Dear Little Sisters,
1. No, I am not being mean when I think your discomfort is funny, or when I do things "just to make you mad." Because I'm not trying to make you mad. I'm trying to see if you've fucking grown up at all, or if you're still offended by bullshit comments and light mockery. You're both in your twenties, and you're damn sensitive. I'm trying to find out if you've finally learned to stop taking everything so seriously.
2. I don't think I'm better than either of you. In fact, I know you're better than me. By the time I'm forty, I totally want to be fourteen-year-old Yellavitch. Fourteen-year-old Yellavitch was hilarious and fearless and unembarrassed and self-aware of her naivety, and smiled often. What happened in the past seven years that made you so coiled and defensive and angry? I'm fascinated. I care. Stop being a stupid bitch and getting angry at me for giving a shit about you.
3. Chill out. Yes, you're being a stupid bitch. Let's talk about this.
4. You both insult me constantly. Half of the sentences you say to me begin with, "No offense, sister, but you [are not a shining example of success--are never on time--drink too much--will talk to anyone and it's creepy--spend money unwisely on stupid things like traveling--don't exactly have the most reliable friends and therefore you are not a good judge of character--don't care about anything--aren't wearing bra--are a walking joke--will never be taken seriously--should never be a mom--don't know everything--etc.]." I don't argue with you on these points, because you're entitled to say whatever you want to say. That, and sometimes I find them hilarious. Sure, you hurt my feelings too, and I usually just laugh it off. But I hear you, and I understand you, and I'm pretty sure I comprehend your words on a far more intimate level than you anticipate.
6. I don't think you should respond to a question or comment the same way I respond, because you are not me. Duh. But instead of going all fucking crazy banshee when I ask you your top ten favorite movies, maybe you could just have a conversation with me. It is not offensive to be interested in your likes and dislikes.
7. Of course I'm judging you. Sisters, every person you encounter judges you, this is inevitable. They judge the way you walk, the sound your feet make, if they like your belt or your hair. They judge your mood by the expression on your face. They make decisions about your worth when they don't even intend to do so. Every. Single. Person. They judge you by choosing to ignore your presence, by oggling your rack, by turning the other way, by making eye contact and smiling.
8. The difference between me and you is that sometimes, I choose to judge people by speaking to them and making a decision. You judge people by pretending they don't exist. Seriously, by choosing to remain strangers with a person, you imply that someone is not worth knowing. This is not rude, it's just the way it is. Everyone does it. Sometimes, not all the time, I choose to make an attempt at friendship. So...yes. I'm the person that talks to people riding the elevator, in line for a roller coaster, sitting at the bar.
9. What better way to find out about someone than learning what they love? Um, I'm sorry, but people are defined by their interests and their actions. Those are the closest things outsiders have to reading minds.
10. So, yes, asking people their top ten favorite movies is important. It's very important, and I don't want you telling me otherwise, because the fact of the matter is you don't fucking know everything. The order you list them is essential, even though I made a point of annoucing its irrelevance. If you think order matters, you'll try harder to do it right. Loving things isn't about being right.
Your development in linking one movie to the next is significant. Your explanations between titles is imperative to your thought process. It's mesmerizing watching people churn and burn and glow over discussing something they love.
Yes, it must be limited to ten, because constrictions push your internal discussion and reaction outward and amp up the interesting. I understand that people are allowed to watch more than ten movies. I've seen well over three thousand, according to Netflix. That's six months of my life. I worked at a video store and didn't have cable. Yes, I understand that one cannot be defined by a mere ten things, I'm not fucking retarded. But that doesn't mean it's not interesting, it doesn't mean you can't learn something about a person from it.
See, that's what you don't understand: this isn't life or death. They don't have to be your top ten for the rest of your goddamn life. It's about me witnessing your personal connectional hurricane and learning about you.
Take away social pretension about trying to impress someone with your elite knowledge, these aren't the best movies, they are your movies. Just name ten movies you love, and then I know the narrative style that speaks to you, I know what jokes resonate, I know what excites you, and what you're afraid of, how you define yourself, how you see other people, how you want to be seen. And if you're trying to be impressive and elite, I'll know that too.
Stop taking shit so seriously and just play.
Love,
Me
...
My header image is awesome.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Tell Me Something New
We would be washing the walls and the woodwork or something, and my dad would snap on a record. His favorites were The Stranger and Darkness on the Edge of Town, damn near anything by The Who, The Beatles, or The Turtles. Off the Wall. Zeppelin II. Songs in the Key of Life. Pet Sounds. Van Halen. Madman Across the Water. He didn't gravitate towards the deep cuts or unusual takes, just anything and everything. And with every song, he would tell me something new.
"You know this song? It's about wishing you were still a little kid and causing trouble. Because sometimes getting in trouble is fun." And then he would laugh, loud and roaring, because he laughs at everything he says. "Don't tell your mom I said that, she would kill me. What's your favorite part of the song?"
"Ummmmm...the part about Christmas!"
"You know the part where they say, 'you nasty boy'?"
"You nasty boy," I sing it. I probably shake my butt, too.
"Well, a couple of years ago, this guy's sister," and my dad points to the cover of Off the Wall, "wrote a song where she used that line as the chorus."
"Ooohhhhhhhh."
"Because Stevie Wonder is so good at what he does that people from all over thought that to prove how much they liked him, they should put parts of his songs in parts of theirs, like a secret just for people who liked him too. And now you know the secret."
At like eight years old, I knew fucking all of them. I knew that John
Entwhistle wrote "Boris the Spider," I knew that the cover of Pet Sounds was shot at San Diego Zoo, which was the exact same zoo in the commercial with all the people feet walking by a rock and then there are paws instead of feet, I knew that good drummers always die, I knew that "Ramble On" talked about that big red leather book on our fireplace that had a scary map inside and I was not allowed to touch it because it was a big deal and "sometimes, Mom is a nerd."
I had my favorites, which in retrospect are all angrier and sadder than normal eight-year-old music, and I didn't realize it until I started listing them about thirty seconds ago. "Levon" and "Adam Raised a Cain" and "The Stranger."
When I cleaned with my mom, it was different.
"What's this song about?"
"It's about a nice girl named Barbara Ann."
"What's this song about?"
"It's about a boy who wants to hold hands with a nice girl." She wasn't trying to keep me from learning things, she just listened to different music. Plus she's not much of a storyteller, and my dad never shuts up.
So when I'd ask my dad, "What's this song about?" I would get:
"Well about twenty years ago, America started a war with Vietnam, which is a small country in Asia, and lots of people thought it was wrong. So a bunch of college kids thought they would gather together and show everyone they thought the government was wrong for making people fight in a war that they didn't want to fight. Well, some soldiers were there, too, and they were supposed to make sure the students didn't get out of control. But they shot and killed four students. It could have been an accident, or maybe it was on purpose. But it was really sad, and it was all over the magazines, and there were pictures of people getting shot. People all across the country were pissed off. And then Neil Young decided to write a song about it, and he got his three friends," and here is where Dad would count on his fingers, "David Crosby, Stephen Stills, and Graham Nash to help him play it. And they called themselves Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. The song is called 'Ohio' because that's where Kent State University is. And now, because of this song, everyone will remember those kids that died."
I think I paid far more attention to my dad's lessons during movies and songs and television shows than I ever did in school.
