An Unmarried Man

I strongly dislike the movies of Tom Hanks and Sandra Bullock. I’ll stop short of saying I dislike them. I don’t know them personally and I don’t believe in living as if distant celebrities have any direct bearing on my life. They don’t. They are lifeless puppets on my screen. Tom and Sandra don’t know me, don’t care about me, and vice versa. Still, I HATE their movies. Their movies are trash. Garbage.

Of the two, Tom Hanks is the more intolerable because of his smug undeserved attitude. One gets the sense he actually believes he is contributing depth to the outhouse called Hollywood cinema. It seems he truly believes his lie…that his movies are good. That they stand on their own and owe absolutely nothing to the unthinking mass fervor that drives hordes of 95-IQ’d public to lavish such idiot’s praise on his “body of work.” Run, Tom, run. Keep running and stop making movies and acting in them. You are not that awesome. Even From The Earth To The Moon was a putrid pile of celluloid refuse. Dude, your movies are redolent of sophomoric, formulaic tedium which rehashes the godly idiot motif so much that I think maybe that is your target audience. Certainly the godly idiot is the baseline audience that would optimally appreciate your product which you seem to release constantly. Do you ever rest? Those in the “know” tell us your movies are great. And the public just eats it up, don’t they? They don’t question just how boring and bland Sleepless in Seattle or Philadelphia or Saving Private Ryan or…oh God, I need to stop. I feel like I’m sticking a finger down my throat each time I think of your masterpieces.

Sandra Bullock, ah, now she makes crap too, but she is much more tolerable simply because she is such a sweetie with a heart of gold and tits to match. Sandra Bullock seems a little friendlier and perhaps even a tad more humble than Prince Hanks. How can an annoying actress not redeem herself by wearing tight skirts and waving her delicious ass at the Saintly Black Beast co-star (another Hanks motif)? Actually, Bullock counteracts much of her nauseating Hollywood legacy simply due to the fact much of the painful acting and writing in her flicks is offset by the dazzling display of her curves and luscious skin. If Sandra Bullock would do a nude scene, I would brave the most annoying nighttime movie crowds and suicide-inducing parking just to see that. And I would pay top dollar. Alas, Bullock is too “respectable” and instead gobbles up trite and rehashed roles that were spit out by the big Movie Studio Formula SoftServe Machine. Her stuff lacks meat. The Blind Side was one of the most intolerable piles of 50-BMI’d Negro lard I have never seen. Why this movie was lauded while Precious was ignored will forever be stain upon the once hopeful expectations I ever had that Hollywood might one day do something right at Awards time. Precious was hard and it was great. A movie like that has no room for Sandra Bullock, Hollywood’s favorite fluff queen. But her hips and her lips make me forget the piece of crap she is currently plaguing me with at any moment.

So this Movie Studio Forumula SoftServe Machine I mentioned? It’s been busy, as always, serving up agonizing pop culture crap, and now it is tormenting me once again because one if its lamest offerings is now getting hyped and managed to be entered into the annual grind of Academy nominees. Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close is the most predictable syrupy mush Hollywood could squirt out thanks to its Movie Studio Forumula SoftServe Machine. The machine appears to have done well. Its name roused cheers when it was announced as a best movie nominee the other morning. It’s got the buzz and everyone wants to see it. I refuse.

I will not see a movie regurgitated from the Studio cogs and built around two of my least favorite actors. Today I told someone that whereas I might actually see War Horse once it’s availble on Netflix (ie, I don’t have to pay extra to see it), I also declared I would never, ever, make time to see Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, even for free. No way. I can be convinced to “waste” my time for some rather meaningless activities, but only because they are “wastes” of time. They are a window of time that I could have been doing something else, perhaps. However, a movie like Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close is beyond a simple “waste of time.” It is thief of time. This is the type of movie I won’t see because instead of merely wasting my time, it literally saps my time, it feeds on my energy and life. Rather than create a void in my day, it molds into the fabric of my spacetime and removes an elemental segment of my reality that I can never reclaim. This movie would be harmful for me to see!

Besides, Moneyball or The Descendants deserve this prize.

Earlier I was telling my mom, brother and son that I was playing around with the notion of starting a cult. I think I might like being a cult leader. I think I have it in me!

But maybe not.

I’m certainly manipulative enough in a sad passive manner, and emotionally intelligent. I’m actually quite charming and just egotistical enough to give it a major league effort.

