Yes, I've been silent for too long, and I do apologize. You don't deserve to be ignored like that, not without some notice. I'm embarrassed, and a little shamed -- but much as it pains me, I gotta admit that it could easily happen again. I've been very busy, you see, completing TWO separate books; my work here has suffered, and will probably languish for the near future. So that's the bad news. The good news, then, is that the books are shaping up well. I'm awfully proud of them. And I'm excited to see what you think, in a month or so.
The first book has been in the works for a good long while. Over the years, many of you have sought my advice about personal matters. This book is a distillation of the advice I've given in response. Working title: "Please don't cum (sic (sic!)) in my eye; when a person eats as much garlic as you do, their semen is a dreadful irritant, and I don't want people thinking that I'm high." At first you may think that this is unnecessarily crude, but sit on it a moment, and I bet you'll realize that it contains practical&useful advice, which can improve your daily life. And there's more where that came from. You may want to buy two copies and just leave one in the car.
The second volume is much fresher -- I only started in on it last week. I'm struggling a little with my mortgage, and the hubub surrounding Sotomayor's nomination was a great reminder that comically-vicious right-wing screeds tend to bring in cash pretty fast. Working title, here: "I got love for all peoples, but lets face facts, if you're not a white male you can't help but be an incurable racist. And I know that saying this won't win me friends with the ACLU, but if you think you can lump 'Polish' or 'Italian' in with 'white,' I've got some 100W lightbulbs to sell you which run on love and rainbows. Shit, even the Irish are iffy, if think about it." Yeah, it's not pretty, but it might pay the bills.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Let's lay this thing to rest:
A few days ago, a reader told me that while listing possible 'action phrases' in the newly-polite-and-incoherent title, I had skipped the most important substitute verb: cup. So yes, the haters could, indeed, cup etc etc. They can also play a game of capture the flag using, fondly fondle or fondle fondly (to both I say 'eww', and you agree), lose a rap battle with, share the podium with, dance provacatively against, and trust. Also trust in, and consort with, and sing softly to, and run in fear from. And run in hypnotic joy towards. And conspire with -- not against -- . And appreciate. Also, appreciate, as objet d'art,. And many more, as well. But these'll stay unsaid. Enough!
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
In Which I Apologize to My More Sensitive Readers, And Clarify A Certain Less-Than-Entirely-Polite Phrase
Longtime readers of this publication will have noticed that, sometime late last week, we changed our name, w/ no comment or explanation. Some of the more vigilant (that is, our tweaker/'truther' friends) have worried that this is a sign we've bowed to institutional pressure, and have begun to either self-censor (bad) or allow the relevant dean of reconciliation&propaganda to ghost-write entries (much, much worse). About which worries: well, fair enough. The parenthetical underscores, which you see in the title, were once three words of great, if crude, power -- the courageous & storied phrase 'suck my balls.' What (upon earth) could compel us to dilute dilute this mighty&inspirational declaration of rebellion?
And the true answer is, I'm afraid, cowardice. Over our week+ of existence, we've expanded our demographic base to include both impressionable pre-teens and my grandmother. This hasn't been an easy decision -- discussion at Ye Haters headquarters has been intense, even heated, these last few days. But even as the (Lively and Healthy) debate pulled us apart, it became apparent that in our now-stumbling economy, AdSense revenue could keep us living the fancy life only if we expanded our base. Requiring some limited, targeted, principle-fudging. But only, so far, within the <title> tag. More than one high-profile reader worried about mention of so-called ball-sucking on permanent view in their rss reader. At least today, our experiment in civility ends when the <body> tag opens.
A necessary transition, but still, one tinged with sadness. As we say goodbye to (Suck My Balls), and hello to (___), it's time to do as CNN/ABC and take One Last Look Back. Those of you involved in some of the more ghetto-ized & solipsistic corners of Internet Bicycle Culture will happily remember the phrase's large-scale public debut, just over one year ago, affixed along a neon green, deep-v rim publicized on bikesnob. Along with spoke-lengths and date of assembly, I've long been fond of scrawling passive-aggressive rants along the rim-tape of newly built wheels; I cannot be alone in experiencing the no-longer-so-passive message boldly stickered to the exterior of the rim a something of an epiphany. Our one-time sobriquet was no original thought -- it was homage to (read: theft of) the poetry of a well- (and widely-) loved precursor.
