Fucking pickles, man. Fucking pickles.

From one of the brightest minds of our generation:

A friend recently told me a story about his driving experience on the highway in which he saw a bumper sticker reading "Gay Pride."

Now, this isn't necessarily an uncommon occurance in Minneapolis. While we're not necessarily San Francisco, a city in which rimjobs are giving Rice-a-Roni a run for their money in redefining the meaning of "the San Francisco Treat," Minneapolis is pretty liberal with respect to their homosexual population. I mean, after all, we have Sex World and Gay 90's; both establishments which cater to the homosexual demographic. So, in that respect, seeing a "Gay Pride" sticker was fairly inconsequential.

The interesting part about the car, however, was that all the windows were tinted, front to back, rendering the phrase all-but-ineffective.

Gay pride? Eh... not so much, apparently.

Of course, I understand the backlash that can accompany any sort of homosexual agenda. Death threats, ridicule and every other form of negativity are just par for the course, and well-known Matthew Shepherd story is just an example of the lengths to which people will go to suppress ideas.

But homosexuals have options. Besides hiding behind a veil and waiting for all the old conservatives in government to eventually die, they can own their lifestyle and put themselves completely out there.

This goes for any underdog opinion, thought, or lifestyle choice. If you have a belief, stand up for yourself. Defend yourself. If you're proud enough to hold that belief, odds are the majority of the free-thinking, liberal population will be inclined to respect your viewpoint, and the world will be better for having another person who's not afraid to shout "I'm gay!" in the face of social malaise. If you believe it, you should believe it enough to say it loudly.

And if not, you can just be a guy driving around with tinted windows, having a blog written about you for meekly proclaiming, "go gay people!" Your choice.

So, recently I’ve been thinking about death.

The way I see it, there are only a handful of things that can happen upon dying.

One of these, of course (if you choose to base your entire life around a book and erase all memories of the garbled messages that resulted from playing “telephone” as a kid), is the Bible’s version of death; that upon dying, you’ll descend to a fiery inferno, spending eternity shackled to a charred column and being forced to shove piping hot items into your orifices. I’m not terribly excited about that.

But, that got me thinking… if there’s a “Hell,” is it personalized? I mean, sure, being used and abused in a hot room is probably something that the majority of the population would view as a nightmare. But, for those select few that choose to insert massive plugs into their ass, drink bodily fluids and mutilate their body, it’s a different story.

I can just see G.G. Allin walking into Hell, checking out the place, and saying, “Wait, they have anal rape here? I LOVE anal rape!”

I mean, if you’re a sado-masochist, odds are you’re going to love dying either way.
On one hand, you go to “Hell” and are treated the exact same way you would have treated yourself on earth anyways. If you go to “Heaven,” you spend your days eating Fig Newtons and sipping on Tang. Or, if you want to keep with the sadomasochism theme going, I’m sure there are a few golden-crusted columns that you could snap off and sodomize yourself with in-between meals.

For the rest of us, however, we have to cling to the hope that there’s something worth dying for.

For me, it’s the tally list, or in other words, the hope that upon death, you are presented with a comprehensive list of everything you’ve consumed, done or felt in your entire life. In the same way that a new hybrid car owner feels the need to tell you every single statistic that makes his car superior to yours, I feel the need to tell the world that I ate 500 pounds of catfish throughout my life, or that I logged (pun not intended) 2,965 hours of toilet time in my time on earth.

You know… just a little something classy to impress the folks that I’m going to be hypothetically spending the rest of eternity with; something that I was best at… something that I could rub in everyone’s face knowing full-well that I couldn’t be bludgeoned to death for braggery because, well, JC apparently frowns on that kind of shit.

Don't get me wrong; I think time-travel is a great idea. I can only imagine the thrill of being able to step into a time machine, dial the clock back to 1962 and hang out with John F. Kennedy. Maybe, you know, go back in time to see what my parents were like growing up. Maybe taste a hot dog at Yankee Stadium when it first opened.

