Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Scats and Shirts

Have you ever done something so moronic that it becomes astounding to even yourself that you've survived 21 years of living in Western civilization? Perhaps it was a routine act, like tying your shoes, which this time around took you eighteen tries and half as many minutes to perform (sober). Or otherwise, maybe when talking to a member of the other sex, you tilted your head forward into your dominant hand -- the intellectual's pose to indicate that he is searching for a most elevated item of his vocabulary -- only for the word to never materialize. And when you got home, the word at last presented itself to you: "trough."

Well, I suppose that today I had such a folly. Luckily, it didn't take much time out of my day, nor did it ruin a chance I might have had with a girl. Since no one but I witnessed the act, I suppose I cannot say that it was embarrassing, either. But certainly, it still -- hours after the fact -- haunts me with a feeling that I can only call shame.

The incident was this: I was in a hurry to get to work, and since around the house I generally wear the same holey, stained T-shirt, I had to change into something more presentable. So I grabbed a nicer shirt out of my closet and, running into the bathroom where the laundry hamper is, stripped the old shirt off and confidently tossed it into the toilet. I then spun around, so far unaware of what I'd done, and left off for work as quickly as I could.

During the school year, when I live in a Tempe apartment, such an act would go unnoticed, and I would either return home later in the day to find out about the rather foolish thing I'd done with my pajama shirt, or otherwise assume that my roommate Patrick was trying to tell me something by scatologizing my wardrobe. But during the summer I live with my parents to save money, and so an hour or so after arriving at work I received a text message from my mother: "Shirt in toilet. Give to Goodwill? Y/N." After staring at my phone for a few seconds, I at last realized what the matter was, that I had in fact become confused in my rush to get out the door (Oh God, did I shit in the hamper?, I wondered). I didn't text her back, and when I returned home the shirt was wet but no longer dripping, draped over the shower curtain rod.

Monday, July 28, 2008

Top Notch Accommadations

I'm not a writer. Or, that is to say, I'm not a good writer. And before you sappy hearted lap satchels try to support my sack and remedy my sadness- I mean I am not a technically good writer. My spelling would be unreadable if it weren't for spellcheck, my grammar is acceptable at best, and (very clearly) my punctuation is that of a FOTB 4th grader. Although, to be fair, the schooling in English overseas is really rather rigorous. I have no idea what I am doing when I'm writing, but I figure since I can tickle the enamels rather righteous in real life then at least my writing will have intrinsic value. 

Then this happened.

"I really doubt that you are very intelligent" said the girl to me via instant messenger.

Now if it wasn't for the rock-hard ego I keep on staff with my rock-hard-on then I would have been pretty hurt. I won't say it wasn't a bit of a shock, I was pretty sure this girl thought I was smart. Or at the very least witty, I did recently clobber her in the face with a barrage of witticisms. Ontological proof of the existence of my wit by that very statement, no? 

So, what did I do wrong? Riggity-riggity-rewind.

Everyone should read this blog. And quite a few should write on it, but not as many as should read it. Now, despite my entries being enough- there is other good shit on here. Clever prose and wicked philosophy and even a few videos. And there will be more. So I tell people that.

"Hey, I wanna write on this blog. Any ideas? No talking about my penis or my attractiveness, that's already been done."

Man, not a strong choice with my opening line. Maybe this is where I lost her.

"How about whether you're liberal or conservative?"

I'm liberal for the record. But, here's the thing about politics. It's not funny. People only laugh at politics when it is facetiously presented with cool graphics and a theme song, or frustratedly (?) yelled at them from a stand-up's mic. So, I don't like to write about it. Not to mention, I just think my friends are better at it then me.

They're better for a few reasons. Let's start with how I had to google "facetiously" to make sure it was spelled right, or "ontological" to make sure I knew what it meant. And, on top of that, if you're going to present a truly piercing piece on politics then you should at least not misuse a comma- it's too distracting. 

"Nah. I don't think so. My friends who blog on there with me are much smarter than me so I leave the really serious musings to them."

Come on ladies! I'm humble and I'm witty. 

"I really doubt that you are very intelligent."

-This is bullshit! I am a smart guy. Hell, I went through this whole train of thought in like...15 seconds!

"Ouch."