I will need to sniff out my target audience first. This may be difficult being that I try not to leave the house if possible and especially being that I avoid groups (more than three people) like the plague. I can’t function in large disarrayed groups of idiocy which invariably afflicts groups of people and whose likelihood is directly proportional to the size of the group. I don’t want to deal with the rampant mass idiocy. Human shortcomings distract me. This will be a difficult task for me. My “cult leader” striving is frankly endangered by my willful misanthropy. Ugh. Most cult leaders are in fact misanthropes but what is it they possess that allows them to find the gumption to rouse distasteful bands of needy losers to their beck and call? Cult leaders must have a disdain for their sycophants; such a deep hatred that they don’t mind stirring up a mass suicide for the sake of their own egotistical gratification. Their congregants are toys.

I suppose an effective cult leader must be a misanthrope but simultaneously possess the ability and desire to mingle and interact within groups of people. Loners cannot be good cult leaders. Perhaps the next stage of cult evolution will happen online. Finally the loners and shut-ins can be the cult leaders they were meant to be.

A cybercult would be awesome because there is no need for a physical “church” location or outpost remote dusty ranch or compound and the socially disinterested drop-out can now wield the coercive and emotionally abusive power that Charles Mansion or David Koresh did in real life. A masterful online cult leader would draw in the “vulnerables” and perhaps, not even make them do anything other than laud his or her magnificence in absentia. The cybercult leader still has the option, if he desires, to herd his followers into a frenzy of demented worship to the point where they would do anything he asked of them via email or IM or a comment chain. The cult leader would commandeer their weak moral structure and they would live to uphold his lifeview.

The world is looking bright for prospective cult leaders who in eras past would merely have smoldered away in a dusty dark room while fantasizing about ruling the world, or more realistically, weakened people.

My mom asked me the name of my cult. I couldn’t think of one then. Now I know.

My cult will be the Cybercult of Free Human Radicals (FHR).

The Free Human Radical lacks, much like his counterpart in the domain of Chemistry and physiology, the Free Radical, a paired sense of cohesiveness and belonging within society and with other humans. He is super reactive and quick to respond to his environment. He exerts tremendous energy and is apt to strike at the structural backbone of society’s DNA and is capable to generating a destructive chain reaction that brings society to its diseased knees.

This is the constitution of the Cybercult of Free Human Radicals (FHR).

It is the self-recognition that one’s own special formulation skews unevenly and thus creates a persistent tension which can only be alleviated by destructive externally focused interactions.

Welcome to the Cybercult of Free Human Radicals.
I need an insignia.

Los Angeles is a macabre little hamlet. It’s ironic that a city of such glittery glamour and dazzling lights also has the deepest and darkest underbelly of nearly any major American city. This city is all parties and famous people and rich people and lavish restaurants and bars and skylights. But this town also acts as an electrical coil that darkens and converts even the most unlikely crimes into notorious and mysterious legends. The city’s history is filled with crimes that have populated our culture with their deviant quirks and sinister promises. Why Los Angeles? I’ve always suspected it’s owing in part to a combination of LA being the “last stop” for many dream seekers. It is where personal fantasies are crushed or enlivened and there is a tragic tone to this starry-eyed mecca. Secondly, I believe the sprawling layout of the city is largely responsible. Los Angeles is physically a large city pocked with all manner of geographical nuances, from hills to canyons to ravines, all co-existing smartly among the Angelenos who choose to settle in this layered city of dark landscapes interspersed with neon and billboards. Los Angeles’ geography is spooky and mysterious and hides lurking evil.

Los Angeles is the city of mayhem. Mayhem is its soul. Crime committed in Los Angeles is especially vulnerable to possessing an extra twinge of depravity and gruesomeness.

It all began with Elizabeth Short. The circumstances of her murder are renowned and the lore of her gruesome, evil death mystify to this day. She was another pretty out-of-town girl who found herself coasting the shady underbelly of Los Angeles, an aspiring movie actress like everyone else here, and though she never found her break in life, she did in death. She became known as the Black Dahlia because she frequently dressed in black and had jet black hair, and otherwise seemed a 1940′s precursor to modern Goths. Elizabeth Short’s body was found in the Leimert Park neighborhood of Los Angeles, about 6 miles southwest of downtown. She was discovered by a woman taking her daughter for a walk on January 15, 1947. Short’s body had been cut in half at the waist. Long incisions had been carved from the corners of her mouth to her ears. She had been drained of all blood and her wrists and ankles showed signs of having been tied wth rope. Her severed torso was laid out with her arms bent directly above her head at 90 degree angles, as if she were lifting a barbell.

Courtesy Black Dahlia Web Site (http://www.bethshort.com/about-beth.php)

Further adding to the mysterious legacy of Short’s murder was that the killer was never found. Many attention seekers confessed to the murder. Rumors abounded. But the killer was never found or tried.

