inherently different

Archive for June, 2005

 In case you’ve been under a rock for the last two years, you know that Peter Jackson is working on a remake of the first blockbuster in film history. King Kong promises to be a bigger, faster, meaner version of the 1933 movie that already inspired one remake back in 1976 with Jeff Bridges and Jessica Lange. For anyone interested, the trailer is finally up at the movie site thanks to Volkswagen, which has exclusive rights to the trailer for the time being.

Buried in a short, one-page article about network TV upfronts in the June 16 issue of Rolling Stone (Desperate Networks) was a bit that most people would miss if they didn’t read as carefully as I do. It was sort of a social traffic accident, but worthy of a much bigger story if you ask me. While most people don’t find fatal traffic accidents exceptionally entertaining either, there is a morbid curiosity that compels us to look for blood, or in my case, brain matter scattered across four lanes of highway when stumbling upon a horrific TC with injuries. This bit was like that, only the substance wasn’t blood, but shit.

The bit I’m talking about is just an anecdotal reference to an incident from the 2004 upfronts in which a junior media buyer passed out at one of the many wild parties thrown by the networks. In and of itself that wouldn’t merit much notice, but this particular incident also included some rather unusual facets. For one, the junior media buyer was a woman. For another, she passed out only after shitting her pants… and the white couch she was lounging on. Of course, she was fired, with good reason. Under the circumstances, it is understandable, but it got me thinking… and as many of you have discovered at one time or another, that is a dangerous thing.

I began to think of what it would be like to get so drunk that you passed out and shit yourself. I mean, I’ve known people who have pissed themselves after imbibing too much, but to lose control of your sphincter? How much alcohol does it take for your to mistake a white couch with a white porcelain throne? Do you struggle with the compulsion to defecate for a period of time only to lose the battle with the phrase, “Well, when you gotta go, you gotta go!”

I had a roommate the first few years I lived in San Francisco. He was a great guy, funny, a good designer, parents still married and committed to each other, but he drank, chain smoked cigarettes, and couldn’t function effectively without smoking a few bongloads before work each morning. To say that it was a challenge to live with him is an understatement. To call his life a trainwreck would be a slight to all the trainwrecks that have actually included trains.

We both worked at a growing ad agency in the south bay (Actually, it was in Newark, which is geographically and economically opposite Palo Alto on the San Francisco Bay) and as such, we worked hard and played harder. There was rarely a friday night that didn’t find our entire creative department knee deep in empty liquor bottles and soggy cigarette butts. When you’re in your twenties and seeing big money roll in for the first time, such displays of debauchery are not only common, but a right of passage into adulthood. Like many of my compatriots, I got drunk, but rarely ever to the point of passing out. I walked a fine line between control and chaos. Some people can do that… others, like my roommate, can’t.

On one occasion, we took a road trip to the Central coast to attend a wedding of some mutual acquaintances. One of my college buddies invited me and my friends to crash out at their pad while we were there. Long story short, we went out drinking and my roommate got so drunk he passed out on their couch upon our return. The next morning my roommate pulled me aside and informed me that he had an “accident” on their couch. He had pissed himself during the night. The couch, an offwhite number, wasn’t necessarily ruined, but I ask you, would you want to sit on a couch that despite dozens of cleanings, smelled like the urinal at a frat house?

The final straw was when my roommate got up in the middle of the of the night, ambled into the living room where my friend Molly and I were watching a movie and pissed in the corner nearest the balcony door. In his defense he was aiming out the open glass door, over the balcony, and hopefully on our downstairs neighbors uncovered patio, but his urinary trajectory was a tad off. I kicked him out the next morning, and while it makes for an interesting cocktail party story, it wasn’t a pleasant conversation at the time.

Pissing is one thing, but shitting is quite another. I wonder what happened to this girl who pooped her way to infamy at this network party. Anyone who has ever worked in advertising will be quick to point out how incestuous the industry is, so I wonder if she was black… er, brown-balled out of a job in advertising forever forward. Did she in fact try to land another shitty job in the hopes that by aiming lower, she could slip past unnoticed? During the interview did the exec look at her for a few moments, eyes squinting with the weight of recollection and say, “Hey, weren’t you the girl who passed out at the FOX party last year? I recall you shit on the couch. Do you think they ever got that stain out? One of our major accounts is with Fabreze, which would come in quite handy for those folks, huh?” The query followed immediately with a quick, shameful exit in search of a job where people didn’t know you as the girl who pooped her pants. I hear the Starbucks in Nepal is hiring.

These are the thoughts that kept me out of the really good colleges.

I realized today that I have zero self-preservation instinct. I mean, none. Throughout my life I’ve found ways to endanger myself with barely a backward glance at a life lived safely.

I’ve jumped from cliffs as high as 50 ft into pools of water slightly larger than a postage stamp, flown on the wing of a plane, jumped out of hot air balloon while hovering over a cloud bank, and talked smack to an entire pack of goons.

