Friday, January 21, 2011

Botox The Gonads And Let's Call It Done

Craig Ferguson. You may not know him but he’s about to tell you something that’s been staring you straight in the face. I'm not sure when this aired on his show 'Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson' (I'm slow to get this stuff) but listen. Listen:



Understand this apology: I never thought when I started this blog I’d get into politics or social analysis or be trying to shed light on untold problems. A lark with one wing flapping, I am. A fop to urge on the realization that the world is a beautifully ridiculous place when it’s not scary as all fuck. I think my name, "Clarence", means light bringer. Don’t send me virgins yet. I look into my own head and it’s plenty dark in there. I don’t mean to be mean. I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I will never fan flames to make someone take up either arms, hysterics or boiling umbrage. I just want an end to negligence. I don’t want us to be stupid. We’re better than stupid.

Except a lot of times we’re not. We let the minor annoyances of our lives and the bumbling inadequacies our parents paraded for us determine way too much without ever having to actually put thought into it. The quiet desperation we all live under has become a pervading white noise driving huge contingents reasonably insane. There is a pandemic gripping this entire planet combining youth, greed, insensitivity, and the schemes of the few at the expense of the many.

This is a blog. And I’ve said before, the very word is an idiotic thing. ‘Twas a blog that caught the roving dead eye of John McCain’s presidentially-motivated political machine, a blog from a boy who has not yet lived and I can practically guarantee not loved—and this isn’t a mean thing to say; if anything, I’m compassionate toward him, but compassion seems to hurt these days—a Conservative blog about how right Sarah Palin is for the conservative world. Conservative. Preserve for the good of all. Communist. The irony. Ms. Palin would be as obscure to 99 percent of the life in this universe as before she ever stepped foot on the American Idol political stage if not for the rhetoric of, of all things, a blog. Maintained by a college kid in his mom’s basement. A blog is not something to invest a lot of thought in. If my facts here aren’t correct, please accord me the same you do your most favored Eddie Haskell-ish politican, Eddie Haskell being the model of weasely, disingenuous behavior on the old 50’s sitcom ‘Leave It To Beaver’, and accept without strain.

A Presidential campaign launched and America under the clutches of yet another annoying terrorist, all for the love of a blog (being attractive compared to Barbara Bush plus Alaskan white doesn’t strip Madam Palin of a fear-pandering agenda). So we can’t pretend stupid things don’t have power. Of course she’s not alone or even at the top of what she thinks is her own machine. Ambition is like crack and you’ll dance your dance for anybody for it. But people say President Obama is the anti-Christ. Hello, the devil wears Prada? This woman is dangerous because she represents the meteoric rise (meteor’s don’t rise; that’s a stupid expression) of stupidity. She is the deep seated dream of lowered expectations. For God’s sake, she’s a failed beauty queen—is there anything more dangerous than that?

America is great because it’s not homogeneous. Japan, China, Russia—they’re missing out on something wonderful. They’ve got a national deficiency of vitamin D: diversity. Here, though, we can gorge on it and become superhuman if we stopped being fearful long enough to truly avail. I don’t give a gnat’s ass about politics. You can call yourself a Liberal, a Republican, a Conservative, a Democrat, a Tea-bagger, a Progressive, a Pro-lifer or any number of goofy avoidances to having a true identity. I don’t give a gnat’s ass. My neighbor is an older white guy, as conservative, pro-lifey and Republican as they come. (Why has “Republican” come to mean “I’m white and I don’t like you”?) Right-to-Life bumper stickers and everything on his van. Not too politically astute. He’s one of the few white folks that live in my immediate neighborhood; a few blocks off is Porch Negro/Cletus-ville, but that’s a whole different blend of racial accord. My neighborhood’s not that bad. I can show you bad neighborhoods. He and I speak, he drags my garbage can in, I drag his, whenever I shovel snow I go along his walk too. I watch out for him because he’s getting up there in age and lives alone. D├ętente means I don’t talk about him behind his back, I don’t secretly want him gone, and his bumper sticker about “Choose Life” doesn’t throw me into conniption fits. Sometimes politics will creep into a casual conversation and I break things down with logic. The people who think life is precious and protest outside abortion clinics never hand out condoms or vouchers for free doctor’s visits. Life is precious, but don’t tell me that sex doesn’t scare the hell out of a lot of people. There’s jealousy on those abortion lines. But I digress.

