I'm changing my name.
I'm not ashamed of who I am, and am only slightly ashamed of my family, but my name is flatly unacceptable. Even when pronounced correctly, the nasality of the opening letter and the subsequent tendency to give the vowells a midwestern shortening makes the whole thing rather unattractive. Nobody can say it right without hearing it. It's a great way to weed out telemarketers, but sadly when people finally say it right, I realize I wish they hadn't.
It is an uncommon name, to be sure, and you would think the particularity advantage would overrule the sonic defects, but it doesn't. I've always hated the sound of it. (I'll admit that for two years in Quebec, I loved the way the French said it. But I can't get people to say it that way here. I can't even bring myself to ask people to say it that way.)
Everything else aside, my father was adopted. We are grateful to the people who raised him, but their name gives us no indication of where we are from, or what genetic predispositions we may have. I feel no connection to it. People hear it and say "Interesting. Where does a name like that come from?" I always want to say, "I actually don't care." But I can't bring myself to say that. So now the name has a multiplicity of distinct disadvantages, number one being the constant reminder of my conversational impotence.
A certain amount of excitement prevailed when Dad found his birth mother. Her family name was Tosch. I instantly thought: "Now there's a name I can use." It's authoritative and efficient. Crisp even. Say it with me: Tosch. See what I mean? It's infinitely better. So at the big reunion, I asked her where it was from, hoping to introduce the idea of me acquiring the name. She didn't know. She was adopted, too. She had kept the name out of gratitude and had a healthy disdain for the idea of seeking out her birth parents. When I asked her if she had any idea of the birth name, she said: "I've always been a Tosch." Easy for her to say. I instantly formulated Plan B: the bio-dad's name. Surely she must remember the last name of the man who fathered her first and newly discovered child. "I try not to think about him," she said, "he had no honor."
Such are the petty depths I've achieved. I crave the name of a man with no honor, convinced before even hearing it that it has got to be better than the one I've been stuck with.
Friends don't get it. They put the topic in the same reject bin to which they relegate my regular explorations into breaking my legs to increase my height. But I mention it to them anyway.
"What if the guy's name was Buttkowski?" they ask, "or Humperdinck, or Balzac?" I don't dignify their rhetorical nay-saying with a reply. I know there is a better name for me out there, and until a reliable source tells me that his name was Skidstain, and that he was adopted anyway, my hope will spring eternal. Just need to find a way to get my new Grandma to talk, or remember.
But in the meantime, we get by with a little help from our friends, even when they are just trying to make a point. "I've got an idea," says JayDiggity over lunch, "You should change your name to Dammit."
He had my attention.
"Think of the possibilities!"
My mind was instantly whirling. I mean, it had no connection to my family line, but neither does my current one, and think fo the Pizazz!
"Who wrote this?" I could hear people asking. "What do you mean who wrote it? It was Scott, Dammit!" or "He was a rather pleasant fellow, what was his name again?"
"Scott."
"Come again?"
"Scott, Dammit!"
I could go on. Like what if I joined the Army? "NAME, RANK, AND CEREAL NUMBER!" the Sargeant would shout.
"Dammit, Sir, Private first class, 14526371!"
The possibilities are endless. It's a name with a party in it. I was ready to draw up the papers.
Until I realized my initials would then spell "SKiD". As it is, "SKiN" is accepted as my current acronym. (My initials giving the SKN, with an "i" for "idiot," or "insert affectation here.") SKiD is OBVIOUSLY, SUPREMELY unacceptable.
So here I am back at square one. A name I don't like; legs two inches shorter than God, the Universe, or Mother Nature intended; and no foreseeable way out of either unacceptable situation.
Luckily, I long ago stopped asking when I'm gonna catch a break.
mercredi, novembre 22, 2006
mardi, novembre 07, 2006
Borat
I caught myself.
On the verge of writing about the way Billy Ray Cyrus seems to have ressurected himself (sans mullet) through the surprise hit Hannah from Montana, the realization struck me that three posts about country music stars in a row would give the reader a wrong impression. (And when I say "the reader" I mean the one person reading this--but it still matters)
Luckily the greatest comedy genius of our time came along and put us all back on track.
Mark my words, Borat is going to become the seminal cultural/comedic experience of the decade. And everyone I ask gives me the same comment. Essentially: I feel dirty and violated, and I don't think I could sit through it again--but I HAVE NEVER LAUGHED LIKE THATat a movie.
