Ode to Capitalism

Hope

First off, any hint of a violent revolution happening in the near future is virtually undetectable by any of the six or seven basic senses—depending how lucid on acid you are. And although explosions, blood and scars are probably not the most alluring remedies for the defective hierarchical class system we’re effectively pinned beneath, they would undoubtedly help to revitalize the pulse of our flaccid culture. Think about it. 

Reverse

Really though, I love the sensation of having my nuts in a capitalist vice while pin-dick fascists crank on the bar. I’m certainly not a communist if that’s what you’re thinking. The altruistic sentiment of communist philosophy is, in essence, the political equivalent to a vegan diet and dry sex, neither of which I subscribe to. Lets burn this place to the ground and stoke the flames with absolute consumption. The irony of receiving an Adbusters magazine on Christmas morning reflects a truly functional economy: hardcore leftist ideals are more hilarious than a Tickle-Me-Elmo any day.

Crisis

How uncomfortable can we really be with the corporate establishments that have befallen us? After all, I drink every night of the week and buy cheap dope from illegitimate drug dealers. And if I’m really in a jam, I just drive down to the Cecil and watch the talented ladies with silicone boobs and hair-extensions shake their junk all over my face and lap for five dollars or less. Who needs Mcdonald’s drive-thru to satisfy impulsive desires? Alas, it feels good to lament this perverse love affair I have with substance abuse, hookers and cheeseburgers.

Pain

Perhaps it’s unresolved esteem issues which drive me to say such disparaging things about the inherent benefits of inequality and exploitation. Or perhaps I’m just not getting enough of that elusive capitalist ass I’ve heard so much about on the T.V and Internet.

Retribution

A team of researchers from the University of Victoria is suggesting that the B.C Government jack-up liquor prices in order to curb rampant alcoholism in Vancouver. It’s notions like this that drive the already unbalanced population of middle-class piss-tanks to hit the bottle even harder. We shouldn’t even dignify the idea with a response—unless of course it involves dynamite and gatling guns. So all I’m going to say is “fuck that shit!” Those half-baked university students should be strung up by their nose-hairs and beaten like Teletubby piñatas at a Mexican birthday party.

Truth

It seems as if there’s a tinge of discontent in the collective mind over the way this over-populated planet's being run: we should cultivate it. Fact is, we never had a choice. And even if we did, I’d still pick C. So as we hide away like cultural refugees, brooding in capitalist fall-out and target marketing, take solace in knowing that you’re not the only one who’s profoundly confused. Don’t cry: it’s not your fault—psyche. It’s totally your fault. Drop the iPhone, buy a gun, loot a Wal-Mart and raise some chickens.

With that, we should all join hands and sing Kumbaya as the lunatics with power and money pick our pockets and adjust their comb-overs. Fuck!

Good Riddance

Blackout

What just happened? Four months of rag-tag essays and trivial seduction, gone but not forgotten. The swings are worse than the temper of a wasted Samoan drug dealer at a roulette table in Vegas on New Years. The only grip is to stay in the green, pull off a threesome and avoid getting pistol-whipped by an angry pimp named Drexel.

It’s not even close to midnight. The hookers are out, but you’re not sure who they are. You trust your friends, but they’ll disappear at the sight of a stripper in pursuit of oral sex or a good story. Then you’ll be on your own to stumble amongst the fluorescent lights, mountains of blow and fake tits that lure you in every shadow. We have no idea.

It all seemed like a good idea at first. An experience. A right of passage into the broken realm of art and self-annihilation. Twisting the thoughts in your head, escape becomes reality. You have no idea where you are or what you're doing. In a world of modern love and static desire, intrigue and lies roll over us like clouds.

Entrails and Daffodils

Systematic Obliteration

I don’t feel like saying anything. Beat up a bouncer, run from the police, shoot heroine and sell drugs to Asians. Get drunk and call your ex-girlfriend at three in the morning. Fall asleep at the wheel and crash your car into a lamppost.

