Pugnacious Kerfuffle With a Vengeance

--What is the deal with Stargate SG-1? The Sci-Fi channel shows like seven hours of this damn show every Monday night, then continues showing it throughout the week. Playing any show on a schedule like that is downright bizarre, but this show as a bonus completely sucks. At least 45 minutes is spent in each hour long show showing a bunch of military guys running around in the woods shooting a lot of fake ass lasers at everything. And wait a second...the woods? If I remember the movie correctly, the alternate dimension was a DESERT. I know the show is filmed in Vancouver, but hell, so were first few seasons of The X-Files, and they had desert scenes in some episodes. Just dump some red food coloring into a rock quarry. Instant desert. But no...just just shift it to the woods instead, because we're lazy.

It also makes the same old mistakes Star Trek did, such as alien beings not really being alien, just being black guys wearing a lot of makeup. You know this guy is an alien, BECAUSE HE'S BLACK AND HAS SOME SORT OF SPIRAL PATTERN IN HIS FOREHEAD! DUDE, THAT'S LIKE, SO CRAZY AND ALIEN AND STUFF!

Oh well, at least they took Tremors: The Series off the air.


--People mispronounce everything:

You look in the mirror, not the "meer".
You drink milk, not "melk".
Mischievous is pronounced "mischief-vus", not "mis-chee-vee-us".
Porsche is pronounced "Porsha", not just "Porsh".
On a similar note, Audi is "Ow-dee", not "Aw-dee".
When you buy a bedroom suite, that's a "sweet", not a "suit".
En route is pronounced "on root" or "on rout", not "in root" or "in rout".
Haute is pronounced "oat", not "hawt".

Learn this shit, folks, I'm tired of correcting you.


--I'm getting tired of people misusing the word "ego". The word is supposed to refer to one's self esteem, but is also defined as an inappropriate love for oneself. Any time someone stands up for himself for any reason or actually sticks to his principles, people say he has a big ego. Like the only reason he doesn't accept what's handed to him is because he thinks he's better. No, he doesn't have principles and a strong sense of character and honor, he's just conceited and stubborn.

People (women are especially bad about this, but you hear it from men a lot too) will often get some sort of penis comment in there, too. Oh yeah. If someone doesn't allow himself to be pushed around, he must have a small penis. Am I the only one who doesn't see a connection there? You might as well conclude that his thumbs aren't the same length. So by this logic, Cool Hand Luke and Vanishing Point were about self-important stubborn assholes with small penises. Yeah. Now it all makes sense.

Everyone today has this weird concept of "I'll accept any degree of disgrace, as long as I'm safe", and will attack anyone who doesn't subscribe to the same point of view. These people often wallow around in the shallow cesspool of modern life, perfectly content to walk around in the mall yacking on mobile phones buying (imitation) high-end merchandise and pursuing their own selfish goals, since they have their entire lives planned out ahead of time and don't think that anything could ever possibly get in the way of their all-important plans.

That, dear readers, is ego.

Smack, Shit, and Yay: A Dialogue

If you've watched television in that last five years or so, you've surely seen those spots from the Partnership for a Drug-Free America about talking to kids about drug use. They show a parent and child doing sundry things in silence - eating breakfast, riding in the car, or whatever - in total silence. This is followed by the text "Another missed opportunity to talk to your child about drugs". These ads kill me...it's as if every moment of precious silence between parents and their kids should be spent with the parent preaching at the kid about not using drugs. But instead of ranting at length about this topic, I've decided to write a short dialogue, in a vague screenplay format.

Smack, Shit, and Yay

Setting: The front seat of a car driving down a stereotypical upper-middle class suburban road.

M - A mother
S - Her son
IJ - Indiana Jones, world famous adventurer and archaeologist

(Fade in. A gold Toyota Camry with a stick on Jesus fish on the trunk lid and a lot of beads and fake flowers hanging from the mirror is driving down a tree-lined road through the suburbs. All houses are two-story, all lawns are a perfect emerald color with every blade of grass the exact same length. A mother is driving. She is a typical television housewife: Blonde, 35 years old, wearing clothes from J.C. Penny, and completely devoid of any sexuality. Her son is next to her. He has a large white guy 'fro that makes his hair look vaguely like a huge brown brain. His clothes are from Old Navy. He's a stereotypical "teen slouch" in the passenger's seat, and is staring absently out the passenger's window.

