The more I write this book, the closer I come to the end, the more I know it will never see the light of day.
Category: rant
FEAR MY POWERFUL WORDS OF TRUTH
The Hunger Games is a total rip off of gladiatorial combat in ancient Rome. WHAT IS THIS BS?
Get Off My Lawn
Ah! ‘Tis the first day of spring, and already the locals (though usually it’s visitors to the neighborhood) are engaging in the exciting sport of car-sitting. For you see, when the weather gets nice, it’s time to go outside, drive somewhere, and then sit in the goddamn car with your six closest friends while you wait for your cousins to get their hair cut.
Be sure to park your car in front of someone’s house, so the owner can walk by the window over the course of several hours and wonder when the fuck you’re going to leave. Because he’s tired of picking up your trash and wondering if you’re going to harass his kids. The bottles of piss have yet to start sprouting on the lawn though, so well done!
Crab’s Cradle
Never minding that Vonnegut was due for an inevitable “Your great hero was flawed! FLAWED!” biography, there’s a common trope among successful cross-genre writers that’s always niggled at me. I’ve never understood the concern among such writers to be taken “seriously” by the “literary establishment.” What exactly does that mean, to whom do they refer, and what is the root and extent of their desire for acceptance? Can we assume David Remnick refused to go shoe shopping with Kurt? Did Kingsley Amis blackball him when he applied to the Junior Woodchucks in fourth grade?
The history of literature is a jittery timeline of yesterday’s young firebrands becoming today’s stodgy old poops, making sure the newer, angrier kids can’t sit at the big table until they’re old and grey (Kerouac died a broke drunk, while Burroughs became a chevalier of France’s Ordre des Arts et des Lettres), or grow willing to play according to the rules of the universities, lit journals, and writing workshops. Or so the story goes. In actuality, the world of literature has become so fractured and fragmented (and the need for validation diminished by the instant gratification of the Internet—nowadays even a halfway decent writer can have a bushel of fans and supporters), needing approval by the establishment seems charmlessly archaic. I remember the time I attended a party thrown by a certain well-known magazine. I spoke with an editor who gave me a pleasant, but head-patting speech of encouragement, telling me that if I worked really hard, maybe I’d get published by a real magazine like his. I wanted to tell him, “But… I’m published and already relatively content, chum. More recognition would be nice, but… Well, forgive me, but turning up in your slick yet tepid mag would feel like a artistic step back for me. Of course the check would be nice.” Yes, there might be one or two mags I’d sell my children’s souls for a chance to appear in (Car and Driver, why haven’t you ever called?), but overall I have no one I NEED to impress other than my friends, family, and myself.
To me the best writers are the loners, Holed up in their attics, apartments, and cabins, they occasionally interact with their editors and publishers, but rarely attend the right cocktail parties (Capote notwithstanding, though that’s how that particular bird lost his way). They never needed validation. All the real work and gratification took place between their ears.
Reading about big-time writers like Vonnegut and Hunter Thompson complaining about a lack of recognition is both quaint and perplexing. It makes me wonder what exactly they were after since they were pretty well-recognized in their own lifetimes. It gets especially silly when the writer laments his lack of “acceptance,” despite the reprints, book signings, readings, honorary doctorates, hot, ready, and willing fans, commencement speeches, talk shows, multiple translations and anthologies, ongoing fluff assignments for big bucks, merchandising, royalties, film and TV cameos, inclusion in the curricula of a thousand thousand colleges, and insertion in the memory of every human being who read their work and heard them speaking to their deepest heart of hearts.
Recognition?
God bless you, Mr. Vonnegut, you imbued a phrase as simple as “And so it goes.” with immortality. And yet that wasn’t enough? Or was that compassionate grump act just covering up a basic, irritable crank?
Wallpaper
Some of the worst people to work with are the ones who deliver their requests with a “Do not disappoint me” tone, even though you’ve rarely, if ever, disappointed them before. They seem less interested in generating good work and more in love with the idea of their own limited power. They provide little to no useful feedback; offer no real assistance; and are inevitably displeased, even when the work is successful. Because dammit, we can’t live in the past/sit on our laurels/etc.
Just once, I’d like to see a person like this on their deathbed, and hear what they have to say about their life of constant unreasonable demands. Most likely, like Oscar Wilde, they’d just bitch about the wallpaper, except they’d mean it. What’s more, they’d expect to see it all rehung by the time they get back from death.
