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.

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.

*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.

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…

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.