it could be someone running a scam.
CUSTOMER: That’s what I was thinkin’.
SCRIBE: But definitely call us when you get that number.
CUSTOMER: Yeah…they called me three times last week. I’ll wait and see if they keep calling.
SCRIBE: (What are you, a former member of Haven’s Gate? Block the fuckers!) Ok, anything else I can assist you with.
CUSTOMER: Nope, that’s it.
You know the economy is bad when the Promise Keepers have to resort to intimidation tactics to get theirs. So now instead of just intimidating women who don’t fit their narrow definition of femininity in the name of JAAAaaayyyyyyy-zuss, they’re going after people on their cell phones. Something smelled fishier than a French bordello with this one, though. I plan to look into it because I have that kind of free time.
First of all, how would a wackjob unit like the Promise Keepers have this guy’s cell phone number in the first place? Surely he gave it to them…unless he gives to some other Christian charity and that group passed on his phone number.
The investigation begins~
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
A LETTER TO FACEBOOK:
Dear Facebook,
I am still not sure what to make of you. Your appeal makes sense, but the cult-like devotion of many of your users baffles me much the same way I am perplexed by fans of American Idol. I am writing this letter in the hopes of understanding what, pardon the French, the big fucking deal is!
As the rumored publication of my novel seemed to become more and more of a reality, I was urged to create for myself more of a web presence. I already had one on blogger, but not under my real name. My first attempt at expanding my reach into the cyber-world was Myspace, a disastrous choice. For one thing, that site is almost exclusively devoted to preening simpletons more interested in being seen as cool and hot all at once. Silly applications galore bombard that site like flies hitting windshields.
It became painfully obvious that Myspace was for self-indulgent distractions, not anything of substance. That’s not to say there aren’t others in the creative fields with sites but the annoyance factor is far too high for it to be a pay-off.
But you were supposed to be different. Your design was less garish; your purpose was more honorable. You were the site originally designed for students on college campuses to remain in contact with each other. Eventually, other people caught on and started using you and suddenly your creators were overnight millionaires.
I instantly noticed the difference. You were a networking tool. You could be used to find old friends and business associates, not to mention others in your field. Within a week I had the same amount of “friends” through you that it took me 6 months to get through Myspace. By the end of that month I had more.
Facebook, I went to a fucked technology. That’s assuming they even know about it or how to use it. So it came as no surprise that I only found one guy from my school days.
You are an interesting tool, much like my own interesting tool, and there is a lot of stuff that’s positive about you.
However, there is an evil force infiltrating your purity and attempting to destroy you from within. That force is known in our world as…SOCCER MOMS.
Perhaps you’ve heard of them. Do not be fooled by their pretense at harmlessness, for they are the great evil that snakes its way up through our drains and wiggles along the floor and around our ankles as it slowly slithers its way up our bodies. And their numbers are increasing! Much like they do with mediocre novels like “Twilight” and ridiculously embarrassing TV shows like “Desperate Housewives,” they wait until someone else decides it’s for them before embracing it with a fanatical passion.
The way conservatives complain about illegal immigration, you’d think they’d be intelligent enough to notice the same pattern in soccer mom migrations. Much like the cheesy vampires about whom they enjoy reading, soccer moms much be invited in before they can devour us. Sadly, most people are idiots and totally unaware of the threat and do just that.
Scores of this hideous scourge have created Facebook pages and it isn’t pretty. Facebook, my new friend and possible future lover, you may be wondering what possible harm these imbecilic locusts can cause to you and the rest of us. To that I say with all sincerity, respect and loyalty: GET YOUR HEAD OUTTA YER ASS!!! WHAT ARE YOU, A COMPLETE IDIOT? STUPID CUM BUCKET! LOOK WHAT YOU MADE. ME DO! I LOVE YOU AND LOOK. WHAT. YOU MAKE. ME DO!!!!!
Now I have to go out and buy you flowers and a card and promise it’ll never happen again. Are you happy? See what you caused? Do you? Well, I certainly hope so! I love you….
I’m sorry, Facebook, sometimes I just get so angry. It’s those damn soccer moms. So vaporous and empty, so shallow and annoying. You can actually look into their eyes (not for too long, though, or you’ll be taken over) and see what superficial teenagers they were. And now, thanks indirectly you and the geeks who brought you into our world, they have an outlet for their mind-numbing tedium that could conceivably devour us all!
When I post something using Facebook, it’s usually an update on what I’m writing, something sarcastic and hopefully funny to others, or what my turds look like after having eaten Indian food. But these women, and I use the term loosely, (I love that expression) seem to believe everything that happens throughout their days is of vital import and should be shared with the rest of the world.
I am fortunate in that I don’t have any soccer moms among my 50 or more friends. I chose carefully from writers, blogger friends, former co-workers and some tramps...the way god intended it. However, I know people who do have them in their friends list and some of their updates have been shared with me. I don’t mind telling you I lost bladder control.
Wait…that was before the updates were shared with me. That was a whole separate thing, come to think of it. Forget that part, Facebook. I have a narrow urethra.
Ridiculous updates like, “Jenny is feeling sad for little Greggers because he has the sniffles” are always followed by a barrage of sympathetic replies from others of the same ilk. What started as a networking tool has become an excuse for self-indulgence of the most mediocre.
I know what you’re going to say: Put your pants back on and take your power drill elsewhere. But I bet you’re also saying, “These are woman who feel ignored, craving validation. I provide them with a resource where they can feel like what they do and say matters. Shouldn’t they also have the chance to feel that way?”
Of course not! Haven’t you been paying attention? These aren’t people! Just because they have feet doesn’t mean they’re human beings! Rodents have feet! And they’re delicious! Especially with lemon and a little butter! But I bet soccer mom feet taste like sulfur, since they walk along the corridors of Hellllllllllll!!!!
You might think I’m crazy, but unlike actual crazy people, I know I’m not crazy because everybody else is. So chew on that, Facebook! You stupid…website. Soccer Mom lover! Can the more blue-collar hockey moms be far behind?
Don’t you see? If we don’t draw the line right here, right now, soon our TV stations will consist of daytime talk shows and shows with judges on them screaming at morons. Our roads could become filled with gas-guzzling SUV’s driven by distracted airheads. Our restaurants could be over-crowded with selfish moms and their kids during the lunch rush and our movie theaters could be…well, OK they don’t go to movies the rest of us care about so scratch that last one off the list.
Facebook, you are the potential savior of us all, you and only you can purge us of this menace before the next logical and horrifying step occurs: They’ll start breeding with the normal human population!!! Do you want that? Do you want everyone using you to be the same? Does homogenization appeal to you, you son of a bitch!?
Maybe it does. Maybe that’s where you’ll get your power. I hope not. I like you, Facebook, but I will fuck you up if it becomes necessary~
Stop the soccer mom scourge; add your support up in here!!
http://stopthesoccermommenance.blogspot.com/
I am still not sure what to make of you. Your appeal makes sense, but the cult-like devotion of many of your users baffles me much the same way I am perplexed by fans of American Idol. I am writing this letter in the hopes of understanding what, pardon the French, the big fucking deal is!
As the rumored publication of my novel seemed to become more and more of a reality, I was urged to create for myself more of a web presence. I already had one on blogger, but not under my real name. My first attempt at expanding my reach into the cyber-world was Myspace, a disastrous choice. For one thing, that site is almost exclusively devoted to preening simpletons more interested in being seen as cool and hot all at once. Silly applications galore bombard that site like flies hitting windshields.
It became painfully obvious that Myspace was for self-indulgent distractions, not anything of substance. That’s not to say there aren’t others in the creative fields with sites but the annoyance factor is far too high for it to be a pay-off.
But you were supposed to be different. Your design was less garish; your purpose was more honorable. You were the site originally designed for students on college campuses to remain in contact with each other. Eventually, other people caught on and started using you and suddenly your creators were overnight millionaires.
I instantly noticed the difference. You were a networking tool. You could be used to find old friends and business associates, not to mention others in your field. Within a week I had the same amount of “friends” through you that it took me 6 months to get through Myspace. By the end of that month I had more.
Facebook, I went to a fucked technology. That’s assuming they even know about it or how to use it. So it came as no surprise that I only found one guy from my school days.
You are an interesting tool, much like my own interesting tool, and there is a lot of stuff that’s positive about you.
However, there is an evil force infiltrating your purity and attempting to destroy you from within. That force is known in our world as…SOCCER MOMS.
Perhaps you’ve heard of them. Do not be fooled by their pretense at harmlessness, for they are the great evil that snakes its way up through our drains and wiggles along the floor and around our ankles as it slowly slithers its way up our bodies. And their numbers are increasing! Much like they do with mediocre novels like “Twilight” and ridiculously embarrassing TV shows like “Desperate Housewives,” they wait until someone else decides it’s for them before embracing it with a fanatical passion.
The way conservatives complain about illegal immigration, you’d think they’d be intelligent enough to notice the same pattern in soccer mom migrations. Much like the cheesy vampires about whom they enjoy reading, soccer moms much be invited in before they can devour us. Sadly, most people are idiots and totally unaware of the threat and do just that.