...
"You know this song? It's about wishing you were still a little kid and causing trouble. Because sometimes getting in trouble is fun." And then he would laugh, loud and roaring, because he laughs at everything he says. "Don't tell your mom I said that, she would kill me. What's your favorite part of the song?"
"Ummmmm...the part about Christmas!"
"You know the part where they say, 'you nasty boy'?"
"You nasty boy," I sing it. I probably shake my butt, too.
"Well, a couple of years ago, this guy's sister," and my dad points to the cover of Off the Wall, "wrote a song where she used that line as the chorus."
"Ooohhhhhhhh."
"Because Stevie Wonder is so good at what he does that people from all over thought that to prove how much they liked him, they should put parts of his songs in parts of theirs, like a secret just for people who liked him too. And now you know the secret."
At like eight years old, I knew fucking all of them. I knew that John
Entwhistle wrote "Boris the Spider," I knew that the cover of Pet Sounds was shot at San Diego Zoo, which was the exact same zoo in the commercial with all the people feet walking by a rock and then there are paws instead of feet, I knew that good drummers always die, I knew that "Ramble On" talked about that big red leather book on our fireplace that had a scary map inside and I was not allowed to touch it because it was a big deal and "sometimes, Mom is a nerd." I had my favorites, which in retrospect are all angrier and sadder than normal eight-year-old music, and I didn't realize it until I started listing them about thirty seconds ago. "Levon" and "Adam Raised a Cain" and "The Stranger."
When I cleaned with my mom, it was different.
"What's this song about?"
"It's about a nice girl named Barbara Ann."
"What's this song about?"
"It's about a boy who wants to hold hands with a nice girl." She wasn't trying to keep me from learning things, she just listened to different music. Plus she's not much of a storyteller, and my dad never shuts up.
So when I'd ask my dad, "What's this song about?" I would get:
"Well about twenty years ago, America started a war with Vietnam, which is a small country in Asia, and lots of people thought it was wrong. So a bunch of college kids thought they would gather together and show everyone they thought the government was wrong for making people fight in a war that they didn't want to fight. Well, some soldiers were there, too, and they were supposed to make sure the students didn't get out of control. But they shot and killed four students. It could have been an accident, or maybe it was on purpose. But it was really sad, and it was all over the magazines, and there were pictures of people getting shot. People all across the country were pissed off. And then Neil Young decided to write a song about it, and he got his three friends," and here is where Dad would count on his fingers, "David Crosby, Stephen Stills, and Graham Nash to help him play it. And they called themselves Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. The song is called 'Ohio' because that's where Kent State University is. And now, because of this song, everyone will remember those kids that died."
I think I paid far more attention to my dad's lessons during movies and songs and television shows than I ever did in school.
...
Friday, June 26, 2009
Top Five?
As a rule, in all seriousness: AS A RULE I do not acknowledge celebrities, their personal lives, all the bullshit surrounding them.
I don't follow their day-to-day activities, I don't read the magazines, I don't care about their fashions, I don't follow gossip, I don't watch reality TV, and I don't give a shit.
There are people who don't deserve my time or my concentration. School shooters. Couples with too many children. Young, rich twenty-somethings who live like hobbits. In hills. God, I am hilare. Fashion gurus who try to convince us that we can only gain respect if we dress a certain way and follow certain rules (whatever, I would take a stringless $5,000 for a new wardrobe before ordering a beer, and that's business right there, but adhering to the parameters defining some shows is fucking bullshit).
As a rule: I don't care if you do.
As a rule: what you like is what you like, and who am I to keep someone from any personal joy?
I should also add that I am totally drunk right now.
My friends will attest to this. Family, coworkers. Anyone who's been reading this blog since I started it a little over a year ago can't argue with the fact that I don't talk about the fucking news or whatever pop culture bullshit is going on. I wrote about the birthdays of Kurt Vonnegut and Charles Darwin, electing Obama. That's basically it. To earn my respect, you have to leave a fucking mark. You have to be yourself: controversial, a decided individual, and your intentions, however misguided, must be good from my perspective.
In the end, whether you liked him or not, whether you believe he was innocent or guilty, whether you devoted yourself to his music or were repulsed by it...the imprint Michael Jackson left on the world is inarguable. Musically, philanthropically, medically, judicially, whateverly.
So, in no particular order, here are my top five favorite Michael Jackson/5 songs:
1. Man in the Mirror
2. Dirty Diana
3. Blame it on the Boogie
4. Rock With You
5. I Want You Back
And again, another thing I haven't done, wouldn't do, but feel compelled to ask: what are yours?
...
I don't follow their day-to-day activities, I don't read the magazines, I don't care about their fashions, I don't follow gossip, I don't watch reality TV, and I don't give a shit.
There are people who don't deserve my time or my concentration. School shooters. Couples with too many children. Young, rich twenty-somethings who live like hobbits. In hills. God, I am hilare. Fashion gurus who try to convince us that we can only gain respect if we dress a certain way and follow certain rules (whatever, I would take a stringless $5,000 for a new wardrobe before ordering a beer, and that's business right there, but adhering to the parameters defining some shows is fucking bullshit).
As a rule: I don't care if you do.
As a rule: what you like is what you like, and who am I to keep someone from any personal joy?
I should also add that I am totally drunk right now.
My friends will attest to this. Family, coworkers. Anyone who's been reading this blog since I started it a little over a year ago can't argue with the fact that I don't talk about the fucking news or whatever pop culture bullshit is going on. I wrote about the birthdays of Kurt Vonnegut and Charles Darwin, electing Obama. That's basically it. To earn my respect, you have to leave a fucking mark. You have to be yourself: controversial, a decided individual, and your intentions, however misguided, must be good from my perspective.
In the end, whether you liked him or not, whether you believe he was innocent or guilty, whether you devoted yourself to his music or were repulsed by it...the imprint Michael Jackson left on the world is inarguable. Musically, philanthropically, medically, judicially, whateverly.
So, in no particular order, here are my top five favorite Michael Jackson/5 songs:
1. Man in the Mirror
2. Dirty Diana
3. Blame it on the Boogie
4. Rock With You
5. I Want You Back
And again, another thing I haven't done, wouldn't do, but feel compelled to ask: what are yours?
...
Thursday, June 25, 2009
This One Time, My Friend Moe Had To Teach Me How To Properly Thrust And Grab My Crotch While We Were Reinacting "Dirty Diana."
You can all have your Beat It and your Billie Jean.
I call dibs on this, beeyotch.
...
I call dibs on this, beeyotch.
...
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
I Was On Fire This Weekend, Figuratively Speaking.
"Excuse me," I slide up to the gentlemen at the bar. I'm like butter. "I couldn't help but overhear that, uh, you guys were having a conversation. Might I join?"
They stop talking and turn to look at me. Turn to each other, one motion, then back at me, amused and trying to hold back surprised chuckles. I'm deadpan and drunk as all hell, and focused on keeping my eyes naturally wide and innocent, but I probably look like some drunk girl focused on keeping her eyes wide and innocent, and it's fucking brilliant.
"Really? Did you just say that?"
I tilt, like a bird. "Say what?"
"That. Is. Awesome. Yes," the first guy snickers. I name him Hat Guy in my brain, and he offers me a beer-spilling cheers, "Yes, yes, you can join in on our conversation."
