-->This is 10 months ago:
This is her last Thursday:
Monday, May 11, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
Another Reason To Hate People
*Yes, this picture is real . First of all, girls: the whole Mary Kate Olsen thing has just gotten really, I dont know, "heroin-y", don't you think? I can damn-near guarantee that all of you will have your first abortion by your Sophomore year at State U. But that's all I want to say about the chicks (and STOP LOOKING you fucking pervs).
Look, I'm all for people's desire for independence and expressing themselves through weird and original ways and all that other good American bullshit, but this is NOT it. This is why nobody talks about the '80's anymore, and here you are trying to fucking emulate them? Really?? Are these dudes all wearing the same thing?? Are they all wearing girl's pants?? WHAT THE FUCK?!
Gandhi himself would punch these fuckers in the throat if he had the chance. These kids look like a gay Devo cover band. And the worst part is, this is what's actually cool now. These clown-shoes jagaloons are actually the "cool kids"...
More to come as I get more pissed off...
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Atticus Finch Can Go Kick Rocks
[*DISCLAIMER: I realize this post is way too formal; and may even seem like I'm trying too hard. This post was actually a "copy/paste" job, and I only made a few minor changes to lighten the stuffiness. It's an excerpt from a college literature paper, so I apologize if it comes off as pretentious, as I am well aware that I'm a total jackass.]
I truly, truly hate To Kill A Mockingbird. I loathe it with every inch of my body. I cringe every time I hear the title; I vomit every time I hear it praised. The fact that it has become a staple in educational curriculum is a criminal travesty; and another reason why the education system can't be trusted.
In June of this past year the U.K. newspaper The Telegraph reported on a recent poll that had deemed Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird the “Greatest Novel of All Time” (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2138827/To-Kill-a-Mockingbird-voted-Greatest-Novel-Of-All-Time.html). The criteria for determining a novel’s capacity for greatness, however, is rather ambiguous; and the results would not be remotely surprising if the poll were done, say, within a population of 7th graders. Yet to even momentarily entertain the idea that Harper Lee’s novel should even be considered as one the “greatest of all time” is not only extraordinarily absurd but strikingly offensive.
To Kill A Mockingbird is often read for some type of moral lesson. It strangles your brain with the notion that Good will always overcome Evil; but the muted, subtler theme of acceptance and understanding of Evil so as to harness the forces of Good, is often overlooked. It would seem that Lee sought to break down the prejudices conditioned by the institutions of justice, education and religion, as the story exposes these institutions through Scout’s continual contact with various cultural injustices. Within her portrayal of the racial tension in the antebellum South, Lee impugns her audience to recognize social evils that are perpetuated by the status quo. In that aspect, the novel is successful. But that theme is just way too easy, and Lee makes the whole story feel like Catholic school.
The novel seems to fail in almost every other regard. The narrative voice seems to be written more out of convenience than actual significance to either the story itself or the social climate of the historical period in which it was penned. Secondly, Atticus Finch is ultimately a purposeless character. Lee employs Atticus as a vessel to represent her own idealized moral standards. As the novel proves, Lee cannot even recognize that this ideal is, in fact, naturally impossible. Finally, while the Finch children will always have the advantage of Atticus’ guidance, the story says nothing to the massive number of people who never had such an instructive moral compass. In other words, the novel in no way speaks to the notion of discovering these lessons without some external—and altogether inhuman—force that nudges them in the right direction. The underlying message of To Kill A Mockingbird is never clearly delineated, and it is continually contradicted by numerous discrepancies. By novel’s end the reader is left only to trawl through the muck of ambiguities only to emerge with the nauseatingly mundane intimation that racism is evil.
Unfortunately, the narrative voice of the novel is confounding and ineffective; and worse, it is compromised by the author’s insistence on lyrical flourishes. It is impossible to portray the perspective of a child through the eyes of an educated, morally-sound adult. Furthermore, it is difficult to believe fully in the inherent innocence of Scout’s childhood self because her adult self is influencing and forming the words that transmit the story. From page one, the narrative voice is jeopardized, and in the words we see not a projection of innocence but a translation of it.
The novel, disparagingly, has come to be used as a moral guidebook: a means to aid in the formation of one’s ethical values. For this reason it is often presented to the reader in their formative years, which is perhaps why the story is so often lauded by adults, who revert back to it with fond, nostalgic memories. Resultantly, the book is viewed as a depiction of how the forces of Good always champions over the forces of Evil. However, this idea, though widely accepted, is dangerously misguided. Worse, this notion only exacerbates the misconception that humans are either inherently good or inherently evil. This perspective, much like the separate black and white cultures in Maycomb, Alabama, only causes one to think in terms of opposing division rather than coexistence.
Therefore, when reading the novel, the reader should think of it not as an exaltation of Good over Evil but one that acknowledges their unification. Rather than being either Good or being Evil, humanity is naturally sired from both.