Scores of this hideous scourge have created Facebook pages and it isn’t pretty. Facebook, my new friend and possible future lover, you may be wondering what possible harm these imbecilic locusts can cause to you and the rest of us. To that I say with all sincerity, respect and loyalty: GET YOUR HEAD OUTTA YER ASS!!! WHAT ARE YOU, A COMPLETE IDIOT? STUPID CUM BUCKET! LOOK WHAT YOU MADE. ME DO! I LOVE YOU AND LOOK. WHAT. YOU MAKE. ME DO!!!!!
Now I have to go out and buy you flowers and a card and promise it’ll never happen again. Are you happy? See what you caused? Do you? Well, I certainly hope so! I love you….
I’m sorry, Facebook, sometimes I just get so angry. It’s those damn soccer moms. So vaporous and empty, so shallow and annoying. You can actually look into their eyes (not for too long, though, or you’ll be taken over) and see what superficial teenagers they were. And now, thanks indirectly you and the geeks who brought you into our world, they have an outlet for their mind-numbing tedium that could conceivably devour us all!
When I post something using Facebook, it’s usually an update on what I’m writing, something sarcastic and hopefully funny to others, or what my turds look like after having eaten Indian food. But these women, and I use the term loosely, (I love that expression) seem to believe everything that happens throughout their days is of vital import and should be shared with the rest of the world.
I am fortunate in that I don’t have any soccer moms among my 50 or more friends. I chose carefully from writers, blogger friends, former co-workers and some tramps...the way god intended it. However, I know people who do have them in their friends list and some of their updates have been shared with me. I don’t mind telling you I lost bladder control.
Wait…that was before the updates were shared with me. That was a whole separate thing, come to think of it. Forget that part, Facebook. I have a narrow urethra.
Ridiculous updates like, “Jenny is feeling sad for little Greggers because he has the sniffles” are always followed by a barrage of sympathetic replies from others of the same ilk. What started as a networking tool has become an excuse for self-indulgence of the most mediocre.
I know what you’re going to say: Put your pants back on and take your power drill elsewhere. But I bet you’re also saying, “These are woman who feel ignored, craving validation. I provide them with a resource where they can feel like what they do and say matters. Shouldn’t they also have the chance to feel that way?”
Of course not! Haven’t you been paying attention? These aren’t people! Just because they have feet doesn’t mean they’re human beings! Rodents have feet! And they’re delicious! Especially with lemon and a little butter! But I bet soccer mom feet taste like sulfur, since they walk along the corridors of Hellllllllllll!!!!
You might think I’m crazy, but unlike actual crazy people, I know I’m not crazy because everybody else is. So chew on that, Facebook! You stupid…website. Soccer Mom lover! Can the more blue-collar hockey moms be far behind?
Don’t you see? If we don’t draw the line right here, right now, soon our TV stations will consist of daytime talk shows and shows with judges on them screaming at morons. Our roads could become filled with gas-guzzling SUV’s driven by distracted airheads. Our restaurants could be over-crowded with selfish moms and their kids during the lunch rush and our movie theaters could be…well, OK they don’t go to movies the rest of us care about so scratch that last one off the list.
Facebook, you are the potential savior of us all, you and only you can purge us of this menace before the next logical and horrifying step occurs: They’ll start breeding with the normal human population!!! Do you want that? Do you want everyone using you to be the same? Does homogenization appeal to you, you son of a bitch!?
Maybe it does. Maybe that’s where you’ll get your power. I hope not. I like you, Facebook, but I will fuck you up if it becomes necessary~
Stop the soccer mom scourge; add your support up in here!!
http://stopthesoccermommenance.blogspot.com/
Monday, March 23, 2009
SCRIBE GRANTS INTERVIEW part 2
-Pete Petey Peterson, CMW (Corporate Media Whore)
Metro Detroit, MI.- Famous blogger and nipple ring wholesaler Scribe E. McScribevich announced last Wednesday that he had a plan to increase his declining readership, realign the stars and dismantle George W Bush’s Legacy Tour.
But first he had some choice words for, well, everybody that pisses him off.
“And another thing I can’t stand,” said Scribe. “Hip hop lingo that lingers on way past its expiration date. If I have to hear ‘That’s what’s up” one more goddam time, I’m going to rent a crane and start piling up baggy pants wearing imbeciles at the local dump!”
This is the kind of conversation one should expect from Scribe when he’s had five Coronas and a doober. He will literally go on for hours about how stupid everybody in the world is and what he would do if he ruled the world.
“First thing I’d do as world ruler would be to outlaw dictators. And if anybody didn’t like it, I’d make ‘em like it.”
It’s best not to point out the inherent flaws in such a statement or risk a hissy fit that eclipses anything thrown by a drunken Herve Villechaiz.
Metro Detroit, MI.- Famous blogger and nipple ring wholesaler Scribe E. McScribevich announced last Wednesday that he had a plan to increase his declining readership, realign the stars and dismantle George W Bush’s Legacy Tour.
But first he had some choice words for, well, everybody that pisses him off.
“And another thing I can’t stand,” said Scribe. “Hip hop lingo that lingers on way past its expiration date. If I have to hear ‘That’s what’s up” one more goddam time, I’m going to rent a crane and start piling up baggy pants wearing imbeciles at the local dump!”
This is the kind of conversation one should expect from Scribe when he’s had five Coronas and a doober. He will literally go on for hours about how stupid everybody in the world is and what he would do if he ruled the world.
“First thing I’d do as world ruler would be to outlaw dictators. And if anybody didn’t like it, I’d make ‘em like it.”
It’s best not to point out the inherent flaws in such a statement or risk a hissy fit that eclipses anything thrown by a drunken Herve Villechaiz.
It isn’t unusual to lose track of the conversation with Scribe and start gazing around he room for assistance that will never come. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to notice and will continue his tirades and diatribes until a good-looking woman walks by.
“…never really believed Dean Martin was a Russian spy, but how else do you explain that beautiful voice of…Whoa! Look at that!”
As the night wears on, it becomes increasingly obvious that the reason other media outlets didn’t accept his invitation to a press conference is because they value their sanity. An evening spent with Scribe is a trip into the type of random, stream of consciousness favored by beat poets in the 1950’s without the jazz accompaniment.
“Have I ever told you why I hate pants and cabinetry?” said Scribe.
A brief perusal of his blog posts reveals a frighteningly irrational fear of pants and cabinetry but the reasons for his aversion have never been fully explained. Several psychotherapists have analyzed Scribe, but none have reached a conclusive diagnosis. In fact, one therapist reportedly refused to continue her observation because she was afraid she’d start hemorrhaging.
That psychologist was Scribe’s mother.
“There were advantages and drawbacks to having a shrink for a mom,” said Scribe. “It gave me insight into the human mind most don’t have, but that’s not always a positive thing. In fact, it never is.”
This is the Scribe others have mentioned glimpsing between conspiracy theories involving the shower curtain liner industry and advocating for marmitt’s rights. This is the serious, brooding Scribe who occasionally posts material so depressing it makes his readers wan to slash their wrists.
“If I didn’t have writing, I would have nothing.”
For Scribe, blogging was more than a pleasant distraction. For that, he says he has midget ****.
“I was literally withdrawing from my environment,” said Scribe. “I was so depressed, with no end in sight and no real support system, I felt cut off and alone…I had some truly disturbing shit running around ion my head and you wanna know the most disturbing part? I knew I should be afraid but it didn’t bother me.”
Still, Scribe insists it wasn’t blogging that saved his life, it was reality TV.
“The only thing more reprehensible is a teen melodrama. The advent of reality TV was such an affront to me that it provided me with renewed purpose not to mention quite a stiffy, I don’t mind telling you!"
Trying to stop Scribe from discussing his various forms of arousal is a losing battle and so the next thirty minutes are devoted to this topic, ending with the bizarre non-sequitir, “And that’s why Mormons tend to be so nice.”
”I apologize if I’m all over the place,” Scribe said. “It’s just that normal conversation bores me if it doesn’t change every three seconds. Makes it really hard when you’re giving the eulogy at someone’s funeral. Sorry, Mom.”
Scribe’s irreverence and total lack of discipline is what has made him so popular among the ladies of the blogosphere. By his own admission, he has porked so many of them he could fill a guest book with their names. But lately he confesses the nookie well has all but dried up.
“I didn’t get into this thing for the incredible, non-stop sex but it sure has been a fringe benefit.”
Not all of his conquests agree with that assessment. A blogger who calls herself “lccb” is one of them.
“Oh, my God I TOTALLY hate him! He never called me back and he forced me to make breakfast the next morning. And I was all like, ‘Um, ‘SCUSE ME? I’m a feminist! The only thing I cook for a man is his own balls! What-EVERrrrrrr!”
Similarly, a blogger named “Bluez” because the name Blanche is too cool for the Internet, feels cheated by her sexperience with the Scribe.
“He thinks he’s all that and a welcome mat but just because he has enormous, well-shaed gentials doesn’t mean he knows how to use it! Ok, he does! I’m just bitter because he switched teams and started seeing Rudy instead!”
