Sunday, November 21, 2010

Effective immediately

You know what’s easier than working on an expansive literary project? Writing a blog. It’s true. I’ll usually plant myself before my antiquated laptop, crack my knuckles, and stare dumbly at the words that stumped me the previous day. Sips of hot coffee, sips of warm coffee, sips of cold coffee and I’ve given up trying to articulate the most cerebral portion of my writing scheme for the leisurely semblance of community on Facebook or the blogosphere or quite simply, my email account.

So, I am hereby suspending all frivolous online activity. Frivolous because I’m not deleting any accounts; instead, I’ll be limiting my Internet prowling to basic communication, research, and circus pornography. My diminutive attention span and sense of accomplishment are howling for it, simultaneously and in both ears, and quite frankly, I’m sick of the bitching. So my dear enablers, you’ll hear from me again when I’ve actually something to say. If you can hold your breath until mid December, that’d be great.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Cyclists, die.

Sunday. High noon. I was nipping a no cream/no sugar sarsaparilla at a convenient saloon when a hot breeze whistled in and I heard the clinking step of another rider in town. Music seemed to stop and tired men raised their tired gaze to the imposingly large person darkening the doorway. A depthless shadow striped my eyes, and its darkness afforded me the chance to size up the stranger obstructing the exit with his audacious mass. He was a giant. Wide-shouldered and unusually muscular. Tan. Square jawed. He was a gallant everyman, a John Wayne, a Man With No Name. He looked my direction and in the glare of his greater masculinity, I flinched and turned away. Men across the place did the same.

The rider stepped into the Starbucks and what I had taken for high plains drifting spurs became the staccatoed pitter-patter of dainty bicycle shoes. He shuffled past my table with the Geisha stride of a brawny man unaccustomed to having a sharp bicycle saddle wedged into the crack of his ass. He scanned the café behind the flare of his cyclist-trending sunglasses while the science in his colorful neck-to-mid-thigh leotard muted his swooshing legs as soundlessly as a pirouetting Russian. The bulbous mass of aerodynamic Styrofoam strapped atop his big head, unjoggleable. I held my cup of coffee suspended before my confounded expression, registering this individual as a new genre of people to regard as idiots.

Christ, I hope Lance Armstrong gets nailed for doping. He was back in the hot seat a few months, wasn’t he? That guy’s singlehandedly created this ridiculous bicycle culture here in Austin that, among a scrolling list of things, irritates me. Armstrong has turned otherwise rugged men into painted clowns that shrimps like me feel proprietorship in ridiculing. All because he only has one testicle. A lot of men only have one ball, Lance, and dressing your minions like peacocks isn’t just emasculating them, it’s exposing the insecurity in your abusive power and not growing your junk back. Finding drugs in Armstrong’s piss would dislodge a pellet of nurtured superiority from Austin’s megalobutthole, and because I’m malicious at heart, I’d adore the flailing identity crisis that would likely ensue. Bicycles have infiltrated the scenesters here too, but they’ve managed to own their style and when Lance Armstrong inevitably falls from stardom, they’ll be able to continue their existence without the stinking smear of a messiah’s disgrace.

I had earbuds lodged into my head so I couldn’t hear what our tall drink of electrolytes was ordering but I’d bet foldin’ money it had the words soy, espresso, latte, and cinnamon and/or vanilla in it. What an asshole.

I like bicycles. Don’t get me wrong. I’d rather ride one than drive a car but the gear? The clothes with the names of sponsors who aren’t really sponsors of anything more than their own opportunism? Man that’s unoriginal.

Addendum: After rereading this post, I’ve come to the biting realization that I’m a judgmental prick. But, I’m okay with that. At least I’m self aware enough to turn the magnifying glass on my own deficiencies for condemnation or celebration. Celebration, in this case.

Monday, November 8, 2010

Wishing upon a star for Sarah Palin to be mauled by a mama grizzly on her new reality TV show

What I should do is ignore this, for my peace of mind, for my sense of ethical superiority, but I can’t help it. I love to hate Sarah Palin, so when I came across Nancy Franklin’s article in The New Yorker, deriding Palin’s new reality TV show, I, of course, read the whole thing. And though acknowledging the show and even spending the time to blog about a biased review I read only perpetuates Palin’s horrible fame, Franklin’s article helped me understand exactly what irritates me most about that wily snake-woman and her frightening potential to run the United States:

“When it comes to Palin specifically, there is the fundamental problem that some of us don’t want to see or hear any more of her than we have to. And there are those whose objections have a physiological basis as well as an ideological one: the pitch and timbre of her voice, the rhythms of her speech, her syntax, and the way she coats acid and incoherence with cheery musical inflections join together in a sickening synergy that distresses the listener, triggering a fight-or-flight reaction.”

I hope this assessment was a clarifying for you as it was for me.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

The morning after

Another election cycle, another slew of heads piked at the gates of the new conquerors. That’s fine. People don’t get off their couches until they’re pissed or until evil Sith lords (e.g., multibillionaires Rupert Murdoch and David and Charles Koch of Koch Industries) compel them with the money-mind tricks of their staggering networks and resources. I get it. Frankly, I’m surprised the Republicans didn’t take both houses. That sleazy maniac, Sharron Angle, came uncomfortably close to usurping her incumbent opponent, Sleazy Reid, and that articulate douchebag, Marco Rubio, actually won in Florida. Watch your vaginas ladies.

Come to think of it, I don’t recall there ever having been so many politicians and political hopefuls that I’ve wanted to choke unconscious. That being said, I’ll semi-close with a friend’s quote of a quote on Facebook:

“If you are bored and disgusted by politics and don't bother to vote, you are in effect voting for the entrenched Establishments of the two major parties, who please rest assured are not dumb, and who are keenly aware that it is in their interests to keep you disgusted and bored and cynical” – David Foster Wallace

I unfortunately agree with Wallace because despite my disdain for. . .pretty much everything, the “sleeping giant” strength of the voting American majority, the 44 million living in poverty, has the power to reshape the country into something that doesn’t devastate other nations or its own people for the love of money.

Perhaps that’s just my last shred of naivety but I’ll take it. Wallace, of course, struggled with depression and eventually committed suicide, a sad end to such an insightful man.
Related Posts with Thumbnails