I’m in a restless stupor right now and can’t come to grips with the notion of inspiration. What is art? How does art fit into the system that we staunchly reject? I read that, “all art is subject to the same evolutionary cycle. It is created, absorbed into collective consciousness and then coveted.”[1] The point is that art cannot simply exist—it must be owned—and that the value of art is most clearly recognized when it belongs to an idea, image or cause.

A + B = A New Generation

Essentially, without ownership, a piece of art is just a fuck you to the exploitative forces of capitalism. In the absence of personal identity or human desire, the purpose of rogue art (art without ownership) is to disrupt the status quo. However, creating a piece of art in the vanity of anonymity seems equally as blasphemous as displaying it in an overtly flamboyant attempt to get laid or make a dollar.

At this point, the message is vague. How art translates in our culture should be for the rejects and misfits to decide—not the bogus losers who run elitist galleries and franchise coffee shops. The only two things that make sense to me right now are Molotov cocktails and binge drinking.

Streets of Fury

If you graffiti or corrupt a piece of public property, is it art? If it’s for a cause, you are a revolutionary. If not: you are a rebel. If you carve freedom into a park bench, you’re a vandal. The distinction between revolution and rebellion has been skewed by institutionalized propaganda and queer Olympic mascots. In other words, Quatchi, Sumi, Miga and Muk Mu are going to be taking rounds out of each other on a bed of money for the next three months while you masturbate and cry.

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[1] Nardi, Sarah. ADBUSTERS 77

A Strange World

Student Psychosis           

            Okay, things are getting tense.  Really fucking tense.  It’s true: school will make you crazy.  But so will girlfriends and smoking crack.  It’s no wonder that so many grads are spiritually and financially broke beyond all recognition without the slightest clue as to what they want out of life.  Sadly, 98 percent of them wind up serving coffee to anal-retentive mothers and businessmen at Starbucks, or get hooked into pyramid schemes selling super-juices to a pathetic world of chumps looking for an easy way out. 

            I’m not.

Instead, I’m looking to ADBUSTERS for inspiration.  I don’t know what this implies, but I’m scared.  I’m fucking terrified.  There are cameras everywhere, watching us make toast and go to the washroom.    

            When you walk out of class after listening to a professor harp about police states, government surveillance and Big Brother, it’s easy to wonder what the hell’s going on.  Why do I need to know this?  The world is fucked, blah blah blah.  In the midst of all this structured chaos, I wonder if humanity has simply been reduced to a high divorce rate and a Facebook profile.

Inglorious Bullshit

            Music-review journalism sickens me—most of the time.  How long will it take for people to realize that these pieces are written in the most pretentious vain known to man?  Describing a particular sound as “cosmic” or “mind-bending” doesn’t mean shit to anybody—honestly.  Though the craft in itself may have a strange and poetic value, it most commonly bastardizes the essence of a musical experience.  It’s selfish.  And as far as creating some surreal image of a particular melody or style is concerned, it’s erroneous—literary masturbation for the asshole who writes it.  Check out Rolling Stone magazine or the Georgia Straight if you don’t believe me. 

            And yet, the genre of writing thrives.  It thrives because it sometimes has a half-baked sense of intellectual insight, which people evidently connect with and relish.  Having said that, using prose to articulate the sound of music, more often than not, just expresses some lame sentiment that essentially has no bearing on what the music actually sounds like: the sensationalized reflections of an over-zealous critic listening to Shakira or 50 Cent.  Think about it.     

Ode to the Sexiest Man Alive

Last year I was out-muscled by powerhouse “X-Men” star Hugh Jackman.  This year I’ve been outclassed by the enigmatic charm of Johnny Depp.  Fact is: I tried.  Oh God did try. 

I thought it was a tight race coming into the final stretch, before this season’s “Sexiest Man Alive” would emerge.  So before the Gallup Polls of vanity closed, in a frantic effort to really get people talking, I cut my hair, trimmed my beard and bought a new dress shirt from the Gap.  Alas, it wasn’t enough.  It’s never enough.

The field gets more and more competitive every year.  I mean, these young kids, like Zac Efron and the cast of “Twilight,” who are all into super-juices and yoga, are totally changing the way we do “sexy.” 

