One day during our time in Indiana, Emily was going out shopping with her mom and I was heading out to do my own thing. It was suggested as possible that I could, if I wanted, make a stop at Target for baby food. At the time, I was shaved near bald, and my transition lenses were dark from just coming in out of the summer sunshine. I must've looked like the founder of a local Hunter S. Thompson fan club. I was also clearly one of the few men in Target on a weekday afternoon.
I thought, don't let them know you're an outsider. For fuck's sake, man. Pull it together. Learn to function around others. Yes, that's it. Calmly sidestep the estrogen-fueled bumper cars and make for the baby food section. But where is it? Goddamn, they knew you were coming. They hid the baby food. Oh, no. There it is. Mmmm. Yes. Study the flavors. Consider their potency and quantity. You're a man on a mission.
Alright, so I can exaggerate with the best of them. I'm not actually uncomfortable around women, nor did I think like Hunter S. Thompson while I was there, but I do admit I was uncomfortable. And not just in Target. Maybe you, my humble reader, too can attest to the reason. Everyone seems to be playing a game called "Let's all pretend no one else exists." This has been going on for some time now. I thought all these people were bred in Florida because that's where I caught wind of this trend. but I've since encountered them as the majority everywhere I've been lately (and that's a lot of places). Now I just expect this tension whenever I leave home.
I expect it because I know there are other human specimens living and moving beyond the boundaries of my home. As I proceed on foot from my personal form of motorized transport, I notice these human specimens all around me, driving their own personal forms of motorized transport or proceeding on their own feet. I study the demeanor of each one, only to find each one is a lot like me in many ways. Thus, I wonder if, like me, they are longing for specimen interaction. I wonder if this one or that one will reciprocate a greeting. Every once in a while, there's a return of smile, and more often than not the non-committal head nod to acknowledge that eye contact has been made.
But mostly it's: customers busying themselves with looking where to swipe their card so they don't have to make eye contact with their customer service representative; shoppers watching the movement of each others' carts for cues on how to plan their next move; people standing silently in wait for others to divine the feeling of being in someone else's way. All the while, I'm watching, thinking, Just say excuse me, for fuck's sake! How is someone supposed to know someone else is behind them without the communication of this information?
The main reason I'm all whiny and complainy on this subject is that I'm very much an outgoing person with strangers. I suspect I'm much more annoying to those people who have known me for some time. I'm an honest a sort of fellow, meaning I tend to say what I'm thinking (something I chalk up to using the potential of the intuitive brain). But in time, I expect that my honest words accumulate in the intuitive brains of others, making them grow tired of me.
This suspicion, however, is not enough to make me give up my honesty because I know that communication is what has gotten humans this far. If we stop telling each other the truths we see, then we are effectively done evolving. So why not just tell each other the truth all the time? Oh yeah. Shedding the animal past means we're supposed to be considerate of others. In public, I'm supposed to be polite by considering the needs of other people, so if other human beings don't want to be acknowledged, then I should just leave them alone. Right?
Then why do recluses willingly expose themselves to public spaces? Moreover, how are there so goddamn many of these people? Oh yeah. There are so many of these people wanting to be left alone in public spaces because that's how they were trained to act in public. Think about how often you see children being honest creatures in public to the chagrin of their parents who then begin training that openness away. No, no, little Sally. We don't stare at others, or Billy, stop speaking to that poor person. He doesn't want you bothering him, (as if it's somehow a bother being noticed). I've observed dog owners doing this too. When I'm out walking Murphy and some other dog on a leash gets all loud about us, the dog-walkers don't acknowledge me or Murphy. They speak solely to the dogs, scolding them for acknowledging others (which, it seems to me, only reinforces a dog's need to bark at that thing over there that its walker obviously doesn't notice).
This is my guess. Our solitude in public is the evil twin of politeness. When you think so much about what other people want or need and how you should act for the sake of others, it becomes much easier to get fed up with all the shit you're doing for other people. Your ego demands, what about me? This is politeness gone awry. This is how the majority of human specimens has come to walk around in as many private little worlds. Every encounter with another person strains your own abilities to be you, so when we set out each morning with the mindset that we are to have absolutely no effect on anyone else during the day, we are expecting ourselves to go out into the world where we will not slow anyone down, nor get in anyone's way, nor take the last item that anyone else might've wanted. To be quite honest, I can't remember the last time I lived a perfect day in this manner. There are just too many people to please.