"How come we never thought of that?" the second guy (I have named him Ginger by now) says to Hat Guy as he sips his beer.
"Because I am on fire today," I explain, "you guys have like, no idea how awesome I am today. Go on. Ask me how awesome I am."
"How awesome are you?" they're in unison, and it's funny.
I smile, and I'm butter again. "Very."
"Okay, that's fair," Hat Guy smiles.
"I'm convinced," Ginger adds.
I take a sip of my beer. "I am so awesome," I clap my hand on Hat Guy's shoulder, "that I just invented the best pick-up line ever, because it's not just a pick-up line, it's a test." I nod at them, knowingly, willing them to understand.
It takes a few seconds. They're befuddled, slightly, and Hat Guy starts to come around. "Oh, because if we think it's funny..."
"Then you are also awesome."
"So you're picking us up?" Ginger won't look at me. Look at me, Ginger, or I will make you look at me.
"Oh, psssh, no," I'm smug and drunk, and my feet slip on the floor behind their barstools, "they just dared me to talk to you guys and I was all, 'fucking watch this, bitches, I'm like a social butterfly' and I said the first thing that came to mind. By the way, I don't know if you guys saw that, but I totally just almost slipped and fell right there, and then you guys would have had to pick up pieces of my face."
They laugh. "I like you," Ginger nods.
Hat Guy agrees. "Yeah, I like her, too."
Duh. "Duh. I'm like a genius or something."
"Or something. What's your name?"
We exchange names, and I forget theirs instantly. They are Hat Guy and Ginger.
"So, Rassles, what're you drinking?" Hat Guy asks.
"PBR. Are you buying me a beer? You are excellent."
Ginger turns to me. "So, you're a genius, right? You said that?"
I nod very seriously.
"Plus, you have good pick up lines," Ginger says.
"Plus that, and then multiply it by awesome."
"So your friends told you to talk to us," Hat Guy affirms.
"Yup." I wave my hand towards the corner and and grab the back of his chair. "Over there. Back corner. I'm glad I did--you guys are fun."
Hat Guy smiles and ponders for a moment while he hands me my beer. "I'm gonna go talk to them." He stands up. "You don't mind?"
"Go nuts, Hat Guy."
He laughs, marching over to their table.
"Be nice! Some of them are from Canada," I yell after him. Turn to Ginger. "So seriously, what were you guys talking about?"
...
They stop talking and turn to look at me. Turn to each other, one motion, then back at me, amused and trying to hold back surprised chuckles. I'm deadpan and drunk as all hell, and focused on keeping my eyes naturally wide and innocent, but I probably look like some drunk girl focused on keeping her eyes wide and innocent, and it's fucking brilliant.
"Really? Did you just say that?"
I tilt, like a bird. "Say what?"
"That. Is. Awesome. Yes," the first guy snickers. I name him Hat Guy in my brain, and he offers me a beer-spilling cheers, "Yes, yes, you can join in on our conversation."
"How come we never thought of that?" the second guy (I have named him Ginger by now) says to Hat Guy as he sips his beer.
"Because I am on fire today," I explain, "you guys have like, no idea how awesome I am today. Go on. Ask me how awesome I am."
"How awesome are you?" they're in unison, and it's funny.
I smile, and I'm butter again. "Very."
"Okay, that's fair," Hat Guy smiles.
"I'm convinced," Ginger adds.
I take a sip of my beer. "I am so awesome," I clap my hand on Hat Guy's shoulder, "that I just invented the best pick-up line ever, because it's not just a pick-up line, it's a test." I nod at them, knowingly, willing them to understand.
It takes a few seconds. They're befuddled, slightly, and Hat Guy starts to come around. "Oh, because if we think it's funny..."
"Then you are also awesome."
"So you're picking us up?" Ginger won't look at me. Look at me, Ginger, or I will make you look at me.
"Oh, psssh, no," I'm smug and drunk, and my feet slip on the floor behind their barstools, "they just dared me to talk to you guys and I was all, 'fucking watch this, bitches, I'm like a social butterfly' and I said the first thing that came to mind. By the way, I don't know if you guys saw that, but I totally just almost slipped and fell right there, and then you guys would have had to pick up pieces of my face."
They laugh. "I like you," Ginger nods.
Hat Guy agrees. "Yeah, I like her, too."
Duh. "Duh. I'm like a genius or something."
"Or something. What's your name?"
We exchange names, and I forget theirs instantly. They are Hat Guy and Ginger.
"So, Rassles, what're you drinking?" Hat Guy asks.
"PBR. Are you buying me a beer? You are excellent."
Ginger turns to me. "So, you're a genius, right? You said that?"
I nod very seriously.
"Plus, you have good pick up lines," Ginger says.
"Plus that, and then multiply it by awesome."
"So your friends told you to talk to us," Hat Guy affirms.
"Yup." I wave my hand towards the corner and and grab the back of his chair. "Over there. Back corner. I'm glad I did--you guys are fun."
Hat Guy smiles and ponders for a moment while he hands me my beer. "I'm gonna go talk to them." He stands up. "You don't mind?"
"Go nuts, Hat Guy."
He laughs, marching over to their table.
"Be nice! Some of them are from Canada," I yell after him. Turn to Ginger. "So seriously, what were you guys talking about?"
...
Friday, June 19, 2009
The Declaration of Creative License
Updates on YoTW, my psychic-ness, and my awesomosity:
A couple weeks ago, Lailani sent me this link. I'm sure you're all familiar with the Three Wolf Moon shirt, but if not, consider yourself henceforth enlightened. It's not necessarily Teen Wolf, but seriously, read the last line of the article. Or read the whole thing, because either way it's rad.
Then, Ginny showed me this.
Basically, I need to do the script. It has to be me. It just HAS to. How do I get on that writing team? Whatever, you know it's got to be me and Boomer, the Vice President of the Year of Teen Wolf movement. I don't think there's anyone else in the world more qualified than the two of us to beat something like this into brilliance.
So I ask that all who come here sign this petition I've created:
When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the cinematic societal status arbitrarily assigned to them by self-appointed upper-echelon cinephiles, and to assume the rights of status given to those scholarly few and established screenwriters, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel their scriptwriting.
We hold these truths to be self-evident: that the sanctimonious Teen Wolf is untouchable in and of itself, that to do justice to a remake would require endowing the writing of a such a script to clever devotees, that among these devotees are Rassles, Boomer, and certain other members of the brilliant blog community. That to secure the proper script, we must be instituted as its Authors, deriving our awesome powers from the consent of the moviemakers. That because we predicted the Year of Teen Wolf, once the movie becomes eligible for remaking, it is the Right of Us to alter, abolish, or recreate it, and to institute a proper script, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them should most likely include Van Surfing and Air Punching. Prudence, indeed, should dictate that Classic Movies long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn that cinematic remakes are disposed to making audiences suffer while evil remakes are sufferable than to right themselves by supervising the reimagining of Movies to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations of previous beloved Classic Movies, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Horseshit, it is their right, it is their duty, to take control of Classic remakes, and to provide a higher standard for future remakes. Such has been the patient sufferance of audiences; and as such is now the necessity which constrains them to govern the alterations of Teen Wolf. The history of cinematic reimagining is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over audiences. To prove this, let facts be submitted to the candid world.