But it turns out, I misheard her. Or whatever the appropriate e-version of that is.

"I really doubt that, you are very intelligent."

Well, fuck. I totally sucked the shine right off of that compliment. 

Which brings me to my point. I've decided I am going to have to re-learn how to use commas appropriately so that I don't accidentally jump-the-shark/nuke-the-fridge/ruin-everything the next time I am talking to a girl.

I also need to learn how to not look like a jackass when I wear shoes and shorts. That's a whole different community-college class though.

Sunday, July 27, 2008

The Grind

Six days before today, I'm lying in bed. Miserable & just barely awake, alarm clock just out of reach, screaming about the time. I take a look as I switch off the noise--8:32 am, a few hours later than when I closed my eyes, but I don't feel any different than when I went to sleep. My skin's still too heavy on my bones, brain still like a sheet of paper had an eraser dragged over it too many times. Well, no. I don't feel the same; worse, if anything. Like a body rotting before it's died. Not insomnia, exactly. Past that.

I keep telling people we're living in the middle of a watershed moment in history, and this is one of the reasons why. Our understanding of how our minds work is exploding, kaleidoscoping, sending out branches into places we never even thought were possible. The guesswork, instinct, and assumption of millenia are being replaced with research and nuance. You already know that stress & sleep & depression all link together somehow, stress bad, sleep good, depression some kind of imbalance between the two. But now we're finding that stress might be part of why you'll get Alzheimer's at 60, sleep (or lack thereof) why you can't taste your lunch today. Depression isn't just one widespread disorder, it's hundreds of separate conditions, it's brain-death in miniature, an inability of neurons to repair themselves efficiently. Your frame of mind and the underlying physiology feed into one another. We just discovered that Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder causes physical changes in the brain. And that's something we can see with our relatively crude brain imaging technology. Imagine what we're going to find next.

I was thinking about all this six days ago, as I went through the torture of the morning routine to prepare myself for another shitty day in an educational institution I loathe. I thought about the millions of us choking ourselves into neckties to work jobs we hate. I thought about everybody trying TV and celebrity magazines, philosophy and indie music and collections, all that other bullshit, to anesthetize their lives and get through the grind so they can make rent. And it's supposed to be one of those things you just do, suck it up, that's the way the world works--maybe it is. But it's not how we work. And the more you deny that, the faster you're killing yourself. You weren't meant to have a boss.

I'm quickly realizing I'm either going to be either a millionaire or penniless someday. Maybe both, but probably never something in the middle.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Lost at Sea: Excerpts from the Diary of Lionel Vorb

Compiler's Note:
Three weeks ago, while I was working in the stacks of ASU's Hayden Library, a cart full of WWII-era folios spilled over and injured a pair of small children. Since I was the person who had been pushing the cart when it spilled on top of the youngsters, as well as the one who had lured them down to the basement floor, I figured that I owed it to the lads to shelve the books before reporting them for trespassing. Luckily, whatever it was they were saying to me was in Spanish (what the hell does "hombre misterioso" mean?), so I wasn't distracted as I put the folios on the proper shelves in call number order.

Anyway, aside from the fifty or so large books that spilled off the cart, roughly one hundred sheets of worn, loose-leaf notebook paper were scattered over the floor and children. The pages were not given specific dates, but nevertheless I was able to put them in order because the entries -- written in an astonishingly crude hand -- were marked "Day 1, Day 2, Day 3," etc. On top of that, the author wrote his name at the top of the first page, along with several poor drawings of sea creatures, both real and imaginary (unless you're holding your breath that "Coral Sex Goddess" might some day be discovered in the reefs off of some Caribbean island). Thinking that the diary must have some value, I have extracted excerpts and am reprinting them here. The title, Lost at Sea, is mine, but all the rest is verbatim transcription.

With the assistance of a handful of devoted historians and librarians at ASU, who must remain anonymous because of their involvement with terrorist organizations, I was able to find out the source of the diary. Its author is the late Lionel Vorb, a combination grocer and haberdasher who made a small fortune when he patented a single device which could serve as either a cereal bowl or a yamulke (a Pilsner glass/Catholic mitre model was in the works at the time of his passing, I later found out). With this sum of cash, Mr. Vorb purchased a small yacht, not fit for long-distance travel, and set sail from Galveston, TX for the shores of St. Bartholomew's island in the Caribbean Sea. The diary, along with the ship's deceased Captain Vorb, was found when The Mabel was spotted by tourists on Key West several months later.
--K. R. King, ed.