Obviously it's much more complicated an issue than this, but I feel I've uncovered one of the many reasons we can be so damn prickly to each others' presences. For instance, another reason could be that we just don't want to (or don't have the time to) get to know one more person. We can be selfish like that, I suppose.
Or maybe it's because our brains still operate with a heavy share of intuitive thinking. For example, when I look at someone's face, waiting to see if they'll acknowledge me, sometimes their eyes meet mine. Even if their gaze is averted very quickly, I already know what I've seen. There's something spectacular about vision this way, how we're able to differentiate even the slightest difference in the direction of someone else's gaze--especially when what they're looking at is our own eyes. This enhanced definition was probably given to us by Nature for survival, and also for recognizing the threatening or challenging gaze of another. When people acknowledge me and look away, maybe they're intimidated by me. I am a rather tall specimen, and I do have the unfortunate look of a troll or something. If this is the case, then the tendency for people to ignore me in public is just a thread of evolutionary ability that hasn't been bred out of them, so I shouldn't get upset with them.
But this doesn't mean I feel like a troll. Maybe others should recognize that there might be more to me than some eager troll taking an interest in the life of another, waiting for the opportunity to thieve a piece of it. By the flip side of the same coin, maybe they should recognize that I'm just another person like them, looking around at others to see who's gonna be friendly. In this case, I'm being too kind by defending a majority of people who are well aware of the dishonesty they're perpetuating by ignore others. Instead, I'll take comfort in knowing that some people simply do not evolve as fast as others, and that I am one of the fortunate front-runners of the species. Personally, I like this option better, because right now I'm typing this from the safety of home, where my ego can still make whatever choices it damn well pleases.
11 August 2009
10 August 2009
On and on on the matter of author intent
At one point during my thesis defense, one of the committee members asked if the intent I explained for the story being discussed should perhaps be made more apparent for the reader. My answer was, "I'm not sure that's up to me," to which my chair replied, "I'm pretty sure it is." All was said in good-hearted tone, and I wasn't bothered by his suggestion, but just today I returned to that moment, realizing I underrepresented myself (something I have made a habit of doing in life). I just don't think authors should have to beat their readers over the head with hidden meanings and suggestive imagery. If readers get it, they get it. If they don't, there are still the more literal elements for them to consider.
One thing that bothered me severely about my creative writing program (and, I'm guessing, creative writing programs in general) is the unfortunate lack of in-depth meditation on writing. In workshop for a week, you're reading and commenting on three writers' submissions, or reading and discussing an entire book, not to mention the work you have for two other classes, and the life you're living off campus. Personally, I can read and absorb maybe one book in a week, and then I might need a week off before the next one.
One day this summer, I was bullshitting with an old college friend who's been a computer programmer since he graduated in 2002. In discussing syntax, something common to our respective trades, we found ourselves in agreement about something not commonly respected when it comes to language. Like him, I enjoy reading prose so dense that I frequently stop to re-read and re-read portions... not because it's poorly worded prose, but because the ideas therein are complicated enough to be worth reconsidering. This is when the act of reading becomes the process of understanding. Understanding does not often come at breakneck pace.
In my very humble opinion, writing is far too often overworked until tender. And for what purpose? Frankly, I think it's to cater to readers who aren't willing to do any work on their own. Attempts to know one's audience sometimes lead to writing for readers who want their ideas as pre-processed and neatly packaged as everything else in a life of convenience. More and more, writing seems geared toward readers who want to speed-read a dozen books in the time it takes me to understand one. I just don't understand the big damn hurry. It's not like any one of us can read everything ever written. Then why not take our time with the books we've got?
I'm not saying I'm the best damn writer or anything. In fact, I'd confess I think I'm no better than average. And part of the reason is that I'm not so much a writer as I am an idea man, but I don't see a problem with this.Who knows? Maybe I just sat in too many discouraging workshops where decent ideas were passed over or misunderstood by readers too hurried to drop in and make an attempt at understanding. (And to those whose ideas I passed over for lack of time, I do apologize. It's not exactly a writer's world out there.) I'm not saying I want to sacrifice the feel of the story by only writing fictional worlds in which the characters flap about as hollow ideas in a concept. I do know, however, that my stories come from ideas (something often discouraged in workshops). I do this because I want my stories to have a weighty epicenter, and if the story can still ring true as a believable world for those readers not interested in ideas, fine. Anyway, conjuring believable worlds is probably the hardest aspect of writing, and the one coming the slowest to me.