I roll around in a beat up Honda Civic, smoke cheap pre-rolled cigarettes and search for romance on the Internet when everyone has gone to bed.  Johnny Depp, on the other hand, owns a private island in the Bahamas, rolls his own cigarettes with rare Peruvian tobacco and has sex on white sand beaches.  WTF!  How am I supposed to act sexy with that going on?  He rolls his own cigarettes for @#$% sakes.  I can’t compete with that.

I have, however, taken a few strategic notes on how to pump my chances for next year.  Needless to say, more tattoos, useless trinkets and visits to the Playboy mansion are at the top of my list. 

Thank you Johnny Depp for helping me realize what it is I truly want in life: to love, be loved and be recognized by “People” magazine as the “Sexiest Man Alive.”

More From an Untold Story

I was hanging out at a friend’s place after work last night, drinking beer, eating homemade zoo-sticks and discussing the merits of fidelity, when something totally poetic happened. 

As I took the last sip of beer from my mug, my associate placed a mickey of vodka in front of me with a shot glass.

“All right,” he said in a funny voice of wavering confidence, “you’re taking a shot.”

“Like hell I am.”

“What? You’re not even going to have one shot?” he replied in semi-disbelief. 

Shrewdly, I relented.  “Fine then.  You first though.” 

Generally, I’m not one to start pulling shots on an empty stomach when I’m already half-corked.  If I’d been offered anything more palatable than vodka, such as Jagermeister, Fireball or Sour Puss, maybe I’d have considered.  Not this time though.  I’m too old for this shit and I know what can happen.

“Okay,” he replied.  “But then it’s your turn.”

“Oh for sure,” I said with a faint tone of sarcasm. 

As he poured the 2oz shot, I could taste the vile liquor in my mouth.

“Cheers,” he said.

“Cheers.”

He raised the glass to his lips, tilted his head back, and as quickly as the drink disappeared, his stomach convulsed.  Pasty green vomit surged out of his mouth onto his white shirt, pants and couch.  There was a short pause.  He looked down at the mess, then up at me.  And then…another.  This time he kept it in his mouth, eyes bulging and cheeks half inflated. As I burst out laughing, he jumped from the sofa and rushed to the toilet for refuge.  

“That doesn’t count,” I yelled to him as he heaved. 

“I guess not,” he croaked, hacking and spitting. 

In that disgraceful moment of truth and pain, I couldn’t have been more delighted.  But I also recognized that mixing uncertainty with hard alcohol and fried zucchini can, and often times will, result in puke stains on your furniture, clothes and credibility.

The Granville Strip and Something Unknown

A friend of mine told me that he wanted to read something where I sound-off.  And that got me thinking – I mean, really thinking – about how actualized anyone would have to be to convincingly flip shit on the perils of Capitalism, inherent flaws of Socialism or the cultural irrelevance of “Gossip Girl.”  I’m not.  I do, however, recognize something dissolute about the Granville Strip on a Saturday night.

I’m ready to go out.  I’m tired.  I’m sleep deprived.  There’s work to be done.  But against my better judgment, in the pursuit of something I’m not totally sure of, I throw on my blazer, grab a pen and walk out the door.  It’s going to be a late night. 

I’ve felt it before, this strange energy; but it’s cold and wet, and fall seems like a time when people are particularly unruly and strung-out.  Fluorescent lights distort the puddles on the sidewalk: it feels like the world is on drugs or I’m on another planet.  Platinum blonde girls in short skirts and spiked heals parade the streets like the SS on Kristallnacht, ripping out hearts and smashing egos.  Bass pours from clubs like the pulse of a manic universe, engulfing me like a vacuum.  How I keep it together, I don’t know. 

I spin out of these weekends hung-over, under slept and left wondering how much coffee I’ll have to drink to realize what the moral of the story is.  I need a nap – I know this.  I set my alarm for 20 minutes and turn off the lights.  But before my head hits the pillow, a thought flashes…feeling the emptiness of my bed, I remember the girl from last night.   

The glow from the computer screen dimly lights the picture on my wall of two girls kissing.  The allure of the white radiance fogs my head.  I can’t sleep because all I can think about is how tired I am.  Deadlines are toxic.     