I used to think it was because I wasn’t smart enough to realize I was in danger. Lately though, I find myself realizing that some of these potentially life threatening situations were not the result of risky business, but because I am not really afraid to die.

Some people expend a great deal of energy being afraid. Of course I’m talking about walking through a ghetto at night, swimming with sharks, or jumping out of perfectly good airplanes, but I’m also talking about doing things that are much more mundane.

Quitting your job when you’re unhappy seems like common sense to me. Of course, not many people will quit a job unless they have lots of money in the bank or a job waiting for them. I have had some shitty jobs in my day, but when it got to be too much, I just quit. I’m 38 now and can safely say that everything always worked out.

Self-preservation would dictate that you have all your ducks in a row before you jump. I’m not a duck-sorter kinda guy I guess. I am a “fate” kinda guy though and figure that if things are meant to work out, they will. So far, fate has been kind.

I’ve now been on Maui for a little over a year and I can’t see myself leaving. The Red Queen seems happy and has stuck by me through thick and thin, which of course makes it easier. Fate seems to be similing on us, so, for the foreseeable future, Maui is our home.

Now if I can just get my movie script finished and sold.

 

Limey, over at Collected Whines, posted a response to my tempted post. It’s really good, but I think a response to his response is in order… especially since he made some good arguments against my position on the subject of children being the ultimate form of egotism.

But, before I begin to address Limey’s response to my original post, I feel the need to set the defintion of ego… dictionary.com defines ego as:

e·go ( P ) (g, g) n. pl. e·gos The self, especially as distinct from the world and other selves. In psychoanalysis, the division of the psyche that is conscious, most immediately controls thought and behavior, and is most in touch with external reality. An exaggerated sense of self-importance; conceit. Appropriate pride in oneself; self-esteem.

 

For the purposes of this discussion, let’s agree that by ego I mean 3a… an exaggerated sense of self-importance.

Limey’s argument about having children rests precariously on the idea that having children is inevitable. His claim is that, “to deny my off-spring the right to exist…” proves it. Now, I’m not sure if Limey is clairvoyant (he has too many talents to automatically dismiss precognition, so I won’t do him that disservice), but I don’t know what’s going to happen from moment to moment, much less from now until I die. But I can tell you that any children I do have will be mistakes.

Now in his response, Limey also claims that “mistakes” are myths that don’t happen in this day and age because there are options to terminate these “mistakes.” All that is well and good, but my Catholic upbringing aside, I wouldn’t terminate a pregnancy AFTER it has happened. It just goes against my morals (hard to believe I know, but I have them). The mistake was mine, not the babies and he/she shouldn’t have to suffer for my stupidity.

So, to say that denying any offspring the right to exist doesn’t apply to me (or anyone really). That isn’t selfishness as Limey puts it, but practicality speaking. Now, he also proposes that such a position might show that my world view is that life is in fact shit… which is also untrue. I think life, at least for me (and I’m happy to see that this applies to Limey as well) is pretty peachy. And it is true that I have wrapped myself in a bubble of pleasure and experiences, but only because I don’t have children. The first does not preclude the second (pleasure over children), but the second DOES tend to preclude the first (children over pleasure).

In other words I can live a life of pleasure provided I don’t have children, but it is much harder to live a life of pleasure when you have children to think about. Which is to say that I only seek out pleasure because my responsibilities lie exclusively with me, and my upkeep. Now if I had children, clearly this couldn’t be the case. Still with me? Okay. I am not “choosing not to have kids” because it would put a damper on my near Caligula-esque lifestyle. I choose not to have kids because I don’t think I have much to offer a child as a parent. There isn’t any ego involved in this exercise. I am not denying anyone anything, nor am I filled with a sense of value that I refuse to share with another.

The idea that not having children is the ultimate form of selfish egotism is interesting. I’d be remiss if I didn’t explore that possibility as well. The real question is whether a child would bring me something I don’t already have… and then, we would once again find ourselves exploring what my motivations are. Clearly, when viewed from that perspective (what a child could do for me) I am being driven by my ego.

Are there reasons for having kids that are not nested within the confines of ego? Let’s say that aside from perpetuating the human species (which we can agree includes religious reasons), there are. What are they? If as you postulate there are “positive” reasons for procreation, I didn’t find them in your response. To carry on the family name into the future? Nope, that’s ego too. To have someone to teach everything you’ve learned? That is ego as well (since you’d have to pretty egotistical to believe you have something worth teaching). To make the world a better place? Ego (in as much as you hold the illusion that you’ve sired the second coming of Jesus).

No, Limey. I don’t think there are ANY reasons to procreate that aren’t firmly grounded in the idea that the parents don’t possess an exaggerated sense of self-importance. Long gone are the days that we NEED to procreate for safety, survival of the species, or promoting the greater glory of an empire. I may be an asshole, but at least I’m an honest asshole.

