Everyone loves a good end of the world scare, right? I’m not talking about pissant ideas like global warming or that horseshit 2012 theory. I’m talking about full on the-end-of-reality type of destruction. Anyone remember the Large Hadron Collider in Geneva that everyone made a big fuss over a while back? Some folks were soiling themselves over the possibility that the massive particle accelerator would inadvertently create a black hole and swallow the universe, effectively wiping us out in the blink of an eye.
As it turns out, nothing happened, and as per the usual minimal attention span of the hoi polloi, we went on with our lives as though no one had ever given a shit to begin with. Guess what? The CERN creation was back in the news for shorting out due to some bread crumbs that had been dropped into the machine (supposedly by a bird). This event prompted the serious discussion that perhaps the collider was being sabotaged…wait for it…from the future.
Although I’m sure that this argument was at least partly in jest by some of the smartest, and quirkiest, minds on the planet, it got me thinking: if you were going to go back in time, would you really pour the bottom of your toaster into one of the largest and most sophisticated machines ever constructed? Answer: hell yes I would! Not because I might be saving the world, but because it is just such a random dick move. I’m going to ask you a question that requires you to delve into the dark side of you soul for a moment. Don’t pretend to be all righteous and claim that you don’t have such feelings, because you do. Even Jesus wigged out and smacked a few bitches around, and he was Jesus.
If you could go back in time and commit one purely selfish and/or malicious act, what would you do? A few rules need to be established because otherwise all kinds of stupid possibilities might arise.
1. The act must be either for selfish, mildly evil, or otherwise dick-ish in nature. No fair going back in time to kill Hitler. Sure it might make the world a better place, but that’s not what this game is about. If anyone benefits other than you, it doesn’t count.
2. Although I said, “mildly evil,” in the previous rule, be reasonable. This means that you should not be responsible for any major catastrophe. In a nutshell, don’t be responsible for more than a few deaths (a few are ok; I’m not trying to be too bossy).
3. I don’t want to hear any chaos theory bullplop about messing with the past and causing unpredictable changes of a ludicrous scale. Save the Butterfly Effect for lame Ashton Kutcher movies. Similarly, I won’t hear any talk of paradoxes, counter-factual history and other such scenarios. I’m a historian; I get what you’re saying, now shut up. Assume for this assignment that your act will exist in a time vacuum of sorts that doesn’t create an unpredictable ripple effect. You will be able to go back to the present and see the direct results of your actions. If it’s good enough for The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, it’s good enough for me, dammit!
Now then, what would you do? Party it up with Caligula? Buy a bunch of IBM stock from the fifties? Cock block Thomas Edison on inventing the light bulb? Fuck Cleopatra? Wait for a pause during the Gettysburg Address and shout, “Freebird!”? Punch JFK in the wiener? The possibilities are endless. Which path will you take? You know you’d do it if no one was looking. Let me know, I won’t tell anyone.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Pooh For Brains
In honor of the new Winnie the Pooh book that is out this month, I would like to conduct my own moving tribute to one of our favorite childhood icons. Well…tribute may not be the best word; it’s more like a new interpretation that shatters any saccharine notions of nostalgia that may still be lingering in your skull jelly. I have a theory that the whole Winnie the Pooh thing is actually a study in psychology. Christopher Robin (CR) is the central figure of the whole affair, and I believe that each of the Hundred Acre Wood inhabitants is actually a metaphor for some part of Christopher’s damaged psyche. I present the evidence:
Winnie the Pooh - The biggest character and perhaps the most dominant of Robin’s neuroses. He is fat, lazy, stupid, and focused only obtaining honey. Pooh is the reptile brain, the most basic and instinctual part of our brain and is concerned only with instinctual drives and self-preservation. Pooh is the most benign personality and as a result is the go-to personality for the young boy whose fractured mind is a maelstrom of severe psychological maladies.