If Atticus Finch is intended to represent a particular moral ideal, then the reader (specifically younger readers) cannot realize that such an ideal is unattainable.
There are profound reasons why To Kill A Mockingbird should be removed from the classroom altogether. The novel has the power to lead one into exalting a set of moral standards that is entirely false and impossible. If one seeks the same unblemished conscience held by Atticus, they are made more susceptible to despondency and guilt. This, in turn, potentially causes one to condemn their humanity rather than embrace it.
The narrative follows the pattern of a Bildungsroman in that the reader is supposed to be able to follow the emotional, spiritual and ethical development of Scout. Atticus, on the other hand, is as lifeless (and about as interesting) as a popped balloon. He remains unchanged by the events that unfold before him. Through the character of Atticus, Lee attempts to represent a moral and ethical exemplar. Yet, in doing so, she seems to abandon the established standards set forth by the laws of fiction. While it is not fait to say that “flat” characters cannot work as effective literary devices, it is fair to say that Atticus Finch is not one of them.
In the end, Atticus Finch—as a character—only makes those of Jem and Scout less relatable. It is difficult, if not impossible, for the reader to wholly identify with the moral and ethical roboticism of Atticus Finch. Being that it is non-existent, the reader cannot apply that standard to any figure in their own lives. Most (if not all) people have not or will never grow up under such perfectly righteous tutelage. Atticus is not a real father, due in large part to the fact that his untarnished virtue and total lack of complexity do nothing to suggest that he could represent any real person. Every character, save for Atticus, is believable because they are multi-dimensional. Moreover, they are continually changed by the events of their lives. Though well-intentioned, Lee’s exaltation of moral idealism cannot account for the timeless capacities for lust and violence that natural human primality can impose on the individual conscience.
I truly, truly hate To Kill A Mockingbird. I loathe it with every inch of my body. I cringe every time I hear the title; I vomit every time I hear it praised. The fact that it has become a staple in educational curriculum is a criminal travesty; and another reason why the education system can't be trusted.
In June of this past year the U.K. newspaper The Telegraph reported on a recent poll that had deemed Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird the “Greatest Novel of All Time” (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2138827/To-Kill-a-Mockingbird-voted-Greatest-Novel-Of-All-Time.html). The criteria for determining a novel’s capacity for greatness, however, is rather ambiguous; and the results would not be remotely surprising if the poll were done, say, within a population of 7th graders. Yet to even momentarily entertain the idea that Harper Lee’s novel should even be considered as one the “greatest of all time” is not only extraordinarily absurd but strikingly offensive.
To Kill A Mockingbird is often read for some type of moral lesson. It strangles your brain with the notion that Good will always overcome Evil; but the muted, subtler theme of acceptance and understanding of Evil so as to harness the forces of Good, is often overlooked. It would seem that Lee sought to break down the prejudices conditioned by the institutions of justice, education and religion, as the story exposes these institutions through Scout’s continual contact with various cultural injustices. Within her portrayal of the racial tension in the antebellum South, Lee impugns her audience to recognize social evils that are perpetuated by the status quo. In that aspect, the novel is successful. But that theme is just way too easy, and Lee makes the whole story feel like Catholic school.
The novel seems to fail in almost every other regard. The narrative voice seems to be written more out of convenience than actual significance to either the story itself or the social climate of the historical period in which it was penned. Secondly, Atticus Finch is ultimately a purposeless character. Lee employs Atticus as a vessel to represent her own idealized moral standards. As the novel proves, Lee cannot even recognize that this ideal is, in fact, naturally impossible. Finally, while the Finch children will always have the advantage of Atticus’ guidance, the story says nothing to the massive number of people who never had such an instructive moral compass. In other words, the novel in no way speaks to the notion of discovering these lessons without some external—and altogether inhuman—force that nudges them in the right direction. The underlying message of To Kill A Mockingbird is never clearly delineated, and it is continually contradicted by numerous discrepancies. By novel’s end the reader is left only to trawl through the muck of ambiguities only to emerge with the nauseatingly mundane intimation that racism is evil.
Unfortunately, the narrative voice of the novel is confounding and ineffective; and worse, it is compromised by the author’s insistence on lyrical flourishes. It is impossible to portray the perspective of a child through the eyes of an educated, morally-sound adult. Furthermore, it is difficult to believe fully in the inherent innocence of Scout’s childhood self because her adult self is influencing and forming the words that transmit the story. From page one, the narrative voice is jeopardized, and in the words we see not a projection of innocence but a translation of it.
The novel, disparagingly, has come to be used as a moral guidebook: a means to aid in the formation of one’s ethical values. For this reason it is often presented to the reader in their formative years, which is perhaps why the story is so often lauded by adults, who revert back to it with fond, nostalgic memories. Resultantly, the book is viewed as a depiction of how the forces of Good always champions over the forces of Evil. However, this idea, though widely accepted, is dangerously misguided. Worse, this notion only exacerbates the misconception that humans are either inherently good or inherently evil. This perspective, much like the separate black and white cultures in Maycomb, Alabama, only causes one to think in terms of opposing division rather than coexistence.