Gonzo Life

Hunter S. Thompson never really went off the rails.  Actually, I don’t believe he was ever on the rails to begin with.  You couldn't ever compare Hunter to a train, tram, trolley or any other goddamn mode of transportation that takes its direction from tracks.  Hunter was more like a wild pitch; a stray bullet; a casualty of the American dream, if you will.  For those of you who are familiar with Hunter, think for a moment – I mean, really think – what does Hunter represent?  I’m not even sure what I would say to that.  I mean, he stands for something, no doubt.  But what can we really learn from Hunter’s savage and loathsome tale?  As writers and as people.

I’m sleep deprived.  I can’t think.  These words are falling out of my head onto the page.  I don’t think I’m on drugs, but I could be wrong.

The thing about Hunter is that he was a complete mess before he, allegedly, shot himself in the head.  So to get down to the bare bones of Hunter’s brazen existence, I think it would help to, first, address the dissolute concept of self-destruction.  I’m not a psychologist and I don’t know what the Freudian explanation for it is, but I know that many of us revel in the decadence of self-inflicted ruin.   

However, it would appear that there's a vaguely acceptable form of self-destruction – a sort of incidental offshoot of innately hedonistic activity.  A + B = getting blackout drunk and having unprotected sex with strangers in foreign countries.  Both which, I admit, are slightly heinous and debauched; however, remain equally commonplace and therefore socially understood.

The other form of self-destruction comes off as depraved and unprecedented – a coping mechanism that seems to contradict human logic at the most basic level.  Exhibit A: anyone who dunks their head into a bucket of jellyfish (Steve-O, “Jackass”).  Exhibit B: Nikki Sixx and Ozzy Ozbourne.

For Now

The excitement and amoral fulfillment of a self-destructive lifestyle can be associated with more orgies, hallucinations and interesting things to write about.  The rub: estranged kids, substance abuse and suicide.  RIP Dr. Gonzo.  

Continued to be...

A Short Series of Twisted Observations

I was reading “Vice’s Guide to Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll,” and this is what happened.

I’m not going to review a piece of journalism.  Instead, in an unhinged act of defiance, I’m going to create my own piece of journalism. 

Something that isn’t true

What’s more tortuous than writing, asides from shaving your own eyebrows or getting a blowjob from a girl with braces?  How about trying to come up with original ideas.  When I was younger, and just slightly more flippant towards the world, I realized that originality meant being sort of weird and outside yourself.  I became my own deranged experiment in an attempt to intellectualize the absurdities of real life and fantasy. 

Unfortunately for most people, there’s no originality in being totally unoriginal. On the other hand, being too original comes off as desperate and obvious.  So ideally, you want to fall somewhere in between mediocre and semi-unoriginal, which is basically the stylish personification of not giving a @#$%.

A + B  = I have no idea

Am I out of touch with the normal world?  I’m a spiraling optimist with no sense of direction.  Instant gratification is the tragic rhapsody of my life; therefore, I'm usually drunk.  I read in a self-help book on how to be smart, that the inability to foresee the potential consequences of a normal act or decision is a result of the brain’s underdevelopment, which, evidently, is permanent after you hit a certain age.  Do you know what that means?  That some of us are doomed to a life of lost jobs, messy break-ups, miscalculations and parking tickets. 

Don’t listen to me?

How do you "find yourself?"  Do you backpack around Europe for 3 months and spend every last penny you have?  Do you go to Thailand and get completely wasted every night and hook up with the world’s finest transients?  I'm not sure.  Either way, self-revelation can require an extreme journey across the unfamiliar landscape of staunch experimentation.  Whether it’s sex, drugs, music or school, nothing works better for me than mixing it up; routines are for stand-up comics and traffic cops.  

Next time: all-nighters and one-night stands  

Toast and Peanut Butter

Wow. I just finished reading an essay by Chuck Klosterman from his book, “Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs,” and I'm vaguely bamboozled – I think. His essay draws a parallel between the consumption of sugar cereal and the struggle for aging hipsters to be cool.