Still I feel like I encountered little or no attention to ideas in fiction writing workshops. Instead, I saw hints that America needs more copies of John Irving and Alice Munro. These prose-heavy styles of writing are fine, and I do enjoy reading them from time to time, but what about the rest of the genre? What about all those classic idea writers like Nietzsche, and Kafka, and Camus, and Orwell? And Hesse, and so on and so on and so on? I remember reading books by them and learning something about existence. The Great Gatsby is an awesome book and all, but it's mostly about rich people living in New York. Does the Universe revolve around money and Americans? Well, let me rephrase. Should it?
All I'm trying my darndest to say is, I feel like an odd ball reassuring myself that somehow my writing does matter when around me I see an America and its fiction that both seem interested in how something is worded rather than what its words contribute to understanding. I don't know. Maybe you should just call me crazy or lazy.
One thing that bothered me severely about my creative writing program (and, I'm guessing, creative writing programs in general) is the unfortunate lack of in-depth meditation on writing. In workshop for a week, you're reading and commenting on three writers' submissions, or reading and discussing an entire book, not to mention the work you have for two other classes, and the life you're living off campus. Personally, I can read and absorb maybe one book in a week, and then I might need a week off before the next one.
One day this summer, I was bullshitting with an old college friend who's been a computer programmer since he graduated in 2002. In discussing syntax, something common to our respective trades, we found ourselves in agreement about something not commonly respected when it comes to language. Like him, I enjoy reading prose so dense that I frequently stop to re-read and re-read portions... not because it's poorly worded prose, but because the ideas therein are complicated enough to be worth reconsidering. This is when the act of reading becomes the process of understanding. Understanding does not often come at breakneck pace.
In my very humble opinion, writing is far too often overworked until tender. And for what purpose? Frankly, I think it's to cater to readers who aren't willing to do any work on their own. Attempts to know one's audience sometimes lead to writing for readers who want their ideas as pre-processed and neatly packaged as everything else in a life of convenience. More and more, writing seems geared toward readers who want to speed-read a dozen books in the time it takes me to understand one. I just don't understand the big damn hurry. It's not like any one of us can read everything ever written. Then why not take our time with the books we've got?
I'm not saying I'm the best damn writer or anything. In fact, I'd confess I think I'm no better than average. And part of the reason is that I'm not so much a writer as I am an idea man, but I don't see a problem with this.Who knows? Maybe I just sat in too many discouraging workshops where decent ideas were passed over or misunderstood by readers too hurried to drop in and make an attempt at understanding. (And to those whose ideas I passed over for lack of time, I do apologize. It's not exactly a writer's world out there.) I'm not saying I want to sacrifice the feel of the story by only writing fictional worlds in which the characters flap about as hollow ideas in a concept. I do know, however, that my stories come from ideas (something often discouraged in workshops). I do this because I want my stories to have a weighty epicenter, and if the story can still ring true as a believable world for those readers not interested in ideas, fine. Anyway, conjuring believable worlds is probably the hardest aspect of writing, and the one coming the slowest to me.
Still I feel like I encountered little or no attention to ideas in fiction writing workshops. Instead, I saw hints that America needs more copies of John Irving and Alice Munro. These prose-heavy styles of writing are fine, and I do enjoy reading them from time to time, but what about the rest of the genre? What about all those classic idea writers like Nietzsche, and Kafka, and Camus, and Orwell? And Hesse, and so on and so on and so on? I remember reading books by them and learning something about existence. The Great Gatsby is an awesome book and all, but it's mostly about rich people living in New York. Does the Universe revolve around money and Americans? Well, let me rephrase. Should it?
All I'm trying my darndest to say is, I feel like an odd ball reassuring myself that somehow my writing does matter when around me I see an America and its fiction that both seem interested in how something is worded rather than what its words contribute to understanding. I don't know. Maybe you should just call me crazy or lazy.
08 August 2009
Oh yeah. One more thing that happened this summer...