No I don’t. Here’s the thing: I don’t like abortion. Nobody likes abortion; it would have been another viable life on this planet, but let’s not pretend we love life. Let’s not pretend that our consciences guide us. Let’s not even go down that road. We’re primitive. What do primitives like? Food, sex, gratification, power. Did you know that mores are constructs and not handed down by God as universal law? Taken to extremes, we can say anything goes. Extremity is a fool’s route. Sex is here and will always be here and people will always be stupid about it. This leads to unplanned and unwanted pregnancies. There’s a 13 year old girl who brings her little baby to my wife’s Catholic church every Sunday. Back in high school I came up with this little saying: I have released many wrong things into this universe; I, myself, may be a wrong thing released by someone else. I was more of a twat then than I am now. Those words have stayed with me, though, because there’s truth in them. Am I telling 13 year olds to go ahead and have willy-nilly sex if we take away the spectre of pregnancy? My niece will be 13 soon. Let her have sex. Then read her obituary.

In this day and age there is absolutely zero justification for consenting adults to face unwanted pregnancy. In this day and age there is no justification for adults to think teens and other dummies are not, will not, and won’t continue to have dummy sex. Hell, let’s make birth control pills taste like Skittles and make spermicide an ingredient in Mountain Dew. The shame behind actively wanting to thwart procreation is silly. Condom commercials fight the stigma by trying too hard to be cool, which just reinforces the institutional stigma. Birth control pills are still for women who sit around drinking lattes. In this day and age there is no reason to protest abortion and every reason to make sure boys and girls, men and women, know that birth control is a necessity, not a shame. Be real, I say to my neighbor and he nods and we leave it at that. People are going to have sex. That doesn’t mean they need to get pregnant. Every sperm is not sacred.

So abortion protestors are missing golden opportunities to truly make a difference. They’re ignoring truth in favor of airy dogma. Airy because it doesn’t hold weight. Posters of aborted fetuses and the potential of damaging your soul only work if being preached to the choir. Outside the choir, you need to hit folks with truth. Not spin, not flim flam, not double handed self serving masturbation. Not saying a lot of these protestors aren’t sincere. I’m saying question your methods, question your goals. I’m saying don’t willfully blind yourselves to reality.

Don’t be taken advantage of by people whose only use for you is to use you. The Pope is not inherently holy. Most politicians you wouldn’t trust to sell you a used car. Most, not all.

What could all these words possibly have to do with Craig Ferguson?

Youth.

No matter how old we are, we’re all pretending we’re youths. Cosmetic companies make up new scientific-sounding words to make vain, wrinkly women think they need to compete with hot babes. Beer commercials still want men to think there’s an inherent connection between their fermented piss and sex (outside of the get-you-drunk-and-take-advantage-of-you factor). Diet commercials engage the willing suspension of disbelief that they’ll work over the simple truth of eating less and exercising. No matter what, we want to be young. We want to consume what we want and pretend that the magic of youthful metabolism will make everything bad go away. And if it needs help going away, well, that’s what TV is for. TV is our best good friend. It is cool. It lets us sit at its table, and in sitting we know deep down that we are not geeks.

Except we are geeks. What’s more geeky than a kid? Even the ones that (we) think are cool are awkward and doofy. They’re supposed to be awkward and doofy. Compared to what? To grown ups! I say ad nauseam to family and friends that the problem with kids today is that they don’t know they’re kids. They don’t see any difference between them and us outside of size and the ability to drive, which are temporary inequities. They have the same stuff as us. They watch the same shows. Same movies. Music. My nephew has a better cellphone, TV, laptop (it’s mom’s but let’s be real) and wardrobe than me. He probably has more money in his savings account too. So why should he respect what comes out of uncle’s mouth? Granted I could punch a hole through his chest if he made me mad enough, but then there’d be tiresome legalities, and I think our kids know very well to use that fact to their advantage. And all the adults out there still clinging to the glory days of their high school cafeteria are not helping the causes of Rational Separation and Respect at all. Can we be blunt here? Kids are stupid. They’re supposed to be stupid. They’re supposed to be unformed, misshapen, smelly and somewhat soggy to the touch. When we deify youth we make the world unformed, misshapen, smelly and somewhat soggy to the touch.