Lost at Sea: Excerpts from the Diary of Lionel Vorb

Day 3
A mild start to a maiden solo voyage. The sea is the color of blue topaz, and so clear and calm that I feel as if I can see nearly as far down into the ocean as I can when looking up into the cloudless sky. Weather has been beautiful and warm, and a steady, sturdy breeze has kept my sails consistently taut, so that I am moving towards St. Bart's as if being pulled by a long, invisible cord. Setting out three days ago, I'd figured that bringing along a modest surplus of food and drink would be a good idea, but so far -- in spite of the exercise, which includes not only ship work but also several lengthy swims in the ocean per day -- I have consumed no more calories than the average dachshund would have. My sleep, though several hours shorter each night than it would be on land, has nevertheless been rejuvenating, and though for the past two nights I've used the aid of three fingers of brandy to help me fall asleep, I have not woken to the ill effects of consuming alcohol. I expect to land just after dawn tomorrow, and though I'm enjoying maritime life, await a fresh bed and the delights of the indoors on land.

Day 5
Never will I forgive myself for confusing magnetic North with geographical North ever again. Damned compass, and damn me for being such a slave to my instruments! I ought to have learned to use the stars; when I land at St. Bart's (or wherever I land, whenever) I will ask around for some quick pointers in elementary celestial navigation.

Hunger and thirst have still not become problems, and I have plenty of food and drink if they ever do; the sparse eating and drinking of the early voyage has paid off in that respect. I imagine I still have four days of good nutrition left, no doubt long enough to hold me over until I strike land or spot another vessel. Currently, the two demons haunting me are Boredom and Loneliness. I haven't masturbated so much since I first discovered autoeroticism in middle school.

A final note: I must purchase a radio in harbor. I have had no cell phone service since entering international waters. A slave to my instruments!

Day 8
Two days of food and drink remain, and I have decided to save it until I feel as if I am about to keel over with hunger or pass out from thirst. I've also filled two bottles with my own urine, which is the color of peanut butter, though I have no idea yet what to do with it (nor whether I'm brave enough to follow through once I figure it out). Luckily (to speak of luck at times such as these!), on the same day I decided to quit masturbating in order to save energy and body mass, my libido dissolved like an ice cube tossed out into this vast, warm sea. It's hardly worth mentioning that my boredom has gone up intensely as a result.

Perhaps it's best for my mental health to close each entry with a statement of optimism, so here is today's: The more empty waters I sail through, the more likely it becomes that I will strike land soon, so long as I do not backtrack or go in circles. I'm gradually increasing my chances of reaching shore and decreasing the possibility of remaining asea, simply by keeping on as I am. Of course, I've no other choice.

Day 10
I saw my first shark today -- miles out, popping up from time to time like the target in some carnival game. Only, of course, the target is I. How fitting that the day I run out of food should be the one that I become prey! Of course, the predators could have only been an illusion; I feel the beginning effects of dehydration and, perhaps, heat stroke. I don't know which I prefer: being hunted by vicious sea beasts or succumbing to delirium. There are six bottles of urine now, and half a bottle of brandy.

Day 12
The sharks have continued to follow me, but dare I say that with them they've brought a blessing? For just this morning, as I was gazing out and shaking my fist at those terrible creatures, I witnessed a frantic splashing, which grew ever nearer, and soon I was able to make out a human form swimming towards me. As the person neared, I found that it was indeed a beautiful woman! I reached out and helped her aboard, and once on deck, she threw herself upon me and kissed me as I've never been kissed before. Rather than undressing me in the conventional sense, she tore my clothes off with her teeth, and we made love passionately before she (cursed as I am!) flopped back into the sea, never to reemerge. Upon inspecting myself later in the afternoon, and piecing together what I could of my tattered clothing, I found several of her triangular, barbed teeth embedded in my flesh, and my penis looks as if it's gone through a street cleaner. I must be awfully dehydrated, for my body to be so damaged.

Day 16
Ther isn no more BRandy. I'd drank it all.