Still, it twun't[1] all low-down appropriation & thievery. We added a parenthetical phrase, modifying the original in two important ways. First, our lyric now mimics a pop-song title, and every day the title stayed up, I imagined Aretha Franklin defiantly belting out this would-be classic. (Reminding us again: how much would change, in a perfect world.) And second, the opening parenthesis draws the readers attention to the potential missing model verb. Of the haters: must, should, or can they 'suck my balls'? And once we start adding terms, we might as well start replacing them -- suck being the main candidate for substitution. The subject must contemplate, ignore, fear, comically rejoice over, not disturb, drive far far away from. In short, the parentheses serve as license for not-all-that-humorous, but slightly-disturbing and more-hostile-than-healthy linguistic experimentation. Which is, I'd argue, all that we can ask of language. So the next time you read (___), please: show some respect, lower your head, and consider the possible substitutions. RIP, (SMB).
[1] Both an affected & folksy contraction, and also, according to the wictionary, a delightful term which I offer as sop to those dissatisfied with our new found primness.
And the true answer is, I'm afraid, cowardice. Over our week+ of existence, we've expanded our demographic base to include both impressionable pre-teens and my grandmother. This hasn't been an easy decision -- discussion at Ye Haters headquarters has been intense, even heated, these last few days. But even as the (Lively and Healthy) debate pulled us apart, it became apparent that in our now-stumbling economy, AdSense revenue could keep us living the fancy life only if we expanded our base. Requiring some limited, targeted, principle-fudging. But only, so far, within the <title> tag. More than one high-profile reader worried about mention of so-called ball-sucking on permanent view in their rss reader. At least today, our experiment in civility ends when the <body> tag opens.
A necessary transition, but still, one tinged with sadness. As we say goodbye to (Suck My Balls), and hello to (___), it's time to do as CNN/ABC and take One Last Look Back. Those of you involved in some of the more ghetto-ized & solipsistic corners of Internet Bicycle Culture will happily remember the phrase's large-scale public debut, just over one year ago, affixed along a neon green, deep-v rim publicized on bikesnob. Along with spoke-lengths and date of assembly, I've long been fond of scrawling passive-aggressive rants along the rim-tape of newly built wheels; I cannot be alone in experiencing the no-longer-so-passive message boldly stickered to the exterior of the rim a something of an epiphany. Our one-time sobriquet was no original thought -- it was homage to (read: theft of) the poetry of a well- (and widely-) loved precursor.
Still, it twun't[1] all low-down appropriation & thievery. We added a parenthetical phrase, modifying the original in two important ways. First, our lyric now mimics a pop-song title, and every day the title stayed up, I imagined Aretha Franklin defiantly belting out this would-be classic. (Reminding us again: how much would change, in a perfect world.) And second, the opening parenthesis draws the readers attention to the potential missing model verb. Of the haters: must, should, or can they 'suck my balls'? And once we start adding terms, we might as well start replacing them -- suck being the main candidate for substitution. The subject must contemplate, ignore, fear, comically rejoice over, not disturb, drive far far away from. In short, the parentheses serve as license for not-all-that-humorous, but slightly-disturbing and more-hostile-than-healthy linguistic experimentation. Which is, I'd argue, all that we can ask of language. So the next time you read (___), please: show some respect, lower your head, and consider the possible substitutions. RIP, (SMB).