For his part, Rudy the HE said he doesn’t discuss his personal business except when he feels like it but he thinks it’s really cool that there’s a whistling sound when he sits down now.
Still, Scribe insisted he wouldn’t change anything in the realm of blogging. Each experience has taught him something, he said, citing the time he and blogger “Green” stole the president’s golf cart and started propositioning women by taking turns referring to themselves as the “sexective in briefs.”
On the subject of continuing to blog, Scribe replies with a gentle affirmative. “What am I gonna do, post on Myspace? I don’t love myself enough. And Facebook’s OK for networking but nobody wants to read about my obsession with mule rectums there.”
Scribe views Facebook as a refuge for useless soccer moms and people who like to believe everything they’re thinking at the moment is to be shared. Blogger, he insists by banging on his chest with his fists and throwing meat at our waiter, is the only pure form of expression available online. So what does he plan to do to get more comments?
“This,” he said. “What’choo thought?”
So, the interview he granted was a subtle ploy to get people to comment?
“Yep.”
Wow. It’s not exactly “Who Shot JR?” but a casual glance at the previous post shows it was moderately successful.
“Sometimes,” Scribe said, “You have to bring the people back.”
Only time will tell if they will stick around~
Thursday, March 19, 2009
SCRIBE GRANTS INTERVIEW, WORLD SHARES COLLECTIVE ORGASM
FACING DECLINING READERSHIP, SCRIBE UPS ANTE WITH SHOCKING GAMBIT
-Pete Petey Peterson, CMW (Corporate Media Whore)
Metro Detroit, MI- Renowned blogger and all-around shit-stirrer Scribe E. McScribevich made some rather candid comments regarding the state of blogging in a news conference this past Wednesday.
The only reporters who were there to hear the comments were a guy from the free local auto trader weekly and the lifestyles reporter for the Meatpackers Local 1414 newsletter. Scribe later contacted some of the major media outlets for a second conference, which resulted in only this paper conducting a one-on-one interview.
Using basically the same comments he made during the first conference, even going so far as to refer to me as “That guy that likes to pack his meat” before being reminded I am not a meatpacker, Scribe then asked me if it was fudge I packed. He then giggled incessantly like a schoolgirl and slapped his knees like a down home country cousin for the next five minutes.
Once he’d finished laughing, he grew angry that no one else had joined in and started admonishing random passers-by with harsh comments such as, “Hey, Pimples! Why don’t you squeeze the pus out of some of those bumps so your hearing won’t be obscured?” He seemed to take delight in the reaction of the person as she ran crying into traffic and was nearly stricken by an oncoming SUV.
When asked why he’d accosted the stranger, Scribe replied, “Nine year olds are my enemy.”
As anyone who reads Organized Chaos can attest, Scribe has many so-called “enemies.” His targets range from militant midgets to soccer moms to neo-conservatives and he is unapologetic about this fact.
“Look, any idiot can write blog posts about their daily lives and stuff they like,” he said. “It takes a special blogger to link the actions of infants and the elderly with a supernatural conspiracy to overthrow the world and establish a dictatorship run by those evil bastards in the recyclables industry.”
It is exactly loose association like that that made Scribe’s early blogging so popular. A self-confessed sexually frustrated boot fetishist, Scribe was bought into the blogging world by some guy he refers to as “Dutch” in 2005. Some have speculated that this Dutch person is yet another figment of an already active and, some might say, frighteningly psychotic imagination.
A few years ago some pasty-faced losers with too much time on their hands, myself included, discovered a blog that was indeed started in 2004 by someone calling himself “Dutch” with a unibrow and the occasional witty observation on life.
Scribe’s early struggle to attain a readership was awkward and experimental. His work often came off as alienating and bizarre. Apparently this “Dutch” advised him to start writing about his relationship, which, at the time, was insane, and suddenly the readers found him. Comments on the original Organized Chaos blog could easily number more than thirty per post, especially between 2005 & 2007. Of those early days, Scribe says, “People love it when you’re more fucked up than they are. They eat it up. Look at George W Bush! Look at Octo-mom!”
According to him, he noticed a subtle shift in his response quantity when things started to normalize in his life.
“Once I’d found a decent job and had an actual physical book coming out, people didn’t seem as interested as they did when I was crying into the toilet at night and running nekkid in traffic in the hopes that Jesus would see me and bring me up into heaven with all the other Scientologists.”
While the naked in the street incident can be verified by checking the records of Scribe’s local police department, some more esoteric things are more difficult to pin down. For instance, did he stay with the infamous EFB so he’d have things to write about or because he is a glutton for punishment?
“Contrary to what people like to theorize,” Scribe said, “I don’t enjoy being miserable. I just don’t always think I deserve the illusion of happiness. And yes, part of me will endure almost anything for a good story.”
Another thing people have often wondered is whether or not Scribe is exaggerating when he writes his posts.
“When I’m exaggerating, it’s usually for effect. For instance, do you really think I walk up to nuns and start yelling at them to release the devil from the church dungeon so we can party? OK, that’s a bad example, but there are things I make up, just never stuff about my life.”
Is it important to him to “keep it real?” According to the Scribester, it’s more than important, it’s vital. However, keeping it real doesn’t mean not knowing when to refrain from boring the living piss out of your audience.
Scribe points to soccer moms, the group he considers the scourge of all that is good, decent and intelligent, as a perfect example of this.
“It’s safe for me to tell you and everyone else that soccer moms have absolutely nothing to say. Nothing. If they did, they wouldn’t be soccer moms.”
Many refute Scribe’s peculiar brand of logic as the rantings of a well-****, woman-pleasin’ loon. That kid who calls himself Bush-Cheney isn’t at all impressed with what the Scribe is cookin’.
“Dude, he’s so harsh and mean, like my dad after he’s been dumped by his latst boyfriend and has to go home to my mom.”
Scribe says he isn’t concerned with those who downed a giant mug of Haterade. In his view, anyone who disagrees with him is probably happy and therefore stupid.
Fellow blogger and sex machine Rudy the H.E. sees Scribe as the alpha and omega of blogging. “One night while we were planning our blogs for the week, Scribe told me I needed to post a picture of my massive genitalia online and pretend to be the president of a NAMBLA splinter faction that favors every decision made by the current Pope. I was nervous about doing this because the Pope and I were high school buddies, but Scribe forced my pants down and held me all night until I was able to do it. He’s such a caring nurturer.”
What amazes Scribe is the amount of melodrama that resulted from his blogging experience. He has been prepared on several occasions to cease operations because of the BS going on amongst his readers. But the writing bug doesn’t let anyone go that easily. That’s why Scribe has a radical plan to rebuild his readership.
“Much like concentration camps for Republicans, it’s time has come.”
More on what Scribe is up to in the second and final installment…unless nobody comments, in which case, muthafuckit!!!
-Pete Petey Peterson, CMW (Corporate Media Whore)
Metro Detroit, MI- Renowned blogger and all-around shit-stirrer Scribe E. McScribevich made some rather candid comments regarding the state of blogging in a news conference this past Wednesday.
The only reporters who were there to hear the comments were a guy from the free local auto trader weekly and the lifestyles reporter for the Meatpackers Local 1414 newsletter. Scribe later contacted some of the major media outlets for a second conference, which resulted in only this paper conducting a one-on-one interview.
Using basically the same comments he made during the first conference, even going so far as to refer to me as “That guy that likes to pack his meat” before being reminded I am not a meatpacker, Scribe then asked me if it was fudge I packed. He then giggled incessantly like a schoolgirl and slapped his knees like a down home country cousin for the next five minutes.
Once he’d finished laughing, he grew angry that no one else had joined in and started admonishing random passers-by with harsh comments such as, “Hey, Pimples! Why don’t you squeeze the pus out of some of those bumps so your hearing won’t be obscured?” He seemed to take delight in the reaction of the person as she ran crying into traffic and was nearly stricken by an oncoming SUV.
When asked why he’d accosted the stranger, Scribe replied, “Nine year olds are my enemy.”
As anyone who reads Organized Chaos can attest, Scribe has many so-called “enemies.” His targets range from militant midgets to soccer moms to neo-conservatives and he is unapologetic about this fact.
“Look, any idiot can write blog posts about their daily lives and stuff they like,” he said. “It takes a special blogger to link the actions of infants and the elderly with a supernatural conspiracy to overthrow the world and establish a dictatorship run by those evil bastards in the recyclables industry.”
It is exactly loose association like that that made Scribe’s early blogging so popular. A self-confessed sexually frustrated boot fetishist, Scribe was bought into the blogging world by some guy he refers to as “Dutch” in 2005. Some have speculated that this Dutch person is yet another figment of an already active and, some might say, frighteningly psychotic imagination.
A few years ago some pasty-faced losers with too much time on their hands, myself included, discovered a blog that was indeed started in 2004 by someone calling himself “Dutch” with a unibrow and the occasional witty observation on life.
