Sunday, June 28, 2009

Austin, a Pictorial

I know this Austin pictorial stuff was supposed to get me out of the house, but it's 108 degrees outside. Besides, I was in a minor car accident today and am using it as an excuse to stay home and feel sorry for myself.
This is what I do when it's a living hell in Texas: drink local beer and swim. This here's Austin Amber. It's brewed in South Austin, and while it's a mighty fine tasting beer, it also captures the fascist in me with images of the the Austin area. Anybody recognize the scene in the letter "N"? That's right, folks, bats. The last photograph was captured by Gilda and is purely for entertainment value.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

in depth movie review

So, I know I'm about 25 years late, but I'd never seen Purple Rain until a coworker lent it to me last Friday. I think I missed the boat on that one, folks, and I'm absolutely positive I'm going to lose the support of a few of you, but I can't help but declare that the movie was a poorly acted, half-assedly written, self-indulgent piece of purple shit. For those of you unfamiliar with the movie, I'll briefly summarize: it's about a shallow boy and girl who struggle in their material need and become a little less shallow by the end. Roll credits.

I did appreciate Morris and Jerome's comic relief, and Apollonia's boobies were a delightful pause and zoom-in surprise. I crossed my fingers when it appeared as though she'd disrobe and praised Allah when she emerged from the lake topless and pouty. She's now on my list of 80s goddesses to google, Vanity being my #1.*

I also appreciated Prince's performances a great deal. The man is an entertainer even if he is an unconvincing actor and pretentious urethra hole.

*Update: I searched Vanity first, because she was such a knock out it upsets me, and found that she turned into a crack head and met Jesus when she ODed. She's now a maniac, who spreads the word of God. I think I could be religious for her if she's still remotely 1984 hot. I never searched Apollonia. It's probably better not to know.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Austin, a Pictorial

So as I expected, I didn't feel like going out and taking any pictures for this Sunday pictorial nonsense, but I forced myself anyway. To my surprise, I found the night pleasant. The picture snapping fun, and as predicted, I saved my Saturday night from becoming another weekend of me watching Taxi Driver and wishing Cybil Sheppard was young again.

This is downtown Austin as seen from the Palmer Events Center. That dark treeline borders Town Lake (also known as the Colorado River (also know as Lady Bird Johnson Lake)), the river that Congress Avenue Bridge crosses. Further west up the Colorado, Barton Springs pool gushes into a tributary that feeds the river and to my perverted joy, I've seen a handful of topless women there.

This is the downtown Austin as seen through dilated mushroom eyes.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Start the Revolution!

My step-daddy and I wax politics pretty much every time we're together. Often times, I'm hung over and not in the mood to argue, but he's a Bush-blowing republican, and I sometimes have to explain to him that his position is stupid. It was during one of these Sunday brunch discussions that an important term was born in my mind: social capitalism. That's what I am. A social capitalist. I thought of it in reflexive defense at being called a communist, and it ricocheted around my skull as the perfect label for my political opinions. In short, socialism makes sense but is not cool if you make a lot of money, and capitalism also makes sense but is really not cool if you don't make a lot of money. The solution? You guessed it: social capitalism. Socialism will bring the most impoverished of Americans back to a prideful standard of living, and the geyser of money that the super-rich enjoy will lose it's momentum about a mile up and splash down to fund the social part. The filthy rich will remain in their gluttonous stys, but not so powerful that they can control the world. I understand this model is a simple presentation* but Obama and I can iron out the details once he appoints me Chancellor and eventually Fuhrer. You see for me, it comes down to this: I only have one life and then I'm worm food. I don't like spending it struggling to keep my head above water to maintain the wealth of an extraordinarily small percentage of the country. If I become sick, I'm screwed. Wreck my car? Screwed. If I lose my jobs, the devils I've stupidly climbed into bed with start squeezing my balls. And I'm fortunate. I have my health. I have a car. I have not one, but two jobs, and I managed to get an education. There are people in this country eating salmonella straight out of dumpsters but still hold fast to this competitive system of government because it breeds the mindset that one day, one day their ship will come in. That's why I keep it up, I guess, but at least I recognize that I'm just a cog in someone else's money-making machine.
I heard a bit on NPR yesterday debating the fed-sponsored healthcare proposal that would compete with the private sector (another aspect of social capitalism that we are already exercising, e.g. the postal service, education, 5-0, and (drum roll) federal taxes). Ol' Mitt Romney was quick to point out that people would flock to the free one and destroy competition in the healthcare industry. That may be true and it may not, but he sounded so passionate in that sound byte, so strong in his convictions that I wondered why exactly he wanted to make keeping people well a commodity. I need to stay healthy like I need water. Why not make water availability more competitive, Boss Romney? It's relatively inexpensive right now, but I have a feeling that people will pay big bucks if you take it away and increase demand. Holy crap I'm glad Romney's not the president (or VP Palin, while I'm flinging feces).
If you're a republican reading this blog, you're A-OK in my book, but if I've offended your ridiculous political stance, know that the insult came not from a democrat, but from a social capitan, and I'll reconcile the dispute with a slippery french kiss (that's how we do it).