Therefore, when reading the novel, the reader should think of it not as an exaltation of Good over Evil but one that acknowledges their unification. Rather than being either Good or being Evil, humanity is naturally sired from both.
If Atticus Finch is intended to represent a particular moral ideal, then the reader (specifically younger readers) cannot realize that such an ideal is unattainable.
There are profound reasons why To Kill A Mockingbird should be removed from the classroom altogether. The novel has the power to lead one into exalting a set of moral standards that is entirely false and impossible. If one seeks the same unblemished conscience held by Atticus, they are made more susceptible to despondency and guilt. This, in turn, potentially causes one to condemn their humanity rather than embrace it.
The narrative follows the pattern of a Bildungsroman in that the reader is supposed to be able to follow the emotional, spiritual and ethical development of Scout. Atticus, on the other hand, is as lifeless (and about as interesting) as a popped balloon. He remains unchanged by the events that unfold before him. Through the character of Atticus, Lee attempts to represent a moral and ethical exemplar. Yet, in doing so, she seems to abandon the established standards set forth by the laws of fiction. While it is not fait to say that “flat” characters cannot work as effective literary devices, it is fair to say that Atticus Finch is not one of them.
In the end, Atticus Finch—as a character—only makes those of Jem and Scout less relatable. It is difficult, if not impossible, for the reader to wholly identify with the moral and ethical roboticism of Atticus Finch. Being that it is non-existent, the reader cannot apply that standard to any figure in their own lives. Most (if not all) people have not or will never grow up under such perfectly righteous tutelage. Atticus is not a real father, due in large part to the fact that his untarnished virtue and total lack of complexity do nothing to suggest that he could represent any real person. Every character, save for Atticus, is believable because they are multi-dimensional. Moreover, they are continually changed by the events of their lives. Though well-intentioned, Lee’s exaltation of moral idealism cannot account for the timeless capacities for lust and violence that natural human primality can impose on the individual conscience.
Monday, May 4, 2009
The Wrink & Sasha Grey: 1st Encounter
Those who know me are well-aware of my boundless love for porn superstar Sasha Grey. One of these days (very soon) I will post a lengthy tribute to this infallible specimen and genius phenom of the sex industry. But until then, I'll leave you with the audio recording of myself on the line with Sasha during last Friday's K&M morning show. So here it is, and if you listen closely you can almost hear her falling in love with me. Enjoy!*"Wrink and Sasha, sittin' in a tree"*
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Bill O'Reilly is a fucking Muppet
America: you are to Bill O'Reilly what Kanye West is to the "fishsticks" joke.
Come on, America--don't you get it? Please, just get it, man!
"The Hating Bill O'Reilly Game" is more popular than ever these days. It's a really fun game, too. Actually I can't think of anything more fun than expressing your pure, boiling hatred for someone to a mass audience. That's why message board-posting became a nationwide craze, like the hula hoop or the macarena or crack-cocaine.
And it's anonymous! You can tell anyone in the world to go fuck a howler monkey and there's nothing they can do about it. [*At this point you're most likely scoffing at my hypocrisy for having a blog littered with vitriol and writing under an alias. But I have principles. The alias is for entertainment purposes only. If anyone reading this forum takes personal offense at any of my diatribes and would like to speak to me directly, I implore you to send me an email to present your case. Just don't expect an apology; and I'll still probably to tell you to shit in your hat.*]
Don't get me wrong: I am NO fan of Bill O'Reilly. I will never, ever defend him in any way, so let's just make that clear. After all, he's an extremely easy man to hate for many reasons: his unhesitant willingness to "report" total misinformation; his snide arrogance; the finger-wagging, his militant Catholicism, etc.
But public hatred is exactly what he wants. America, for whatever reason, just can't seem to understand that.
O'Reilly is in actuality nothing more than a televised circus clown. He's an entertainer, and his act consists of concocting "opinions" that are ludicrous and stupid and offensive and wrong, so that the character he's created all these years can remain believable.
I just can't understand how so many liberal Americans can, at this point, seem so appalled by O'Reilly's parlor tricks. It's acting. He's created a character; and all successful characters need gimmicks. Think about it: RuPaul needs to pretend he's a woman; Carlos Mencia needs to pretend he's Mexican; and Bill O'Reilly needs to pretend that he's a soulless dickhead. Ann Coulter does the same act; and Rush Limbaugh invented it. For all practical purposes, they are fucking Muppets.
Honestly, I do not for one second think that Bill O'Reilly truly believes any of the shit that blasts from his fat yap. He needs to make offensive and retarded statements because it's the only thing that will ever sustain his career. Just look at this shameless display of douchebaggery:
So why do we still buy this routine?