M: So...how's school?
S: It sucks.
M: (laughing) Of course.
S: My first period teacher is a dick.
M: Don't use that word.
S: Sorry, ma.
(There is a long pause.)
M: You know...you shouldn't use drugs.
(He looks over at her, dumbfounded. She's still staring at the road ahead.)
S: ...huh?
M: You shouldn't use drugs.
S: I don't. Except that ritalin you've had me on since I was eight.
M: Ritalin isn't a drug.
S: It isn't?
M: No. It's legal. Drugs are illegal. And bad.
S: Well in that case, I don't use any drugs.
M: That's not the issue.
S: Then why'd you bring it up?
M: Because I'm supposed to.
S: Because you saw it in a commercial?
M: (defensively) It was from the Partnership for a Drug-Free America.
S: Exactly. Ma, you are aware that that organization is just a political lobbying arm of the American pharmaceutical industry, right? And that they only exist to keep illegal drugs illegal because they're more effective than the swill that Pfizer and GlaxoSmithKline unloads on an unsuspecting public every day? Come on, do you seriously think anyone would take Prozac is marijuana was legal?
M: (looking surprised, then upset) You've been reading Newsweek again, haven't you?
S: (sighs and rolls eyes) No...
M: Yes you have. Kids your age are too stupid to think up things like that on your own. And you know I've warned you about the liberal media...
S: Christ, Ma...
M: Don't take the Lord's name in vain.
S: Jesus...
M: I mean it. Stop it!
S: Damn Ma, you pull this shit all the time. I know you think you're doing this for my own good, but stop taking parenting lessons from TV ads. I understand the effects of illegal substances thanks to the holdover Reagan-era preaching against them in the public schools, and even more so I know of the legal ramifications of taking, selling, or just carrying contraband. All I have to do is flip on the news and hear about the next celebrity getting 300 years in jail for having a bong.
(During this whole speech, his mother has been looking shocked. She finally clears her throat and speaks.)
M: You said "shit"...
S: (staring at her incredulously) You didn't hear a word I said, did you?
M: Oh yes I did, mister! I heard "shit"! That's it! No X-BOX for a week!
S: (quietly, while looking out the window again) Okay.
M: Oh, that's not enough, huh? No TV for a month!
S: I don't live off TV the way you do.
M: No cell phone for a month, either, Mr. Back-Talk!
S: I don't have a cell-phone. I'm not into mindless fads.
M: You're confined to your room for the next year!
S: (Looks back at her as if hit by an epiphany) You're waiting for it, aren't you?
M: Waiting for what?
S: Waiting for me to say "That's not fair".
(Mother still stares straight ahead at the road, but her expression reads that he's just figured her out.)
S: ...because, you know, that's what they always say on TV...
M: Well you just think you know it all, don't you?
S: So just because I've butted heads with you on this issue, the assumption is that I think I'm smarter than you?
M: Well you do. All you teens are the same. Well, it doesn't matter. We're here.
(Mother makes a right turn. Son is looking out the windows, confused.)
S: Um...where are we, anyway?
M: This is Narconon Arrowhead.
S: (eyes grow wide) Narc....you're sending me to rehab!?!?
M: That's right. Be strong.
S: Christ Ma, I already told you I don't even use drugs!
M: You all do. You teens with your "smack" and your "shit" and your "yay". And stop taking the Lord's name in vain. I'll have to send you to church after you're cured to break you of that habit.
(Men in white coats open the passenger's door and start to drag the son out. He's screaming and fighting them the whole time.)
S: N0, YOU CAN'T! MA, I SWEAR I DON'T DO DRUGS!
M: If you say that when you come back, I'll believe you. And you're still grounded. Bye.
(Panning overhead shot. Car tires screech as the mother rapidly accelerates out of the parking lot. Three white-coated men are dragging the still screaming teenager into a large white building. Fade out.

THE END

Production Note: Indiana Jones could not appear in this production as previously scheduled. Harrison Ford has come down with the flu, and Tom Selleck can't play him now because no one remembers who he is anymore.

Grease Pit of Despair

Do you ever see middle-aged people working in fast food restaurants? Does it make you sad? It does me. I'm much more comfortable seeing a homeless middle-aged person than one working in fast food.

Mostly younger people work in fast food joints. Guys still in high school, or perhaps working their way through college. And there's nothing really wrong with that. It's just a temporary thing. Maybe college money, maybe spending money, maybe work experience. They'll be there a few months before they get canned by the faceless bureaucracy of managers, heads, and the store owner. And they'll probably get canned for something normal, like taking a sick day when they're sick, or get caught sitting down after they've been standing for four hours. Big deal. It's fast food. They pride themselves on a high employee turnout rate, and some of those kids have their whole lives ahead of them. Some are destined to be losers, but not all. One of them might even own the store one day.