*I Googled the term "social capitalist" right before posting, and to my initial sadness but eventual celebration, there's a wiki article with the exact same conclusions I came to but in greater detail. I think that qualifies me as a genius.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Austin, a Sunday Pictorial

I'm sick of spending Sundays, my only day off, staring existentially at my ceiling. So, I've decided to spend it with my blog in mind. By snapping pictures of my favorite Austin things, I'll be forcing myself into a new hobby and showing you, dear reader, the coolest city in Texas.

Austin boasts the world's largest urban bat colony, and in the summer, you can watch 1.5 million-ish of the little beasts fly out from under Congress Avenue Bridge and consume what would otherwise be a hellish mosquito population. They're Mexican free-tails, and they migrate south o' the border for winter.
This is Congress Avenue Bridge (aka Ann W. Richards Congress Avenue Bridge). The original picture is much clearer than this, but I typically destroy pleasant things, and this is no exception. Besides, I didn't want give the capitol building away yet. I'm a jealous resident.

Friday, June 12, 2009

The Problem With Zombies

I've had two lengthy zombie nightmares in two weeks and each morning I awoke with Hell resting heavily on my heart. I've had regular zombie nightmares since I was a child but have never been able to determine the day's formula of provocation. Perhaps it was listening to J-Lo's whiny Puerto Rica in Monster-In-Law while manipulating photos for posthumous blog postings. Maybe it was because only minutes before bed, I was slopping colored sugar from my delicate fingertips while my cheeks bulged with Krispy Kreme (it was National Donut Day). Regardless, I blame my parents and Michael Jackson for my fear of zombies.
Jacko's been terrorizing little boys since '84 as far as I'm concerned. "Thriller" was and remains one of the most horrifying displays of zombie behavior of all time, and even though I'd hide whenever the 9-minute video started, I liked the song and would accidentally moonwalk from behind the family sofa and back into Jackson's perversions. That was the start. My parents, unfortunately, perpetuated the King of Pop's terror by staying aloof to the things I actually stood in front of the TV watching (please see my profile picture for a visual of the impressionable child I once was). Things like Night of the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead, Day of the Dead, Return of the Living Dead I, II, & III, both Reanimators, and every other 80's flick that involved hordes of dead people standing up and eating the living. Worst of all, most of these apocalyptic episodes were never explained. One day, there simply were zombies moaning outside your windows, and if you weren't immediately resourceful, you'd be pulled limb from limb and/or eaten alive. To this day, I still map out a zombie evacuation route at new jobs, just in case. The way I see it, I'm at work more often than home, so it only makes sense to prepare a don't-be-dinner strategy. It usually involves my clawing up the highest furniture and spider-monkeying the ceiling's rafters to the roof's escape hatch. If there's a padlock on the door (and there usually is), plan B is to belt myself to the ladder and await a slow and painful dehydration, a wonderful alternative to supernatural cannibalism. At home, the plan is to calmly but urgently make a mostly jelly PB&J and carry a crowbar and bottle of water to my roof and also, slowly die. I'd wish my loved ones well, of course, but a zombie attack trumps love and friendship, and ultimately, it's every man for himself. If my rooftop sanctuary is compromised by ambitious survivors who require I participate in their futile survival plans, I will not differentiate them from the undead and have no qualms about ejecting them from my safe haven once they've fallen asleep.
This my phobia, people. You can't make chicken-livers overcome their fears by forcing them to confront one face to face. I learned that after holding a plastic frog under the nose of a coworker, who, as it turned out, really was terrified of plastic amphibians. She turned pale and eventually vomited, and I vowed to believe people when they say they're scared of ridiculous shit. Zombies are not ridiculous. They can relentlessly pursue and eventually get you, you see. It's not even a matter of being killed. It's a matter of them getting me. I don't want that. So when the shit goes down, please, leave me in my fetal defense position, and find your own goddamned hiding place. Christ, now I'm tense.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Because I'm Vain, a quickie

I shaved my beard for my sister's wedding and have decided to share the gorgeous results with you.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Hommage Blog

Because I'm lazy and don't feel like being creative right now, I'd like to take a moment to honor some other bloggers and readers who are almost as genius as me and post regular comments on my blog, even when my rants are offensive and unpleasant:

Sharon, because even though we're in a quiet state of blogging competition, she's funnier than me, less jaded, and she had a wardrobe malfunction in kindergarten, showing me my first pair of boobs.
Chrissy, because the stripper silhouette on her blog makes me blush and look defensively/nervously over my shoulder when I'm at work.
Chris "Maugeritaville," 'cause now I know what my elementary school teachers were really thinking when I was an obnoxious, eight-year-old shithead.
Awesome Sara, because I don't know anyone as narcissistic as myself and because she technically mentioned my ass in a comment.
Bash, because even though he's a syphilitic vagina for making his blog private, and I'm never notified when he blogs, he's still a handsome bastardo.
Nancy, for commenting only once but turning me on in the process.
Chindiana Trails, because he likes the same useless crap that I do and he occasionally describes Malaysian culture, something I know nothing about.
Eunyoung, a hot Korean woman with whom I shared a hostel room after hitchhiking to San Francisco, oh so long ago.
Roger, for suffering all my posts about him and for trying to comment once but getting shot down by me.
Katy, for telling me you "liked" my blog on facebook, the wrong social network.

The rest of you chicken-livers who read my blog but don't ever comment, I'm virtually teabagging your squinting eyes and mummed lips...right now.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Impossible Fantasies

I often fantasize about being a successful novelist. Sometimes, I'm the mysterious, hermit type like J.D. Salinger, adored and pined for by so many phrase-making aficionados. But in my fantasy, the world disgusts me, and like Salinger, I contemplate my self-righteous goodness in perfect solitude. Other times, I'm the marry-the-most-desirable-woman-in-the-country type like Arthur Miller. True, Miller was a playwright, and the woman he married was a complicated and needy hick named Norma Jean, but I don't care about those things. The man was still a writer who regularly humped Marilyn Monroe, and that's what counts.
I was on my way. I've completed one book, that, in retrospect, was written with youthful zest and just isn't flying. At the time, I was way too close to the subject, and now that I'm sane again, I've realized that I'll have to rewrite a lot of it. Sadness. I guess I should get on it though, since my other fantasy of travelling through time and imparting my god-like understanding of the natural world and universe to history's greatest thinkers isn't as realistic. I'm aware of the dangerous time-paradoxes, but with selfish disregard, the only one that concerns me is the one where I don't travel far back enough, and the people I encounter still know more than I, the average American, and I appear and am reviled as a futuristic moron. You have to consider these things when you're fantasizing. The other two books I started writing are about half done, but I know, deep in my wicked and apathetic heart, I only started them so I wouldn't have to face the dissatisfaction I felt and still feel with the first one.
The screenplay Roger and I started is still a viable option for success, but we haven't spoken as much since he tried to rape me at Bash's mancation a couple weeks back. No amount of exfoliating apricots has been able to scrub the smell of his hand from my face, and I fear seeing him will initiate a virgin panic attack. There I was, minding my own business, dressed in my pinkest and prettiest Sunday dress when Roger, not unlike "the Big, Bad Wolf" of nursery lore, skewed my pretty bonnet, tore my bra strap, and dirtied the frills of my favorite Hello Kitty socks. But I digress. What else can I do?

Monday, June 1, 2009

A Hard-to-Diagnose Son of a Bitch

So, I'm reading a book called New Hope For People With Lupus because my perfect girlfriend, Gilda (pronounced Hilda), has it. Lupus, not the book. The illness is a hard-to-diagnose son of a bitch that almost exculsively affects women by turning their immune systems against them and making their "flare-ups" a painful hell. It ranges in severity, and a person can live a long and healthy life, or she can die young because she didn't take the problem serious enough the first time she was living in Austin, and her kidneys failed and now don't filter her blood properly. Flannery O'Conner died from complications of lupus; Anna Nicole Smith died because of it. Those scars on Seal's face? Lupus. Michael Jackson and Barbara Bush and her dog have it. I'm writing about lupus because it's not an unstoppable monster, but not enough is known about the disease to cure it altogether. Despite several famous sufferers, there's no white-toothed starlet, bubbling her breasts into a telethon evening gown to raise money for the cause, and because it's a 90% female affliction, I dare say there's a gender bias that welcomes disaffection. I can understand that, I guess. I never gave much thought to a certain warty STD until I mistakenly thought I'd contracted it. That was a long, sad week of staring out my window, but it made me realize that there are a lot of people on their incurable islands of disease or, as Chris Rock so eloquently put, are "stuck with the shit." So lupus is serious and common and largely ignored, and if you didn't know about it before, you do now. I'll write a few more detailed blogs on the subject once I learn more, but until then, know that I don't have any STDs.

Carlos, M.D.
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