Psycho
Godzilla
Wicker Man
Planet of the Apes
The Nutty Professor
Get Carter*
Manchurian Candidate**
I Am Legend***
We, therefore, the undertyped, Representatives of the Blog Community of Rassles, on the internets, through assembled comments, appealing to the Moviemakers of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by the Authority of the good People of the Internet, solemnly publish and declare that Rassles is fresher than princes in Bel-Air, and Boomer is a master of sweeping cult movements, and the rest of us are really cool and chic and clever, and that we have the right to the creative license of Teen Wolf.
...
* Well, the original's not really that good either, but Stallone? Really? You suck.
** I'm devoted to the original and the book.
*** Also devoted to the book, but not all of the movies necessarily. Don't fuck with me on this. The movie completely missed the goddamn point.
...
A couple weeks ago, Lailani sent me this link. I'm sure you're all familiar with the Three Wolf Moon shirt, but if not, consider yourself henceforth enlightened. It's not necessarily Teen Wolf, but seriously, read the last line of the article. Or read the whole thing, because either way it's rad.
Then, Ginny showed me this.
Basically, I need to do the script. It has to be me. It just HAS to. How do I get on that writing team? Whatever, you know it's got to be me and Boomer, the Vice President of the Year of Teen Wolf movement. I don't think there's anyone else in the world more qualified than the two of us to beat something like this into brilliance.
So I ask that all who come here sign this petition I've created:
The Declaration of Creative License for Teen Wolf
When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the cinematic societal status arbitrarily assigned to them by self-appointed upper-echelon cinephiles, and to assume the rights of status given to those scholarly few and established screenwriters, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel their scriptwriting.
We hold these truths to be self-evident: that the sanctimonious Teen Wolf is untouchable in and of itself, that to do justice to a remake would require endowing the writing of a such a script to clever devotees, that among these devotees are Rassles, Boomer, and certain other members of the brilliant blog community. That to secure the proper script, we must be instituted as its Authors, deriving our awesome powers from the consent of the moviemakers. That because we predicted the Year of Teen Wolf, once the movie becomes eligible for remaking, it is the Right of Us to alter, abolish, or recreate it, and to institute a proper script, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them should most likely include Van Surfing and Air Punching. Prudence, indeed, should dictate that Classic Movies long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn that cinematic remakes are disposed to making audiences suffer while evil remakes are sufferable than to right themselves by supervising the reimagining of Movies to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations of previous beloved Classic Movies, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Horseshit, it is their right, it is their duty, to take control of Classic remakes, and to provide a higher standard for future remakes. Such has been the patient sufferance of audiences; and as such is now the necessity which constrains them to govern the alterations of Teen Wolf. The history of cinematic reimagining is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over audiences. To prove this, let facts be submitted to the candid world.
Psycho
Godzilla
Wicker Man
Planet of the Apes
The Nutty Professor
Get Carter*
Manchurian Candidate**
I Am Legend***
We, therefore, the undertyped, Representatives of the Blog Community of Rassles, on the internets, through assembled comments, appealing to the Moviemakers of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by the Authority of the good People of the Internet, solemnly publish and declare that Rassles is fresher than princes in Bel-Air, and Boomer is a master of sweeping cult movements, and the rest of us are really cool and chic and clever, and that we have the right to the creative license of Teen Wolf.
...
* Well, the original's not really that good either, but Stallone? Really? You suck.
** I'm devoted to the original and the book.
*** Also devoted to the book, but not all of the movies necessarily. Don't fuck with me on this. The movie completely missed the goddamn point.
...
Thursday, June 18, 2009
I know, but I don't know, you know?
It's not about being corporate, it's not about suits, it's not about conforming. It's about me, figuring out what I want to do, how I want to live. There's no path. It's all wandering.
Wandering is one thing I've always been good at. It's on my list. I can prove it.
And I know there's nothing wrong with that, but I don't know, you know?
Yes. I know wandering is all right for a life. But I'm still learning to accept the all-right-ness of it. I know I don't need that lifelong job of same, and I don't want one.
It's just kind of scary when I know that's what I'm going to be doing for the rest of my life. Wandering. Small goals. I don't want to spin it into something romantic or enlightened, because I don't believe it is. I'm not fucking Chris McCandless. Life isn't a journey, it just is. You take what's important to you and that's your Gold, it's not theirs, and honestly? I don't even care that much for gold. Laughing is far more becoming.
But hey, I'm standing up for the Suits right now: I've got friends who are suits, and they're the opposite of drones. Keifer and Emo got that down: Your job only defines you if you let it, and if you define yourself as an accountant, well...then you go and you fucking account for stuff, and you make sure that all stuff is accounted for like you're jones-in' for a raise.
Also: a Lego architect is still a fucking architect.
Furthermore: check out my blatant colon abuse, transversing sentences of all varieties.
Ohhhh....sometimes puns hurt.
I have yet to be accounted for, but I will figure it out. I'm allowed to vent. I understand you guys are just trying to let me know that being me is okay, but I've known that for awhile.
Right now, I need to find a goal. I'm not just going to flail around. Hopefully. I've never really liked interpretive dance. I prefer dance as a literal narrative.
So, what I'm saying is...I guess...thanks.
...
Wandering is one thing I've always been good at. It's on my list. I can prove it.
And I know there's nothing wrong with that, but I don't know, you know?
Yes. I know wandering is all right for a life. But I'm still learning to accept the all-right-ness of it. I know I don't need that lifelong job of same, and I don't want one.
It's just kind of scary when I know that's what I'm going to be doing for the rest of my life. Wandering. Small goals. I don't want to spin it into something romantic or enlightened, because I don't believe it is. I'm not fucking Chris McCandless. Life isn't a journey, it just is. You take what's important to you and that's your Gold, it's not theirs, and honestly? I don't even care that much for gold. Laughing is far more becoming.
But hey, I'm standing up for the Suits right now: I've got friends who are suits, and they're the opposite of drones. Keifer and Emo got that down: Your job only defines you if you let it, and if you define yourself as an accountant, well...then you go and you fucking account for stuff, and you make sure that all stuff is accounted for like you're jones-in' for a raise.
Also: a Lego architect is still a fucking architect.
Furthermore: check out my blatant colon abuse, transversing sentences of all varieties.
Ohhhh....sometimes puns hurt.
I have yet to be accounted for, but I will figure it out. I'm allowed to vent. I understand you guys are just trying to let me know that being me is okay, but I've known that for awhile.
Right now, I need to find a goal. I'm not just going to flail around. Hopefully. I've never really liked interpretive dance. I prefer dance as a literal narrative.
So, what I'm saying is...I guess...thanks.
...
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
I Ruin My Life, Or: Why Writing Is Like Sausage
I realized today, about five minutes ago, that I am absolutely terrified of trying to find a new job, and I do not want to do this forever, and I'm slowly ruining my own life with fear.
Not that I'm looking for a job, because I'm not. I have no plans of quitting. But seriously, after working here, what step up do I take?
I mean, my mom got me this internship here two and half years ago, and then I was promoted...but still. The four years preceding this job were full of interviews and denials, hundreds (thousands?) of resumes detailing dog grooming and zookeeping and bartending and whatever. Cracking into the Suit World is fucking hard when you have no marketable skills, no goals, and you barely graduated college.