Likewise, it doesn't bother me much to see older people in the industry either. They're probably retirees making ends meet. They've already lived, now it's time for them to settle for what little social security they have left after the guys in Washington are finished fiddle-fucking around with it. And in order to afford things that old people buy, like diapers and cat food and eggs and 19 large bottles of prune juice (I still mad at that old bastard), they have to take up a job that pays a little money for them to do a job that a monkey could do, provided it's a monkey with sufficient training. Hello Burger King.

But people between 30 and 50...that bothers me. These are the people who can actually feel their lives slipping away from them, but can't do anything about it. They have to kiss ass and try desperately not to offend their "superiors" by leaving grease on the fry hopper. After all, if they lose their job, they'll have to spend 6 months or more attempting to find a new job. Who wants to hire a 40 year old with no education, fresh from Steak & Shake?

I spend a few months in high school working at a fast food joint (I won't name it, but it rhymes with "WcZonald's"), and found the whole thing to be a negative yet worthwhile experience. It taught me valuable life experience, and proved to be a metaphor for the passing of time. No, really.

Birth is the moment of hiring. You're brought forth into a brave new world, slapped on the ass, and given a ball cap. You immediately go to school, also known as one night of on-the-job training, where you are repeatedly told how the Steak Dildofucker Lobster wrap is prepared. Try not to wince when that fat woman comes in and orders 20 of them.

Marriage is your ten minute break. You don't really want to do it, but it's expected of you. After a while you come to terms with it and even come to appreciate it, but you have another one every day and all of them are too short.

What is product of marriage? Children, usually. What is the product of your ten minute break? Trash, usually. Trash from all the free food you consume waiting for the ten minutes to be up. Therefore, when you have to take the trash out, you're driving your children to school. You don't want to, but no one else will. Buncha lazy deadbeats.

Any unexpected yet benign turn of events is the announcement of a new sandwhich. It's not necessarily a bad thing, but you'll have to learn to deal with it. Likewise any breakdowns in communication between you and those you depend on is the Coke machine on the fritz. That'll happen pretty often, trust me.

All the negative things in your life is the Grease Pit. Now, depending on where you work, that could be an actual pit in the ground, or it could be a big watertight above-ground container which looks not unlike a dumpster. You walk out into the bitter, probably rainy night and wheel along with a little container full of grease and old eggs that were stuck in the grill's grease channels all day, and then open up that pit and start pumping the grease in with the big handle, trying the whole time not to vomit at the sickeningly vile stench of the old grease rising from the murky depth (I just referenced my own blog - go me!). Taxes, dead-end jobs, and your own impending death can be likened to draining the grease. It's awful, but it must be. It will be.

Finally, there's your inevitable death. That's when they suddenly stop scheduling you to come in, then tell you a week later when you pick up your latest paycheck: "Oh, by the way, you're dead".

.......

You know what? Maybe all this is a bad analogy. More likely, this was just a sucky job that I did and lots of other people do. And it depresses me that people who aren't old yet aren't young either are often stuck doing it.

That's all. See you next entry.

The Real World

"If you think it's tough now, just wait until you get in The Real World."

Did you ever hear that one in high school? I sure did. Constantly. It always used to bug me, too. The people who said that never seemed to be too worried about their peers ganging up on them and beating the shit out of them in the restroom, or having their cars vandalized for not going to church, or having someone steal their writing utensils and laugh when they couldn't find them. As such, it always bugged me more when they added this part:

"Wait until you have to start paying bills."

OH MY GOD. PAYING BILLS. What better representation of the treachery and aggression of man? I mean, there's this money in the bank, and then you write a check, and lo and behold, you have less money in the bank and have to wait until next week to get more. IT'S SO COMPLICATED! And if they don't get their money, they might have to reposess your 25 inch color television, and then how could you ever hold your head high and be proud when someone comes to visit and sees that bare spot in your Ikea entertainment center?

Of course, it's because they're successful. Or at least trying to be. This is another thing that's been pounded into all of our heads since when were young. "Grow up and be successful". "Go to college, or you won't be successful". "Strive for good grades, don't just accept Cs. You should try to be successful". And of course, by "be successful", they mean "switch your brain off and dive head first into our wonderful consumer culture". The media helps them all along. We get these wonderful "inspirational" films like Coach Carter, where some crabby old bastard shoves around a bunch of kids and teaches them to fear and never question authority, and wear a suit and tie because then they'll be successful.