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Incredible keyboard solo + RAD guitar solo = you just came

Billy Preston and Eric Clapton perform at the Concert for George.

The Business End of My Attention

I have a mirror face. It's a face that I make every single time I look in the mirror. One eyebrow slightly raised, eyes a little squinty, lips pursed. Like I am being coy. I am not sure why I developed that face, but I did. Here's the thing though, I didn't know that. I just thought that's what I looked like. How was I supposed to know any differently? It wasn't until my 11th grade production of a sketch comedy show in high school, in the dressing room when Ben Kultgen said "Dude. Seriously. What the fuck are you doing?" that I even realized I was making a face. 

Do you know what it is like to see what you really look like after being mistaken for 17 years? Well, I do. I am balding more than my dad's 58 year old colleagues, and my forehead seems to have taken the manifest destiny approach to aging. My eyebrows have caught on and seem to be taking to the coasts. That, or they've just grown bored of each other's company. 

Strangely, when you break down that one image you have of yourself you see right through the other veneers you had. Speaking of which, my teeth are fake. Insert cut-and-paste from my Myspace blog for a story of my teeth-

------

Some of you may know this, some of you may not. I have fake teeth. The front six are all fake because when I was younger I would grind my teeth so bad I would wake myself up thinking someone was using a rock tumbler in my bed. In general, I like them. I smile in family pictures instead of making a weird pervert-looking closed mouth smile. They're good. Except, I still grind my teeth when I sleep- so I have to wear a night mouth-guard. Which isn't really all that inconvenient except that means I have to carry a fucking football style mouth-guard with me at all times in case I want to pass out. 

I remember a time when I went out drinking and I caught 3$ Long Islands. I was all fucking excited because the bar was close enough to where I could walk back to my buddy's place and crash on the couch. Except that walking was a big fucking problem for me following 21$ worth of Long Islands. (That's 3 Long Islands and a drunk guy tip for the bartender with the nice rack.) I get halfway home, entirely without being mugged or hobo-raped, and I manage to find the only fucking puddle in the city and step in it. So now my socks and shoes are fucking soaked and I take them off. I roll up my pants like Huckleberry Finn because somehow I figured that would make me look like I had planned the puddle situation and nobody would think I was drunk. 

Finally after like 20 minutes walking home trying not to puke in the shoes that I am holding I make it back to my buddy's place. I manage to pull out the extra key he loaned me and get inside. I was fucking pumped so I walk over in front of the couch, drop my shoes on the ground and put the socks in my pant pockets because I didn't want to lose them. That's when I remembered - I grab my clear mouth-guard out of my pocket and put it in my mouth. Then I tried to take off my pants. I say "tried" because I only got them to just below my knees.

Then I puked. 

At this point I am hunched over with my pants pulled down below my knees and rolled up above my ankles in the complete darkness, trying not to wake up my friends who graciously allowed me to puke on their carpet - and I have puked out my mouth-guard. Which means I can't sleep. Unless I want to wake up with a hangover and huckleberry teeth to match my pants. So, making the best of my situation I took off my shirt and tied it around my head, in my mouth, to keep my teeth from grinding together. Ignoring the puke taste, reinforced by the gag which probably caught some of the puke, I tried again to get my pants off. This time I got them almost completely off before I tripped and slammed my gagged face into the couch- at which point I decided that I had made it. Fuck it. My head is on a cushion- I am home free. And I went to sleep.

When I woke up I had my mouth-guard, a trashcan, a blanket, and I was laying on the couch. Which means that one of my friends took pity on the man they found black-out drunk, stinking of puke, pants wet and around his ankles, gagged on his knees with his face buried in the couch. 

None of them ever said a word about it.

------

So, all of a sudden I start to see myself.

And today the abs I had in high school are now covered in what must be the world's least graceful accumulation of black curly hair. And, it's not even the 70's thick manscape that I could tend into some kind of Zangief chest-wolf. It's closer to if Will Ferrell took some of Colin Farrell's hair dye and artificially added a bit more comedy to his man-tle. So, often times I shave my chest and stomach. If I am lucky and I don't develop the ingrown-hair herpes look, I get to rock the adolescent chubby guy style.