Eveything that Bill says in this clip is so woefully ignorant and stupid and (deliberately) false that it makes me want to puke my testacles out through my mouth. And that's why I can't stop laughing everytime I watch it. Come on people, do you really think any man with a Harvard degree could be that senseless and misinformed and philisophically fucked up? No way. Never. Bill just knows how to capitalize off of people by defecating on their ethics.
If you're able to see people like Bill O'Reilly (or Ann Coulter or Rush Limbaugh) for what they truly are--Muppets and circus clowns--then nothing they say can offend you ever again.
But still, The "Hating Bill O'Reilly Game" continues to be a widespread and growing trend. Pinko elitists like Keith Olbermann have capitalized on this schtick for years. There are so many exaggerated impersonations of Bill on Countdown that it sounds like a comedy act from the Camp Jabberwocky talent show.
Sorry Keith, but it's a tired act; at least on Sportscenter you actually had to keep your wits spry. Besides, everyone's doing the lambasting O'Reilly thing; but the only one who's truly succeeded in it is the masterful Stephen Colbert. And you, sir, are no Stephen Colbert...
The people who publicly condemn Bill O'Reilly are in reality his biggest supporters. He knows this. He's actually known it for years. He's not stupid, you are. Every time Bill makes some scandalous and incendiary remark, he accrues more-and-more public attention. And publicity--good or bad--always means cha-ching.
So relax, America. It's all entertainment. If Bill wasn't pretending to be an ass-faced jagaloon he'd be earnin'g minimum wage licking all the peanut-butter out of Ann Coulter's hatchet-wound.
But the schtick works; and he couldn't have done it without you, America; so give yourselves a pat on the back.
Please....just get it, man!
Come on, America--don't you get it? Please, just get it, man!
"The Hating Bill O'Reilly Game" is more popular than ever these days. It's a really fun game, too. Actually I can't think of anything more fun than expressing your pure, boiling hatred for someone to a mass audience. That's why message board-posting became a nationwide craze, like the hula hoop or the macarena or crack-cocaine.
And it's anonymous! You can tell anyone in the world to go fuck a howler monkey and there's nothing they can do about it. [*At this point you're most likely scoffing at my hypocrisy for having a blog littered with vitriol and writing under an alias. But I have principles. The alias is for entertainment purposes only. If anyone reading this forum takes personal offense at any of my diatribes and would like to speak to me directly, I implore you to send me an email to present your case. Just don't expect an apology; and I'll still probably to tell you to shit in your hat.*]
Don't get me wrong: I am NO fan of Bill O'Reilly. I will never, ever defend him in any way, so let's just make that clear. After all, he's an extremely easy man to hate for many reasons: his unhesitant willingness to "report" total misinformation; his snide arrogance; the finger-wagging, his militant Catholicism, etc.
But public hatred is exactly what he wants. America, for whatever reason, just can't seem to understand that.
O'Reilly is in actuality nothing more than a televised circus clown. He's an entertainer, and his act consists of concocting "opinions" that are ludicrous and stupid and offensive and wrong, so that the character he's created all these years can remain believable.
I just can't understand how so many liberal Americans can, at this point, seem so appalled by O'Reilly's parlor tricks. It's acting. He's created a character; and all successful characters need gimmicks. Think about it: RuPaul needs to pretend he's a woman; Carlos Mencia needs to pretend he's Mexican; and Bill O'Reilly needs to pretend that he's a soulless dickhead. Ann Coulter does the same act; and Rush Limbaugh invented it. For all practical purposes, they are fucking Muppets.
Honestly, I do not for one second think that Bill O'Reilly truly believes any of the shit that blasts from his fat yap. He needs to make offensive and retarded statements because it's the only thing that will ever sustain his career. Just look at this shameless display of douchebaggery:
So why do we still buy this routine?
Eveything that Bill says in this clip is so woefully ignorant and stupid and (deliberately) false that it makes me want to puke my testacles out through my mouth. And that's why I can't stop laughing everytime I watch it. Come on people, do you really think any man with a Harvard degree could be that senseless and misinformed and philisophically fucked up? No way. Never. Bill just knows how to capitalize off of people by defecating on their ethics.
If you're able to see people like Bill O'Reilly (or Ann Coulter or Rush Limbaugh) for what they truly are--Muppets and circus clowns--then nothing they say can offend you ever again.
But still, The "Hating Bill O'Reilly Game" continues to be a widespread and growing trend. Pinko elitists like Keith Olbermann have capitalized on this schtick for years. There are so many exaggerated impersonations of Bill on Countdown that it sounds like a comedy act from the Camp Jabberwocky talent show.
Sorry Keith, but it's a tired act; at least on Sportscenter you actually had to keep your wits spry. Besides, everyone's doing the lambasting O'Reilly thing; but the only one who's truly succeeded in it is the masterful Stephen Colbert. And you, sir, are no Stephen Colbert...