Scribe’s early struggle to attain a readership was awkward and experimental. His work often came off as alienating and bizarre. Apparently this “Dutch” advised him to start writing about his relationship, which, at the time, was insane, and suddenly the readers found him. Comments on the original Organized Chaos blog could easily number more than thirty per post, especially between 2005 & 2007. Of those early days, Scribe says, “People love it when you’re more fucked up than they are. They eat it up. Look at George W Bush! Look at Octo-mom!”
According to him, he noticed a subtle shift in his response quantity when things started to normalize in his life.
“Once I’d found a decent job and had an actual physical book coming out, people didn’t seem as interested as they did when I was crying into the toilet at night and running nekkid in traffic in the hopes that Jesus would see me and bring me up into heaven with all the other Scientologists.”
While the naked in the street incident can be verified by checking the records of Scribe’s local police department, some more esoteric things are more difficult to pin down. For instance, did he stay with the infamous EFB so he’d have things to write about or because he is a glutton for punishment?
“Contrary to what people like to theorize,” Scribe said, “I don’t enjoy being miserable. I just don’t always think I deserve the illusion of happiness. And yes, part of me will endure almost anything for a good story.”
Another thing people have often wondered is whether or not Scribe is exaggerating when he writes his posts.
“When I’m exaggerating, it’s usually for effect. For instance, do you really think I walk up to nuns and start yelling at them to release the devil from the church dungeon so we can party? OK, that’s a bad example, but there are things I make up, just never stuff about my life.”
Is it important to him to “keep it real?” According to the Scribester, it’s more than important, it’s vital. However, keeping it real doesn’t mean not knowing when to refrain from boring the living piss out of your audience.
Scribe points to soccer moms, the group he considers the scourge of all that is good, decent and intelligent, as a perfect example of this.
“It’s safe for me to tell you and everyone else that soccer moms have absolutely nothing to say. Nothing. If they did, they wouldn’t be soccer moms.”
Many refute Scribe’s peculiar brand of logic as the rantings of a well-****, woman-pleasin’ loon. That kid who calls himself Bush-Cheney isn’t at all impressed with what the Scribe is cookin’.
“Dude, he’s so harsh and mean, like my dad after he’s been dumped by his latst boyfriend and has to go home to my mom.”
Scribe says he isn’t concerned with those who downed a giant mug of Haterade. In his view, anyone who disagrees with him is probably happy and therefore stupid.
Fellow blogger and sex machine Rudy the H.E. sees Scribe as the alpha and omega of blogging. “One night while we were planning our blogs for the week, Scribe told me I needed to post a picture of my massive genitalia online and pretend to be the president of a NAMBLA splinter faction that favors every decision made by the current Pope. I was nervous about doing this because the Pope and I were high school buddies, but Scribe forced my pants down and held me all night until I was able to do it. He’s such a caring nurturer.”
What amazes Scribe is the amount of melodrama that resulted from his blogging experience. He has been prepared on several occasions to cease operations because of the BS going on amongst his readers. But the writing bug doesn’t let anyone go that easily. That’s why Scribe has a radical plan to rebuild his readership.
“Much like concentration camps for Republicans, it’s time has come.”
More on what Scribe is up to in the second and final installment…unless nobody comments, in which case, muthafuckit!!!
Monday, March 16, 2009
SELF-ENTITLEMENT'S IN THE CURRICULUM
I am not what one would consider anti-union. On paper, they are a great idea. Ensuring humane treatment and a livable wage are things everyone should have the right to expect in exchange for toiling away their lives to line the pockets of people who can’t possibly relate to them.
Contrary to neo-con “logic,” which loves to throw out rhetorical questions such as, “When was the last time you asked a blue collar worker for a job,” the real question is, “When was the last time you asked a billionaire or millionaire to fill the positions necessary to keep a company running?
Sadly, those who own companies don’t always want to provide fair treatment to those they not-so-secretly despise for who they are. Hence the advent of the labor unions. The history of these unions is a long, bloody and brutal one. Much like the Civil Rights Movement, many lost their lives fighting for things that should have never been in question in the first place. But, like every organized movement built on a foundation of steadfast resolve, the union organizers eventually won out, much to the revulsion of the companies for whom they worked.
The Mafia, always looking to extend its hand into legitimate enterprise, infiltrated and took over the labor unions much the same way genuine feminism was taken over by militant lesbians. Union corruption became the norm, especially the Teamsters and UAW, feeding right into the neo-con anti-union philosophy and creating entire generations of workers who weren’t in unions filled with resentment and disgust.
In retrospect, it was probably only a matter of time before a U.S. president would emerge as a union buster, and Ronald Reagan certainly fit the bill. His approach to the air traffic controller strike created an avalanche of anti-union sentiment that weakened all but the Teamsters in its path. These days unions are the exception rather than the rule, a sad commentary on the monumental amount of corruption and entitlement they have instituted. By becoming as bad as the companies they are supposedly fighting, they merely contributed to the problem. Yes, it is disgusting to think of some guy pushing a broom for 25 years making 60,000 a year, but there’s more to this than playing the “Cadillac driving welfare mama” card.
Union membership in the public sector is expected, for the most part. People whose salaries are paid by our taxes have more job protection than most of us paying the taxes. That would be fine if they were grateful, respectful representatives of those tax dollars at work. If you are able to stop laughing long enough to read this next part, I’ll remind you of your last experience renewing your driver license as an example of the graciousness of the public sector.
Among those at the top of the self-entitlement list, teachers have always held a special place of honor for me. Nowhere is there a more cliquish, self-important, inflexible group of so-called individuals. Never mind the inherent flaws in the public school system. Ignore the utter, repeated failures of that system to properly educate American youth. Let’s focus instead on the fact that there is zero accountability on their part.
President Obama wants to change that by installing a merit system designed to reward teachers who, Oh I don’t know, accomplish something more than winning a territorial dispute over their classroom. Is it a good idea? I’m still on the fence. In theory, it makes perfect sense. Most jobs and professions not subsidized by tax dollars involve some form of merit pay. Public sector employees have been allowed for so long to view themselves as exempt from such practices it could well be a disaster.
Teachers are notoriously elitist when it comes to their "profession." This is eclipsed only by their arrogance in believing they are an essential part of a child’s life. Installing a merit program will not sit well with them. In fact, it already isn’t. They and their union representatives are all over the TV and radio talk shows flooding the American public with scores of reasons the merit idea is a bad one. Some of it is valid, but only because those of us who have suffered through public sector arrogance already know the outcome of any attempts at change.
One teacher on a call-in radio show mentioned the sharing programs teachers participate in where one who hits upon a successful technique provides his or her colleagues with the tools to do the same. “Do you really think if we’re paid according to merit that I’m going to share anything that might prevent me from getting more money?” he said. A valid point, but one easily fixed if the merit is an across the board reward.
What’s really got teachers up in arms, it seems, is the repugnant notion that they might actually have to compete with each other. Umm, competitiveness is bad, m’kay?
How can you teach the kids that everybody’s a winner when you’re knocking some other teacher to the ground as you run for the principal’s office with your latest moneymaking idea? There’s so much jealousy and backbiting in that field I doubt anyone would notice the difference. It’s a proven fact that honing one’s skills involves some form of competition. You don’t have to be like Michael Douglas in “Wall Street” to compete. It is possible to do so and remain ethical.
But teachers have grown fat and smug over the decades. No accountability, benefit after benefit, tenure, it just goes on and on. They don’t even work for an entire year in most cases!
In case you can’t tell, I’ve always had issues with teachers. I saw through them early on as a child and generally found it difficult to respect them as a whole. That’s not to say there weren’t teachers I respected, nor that there weren’t a few that made a difference in my life. But most of the important things I needed to learn prior to college I learned either on my own or with the assistance of my over-educated mother. She, by the way, had the utmost respect for the teaching profession and had been a hippy in the Sixties and Seventies.
Then again, hippies had a huge amount of love for academia. As a closet anarchist, I mistrust all institutions, but especially those that indoctrinate children to be good little earning wage-slaves. I also tend not to trust professions that make grandiose claims at societal and cultural relevance while at the same time fostering an attitude of pervasive apathy and self-entitlement.
Obama’s merit program may or may not be a good idea, but one thing is abundantly clear: Teachers need to adjust with the times like the rest of us.
They are not exempt. They are not immune. Time for them to emerge from their darkened classrooms, squint into the sun and grow the hell up~
Contrary to neo-con “logic,” which loves to throw out rhetorical questions such as, “When was the last time you asked a blue collar worker for a job,” the real question is, “When was the last time you asked a billionaire or millionaire to fill the positions necessary to keep a company running?
Sadly, those who own companies don’t always want to provide fair treatment to those they not-so-secretly despise for who they are. Hence the advent of the labor unions. The history of these unions is a long, bloody and brutal one. Much like the Civil Rights Movement, many lost their lives fighting for things that should have never been in question in the first place. But, like every organized movement built on a foundation of steadfast resolve, the union organizers eventually won out, much to the revulsion of the companies for whom they worked.