I know you're already turned on, but let me toss one more oyster on the proverbial crotch-fire. All of this, all of my chubby, gag-mouthed, naked chested, chrome-doming glory... it has made me more confident. Because every time I look in the mirror and see what I actually look like, I realize that all of you have been seeing that the whole time. And with just a sarcastic, fake-toothed smile or witty. bold-faced statement I managed to get you to ignore all of that. I've gotten many badass friends, and given the business end of my attention to women completely out of my league. 

I guess there's still something left to what I've got underneath all that forehead.

I spent last weekend volunteering at an old folks home and I've finally decided that old people are not disgusting. They are pretty great. 

If you want to seem like a psychic, just ask them questions. In a minute they will forget and you can "guess" anything about their lives. If you want to be an athlete, run 6 or 8 bingo cards at once. They will be endlessly impressed at your boundless agility and quickness. Double points if you can scoot your own chair in, strongman. If you want to funny, smart, courageous, handsome, interesting, or really anything else- just volunteer at an old folks home.

Don't get me wrong. I am not going back there. But, like Bender Bending Rodriguez, I have a little picture of all of them hanging in my center compartment.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Stop the chairs!!!

Lately I have taken to sending pictures of my penis to people on the Internet.

--Backtrack- 

A while ago I was talking to someone that I met randomly on the Internet. One of those people that will undoubtedly end up listed as Jessica Facebook in my phone, receive 3 drunken text messages and be soberly (and shamefully) deleted. 

"So, what are you up to tonight?" - Me

"Oh- just studying. Studying and maybe going to watch some TV."- Her

"Wow. That gives me a gigantic hard-on. I am jealous."

"Well, I am jealous of your hard-on."

"You shouldn't be. It really doesn't take much work."

And, that is the context in which I gracefully eased my hard-on into the conversation. And with incredible finesse I managed to maintain a conversation 100% about my hard-on for a solid fifteen minutes. Note : I did have a hard-on at the start of the conversation, but it was not due to her homework. It was due to the pornography I was watching while mindlessly adding smiley faces to our chat window to prove I was there. Secondary note: To my female friends, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I am also ignoring you and watching pornography while we talk online. Final note: I am doing the same right now.

"You can't be that interested. For all you know, I was kidding. Maybe I do not have a hard-on and I was just saying that to seem cool." -Me (luckily)

"True. Send me a picture of it."

Of COURSE I did it. How could I not. 

--Forwardtrack (?)

Lately I have been sending pictures of my penis to people on the Internet. I am not sure that I can describe the excellence that has resulted from these pictures. Instead I just encourage all of you to send pictures of yourself naked to each other. I promise it is worth it.

"Double the market price?? What a bargain!"

Shrink Talk is great. It's funny, (ridiculously) well-written, down to earth, and updated like a motherfucker. The latest post mentions an article from the New York Times about superwealthy therapy patients and the psychologists who treat them--and how insane the money they make is. Or as he puts it, "What is this shrink saying for 45 minutes that could possibly be worth $600? 'Your mother is the sole cause of your neurosis. You have both my ethical and legal permission to kill her.'"

Since I just finished The Logic of Life, I took a stab at justifying why, if anything, those therapists make too little. I'm not Tyler Cowen, so see if this makes sense to you:

I don't think that saying that rich people are simply "more willing" to pay a lot for therapy really makes sense. The wealthy people mentioned in the article have high-level executive jobs, not trust funds--positions that require intelligence, creativity, business savvy. Based on that, you would think they would be more likely to negotiate a good deal on therapy, not less. Their goal, like anyone's, would be to get the best possible therapy at the lowest possible price. Let's say you want to open a practice aimed at very rich clients, so you call a prospective patient in to discuss terms. You say, naturally, that you would like a million dollars per session; the executive opens up the Yellow Pages to the "Counseling - Cognitive Therapy" section, filled with many, many competing psychologists, and offers five bucks for two hours, plus you wax his car. However, you counter by pointing out all the reasons he's even in your office in the first place--your shiny credentials, the convenient location, the word-of-mouth from the other rich clients you've had. That alone is enough to ensure the basic going rate for your services. But here's your trump card--because the client has such a well-paying job, his/her time is dramatically higher-priced than the average person. You are offering them the opportunity to rid themselves of a psychological condition that is almost certainly making them less productive--in overspending due to depression, lost productive time due to stress, lower quality of life--and thus, your services are worth the value of whatever money-making capacity you restore to them. The only reasons these therapists aren't making far, far more (I was surprised that they were getting as little as $600/session) is because of how hard it is to quantify how much time you gain when you are mentally healthy, much less put a price on a higher quality of life, not to mention that therapy is by no means a sure way to "cure" anything. If anything, it's a testament to the negotiating savvy of those clients.