The people who publicly condemn Bill O'Reilly are in reality his biggest supporters. He knows this. He's actually known it for years. He's not stupid, you are. Every time Bill makes some scandalous and incendiary remark, he accrues more-and-more public attention. And publicity--good or bad--always means cha-ching.
So relax, America. It's all entertainment. If Bill wasn't pretending to be an ass-faced jagaloon he'd be earnin'g minimum wage licking all the peanut-butter out of Ann Coulter's hatchet-wound.
But the schtick works; and he couldn't have done it without you, America; so give yourselves a pat on the back.
Please....just get it, man!
Monday, April 13, 2009
One day you will be mine, Chelsea Handler...
Chelsea Handler, I'm totally gay for you.
Remember that guy who tried to abduct Shawn Johnson in the Dancing With The Stars lot? He claimed they had been communicating through the television via ESP. What a retard!
But of course I'm not that stupid, Chelsea. At least I know that our ESP is actually real. That other doucher's just making us look bad.
But seriously...
Thank you, Chelsea Handler, for not buying into the whole Sex & The City mentality that's infested our culture for the last decade: where fashion and promiscuity have come to masquerade as female empowerment. The "strong, single women" that the show purports to portray are still all totally obsequious to the whims and feelings of the asshole men they obsessively pine over. The only character that defies this (the chick from Mannequin) is a rabid and insatiable whore who substitutes dignity with anonymous fucking. When you boil it down, you can see that the only thing the show actually does portray is 4 disgustingly self-involved and insecure women bitching and whining over petty and trivial matters, and who ultimately end up falling victim to their own womanhood.
Clearly you transcend all that, Chelsea. You get it. You exemplify where others only advertise. If only they could all be like you. But they're not, of course; and that's probably because they've been watching Sex & The City for so long.
There's no doubt in my mind that if given the chance, you would kick Oprah right in the pussy. Those Sex & The City girls too. Then those mealymouthed idiots from The View. You might leave Kelly Ripa alone, but who knows?
There must be thousands of trampled hearts in your wake, and with every one of them a skip and a smirk as you head off and away in pursuit of future conquests. You're not like the so many others that confuse daintiness with dignity; the kind who never laugh at filthy jokes out of fear of impropriety. In fact you're the type of woman who wouldn't hesitate to crack a racist joke even if the Pope was in the audience. And if the unamused Pope ever expressed his distaste, I imagine you'd probably shrug and say "whatever Your Holiness, go fuck yourself."
Chelsea Handler you are a real woman. You are what all women should strive to be: confident and intelligent and honest and unapologetic. You're smarter than us. You're not afraid to put us in our place.
Chelsea, you've contributed more to the identity of the modern American female than Hillary Clinton. When you make fart jokes, it isn't despite of your womanhood but because of it. Unlike the example set by so many of your peers, your sexiness and sense of fashion work as a compliment rather than a crutch. But more importantly, you can tell the difference.
God bless you Chelsea Handler, for proving that attractive women don't need to be retarded in order to be on television.
So Chelsea, I implore you: please abduct me. I won't mind. I promise.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Driving On The Moon (Through Utah)
*Some observations while en route to Tahoe with Walter. Circa 9/07
The Tao of Interstate Travel: If speed be your biggest concern, then listen to anything that will give your tires some mean cajones. Of course, this can only be executed with casual flair and total nonchalance. And that's impossible to fake. Think James Bond, only cooler.
But alas, one must be careful. Usually anything with an acoustic guitar should be abandoned. After all, 007 would never, ever listen to James-fuckin'- Taylor.
When I drive I need to hear the sounds of the borealis slicing through the cosmos, the irascible concertos that play behind feral belly dancers at full-moon harvest orgies.
Give me Hendrix, Bowie, Zappa, Biscuits.
I want the fires of the apocalypse in the rear-view, rearing their heads above the horizon.
Then I'll flick my cigarette butt out the window.
*~*~*
*To describe the physical landscape of Utah I can only say this: think of Kansas' older sister that just hit puberty.
*I've noticed that Utah mountains don't have much personality--they lack the charm, the magnetizing allure of the Rockies. But still there's a peculiar magic about them, as if they're whispering to each other scandalous secrets too lofty for the comprehension of Man.
The Tao of Interstate Travel: If speed be your biggest concern, then listen to anything that will give your tires some mean cajones. Of course, this can only be executed with casual flair and total nonchalance. And that's impossible to fake. Think James Bond, only cooler.
But alas, one must be careful. Usually anything with an acoustic guitar should be abandoned. After all, 007 would never, ever listen to James-fuckin'- Taylor.
When I drive I need to hear the sounds of the borealis slicing through the cosmos, the irascible concertos that play behind feral belly dancers at full-moon harvest orgies.