Things have not changed in the City of Angels. A dark evil pall hovers over this metropolis. When you peer at the city from a lofty viewpoint, such as Griffith Park, you will see lights stretching into the distant horizon like an ocean of relentless cityscape. But if you allow yourself to “see,” you will note there are equals parts darkness and void. Interspersed with the comforting swath of light are arrows of enveloping darkness. This is where Los Angeles’ renowned noir sensibilities lurk. This is your peril.

The city of the macabre and unsettling coincidences and parallels.

Almost 65 years later to the day, last Tuesday, January 17, Lauren Kornberg, a professional dog walker (it’s Hollywood) was walking eight clients with her mom near Bronson Canyon Park in the Hollywood Hills when Ali, a Golden Retriever, sniffed out a human head wrapped in a plastic bag deep in a ravine which Lauren at first believed to be a movie prop. Obviously, it was not. Police were called in and subsequent investigation uncovered matching hands and feet, also dismembered, in the adjacent wilderness area not far from Brad Pitt’s hillside estate. But that’s all they could find. The remainder of the body (and parts) have not been found.

The victim was identified this weekend as Hervey Medellin, a 66-year-old former Mexicana Airlines employee who lived on De Longpre Avenue in Hollywood.

Reports have surfaced that he lived with his boyfriend but references to his ex-wife have also surfaced. Police have stressed that his live-in boyfriend is not a suspect or a person of interest, and in fact, he filed a missing persons report for Medellin on January 9. Police are still searching for the remainder of Medellin’s body and have not made any arrests. Some stories have claimed that Medellin frequently hiked in the hills near where his head was found, leading some to wonder if this was a random murder, but police are still interviewing people. Intriguingly, a human torso was found 500 miles away near the Tucson Mountains in Arizona on January 6, but police dismiss the connection, though law enforcement for both cities has been in touch. It is said that the torso belongs to a male and is missing the head, hands and feet.

Years ago I bought a book called Fallen Angels. It was a series of chronicles of notorious Los Angeles murders with a handy map reference to Thomas Brothers’ Los Angeles edition’s pages and grids showing the scenes of the crimes. I dig this stuff. This was before the internet and especially before Google Earth. Back then I was forced to rely on the 2-dimensional cartographic layout to illustrate where John Belushi died or where Sal Mineo was stabbed to death. Now there is Google Earth which is equally evil for the glimpse it gives us into the scene of the crime as seen by a roving camera from years previous.

This image from Google Earth shows a bird’s eye view of the approximate location Medellin’s head was found in the Hollywood Hills.

Note the contrasting rustic and mountainous anonymity conjoined with the bustle of Tinsel Town to the south. Los Angeles’ soul is dark and burrowed deeply into our geographical psyche. Dismemberment is our town’s civic pride.

I’m the kind of guy who sits in a condo far away on Sunday afternoons and watches National Geographic reruns reinventing themselves on ON DEMAND TV. National Geographic makes some very interesting documentaries. National Geographic was a suitable follow up to Anthony Bourdain’s The Layover show in which he flew to Amsterdam but carefully reiterated (was forced to) that he did not inhale for the sake of prudish, stick-up-the-ass American network executives. They would not allow him to smoke pot or even allude to any possbility he did during broadcast. Yet, in some scenes, he looked damned stoned. A thing of beauty. I turned to my television partner and told her, “This country (United States) is a joke” to which she replied, “Well, it is illegal here.” Gawd. This brings to the fore any notion of globalism because we’ve reached the state of culture where international boundaries and laws are nothing but a morass of principles and attitudes and ultimately, nothing means a goddamned thing because people will ultimately do what they want. Why is it politicians play to the lowest common grandmotherly denominator of rigid Puritanism. Eventually the Scotch-drinking, pot-hating conservatives will die. Is this how long we will need to wait before pot is finally legalized? I would love it if we could make Newt illegal, first. Rid us of his scourge!

This is what I do on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Anthony Bourdain’s adventures become tiring and besides, I’m getting very jealous of his wanderlust. Now’s the time for National Geographic’s documentaries.

So one of the National Geographic docs I dove into was their “Taboo” series about “prison love.” The dignified smut was basically about the prisoner’s world and their locally restricted access (or lack thereof) of sex. The film followed several prisoners who had earned conjugal visits from their cold-hearted killing savage lovers, thieves, and all manner of criminal no-gooders. It showcased a couple of prisoners who married after imprisonment and illuminated the dynamic of a free soul on the outside who would seriously entertain the thought of dating and marrying someone who would be locked up for years or even life. It was very interesting and brought up many questions about human psychology and the limits of prisoner’s freedoms. There was a segment later on that trailed a Hispanic couple from Orange County, California. The young mother had a 5-year-old daughter and she was at least 8 months pregnant with a son. She was deliberately thrilled in front of the camera to have a “full” complement of offspring even though the father of both was currently in county jail awaiting sentencing to state prison. She essentially was impregnated by a man who would be spending a few years behind bars in a far away dungeon while his children lived out another predictable fatherless void of morals hundreds of miles away in some barrio. It’s a tired script that is played over and over and over.

