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...