Tigger – Tigger is in part of an extension of the Pooh personality. Tigger is just as basic as Pooh, but where the bear is slow and passive, the bouncing tig[g]er is active and behaves in a manner that defies any sort of outside constraint. Today, he might be diagnosed as the personification of ADHD, but I choose to interpret Tigger as the child’s id; raw and impatient passion that does what he wants when he wants. He is also an extension of the child’s still forming libido. If CR were a few years older, Tigger would probably be bouncing around raping the shit out of anything that was slower than him.
Piglet – CR’s low self-worth is embodied by the diminutive, stuttering pig in a sweater. Piglet is unsure of himself and lives in his grandfather’s house, clearly an indication that CR feels pressure from his family who impose unrealistic standards on the child. The Piglet personality is unable to make any decisions and values himself too little to ever try and make something of himself, leading to a cyclical self-fulfilling prophecy of failure.
Eeyore – Just as Tigger is the mirror of Pooh, so too is Eeyore to Piglet. Whereas Piglet is in a constant state of anxiety over his inability, Eeyore instead has descended into a depression deep enough to reach the point of apathy. A diet of thistles and a tail that needs to be nailed back on indicates a tendency toward masochistic behavior, perhaps as a form of self-inflicted punishment as a result of poor self-esteem.
Kanga – This is the CR’s largely dormant anima, or female side. Here it is presented as a maternal figure as the mother is perhaps the only female influence in his life. The fact that she is a kangaroo is interesting in that her pouch allows for the juvenile Roo personality to retreat there whenever the harshness of life becomes too unbearable. This unhealthy attachment to his mother will either be outgrown once the child matures, or it will become a separate but dominant personality in the vein of Norman Bates.
Roo – Roo is perhaps the simplest of CR’s emotional avatars. He is largely the manifestation of CR’s immature personality and desires. His friendship with Tigger is tied to a child’s innate tendency toward chaos and lack of control, yet he is helpless without the Kanga figure. As CR matures, the Roo personality should gradually become less and less prominent, indicated by Roo’s second-string status among the characters in the story.
Rabbit – This character is a more mature expression of the neuroses expressed by the Piglet personality. Rabbit is an agitated perfectionist and is easily distraught by change or dominant personalities such as Tigger. The strong desire towards the status quo and disdain of extreme passion with overtones of OCD seems to show that CR is the victim of abuse, most likely by an alcoholic father.
Owl – The wisdom and malapropism of Owl are the representations of CR’s shaky intellectual abilities. Although much respected by the other personalities, this is only because of their own ignorance and failure to recognize that much of the information presented is false. This is CR’s main source of empowerment, but its overall lack of solid grounding will result in confidence without any skills to reinforce it. The colloquial term for this type of behavior is “douchebag.”
Heffalumps and Woozles – I group these two together because they are different expressions of the same psychological themes. Unseen and mostly regarded as dangerous beasts, these two abstract creatures are perhaps the most frightening aspect of CR’s personality. This is a warped perspective on the abuse hinted at by the Rabbit personality. The difference being that the horrors of the abuse itself have been almost completely suppressed in the mind’s effort at self-preservation. Importantly, the phallic nature of the Woozle in particular may hint at sexual abuse. If the Heffalumps and Woozles were to gain control, CR would undoubtedly descend into extreme psychosis and potentially dangerous behavior, both to the child and to others.
There is my case. Lock up that kid and give me my Nobel Prize please!
Personal Note: Yes, I'm posting once a month now. You don't like it, deal with it for now. I'm a busy man.
Winnie the Pooh - The biggest character and perhaps the most dominant of Robin’s neuroses. He is fat, lazy, stupid, and focused only obtaining honey. Pooh is the reptile brain, the most basic and instinctual part of our brain and is concerned only with instinctual drives and self-preservation. Pooh is the most benign personality and as a result is the go-to personality for the young boy whose fractured mind is a maelstrom of severe psychological maladies.
Tigger – Tigger is in part of an extension of the Pooh personality. Tigger is just as basic as Pooh, but where the bear is slow and passive, the bouncing tig[g]er is active and behaves in a manner that defies any sort of outside constraint. Today, he might be diagnosed as the personification of ADHD, but I choose to interpret Tigger as the child’s id; raw and impatient passion that does what he wants when he wants. He is also an extension of the child’s still forming libido. If CR were a few years older, Tigger would probably be bouncing around raping the shit out of anything that was slower than him.