Nothing new here.

Anyways, at one point, they told us the prisoner/father’s name: Daryl.

I turned to my television partner. I cuss in real life as much as I do online.

I told her, “Daryl? There are no fucking Mexicans that call their kids Daryl!” We continued watching in silence while the baldy mustachioed “Daryl” continued to pontificate about how badly he wanted to be a good father figure, even from the Pen. Daryl. Whatever. Mexicans do not name their kids anything remotely Anglo, ever. Our resistance to assimilation as an ethnicity is especially apparent in how we name our children.

It is a peculiarly Mexican trait. Hispanics from Central America south are fond of naming their children stuff like “Nelson” or other Anglo derivations that only they and Asians would deliberately impose on their spawn. Mexicans though…they never butter up their child’s transition into mainstream American culture. Mexican’s continue with the Jose’s and Maria’s well into the 3rd generations. I’ve always been self-conscious about this. I mean, c’mon, Carlos is fine if your parents came here in 2005. But 1955? And you’re still named Carlos? This is America. Watch goddamned Beverly Hills 90210 if you need ideas. Rosa? This is America! Asians love to name their kids all kinds of shit with “K’s” … Derek, Karen, Kyle, Kelly, but they love Anglo, WASPy names in general. Mitchell, Lyle, Erik, and the list goes on. I’ve always felt the Asian naming convention was a little overboard. To the point of sycophancy. The Asians seem to want to fit in too much, the Mexicans, not enough. Today on the documentary, I saw this Mexican dude named Daryl and I thought what the hell?

Then it struck me.

I’m Mexican, ya see…I get the scintillating insider Mexican view. It’s really exciting. Yeah.

I told my television partner…the newer generation Mexicans have in fact begun to embrace American culture, but now, they name their children after sports stars. I’ve seen this a lot recently. “Daryl” is but one iteration for “Daryl Strawberry.” “Isiah” is another.

This crap happens all the time now. Old Mexican generations naming their children after established black athletes who inherited an Anglo naming structure from slave days. Mexicans are now naming their children after the names of slave owners. How precious is this?

Hell with the gravitas. Hell with that distinguished behavior. I’m about to let my hair down!

Cause I’m such a serious guy. Can’t you tell?

A Friday such as this was an unscalable hurdle of seriousness. I can never bear down or frown for a moment and lucidly contemplate life’s deviant textures. It’s a flippant day. Darting around in a cloud of foolishness. I can’t always be serious. I too can be goofy. But on the other hand, isn’t the overly conscious effort to portray lightheartedness a self-defeating act in itself? By attempting to express that which you are not, you are in effect displaying enormous amounts of that which you are attempting to disguise. Or…something along those lines.

Most amusing in this human life are the grand spectacles which fill our vision with simultaneous doses of tragedy and excruciating comedy. Such extreme emotions are rough on our mental faculties and the act of digesting such contrasting input creates a frisson in our mind that elicits baffling behavior and group mentalities.

Tragedy+Comedy kicked off the year 2012 in the name of Francesco Schettino and his bumbling and un-Captain-like command of his cruise ship, Costa Concordia, which he ran aground the rocks of Italy’s Tuscan coast. As news of this shipwreck has seeped into the news since the “incident” on Friday the 13th, the details have also blossomed incrementally in expanding levels of ridicule for the 52-year-old tanned captain who “fell” into a lifeboat, caught a taxi home, and failed to return to his sinking ship as he blubbered like a little boy in light of the damage he had wreaked. And the phone call where he gets castigated by a Coast Guard member is classic. Schettino’s futile attempts at minimizing his role in the disaster, from its onset when he steered the cruise liner dangerously close to the coastline to the subsequent unraveling of events as he fled the ship (but not before helping himself to dinner at 10:30, about and hour and a half after hitting rock). His panicked and embarrassing excuses (as the one where he claimed to have actually saved lives which might have some credence in only the most disconnected and abstract manner) are nothing short of the finest example of tragicomedy possible.