[1] Both an affected & folksy contraction, and also, according to the wictionary, a delightful term which I offer as sop to those dissatisfied with our new found primness.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Friday I'm in Love
It's no great secret that I'm vicious, unkind, rage-filled person. I'd like to think, though, that I do a pretty decent job of handling my anger -- I do, after all, have a quite a bit of it. Friday's a good day. After work, I head down to the east village, look for pretty girls in their late twenties, and tell them that they musta been awfully good looking ten years ago. Then I head home, get a nice night's sleep, and rise early enough to get down to central park as the sun rises. Marshals will be spread out around the entire park drive, one every few hundred feet, for the safety of the morning amateur bicycle race. Over the course of a race there's time to spend about a half hour w/ about four separate marshals, explaining to each how thrilled they must be that Lance is back, battling it out against cancer and the french. He's inspired so many ordinary people. It's wonderful.
These tactics are often enough to hold the rage back for an entire week. I never burn animals. I rarely kick dogs. There are better ways.
These tactics are often enough to hold the rage back for an entire week. I never burn animals. I rarely kick dogs. There are better ways.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Thursday Morning Sunshine
Hopefully[1], this entry won't be typical of this site. My intent is to post long-winded, mostly-coherent 'responses' to books that I read. I don't intend to write criticism or reviews -- these require intelligence, never mind focus and some small amount of discipline. Instead, you'll get a free-associative 'response,' which at least glances off the book in question, and proves (to my imaginary remedial-english teacher) that I did read at least a couple pages of the thing[2].
So yeah: I don't plan on writing much about how crummy I felt the other day (q: how crummy? a: so crummy!) or how I totally sustained 4.5 w/kg for x:xx minutes a day earlier (quite true, for some shamefully small value of x:xx) or how the line at the local ghetto supermarket was just dreadful and the place makes me feel slightly dirty and sad or: well, there's a whole constellation of mundane shite that I'm tempted to list off, but I'll cut it off here. (The remnant of this afternoon's haircut, rubbing at my neck and working its way down my shirt and across my shoulder blades: itchy!) I don't have any problem w/ spouting confessional nonsense; I just recognize that that vast bulk of what I have to confess is weapons-grade-tiresome. Not this, though. It's mildly amusing, which is nice; more importantly, it's informative: most of you, or at very least a large minority, have not shat yrself in public. And I believe that you would like to know what this is like, w/o personally going through the actual steps.
The story of how I came to shit myself is not all that interesting. My best guess is that the trigger was a piece of possibly-under-cured raw pancetta, consumed the night before; in any case, I got on the train thursday morning, feeling fine. Two minutes into the ride, I felt much, much less fine. And maybe ten minutes later, I was stumbling out of the subway at 145th street, doubled over and praying[3] that there'd be a business above ground where I could relieve myself. A few steps from the street, the whole soupy mass came out and drained down my right leg. This was not an issue of willpower -- there absolutely was no choice involved. The first thing I noticed was instant and absolute relief. My stomach felt just fine. I could straighten my back and walk at a regular clip. I have a friend who likes to announce, after farting, that she has 'gambled and won' ... and though this is just a willfully crude, tongue-in-cheek joke, we all (I presume universality) know what it's like to toot and have a small, slight fear that shit'll follow. This was just the opposite -- even as warm liquid ran down my legs, I still held a slim hope that it was just a truly noxious fart. Hope is a strange emotion -- we associate it with the highest virtues, but I've barely ever held it so strongly as I did during those few fractions of a second as I tried to deny the very apparent.
After shitting yourself, three miles from home, ten minutes before your due at work, there's really only one possible response -- call in, then walk home as fast as you can & clean up. And here's the thing that I wanted to say, which maybe justifies the hundreds of words wasted here -- a forty minute walk through upper manhattan, caked in shit, is no where near as humiliating as you'd think it'd be. It's pretty impossible to maintain humiliation for that long. Your mind wanders. And this is disappointing. You want to savor the awfulness of it all -- this is the sort of Epic Tale which I plan on boring my grandkids w/ -- but after the first five minutes of mortification, you realize that apart from a bit of stink, and a confusingly gritty sensation, things are fine. If you walk alongside anybody, they're bound to be grossed out, quick enough ... but passing in the opposite direction, they probably don't even notice. Physically, you look normal as ever -- your right shoe is caked in crap, but there's no other physical evidence. (Though you can only confirm this, of course, once you get home, so that's a bit of welcome mystery and tension. But if you're worried, remind yourself -- Tom Boonen is a great champion, and he had no shame racing w/ very visible contaminants.)