The Mafia, always looking to extend its hand into legitimate enterprise, infiltrated and took over the labor unions much the same way genuine feminism was taken over by militant lesbians. Union corruption became the norm, especially the Teamsters and UAW, feeding right into the neo-con anti-union philosophy and creating entire generations of workers who weren’t in unions filled with resentment and disgust.
In retrospect, it was probably only a matter of time before a U.S. president would emerge as a union buster, and Ronald Reagan certainly fit the bill. His approach to the air traffic controller strike created an avalanche of anti-union sentiment that weakened all but the Teamsters in its path. These days unions are the exception rather than the rule, a sad commentary on the monumental amount of corruption and entitlement they have instituted. By becoming as bad as the companies they are supposedly fighting, they merely contributed to the problem. Yes, it is disgusting to think of some guy pushing a broom for 25 years making 60,000 a year, but there’s more to this than playing the “Cadillac driving welfare mama” card.
Union membership in the public sector is expected, for the most part. People whose salaries are paid by our taxes have more job protection than most of us paying the taxes. That would be fine if they were grateful, respectful representatives of those tax dollars at work. If you are able to stop laughing long enough to read this next part, I’ll remind you of your last experience renewing your driver license as an example of the graciousness of the public sector.
Among those at the top of the self-entitlement list, teachers have always held a special place of honor for me. Nowhere is there a more cliquish, self-important, inflexible group of so-called individuals. Never mind the inherent flaws in the public school system. Ignore the utter, repeated failures of that system to properly educate American youth. Let’s focus instead on the fact that there is zero accountability on their part.
President Obama wants to change that by installing a merit system designed to reward teachers who, Oh I don’t know, accomplish something more than winning a territorial dispute over their classroom. Is it a good idea? I’m still on the fence. In theory, it makes perfect sense. Most jobs and professions not subsidized by tax dollars involve some form of merit pay. Public sector employees have been allowed for so long to view themselves as exempt from such practices it could well be a disaster.
Teachers are notoriously elitist when it comes to their "profession." This is eclipsed only by their arrogance in believing they are an essential part of a child’s life. Installing a merit program will not sit well with them. In fact, it already isn’t. They and their union representatives are all over the TV and radio talk shows flooding the American public with scores of reasons the merit idea is a bad one. Some of it is valid, but only because those of us who have suffered through public sector arrogance already know the outcome of any attempts at change.
One teacher on a call-in radio show mentioned the sharing programs teachers participate in where one who hits upon a successful technique provides his or her colleagues with the tools to do the same. “Do you really think if we’re paid according to merit that I’m going to share anything that might prevent me from getting more money?” he said. A valid point, but one easily fixed if the merit is an across the board reward.
What’s really got teachers up in arms, it seems, is the repugnant notion that they might actually have to compete with each other. Umm, competitiveness is bad, m’kay?
How can you teach the kids that everybody’s a winner when you’re knocking some other teacher to the ground as you run for the principal’s office with your latest moneymaking idea? There’s so much jealousy and backbiting in that field I doubt anyone would notice the difference. It’s a proven fact that honing one’s skills involves some form of competition. You don’t have to be like Michael Douglas in “Wall Street” to compete. It is possible to do so and remain ethical.
But teachers have grown fat and smug over the decades. No accountability, benefit after benefit, tenure, it just goes on and on. They don’t even work for an entire year in most cases!
In case you can’t tell, I’ve always had issues with teachers. I saw through them early on as a child and generally found it difficult to respect them as a whole. That’s not to say there weren’t teachers I respected, nor that there weren’t a few that made a difference in my life. But most of the important things I needed to learn prior to college I learned either on my own or with the assistance of my over-educated mother. She, by the way, had the utmost respect for the teaching profession and had been a hippy in the Sixties and Seventies.
Then again, hippies had a huge amount of love for academia. As a closet anarchist, I mistrust all institutions, but especially those that indoctrinate children to be good little earning wage-slaves. I also tend not to trust professions that make grandiose claims at societal and cultural relevance while at the same time fostering an attitude of pervasive apathy and self-entitlement.
Obama’s merit program may or may not be a good idea, but one thing is abundantly clear: Teachers need to adjust with the times like the rest of us.
They are not exempt. They are not immune. Time for them to emerge from their darkened classrooms, squint into the sun and grow the hell up~
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
SCRIBE CENSORED NO MORE
Why do people get so pissed off at me when I give my opinions on movies these days? It seems to have started sometime last year and it’s getting progressively worse as 2009 marches onward.
I’m not referring to people on Blogger or other online formats, either. I’m talking about people I know in real life. The weird thing is I know for a fact that my delivery hasn’t changed. I still provide my opinions the same way I always did, with forthrightness and an at least passing knowledge of storytelling composition and filmmaking.
People that know me in real life and even online know I don’t tend to espouse the typical moviegoer’s outlook on popular or lesser known fare. In fact, it’s safe to assume that when a cult crops up around a film based on its perceived hipness, I probably won’t be castrating myself and donning the androgynous robes. Still, that also doesn’t mean I will automatically hate the film. I’m not one of those people who dislike things based on their popularity, it just tends to happen that way
For instance, when the Tim Burton/Johnny Depp “Sleepy Hollow” remake was released, I felt it was a politically correct bastardization of a brilliant little tale. Instead of following the original with a bit more of fleshed out plot, Burton’s version transformed it into a Nineties era conspiracy tale of righteous female vengeance with Depp cavorting around like a wussy Cluseau-esque man of science. My friend Al loved the film, as he usually does whenever someone reinterprets something he never read. It’s safe to assume he never read anything, since Al only reads periodicals. So his opinions on literature adapted to film, in my humble opinion, are meaningless and often annoying. When we disagreed on “Hollow,” he said, “I’m sorry, I’m with the masses on this one.” I told him to enjoy his anonymity. He either didn’t get it or chose to ignore as he merely repeated what he’d already said.
But that was ten years ago. Since that time he and I have agreed and disagreed on several films, some of which we have sat right next to each other and watched. People have become more and more obnoxious about their critiques of films as Internet forums have increased. Everybody is an expert and nobody is a professional. I don’t consider myself a pro either, but I am trained in commentary and understand that what distinguishes an amateur from a professional is the ability to keep one’s feelings out of the equation.
Take, for instance, all those nuts that wrote hate mail to the critics that didn’t care for “The Dark Knight.” Those of you who remember my posts on that particular movie may remember I received some of my own for not joining in with the Bat-cult. http://scribesorganizedchaos.blogspot.com/2008/07/scribes-adventures-with-bat-cult.html
My former friend Ed whose allegiances now tend to run toward EFB because of his obvious barely concealed feelings for her thought “Dark Knight” was the Second Coming of Super-hero cinema. I thought it was a horrific misfire of pretentious over-reaching and pedestrian screenwriting. This threw Ed into a blind rage, as if I’d insulted his family or squashed the skull of his puppy with my booted heel. He actually informed me he didn’t want to hear my views on the film unless I agreed with him.
I saw “Dark Knight” with Al, who also thought it was the greatest thing since sliced Jell-O. He kept glancing at me during the movie to see how I was reacting, which I wasn’t, really. I chuckled a few times but aside from that I sat like a stone through the whole nearly three-hour long mess. As soon as I told him what I thought, he attempted to brush off my comments as me trying to be different. If you truly wanna piss me off, that’s one of the quickest and most effective ways to do it.
First of all, I am different, godammit. My background is in writing and I am a voracious reader. That places me in a different category than most of the movie going public automatically. Second, I will not be accused of making an effort to be different by someone who is so firmly ensconced in his own world that he actually thinks anything that looks stupid will be seen as such by everyone else. A person that lives in his own self-imposed kingdom of bullshit has no right making such a claim about someone who actually exposes himself to different ways of thinking and different types of people.
This past November, Al and I made our traditional trip to see the latest James Bond outing, “A Quantum of Solace.” The previous installment, “Casino Royale,” was arguably the best of the series, at the very least placing in the top three. Sometimes when I see a movie, especially one I’ve been anticipating seeing, it takes a while for me to fully form an opinion on it. That’s why I didn’t start saying how much I hated “The Matrix” until a few days later. “Quantum” wasn’t a film I hated, but it was definitely a huge disappointment.
Having drained the film of all that made the first one great, namely rich characterization, a plot that mattered to the viewer, and exceptionally astute writing, the follow-up was just an excuse to show us what a bad-ass James Bond is while providing so many frenetically paced action sequences the movie becomes monotonous. I actually feel asleep during the noisiest and supposedly most exciting scene in the film because there had been so many scenes like it my mind chose to shut down.
When I tried to tell Al how I felt, he kept changing the subject and trying to ignore me. Was he afraid that my views would influence his?
About a month and a half ago, my supervisor started raving about the Wil Ferrell movie, “Stepbrothers,” saying it was so funny she literally passed out laughing. According to her it was his funniest movie yet. I told her that was hard to believe. “Anchorman” is my favorite film of his, but he has made a few hilarious films, all of which had better plots than “Step-brothers.” She insisted it was the funniest and eventually brought me the DVD. I took it home and watched it. I laughed. A lot. But something was missing. It took a while to figure out what it was: The satire that made Ferrell’s other films instant classic wasn’t there. It had been replaced by a lot of yelling and foul language.