It's not a dream come true or anything, but guess whose master's thesis is published and way, way overpriced online? Just go to whatever site you normally visit for books online (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc.) and do a search for Mother's Forgotten Garden: A Cosmic Remembrance. Your search just might produce a work by c.d.zim (with an apple on the cover). Ehh, it's a first step anyway. Mostly I went through it to get a sense for the publishing process. I guess I could've gone through some place like Lulu.com, but I didn't want to pay any publishing costs.
Out of the blue one day, I got an e-mail from some acquisitions editor with a publishing company called VDM Verlag that mostly publishes scientific theses and dissertations. She said she came across a reference to my thesis in the FAU library database, and she thought it might be suitable for publication through VDM. I though, What the heck. My thesis would most likely just sit in the FAU library anyway. This way, VDM pays the publishing costs, my thesis gets published in paperback form, and I still retain the rights to my work. If I want to take the overall work or any part of it to another publisher, all I have to do is alter 20% of the word count (which I would want to do anyway, because I have since re-read some of it and wondered what I was thinking).
Anyway, like I said, it's a first step. It's definitely no superstar publishing deal, but at least I got to see my book listed online... for a list price of ten times what it's worth. Yeah, real encouraging for a budding writer.
Oh, and if you're actually interested in reading my thesis, but you don't have $96 to spare, just ask me and I'll e-mail you the pdf.
Out of the blue one day, I got an e-mail from some acquisitions editor with a publishing company called VDM Verlag that mostly publishes scientific theses and dissertations. She said she came across a reference to my thesis in the FAU library database, and she thought it might be suitable for publication through VDM. I though, What the heck. My thesis would most likely just sit in the FAU library anyway. This way, VDM pays the publishing costs, my thesis gets published in paperback form, and I still retain the rights to my work. If I want to take the overall work or any part of it to another publisher, all I have to do is alter 20% of the word count (which I would want to do anyway, because I have since re-read some of it and wondered what I was thinking).
Anyway, like I said, it's a first step. It's definitely no superstar publishing deal, but at least I got to see my book listed online... for a list price of ten times what it's worth. Yeah, real encouraging for a budding writer.
Oh, and if you're actually interested in reading my thesis, but you don't have $96 to spare, just ask me and I'll e-mail you the pdf.
it's been a zimdoggian summer
(In my best Ali G,) Whuz-bin-gwan! Aight, check it. I iz eah in Tacoma, Washin'ton wiff mah main man, G-Riff, and as always, me Em'ly who jus' luvs bonin'.
Ehh. Impressions always work better in person. I've just had Ali G on the brain since seeing Bruno in Indiana. That was uncomfortable. At many times, I was the only one to be heard laughing in the theater. Others may have been, but homosexuality isn't really one of those things the average person in the Heartland feels like discussing or recognizing. My only hope was that I didn't get any sodas dumped on me. Oh, and my favorite part was the elderly couple sitting a few rows behind. As soon as the full-screen penis shot came up, I heard him say, "That's interesting," and then he and his wife didn't stick around for the rest. Quite honestly, I'm surprised they made it through the hyper-exaggerated parody of gay sex in the beginning.
So, no blog posts in a good while. It just hasn't been that sort of summer. In some way though, I think it has been advantageous for me and Emily to learn the parenting life while on the road for three months straight. And l'il G-Riff's got a story to tell people when he gets older. In the first seven months of his life, he has been in six time zones and 21 states.
Let's see. What else happened this summer? In bulleted form:
- I realized Frank Zappa is the weirdest person to have ever lived. It doesn't matter how many times I listen to his music. I still marvel at the amount of raw creativity that moved through the man in his life. I also admire his ability to not give a fuck about all the unimportant crap that forms the epicenter of man-made existence.
- In one of those rare and exciting lucky moments, I tuned in for the last five minutes (hockey minutes) of the Stanley Cup's Game 7. As the TV picture warmed up, it looked like the Penguins had the season all sealed up. But just as I started scheming insults for B. Doozan (a planetarium colleague and fan of all-teams-Detroit), a Red Wings' defensiveman killed a one-timer to bring Detroit within one goal of tying it up. From there on out, Detroit applied massive pressure, blasting shots on net, with a few near goals, and just generally controlling the puck for those final minutes. The tense ending went right down to the last fraction of a second when Pittsburgh's goalie literally threw his chest in front of a flying puck that would've send Game 7 to overtime. I don't care who your hockey team is, or if you even like hockey. The Penguins earned the right to hold the Cup this year. It was pretty much the best Stanley Cup Game 7 ever.