You wonder why things are goofy and stupid and why pretty much everything (I’m looking at you, anything-Ashton-Kutcher-is-in) is crap?

Because advertisers are bastards. Kids are stupid. And we adults think we’re kids.

We’re so gullible.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Double-bladed Goofiness

Since it's the New Year and all 3 people reading this have huddled since November making do with old posts, here's a second bit of toss. I call it

Politburo

“The only evidence I need of Intelligent Design,” said Senator Bloodaxe, unsheathing his crusted blade and laying it before the security dogs to sniff for evidence of illegal killing, “is what I have seen with my own eyes.”

“But, Senator,” someone said from the throng of pelt-clad reporters, “isn’t it true you were once a staunch supporter of the scientific prin—”

“Who said that!” Bloodaxe raged, grabbing up the sword that had sent scores of unbelievers to undeserved glory and swinging it round.

The news crews were used to his rages and smoothly raised shields. The senator calmed.

“Senator, it’s been rumored,” came a crisp, female voice from beneath the turtle’s back of shields, “that you yourself have killed angels and that this conversion is purely political.”

Bloodaxe grinned at their fear. “Face Bloodaxe, wench,” he said, eyes scanning. “Taste congressional steel.”

Movement issued from the rear. Reporters parted until the woman stood before Bloodaxe (R) from Indiana. The huge man’s eyes narrowed.

“I am Kurok, daughter’s daughter of Couric,” which sucked balls because politicians hated a reporter with something to prove.

“Bring it, wench.”

She looked just like her grandmother Katie. Kurok approached. “Today is a good day to cry…”

Where We Are In The World

Where we are in the world:
--Israel and Palestine are still playing the game of Last Man Standing;
--Religious Nuts of all stripes are still playing the game of Last Man Standing;
--Jingoistic Politicians are still playing the game of Last Man Standing on top of your grave.

Let us climb from our graves, shake the dirt from our hair, and wake up to a new year.

Sunrise, 8 a.m.

...So I watched the news today. Newscaster mentioned the American Dream. I gagged.

We constantly have dreams pushed down our throats, but what is a dream but a thing enjoyed while unconscious? The American Dream. Dr. King’s “I have a” dream. No you don’t. You don’t have it. You don’t own it. It is not a part of you, you just view it.

You’re a slave, you puppety-fuck you.

Wake up from the American Dream. Which, as greed is the official currency of the world now, I guess we can call the Worldwide Dream. Somnambulism is not life, so I say this with as much love as possible: wake the bleeping-hell up, people. You are alive right now. There are no ephemeral dreams. There is only YOU and what YOU do, and you can see the steps because your eyes are wide open, and you can see where you’re going because you are not asleep. Live the Now, not the Dream, and right now if you’re sitting on your butt with some future glory in your nebulous mind it’s my duty to say wait for the breeze to waft it away.

The Worldwide Dream is not about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. It’s not about “if you can make it there you can make it anywhere.” It’s not about hard work for the sake of the work, or sacrifice as needed. It is about reward. The Worldwide Dream is the carrot on the stick in front of a billion horses, blinders included. The Worldwide Dream is being whispered into your sleeping ears by clever people who have no intention of ever letting you whisper too.

The Worldwide Dream is a lottery ticket.

Newsguy mentioned the American Dream. Is there a French Dream? Is there an Italian Ideal? Have you forgotten that you are alive right now? In West Mobutu Land, do you think their news programs devote time to the enduring strength of the Mobutu Dream? We’re weird in this country ‘tis of thee. Jingoistic or stupid with tiny spaces between both. Our politicians wear flag lapels like communicator uniforms at a geek convention. The Fifth Estate (that’s the so-called news outlets to you) presents little more than Hollywood movie theatre previews in the guise of journalism: In a world of storms and rain, Doppler 7000 is on the move! The American Dream is a caustic, festering thing with a sash around its waist and a tiara on its head, doing fake hand waves for the indiscriminate cameras.