And his name. His name could not have been more fitting of a person who seeks to excuse (ie, weasel) his way out of such an overwhelmingly publicly shameful situation as this. In fact, his name can be a newly coined phrase when describing a person whose culpability is ludicrously obvious and self-apparent and made more so by his plaintive excuses which rapidly degenerate into baffling distortions of reality. This can be now known as “pulling a Schettino.” The next time someone tries to extricate themselves from a situation you caught them at red-handed…when they try to deflect attention with the most tawdry stream of excuses, you merely have to tell this person: “You are full of Schettino!” Full of Schettino will now enter the parlance of human infamy. And if said with a simultaneous Italian lilt and accompanied by dramatic hand gestures, the phrase will carry much more weight.

And speaking of water, today I was using the bathroom at work. Doing #1, or “little house” as my ex-wife used to call it. It’s a large bathroom and one of the stalls was occupied. I used the urinal farthest from the stalls and embarked upon my business when suddenly a descending bubble of gas began to make its presence known. You know, it strikes sometimes while you are urinating and if withheld, makes the urination flow less voluminous or hearty. That “gas” thing. So I felt the gas bubble descend but I’m too modest to let it blast even though the guy in the stall probably wouldn’t know who the culprit was. Still, he could wrap up things quickly and burst out the door and my anonymous fart cover would be blown. This is incredibly serious. Shameful. It might even tarnish my non-existent reputation at work. No, I couldn’t chance it. In such instances, I flush the urinal and hope that I can release the bubble’s persistent ire behind the drowning flood of flushed urinal water’s whoosh sound. Alas, it did not work today! The gas bubble was grand and would not be contained within the span of time it took an industrial urinal to flush. After the first disguising flush, my statute of limitations was effectively expired. You are not permitted two flushes to disguise the bubble explosions. You just can’t. So now, with the guy still secluded in the stall, I was forced to let the bubble expel silently. I tried. As I urinated I concentrated on expelling the bubble ever so silently and innocuously. Alas, I failed! She ripped, and rather loudly. Yikes. The man in the stall had to have heard that. Now the problem was that he could not find out who it was that tooted so shamelessly in his presence. My mission now was to flee! Flee before he wrapped up his shit, so to speak, but also, to wrap up before someone walked into the bathroom and unwittingly said my name or spoke to me, necessitating my response and thus blowing my cover. This was not a simple mission. I was not only attempting to flee before the man finished, it was imperative I flee before an innocent bystander entered the bathroom and triangulated my identity. This was urgent business! I washed my hands quickly, the faint echo of my bubble burst still ringing in my ears, and I dashed out. I think I had some trickle left. Not good. Not a good bathroom visit. But at least me and my bubble petulance remained anonymous thanks to my swift thinking and efficient escape. The guy is probably wondering even now who let that one rip while he was ensconced behind the stall walls. But he doesn’t know!

Which of course segues nonsensically to the dinner table at my parents house earlier tonight where I had stopped to pick my son up and eat a quick dinner. My mom mentioned a news story involving the mysterious murder/decapitation/defooting of that fellow up in the canyons outside Griffith Park. She said the police believe it was a “crime of passion.” I suddenly thought something. I announced I would like to see what a crime of dispassion is like. I think it would go something like this. The criminal walks nonchalantly to his victim, waves the gun around apathetically and mumbles, “I’d like your money. If you give it to me, that’s great. If you don’t, that’s fine,I don’t really care. I probably won’t even shoot you. Can you give me your money?” This is said and done while slouching and barely making eye contact with the intended victim. A true crime of dispassion.

Bitterly cold L.A. morning [local exaggeration: off]. It was a deadlift morning. Deadlifts are the most grueling of the major lifts. If you do them right and do progressively heavier weight, they knock you squarely on your ass. Day 2 of my workout week is Deadlift day. Thursday. I open with 4 sets of relatively light squats, followed by 4 sets of incline benches. Minor stuff, a prelude and warm-up to the hardcore shit which is the routine of the morning: 5 sets of increasing deadlift poundage. A couple of years ago, on the 4th rep of my 5th and final set, I felt an electric twinge in my lower right back. It was quickly replaced by a foreboding dull, stiff pain that prevented me from standing straight. I was hobbled for the rest of the day. I thought I had really done it this time. I was in bad shape for the next week. Eventually my back healed without major medical intervention and I worked my way back up to 270 pounds (took months, almost a year) while concentrating closely on form. I’ve learned to take my time and focus on form with this lift. If you rush deadlifts, you risk killing your back. At higher weights (for yourself, it’s generally a relative number), your form must be close to exquisite. My deadlift injury was owing to the fact that I curled my back in order to compensate for a knee injury at the time. If you bend your back, you end up shifting most of the weight’s load to your spine, which is exactly what you are not supposed to do during deadlifts. This prevents you from jutting your hips forward during the pull. It was a massive failure of form that injured me.

The squats and incline benches are just extended warm-ups for my deadlifts. I do squats and benches more intensely the other 2 days of my work out week.