- To make the long trek west with Griffin, Murphy, and our stuff, Em and I decided to sell the Corolla so we could start payments on a more family-sized roller. Once upon a time, I wondered about SUV drivers. Now I am one. Oh, the things parents do for their children. But don't think us too noble. It's a 2006 Honda Pilot EX-L, which I'm pretty sure stands for EXtra-Luxury. It's got heated leather seats et plurissimae amenitae. Mostly, I'm digging the moon roof and 6-disc changer.
- Life as a parent has made me much more protective. I used to consider myself a pacifist. Now I am coming to consider myself prepared. I now think about what I really need to keep Griffin safe at all times. Thus my collection of tools and weapons has begun. I found the Gerber Gator Axe and Knife combo. The knife slides up into the handle of the hatchet, where it is held in place by a magnet. It's a great camping/survival tool, but mostly I bought it for the size and style of the knife, for which I have yet to rig up a homemade sheath so I can carry it for protection. I am also considering getting a concealed weapons permit and a small revolver. I know the chances of being in the wrong place at the wrong time are slim, but I simply refuse to die (or let Griffin die) a senseless death because some pathetic psycho decides to shoot up a building full of strangers. It seems a strange paradox, especially given the trite anti-gun propaganda that spotlights guns instead of irresponsible gun owners, but I've never felt more responsible and more capable of owning a gun than now that I'm a parent. Griffin's safety is my number one priority, and there's nothing in the world that can make me act so stupid as to treat a gun with anything but respect. That's the reason I want to carry one... because there are too many irresponsible people who already do. And after living in Florida (where five years of bad luck rained down on me like shit from the sky), I now wonder if maybe I'm just destined to be in the wrong places at the wrong times, encountering the wrong people. One can hope to control one's destiny, but to be certain of destiny is to be a cocksure fool. I'm choosing instead to be prepared.
- And probably the most amazing thing to happen all summer is getting to Tacoma. We're in one place... for at least a year! We're not unpacked yet, but we're in an apartment and all our stuff is out of the storage unit. I'll say more once it's all fixed up like it's going to be for everyday life, but we were lucky to have found this place. It's simple and comfortable, with everything we need nearby. Topping the list of awesome finds is a grocery store called Trader Joe's. They have delicious foods at affordable prices (like Whole Foods), and there's one right around the frickin' corner. I think we'll be satisfied here, Murphy included. There are plenty of cats and other animals out back for him to chase and bark at, etc.
Ehh. Impressions always work better in person. I've just had Ali G on the brain since seeing Bruno in Indiana. That was uncomfortable. At many times, I was the only one to be heard laughing in the theater. Others may have been, but homosexuality isn't really one of those things the average person in the Heartland feels like discussing or recognizing. My only hope was that I didn't get any sodas dumped on me. Oh, and my favorite part was the elderly couple sitting a few rows behind. As soon as the full-screen penis shot came up, I heard him say, "That's interesting," and then he and his wife didn't stick around for the rest. Quite honestly, I'm surprised they made it through the hyper-exaggerated parody of gay sex in the beginning.
So, no blog posts in a good while. It just hasn't been that sort of summer. In some way though, I think it has been advantageous for me and Emily to learn the parenting life while on the road for three months straight. And l'il G-Riff's got a story to tell people when he gets older. In the first seven months of his life, he has been in six time zones and 21 states.
Let's see. What else happened this summer? In bulleted form:
- I realized Frank Zappa is the weirdest person to have ever lived. It doesn't matter how many times I listen to his music. I still marvel at the amount of raw creativity that moved through the man in his life. I also admire his ability to not give a fuck about all the unimportant crap that forms the epicenter of man-made existence.
- In one of those rare and exciting lucky moments, I tuned in for the last five minutes (hockey minutes) of the Stanley Cup's Game 7. As the TV picture warmed up, it looked like the Penguins had the season all sealed up. But just as I started scheming insults for B. Doozan (a planetarium colleague and fan of all-teams-Detroit), a Red Wings' defensiveman killed a one-timer to bring Detroit within one goal of tying it up. From there on out, Detroit applied massive pressure, blasting shots on net, with a few near goals, and just generally controlling the puck for those final minutes. The tense ending went right down to the last fraction of a second when Pittsburgh's goalie literally threw his chest in front of a flying puck that would've send Game 7 to overtime. I don't care who your hockey team is, or if you even like hockey. The Penguins earned the right to hold the Cup this year. It was pretty much the best Stanley Cup Game 7 ever.