“Stepbrothers” is a funny movie, but “Anchorman” and “Talladega Night” it ain’t. When I told my supervisor how I felt via text, she bombarded me with insults so graphic I don’t even consider them appropriate for this offensive-ass blog.
That was it, I decided. From now on I’d just review films online with Green and keep my views to myself. If nobody wants to hear what I have to say when I don’t like something they like, they can guess from my silence how I feel.
This new philosophy was backed up the other day when I saw “Watchmen.” Alan Moore’s twelve-issue comic masterpiece has always been a favorite of fans and so well-received it actually transcended the genre and sold to non-fans as well. I read it almost twenty years ago and have reread it several times over the years. In all sincerity, I really couldn’t give less of a fuck what someone who never read it has to say about the filmed version. But that doesn’t seem to stop anyone.
I went and saw it alone because I’m the only person I know who would appreciate it. Apparently Al saw it with his nephew and couldn’t wait to tell me he thought it was “just ok.” I told him that meant I would love it since I actually know the story. He then asked me if I know how it ends. “Yes, dumb-ass, I read it!” I said. He decided to quiz me on the ending anyway.
As I was watching the film, Ed sent me a text message to tell me he’d seen it and also thought it was ok. I sent him a reply saying I am not accepting criticisms from people who didn’t read it. Some hours after I’d watched it, Al called me and asked me what I thought. I told him I loved it. He arrogantly said, “Really? You’re just saying that to upset me, aren’t you?”
Now that was the last straw. I said, “Yes, bitch, you caught me. My whole existence is wrapped up in trying to get a rise out of somebody who can’t understand why children’s movies are so popular. It’s not that I considered it a brilliantly faithful adaptation to a brilliant comic series, it’s because I wanted to upset you.” He then tried to repeat the reasons he thought it was just ok until I advised him I didn’t remember asking or giving a fuck.
Al then switched topics to the previews that were shown and asked me if I got wood during the “Star Trek” movie preview. No. I have an uncomfortable feeling about the film. Visually it looks great but the actor chosen to play young James T Kirk as a some James Dean type character is a huge turn-off. Shocked, he asked me what I thought of the new “Terminator” preview, to which I replied it looks “ok.” I was never a huge Terminator guy. I liked the first two but not to the point where I cared about there being more and as most of you know, I am no fan of Christian Bale’s.
I guess I took the wind out of his sails because at that point he switched to something far less controversial: Politics.
Apparently I’m not allowed to have opinions because they’re threatening. Making people think about why they think the things they do doesn’t sit well with the self-satisfied, and so I am marginalized whenever I do it...except here. So fuck ‘em. I’ll keep my opinions to myself and for the written word.
I’m not referring to people on Blogger or other online formats, either. I’m talking about people I know in real life. The weird thing is I know for a fact that my delivery hasn’t changed. I still provide my opinions the same way I always did, with forthrightness and an at least passing knowledge of storytelling composition and filmmaking.
People that know me in real life and even online know I don’t tend to espouse the typical moviegoer’s outlook on popular or lesser known fare. In fact, it’s safe to assume that when a cult crops up around a film based on its perceived hipness, I probably won’t be castrating myself and donning the androgynous robes. Still, that also doesn’t mean I will automatically hate the film. I’m not one of those people who dislike things based on their popularity, it just tends to happen that way
For instance, when the Tim Burton/Johnny Depp “Sleepy Hollow” remake was released, I felt it was a politically correct bastardization of a brilliant little tale. Instead of following the original with a bit more of fleshed out plot, Burton’s version transformed it into a Nineties era conspiracy tale of righteous female vengeance with Depp cavorting around like a wussy Cluseau-esque man of science. My friend Al loved the film, as he usually does whenever someone reinterprets something he never read. It’s safe to assume he never read anything, since Al only reads periodicals. So his opinions on literature adapted to film, in my humble opinion, are meaningless and often annoying. When we disagreed on “Hollow,” he said, “I’m sorry, I’m with the masses on this one.” I told him to enjoy his anonymity. He either didn’t get it or chose to ignore as he merely repeated what he’d already said.
But that was ten years ago. Since that time he and I have agreed and disagreed on several films, some of which we have sat right next to each other and watched. People have become more and more obnoxious about their critiques of films as Internet forums have increased. Everybody is an expert and nobody is a professional. I don’t consider myself a pro either, but I am trained in commentary and understand that what distinguishes an amateur from a professional is the ability to keep one’s feelings out of the equation.
Take, for instance, all those nuts that wrote hate mail to the critics that didn’t care for “The Dark Knight.” Those of you who remember my posts on that particular movie may remember I received some of my own for not joining in with the Bat-cult. http://scribesorganizedchaos.blogspot.com/2008/07/scribes-adventures-with-bat-cult.html
My former friend Ed whose allegiances now tend to run toward EFB because of his obvious barely concealed feelings for her thought “Dark Knight” was the Second Coming of Super-hero cinema. I thought it was a horrific misfire of pretentious over-reaching and pedestrian screenwriting. This threw Ed into a blind rage, as if I’d insulted his family or squashed the skull of his puppy with my booted heel. He actually informed me he didn’t want to hear my views on the film unless I agreed with him.
I saw “Dark Knight” with Al, who also thought it was the greatest thing since sliced Jell-O. He kept glancing at me during the movie to see how I was reacting, which I wasn’t, really. I chuckled a few times but aside from that I sat like a stone through the whole nearly three-hour long mess. As soon as I told him what I thought, he attempted to brush off my comments as me trying to be different. If you truly wanna piss me off, that’s one of the quickest and most effective ways to do it.
First of all, I am different, godammit. My background is in writing and I am a voracious reader. That places me in a different category than most of the movie going public automatically. Second, I will not be accused of making an effort to be different by someone who is so firmly ensconced in his own world that he actually thinks anything that looks stupid will be seen as such by everyone else. A person that lives in his own self-imposed kingdom of bullshit has no right making such a claim about someone who actually exposes himself to different ways of thinking and different types of people.
This past November, Al and I made our traditional trip to see the latest James Bond outing, “A Quantum of Solace.” The previous installment, “Casino Royale,” was arguably the best of the series, at the very least placing in the top three. Sometimes when I see a movie, especially one I’ve been anticipating seeing, it takes a while for me to fully form an opinion on it. That’s why I didn’t start saying how much I hated “The Matrix” until a few days later. “Quantum” wasn’t a film I hated, but it was definitely a huge disappointment.
Having drained the film of all that made the first one great, namely rich characterization, a plot that mattered to the viewer, and exceptionally astute writing, the follow-up was just an excuse to show us what a bad-ass James Bond is while providing so many frenetically paced action sequences the movie becomes monotonous. I actually feel asleep during the noisiest and supposedly most exciting scene in the film because there had been so many scenes like it my mind chose to shut down.
When I tried to tell Al how I felt, he kept changing the subject and trying to ignore me. Was he afraid that my views would influence his?
About a month and a half ago, my supervisor started raving about the Wil Ferrell movie, “Stepbrothers,” saying it was so funny she literally passed out laughing. According to her it was his funniest movie yet. I told her that was hard to believe. “Anchorman” is my favorite film of his, but he has made a few hilarious films, all of which had better plots than “Step-brothers.” She insisted it was the funniest and eventually brought me the DVD. I took it home and watched it. I laughed. A lot. But something was missing. It took a while to figure out what it was: The satire that made Ferrell’s other films instant classic wasn’t there. It had been replaced by a lot of yelling and foul language.
“Stepbrothers” is a funny movie, but “Anchorman” and “Talladega Night” it ain’t. When I told my supervisor how I felt via text, she bombarded me with insults so graphic I don’t even consider them appropriate for this offensive-ass blog.
That was it, I decided. From now on I’d just review films online with Green and keep my views to myself. If nobody wants to hear what I have to say when I don’t like something they like, they can guess from my silence how I feel.
This new philosophy was backed up the other day when I saw “Watchmen.” Alan Moore’s twelve-issue comic masterpiece has always been a favorite of fans and so well-received it actually transcended the genre and sold to non-fans as well. I read it almost twenty years ago and have reread it several times over the years. In all sincerity, I really couldn’t give less of a fuck what someone who never read it has to say about the filmed version. But that doesn’t seem to stop anyone.
I went and saw it alone because I’m the only person I know who would appreciate it. Apparently Al saw it with his nephew and couldn’t wait to tell me he thought it was “just ok.” I told him that meant I would love it since I actually know the story. He then asked me if I know how it ends. “Yes, dumb-ass, I read it!” I said. He decided to quiz me on the ending anyway.
As I was watching the film, Ed sent me a text message to tell me he’d seen it and also thought it was ok. I sent him a reply saying I am not accepting criticisms from people who didn’t read it. Some hours after I’d watched it, Al called me and asked me what I thought. I told him I loved it. He arrogantly said, “Really? You’re just saying that to upset me, aren’t you?”