This morning, during my incline benches, my Tuesday flake came out of the shower and prepared to leave for work. I finished up the second rep of my inclines and we hugged and at that moment, her eyes looked down past me and she snidely remarked, “Oh, that looks safe.” I turned to see what she was looking at. Ah. She was checking out my “incline” bench, which is a makeshift piece of embarrassing gym equipment at best.

Her snarkiness was appropriate, of course. She saw it clearly because she is not…Mexican. It really is a Mexican thing, this incline mess. Who the hell inclines a bench with old telephone books? I don’t know where the lateral bar is that came with the bench. In the perfect world, you slip it into the opposing slots in order to sanely and dependably prop up the bench. I lost it a long time ago. But I need to do my inclines, damnit! Inclines are a vital part of a good work out routine. Incline benches augment the normal bench press because they target the upper pecs. My inclines are very weak so I don’t mind placing my well-being in the hands of 2 local phone books to provide support for my faint vertical lift. But yes, it does look a little Third World, doesn’t it? I’ve done this for so long I don’t even recognize how precarious the situation is. I’m so used to it. I’m relying on these phone books to support 165 pounds of iron which would love the opportunity to crush my face.

I wanted to tell her it’s the Mexican in me. My incline bench is reckless, careless, dubious, but it gets the job done. That’s how we operate South of the border and East of Los Angeles. Mexicans are some of the most crazy-ass dangerous-minded people. The “safety-first” sensibilities of the SWPL nanny American state are completely alien to Mexicans. We use scotch tape and gum to patch up our path to safety and security. Our self-preservation is etched in a patchwork of improvised piecemeal solutions. We entrust our fate to ratty old telephone books.

I’m reminded of a hilarious photograph jewamongyou published in his blog a couple of weeks ago after returning from a Mexican trip.

Courtesy: jewamongyou.wordpress.com

This spells out the Mexican approach to safety which basically is nonplussed endeavoring at tempting fate in as many ways as possible. It seems the local news is constantly abuzz with a parade of tragic stories detailing preventable deaths and injuries in the Mexican-American community that reads like a litany of Final Destination death scenes. I don’t know, maybe it’s a perception thing. Maybe Mexicans are no more careless than other ethnicites, but based on the daily, off-the-news-grid behaviors I see in my neck of the woods, that seems doubtful.

I don’t even watch porn. Clearly not owing to moralistic reasons, either. Believe it or not, porn bores the hell out of me. Of course I went through the customary “pilfer a sneaky peak from dad’s magazines” stage when I was young. I bought a few Playboys and Penthouses in my day. And of course, I watched the customary porn movies (Rambone The Destroyer) but usually it was only because my friends were watching. I never saw the draw or went out of my way to procure said smut on my own. I don’t find porn arousing. Lesbian porn is the best because at least there are no guy’s asses flapping in the camera, but still, it only goes so far.

The internet is the best thing that could have happened for the typical porn connoisseur. It used to be that internet porn was available for a price if I remember correctly. Now it seems a lot of it is available for free in the cyber smut room near you. I find if very hollow. It does nothing for me. I’ve always felt that sitting in front of a porn flick is like watching a cooking show when you have the stomach flu. Why even bother. Unless I’m the leading actor and getting a piece of the supporting cast’s ass, I have no urge to see other people doing what I should be doing.

Consequently, I have a very neutral, slightly utilitarian attitude toward pornography. I don’t buy that it’s harmful or the base scourge that many uptight moralists or feminists preach. My understanding is that the porn industry is self-regulated very tightly. There is a standard of ethics that even porn industry insiders abide by. According to this Guardian article, over 10,000 hardcore porn movies are made in Los Angeles each year. This town is one big porn fest! Probably owing to the presence of traditional mainstream movie production in this town, it makes sense that the subdural porn biz would also fester in the shadows of Hollywood since not all actors and actresses can make it “big” in the mainstream. They might as well use their bodies for something. There is BIG money in porn. It is shady and lucrative and its beneficial effect on the local economy is indisputable. However, Los Angeles, and its mother hen, California, have demonstrated repeatedly that they are clueless in the manner they treat the entertainment industry. Local ordinances and tax burdens efficiently drive away the golden goose that feeds this region. Namely, movie and television production. Throw in the fact that the current state of high-speed digital technology and its shrinking effect on geographical distances means that shooting a movie in Toronto is akin to shooting it down the freeway. Dailies material can be transmitted to Hollywood in almost real time due to enormous data pipelines and processor speed to match.