- To make the long trek west with Griffin, Murphy, and our stuff, Em and I decided to sell the Corolla so we could start payments on a more family-sized roller. Once upon a time, I wondered about SUV drivers. Now I am one. Oh, the things parents do for their children. But don't think us too noble. It's a 2006 Honda Pilot EX-L, which I'm pretty sure stands for EXtra-Luxury. It's got heated leather seats et plurissimae amenitae. Mostly, I'm digging the moon roof and 6-disc changer.
- Life as a parent has made me much more protective. I used to consider myself a pacifist. Now I am coming to consider myself prepared. I now think about what I really need to keep Griffin safe at all times. Thus my collection of tools and weapons has begun. I found the Gerber Gator Axe and Knife combo. The knife slides up into the handle of the hatchet, where it is held in place by a magnet. It's a great camping/survival tool, but mostly I bought it for the size and style of the knife, for which I have yet to rig up a homemade sheath so I can carry it for protection. I am also considering getting a concealed weapons permit and a small revolver. I know the chances of being in the wrong place at the wrong time are slim, but I simply refuse to die (or let Griffin die) a senseless death because some pathetic psycho decides to shoot up a building full of strangers. It seems a strange paradox, especially given the trite anti-gun propaganda that spotlights guns instead of irresponsible gun owners, but I've never felt more responsible and more capable of owning a gun than now that I'm a parent. Griffin's safety is my number one priority, and there's nothing in the world that can make me act so stupid as to treat a gun with anything but respect. That's the reason I want to carry one... because there are too many irresponsible people who already do. And after living in Florida (where five years of bad luck rained down on me like shit from the sky), I now wonder if maybe I'm just destined to be in the wrong places at the wrong times, encountering the wrong people. One can hope to control one's destiny, but to be certain of destiny is to be a cocksure fool. I'm choosing instead to be prepared.
- And probably the most amazing thing to happen all summer is getting to Tacoma. We're in one place... for at least a year! We're not unpacked yet, but we're in an apartment and all our stuff is out of the storage unit. I'll say more once it's all fixed up like it's going to be for everyday life, but we were lucky to have found this place. It's simple and comfortable, with everything we need nearby. Topping the list of awesome finds is a grocery store called Trader Joe's. They have delicious foods at affordable prices (like Whole Foods), and there's one right around the frickin' corner. I think we'll be satisfied here, Murphy included. There are plenty of cats and other animals out back for him to chase and bark at, etc.
02 July 2009
zimdog's quote of the fortnight
(from the underside of a Wegman's bottle cap):
The bad news:
there is no key
to the universe.
The good news:
it was never locked.
Swami
Beyondananda
03 June 2009
Talking like a man with a paper ass...
My dad and I were standing by the grill earlier talking about health care reform. Pretty standard. I'm no expert, but I do know that the arguments being made against government health care are crap arguments. It's no more socialist than the police force any one of us can benefit from. And there would be no increase in taxes. Or rather, there would be, but gone would be the health care premiums and deductibles making health care CEOs filthy rich. Personally, I think taxes would work out cheaper, and we'd be a healthier nation. Maybe I'm looking at it wrong though.
But let's get back to those crap arguments being made. The bastardization of information in the media is a problem of obese proportions, and some Americans are ready to believe whatever they hear from the idiot with the loudest microphone, which is why I was surprised when my dad told me some of the New Republicans are really getting pissed about the sorts of propaganda being spouted at high volume by loudmouths like Rush Limbaugh and Newt Gingrich. This is refreshing news for freedom of speech. Intelligence might just get its voice yet.
Now the funny part. Our discussion reminded my dad of a euphemism his father often used for describing unintelligent, crap arguments. He described the irresponsible speaker as “talking like a man with a paper ass.” I admit I can't quite figure out what this phrase means, but I like it, and somehow it makes sense inside my head. I hope to keep this phrase handy for regular use. But still I'm curious. Any ideas why it works?