Yeah, time travel would be great. But, of course, there would be some problems. You can't work out the kinks of zipping around the galaxy on an assembly line. You've got to work that shit out through trial and error; through practical application.

I think the biggest problem with time travel would be taking credit for the invention of the time machine. You know, you have your shit all set up, ready to go, and the second the machine is out on the market and you're ready to start collecting checks, a homeless time warrior with a grudge zooms in and suffocates you with a urine-soaked handkerchief.

And I mean, it'd be a recurring thing; the history books being written and re-written as each bold time adventurer travels to claim that he was the first to invent it.

I mean... imagine the Mexican-American border. Some kid jumps a fence, runs into town, breaks into someone's house, hides in a machine, spins the time-dial, and the next thing you know, scientists are chipping the remains of a Chalupa out of a Brontosaurus. History as we know it changes.

Maybe pesos become the national currency. Maybe the dirty sanchez becomes standard fare in the bedroom. All because some guy saw "Back to the Future" too many times and decided it sounded like a good idea.

It’s not all hover boards and Michael J. Fox, folks.

So… in nature, different types of animals have different types of markings to fend off predators and to ensure that they remain safe. It’s an internal thing; an evolutionary adaptation to predator-and-prey relations. In this camouflage, animals know with whom they may mate, and with whom they may not.

Take the poison dart frog for example:



Sure, he's got the look of a friendly frog from the waist up, but once you hit those turd legs - you know trouble's a brewin'.

Now, among humans, mother nature has gotten a bit lazy. There are no distinguishable markings upon first glance that say “don’t touch me;” no neon stripes or poison secretions. Of course, this is with the exception of the Elephant Man and those circus freaks with their wandering appendages and full-female beards. Clearly no one’s fucking them.

But … for the rest of the throngs who spin the wheel of chance any time they take someone home from a bar, crossing their fingers that in pulling down their pants they will neither be exposed to a nostril-flaring extravaganza, nor a cauliflower-esque genital area, it’s a real crapshoot.

There are, however, a group of people who are hit exceedingly hard. Shunned by society and relegated to the seedy underbelly of society, these people are, to put it bluntly, the animal-fuckers.

I can’t even explain the sheer terror that they must feel every time they take a trip to Africa, comparing photos of Tom Hanks in Philadelphia to each monkey until they feel comfortable enough to find one they’d like to rape. It’s a real tragedy.

I mean, it’s mother nature’s fault, but it’s ours as a society too.

Seriously… we can invest millions of dollars a year into developing a newer, hipper one-dollar bill, yet we can’t invest a few bucks into ensure a disease-free monkey rape adventure?

Priorities, people. Priorities.

You know, there's a large portion of companies out there who aren't capitalizing on their potential for sophomoric jokes.

Take Hostess for example. Purveyor of all things sweet and addicting, Hostess has capitalized on people both old and young by selling a loveable, down-home image.

See: Twinkie the Kid


Now, Twinkie the Kid may be the biggest pussy in the history of advertising, but is he marketable?


The Michelin Man, his twin sister, and 1 billion fatasses across America would lead me to believe so.

So, to be sure, Hostess has the food avenue covered. They're raking in millions of bucks on fatty snack cakes, and revelling in the cholesterol-clogged chortle of their loyal fanbase. But is there more they can be doing? More avenues to pursue for marketing?

I've come up with two which I'm certain would do well were the people at Hostess smart enough to return my phone calls and numerous emails.

#1) Twinkie the Hormonal Adolescent. "Twinkies with Attitude" could be the catchphrase. Far divorced from the kids who come home from a day of snacking on Twinkies, getting lost in the folds of their peers and generally just being obese are a newer, hipper crowd; one which doesn't fuck around with heart scarves or cute sombreros.

No, they need something 2006. Something with some pizazz.

A bisexual, leather pants-wearing Twinkie mascot is the answer; hawking everything from the the latest Linkin Park CD to nu-metal "heartagram" attire.

Call me, Hostess.