Saturday, July 19, 2008

Do You Sing?

A while ago, in Dan Levitin's great book This Is Your Brain On Music, I came across the story of Jim Ferguson, a professor of Anthropology specializing in African tribes. Jim, like most of us, doesn't sing in public; naturally shy and by no means a professional singer, joining in the chorus "happy birthday" on special occasions is probably the closest he ever comes to staging a public performance. His doctoral fieldwork sent him to the tiny, tiny nation of Lesotho, an African country entirely surrounded by South Africa, where he patiently and painstakingly documented, interacted with, and earned the trust of the locals. So one day one of the Sotho villagers comes up to Professor Jim and invites him to join in one of their songs--not unusual, since the Sotho "consider singing an ordinary, everyday activity performed by everyone"--and gets the reply, "I don't sing." The villagers' response was classic: "What do you mean you don't sing?! You talk!" Jim explained, "It was as odd to them as if I told them that I couldn't walk or dance, even though I have both my legs."

Levitin makes the point that in our country, in Western culture, we make a distinction between expert performers and amateurs. There's John Lennon, and then there's you. There's Jimi Hendrix, and the rest of us. The mere mortals. It's not just music, either--if you can think of it, there's someone who's a pro at it. Professional cooks, even though we all eat daily. We have professional storytellers, comedians and actors, doing shiny, polished versions of the exact same thing we all do whenever we meet up with our friends at the bar. People like Malcolm Gladwell and Stephen Levitt get paid very handsomely for being professional thinkers--their job is to be (incredibly) smart for a living. Not that this is a bad thing; I love to see real pros at work, witness all that creativity and passion and practice come together into a finely-crafted whole.

But there's always that temptation to compare yourself to them, to undersell your own work and effort and say "I don't sing" even if there's nothing wrong with your voice. I'm only 22, but I could have filled a library already with all the lines and phrases I've thrown away because they 'weren't good enough', whatever that means. How much have you lost to the overwhelming urge to self-edit, to clean and scrub and polish your work until all the personality and spontaneity is gone?

Speaking of Malcolm Gladwell, here's him giving a talk at TED 2004 about the pursuit of perfection--and how massive a disservice it is. There is no perfect singer; there's no perfect anything. We live in a world of seven billion humans, each with their own preferences, tastes, ideals. You can't please them all--but it's not really about them, anyways. Don't be "technically excellent". Be you.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

The Chuckle of Truth

"Take away the right to say "fuck" and you take away the right to say "fuck the government." - Lenny Bruce


I go for comedians over pundits and experts every time.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

It Begins

Thanks for coming. I'll be quick, so here's the 60-second pitch: Culture Invisible falls somewhere between being a meeting house and a sketchbook; it's the question "what are you thinking?" as answered by the best and the brightest, the most intelligent, belligerent minds I could find and convince to post here. It's a live documentary of what ideas, big or small, we happen to be grappling with at the moment, what pitstop we're at on the road forward. The only rule is: be interesting. Curiosity goes.

Out there in the real world, I keep meeting the same person, someone creative, driven, young--and increasingly disaffected, increasingly haunted by the idea that they are actively being duped. He, she, is tortured by the vague sense that the package deal of the soulless job and the settled-for relationship and the house filled with useless shit bought for no other reason than that's what you do with money is a scam; maybe, just maybe, it's all a set-up, a high-fructose-corn-syrup con, a slimy-sweet, ready-made substitute for real life. It used to be that all those great minds either took up rock music or suicide as hobbies, that if society wasn't doing it for you, get high or die. Thanks to the internet, we can catch those malcontents as they fall through the cracks and put them to work. Culture Invisible is for them, for us. We want out of the system, and this is the best way we have to find an exit--try something new, tell the smartest people you know about it, and see if it sticks.

That's my take on it. Other contributors are free to say fuck Jack and write their own manifesto.