Now that was the last straw. I said, “Yes, bitch, you caught me. My whole existence is wrapped up in trying to get a rise out of somebody who can’t understand why children’s movies are so popular. It’s not that I considered it a brilliantly faithful adaptation to a brilliant comic series, it’s because I wanted to upset you.” He then tried to repeat the reasons he thought it was just ok until I advised him I didn’t remember asking or giving a fuck.
Al then switched topics to the previews that were shown and asked me if I got wood during the “Star Trek” movie preview. No. I have an uncomfortable feeling about the film. Visually it looks great but the actor chosen to play young James T Kirk as a some James Dean type character is a huge turn-off. Shocked, he asked me what I thought of the new “Terminator” preview, to which I replied it looks “ok.” I was never a huge Terminator guy. I liked the first two but not to the point where I cared about there being more and as most of you know, I am no fan of Christian Bale’s.
I guess I took the wind out of his sails because at that point he switched to something far less controversial: Politics.
Apparently I’m not allowed to have opinions because they’re threatening. Making people think about why they think the things they do doesn’t sit well with the self-satisfied, and so I am marginalized whenever I do it...except here. So fuck ‘em. I’ll keep my opinions to myself and for the written word.
Monday, March 9, 2009
THE CULT OF THE GUITAR GUY:
I just realized the other day how much I can’t stand guys that play the guitar recreationally. I realized it when I thought about two utter pieces of fecal matter I know who do so, and a third turd-like individual who does as well.
Ironically, all three of these guys work in the same place and feed off each other’s perceived coolness. Of the three, only one could make the argument for being even remotely cool and there’s nothing cool about his punk ass either. They all share similar obnoxious personality traits, chief among them being a sort of removed arrogance and over-compensating cockiness that is at once annoying and undeserved.
They are certainly not the only ones who fit this description. I’m sure you’ve had this experience or known someone who has. Some arrogant, know-it-all “rebel” whose carefully cultivated persona reeks of effort and thinly disguised hostility because he’s being forced to live the life he despises…you know, normal and accountable. But the world doesn’t get him, man. He’s a guitar hero. Those who don’t play should hail his very existence. His humility is the result of his enlightenment, since his one-ness with the wood and metal makes him a more fully evolved human being, am avatar of the ax, a monk of musicianship, a motherfuckin' GUITAR PLAYER!!!
Before I go any further, I should tell you that both of my uncles are musicians, One of them is a jazz guitarist who plays professionally and was part of the birth fo Motown Records in the Sixties. Actually, thy both were. My other uncle was a bass guitarist and they collaborated on songs together, some of which got airplay. This is not the portrait of the Guitar Cult I am attempting to draw. Two accomplished and proven musicians who have proved themselves don’t qualify for membership.
And, honestly, dabbling in the guitar as a form of relaxation or self-improvement is perfectly fine. I don’t have any issues with guys like that.
The guy I have a problem with is the guy who struts around the office while insisting he’s not of the office, a cocky half-grin, half-grimace affixed to his lips as he tolerates the rest of us until he finds out some of us have our own forms of creative expression. The guy I take issue with is the one that thinks because he and a bunch of other recreational musicians jam in his buddy’s basement that he is on the same level as my uncle who still plays professionally.
For some reason, this guy has always wanted to write a novel or book of his life. He also wants to take the easy route and self-publish. He will most likely never finish the book and if he does it’s so far outside his comfort zone to submit the thing, he’ll probably never even try.
In many ways, members of the Guitar Cult remind me of soccer moms. They are a group that sees itself as somehow separate from the rest of us by virtue of its purpose. Both groups tend to want to only congregate with like-minded people and discuss what would be industry subject matter if these were professions. They both tend to be incredibly self-absorbed, often thinking their needs are paramount and superior to the needs of others. Oh, and they’re both really annoying dorks! How’s that for an academic overview of the situation?
Before my mom went onto her heavenly reward (becoming a displaced spirit that appears to me in dreams) she told me how sick and tired of the guitar she was. At the time, I found that odd. She said the guitar was always supposed to be staple in the rock ‘n roll sound but it wasn’t supposed to dwarf all other instruments. It became a symbol of instant gratification and stardom, a giant, noise-making penis used to release the pent up sexual frustrations and angst of pimply teenage boys the world over. What bothered her most was its utter ubiquitousness.
At the time, the mid-Nineties to be exact, popular TV ads featured guitars strumming in almost everything. Hip-hop had yet to capture the white suburban imagination and so alternative rock was the pop culture movement du jour. I think much of America came to agree with her, as the general de-emphasizing of the guitar that followed her death would seem to indicate. That didn’t last, of course. There’s always a new generation of suburban youth eagerly looking to escape the doldrums of their existence by banging away at three chords in their garages in the hopes of becoming the next White Stripes or some other equally uninteresting band.
But those are kids and kids are supposed to be morons. The guys I mentioned earlier are not kids. One of them is in his fifties and the other two are in their late thirties. I know for a fact that the guy in his fifties has rock star aspirations. He doesn’t know this, but I found his bitch ass online and listened to some samples of his band’s music. I haven’t laughed that hard since the Tina Fey Sara Palin skits at the end of last year. Mr. Hipster McFreebird caterwauls some of the lamest shit I’ve ever heard. I could get all immature and tell you it’s as if Crap & Puke had a baby and he decided to play guitar in their basement in a sea of raw sewage. But I won’t because I’m an extremely mature individual who doesn’t say bad things about pieces of shit like this low-rent fuckstick.
Not all recreational guitar players are reprehensible. My friend Dutch comes to mind. But he seems to be the exception to the rule. Most of them are pricks. God forbid you should ever have to work alongside one of them because they don’t seem to have any sense of loyalty either. Since everything except jamming sessions is an illusion, everything external is to be ridiculed , ignored and disregarded.
I’m not saying they’re scourge or a plague that must be stopped like soccer moms and midget Nazis but we should keep our eyes on them. Besides, they’re only a small part of a bigger problem. In the near future I’ll be discussing the self-entitled hip-hop wanna-be~
Ironically, all three of these guys work in the same place and feed off each other’s perceived coolness. Of the three, only one could make the argument for being even remotely cool and there’s nothing cool about his punk ass either. They all share similar obnoxious personality traits, chief among them being a sort of removed arrogance and over-compensating cockiness that is at once annoying and undeserved.
They are certainly not the only ones who fit this description. I’m sure you’ve had this experience or known someone who has. Some arrogant, know-it-all “rebel” whose carefully cultivated persona reeks of effort and thinly disguised hostility because he’s being forced to live the life he despises…you know, normal and accountable. But the world doesn’t get him, man. He’s a guitar hero. Those who don’t play should hail his very existence. His humility is the result of his enlightenment, since his one-ness with the wood and metal makes him a more fully evolved human being, am avatar of the ax, a monk of musicianship, a motherfuckin' GUITAR PLAYER!!!
Before I go any further, I should tell you that both of my uncles are musicians, One of them is a jazz guitarist who plays professionally and was part of the birth fo Motown Records in the Sixties. Actually, thy both were. My other uncle was a bass guitarist and they collaborated on songs together, some of which got airplay. This is not the portrait of the Guitar Cult I am attempting to draw. Two accomplished and proven musicians who have proved themselves don’t qualify for membership.
And, honestly, dabbling in the guitar as a form of relaxation or self-improvement is perfectly fine. I don’t have any issues with guys like that.
The guy I have a problem with is the guy who struts around the office while insisting he’s not of the office, a cocky half-grin, half-grimace affixed to his lips as he tolerates the rest of us until he finds out some of us have our own forms of creative expression. The guy I take issue with is the one that thinks because he and a bunch of other recreational musicians jam in his buddy’s basement that he is on the same level as my uncle who still plays professionally.
For some reason, this guy has always wanted to write a novel or book of his life. He also wants to take the easy route and self-publish. He will most likely never finish the book and if he does it’s so far outside his comfort zone to submit the thing, he’ll probably never even try.
In many ways, members of the Guitar Cult remind me of soccer moms. They are a group that sees itself as somehow separate from the rest of us by virtue of its purpose. Both groups tend to want to only congregate with like-minded people and discuss what would be industry subject matter if these were professions. They both tend to be incredibly self-absorbed, often thinking their needs are paramount and superior to the needs of others. Oh, and they’re both really annoying dorks! How’s that for an academic overview of the situation?
Before my mom went onto her heavenly reward (becoming a displaced spirit that appears to me in dreams) she told me how sick and tired of the guitar she was. At the time, I found that odd. She said the guitar was always supposed to be staple in the rock ‘n roll sound but it wasn’t supposed to dwarf all other instruments. It became a symbol of instant gratification and stardom, a giant, noise-making penis used to release the pent up sexual frustrations and angst of pimply teenage boys the world over. What bothered her most was its utter ubiquitousness.
At the time, the mid-Nineties to be exact, popular TV ads featured guitars strumming in almost everything. Hip-hop had yet to capture the white suburban imagination and so alternative rock was the pop culture movement du jour. I think much of America came to agree with her, as the general de-emphasizing of the guitar that followed her death would seem to indicate. That didn’t last, of course. There’s always a new generation of suburban youth eagerly looking to escape the doldrums of their existence by banging away at three chords in their garages in the hopes of becoming the next White Stripes or some other equally uninteresting band.