I know I have to see it. However (and this will surprise "the reader") I am trepidatious, because the "dirty and violated" aspect is something I try to avoid. Has there ever been a movie that repulsed and beckoned, sickened and satisfied to such extremes, and simultaneously?
Does that make it a work of Art, or a train wreck?
On the verge of writing about the way Billy Ray Cyrus seems to have ressurected himself (sans mullet) through the surprise hit Hannah from Montana, the realization struck me that three posts about country music stars in a row would give the reader a wrong impression. (And when I say "the reader" I mean the one person reading this--but it still matters)
Luckily the greatest comedy genius of our time came along and put us all back on track.
Mark my words, Borat is going to become the seminal cultural/comedic experience of the decade. And everyone I ask gives me the same comment. Essentially: I feel dirty and violated, and I don't think I could sit through it again--but I HAVE NEVER LAUGHED LIKE THATat a movie.
I know I have to see it. However (and this will surprise "the reader") I am trepidatious, because the "dirty and violated" aspect is something I try to avoid. Has there ever been a movie that repulsed and beckoned, sickened and satisfied to such extremes, and simultaneously?
Does that make it a work of Art, or a train wreck?
samedi, octobre 14, 2006
Thriller
When Michael Jackson sang "Leave Me Alone," a song about how hard it is to be a millionaire freak show, he was adding a voice of warning to his face of warning. But the eternal principles and consequences he was elucidating, and to which only he cannot fall victim, went unheeded. Except by me--irrelevant because I don't have a career to kill.
Hence, when the new Dixie Chicks new album came out, it sent chills down my spine to notice the undeniable fact that the singer looked like a blonde Michael Jackson . Not the scary one of today, the relatively normal looking one from the Thriller video. She has the same eye make up, and is apparently wearing the same prosthetics. Mostly it was just creepy and I feared she may be lurking in the dark recesses of my basement. But there was more to it than that--much more.
It was more proof that the charismatic controversial Chicks from Dixie are on their way out. The first sign a band is finished is when they start singing about what it's like to be a rock star. How hard it is to be on the road. Or how their ideas need to be taken seriously. ETC. It killed Journey. It finished the Squirrel Nut Zippers. It almost put Kid Rock out to pasture. It kills Morrissey repeatedly, but he valiantly rises from his own ashes and remembers that a music icon singing about his career as a music icon is a short, dead-end alley. (Rappers are exempt because from the off all they ever talk about is how great they are anyway. In fact, as they exception that proves the rule, you might have noticed how they fade away when they stop talkin' 'bout all they bling, and how all the suckah MC's go runnin' when they on the mic.)
I don't have a problem with the Chicks personally, or even politically. (They are less than irrelevant on both counts, so why bother considering, much less objecting?) I'm not saying they SHOULD go away. And I'm definitely not saying that I yearn for the halcyon days when their borderline intelligence, sub-teenage take on vigilante justice lit up the airwaves with country cross-over frenzy. Maybe Earl did have to die. It isn't for me to say. This is about sympathy for three girls who, without pseudo-country music, would be neither pretty enough nor smart enough to make their way in this big crazy world. Someone should have told them: "Don't release that song about how tough it has been to be you. Don't let the sun set on your short career! Stick to dishing out Stevie Nicks' table scraps! Or go back to singing about Earl before your career has to die!"
But nobody told them. And now, as if to confirm the prophecy of doom, on the very cover of their CD, the singer looks like Michael Jackson in the Thriller video. Nobody who resembles Jacko in any way can be long for this world. The dark voodoo technology required to keep him and his career alive cannot be replicated.
Nothing can save them now. But perhaps their chapter in the chronicles of fading limelight will serve to warn the next generation of (vaguely) talented, cross-over(trailor) trash (talking) dissidents.
Hence, when the new Dixie Chicks new album came out, it sent chills down my spine to notice the undeniable fact that the singer looked like a blonde Michael Jackson . Not the scary one of today, the relatively normal looking one from the Thriller video. She has the same eye make up, and is apparently wearing the same prosthetics. Mostly it was just creepy and I feared she may be lurking in the dark recesses of my basement. But there was more to it than that--much more.
It was more proof that the charismatic controversial Chicks from Dixie are on their way out. The first sign a band is finished is when they start singing about what it's like to be a rock star. How hard it is to be on the road. Or how their ideas need to be taken seriously. ETC. It killed Journey. It finished the Squirrel Nut Zippers. It almost put Kid Rock out to pasture. It kills Morrissey repeatedly, but he valiantly rises from his own ashes and remembers that a music icon singing about his career as a music icon is a short, dead-end alley. (Rappers are exempt because from the off all they ever talk about is how great they are anyway. In fact, as they exception that proves the rule, you might have noticed how they fade away when they stop talkin' 'bout all they bling, and how all the suckah MC's go runnin' when they on the mic.)