Readers Without Borders
For many years I avoided buying books at Borders’ web site for the very reasons you’re probably thinking right now: they were overpriced and their stock was curiously limited. While I made regular browsing and buying visits to stores around Chicago (my son’s library was nicely padded out by their expansive children’s section), I dreaded receiving Borders gift cards. If I shopped at a Borders store, I’d have to search a hour or more for anything I’d like. If I shopped at the site I’d spend an hour or more trying to find what I wanted, then another half hour searching for a used copy at a price slightly higher than what I’d pay for a new book/CD/DVD at Amazon. Yes, white people problems, I know, but admit that it’s a little frustrating.
One day I thought, “Hold on a second. I used to order books through bookstores for years. If they didn’t have a copy, most stores—especially the chains—could search around and see if another branch had a copy.” Because of Amazon, it’d been a very long time since I’d done that. Brilliant! Genius!
The next day I went to the Borders on State and Randolph. I found a clerk and told her I couldn’t find a book on the shelves, and a search on their computers revealed that they didn’t have any in the store. So, I asked, could they order me a copy for pick up the next day?
“Sure!” she said, beaming. “All I had to do was visit borders.com and order it there. Then it would be sent to the store for pick up.
“Uh…” I said. “Yeah, okay.” I saw no point in entering into a discussion, but can you guess what immediately occurred to me?
Right. If I visited their site at home, why would I need to return to the store? Factoring in shipping and handling, I’d probably pay just as much, with the county taxes, as if I’d bought it at their store. I suppose there was some basic “shipping” fee involved in sending a copy of the book from, say, Skokie to downtown Chicago, but they’d still be ahead, wouldn’t they? I think I ended up buying the book online—which was good for the company, but a loss to the store, yes?
So, not really surprised at the current turn of events. Wow. I still remember the days when the box stores were pricing smaller independent bookstores out of existence. I never thought for a moment they’d fall themselves. Again, wow. I feel bad for all the people losing their jobs because of poor marketing and management decisions.
Things I Never Understood During My Tenure on LiveJournal
1. The large number of people who, whenever I posted admonishments against people who annoyed me in meatspace, thought I was speaking directly to them—against all evidence and even across state lines.
Me: Curse you, foul creature, for failing to submit those TPS reports before the 3 p.m. meeting. I damn thee!
Commenter: What? When did I do this? Why are you so mad at me?
Me: Beg pardon? You know I’m talking about work, right?
Commenter: Well, how am I supposed to know that?
2. The number of people who felt a need to fix my attitude about everything.
Me: Dammit! I hate it when people put piccalilli on my hamburger.
Commenter 1: Hey, that’s not fair, Dan. A lot of people LIKE piccalilli. Maybe you need to give it… and them… a chance.
Commenter 2: Yeah, Dan, I’m not sure what brought that on. Don’t you think you’re being a little unfair?
Me: Huh? I personally don’t like piccalilli. That’s all I’m saying.
Commenter 1: I’ve never heard of anyone who didn’t like piccallili.
Me: Sure you did. Me. Right now.
Commenter 2: No, I don’t think so.
3. Those who thought that when I offered an opinion on something they enjoyed immediately assumed I believed they were idiots.
Me: Man, fuck Kajagoogoo. Other people can like them, but I hate them. Fucking Kajagoogoo. And fuck bucatini pasta too.
Commenter: LOOK, I can LIKE Kajagoogoo and bucatini pasta if I want to, and your ARROGANT and ELITIST attitude has NOTHING TO DO WITH IT.
Me: All right. I’m just saying I personally don’t like Kajagoogoo and bucatini pasta, because…
Commenter 1: I AM SO SICK TO DEATH OF SNOBS LIKE YOU DERIDING THE GLORIOUS UNION OF KAJAGOOGOO AND BUCATINI! CANCEL MY BLOGSCRIPTION IMMEDIATELY!
4. The folks who felt the need to provide ongoing reviews of my posts.
Me: To get to the other side! And that’s why that chicken crossed the road. Chortle chortle!
Commenter: This wasn’t as funny as that post you made May 5, 2003. Why don’t you write posts like that anymore?