Give me Hendrix, Bowie, Zappa, Biscuits.
I want the fires of the apocalypse in the rear-view, rearing their heads above the horizon.
Then I'll flick my cigarette butt out the window.
*~*~*
*To describe the physical landscape of Utah I can only say this: think of Kansas' older sister that just hit puberty.
*I've noticed that Utah mountains don't have much personality--they lack the charm, the magnetizing allure of the Rockies. But still there's a peculiar magic about them, as if they're whispering to each other scandalous secrets too lofty for the comprehension of Man.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
*Travel Writing*
Too often, “travel writers” are so enamored with their own social philosophy that they forget why travel-writing exists in the first place. Too many "travel writers", it seems, are far more concerned with glorifying their own "progressive" asceticism than in fostering a greater understanding of the soul.
A good piece of travel writing, at it’s outset, neither exalts nor preaches a particular disposition (unless, of course, its the New Testament—and that’s the only example). Man's desire for exploration and travel is n unavoidable facet of nature, an instinct to explore being chemically wired in our brains. What we see in good travel writing is not an exercise in an established philosophy but rather the formation of a vastly different one. In travel writing, the traveler becomes the sage, not vice versa.
A story, therefore, must be allowed to develop its own understanding, allowing its philosophy to morph and shape and adjust as if it were a literary game of Tetris.
Here it is of absolute importance that we illustrate the dichotomy between the traveler and the tourist. They are not the same thing, of course. And the practitioner of either tourism or travel seldom knows to what sect he or she belongs. The traveler, you see, sets out on his course in the pursuit of something—to sate some deep and yearning quench of the subconscious. The tourist’s aim, however, is to take pictures, to relax and spend time someplace warm, or merely to tell people that they’ve been to a particular locale. Tourism has little, if any, spiritual or emotional benefit.
The virtue of participation is a pivotal component to exploration, but more importantly, to travel writing. By actively involving oneself in the places they visit—rather than just “seeing” them—one develops a more acute awareness of their place in society, a better sense of self, a greater spiritual understanding, and wisdom as opposed to just knowledge.
In Hesse' Siddhartha, for example, Govinda acts as a tourist along the open road of the human dilemma. Siddhartha, on the other hand, is an indubitable pioneer. Govinda is just a passenger on the philosophical tour-bus, always dependent on another vessel to carry him from one place to the next. If the river is to represent self-discovery, itself—that it flows outward and through everything rather than limiting itself to a confined space—then consider the value of the following passage:
“It seemed to him as if the river had something special to tell him, something which he did not know, something which still awaited him” (Hesse 100).
The human spirit demands perpetual movement if it is to be nurtured. However, this does not require that one traverse the Galapagos to attain spiritual or emotional validation. There are those who prefer a more dormant lifestyle, much preferring the comfort of their own ecosystem. Many people come to even fear traveling itself; they would rather catch up on The Facts of Life marathon than eat octopus in Costa Rica. However, these are not helpless or lost souls. Far from it.
It is only when one tangles oneself in the web of heavy routine that their philosophy—if not their zest for life—becomes emaciated and withered, unable to ripen or develop.
It’s almost like dropping the philosophical teabag in the cold water of the mind. Think of the teabag as your human spirit, your awareness of the human condition. If the water is cold, the teabag is limp and useless. The tea—your philosophical mind—can only be brewed when you move out of your immediate perception, when you set out for the hidden corners of culture and continually demolish the bordering fences of routine. To do this, one must escape their day-to-day surroundings; which can be achieved by actual, physical travel but is so often substituted by the use of certain illicit substances.
For Sal Paradise, routine is the murderous bandit of the human spirit, the puppeteer of his well-being, the host body to misery’s parasite.
Therefore, traveling, in On The Road, is a necessary means of meditation. It is a way for Sal to break the confines of his “splintered self.” His very humanity seems to be defined by the act of travel—of constant movement. The journey, thus, is the destination. By traveling, he obtains what he is seeking: a means to escape himself.
But Hesse provides a far different view (frickin' Krauts...). Hesse’ protagonist comes to actually embrace routine. Routine, for Siddhartha, is inalienable from spiritualized ritual. But only by traveling—by testing the waters of routine—is Siddhartha able to accept his true nature. Traveling, for Siddhartha, is a means of obtaining a discipline, which then comes to serve as his meditation. By traveling, even in search of routine, our hero is able to cure the “hollowness of self” that befalls him at the story’s outset.
A piece of good travel writing, at its conclusion, has a developed philosophy that speaks to its audience not through the direct medium of words, but rather through faint and powerful whispers. It's all in what is not said. Only then can its true philosophy be understood.
A good piece of travel writing, at it’s outset, neither exalts nor preaches a particular disposition (unless, of course, its the New Testament—and that’s the only example). Man's desire for exploration and travel is n unavoidable facet of nature, an instinct to explore being chemically wired in our brains. What we see in good travel writing is not an exercise in an established philosophy but rather the formation of a vastly different one. In travel writing, the traveler becomes the sage, not vice versa.