Piglet – CR’s low self-worth is embodied by the diminutive, stuttering pig in a sweater. Piglet is unsure of himself and lives in his grandfather’s house, clearly an indication that CR feels pressure from his family who impose unrealistic standards on the child. The Piglet personality is unable to make any decisions and values himself too little to ever try and make something of himself, leading to a cyclical self-fulfilling prophecy of failure.
Eeyore – Just as Tigger is the mirror of Pooh, so too is Eeyore to Piglet. Whereas Piglet is in a constant state of anxiety over his inability, Eeyore instead has descended into a depression deep enough to reach the point of apathy. A diet of thistles and a tail that needs to be nailed back on indicates a tendency toward masochistic behavior, perhaps as a form of self-inflicted punishment as a result of poor self-esteem.
Kanga – This is the CR’s largely dormant anima, or female side. Here it is presented as a maternal figure as the mother is perhaps the only female influence in his life. The fact that she is a kangaroo is interesting in that her pouch allows for the juvenile Roo personality to retreat there whenever the harshness of life becomes too unbearable. This unhealthy attachment to his mother will either be outgrown once the child matures, or it will become a separate but dominant personality in the vein of Norman Bates.
Roo – Roo is perhaps the simplest of CR’s emotional avatars. He is largely the manifestation of CR’s immature personality and desires. His friendship with Tigger is tied to a child’s innate tendency toward chaos and lack of control, yet he is helpless without the Kanga figure. As CR matures, the Roo personality should gradually become less and less prominent, indicated by Roo’s second-string status among the characters in the story.
Rabbit – This character is a more mature expression of the neuroses expressed by the Piglet personality. Rabbit is an agitated perfectionist and is easily distraught by change or dominant personalities such as Tigger. The strong desire towards the status quo and disdain of extreme passion with overtones of OCD seems to show that CR is the victim of abuse, most likely by an alcoholic father.
Owl – The wisdom and malapropism of Owl are the representations of CR’s shaky intellectual abilities. Although much respected by the other personalities, this is only because of their own ignorance and failure to recognize that much of the information presented is false. This is CR’s main source of empowerment, but its overall lack of solid grounding will result in confidence without any skills to reinforce it. The colloquial term for this type of behavior is “douchebag.”
Heffalumps and Woozles – I group these two together because they are different expressions of the same psychological themes. Unseen and mostly regarded as dangerous beasts, these two abstract creatures are perhaps the most frightening aspect of CR’s personality. This is a warped perspective on the abuse hinted at by the Rabbit personality. The difference being that the horrors of the abuse itself have been almost completely suppressed in the mind’s effort at self-preservation. Importantly, the phallic nature of the Woozle in particular may hint at sexual abuse. If the Heffalumps and Woozles were to gain control, CR would undoubtedly descend into extreme psychosis and potentially dangerous behavior, both to the child and to others.
There is my case. Lock up that kid and give me my Nobel Prize please!
Personal Note: Yes, I'm posting once a month now. You don't like it, deal with it for now. I'm a busy man.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Bedtime Story
My eyes awakened to the dark shadows of my bedroom; it’s too early to get up for school. No, the alarm that woke me is of a more internal nature. My bladder was full and needed draining, and yet despite its urgency, I refrain from getting out of bed for one simple reason: there is a monster living under my bed. Laugh if you must, but I know with absolute certainty that he’s there. Have I seen him? Well…no. But I don’t have to see the wind to know when it is trying to wrestle my kite away from me. The same holds true of the monster. I can feel him under there, and there have been times when I’ll see a shadow move out of the corner of my eye that I know is him.