Essentially, Los Angeles’ economy has been the victim of technology and shortsighted political PC posturing. Public officials are lured into a sense of complacency brought on by the historic stranglehold over movie and television production California has enjoyed for decades. No longer. California is now the needy consumer when it comes to the entertainment industry dynamic. California and Hollywood now must grovel. It’s a reversal of fortune. Other states have learned the power of tax breaks for film productions just as they have learned to inconvenience themselves through whatever measures necessary to make filming a pleasant experience for crews and studios. California on the other hand continued to tax the hell out of productions because the state cannot get its financial house in order. Furthermore, most residents are so jaded that they see productions as a disruption and unpleasant intrusion. We are not awed by the spectacle of grips and rows of set equipment lining the sidewalk in front of the local convenience store as opposed to the attention it may receive in other parts of the country. Productions are not made very welcome around here. Who can blame them for fleeing?

And now the brainiac Los Angeles city council has voted 9-1 to approve an ordinance that would enforce existing state laws that require adult film actors to use condoms, while on the “clock” so to speak. Condoms are the ultimate buzzkill for sexual fantasy. And isn’t that what porn is?

It’s going to be interesting to see how in fact they do try to enforce it and who’s going to fund it, and all of the time and effort they’re going to spend,” said Steven Hirsch, co-founder and co-chairman of Los Angeles-based Vivid, one of the largest makers of erotic movies.
“Ultimately I think what they will find is people will just stop shooting in the city of Los Angeles,” added Hirsch. “That’s a given.”
His company, founded in 1984, would be among those that would consider leaving, he said.

Condoms on porn stars! What in the world sort of joke is this? This would be like Las Vegas deciding that instead of cash, all casinos will now deal in play money only. People (the porn fans) will not watch porn actors wearing condoms. If Los Angeles begins to require this nonsense, productions will move to regions where reality and common sense still reign so they can continue producing marketable traditional raw porn. This is what viewers demand and it’s what the buck will follow. Uptight skirts and suits populating civic buildings are incapable of understanding just how powerful and compelling the “cum shot” is in all porn. This measure’s next stop is Los Angeles King Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa’s desk where he will decide whether to approve it or not. Logic tells us this is the dumbest thing the city of Los Angeles can do for its economic health. A no-brainer, right? Uh, well, California urban public officials are more inclined to kowtow to politically correct purveyors of distorted reality than to the welfare of their constituents, so I predict Antonio will approve and before long, Los Angeles can begin kissing goodbye to another proven moneymaker.

Either that, or seed the new, burgeoning market for Condomed Porn.

I should have posted something yesterday, really. Do you see that unlinked “16″ on that calendar to the left? That should have linked to yet another one of my fabulous journeys into intellectual suicide. That was my plan. I decided early on what I was going to write about. Usually the subject of my post percolates throughout the day and erupts in an orgasmic release at night while I pound away mercilessly on this tired keyboard like a Bachian backdrop. Yesterday, this was my plan. However, yesterday turned into a chain event day. A chain event day meaning that my day unfolded like a pinball on a wave-ridden ship. And the pinball affected everything. It all began, you see, with a…woman.

The plan was such. Yesterday, we were to meet at my apartment. Have dinner, etc. The problems began Sunday night with an emotional spiel from her over the phone that put everything in danger and cast a shadow of doubt over my plans. OK, Monday was still on, however. Yesterday morning, I rushed to get ready, I caught the bus, realized I had a voice message. I checked it, it was her…she forgot certain items that disqualified the Monday plans from happening. Certain other sour emotions decorated the voice message. Ah, I heard this on the bus. Discouraged, I turned up my Ipod louder and considered the other public transportation riders with extra scorn. Which is amazing considering how much scorn I have even on a good day. OK, so I’m a “make lemonade” type of guy and this has turned into one bigass sour lemon.

My lemonade was that now I would have a chance to write a Monday night blog (which I had not counted on if plans had unfolded according to plan).

And the subject matter presented itself quite easily on the bus. I even emailed myself at work so I would not forget the intriguing train of thought that struck me. This is how I work. All my great idea generation occurs in the morning. The grueling and disheveling writing happens at night. So now the night was cancelled. I was left with no option but to resort to my own private hell of excessive thought. I would write a blog on a night I had written off! For people like me, conservation-of-energy-minded, this was great news.

My Monday was incredibly slow becuse my employer does not honor the King. Whatever.

I got home and my blog idea was still ruminating in the salivary gesticulations of my oral and mental cavities. I couldn’t wait!

I made a wonderful spiced up Cod fillet, powered up the modem, and my laptop (which is where I trust my great thoughts the most…my desktop is too massive and drowns out my wisdom) would not raise any sites. Ah, the little yellow exclamation point on my wireless tool bar icon. Damnit!