Pretty much the only worry while walking is that you don't get stuck standing still in the presence of strangers. So, if you get to an intersection w/ two red lights, turn even if you don't want to. Easy enough. You can get back on path later. Also, you remain very, very conscious that you cannot get in even the mildest disagreement. No argument you have can top "Yeah, but I'm not the one w/ shit all over him." And when you arrive home, and the little old chinese lady who's very sweet and loves to chat in incomprehensible english is in the stairwell, you'll feel like a bit of a dick when you rush past her w/ an over the shoulder "so very sorry awful rush take care now." You'll also decide that it's easier to throw away your pants & shoes, rather than wash them by hand ... the stuff adheres like honey. And most importantly, you'll have discovered the first objectively fair justification (well, that I've seen) apart from fashion for roadie leg-shaving -- caked in shit is far more difficult to wash out of leg hair than you'd guess. Far more difficult.
[1] With that first word, I take a Bold & Brave Stance against the nit-ish, half-civilized prescriptivist forces who wish to forcibly drag our language back to some imaginary nineteenth century. And with the first sentence of the first footnote, I illustrate how blindingly pompous, self-involved, and self-serious I can be when I decide to be pompous & self-serious. Holla.
[2] Hamlet, By W. Shakespeare. Hamlet's pa was killt by his (Hamlet's) uncle; at some point, dead pa returns as a ghost. I'm thinking out by a parapet, which is the appropriate place to see a ghost. Unless it's hostile, in which case the ghost'd probably appear in a more enclosed space. Ghosts are scary, yeah? Not as scary, though, as KKK members. Who wear outfits similar to a child's halloween ghost costume. Or at least not as scary as 1965-era KKK members. Nowadays they're more pathetic and contemptible than terrifying, at least in most situations. For which we can thank the heavens, though not God, as I don't really believe in the old boy. Though of course you're more than welcome to thank God, if that's your thing. There are certainly much worse things you could thank him for. But ghosts: isn't it kinda weird that this clearly supernatural and Just Not Possible, not in the real world, creature is included in a play that's otherwise pretty straight-up realistic? Yeah, that's totally a question for a high school sophomore to answer in 400-600 words: sorry. Anyway, that's what I have to say about Hamlet, a play be W. Shakespeare.
[3] An earlier footnote refers to lack of Belief, but it's common knowledge that a foxhole is not the only place where an atheist will fervently, if insincerely, convert.
So yeah: I don't plan on writing much about how crummy I felt the other day (q: how crummy? a: so crummy!) or how I totally sustained 4.5 w/kg for x:xx minutes a day earlier (quite true, for some shamefully small value of x:xx) or how the line at the local ghetto supermarket was just dreadful and the place makes me feel slightly dirty and sad or: well, there's a whole constellation of mundane shite that I'm tempted to list off, but I'll cut it off here. (The remnant of this afternoon's haircut, rubbing at my neck and working its way down my shirt and across my shoulder blades: itchy!) I don't have any problem w/ spouting confessional nonsense; I just recognize that that vast bulk of what I have to confess is weapons-grade-tiresome. Not this, though. It's mildly amusing, which is nice; more importantly, it's informative: most of you, or at very least a large minority, have not shat yrself in public. And I believe that you would like to know what this is like, w/o personally going through the actual steps.