Even though he’ll try to get me if I get up, eventually my need to urinate proves to be too strong. I’d rather brave a kid-hungry monster than have to tell my mother that I wet the bed. I throw off the covers with a single sweep of my arm and hot the ground running. I’m in the bathroom as soon as my feet hit the cold wood floor; a journey of fifty feet is traveled in a literal blink of an eye. I should probably be studied by scientists in an effort to revolutionize the transport industry. I turn on the bathroom light (light after all is the one thing that monsters hate) and proceed to relieve myself. The wave of euphoria that floods over me banishes my anxiety, and for a few brief moments, my life is simple, happy, and free of monsters.
Alas, all things must come to an end, and once the toilet flushed, I was faced with the reality of my return trip to bed. I shut off the light and tiptoe back to my room, avoiding the creaky floor boards so that he can’t hear me coming. I stop just short of the doorframe to my room. This is it; the home stretch. It’s also the most dangerous part of the journey, because this is his domain. If he is going to get me, this is when he’ll do it. I hate this part. I’m not athletic. I’m just a fat kid with anxiety issues. God did not create me to co-habitat with bed monsters. I’m a lover, not a fighter. Monsters don’t feel love though. They live to lurk and to torture little kids like me. They want to get me. I don’t know what they’ll do after that, but I have zero interest in finding out. I won’t let him get that far.
The time is now or never. It’s either make it to bed and sleep until morning, or fail and suffer the slings and arrows of the demon beneath. It’s a scant eight feet to my bed, so I close my eyes, hold my breath, and take off running. One step, two steps, three steps, four…then with both legs, I leap for all I’m worth. The jump is the most important part. If your feet aren’t in the air for those last few feet, there is a 70% increase in the chances of the monster grabbing your ankles. I swing my arms to gain momentum, because falling short is not an option. My eyes are sealed shut because should I fail, I don’t want to see what will happen to me. They are jerked open however when my face smacks into the mattress with some force. Having outfoxed the beast yet again, I curl up under my covers and slowly drift off to sleep. I win this round, but the funny thing about urination is that I’ll have to go again sometime.
Even though he’ll try to get me if I get up, eventually my need to urinate proves to be too strong. I’d rather brave a kid-hungry monster than have to tell my mother that I wet the bed. I throw off the covers with a single sweep of my arm and hot the ground running. I’m in the bathroom as soon as my feet hit the cold wood floor; a journey of fifty feet is traveled in a literal blink of an eye. I should probably be studied by scientists in an effort to revolutionize the transport industry. I turn on the bathroom light (light after all is the one thing that monsters hate) and proceed to relieve myself. The wave of euphoria that floods over me banishes my anxiety, and for a few brief moments, my life is simple, happy, and free of monsters.
Alas, all things must come to an end, and once the toilet flushed, I was faced with the reality of my return trip to bed. I shut off the light and tiptoe back to my room, avoiding the creaky floor boards so that he can’t hear me coming. I stop just short of the doorframe to my room. This is it; the home stretch. It’s also the most dangerous part of the journey, because this is his domain. If he is going to get me, this is when he’ll do it. I hate this part. I’m not athletic. I’m just a fat kid with anxiety issues. God did not create me to co-habitat with bed monsters. I’m a lover, not a fighter. Monsters don’t feel love though. They live to lurk and to torture little kids like me. They want to get me. I don’t know what they’ll do after that, but I have zero interest in finding out. I won’t let him get that far.
The time is now or never. It’s either make it to bed and sleep until morning, or fail and suffer the slings and arrows of the demon beneath. It’s a scant eight feet to my bed, so I close my eyes, hold my breath, and take off running. One step, two steps, three steps, four…then with both legs, I leap for all I’m worth. The jump is the most important part. If your feet aren’t in the air for those last few feet, there is a 70% increase in the chances of the monster grabbing your ankles. I swing my arms to gain momentum, because falling short is not an option. My eyes are sealed shut because should I fail, I don’t want to see what will happen to me. They are jerked open however when my face smacks into the mattress with some force. Having outfoxed the beast yet again, I curl up under my covers and slowly drift off to sleep. I win this round, but the funny thing about urination is that I’ll have to go again sometime.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Fetch
Anyone who has ever owned a dog knows one thing about them: they love their stuff. There was one dog in my neighborhood named Byron. Byron was an English Bulldog; a lot of people don’t fancy the breed much, but I for one adore them. I especially adored Byron because I had known him from when I was in high school. I would always see him out for a walk by himself. His owners knew that he never got into trouble, so they just let him wander about as he pleased. The one way that everyone knew Byron was coming was the sound that he made. His favorite toy was a huge mahogany stick whose origins still elude me to this day. It was as long as he was, but that never stopped Byron from carrying it around with him, the one end dragging along behind that made a distinct scraping noise. It always made me laugh that I could hear Byron coming up the sidewalk before I ever saw him.