The American Real is where you should be. The Worldwide Real. The Universal Real. Do what you wanna do but be who you are. Thugs, fornicators, thieves, politicians—-they’re not born, they’re manufactured, and are complicit in the manufacture. Barring mental wiring going haywire, that’s not who they are. Bereft of doofus trappings they’re folks who want a simple life. That’s the true American Dream, a simple life. No need for beer commercials, stupid sex or news designed to reinforce strife. No need to harm others in any way, shape or form. A simple life is you, who you love, and what you love to do. Mix, match and alter as necessary.

For the simplistic, these musings will come off as anti-American, which is practically just short of going down on the devil, but here’s the thing: a cool neighborhood can be messed up by one idiot family. A few idiot corporations insinuating themselves far and wide mess up a nation. America is a cool place. When America’s not being Idol or trying to prove it Can Dance, or creating a string of pop star girls to run through the Soft Porn Machine (Lohan-Miley-Britney: Hey,Disney, leave those kids alone; all in all they’re just another brick in your wall—- Pink Floyd reference for those mired in High School Musical Hell)—-but when America is not being stupid America quietly produces genius. Sheryl Underwood. Neil DeGrasse Tyson. Christopher Moore. Prince when he’s not being “Prince”. Josh Ritter. Percival Everett. A million intelligent women you’ve never met, every one of them sexy as a lovely day. Hell, we’ve got Stephen my-brain-kicks-your-brain’s-ass Hawking, delving deeply into the mysterious strata of existence (yes, he’s not American but I claim him anyway under the banner of World Peace). Life on the surface of things is just that: surface. Meaningless baubles dropped where they’re easily seen. The American Worldwide Dream is an excellent marketing tool, but when it comes to treasure, well, you have to dig for treasure. You have to go below the surface. That, my friends, is called keeping it real, nothing to do with the idiot notion that rots the brains of those who find it difficult to maintain pants above ass cracks. Keeping it real means eschewing (look it up) the ready-made, prepackaged lives available for sale at your local Fuckmart, for viewing on your local cable station, for replication in your local neighborhood. America is a wonderful country to live in when it’s not trying to engage the masses in pimps up, hoes down. When living in an America (world) that is awake and alive it’s like running through the most magnificent library not knowing what precious information you’ll find next. You just might find a book of relentless beauty. You just might find an idea personally never noticed before. You just might find music that is subliminally God. You just might find the most beautiful girl in the world. You just might find precisely what you’ve always looked for, and I say looked, not dreamt, because aren’t we talking about life lived eyes open?

Wake up.

The world stands behind me. And it is eager to see you. This isn’t an argument in semantics. The American Dream purports to be about getting an education so you can (fill in the blank), but when’s the last time you actually talked to somebody educated? Who transfixed and fascinated you with the nearly visible wheels and gears turning in their minds? Not a rhetorical question, folks. We’re a nation (world again) of doofs. High-paid, upper echelon doofs and bottom-feeding, self-defeating doofs; I place us between them because, dear Revolutionary, you and I have a connection now, don’t we? At some point during the dream a few of us are supposed to shout “I’m awake, I made it! The dream is over!” Education is supposed (read that while making finger quotes) to take us to a place where trials and tribulations, heartaches and pains are no longer a part of our everyday, but didn’t even Moses get barred from the Promised Land? And rumor has it he had a hell of a teacher. Education is nothing if all it does is fawn after dreams.

I dream about a Rosario sandwich and she's the meat. I dream about outracing the Flash. I dream about finding a fun, deserted island to live out the rest of my days with the ever-lovin' wife. I see with eyes open me writing till I’m old and content, not famous, not rich, but comfortable in having made a difference. I see younger family members outgrowing the need for me as they assume paths of greatness. That is not my American Dream, that is my goal. Mine. Not by committee, not by proxy. It is what is within me. It is mine. Shakespeare wrote “When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state… yadda yadda yadda” he meant that there's no sympathy for those without dreams. Don’t beweep in it. Exult in it. The dream is supposed to mean freedom. The only freedom there is exists within the mind, unfettered by notions of the good life just out of reach. The dream never existed. It’s ok to wake up.

Once you’re awake, we’ll start the day.