I don't have a problem with the Chicks personally, or even politically. (They are less than irrelevant on both counts, so why bother considering, much less objecting?) I'm not saying they SHOULD go away. And I'm definitely not saying that I yearn for the halcyon days when their borderline intelligence, sub-teenage take on vigilante justice lit up the airwaves with country cross-over frenzy. Maybe Earl did have to die. It isn't for me to say. This is about sympathy for three girls who, without pseudo-country music, would be neither pretty enough nor smart enough to make their way in this big crazy world. Someone should have told them: "Don't release that song about how tough it has been to be you. Don't let the sun set on your short career! Stick to dishing out Stevie Nicks' table scraps! Or go back to singing about Earl before your career has to die!"
But nobody told them. And now, as if to confirm the prophecy of doom, on the very cover of their CD, the singer looks like Michael Jackson in the Thriller video. Nobody who resembles Jacko in any way can be long for this world. The dark voodoo technology required to keep him and his career alive cannot be replicated.
Nothing can save them now. But perhaps their chapter in the chronicles of fading limelight will serve to warn the next generation of (vaguely) talented, cross-over(trailor) trash (talking) dissidents.
lundi, octobre 02, 2006
This Thing(s) I Believe
Kenny Rogers is taking over the world.
This has been stewing for some time, and, though I know at this point that I am risking my very life, silence is no longer an option.
It started years ago. I was in Quebec. (Please, please say "Kay-Bec"). I was a busy young man. I had a lot of responsibility, and almost no free time. Then one day, whilst delivering meals to the elderly (seriously) I spotted a strange restaurant looking place in the bizarre middle ground between the historic part of the city and the outlying slums: Chez Kenny. I wish I could show you a photo. The sign out front bore his likeness. Some of the letters may have been written in Western Style rope. The "C" was definitely a sidewise horse shoe. Innocently, I gasped with delight and insisted that my associate park the car and take my picture standing beneath the sign. He took my camera and crossed the street, smiling like a young man sharing a great joke.
Just as he was saying "One more for luck!" a man who was equal parts squat and stern came out and gave me the stare down. I didn't know what to say. As my brain tried to formulate how to express comic enthusiasm for the establishment, he said the French Canadian equivalent of "What in the hell are you doing?" His tone seemed intended to instill fear. It worked. The word for "fan" left my brain, and I almost said "I love Kenny Rogers!" But gushing didn't seem right. So I went default and began to say I was from out of town. He cut me off.
"Get the Hell out of Here," he said, his verbage ensuring me that he was streetwise, serious, and dedicated to stomping out the scourge of people with affected metropolitain university French. My associate across the street had instinctively hidden the camera and was already warming up the car. All I could muster was "Sorry. Goodbye" as I tried not to run. I don't know why I wanted to run, except for a gut level feeling that he was going to shoot me, coupled with a fear that at that stage I didn't even know the word for gun.
All the way back to the appartment, (as I have periodically in the years since) I wondered what it all meant. What could a business of any kind with a name like Chez Kenny, have to hide? And if it was a business, what did they have to gain by frightening off potential customers? It actually used to make me laugh. "Kenny Rogers has some seriously serious fans up there in Quebec" I would tell my friends.
But it began to usettle me. I began to catalogue in my head the unlikely career path of a man whose greatest apparent talent is beard husbandry, catapulted to stardome by the unthinkable premise that a hit song should be the basis of a TV movie of the week. I remember my parents gushing about the "combined stage presence of Kenny and Dolly" upon returning from a concert that was part of a national tour that sprang from the blandest top 40 duet in history. I pictured him and Lionel Ritchie seated at a piano, Kenny nodding and saying: "Let us officially invent the cross over hit." I began to suspect there had to be some ulterior purpose. Some nefarious sub-plot. Then I heard about his freakish plastic surgery. (They pulled his face so tight, his beard now grows BEHIND HIS EARS). I saw him hosting shows about the old west on the history channel. Finally, I stumbled across the unbridled horror of "menwholooklikekennyrogers.com"
I don't begrudge anyone fame and fortune. This is the land of opportunity. If Tom Cruise can stare his way to 20 million per picture, then we have to accept that anything can happen. But this is something else entirely. You people have to pull your heads out and realize that the human race as we know it is about to be tested. Sooner than later the mysterious chain of "establishments" will be closed for "repurposing." Not long after, those few Americans who never recieved the hypnotic implant from any of his songs or TV apearances will be forced into submission by the nocturnal machinations of an unholy army of KennyKlones.