One afternoon, I was out washing my car when I hear the telltale drag of Byron and his stick. He saunters right up to me with that bulldog swagger and lets me pet him for a minute or two before continuing about his business. As I was somewhat bored with my chore, I decided to instead follow the dog (why I thought this was more entertaining than washing a car, I do not know). The subdivision I lived in was still under construction, and the newest addition was a small two day old pond that was so full of dirt and sediment that it was almost black. As it so happened, the pooch led me to the very bank of this nasty water feature. In the afternoon sun though, the pond shone like an obsidian mirror. I could see everything in its black surface. My thoughts were interrupted however by a sound I had never heard before: Byron was growling. In all the years I had known him, Byron had never made a peep except for his stick, but now he was staring straight into the pond and growling like he had just treed a raccoon. I crept up behind him in order to see what had the canine so agitated. I almost laughed out loud when I saw what it was: Byron was growling, stick still in mouth, at his own reflection. What was going through this pup’s head? Was he threatened by what he thought was another dog? Did he want the reflection’s stick because it looked as cool as his? Whatever the reason, what happened next almost broke my heart. Byron did the one thing he shouldn’t have done: he barked. The hickory stick fell from his mouth and splashed into the pond, disappearing into the murky water.
I didn’t see Byron as frequently after that day, and when I did, it was without that famous scraping sound. The dog walked slower and with less purpose, almost as though he was going through the motions, but had lost the passion for his patrol. After a while, he stopped coming by all together, and after I hadn’t seen him for a couple months, I was finally told that Byron was dead. From all accounts by his family, they just woke up one morning and found Byron in his doggy bed. He seemed to have gone peacefully, but I always wondered if he had been happy in those last weeks. Is it possible for a dog to die of a broken heart? I do know that I learned a lot from that mutt.
One afternoon, I was out washing my car when I hear the telltale drag of Byron and his stick. He saunters right up to me with that bulldog swagger and lets me pet him for a minute or two before continuing about his business. As I was somewhat bored with my chore, I decided to instead follow the dog (why I thought this was more entertaining than washing a car, I do not know). The subdivision I lived in was still under construction, and the newest addition was a small two day old pond that was so full of dirt and sediment that it was almost black. As it so happened, the pooch led me to the very bank of this nasty water feature. In the afternoon sun though, the pond shone like an obsidian mirror. I could see everything in its black surface. My thoughts were interrupted however by a sound I had never heard before: Byron was growling. In all the years I had known him, Byron had never made a peep except for his stick, but now he was staring straight into the pond and growling like he had just treed a raccoon. I crept up behind him in order to see what had the canine so agitated. I almost laughed out loud when I saw what it was: Byron was growling, stick still in mouth, at his own reflection. What was going through this pup’s head? Was he threatened by what he thought was another dog? Did he want the reflection’s stick because it looked as cool as his? Whatever the reason, what happened next almost broke my heart. Byron did the one thing he shouldn’t have done: he barked. The hickory stick fell from his mouth and splashed into the pond, disappearing into the murky water.
I didn’t see Byron as frequently after that day, and when I did, it was without that famous scraping sound. The dog walked slower and with less purpose, almost as though he was going through the motions, but had lost the passion for his patrol. After a while, he stopped coming by all together, and after I hadn’t seen him for a couple months, I was finally told that Byron was dead. From all accounts by his family, they just woke up one morning and found Byron in his doggy bed. He seemed to have gone peacefully, but I always wondered if he had been happy in those last weeks. Is it possible for a dog to die of a broken heart? I do know that I learned a lot from that mutt.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Which Fruit Got Adam and Eve Kicked Out?