Me: Uh, because they already done been written, boss?
Commenter: Well, if you just want to sit back on your laurels I suppose that’s a good answer. Also, you know that post where you said, “Remember when candy bars were as thick as a baby’s torso?” Well, I don’t remember that.
Me: I figured some people wouldn’t since it didn’t happen.
Commenter: Yes, but how is that post relevant to me? To my needs and memories?
Me: You know, I’d love to help you find what you’re looking for, but I’m not sure what it is or where you lost it. In fact, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t exist.
Commenter: Also, this post is going on too long. And I know I never wrote this. In fact, there aren’t any posts that look exactly like this one, so I think none of this stuff happened.
Me: Um, sez you?
Commenter: I smugly sit back, now that I have made my point.
Me: What?
Remember: All Other Humans Are Your Foils and Footstools
Ranking on cast-iron hipsters is the primary hobby of part-time hipsters in denial—particularly if they’re mediocre journalists. I think it stems from a deep-rooted, despicable human instinct to piss on an anonymous mass of humans to feel better about oneself. Sadly, for the complainers, it’s no longer acceptable to focus this rage on certain races or religions.
Think I’m overreacting? How about this? When I hear you bad-mouthing folks because they’re expressing themselves or just acting goofy, I know that when I leave the room you’re saying the same shit about me. Oh my yes, you are.
In my old age (43) I wish I could get back all the time I wasted ridiculing folks who weren’t harming anyone. Please do verbally stomp on the world’s boobs, friends, but learn to differentiate them from folks who are just having fun. You don’t HAVE to like what they do, but don’t think you’re somehow cleverer because you’re not doing much more than bashing them.
It’s like I always say: Try making something out of nothing. Not so easy, is it?
That Old Gang of Mine
Every time I think of joining the Facebook groups for my old grade school and high school, I visit the sites and the feeling goes away.
“Hey! Remember that guy with the thing? And he did that thing by the thing in the gymnasium? OMFG THAT WAS HILARIOUS! COME ON, YOU REMEMBER! THAT GUY!”
“What about that one time that kid puked, and they spread that stuff, that orange stuff on the puke? And we all smelled the puke? Remember that?”
“Hey, whatever happened to that crazy old teacher with the weird lisp and the lazy eye? OMFG SHE WAS HILARIOUS!”
“Uh, that was my mom, and she died of an aneurysm last year.”
“Oh, hey, she was a beautiful lady, man.”
“Here are some AWESOME pix from that time we went to Great America. Remember how out of focus and badly composed we all were back then? HILARIOUS!!!”
White Unlike He
Christian Lander strikes me as the kind of high school/college nerd who—saddened that he lacked the musculature to become a true bully—realized he could elevate his sense of self-worth by indiscriminately chopping up things the other nerds liked. Chris Ware pointed out this phenomenon in one of his hilarious parody ads. Selling the product “RESENTMENT” he noted that it wasn’t the allegedly beautiful people—the jocks and the cheerleaders—that did the most damage. Nope, it was your fellow dweebs, crawling over each other like rats at the bottom of a sewer, clawing and gnawing, desperate to escape instead of working together to get out. Nah, Lander is the guy who ranks on you mercilessly for enjoying a bit of bubblegum pop or a fancy coffee drink. Then, one day, you walk in on him sipping a double gingerbread latte with cinnamon and chocolate shavings, while shimmying to Miley Cyrus.
Then, eyes bugging out and covered in sweat, he explains that of COURSE he’s drinking a double gingerbread latte with cinnamon and chocolate shavings, while shimmying to Miley Cyrus, because there’s something about both that you could NEVER appreciate. He’ll probably cite some Japanese noise band as well, mumbling while he explains its tenuous connection to Ms. Cyrus.
I should also point out that (at least according to this review) Lander is beginning to sound more like David Brooks. You know, the conservative pundit who spends his days among the common folks he worships, watching NASCAR and eating Big Macs with them. Not like you, you judgmental liberal you. As one who’s actually worked with the common man, I’m here to say that some are grand folks, but they ain’t all princes among men.
Incidentally, the notion that “Race is a social concept, not a scientific one.†is scarcely new, Mr. Garner. Lenny Bruce was covering this topic a long time ago, and with considerably more wit. Also, Lander: Martin Mull wants his idea back.