And all people will serve The Gambler.
And he will hold, then fold us all in the bladed wings of his dominion. And darkness, and the black age of Kenny will hold illimitable influence over all.
And just before your consciousness is absorbed, you will remember for a brief moment that you were warned. And you didn't listen.
This has been stewing for some time, and, though I know at this point that I am risking my very life, silence is no longer an option.
It started years ago. I was in Quebec. (Please, please say "Kay-Bec"). I was a busy young man. I had a lot of responsibility, and almost no free time. Then one day, whilst delivering meals to the elderly (seriously) I spotted a strange restaurant looking place in the bizarre middle ground between the historic part of the city and the outlying slums: Chez Kenny. I wish I could show you a photo. The sign out front bore his likeness. Some of the letters may have been written in Western Style rope. The "C" was definitely a sidewise horse shoe. Innocently, I gasped with delight and insisted that my associate park the car and take my picture standing beneath the sign. He took my camera and crossed the street, smiling like a young man sharing a great joke.
Just as he was saying "One more for luck!" a man who was equal parts squat and stern came out and gave me the stare down. I didn't know what to say. As my brain tried to formulate how to express comic enthusiasm for the establishment, he said the French Canadian equivalent of "What in the hell are you doing?" His tone seemed intended to instill fear. It worked. The word for "fan" left my brain, and I almost said "I love Kenny Rogers!" But gushing didn't seem right. So I went default and began to say I was from out of town. He cut me off.
"Get the Hell out of Here," he said, his verbage ensuring me that he was streetwise, serious, and dedicated to stomping out the scourge of people with affected metropolitain university French. My associate across the street had instinctively hidden the camera and was already warming up the car. All I could muster was "Sorry. Goodbye" as I tried not to run. I don't know why I wanted to run, except for a gut level feeling that he was going to shoot me, coupled with a fear that at that stage I didn't even know the word for gun.
All the way back to the appartment, (as I have periodically in the years since) I wondered what it all meant. What could a business of any kind with a name like Chez Kenny, have to hide? And if it was a business, what did they have to gain by frightening off potential customers? It actually used to make me laugh. "Kenny Rogers has some seriously serious fans up there in Quebec" I would tell my friends.
But it began to usettle me. I began to catalogue in my head the unlikely career path of a man whose greatest apparent talent is beard husbandry, catapulted to stardome by the unthinkable premise that a hit song should be the basis of a TV movie of the week. I remember my parents gushing about the "combined stage presence of Kenny and Dolly" upon returning from a concert that was part of a national tour that sprang from the blandest top 40 duet in history. I pictured him and Lionel Ritchie seated at a piano, Kenny nodding and saying: "Let us officially invent the cross over hit." I began to suspect there had to be some ulterior purpose. Some nefarious sub-plot. Then I heard about his freakish plastic surgery. (They pulled his face so tight, his beard now grows BEHIND HIS EARS). I saw him hosting shows about the old west on the history channel. Finally, I stumbled across the unbridled horror of "menwholooklikekennyrogers.com"
I don't begrudge anyone fame and fortune. This is the land of opportunity. If Tom Cruise can stare his way to 20 million per picture, then we have to accept that anything can happen. But this is something else entirely. You people have to pull your heads out and realize that the human race as we know it is about to be tested. Sooner than later the mysterious chain of "establishments" will be closed for "repurposing." Not long after, those few Americans who never recieved the hypnotic implant from any of his songs or TV apearances will be forced into submission by the nocturnal machinations of an unholy army of KennyKlones.
And all people will serve The Gambler.
And he will hold, then fold us all in the bladed wings of his dominion. And darkness, and the black age of Kenny will hold illimitable influence over all.
And just before your consciousness is absorbed, you will remember for a brief moment that you were warned. And you didn't listen.
samedi, septembre 16, 2006
Hollywood Insider
A situation developed at the Temple Beth El Hospital in southern Orange County (CA), when a crazed Steven Colbert broke into an operating room and absconded with Barry Manilow's double hip replacements, at the very moment doctors were about to install them. Colbert was somehow able to get to the roof, and onlookers gasped as he held the synthetic hips over the edge, proclaiming through a megaphone that "If you ever want to see Barry walk again, this Emmy situation damn well better get rectified!"