But those are kids and kids are supposed to be morons. The guys I mentioned earlier are not kids. One of them is in his fifties and the other two are in their late thirties. I know for a fact that the guy in his fifties has rock star aspirations. He doesn’t know this, but I found his bitch ass online and listened to some samples of his band’s music. I haven’t laughed that hard since the Tina Fey Sara Palin skits at the end of last year. Mr. Hipster McFreebird caterwauls some of the lamest shit I’ve ever heard. I could get all immature and tell you it’s as if Crap & Puke had a baby and he decided to play guitar in their basement in a sea of raw sewage. But I won’t because I’m an extremely mature individual who doesn’t say bad things about pieces of shit like this low-rent fuckstick.
Not all recreational guitar players are reprehensible. My friend Dutch comes to mind. But he seems to be the exception to the rule. Most of them are pricks. God forbid you should ever have to work alongside one of them because they don’t seem to have any sense of loyalty either. Since everything except jamming sessions is an illusion, everything external is to be ridiculed , ignored and disregarded.
I’m not saying they’re scourge or a plague that must be stopped like soccer moms and midget Nazis but we should keep our eyes on them. Besides, they’re only a small part of a bigger problem. In the near future I’ll be discussing the self-entitled hip-hop wanna-be~
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
POST-PRESIDENTIAL DELAYED STRESS SYNDROME
At first, I thought I was the only one who reacted this way. I thought I was being melodramatic or just plain silly. But then I heard someone on a radio show say he reacted the same way and I realized it isn’t just me. What am I talking about? Simple: Whenever I hear someone say the phrase, “The president said” or “The president will” or any derivative of same, I cringe inwardly, expecting to hear the name George W Bush right after it.
Despite the fact that President Obama has already left an indelible mark on the White House and the country, I have not yet overcome the traumatic experience of the previous Executive-in-Thief.
It’s easy to say America’s long nightmare is over, although there are some out there who stupidly believe it has only now begun. But those people have proven themselves and their politicians irrelevant and useless, relics of a harmful and disconnected way of life. We now have the chance to repair some of the heedless damage they and their debatably elected officials created.
Yet I still cringe when I hear “The President.” I still, for a moment and before the relief kicks in, picture W’s smirking, dead-eyed face preparing to again embarrass the nation and mispronounce words eleven year olds can say with stunning proficiency. Then I realize the man I voted for is the subject of conversation and I breathe a little easier.
What causes this reaction, I wonder? Despite the fact that it’s only been a couple months, the difference between the two is so vast it should be no problem to adjust to the change. And I have on a conscious level. That doesn’t change my internal response, however.
I consider the eight-year reign of George W Bush to be a period of shameful, disgusting arrogance and short-sightedness that infected an entire nation, whether we agreed with him or not. No one else could have so effectively eroded world opinion in such a short time while obsessively seeking out ways to place the nation in debt through wars and contractor kickbacks. It was like watching a bunch of ex-cons grabbing an escaped mental patient and placing him in front of the cameras so they could continue their criminal activities. And we all suffered greatly for it, including those who sing his praises…
Some of us reacted to the trauma by closing up, surrendering all hope and expecting the United States to further descend into theocratic madness. Some of us, myself included, forgot that most things in life are cyclical and that eventually insanity can become sanity again. It was easy to do. After the Supreme Court handed over the presidency to the man that lost the popular vote and the knee jerk reaction to reelecting a wartime president four years later, it didn’t look like the America I’d briefly gotten to know in the Nineties would ever return.
I liken it to the way I was for a few years after high school. During my awkward year, age fifteen, I faced almost constant ridicule from girls in my class. A year later some of them had crushes on me and that period ended. But I still spent a couple years expecting that type of response wherever I went, even modifying my habits at home because some part of my brain refused to accept that I was safe there.
Bush’s legacy caused a similar response. Despite the ever-increasing voices of dissent, the monumental lack of concern on the part of his administration for anything not related to their greedy blood-soaked agenda seemed to eradicate all opposition. We found out that wasn’t true, but part of me still can’t get past when I thought it was.
I feel like an abused spouse who has remarried but keeps telling him or herself this is too good to be true. Yes, the new spouse seems nice and has a few faults, but any minute now they’re going to haul off and backhand me across the room. In fact, the new spouse will probably leave me because I have too many problems and I’ll wind up back with the old one. I probably don’t deserve anything better anyway.
Much like the formerly battered spouse who is now making healthy decisions, the new one is nothing like the abusive one. This one is caring, understands empathy and is intelligent enough to not have an enormous shoulder chip. In fact, the only similarity between Bush and Obama is that they both amazingly resemble Alfred E Neumann, despite looking nothing alike.
I know it’s going to take time to accept that “the president” no longer equates to the abusive spouse. I had a similar period of adjustment in the early Nineties when Clinton was elected, but nowhere near as severe.
Maybe that’s the reason Obama supporters have been accused of seeing the man as a savior. He is one! Anyone who could overcome the sheer hell of the previous eight years has to be someone with more going on than simple charisma and likeability.
Even if he fails in his mission to make America a responsive, responsible nation of equal and fair treatment for all, his arrival at this time in history ensures that his legacy will be far superior to that of the abusive husband he replaced.
I look forward to the day I don’t cringe anymore, but it might take a while~
Despite the fact that President Obama has already left an indelible mark on the White House and the country, I have not yet overcome the traumatic experience of the previous Executive-in-Thief.
It’s easy to say America’s long nightmare is over, although there are some out there who stupidly believe it has only now begun. But those people have proven themselves and their politicians irrelevant and useless, relics of a harmful and disconnected way of life. We now have the chance to repair some of the heedless damage they and their debatably elected officials created.
Yet I still cringe when I hear “The President.” I still, for a moment and before the relief kicks in, picture W’s smirking, dead-eyed face preparing to again embarrass the nation and mispronounce words eleven year olds can say with stunning proficiency. Then I realize the man I voted for is the subject of conversation and I breathe a little easier.
What causes this reaction, I wonder? Despite the fact that it’s only been a couple months, the difference between the two is so vast it should be no problem to adjust to the change. And I have on a conscious level. That doesn’t change my internal response, however.
I consider the eight-year reign of George W Bush to be a period of shameful, disgusting arrogance and short-sightedness that infected an entire nation, whether we agreed with him or not. No one else could have so effectively eroded world opinion in such a short time while obsessively seeking out ways to place the nation in debt through wars and contractor kickbacks. It was like watching a bunch of ex-cons grabbing an escaped mental patient and placing him in front of the cameras so they could continue their criminal activities. And we all suffered greatly for it, including those who sing his praises…
Some of us reacted to the trauma by closing up, surrendering all hope and expecting the United States to further descend into theocratic madness. Some of us, myself included, forgot that most things in life are cyclical and that eventually insanity can become sanity again. It was easy to do. After the Supreme Court handed over the presidency to the man that lost the popular vote and the knee jerk reaction to reelecting a wartime president four years later, it didn’t look like the America I’d briefly gotten to know in the Nineties would ever return.
I liken it to the way I was for a few years after high school. During my awkward year, age fifteen, I faced almost constant ridicule from girls in my class. A year later some of them had crushes on me and that period ended. But I still spent a couple years expecting that type of response wherever I went, even modifying my habits at home because some part of my brain refused to accept that I was safe there.
Bush’s legacy caused a similar response. Despite the ever-increasing voices of dissent, the monumental lack of concern on the part of his administration for anything not related to their greedy blood-soaked agenda seemed to eradicate all opposition. We found out that wasn’t true, but part of me still can’t get past when I thought it was.
I feel like an abused spouse who has remarried but keeps telling him or herself this is too good to be true. Yes, the new spouse seems nice and has a few faults, but any minute now they’re going to haul off and backhand me across the room. In fact, the new spouse will probably leave me because I have too many problems and I’ll wind up back with the old one. I probably don’t deserve anything better anyway.
Much like the formerly battered spouse who is now making healthy decisions, the new one is nothing like the abusive one. This one is caring, understands empathy and is intelligent enough to not have an enormous shoulder chip. In fact, the only similarity between Bush and Obama is that they both amazingly resemble Alfred E Neumann, despite looking nothing alike.
I know it’s going to take time to accept that “the president” no longer equates to the abusive spouse. I had a similar period of adjustment in the early Nineties when Clinton was elected, but nowhere near as severe.
Maybe that’s the reason Obama supporters have been accused of seeing the man as a savior. He is one! Anyone who could overcome the sheer hell of the previous eight years has to be someone with more going on than simple charisma and likeability.
Even if he fails in his mission to make America a responsive, responsible nation of equal and fair treatment for all, his arrival at this time in history ensures that his legacy will be far superior to that of the abusive husband he replaced.
I look forward to the day I don’t cringe anymore, but it might take a while~
An excellent & sadly relevant post from a colleague of mine:
http://noracooksmith.blogspot.com/2009/03/cowards-and-racism.html
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