A story, therefore, must be allowed to develop its own understanding, allowing its philosophy to morph and shape and adjust as if it were a literary game of Tetris.
Here it is of absolute importance that we illustrate the dichotomy between the traveler and the tourist. They are not the same thing, of course. And the practitioner of either tourism or travel seldom knows to what sect he or she belongs. The traveler, you see, sets out on his course in the pursuit of something—to sate some deep and yearning quench of the subconscious. The tourist’s aim, however, is to take pictures, to relax and spend time someplace warm, or merely to tell people that they’ve been to a particular locale. Tourism has little, if any, spiritual or emotional benefit.
The virtue of participation is a pivotal component to exploration, but more importantly, to travel writing. By actively involving oneself in the places they visit—rather than just “seeing” them—one develops a more acute awareness of their place in society, a better sense of self, a greater spiritual understanding, and wisdom as opposed to just knowledge.
In Hesse' Siddhartha, for example, Govinda acts as a tourist along the open road of the human dilemma. Siddhartha, on the other hand, is an indubitable pioneer. Govinda is just a passenger on the philosophical tour-bus, always dependent on another vessel to carry him from one place to the next. If the river is to represent self-discovery, itself—that it flows outward and through everything rather than limiting itself to a confined space—then consider the value of the following passage:
“It seemed to him as if the river had something special to tell him, something which he did not know, something which still awaited him” (Hesse 100).
The human spirit demands perpetual movement if it is to be nurtured. However, this does not require that one traverse the Galapagos to attain spiritual or emotional validation. There are those who prefer a more dormant lifestyle, much preferring the comfort of their own ecosystem. Many people come to even fear traveling itself; they would rather catch up on The Facts of Life marathon than eat octopus in Costa Rica. However, these are not helpless or lost souls. Far from it.
It is only when one tangles oneself in the web of heavy routine that their philosophy—if not their zest for life—becomes emaciated and withered, unable to ripen or develop.
It’s almost like dropping the philosophical teabag in the cold water of the mind. Think of the teabag as your human spirit, your awareness of the human condition. If the water is cold, the teabag is limp and useless. The tea—your philosophical mind—can only be brewed when you move out of your immediate perception, when you set out for the hidden corners of culture and continually demolish the bordering fences of routine. To do this, one must escape their day-to-day surroundings; which can be achieved by actual, physical travel but is so often substituted by the use of certain illicit substances.
For Sal Paradise, routine is the murderous bandit of the human spirit, the puppeteer of his well-being, the host body to misery’s parasite.
Therefore, traveling, in On The Road, is a necessary means of meditation. It is a way for Sal to break the confines of his “splintered self.” His very humanity seems to be defined by the act of travel—of constant movement. The journey, thus, is the destination. By traveling, he obtains what he is seeking: a means to escape himself.
But Hesse provides a far different view (frickin' Krauts...). Hesse’ protagonist comes to actually embrace routine. Routine, for Siddhartha, is inalienable from spiritualized ritual. But only by traveling—by testing the waters of routine—is Siddhartha able to accept his true nature. Traveling, for Siddhartha, is a means of obtaining a discipline, which then comes to serve as his meditation. By traveling, even in search of routine, our hero is able to cure the “hollowness of self” that befalls him at the story’s outset.
A piece of good travel writing, at its conclusion, has a developed philosophy that speaks to its audience not through the direct medium of words, but rather through faint and powerful whispers. It's all in what is not said. Only then can its true philosophy be understood.
Popular Music & The Decline of Man
Popular music today is nothing more than Art's ejaculate dripping down the leg of culture. Seriously people, what are we doing? There was a time when the Rock'n'Roll of Chuck Berry and the Big Bopper had voodoo powers—it could take over any young unsuspecting soul whose ears happened upon it while turning the dial to the AM radio. There was a time when the opening notes of "Chantilly Lace" would trigger a sudden deluge in every pair of panties in the room. For women, Rock & Roll was their gateway to open sexuality. It's as if "Peggy Sue" somehow unlocked the secret powers of the collective American vagina.
It's a different story for men, though. A man's sexuality is a much more honest and prevalent thing. It has no shame, for it dangles triumphantly and is scarcely ever afraid to give its salutation. Our penises neither hide themselves, nor do they mince words. Thus, a man's sexuality needs not the services of Ritchie Valenz to reveal it's true nature. This is why Rock & Roll stands as Mankind's pinnacle achievement: it was that which finally allowed those young lasses to lift up those poodle skirts.
And then came the Beatles. Enough has been said of them, already. They are the Shakespeare of modern music; conceived by some Divine Hand to serve humanity's greater purpose (except for Ringo, that was an accident).