They really advertise my insignificance around here when I'm not invited to things where the Important People all hang out with each other and talk about investing and financial stuff. I'm a fucking office manager. Children could do my job. Really really small ones. With sticky hands and speech impediments.
I know I can't do businessy things because I'm not cut out for this. Where do I go to make things and build things? Is there a job for that? Thing-doing? The only tangible goal I have in my life is to someday make enough money to live in a place with a yard so I can have a dog.
I'm trying to have a more ambitious mindset, I'm trying to learn the game, but I'm not a kiss-ass, I'm not a go-getter, I'm not very sharp, and I really have no self-confidence at anything other than telling stories and drinking, and I learned all of this about myself, really and truly, and understood it, about five minutes ago.
I miss waiting tables. I liked being the promising fuck-up instead of the disappointing success.
Man, I am such a fucking baby right now.
Shit. And I'm crying at my desk. I don't do this. No one's in the office right now, though. Every single other person is at an important meeting.
So at least they can't see me.
How did I get here? Happy childhood, no trauma, no abuse, very clean. Everything about me was/is average. Okay grades, good family. Good friends. At least I think they're good friends, and by that I mean the best friends like ever. Is that what it is? Is it because my friends are better than everyone elses, so to balance out that overwhelming Awesome, everything else must be mundane?
No great love or relationship, as always. I have an okay job which I do well enough. Chicago is an okay place to live (it is a fantastic place to live and a horrible place to live - so, you know, concept of balance). I'm not superhot but I sure ain't superugly. I support myself, but don't save. I get along with people well enough, unless I decide they're a douchebag.
I am the opposite of extraordinary. Is that why I turned to writing - so I can take all of the banal, the useless, the boring, and grind it out until I think it's linked together and delicious, like sausage?
How could I expect to write anything with a plot when my life lacks one?
So obviously, I need to go and start some shit. I don't know what, but I've been yammering about epicness lately, and then nothing epic really happened, so that means if some epic shit's going to go down, then it's up to me, right? Right.
Okay. I feel better now.
...
Not that I'm looking for a job, because I'm not. I have no plans of quitting. But seriously, after working here, what step up do I take?
I mean, my mom got me this internship here two and half years ago, and then I was promoted...but still. The four years preceding this job were full of interviews and denials, hundreds (thousands?) of resumes detailing dog grooming and zookeeping and bartending and whatever. Cracking into the Suit World is fucking hard when you have no marketable skills, no goals, and you barely graduated college.
They really advertise my insignificance around here when I'm not invited to things where the Important People all hang out with each other and talk about investing and financial stuff. I'm a fucking office manager. Children could do my job. Really really small ones. With sticky hands and speech impediments.
I know I can't do businessy things because I'm not cut out for this. Where do I go to make things and build things? Is there a job for that? Thing-doing? The only tangible goal I have in my life is to someday make enough money to live in a place with a yard so I can have a dog.
I'm trying to have a more ambitious mindset, I'm trying to learn the game, but I'm not a kiss-ass, I'm not a go-getter, I'm not very sharp, and I really have no self-confidence at anything other than telling stories and drinking, and I learned all of this about myself, really and truly, and understood it, about five minutes ago.
I miss waiting tables. I liked being the promising fuck-up instead of the disappointing success.
Man, I am such a fucking baby right now.
Shit. And I'm crying at my desk. I don't do this. No one's in the office right now, though. Every single other person is at an important meeting.
So at least they can't see me.
How did I get here? Happy childhood, no trauma, no abuse, very clean. Everything about me was/is average. Okay grades, good family. Good friends. At least I think they're good friends, and by that I mean the best friends like ever. Is that what it is? Is it because my friends are better than everyone elses, so to balance out that overwhelming Awesome, everything else must be mundane?
No great love or relationship, as always. I have an okay job which I do well enough. Chicago is an okay place to live (it is a fantastic place to live and a horrible place to live - so, you know, concept of balance). I'm not superhot but I sure ain't superugly. I support myself, but don't save. I get along with people well enough, unless I decide they're a douchebag.
I am the opposite of extraordinary. Is that why I turned to writing - so I can take all of the banal, the useless, the boring, and grind it out until I think it's linked together and delicious, like sausage?
How could I expect to write anything with a plot when my life lacks one?
So obviously, I need to go and start some shit. I don't know what, but I've been yammering about epicness lately, and then nothing epic really happened, so that means if some epic shit's going to go down, then it's up to me, right? Right.
Okay. I feel better now.
...
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Disgust
About twenty minutes ago, I'm standing outside. Needed to walk. Thinking about Poppy, how much this must suck for my dad. Whatever. I don't want to go to the funeral. I would rather go to the pie fight. But I'm going to the funeral, and I'm going to like it, because of Dad. I really just would rather ditch out on it. It's not like I hate Poppy - I just totally don't care about him. Who cares more about pie fights than their dead grandfather? Does this make me a horrible person? What kind of a--
"You disgust me. Disgusting," she says. This little old woman, pointing her long hook-handled umbrella at me. Looking me in the fucking eye. Snarling. She's not obviously dirty or street, but who knows? I look down at myself, thinking, well, I showered today, and my clothes fit...did she...?
"You disgust me."
And then she keeps on walking.
I turn to the suits standing behind me. "Did you guys see that?"
One of them nods, laughing awkwardly. "Uh, yeah."
I don't know what to do about that.
I'm actually quite used to having odd people approach me. Some of you know that. But this freaked me out.
...
"You disgust me. Disgusting," she says. This little old woman, pointing her long hook-handled umbrella at me. Looking me in the fucking eye. Snarling. She's not obviously dirty or street, but who knows? I look down at myself, thinking, well, I showered today, and my clothes fit...did she...?
"You disgust me."
And then she keeps on walking.
I turn to the suits standing behind me. "Did you guys see that?"
One of them nods, laughing awkwardly. "Uh, yeah."
I don't know what to do about that.
I'm actually quite used to having odd people approach me. Some of you know that. But this freaked me out.
...
You Can't Call Your Own Life A Legend, Anyway.
This is going to be a weekend of legend. I said shit would be epic, and there is some serious epic shit going down. We're setting the world record for the biggest pie fight. There's going to be Guinness officials there and everything. And then after getting all good and smeary in the afternoon, I've got to book it back to Chicago for the World Naked Bike Ride. I ain't gonna be naked, but I know about 1,500 other people will be. Work. It.
Oh, nevermind. That's right. I almost forgot. I'm not going to be doing those things, because Poppy died last night, and I have a wake and funeral to attend.
Asshole. I saw him on Sunday because I thought my dad would have a heart attack if I didn't, and I looked at him laying there and thought, "Oh, shit. He's going to die, and I'm not gonna be able to do the fucking Pie Fight."
Is it bad that I would rather not go? That I would rather hang out with friends who actually give a shit about me, doing things that I've been excited about for months? That the only reason I'm even considering going is because I cannot stand the thought of disappointing my dad?
I am about ninety-seven percent sure that I want to get drunk.
...
Oh, nevermind. That's right. I almost forgot. I'm not going to be doing those things, because Poppy died last night, and I have a wake and funeral to attend.