There I stood, a man on a mission with a single objective, and it all rested in the hands of a twenty-something with a trendy shirt and a pair of headphones.
“Well, we can schedule you in for something later this afternoon if you’d like to wait around,” she advised in a tone that suggested she cared about my patronage about as much as she did her last bowel movement. As I was both desperate and bored, I caved and stood outside the establishment until I was ushered in fifteen minutes later.
At this point, you may be asking yourself where I am for this interesting anecdote. Fancy new nightclub? The hottest new restaurant in town? Premiere of this season’s biggest blockbuster? False, false and false. Correct answer: the mall; specifically…the Apple Store.
That’s right loyal readers; this entire hubbub was to simply get into a store at the mall. My iPod had the misfortune of breaking this summer, so I thought it would behoove me to take it to the local Apple establishment to see what a repair job would cost me. I was a fool; a poor, naïve fool. While no fan of the mall, there are certain accepted aspects of the concept. Chief among these is the cherished social practice of window shopping. It’s why stores like Sharper Image have any customer base at all. The premise is simple enough: your bored ass walks into a store to see what goods they deal. Although you have no intention of purchasing anything, you secretly (or maybe not so secretly) begin to take an inventory of the things that would like to purchase. Apparently, Apple did not get the memo when they set up shop in such a location. The iBouncers that were guarding the shop interior would only let in customers who, “were not going to browse and knew that they were going to make a purchase.” This merely a polite way of saying, “Buy something or get out!”
As I had a legitimate cause, I was eventually allowed entry. Once inside, I was treated to a veritable factory model of dealing with customers. The iDouche at the counter told me that the only thing they could do was trade in my iPod for another at a cost far higher than I was expecting. Is it that fucking hard to repair an LCD screen? All they’ll do is trade it in for an equal or better model. Does this make sense in any other industry? What would you do if your mechanic said, “Well, you’ve got yourself a flat tire there. I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you. You can trade your Honda Civic in for a brand new Lamborghini Gallardo for only $120,000.” The correct response is, “Eat shit and die of a slow, painful disease.”
I politely told the iPrick this, but not before glancing at the shelves of pretentious Apple goods in the store. That’s right, I went in, didn’t buy anything, and looked at the merchandise. That’s called browsing. Fuckers.
I’ve already had a problem with Steve Jobs’ little cottage industry. Apple is responsible for more assholes, douchebags, and false senses of superiority than any other good in the history of free enterprise. Not that everyone who uses an iPod or an iPhone is like this (except folks who use Apple computers. You are all pretentious assholes. Deal with that fact). Some merely use the trendiness as an attempt to validate themselves in an extended version of wanting to sit in the back of the bus with the cool kids.
If Apple is going to survive once the competition catches up with them in terms of technology, they better get their shit together. For starters, quit acting like your crap is the beat all and end all of gadgets. You’re cool because you did it first. The funny thing about first is that it tends to get forgotten once second and third come along. Second, treat your customers like goddamned human beings and not plug-in jacks for your over-hyped, over-priced shit. The people will catch on eventually and then you’ll have to invent the iJack that strokes your sense of self-worth for you since no one else will give a furry rat’s ass anymore.
Oh, and Steve Jobs, you are now right under Alex Trebek on my “Punch You In The Throat If I Ever Meet You” list. Watch your ass.
P.S. It’s good to be back. I know y’all missed me.
“Well, we can schedule you in for something later this afternoon if you’d like to wait around,” she advised in a tone that suggested she cared about my patronage about as much as she did her last bowel movement. As I was both desperate and bored, I caved and stood outside the establishment until I was ushered in fifteen minutes later.
At this point, you may be asking yourself where I am for this interesting anecdote. Fancy new nightclub? The hottest new restaurant in town? Premiere of this season’s biggest blockbuster? False, false and false. Correct answer: the mall; specifically…the Apple Store.