#2) Hostess Bra for the "larger" crowd: With the tagline, "It's a Hostess Frisbee Bra for your Ding-Dongs!," the BBW crowd could revel in the comfort, protection, and shimmer of a smooth-riding undergarment.



An understated classiness, to be sure.

I'm crossing my fingers.

So, now that you can feel the excitement of my having landed a job at Red Lobster, let it be known that henceforth I will be rocking more wads of dollars than a stripper novelty-prop act.

Bank tellers will fear me; laundry change machines will not be able to handle my wrath; dollar bribes will pave the way to better restaurant seating and a more enjoyable lifestyle; pony rides; fake moustaches... you know, the usual stuff that results from employment in the food service industry.

But, to be completely serious, I'm very happy that I finally have a job. As exciting as sitting around playing video games in my boxers all day is (and no, I'm not being sarcastic), I feel as though my brain could be best employed in something more productive than stealing sigil stones from the lands of Oblivion. After all, I'm nearly 25, and there's a hell of a lot more to life than being shut-off from people.

The other night, Terri and I went to a comedy show at Acme. We watched an amateur show where it became quickly apparent that the group of people on stage had somehow gotten trapped in some sort of joke barrier; where delivery and punchlines were sacrificed in favor of goofy glasses and crazy proclamations about oral sex.

So, being that Acme has further applications for amateur stand-up comedians, I've always wanted to try my hand at it, and I'm far too curious to ever reject a shot at doing something I could be good at, I think I'm going to apply. Whether it will go well, who knows. But I feel like it's something I need to do before I get too old to step on stage.

Not a career move, just something I'd like to try. And hey, who knows, I could be better at it than I think.

So - here I am, three weeks after the end of law school, trying to find a job into which I might invest some of the skills I've obtained. Of course, while it's easy to take out student loans and hand over huge amounts of cash to a university, it's infinitely harder to see any return on your investment without either:

a) Performing oral favors,
b) Being "tied in" to a social network of attorneys, or
c) Hog tying the dean of Harvard, forcing him to write a recommendation, and trusting he'll verify my credibility when contacted.

As you can see, neither option is very probable. After all, man-on-man action is best left to the west coast, braggery and idiocy typically do not permeate my social circle, and I'm terrible with tying knots.

So, in the meantime, I've resorted to "other avenues" of getting work. And, to be honest... I've come across a lot more than I ever thought I would.

The job which I'm crossing my fingers over, the "creme-de-la-creme" of post-school employment, is the game analyst position for which I applied.

I'd be lying if I said the prospect of helping produce video games didn't tickle the youthful, enthusiastic fanboy inside of me. I've been playing games since I was a kid, and have always dreamt of having some hand in bringing ideas and concepts to light.

Of course, I never imagined that it would be happening two years into school, but... the best things never seem to happen when you need or expect them to. I'm crossing my fingers in hopes that I get the job, but am slightly apprehensive at the notion that I might fall too in love with it if I get it; something that will throw my entire career path in limbo.

Oh well, I've got time. Let's just see what happens.

We go through life blind, feeling our way along walls; guided by hands that feel warm but dangle the threat of going cold and leaving us lost at any time. And they do. Some go too far and get lost themselves; some simply grow tired of the feel or grow coarse with the weight of long travels.

The ones that are most comforting are those that never grow weary; the ones that are always soft and welcoming through winter, spring, fall and summer. With them, we feel as though we are not lost, walking together without compass or direction; content to embrace things as they may come.

There will always be breaks in the embrace; moments where the hands slip or stumble; moments where the infinity of the world seems more comforting to one than the other.
We walk these paths separately and confidently, only realizing in falling that the other was right beside us to catch us before we touch ground.

And we walk together again.

Torches blaze the way through paths of mercy.
Shocked stares that leave us shaking
Our ears now deafened by the sound
Of lavish war tanks blazing
In this life were you not informed?
That every drop of rain that falls
Is not controlled by the clouds
But rather by the hand of one
Who speaks through intermediaries
Every word that weaves a web
Of bias and console
In the overflow
They will take control
Enjoy the ambience.