Doctors in the operating room kept Mr. Manilow sedated, as they frantically sought a pair of back up hips from storage. The man who brought America so many memorable tunes was admirably brave, and did not wake up from his sedated state.
LAPD terror negotiators arrived on the scene and immediately offered to give Mr. Colbert the Emmy that "that woman from Will & Grace stole." Colbert consented, on the grounds that the nameplate on the award be changed to reflect that he had won the "biggest balls in the biz" award, and demanded to be prosecuted and sentenced in a way that would benefit his burgeoning career. Police agreed, the stand-off ended, and doctors proceeded to replace Manilow's hips.
Just in time for him to be nominated for Best Performance in a Prime-Time News Story.
Doctors in the operating room kept Mr. Manilow sedated, as they frantically sought a pair of back up hips from storage. The man who brought America so many memorable tunes was admirably brave, and did not wake up from his sedated state.
LAPD terror negotiators arrived on the scene and immediately offered to give Mr. Colbert the Emmy that "that woman from Will & Grace stole." Colbert consented, on the grounds that the nameplate on the award be changed to reflect that he had won the "biggest balls in the biz" award, and demanded to be prosecuted and sentenced in a way that would benefit his burgeoning career. Police agreed, the stand-off ended, and doctors proceeded to replace Manilow's hips.
Just in time for him to be nominated for Best Performance in a Prime-Time News Story.
lundi, septembre 04, 2006
Classic Rock--and other things everybody with a lick of sense HATES
I don't like classic rock. Actually I hate it. I want all those doped up, long haired, sweaty, over sexed free love left over groupie humpers to disappear. I know, I know, they'll all burn in hell forever, writhing in pain as their own endless masturbatory guitar solos torture their swollen eardrums. But I take no comfort in that.
And I don't like dancing.
I love music. I love exercise. I even love to combine the two. And I've seen a few people who can even hold my attention while they dance. But to stand in a crowd, with or without a partner, and flail, or gyrate, or whatever? It's difficult to think of anything more pointless. I still remember the last time I went "clubbing." There I was, surrounded by people dancing--flashing lights, driving beat, the scent of sex clinging to the fake smoke--and suddenly I just stopped. I couldn't figure out what was fun about it. I couldn't justify my presence in that meat market. After a few motionless minutes on the dance floor, I walked off, and never went back. Since then, I've danced, but only under duress. And I hate the people who guilt or jilt me into it every second. It is NOT fun. If you think it is, you're wrong. Enjoy it. But you're wrong.
I don't generally like concerts, either. Occasionally an intimate evening with someone I've admired for years pops up and I'll . . . On second thought: No. It doesn't. Concerts are loud, sweaty, merchandise ridden mob fests. They disgust me. And they should disgust you. Don't give me this crap about somebody having all this great energy or sounding better live. Nobody sounds better live, or they wouldn't bother releasing a studio album. And all that "energy" you talk about is really just jumping around like an idiot three-year-old with adult genetalia that pump caffeinated meth into the brain. I saw Iggy Pop on a DVD, and I swear I almost shot the television. What a truly revolting and infantile display. If I wanted to pay to watch someone have a seizure, I'd give my money to a real epileptic. Iggy Pop is a dog on speed with a microphone. He comes to you with his tongue out, turns you around, bends you over and violates you. And you give him money for it.
It's starting to sound like I have something against gyration. I assure you that isn't the case. And now that I think about it, I'll have to give you my first Tori Amos concert, because it was just her and a piano, no screaming teens and I swear she looked me right in the eye twice and the second time was really intimate. I'll bet she remembers me.
I might also concede They Might Be Giants, because I laughed enough to forget that I was exchanging sweat with a stranger through a thirty dollar T-shirt.
And I don't understand the attraction of the tropics. I love the ocean. I love snorkeling, scuba, the whole bit. But I'm not impressed by palm trees and balmy temperatures. The beach has very little to offer. Who cares about soaking in the damn sun? Maybe if I was born there, or had to work there, I could appreciate it. But going out of my way to vacation in some tropical paradise? Forget it. I love the climate where I am, that's why I live here.