The story of how I came to shit myself is not all that interesting. My best guess is that the trigger was a piece of possibly-under-cured raw pancetta, consumed the night before; in any case, I got on the train thursday morning, feeling fine. Two minutes into the ride, I felt much, much less fine. And maybe ten minutes later, I was stumbling out of the subway at 145th street, doubled over and praying[3] that there'd be a business above ground where I could relieve myself. A few steps from the street, the whole soupy mass came out and drained down my right leg. This was not an issue of willpower -- there absolutely was no choice involved. The first thing I noticed was instant and absolute relief. My stomach felt just fine. I could straighten my back and walk at a regular clip. I have a friend who likes to announce, after farting, that she has 'gambled and won' ... and though this is just a willfully crude, tongue-in-cheek joke, we all (I presume universality) know what it's like to toot and have a small, slight fear that shit'll follow. This was just the opposite -- even as warm liquid ran down my legs, I still held a slim hope that it was just a truly noxious fart. Hope is a strange emotion -- we associate it with the highest virtues, but I've barely ever held it so strongly as I did during those few fractions of a second as I tried to deny the very apparent.
After shitting yourself, three miles from home, ten minutes before your due at work, there's really only one possible response -- call in, then walk home as fast as you can & clean up. And here's the thing that I wanted to say, which maybe justifies the hundreds of words wasted here -- a forty minute walk through upper manhattan, caked in shit, is no where near as humiliating as you'd think it'd be. It's pretty impossible to maintain humiliation for that long. Your mind wanders. And this is disappointing. You want to savor the awfulness of it all -- this is the sort of Epic Tale which I plan on boring my grandkids w/ -- but after the first five minutes of mortification, you realize that apart from a bit of stink, and a confusingly gritty sensation, things are fine. If you walk alongside anybody, they're bound to be grossed out, quick enough ... but passing in the opposite direction, they probably don't even notice. Physically, you look normal as ever -- your right shoe is caked in crap, but there's no other physical evidence. (Though you can only confirm this, of course, once you get home, so that's a bit of welcome mystery and tension. But if you're worried, remind yourself -- Tom Boonen is a great champion, and he had no shame racing w/ very visible contaminants.)
Pretty much the only worry while walking is that you don't get stuck standing still in the presence of strangers. So, if you get to an intersection w/ two red lights, turn even if you don't want to. Easy enough. You can get back on path later. Also, you remain very, very conscious that you cannot get in even the mildest disagreement. No argument you have can top "Yeah, but I'm not the one w/ shit all over him." And when you arrive home, and the little old chinese lady who's very sweet and loves to chat in incomprehensible english is in the stairwell, you'll feel like a bit of a dick when you rush past her w/ an over the shoulder "so very sorry awful rush take care now." You'll also decide that it's easier to throw away your pants & shoes, rather than wash them by hand ... the stuff adheres like honey. And most importantly, you'll have discovered the first objectively fair justification (well, that I've seen) apart from fashion for roadie leg-shaving -- caked in shit is far more difficult to wash out of leg hair than you'd guess. Far more difficult.
[1] With that first word, I take a Bold & Brave Stance against the nit-ish, half-civilized prescriptivist forces who wish to forcibly drag our language back to some imaginary nineteenth century. And with the first sentence of the first footnote, I illustrate how blindingly pompous, self-involved, and self-serious I can be when I decide to be pompous & self-serious. Holla.
[2] Hamlet, By W. Shakespeare. Hamlet's pa was killt by his (Hamlet's) uncle; at some point, dead pa returns as a ghost. I'm thinking out by a parapet, which is the appropriate place to see a ghost. Unless it's hostile, in which case the ghost'd probably appear in a more enclosed space. Ghosts are scary, yeah? Not as scary, though, as KKK members. Who wear outfits similar to a child's halloween ghost costume. Or at least not as scary as 1965-era KKK members. Nowadays they're more pathetic and contemptible than terrifying, at least in most situations. For which we can thank the heavens, though not God, as I don't really believe in the old boy. Though of course you're more than welcome to thank God, if that's your thing. There are certainly much worse things you could thank him for. But ghosts: isn't it kinda weird that this clearly supernatural and Just Not Possible, not in the real world, creature is included in a play that's otherwise pretty straight-up realistic? Yeah, that's totally a question for a high school sophomore to answer in 400-600 words: sorry. Anyway, that's what I have to say about Hamlet, a play be W. Shakespeare.
[3] An earlier footnote refers to lack of Belief, but it's common knowledge that a foxhole is not the only place where an atheist will fervently, if insincerely, convert.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