Being trained in for a new job is always fun. It's a nice chance to get to know a new person right off the bat, without the unnecessary awkwardness of being forced to make friends in order to survive as something other than an office hermit.

In most cases, things go great and you become comfortable talking with the person on a friendly basis. Everybody lives happily ever after.

This is not one of those cases.

Today, while learning how to organize and label certain documents within a closing file, my trainer emphasized the importance of color-coding the types of papers in order to simplify things for the rest of the firm. Of course, she didn't say things quite so nicely. Rather, these were her words:

"John, if you were ever to be involved in a car accident on I-94 in which you died, we'd need to know how to fix things in your file. I mean, life goes on."

Thank you Mary, for letting me know that your priority lies not in tending to the family of a person incinerated in a car crash on a major highway, but ensuring that you are at ease knowing that the color-coding scheme has not been disturbed by the inter-office shockwaves of my untimely death.

Broken, beaten down
Your wounds ethereal
They turn to wave
With smiles inflamed

It lies just off the shore
A dogma trivial
You'll never see the way they move
When tragic incantations all-consume
(Will you go?)

The truth, it rises over those
Who hold the fabric to the floor
The eye will never let you go
When needles stitch forever here.

You flee through flooded groves
Where conversations turn to how
The weather is so ripe for those
Of us who cannot stand the cold
What gives?

The truth, it rises over those
Who hold the fabric to the floor
The eye will never let you go
When needles stitch forever here.

Keep holding on
To the one thing
That gives you solace
And makes every little thing
Fade into shades of grey.
We'll be okay.. right?

If you're a prominent rock band, you're probably thinking - "how can I get my music out to as many people as possible in as short a period of time as possible?" Lucky for you, Mr. Prominent Rockstar, there is Live Aid - a massive event that brings together millions of people under the guise of caring for foreign nations. A guise so effective, that if you listen closely, you can hear the screams of "I CARE SO MUCH ABOUT FOREIGN NATIONS THAT I PAID TO WATCH MAROON5 RANT ABOUT HOW AFRICA IS IN TROUBLE INSTEAD OF BEING LOGICAL AND DONATING TO CHARITY" being slung from the city streets.

The fact is, only one of these bands truly cared enough about Africa or other foreign nations to step off their tour bus and bust ass for a pat on the back. You know how I know this? Because ONLY Pink Floyd, the band that stood to profit most from the show, donated all the proceeds to charity.

In fact, Audioslave, ON TOP OF not giving a fuck, rendered the most godawful live performance in the history of mankind. It was like saying "Gee, I hope you don't like eating, Africa, because on TOP of not giving you a dime, we've already invested our pay in a high-tech machine that renders us all completely incompetent at making listenable music, as well as makes John want to fight things." For video proof, I suggest you play "Killing in the Name Of" from: http://music.aol.com/artist/main.adp?tab=songvid&artistid=543386&albumid=0
I am wholly convinced that Chris Cornell's recorded voice is created by robots, because he cannot hit a note to save his life.

Anyways, I got sidetracked. The point of the matter is that it's a reflection of the common sentiment in America. Much like people saying, "hey, let's HELP Afghanistan by needlessly blowing up unrelated shit and doing other counter-productive things," Live Aid "helps" the poor by giving money to already over-paid pop stars who supposedly raise awareness about poverty. It's all misdirection.

If you want to help people, you help people. You don't turn it into a massive production to serve your own selfish interests, and you don't profit from other peoples' misfortunes. My blogs have read like grade school lesson plans lately, but I'm beginning to think that the education of younger years has been long since erased.

Maybe that's what people need - a wake-up call in the form of milk breaks, nap-time, and common sense.

There's nothing about a venue owner that screams "HI I'M A COMPLETE INCOMPETENT" more than offering your band a sweet, sweet business opportunity.