He illustrates the relationship, first, by addressing each cereal mascot's unique character flaw and situational dilemma. For example, the Trix Rabbit, often marginalized as “silly”, has never been allowed to enjoy even one bowl of his favourite foodstuff. Klosterman’s logical explanation for this restriction intertwines both age discrimination and racism, suggesting that we are to accept that Trix is reserved exclusively “for kids”.

Klosterman touches on a few other examples that, to me, have very little correlation with the thesis his analogies aim to support: “a product’s exclusivity is directly proportional to its social cachet, which is the definition of calculated adult coolness.”

Chuck presses on to describe in excruciating detail exactly what kind of coolness he’s referring to. Until that moment, I had never considered or appreciated the commercial implications of coolness on such a warped level. But Chuck seems to have a lucid understanding of this unspecific paradigm, extending far beyond mainstream teen coolness and aging hipster default coolness, both of which apparently reflect an opposing (and sort of pathetic) consumer aesthetic.

Despite the ostensible disconnect in his comparisons, the essay is held together by his sardonic style and obsessive eye for detail. There are points where you don’t really know what he’s saying, but it doesn’t really matter because it might make sense if only you were smarter – whether it actually does or doesn’t.

The truth is, reading Chuck will make you smarter – probably. Have a dictionary on hand and prepare to have thoughts like, “who the !@#% does this guy think he is?” But really that’s just the voice of your inferior intellect speaking.

Klosterman’s style of writing epitomizes the Converse sneaker, Argyle V-neck sweater, angular haircut, and thick-framed spectacles fashion. He makes you feel smart (for being able to connect with his insight) and stupid (for not being able to express it), as you laugh at his witticism and writhe with contempt at the pomposity of his prose.

Girl Talk Anyone?

Girl Talk Gets Naked. Often. That’s the headline of the article I read in the October issue of GQ magazine, written by Paul Tough. It features a picture of Greg Gillis – a.k.a Girl Talk – screaming into a microphone as sweat pours from his body on a crowded stage at a show in Norfolk, Virginia.

Gregg doesn’t exactly fit the stereotypical profile of a sample-based DJ. His style of music, strange and alluring, transcends genres in an almost nonexistent way. Gillis basically dismantles the anatomy of any and all forms of music, then mashes together the most unlikely combinations he can conceive in an ADD-like fashion to create a sort of eclectic mixture of every song you’ve ever loved – on one three minute track.

Before Girl Talk

Gregg’s background in music isn’t of the highest standard either, academically speaking. In the article, he tells a story of how when he was a boy, in the late ’80s, he would walk around everywhere with a cheap boom box, and when he heard a song that caught his interest, he just hit “record” and held it up to whatever – the TV, the car radio, his sister’s CD player. You can imagine what the final product sounded like. A mess. But he would listen to it on his Walkman, forty-five minutes on each side, until the tape was destroyed.

Gregg proceeded to explore the underworld of weird sub-genres in search of the next big thing: "speed metal, math rock, drone-pop, death funk, riot grrrl, beep-core, electronic garage, whatever."

It didn’t matter that Gregg couldn’t play an instrument; he formed a band with his friend Joe, anyway. They called themselves the Joysticks Battle the Clip-On Expressway to Your Skull. They were like the antithesis to mainstream anything, concerned more with mocking popular culture and annoying the audience than actually playing music. “We’d line up ten CD players with scratched CDs and play them all at once and then break them, and that would be the show,” Gillis says in the article. “Or we’d play the Forrest Gump soundtrack and smash a TV. A show might last twenty minutes, or it might last five seconds.” It didn’t seem to matter though. Gregg was pressing the boundaries of his eccentricity as a performing artist – for good or ill.

Final Word

This was a fun read, in part because Girl Talk is such an amusing subject. From the beginning, Paul draws you in with an active tone of palpable excitement. He pilots you through each event leading up to his first encounter with Girl Talk backstage before a show. His descriptions are clever but not pretentious, so you don’t feel alienated as the reader. He animates the story with nice flow and pulls meaning from even minor details. The article isn’t overwritten, but retains an eloquent style that showcases Tough’s skill as a professional writer and journalist.