You know what success in this capacity means? It means getting a job with an annual salary instead of an hourly one. I mean, it might only be $30,000 a year, but at least you get to (read, have to) wear a suit and tie and carry a briefcase. But you'll get things like health insurance and a 401k to make up for that. And stock options, which are all-important, even though you have no clue how the stock market works. Sure, your boss is a 50 year old dick who has a wife the size of a subcompact automobile and is taking it out on you because he can't get it up for her and she's making him go to a marriage counselor, but that doesn't matter because you'll have a "corner office", which you love because it's in the corner, which apparently is good for some reason. And you'll have your own computer. Golly gee!

And if you finance it for five years, maybe you can get one of those fancy "sports sedans" - so named because they're too slow and boring to be sports cars but ride too harshly and don't look elegant enough to be luxury cars - made by some upscale-sounding manufacturer with a lot of "x"s and "i"s in the name, and is actually a branch of some Japanese corporation that normally makes cars so lame you wouldn't be caught dead near them. Imagine the surprise on the face of your coworkers when you glide into your "Employee of the Month" parking spot in your new Lexifinicura GSXR-487600-2000. They'll marvel at your ability to blend in with traffic with your car's "sleek", lozenge-like exterior, painted some non-offensive color like gold - oh, I'm sorry, I mean Cairo Sand Mica - and your plain tan-colored leather interior that looks just like every single other upscale car interior these days, except yours has that lovely LCD screen in the middle of the dashboard that lets you control everything in one place by navigating a series of menus. Or maybe, better still, you'll have "voice recognition", which will of course never recognize your voice. And you have the manumatic transmission...an automatic that lets you twitch the shifter up and down occasionally because you're too lame to know how to use a clutch.

And then you get the split level ranch house. Never mind that it has as much to do with ranches as Hidden Valley dressing, it's still called "ranch", which makes you all rugged and stuff. And it looks just like every other ranch house in your gated community where everyone tells you how often to cut your grass and what colors your house can be and get all jealous and contact the housing administrators when your new redwood deck is larger than their back patio. But that's okay. It has double-glazed windows! And four bedrooms! And three bathrooms! And a bar in the kitchen, but alcohol is evil, so you'll only serve cereal at this bar. It's a safe bar! Don't forget your plush carpeted family room with the fake fireplace. And screw that 25 inch television...you've got a plasma TV. It's got plasma in it. And that's good, because plasma in an important part of your blood. Even though you're making good money now, you're still in as much debt as that guy you went to high school with who is managing a dine-in restaurant for seven bucks an hour. You just have more stuff to show for it. Most of it you didn't really want, it's just that that big house you have looks SO BARE without lots of potted plants and shelves and doo-dads and what-nots and odds and ends and you don't want anyone coming to your house and seeing all that bare space and thinking that you can't afford to fill it with something, now do you? No. You have to keep up appearances.

Success also includes marriage. Oh yes. Your spouse will have a similar job, only he or she will commute in a minivan - not an SUV, because you're an environmentally conscious citizen who is "in touch with nature", even though you've never left the suburbs in your life - to haul the children around in. That's right, the inevitable children. Because once you get married, it's just a given that you have to stop using birth control and contribute to overpopulation. Maybe you'll do this four or five times, or even more if you're Catholic. Then your wife (or you, if you're female), having fulfilled the goal of most women to procreate, can stop trying to be attractive and fulfill the second goal of most women: Eat a lot of chocolate.

And then maybe 25 years from now, once you become a senior executive and your spouse is insisting on marriage counseling and your kids are taking all of your money to go to college but still insist you're an asshole because you won't let them get their genetalia pierced, you can take out your frustrations on the new guy. That one that's just started coming to work in the dandy new sports sedan, thinking he's hot shit.

Then, yes then, you will know you have been successful. Welcome to the Real World.

The Stupidity of Symbolism

I hate "American Pie". Not the movie, I mean I hate it too, but I'm specifically referring to that old song by Don McLean. Not only is it an irritating tune, but everybody holds it high as a shining example of poetry, what with all its "symbolic meaning" and all that malarkey. It's as if I'm the only person who has noticed that the song is about NOTHING.