That "sweet opportunity," of course, is doublespeak for getting you to buy into Quixtar.
For those who don't know, Quixtar is a massive pyramid scheme by which 2 to 3 people make millions while the rest pick lint out of their bellybuttons. Across the country, mass gatherings are held while "multimillionaires" discuss how fantastic their new boat is, how much $1 million in pennies weighs, and, above all, how horrible it is to be poor.

I can think of a million things worse than being poor. Oh, say... stuff like being a vapid, egotistical predator that preys upon peoples' insecurities. Yeah, that's worse.
Morality is worth its weight in gold, and people are forgetting all too quickly. I'm not talking the Bible-thumping, "thou shalt not lay with another man" morality. I'm talking common respect, decency and benevolence towards the other 6 billion people on the planet. For a culture that emphasizes the golden rule as common, universal law, the line certainly becomes hazy when money is involved.

I will "make it," but I will do it on my own terms. I will be able to rest at night knowing that whatever has been done can still be undone. I will open doors with ambition instead of smiles.
(Should I read this to re-convince myself every day?)

A response:
AESTHETICS OF HATE: R.I.P. DIMEBAG ABBOTT, & GOOD RIDDANCE -- Time For Conservative Imagination! by William Grim, Iconoclast Contributing Editor You`ve undoubtedly heard by now that a demented fan last week killed heavy metal guitarist Dimebag Abbott at the Alrosa Villa in Columbus, Ohio. While I am extremely happy to hear that the assassin was shot to death by a brave Columbus policeman and I in no way want to engage in a blaming the victim scenario, I cannot deny that there much in Mr. Abbott`s demise of one being hoisted on one`s petard. The squalor, inhumanity, filth (both in the metaphorical and hygienic senses), depravity, ugliness and ignorance of everything that heavy metal represents (Like rap, I cannot use the noble term music in a description of heavy metal) creates a mindset among its devotees in which Mr. Abbott`s assassination was an event that was all but waiting to happen. It was highly amusing, and also terribly sad, to watch on television fans conducting a "vigil" for the slain Mr. Abbott outside of the Alrosa Villa. It was an assemblage of ignorant, semi-human barbarians who were filthy in attire and manner, intellectually incoherent and above all else, hideously ugly to the point of physical deformity. Here is a definite case in which the outer appearance of these "fans" accurately represented the hideousness of their souls. That the physical deformity of their ugliness was self-inflicted makes the spiritual tragedy of their misspent lives all the more tragic. But one can see why the heavy metal fans so closely identified with Mr. Abbott. He was an ignorant, barbaric, untalented possessor of a guitar and large amplifier system. Freakish in appearance, more simian than human, he was the performer of a type of "entertainment" that can be likened only to a gorilla on PCP. Lacking subtlety, wit, style, emotional range and anything approaching even the smallest iota of intellectual or musical interest, Mr. Abbott was part of a generation that has confused sputum with art and involuntary reflex actions with emotion. De gustibus non disputandem est. Matters of taste are not subject to argument. That has been a general principle of aesthetics for some time, and when we are talking about the visceral preference for Mozart or Haydn or Beethoven among civilized human beings we are on pretty safe ground. I do not understand exactly why I prefer Haydn to my good friend who prefers Beethoven. But we both agree (as do all civilized human beings) that both Messrs. Haydn and Beethoven are numerous steps further along the evolutionary trail than Dimebag Abbott. Here is one area in which conservatives have failed and failed miserably. Whether it is out of a lack of interest or despair, conservatives for too long have ceded the entire field of aesthetics to the trust fund red babies of the blue states. And look at what this has brought us. So-called heavy metal music, so-called rap music, operas and stage plays in which modern "stagings" reduce Verdi and Shakespeare to the condition of a schizophrenic`s finger paintings. Leftist domination in the visual arts has made a mockery of the aesthetic greatness of modernism and replaced it with the turd encased in Lucite. And the grammatically-challenged racist rantings of Amiri Baraka now pass for poetry. However, we conservatives should not confuse family values with aesthetics. In the realm of art, our evangelical brethren have many crimes to answer for. When a church replaces Bach with Bacharach it has engaged in the aesthetic rape of the liturgy. Just because one has good intentions and approaches the numinous with "sincerity" and "authenticity" (the latter term ironically being a buzzword among the Marxist aestheticians of the Frankfurt School), that does not absolve one from aesthetic responsibility. As far as I am concerned, those who advocate a dumbed-down liturgy and schlocky pop music substitutes for Bach, Handel and the masses of the Renaissance, are as offensive as the Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church and his perverse sexual politics. Part of the hard work of civilization is teaching young to be able to distinguish between the good and the bad in all aspects of life. If we teach our young children to obey the 10 Commandments and to obey the laws of the land, but don`t teach them to realize that Johann Sebastian Bach is superior to Dimebag Abbott, we have failed as parents and mentors. If a person has gone through 12 or 13 years of education and has not developed an appreciation for the greatest artistic achievements of mankind, that education has been an utter failure. While laissez-faire is the correct approach to economics it has no place in the realm of aesthetics or morality. A confidant civilization imposes its morality and aesthetics on it young people. Yes, you heard it right. We impose. The Rousseauian noble savage is a myth. Left unchecked and untutored the savage will never attain nobility. There are those who will accuse me of elitism. And I admit it. I am a conservative elitist. I want the very best. The very best form of government, the very best of civilizations, the very best educational system, the very best literature and art, the very best music, the very best way of life. If I need open heart surgery I want to go to an elite heart surgeon. Mediocrity is the goal of socialism. Americans should aspire to greatness. In the past forty years, conservatives have won great victories in the political, economic and moral realms, but we stand to throw all our gains away if we do not reclaim ascendancy in the aesthetic realm as well. And while the murder of even a semi-human barbarian like Mr. Abbott is tragic and to be lamented, it would be wrong to ignore Mr. Abbott`s complicity in contributing to the soul-deadening culture of death, ugliness, depravity and inhumanity that spawned his killer. Hugo von Hofmannsthal once remarked that "all powerful imaginations are conservative." It is time for conservatives to utilize their imaginations and reclaim the field of aesthetics from the left-that is, while there is still something left in the aesthetic realm worth reclaiming. Iconoclast contributing editor William E. Grim is a writer who lives in Germany and is a native of Columbus, Ohio. He may be reached at wgrim@myrealbox.com.