But let's get back to those crap arguments being made. The bastardization of information in the media is a problem of obese proportions, and some Americans are ready to believe whatever they hear from the idiot with the loudest microphone, which is why I was surprised when my dad told me some of the New Republicans are really getting pissed about the sorts of propaganda being spouted at high volume by loudmouths like Rush Limbaugh and Newt Gingrich. This is refreshing news for freedom of speech. Intelligence might just get its voice yet.
Now the funny part. Our discussion reminded my dad of a euphemism his father often used for describing unintelligent, crap arguments. He described the irresponsible speaker as “talking like a man with a paper ass.” I admit I can't quite figure out what this phrase means, but I like it, and somehow it makes sense inside my head. I hope to keep this phrase handy for regular use. But still I'm curious. Any ideas why it works?
01 June 2009
Silly in religion
Driving yesterday, I saw a license plate that read "2CJESUS." My first reaction was: Whoopie! Another asshole Christian trying to ram salvation through my head.
But then the underlying humor hit me. That driver was right then and there going to see Jesus. I had a fair chuckle, and realized how much more I like Christians when they're making jokes instead of playing missionary. This in turn found loose connections with recurring thoughts of late, one of which is the mild sadness I feel from knowing that juvenile humor generally meets disdain. It's like some people have forgotten how to have an innocent laugh. I know my own world is a much happier place when I spend more of it enjoying humor at any level.
Recently, Griffin learned to blow raspberries with his lips... semi-funny in and of itself. Then one night, he made that sound almost immediately after releasing a real fart. I was so proud of my son's very first fart joke. Of course cynic that I am, soon came the thoughts regarding the lack of respect that fart jokes get any more. It's like you're an outcast for enjoying bodily humor (just one of the many arguments supporting ecofeminism's claim that the master consciousness has trained humans to consider the natural world inferior).
Well, I don't give a flying fish. The snobs of the world can kiss my ass, which is that funny-shaped set of lumps halfway down the backside of my body. My body, by the way, is my physical connection to the natural world; nowadays, some consider it "inferior" to the human mind and soul. In my religion, the body, mind, & soul deserve equal attention.
Having said everything I have written thus far, I declare that from this day forth, no human shall rightfully trespass upon my natural right to laugh about turds and their hilarious variety of shapes and exit sounds. I shall not find embarrassment in shifting my rational thought process into simpleton gear for an episode of South Park. (I recently saw the queef episode and just about choked on my own laughter.) Nor shall my soul suffer the narrow moralizing eye of the prideful elites who can't stand being anchored to reality by a crude vehicle that expels waste. Heaven forbid humans learn the powerful energy of recycling!
But then the underlying humor hit me. That driver was right then and there going to see Jesus. I had a fair chuckle, and realized how much more I like Christians when they're making jokes instead of playing missionary. This in turn found loose connections with recurring thoughts of late, one of which is the mild sadness I feel from knowing that juvenile humor generally meets disdain. It's like some people have forgotten how to have an innocent laugh. I know my own world is a much happier place when I spend more of it enjoying humor at any level.
Recently, Griffin learned to blow raspberries with his lips... semi-funny in and of itself. Then one night, he made that sound almost immediately after releasing a real fart. I was so proud of my son's very first fart joke. Of course cynic that I am, soon came the thoughts regarding the lack of respect that fart jokes get any more. It's like you're an outcast for enjoying bodily humor (just one of the many arguments supporting ecofeminism's claim that the master consciousness has trained humans to consider the natural world inferior).
Well, I don't give a flying fish. The snobs of the world can kiss my ass, which is that funny-shaped set of lumps halfway down the backside of my body. My body, by the way, is my physical connection to the natural world; nowadays, some consider it "inferior" to the human mind and soul. In my religion, the body, mind, & soul deserve equal attention.
Having said everything I have written thus far, I declare that from this day forth, no human shall rightfully trespass upon my natural right to laugh about turds and their hilarious variety of shapes and exit sounds. I shall not find embarrassment in shifting my rational thought process into simpleton gear for an episode of South Park. (I recently saw the queef episode and just about choked on my own laughter.) Nor shall my soul suffer the narrow moralizing eye of the prideful elites who can't stand being anchored to reality by a crude vehicle that expels waste. Heaven forbid humans learn the powerful energy of recycling!
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