Asshole. I saw him on Sunday because I thought my dad would have a heart attack if I didn't, and I looked at him laying there and thought, "Oh, shit. He's going to die, and I'm not gonna be able to do the fucking Pie Fight."
Is it bad that I would rather not go? That I would rather hang out with friends who actually give a shit about me, doing things that I've been excited about for months? That the only reason I'm even considering going is because I cannot stand the thought of disappointing my dad?
I am about ninety-seven percent sure that I want to get drunk.
...
Monday, June 8, 2009
Hateful Tricks On Your Tongue
Back when I lived with my parents after college, me and all of my other worthless friends going through our post-secondary education adolescence used to hang out at some seedy ass bars.
College in the Quad City Area opens you up to the seduction of double wide trailers, dog tracks, smoky, moth-eaten casinos, car thieves, parking on the front lawn. We donated plasma on Fridays (not like, every Friday) and we would sit in the lounge of the plasma bank with all the other Mississippi River Rats, ready to be drained of bodily fluids (but sixty bucks richer) just so we could get drunk quicker and blow it all at the casino next door. And then we'd study, taking full advantage of our upper-crusty liberal arts education with all the other suburban kids who migrated to the river for their college education. But some of us really took advantage of shady side of the QCA.
Anyway, one of our favorite hangouts post-college was this dirty ass bar called the Squirrel Cage, run by a three hundred pound ex-biker with serious pit stains who lived upstairs and planted himself on a sagging plastic stool behind the bar with his legs splayed open and fed us free string cheese. I don't remember his name, but when he wasn't working, Wes, his hot 29 year old son, tended bar (um, I don't know if you've ever been a 22 year old girl, but nearly every guy around the age of 30 who smiles at you sideways is seriously hot, and not at all creepy.) At the time, it was the only bar in the area that had PBR on tap, which was a big fucking deal and the main reason we went there.
But one of the other great things about the Squirrel Cage was the ever-threatening lurking presence of Jeppson Malort.
If you're not familiar with Malort...you're a fucking lucky bastard. Do not, ever, under any conditions, knowingly accept a shot of Malort from another human being. They are playing a nasty, hateful trick on your tongue, and you're probably better off drinking Liquid Plummer laced with gasoline and a hint of mint, because that's the kind of taste infusion Jeppson is going for. What kills your will to keep down your lunch, however, is the lingering, venomous, cottonmouth-and-bug-spray aftertaste that coats your throat and esophagus for the next twenty minutes or so.
Seriously. It's the most antagonistic liquid I have ever had in my mouth. Google it.
The only way to get rid of the after taste is to take another shot, and then the vicious cycle continues like an infinite mirror effect, but if the infinite mirror was actually infinite shots of tequila mixed with rumplemintz, cigarette butts, and crack needles.
So after steadily frequenting the Squirrel Cage for about two weeks, one day Wes dropped off three surprise shots for us along with our usual PBR's.
"What's this?"
"On me." He winks, and like washes a glass or something.
"Is it like"--I smell it---"gaaaacck...ugggh. Fuck."
He snickers and does that Upward Guy Nod thing, smiling. "Just trust me."
Me and my friends exchange looks, clank our shot glasses, and proceed to committ suicide.
Luke puckers immediately, slamming his shot glass down on the bar, and bolts for the bathroom. I'm making huffing sounds, squinting. Coughing. Kim licks her lips, scrunches her eyebrows and throws her shot glass at Wes.
"That was foul," she states, plainly.
One of the regulars at the other side of the bar starts cackling at us.
I'm still coughing. "You are a total dick."
Wes is still grinning. "Your buddy okay?"
"You probably killed him," Kim coughs and spits, which surprises me, because she's always buttery and sly.
Luke comes out of the bathroom and points at Wes, mumbling, "I fucking hate you, dude."
I can't take it. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?"
Wes grabs a cloudy bottle of urine-colored booze and sets gently it in front of us. Jeppson Malort.
There's actually a little cautionary tag attached to the bottle.
It's an initiation of sorts, an illicit hazing ritual that so many Chicago neighborhood dives impose upon their naive regulars.
And now, people out there are trying to make that shit taste good. I respect the challenge, but sometimes? I feel like Malort remains a secret for a reason. How the fuck else are you going to show your regulars some swindling, bastardized love? How else are we supposed to send steaming cups of evil to people we don't like, or trick tourists into sudden death? So unfair.
...
College in the Quad City Area opens you up to the seduction of double wide trailers, dog tracks, smoky, moth-eaten casinos, car thieves, parking on the front lawn. We donated plasma on Fridays (not like, every Friday) and we would sit in the lounge of the plasma bank with all the other Mississippi River Rats, ready to be drained of bodily fluids (but sixty bucks richer) just so we could get drunk quicker and blow it all at the casino next door. And then we'd study, taking full advantage of our upper-crusty liberal arts education with all the other suburban kids who migrated to the river for their college education. But some of us really took advantage of shady side of the QCA.
Anyway, one of our favorite hangouts post-college was this dirty ass bar called the Squirrel Cage, run by a three hundred pound ex-biker with serious pit stains who lived upstairs and planted himself on a sagging plastic stool behind the bar with his legs splayed open and fed us free string cheese. I don't remember his name, but when he wasn't working, Wes, his hot 29 year old son, tended bar (um, I don't know if you've ever been a 22 year old girl, but nearly every guy around the age of 30 who smiles at you sideways is seriously hot, and not at all creepy.) At the time, it was the only bar in the area that had PBR on tap, which was a big fucking deal and the main reason we went there.
But one of the other great things about the Squirrel Cage was the ever-threatening lurking presence of Jeppson Malort.
If you're not familiar with Malort...you're a fucking lucky bastard. Do not, ever, under any conditions, knowingly accept a shot of Malort from another human being. They are playing a nasty, hateful trick on your tongue, and you're probably better off drinking Liquid Plummer laced with gasoline and a hint of mint, because that's the kind of taste infusion Jeppson is going for. What kills your will to keep down your lunch, however, is the lingering, venomous, cottonmouth-and-bug-spray aftertaste that coats your throat and esophagus for the next twenty minutes or so.
Seriously. It's the most antagonistic liquid I have ever had in my mouth. Google it.
The only way to get rid of the after taste is to take another shot, and then the vicious cycle continues like an infinite mirror effect, but if the infinite mirror was actually infinite shots of tequila mixed with rumplemintz, cigarette butts, and crack needles.
So after steadily frequenting the Squirrel Cage for about two weeks, one day Wes dropped off three surprise shots for us along with our usual PBR's.
"What's this?"
"On me." He winks, and like washes a glass or something.
"Is it like"--I smell it---"gaaaacck...ugggh. Fuck."
He snickers and does that Upward Guy Nod thing, smiling. "Just trust me."
Me and my friends exchange looks, clank our shot glasses, and proceed to committ suicide.
Luke puckers immediately, slamming his shot glass down on the bar, and bolts for the bathroom. I'm making huffing sounds, squinting. Coughing. Kim licks her lips, scrunches her eyebrows and throws her shot glass at Wes.
"That was foul," she states, plainly.
One of the regulars at the other side of the bar starts cackling at us.
I'm still coughing. "You are a total dick."
Wes is still grinning. "Your buddy okay?"
"You probably killed him," Kim coughs and spits, which surprises me, because she's always buttery and sly.