Which brings me to cruises. Everybody talks about a cruise like it's the Holy Grail of vacations. I say go ahead and cram that oversized sardine can full of people who somehow like the idea of overeating, dancing the night away to the "musical stylings" of someone so talented they couldn't get a gig on dry land, tipping flunkies until your kid's college fund is dry and sleeping in a closet. Just leave me the hell out of it. I watched The Love Boat. It was nightmarish. Take your cruise and shove it. Choke on it. Whatever. Just don't talk to me about it.
I also hate protests. Hate them. It is my sincere belief that any crowd that begins a sentence with "Hey Hey! Ho Ho!" and finishes it with "Blah blah blah blah [something that rhymes with 'Ho']!" should be mowed down with a firehose. I'd turn the water on. I MIGHT admire someone who held up a sign that said: "I'm not smart or influential enough to play a real role in our representative republic! I'm politically impotent! But I'm angry and I wanted to share that with random passers by!" But even that is not worth broadcasting, is it? To hell with all of them.
The reader should know that I am a young man. A young man in super hip low slung pants made for women. A happy Gen X-er with a lust for life.
I am not a curmudgeon.
Some things just get my dander up.
And I don't like dancing.
I love music. I love exercise. I even love to combine the two. And I've seen a few people who can even hold my attention while they dance. But to stand in a crowd, with or without a partner, and flail, or gyrate, or whatever? It's difficult to think of anything more pointless. I still remember the last time I went "clubbing." There I was, surrounded by people dancing--flashing lights, driving beat, the scent of sex clinging to the fake smoke--and suddenly I just stopped. I couldn't figure out what was fun about it. I couldn't justify my presence in that meat market. After a few motionless minutes on the dance floor, I walked off, and never went back. Since then, I've danced, but only under duress. And I hate the people who guilt or jilt me into it every second. It is NOT fun. If you think it is, you're wrong. Enjoy it. But you're wrong.
I don't generally like concerts, either. Occasionally an intimate evening with someone I've admired for years pops up and I'll . . . On second thought: No. It doesn't. Concerts are loud, sweaty, merchandise ridden mob fests. They disgust me. And they should disgust you. Don't give me this crap about somebody having all this great energy or sounding better live. Nobody sounds better live, or they wouldn't bother releasing a studio album. And all that "energy" you talk about is really just jumping around like an idiot three-year-old with adult genetalia that pump caffeinated meth into the brain. I saw Iggy Pop on a DVD, and I swear I almost shot the television. What a truly revolting and infantile display. If I wanted to pay to watch someone have a seizure, I'd give my money to a real epileptic. Iggy Pop is a dog on speed with a microphone. He comes to you with his tongue out, turns you around, bends you over and violates you. And you give him money for it.
It's starting to sound like I have something against gyration. I assure you that isn't the case. And now that I think about it, I'll have to give you my first Tori Amos concert, because it was just her and a piano, no screaming teens and I swear she looked me right in the eye twice and the second time was really intimate. I'll bet she remembers me.
I might also concede They Might Be Giants, because I laughed enough to forget that I was exchanging sweat with a stranger through a thirty dollar T-shirt.
And I don't understand the attraction of the tropics. I love the ocean. I love snorkeling, scuba, the whole bit. But I'm not impressed by palm trees and balmy temperatures. The beach has very little to offer. Who cares about soaking in the damn sun? Maybe if I was born there, or had to work there, I could appreciate it. But going out of my way to vacation in some tropical paradise? Forget it. I love the climate where I am, that's why I live here.
Which brings me to cruises. Everybody talks about a cruise like it's the Holy Grail of vacations. I say go ahead and cram that oversized sardine can full of people who somehow like the idea of overeating, dancing the night away to the "musical stylings" of someone so talented they couldn't get a gig on dry land, tipping flunkies until your kid's college fund is dry and sleeping in a closet. Just leave me the hell out of it. I watched The Love Boat. It was nightmarish. Take your cruise and shove it. Choke on it. Whatever. Just don't talk to me about it.
I also hate protests. Hate them. It is my sincere belief that any crowd that begins a sentence with "Hey Hey! Ho Ho!" and finishes it with "Blah blah blah blah [something that rhymes with 'Ho']!" should be mowed down with a firehose. I'd turn the water on. I MIGHT admire someone who held up a sign that said: "I'm not smart or influential enough to play a real role in our representative republic! I'm politically impotent! But I'm angry and I wanted to share that with random passers by!" But even that is not worth broadcasting, is it? To hell with all of them.
The reader should know that I am a young man. A young man in super hip low slung pants made for women. A happy Gen X-er with a lust for life.
I am not a curmudgeon.
Some things just get my dander up.
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