That’s right loyal readers; this entire hubbub was to simply get into a store at the mall. My iPod had the misfortune of breaking this summer, so I thought it would behoove me to take it to the local Apple establishment to see what a repair job would cost me. I was a fool; a poor, naïve fool. While no fan of the mall, there are certain accepted aspects of the concept. Chief among these is the cherished social practice of window shopping. It’s why stores like Sharper Image have any customer base at all. The premise is simple enough: your bored ass walks into a store to see what goods they deal. Although you have no intention of purchasing anything, you secretly (or maybe not so secretly) begin to take an inventory of the things that would like to purchase. Apparently, Apple did not get the memo when they set up shop in such a location. The iBouncers that were guarding the shop interior would only let in customers who, “were not going to browse and knew that they were going to make a purchase.” This merely a polite way of saying, “Buy something or get out!”
As I had a legitimate cause, I was eventually allowed entry. Once inside, I was treated to a veritable factory model of dealing with customers. The iDouche at the counter told me that the only thing they could do was trade in my iPod for another at a cost far higher than I was expecting. Is it that fucking hard to repair an LCD screen? All they’ll do is trade it in for an equal or better model. Does this make sense in any other industry? What would you do if your mechanic said, “Well, you’ve got yourself a flat tire there. I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you. You can trade your Honda Civic in for a brand new Lamborghini Gallardo for only $120,000.” The correct response is, “Eat shit and die of a slow, painful disease.”
I politely told the iPrick this, but not before glancing at the shelves of pretentious Apple goods in the store. That’s right, I went in, didn’t buy anything, and looked at the merchandise. That’s called browsing. Fuckers.
I’ve already had a problem with Steve Jobs’ little cottage industry. Apple is responsible for more assholes, douchebags, and false senses of superiority than any other good in the history of free enterprise. Not that everyone who uses an iPod or an iPhone is like this (except folks who use Apple computers. You are all pretentious assholes. Deal with that fact). Some merely use the trendiness as an attempt to validate themselves in an extended version of wanting to sit in the back of the bus with the cool kids.
If Apple is going to survive once the competition catches up with them in terms of technology, they better get their shit together. For starters, quit acting like your crap is the beat all and end all of gadgets. You’re cool because you did it first. The funny thing about first is that it tends to get forgotten once second and third come along. Second, treat your customers like goddamned human beings and not plug-in jacks for your over-hyped, over-priced shit. The people will catch on eventually and then you’ll have to invent the iJack that strokes your sense of self-worth for you since no one else will give a furry rat’s ass anymore.
Oh, and Steve Jobs, you are now right under Alex Trebek on my “Punch You In The Throat If I Ever Meet You” list. Watch your ass.
P.S. It’s good to be back. I know y’all missed me.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Time To Sit This Round Out
I did it last year, and I'm going to do the sane thing again this time around. I'll be taking a brief hiatus for the summer, mostly because I'll be away from a computer for most of it. Go out and live your lives until I return sometime in August. You know what a life is, right? It's the moments that happen while you're waiting for stuff to occur. We'll talk about it later.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Khan You Be Serious?
As if enough of the internet space isn't going to be wasted by the new Star Trek film, I feel compelled to weigh in here as well. I was never much of a trekker myself; I experimented a little my first couple years of college by watching TNG reruns on Spike, but I never crossed over that final frontier. I personally have not yet seen the film, but I have heard from normal people that it wasn't bad. I suppose that's alright on the surface. I always hate it when I waste ten bucks on a crap movie (which is why I'm still debating whether or not I'll see Angels & Demons).
On a slightly deeper level though, I think that things are getting a little out of hand. I just saw a commercial that claimed, "It's this generation's Star Wars!" First off, I don't appreciate people throwing around the name of my beloved Star Wars. I'm not trying to start a flame war, but c'mon, they're not even in the same ballpark. Star Wars was created by a rogue filmmaker who wanted to make a tribute to the beloved radio serials from his youth. It has elements of Flash Gordan, sure, but also some Western and even a little Greek tragedy for zest. Star Trek however at its core is science-fiction and occasionally borrows from other genres for a gimmiky episode here and there. Not that the show is superficial; it touches on some very important fundamental themes about human nature, but still sci-fi.