Luke comes out of the bathroom and points at Wes, mumbling, "I fucking hate you, dude."
I can't take it. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?"
Wes grabs a cloudy bottle of urine-colored booze and sets gently it in front of us. Jeppson Malort.
There's actually a little cautionary tag attached to the bottle.
Most first-time drinkers of Jeppson Malort reject our liquor. Its strong, sharp taste is not for everyone. Our liquor is rugged and unrelenting (even brutal) to the palate. During almost 60 years of American distribution, we found only 1 out of 49 men will drink Jeppson Malort. During the lifetime of our founder, Carl Jeppson was apt to say, "My Malort is produced for that unique group of drinkers who disdain light flavor or neutral spirits."
It is not possible to forget our two-fisted liquor. The taste just lingers and lasts - seemingly forever. The first shot is hard to swallow! PERSERVERE. Make it past two 'shock-glasses' and with the third you could be ours...forever
It's an initiation of sorts, an illicit hazing ritual that so many Chicago neighborhood dives impose upon their naive regulars.
And now, people out there are trying to make that shit taste good. I respect the challenge, but sometimes? I feel like Malort remains a secret for a reason. How the fuck else are you going to show your regulars some swindling, bastardized love? How else are we supposed to send steaming cups of evil to people we don't like, or trick tourists into sudden death? So unfair.
...
Friday, June 5, 2009
This Conversation Lasted About Five Minutes
Sean: Okay, Alien/Predator films from best to worst go
Predator, Aliens, Alien, AVP2, Predator 2, AVP1, Alien 3, Alien 4
Me: No fucking way
Alien, Aliens, Predator, AVP1, Alien 4, Predator 2, Alien 3
haven't seen AVP2
Sean: no way
dude they just keep getting better
seriously?
Me: Alien is totally better than Predator
Sean: you're outta your goddamn mind
Me: I am devoted to Ripley
Sean: me too, but what about Arnold?
Me: dude, you are obsessed.
Sean: you have to love Arnold as Dutch.
Me: Arnold is so your boyfriend
Sean: it is rather unhealthy
"This thing is hunting us. ALL OF US. You know that?"
Me: I'M GONNA CUT YOUR NAME RIGHT INTO HIM
Sean: awesome
Dave rented the AVP's yesterday and I watched them twice.
You seriously need to see 2
Me: I'm working on it, you have to be patient.
you think I watched it since you messaged me fucking ten seconds ago or something?
Sean: Have you ever considered the timeline ramifications of the AVP series? Because in order it doesn't make sense
Me: You'd think by the year of Alien, the alien would be a legend.
Sean: Exactly. Everyone would have heard of their battle.
Me: You know what this means?
Sean: Totally illogical
what?
Me: Dragons are real.
Sean: Duh, I could have told you that
Me: They are going to start crawling out of the earth and reign destruction...
Sean: Where is Matthew McConaughey when you need to fight fire with fire?
Me: And we'll never see it coming.
Stupid dragons
Sean: You're a dork
Me: Whatever, you totally knew exactly what I was talking about.
I need to get back to work.
Sean: That's okay I gotta go
Time to make the beer
Me: You know, you do kind of remind me of the Time To Make The Donuts Guy.
Sean: Well I don't really make the beer
more like transport it from one side of the warehouse to the other
Me: So you're like the Jason Statham of beer.
Sean: That's funny
Me: Duh. Have you met me? I'm hi-larious.
Sean: Late
Me: Peace out
...
I seriously love/hate the fact that people can instant message me on Facebook.
...
Predator, Aliens, Alien, AVP2, Predator 2, AVP1, Alien 3, Alien 4
Me: No fucking way
Alien, Aliens, Predator, AVP1, Alien 4, Predator 2, Alien 3
haven't seen AVP2
Sean: no way
dude they just keep getting better
seriously?
Me: Alien is totally better than Predator
Sean: you're outta your goddamn mind
Me: I am devoted to Ripley
Sean: me too, but what about Arnold?
Me: dude, you are obsessed.
Sean: you have to love Arnold as Dutch.
Me: Arnold is so your boyfriend
Sean: it is rather unhealthy
"This thing is hunting us. ALL OF US. You know that?"
Me: I'M GONNA CUT YOUR NAME RIGHT INTO HIM
Sean: awesome
Dave rented the AVP's yesterday and I watched them twice.
You seriously need to see 2
Me: I'm working on it, you have to be patient.
you think I watched it since you messaged me fucking ten seconds ago or something?
Sean: Have you ever considered the timeline ramifications of the AVP series? Because in order it doesn't make sense
Me: You'd think by the year of Alien, the alien would be a legend.
Sean: Exactly. Everyone would have heard of their battle.
Me: You know what this means?
Sean: Totally illogical
what?
Me: Dragons are real.
Sean: Duh, I could have told you that
Me: They are going to start crawling out of the earth and reign destruction...
Sean: Where is Matthew McConaughey when you need to fight fire with fire?
Me: And we'll never see it coming.
Stupid dragons
Sean: You're a dork
Me: Whatever, you totally knew exactly what I was talking about.
I need to get back to work.
Sean: That's okay I gotta go
Time to make the beer
Me: You know, you do kind of remind me of the Time To Make The Donuts Guy.
Sean: Well I don't really make the beer
more like transport it from one side of the warehouse to the other
Me: So you're like the Jason Statham of beer.
Sean: That's funny
Me: Duh. Have you met me? I'm hi-larious.
Sean: Late
Me: Peace out
...
I seriously love/hate the fact that people can instant message me on Facebook.
...
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Aphoristic Truths
We have some universal aphorisms among the Circus circle of friends. For the most part, they are ironclad, disciplinary facts, untouchable truths that none of us will dispute. Things like "M.E. is a tool" and "Lance is a douchebag" and "Steve Status is not a douchebag" and "Schmee has very nice boobs" and "Rassles is the chillest and the illest piece of sweetness around and she deserves all of our respect and cashmoney." *
But here's the crazy shit: Steve Status was kind of a douchebag this weekend at Novo's birthday. It's like my entire belief system is crumbling all around me. He was even wearing one of those button up Dude Shirts with like the strategically swirly silver designs, and he put gel in his hair.
Schmee informed me that Status has always been kind of a douchebag. Touche.
This isn't fucking Scrote-lympics, Status. I understand that we do not hang out very often, but I'm disappointed in you.
So, Status: next time Jackson decides to kick holes in the Hyatt walls and piss down the hallway, LET THE COPS TAKE HIM AWAY. We don't want that guy around anyway, because he does dirtbag shit (like kicking holes in walls and pissing in hallways). That's why we always say "Jackson is a fucking dirtbag" and I get mad when he stands next to me.
We're not in college. This isn't fucking Nam. Sure, in a Deadliest Warrior Stand-Off between Status and Jackson...I'd like to say Status would emerge victorious, even though I get the feeling that Status is lead by self-appointed drunken chivalry that borders on tricky dickhead, and I don't like that. But Jackson is a dirty dirty dirtbag, beyond redemption, always creeping through that existential void of charmless scumbaggery.