The Beatles started it all: all the sexual liberation and "tune in, turn on, and drop out" mentalities of those ensuing decades; until MTV slithered its way into the mainstream and coerced all of us naked and curious Eves and Adams to devour the forbidden mango of televised music (it was not an apple, as the legend dictates, for we all know that the glorious slurp of the juicy mango feels far more sinful and decadent than the honest and god-fearing crunch of the Granny Smith). There was a death that day. Not "Video Killing The Radio Star" but rather, killing music itself. Music became something visual that day; and worse, from that day on, the youth of America lost their freedom to decide for themselves what was cool.
Fuck that. Music should be something that date rapes all 5 senses—that puts your psyche through gyroscope. There are exceptions, sure. But looking at the spectrum of "popular" music one can only take away the notion that musical art has become lazy. In 10 years every album made in the U.S. will be produced by Timbaland. God help us…
It's a different story for men, though. A man's sexuality is a much more honest and prevalent thing. It has no shame, for it dangles triumphantly and is scarcely ever afraid to give its salutation. Our penises neither hide themselves, nor do they mince words. Thus, a man's sexuality needs not the services of Ritchie Valenz to reveal it's true nature. This is why Rock & Roll stands as Mankind's pinnacle achievement: it was that which finally allowed those young lasses to lift up those poodle skirts.
And then came the Beatles. Enough has been said of them, already. They are the Shakespeare of modern music; conceived by some Divine Hand to serve humanity's greater purpose (except for Ringo, that was an accident).
The Beatles started it all: all the sexual liberation and "tune in, turn on, and drop out" mentalities of those ensuing decades; until MTV slithered its way into the mainstream and coerced all of us naked and curious Eves and Adams to devour the forbidden mango of televised music (it was not an apple, as the legend dictates, for we all know that the glorious slurp of the juicy mango feels far more sinful and decadent than the honest and god-fearing crunch of the Granny Smith). There was a death that day. Not "Video Killing The Radio Star" but rather, killing music itself. Music became something visual that day; and worse, from that day on, the youth of America lost their freedom to decide for themselves what was cool.
Fuck that. Music should be something that date rapes all 5 senses—that puts your psyche through gyroscope. There are exceptions, sure. But looking at the spectrum of "popular" music one can only take away the notion that musical art has become lazy. In 10 years every album made in the U.S. will be produced by Timbaland. God help us…
The Disco Biscuits
The Disco Biscuits are nocturnal madmen burning the barns of your brain. They are arsonists of convention; diseased and feral creatures set loose amidst the mental nudist colony.
The Biscuits are the interchangers—the translator's of the stratosphere's mother-tongue. They are the thinking man's techno—the purported sire of Johann Bach and Afrikaa Bambataa, throwing sand at the other kids in the sandbox.
They pillage where others merely forage. They are not critters but exquisite beasts composed of bass and meter.
They send 16-yr. old girls into orgasmic and frenetic rain dances, puppeteering their pheromones like so many dark and libidinous marauders of the id…
*~*~*
Give me Biscuits any day.
Give me a four-man machine banging out the symphonies by which the Demons of the Mind chase you in the night. Sound Tribe? Please. I care not for mindless and inexplicable segues or purposeful moments of anti-climax. Give me not a happy ending but a mind-blowing orgasm from Aphrodite herself: the feeling of goddesses tugging gently at your pudenda.
Biscuits are what Beethoven hears while drowning and being torn apart by sharks.
Often I find myself equating music with candy—for what two better earthly concoctions exist? (and all the better, since I consume both of theme with voracious criticism).
Sound Tribe? Pssshaaw. That shit's gummi worms—empty and thrilless.
Biscuits is blowin' Pixie Stix straight up your nose and waiting for the drip.
The Biscuits are the interchangers—the translator's of the stratosphere's mother-tongue. They are the thinking man's techno—the purported sire of Johann Bach and Afrikaa Bambataa, throwing sand at the other kids in the sandbox.
They pillage where others merely forage. They are not critters but exquisite beasts composed of bass and meter.
They send 16-yr. old girls into orgasmic and frenetic rain dances, puppeteering their pheromones like so many dark and libidinous marauders of the id…
*~*~*
Give me Biscuits any day.
Give me a four-man machine banging out the symphonies by which the Demons of the Mind chase you in the night. Sound Tribe? Please. I care not for mindless and inexplicable segues or purposeful moments of anti-climax. Give me not a happy ending but a mind-blowing orgasm from Aphrodite herself: the feeling of goddesses tugging gently at your pudenda.
Biscuits are what Beethoven hears while drowning and being torn apart by sharks.
Often I find myself equating music with candy—for what two better earthly concoctions exist? (and all the better, since I consume both of theme with voracious criticism).
Sound Tribe? Pssshaaw. That shit's gummi worms—empty and thrilless.
Biscuits is blowin' Pixie Stix straight up your nose and waiting for the drip.
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