Star Trek is the crystal meth of nerd-dom. It is used by people alone in a dark basement when no one is around; that is its proper place in the universe. What this film is doing is fucking with the natural order. There are two conceivable outcomes:
1. This flashy tent-pole movie takes Star Trek and waters it down in order to make it more palatable for the masses. If I sound all Fahrenheit 451 here, that's not the idea. I'm worried about the nerds. We are taking one of their societal doctrines away from them and giving it to everyone. It is a corruption of their very way of life. It's the same as everyone suddenly believeing in Jesus because they give him sunglasses and a talking dog sidekick named Zippy. We can't pull the nerds out into the sunlight; they're really pale and would probably all combust...then who will help you out the next time you can't send an email attachment?
2. The film is a smash success with both nerds and the hoi polloi alike. Everyone embraces the emerging Roddenberry Renaissance and Star Trek does become the next new thing. New fans, demanding to catch up on the trend, will endlessly peruse three decades worth of reruns and back-issues. They will then realize what they have been missing out on all this time. I will skip over the piddly maneuvering and skip straight to the end game...the revival of William Shatner's career. I had hoped that with the conclusion of Boston Legal, Shatner would relegate himself to doing crappy hotel-finding commercials until he finally faded away into obscurity. A revival in Star Trek would only have the opposite effect. Of the two evils I have presented, this is by far the more evil.
Only you can control which future will occur and which one we'll all have to visit when we accidentally enter a wormhole where one of the other ones happened and everyone has a goatee and acts like an asshole; although for me that probably means that I'll be clean shaven and volunteer at hospitals for a living.
On a slightly deeper level though, I think that things are getting a little out of hand. I just saw a commercial that claimed, "It's this generation's Star Wars!" First off, I don't appreciate people throwing around the name of my beloved Star Wars. I'm not trying to start a flame war, but c'mon, they're not even in the same ballpark. Star Wars was created by a rogue filmmaker who wanted to make a tribute to the beloved radio serials from his youth. It has elements of Flash Gordan, sure, but also some Western and even a little Greek tragedy for zest. Star Trek however at its core is science-fiction and occasionally borrows from other genres for a gimmiky episode here and there. Not that the show is superficial; it touches on some very important fundamental themes about human nature, but still sci-fi.
Star Trek is the crystal meth of nerd-dom. It is used by people alone in a dark basement when no one is around; that is its proper place in the universe. What this film is doing is fucking with the natural order. There are two conceivable outcomes:
1. This flashy tent-pole movie takes Star Trek and waters it down in order to make it more palatable for the masses. If I sound all Fahrenheit 451 here, that's not the idea. I'm worried about the nerds. We are taking one of their societal doctrines away from them and giving it to everyone. It is a corruption of their very way of life. It's the same as everyone suddenly believeing in Jesus because they give him sunglasses and a talking dog sidekick named Zippy. We can't pull the nerds out into the sunlight; they're really pale and would probably all combust...then who will help you out the next time you can't send an email attachment?
2. The film is a smash success with both nerds and the hoi polloi alike. Everyone embraces the emerging Roddenberry Renaissance and Star Trek does become the next new thing. New fans, demanding to catch up on the trend, will endlessly peruse three decades worth of reruns and back-issues. They will then realize what they have been missing out on all this time. I will skip over the piddly maneuvering and skip straight to the end game...the revival of William Shatner's career. I had hoped that with the conclusion of Boston Legal, Shatner would relegate himself to doing crappy hotel-finding commercials until he finally faded away into obscurity. A revival in Star Trek would only have the opposite effect. Of the two evils I have presented, this is by far the more evil.
Only you can control which future will occur and which one we'll all have to visit when we accidentally enter a wormhole where one of the other ones happened and everyone has a goatee and acts like an asshole; although for me that probably means that I'll be clean shaven and volunteer at hospitals for a living.
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