Time Warner Cable was shit for a long time. I complained about it 3 months ago (again) and for once they actually sent someone to look at the problem. I don’t know what the dude did, but my internet signal has been flawless (Turbo 20MB/sec baby!) since his little “visit.” Until last night. My signal was deader than Martin Luther. Both of them. I was beyond bitter. I called and got the worst runaraound from an Indian chick since never. I’ve never attempted to pick up an Indian chick, much to my discredit. The phone tech chick had an accent and I think someone was shadowing her. I tried everything. I rebooted my modem, my computer, my computer/modem…nothing. I was told I lived in an outage area. They were sending engineers in. OK.

I finally gave up about 10:30. Went to sleep. I was sporadically upset. Two foiled plans in one night. Furthermore, one foiled plan as a result of the other foiled plan. It doesn’t get any lower than that for a bachelor sloughing his miserable life away in a dusty old apartment.

Still, I survived. I fell asleep and didn’t bat an eye, ultimately.

You can never count on life.

She is the harshest mistress. She does what she wants. Naturalistic inclinations shape my existence. We are a helpless set of cerebral-driven nonsense. I was reminded of one of the greatest doomed laments ever.

Robert Burns was an ancient Limey after my own heart. I love this. The precision and impulsive nature of his observations. It’s the kind of shit I do (minus the genius).

To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion,
Has broken nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
‘S a sma’ request;
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’ keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.

That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an ‘men
Gang aft agley,
An’lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!

Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e’e.
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!

The poem is an anthem to frigid fate.

The mosst celebrated and recognized verse is the seventh.

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an ‘men
Gang aft agley,
An’lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!

This is a work of nihilistic genius.
Thank you Burns!

He even uses endearing terminology to describe fate. Fate with perfume. Fate is cute. Ooops, you turned over fate’s nest like you would an over-easy egg.

Ooops!

Our human plans are as valueless and trivial as the mouse’s instinctual castles.

We are human, we are intelligent. Hear us roar. Listen to our technological missives as they reign over the free world. We control nature. We dictate fate, or so they tell us until the day we die. We are human.

Our dreams are grand. We are mightier than the field mouse.

But the mouse’s dream is a dream still. And just as easily ridiculed.

My original post scheduled for last night? It was about embracing unhapppiness and renouncing happiness.

Perhaps another time. For I am nothing but a mouse, or maybe a man. Hardly a blogger.

If I ruled the world…

Such is the random caliber of conversations I initiate with runners and non-bigwig types at work. What got us started, anyways? I can’t remember but someone alluded to my secret evil plans to dominate the world. I was quite shocked because that is the last thing I want and I can’t believe I even express any hint of such a longing. How could anyone get this idea about me? I hate the thought of ruling over anybody, anything, any any any. No power, no reign for me. I’d be the worst King in the world because rather than attend to matters of the state I’d most likely by hiding from everyone trying to enjoy my life absent the pressing responsibilities and clamoring sycophants. The thought that anyone would kiss my ass is embarrassing to me.

I would not wear the costume of a ruler well because I’m a doofus. You gotta care to rule, and I just cannot bring myself to care so seriously about much of anything. I would mock my kingdom and spit on it. My House of Lords would be flustered by my glib attitude. They would throw their hands in the air!

I don’t want to rule the world. I don’t want to rule a country. Hell, I don’t want to rule a department. I rule myself, and that is more than enough, thank you. In fact, sometimes I wonder if I really rule myself or if that’s an illusion implanted by some wicked metaphysical serpent intent on giving me just enough rope to hang myself.

The will and desire to rule and wield power is a disease of character. It is inhuman to seek power. If it can be whittled down and sieved out of its host medium, I’m sure some would seek to explain the strive to power as the artifact of an evolutionary Alpha legacy to submit other males, and consequently females in order to mate with the most of them. Sure, uh huh. I don’t know. There is an amusing reliance on explanations grounded in theoretical and self-serving evopsych dynamics to attempt explaining current homo sapien behaviors and sometimes it doesn’t make sense at all. Even if you extrapolate that which we may most astutely guess about our primitive ancestors, some of our present behaviors are so exaggerated that they leave me wondering if they could possibly have their roots in primitive instinctual behavior; and how much is attributable to present human intellectual and psychological development. In other words, how much of our present behavior is only modern contrived BS that apparently warrants more respect if we can attribute it to homo [fill in the blank]‘s genetic legacy.

Power on the vast scale as it’s sought now is unnatural. This unchecked drive is a corruption of the natural survival drive. People boast of power as a genetic residue of our evolutionary heritage. Bull, I say. There is absolutely nothing natural about your degenerate and perverted drive to subdue other humans.