The song starts out as an apparent lamentation on the death of Buddy Holly, then suddenly he starts talking about driving his Chevy. Then suddenly he starts on about faith in God. Then he's talking about someone being in love with some guy and dancing in a gym, then suddenly mentions that he likes rhythm and blues. Then he talks about being a "broncing buck" (what the fuck is that, anyway? Since when was "bronc" a verb?), then talks about borrowing a coat from James Dean, makes a fleeting mention of communism, then goes into a lot of non-sequitur shit that just happens to rhyme. Seriously, it's just verse after verse of this tripe, held together with that same tired, pointless chorus.

"But it's symbolic," fans of the song would argue.

No it isn't.

Most people don't understand the meaning of "symbolism". Symbols are supposed to stand for something. When you say one thing to mean something else entirely, that's not symbolism, it's just being pretentiously misleading. When you get a group of ten people together to discuss one piece of art and every single one of them says it means something different, then the artist has just failed to convey the image he wanted to. When you get that obscure, ANYTHING can be symbolic for ANYTHING. And I'll prove it.

The Wham song "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" is about heroin addiction.

Oh yeah. I said it.

Let me break the lyrics down for you:

Jitterbug
Jitterbug
Jitterbug
Jitterbug

This is one of many references to the initial euphoria of shooting up. "Jitterbug" is of course a very old, frantic, happy dance.

You put the boom-boom into my heart

This of course is a reference to the infamous "expanded senses" of a person on downers, being able to clearly hear his/her own heartbeat.

You send my soul sky high when your lovin' starts

Again, a reference to the euphoria of first shooting.

Jitterbug into my brain

Heroin's main function is that of a nervous system depressant, or a "downer", which slows the body down and triggers the release of endorphins, causing the afore-mentioned euphoria.

Goes a bang-bang-bang,

"Bang-bang-bang" would of course be the sound that a gun makes when shooting three times. The gun is symbolic, and the key word here is "shooting".

'til my feet do the same

Fidgety feet are of course one of the many side-effect of withdrawal. The songwriter needs his fix.

But something's bugging you
Something ain't right
My best friend told me what you did last night
Left me sleepin' in my bed

Now one thinks of the film Trainspotting. Apparently there is a group of heroin addicts who all get high together and crash in the songwriter's pad.

I was dreaming, but I should have been with you instead.

Spoken to the heroin. The songwriter obviously wishes that he never had to sleep so he could always feel that initial rush.

Wake me up before you go-go

Again, spoken to the heroin. The addict wants to be prepared for the moment the dosage wears off.

Don't leave me hanging on like a yo-yo
Wake me up before you go-go
I don't want to miss it when you hit that high

He wants time to prepare his next injection before his current one wears off.

Wake me up before you go-go
'Cause I'm not plannin' on going solo

"Going solo" could be a cryptic reference to "going clean".

Wake me up before you go-go
Take me dancing tonight
I wanna hit that high (yeah, yeah)

More dancing, most likely related to the "jitterbug" references throughout the song. Dancing = happiness, once he can "hit that high".

You take the grey skies out of my way
You make the sun shine brighter than Doris Day
Turned a bright spark into a flame

The addict has become very psychologically dependent on his fix. It has now become his only source of happiness.

My beats per minute never been the same

Another reference to the slowed heartbeat of one who is "high".

'Cause you're my lady, I'm your fool
It makes me crazy when you act so cruel
Come on, baby, let's not fight
We'll go dancing, everything will be all right

The heroin "being cruel" is probably a reference to the addict's tolerance level building up. He is almost pleading with it to "take him dancing", but it's being "cruel" in not providing him with the high he's always gotten from it.

Refrain

Cuddle up, baby, move in tight
We'll go dancing tomorrow night

Now satisfied with his fix, the addict begins to pass out, already looking forward to doing this again tomorrow night.

It's cold out there, but it's warm in bed
They can dance, we'll stay home instead

"Out there" could mean the world the addict lives in, and "bed" is most likely a coffin. The addict is saying that if he dies of an overdose, the bliss makes it completely worthwhile.

Final Refrain


I wouldn't be surprised if someone actually believes all this shit I just wrote. Face it, it's just a goofy old song about dancing and being in love, and nothing more. And if you at first don't recognize symbolism, it probably isn't there. Or if it is, it's probably at least not worth your time. Be it in a movie, song, book, or whatever...just enjoy the story and leave the pseudo-intellectual analysis to the only people it benefits: dipshit college kids trying to get laid.