Also: Stop asking me for advice on your love lives, guys. It's not my fault Stablin's best game is howling "baby" at hoodrats and rocking an unbuttoned shirt exposing his pasty-ass chest. Status, if your girlfriend of four months is cheating on you with other girls and you're uncomfortable with it you should ask her to stop or break up with her, even though it was cool at first. Lance, yes, you are a douchebag. Especially with your shirt off. Stop dry humping people in their sleep. No, I do not want to see whatever you're hiding beneath the sheets, go back to taking advantage of unfortunate young coeds.
I haven't seen them in nearly two years, and nothing has changed. It's still, "Dude, Ross, I need to talk to you about something, I'm so glad you're here. Moe licked my nipple. What do I do about that?"
Still, I'm glad I got to hang out two weeks in a row. There are few things better than people who are genuinely happy to see you. I miss those guys.
...
* In retrospect, I could have some of those words jumbled and/or erroneous in that last statement. In fact, I'm pretty sure I just made that up off the top of my head. It's alarmingly accurate in its elegance and simplicity, agreed? I propose, to all that are involved in making such decisions, that we change the current gospel that everyone says about me to whatever I typed up there.
I know what you're all going to say, though. Because it's the same thing you always goddamn say.
"Shut up, Rassles. You don't know anything."
...
Oh, and for the record: Jackson is not my friend. He didn't go to school with me. He's a tag-a-long: A friend of a friend who has nothing better to do than piss everyone off.
...
But here's the crazy shit: Steve Status was kind of a douchebag this weekend at Novo's birthday. It's like my entire belief system is crumbling all around me. He was even wearing one of those button up Dude Shirts with like the strategically swirly silver designs, and he put gel in his hair.
Schmee informed me that Status has always been kind of a douchebag. Touche.
This isn't fucking Scrote-lympics, Status. I understand that we do not hang out very often, but I'm disappointed in you.
So, Status: next time Jackson decides to kick holes in the Hyatt walls and piss down the hallway, LET THE COPS TAKE HIM AWAY. We don't want that guy around anyway, because he does dirtbag shit (like kicking holes in walls and pissing in hallways). That's why we always say "Jackson is a fucking dirtbag" and I get mad when he stands next to me.
We're not in college. This isn't fucking Nam. Sure, in a Deadliest Warrior Stand-Off between Status and Jackson...I'd like to say Status would emerge victorious, even though I get the feeling that Status is lead by self-appointed drunken chivalry that borders on tricky dickhead, and I don't like that. But Jackson is a dirty dirty dirtbag, beyond redemption, always creeping through that existential void of charmless scumbaggery.
Also: Stop asking me for advice on your love lives, guys. It's not my fault Stablin's best game is howling "baby" at hoodrats and rocking an unbuttoned shirt exposing his pasty-ass chest. Status, if your girlfriend of four months is cheating on you with other girls and you're uncomfortable with it you should ask her to stop or break up with her, even though it was cool at first. Lance, yes, you are a douchebag. Especially with your shirt off. Stop dry humping people in their sleep. No, I do not want to see whatever you're hiding beneath the sheets, go back to taking advantage of unfortunate young coeds.
I haven't seen them in nearly two years, and nothing has changed. It's still, "Dude, Ross, I need to talk to you about something, I'm so glad you're here. Moe licked my nipple. What do I do about that?"
Still, I'm glad I got to hang out two weeks in a row. There are few things better than people who are genuinely happy to see you. I miss those guys.
...
* In retrospect, I could have some of those words jumbled and/or erroneous in that last statement. In fact, I'm pretty sure I just made that up off the top of my head. It's alarmingly accurate in its elegance and simplicity, agreed? I propose, to all that are involved in making such decisions, that we change the current gospel that everyone says about me to whatever I typed up there.
I know what you're all going to say, though. Because it's the same thing you always goddamn say.
"Shut up, Rassles. You don't know anything."
...
Oh, and for the record: Jackson is not my friend. He didn't go to school with me. He's a tag-a-long: A friend of a friend who has nothing better to do than piss everyone off.
...
Monday, June 1, 2009
The Behavioral Chasm Between One Grandfather and the Other Is Like The Canyon of the Crescent Moon
My Grampa turned 93 this weekend. Not Poppy, the other one. Despite the walker and near-blindness, he's a goddamn five-foot powerhouse. In fact, he's thinking of buying a house, because his apartment complex will not allow him to keep a certain kind of plant on his porch that he can't pronounce, but he knows it's green.
Grampa is not a gardener. He's a peaceful, bitter, sovereign hermit, like Obi-Wan Kenobi, who reheats day-old cold coffee in the microwave and refuses to follow rules that infringe on his basic goddamn rights to own garish, porch-consuming potted plants that he doesn't want or need in the first place.
And he's got this harem of elderly bitches in his apartment complex that call him "Eddie" and make him play bridge every Tuesday. He feigns agitation, the sly old coot.
So I guess he's not like Ben Kenobi.
No, fuck it, Kenobi was a total pimp, and you know it.
But yeah, it was his birthday, and I gave him a hug, and he took his old man hands and gently shoved me into a door and gave me an ancient label-less handle from his liquor cabinet.
"Now you share that," he wags a hand in my general direction, with the other firmly gripping his walker.
I open the jug and smell it. "Grampa, no one I know drinks gin except for me."
"Your grandmother drank gin. And she was nearly as much trouble as you, oh boy."
"Do you have any olives?"
"Do I look like a market? Oh, boyohboyohboy."
"No olives? Jesus, Grampa, what are you, a communist?"
"If you're lookin' for a knuckle sandwich..."
"Does it come with olives?"
"How about you go heat up some coffee for me like a good little girl, and save that gin for when you go home and I don't have to listen to you jabbering anymore."
"How about you go sit in your rocking chair and hum to yourself until you're a hundred? Huh?"
"Oh, I'm not going anywhere until you've learned to be quiet for a day."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
"You've got years and years left, sir."
"Don't I know it."
...
Grampa is not a gardener. He's a peaceful, bitter, sovereign hermit, like Obi-Wan Kenobi, who reheats day-old cold coffee in the microwave and refuses to follow rules that infringe on his basic goddamn rights to own garish, porch-consuming potted plants that he doesn't want or need in the first place.
And he's got this harem of elderly bitches in his apartment complex that call him "Eddie" and make him play bridge every Tuesday. He feigns agitation, the sly old coot.
So I guess he's not like Ben Kenobi.
No, fuck it, Kenobi was a total pimp, and you know it.
But yeah, it was his birthday, and I gave him a hug, and he took his old man hands and gently shoved me into a door and gave me an ancient label-less handle from his liquor cabinet.
"Now you share that," he wags a hand in my general direction, with the other firmly gripping his walker.
I open the jug and smell it. "Grampa, no one I know drinks gin except for me."
"Your grandmother drank gin. And she was nearly as much trouble as you, oh boy."
"Do you have any olives?"
"Do I look like a market? Oh, boyohboyohboy."
"No olives? Jesus, Grampa, what are you, a communist?"
"If you're lookin' for a knuckle sandwich..."
"Does it come with olives?"
"How about you go heat up some coffee for me like a good little girl, and save that gin for when you go home and I don't have to listen to you jabbering anymore."
"How about you go sit in your rocking chair and hum to yourself until you're a hundred? Huh?"
"Oh, I'm not going anywhere until you've learned to be quiet for a day."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
"You've got years and years left, sir."
"Don't I know it."
...
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