Response:

Mr. Grim -

I was deeply offended to read your article on Dimebag Darrell's death. Your likening of heavy metal fans to filthy, intellectually-devoid individuals is a broad, blanketing statement that is more ignorant than those supposed vagrants upon which you seek to pass judgment. The comment that Americans should "aspire to greatness" is admirable, yet impractical. Obviously a well-read man, you should understand that there are many obstacles to success and "greatness" that are placed in the path of the youth of today. For many, heavy metal music represents an escape; a movement from the everyday stereotyping and rhetoric spewed forth by the television media as well as under-informed writers such as yourself. In a culture of untruths, metal music speaks to people in very personal ways; a pure and unadulterated reflection of common feelings and sentiments. To take that away would be to shield our eyes from truth, and submit to an artificial, utopian view of society that will never be realized.
The "evolutionary trail," as you submit, is one that encompasses change in its definition. We cannot progress as a society as elitists, but rather must move to encompass and embrace all forms of art and culture. We no longer live in a world of blissful ignorance - the people of today are restless and disheartened by the same stereotypes that you seek to perpetuate. While evolution supposes a movement towards betterment and greater cognition, it also supposes common sense.
Sir - should you truly wish to progress as a society, you would turn your finger not toward the listeners of a certain brand of music, but toward a society and culture which allows injustice to occur. Metal music is not beautiful because the world is not beautiful. Should you wish to live your life in veiled content with the status quo, then so be it. But before you point the finger at the product of that status quo, you need to re-evaluate the world around you.

Sincerely,

John ----