I don’t think there is a longtime blogger who, at one time or another, hasn’t experienced at least one person who posts a comment that belittles the blogger for their perceptions, beliefs, or understanding. These particular comments are usually on a post that either hits on a topic “too close to home” and makes them uncomfortable or is so alien that they can’t deal with the concept and they are compelled to chime in with their .02 cents. They post a snipe or a flippant comment that is meant to exhibit their grasp of the situation, and as a by-product, their superiority to the blogger.

I write this blog really as an exercise for myself. I’ve kept a journal since I was about 8 or 9, and this is just an extension of that journal. The advent of computer technology frees me from self-censorship and lets me… well, be more me than one might encounter in real life.

A blog can be many things, but for me, it’s a place where I can be honest. I can also post things and have instant feedback from relative strangers who may or may not “get” me. Sometimes that feedback will be negative, and I welcome opposing viewpoints, especially when backed up by cold, hard facts. Of course, when someone just disagrees with something I have written, or worse, feels the need to feel “sorry” for my upbringing, well, then… I draw the line.

While I appreciate comments from the people who frequent my site (those on my sidebar especially) and respect their thoughts and comments, sometimes someone who hasn’t read much of my blog stumbles onto a post that prompts them to comment. A word to the wise though… If you don’t understand a little bit about me (my history, my experiences, hell, my previous posts) and post a comment that is not only ridiculously condescending, but completely misguided, chances are I’m gonna call you out.

My previous post about children does not come from some “hurtful” experience in my past, but a simple manifestation of a long-held belief that people, as a general rule, are egotistical, selfish, boobs with little understanding of the world around them. This isn’t a condemnation, but an observation. I don’t envy parents… it is a full-time job with long hours and a low return on investment. But I don’t feel sorry for them either… they knew the job was dangerous when they took it!

I can tell you, without reservation, that I have balls the size of canteloupes. There is rarely more than a nano-second pause between my thoughts and my words, which isn’t to say that I don’t think about what I’m saying. I just think a lot faster on my feet than most people do, so you can fault me for a great many things, but don’t fault me because I’m smarter than you. When it comes to the things that I write though, I know exactly what I’m putting down, because I’ve considered it at length before writing it.

All I ask of you is that you do the same before posting a comment.

I forgot to add this bit to New Gold Dream…

If you want to know something about the person you’re dating/married to, take them out to dinner and have them deal with the waiter/waitstaff. How they treat people in such situations is a good indication of who they are when the “shields” are down.

In my opinion, there are three types of parents.

The first is the “oh shit, you’re pregnant?!?” parent. They are not only ill-prepared for raising a family, but they most likely gave very little thought to being a parent until they were well on their way. They may not have planned their family, but once set in motion, they never forget that it is a human being that needs discipline as much as they need unconditional love

The second type is the “oh, won’t we look so cute with a baby” parent. They’re the ones who see their children as little walking billboards for their affluence. They buy clothes from baby gap, toys from The Discovery Store, and buy super-strollers with mountain bike tires, storage compartments, and a Land Rover to take the little tyke to Montessori.

The third type is the kind that views children as the “next logical step” in the evolution of their relationship. They’re the “well, we’ve done everything else” parent. They often times are as ill-prepared for parenthood as the first type, but make bigger mistakes because they’re just trying to avoid the same mistakes their parents made in raising them. They never discipline their children, don’t teach them manners, and do everything but wrap them in bubble wrap and anti-biotic ointment to keep them from harms way.

You really have to wonder about people who are adamant about starting a family in the first place. It is a big responsibility that few people are prepared to take on, yet, there they go spewing forth another generation. There are very few legitimate reasons for having children, but that doesn’t seem to stop most people from polluting the world with their genes.

I think many people have kids not for some deep seated instinct to procreate, but as a way of righting the wrongs in their own lives. They see their own children as an experiment in a controlled environment in which they will use to prove their worth to the rest of society.

Just so we’re on the same page, I absolutely adore children. Not in a Michael Jackson way, but because they are not yet completely brainwashed into being politically correct. Yes, I like kids because they’re infinitely more honest (and by association, interesting) than adults. But once parents begin parenting, they RUIN everything. They do their best to turn them into clones of their own design, beating down creativity and individual thought.

I guess what I’m saying is that so few parents these days remember what it was like to be a kid. The sheer joy from rolling around in the mud. The excitement and awe found from a simple trip to the corner store on your own for the first time. The feel of your helmut-free head as your hair streams behind you while careening down a steep hill on your bike. The way your favorite pair of pants, holes in both knees, felt just out of the wash. Watching TV all morning on Saturday and recreating what you saw with your friends later that afternoon. Do remember what it was like to be a kid?

I’m sure there are exceptions to the rule. There always are. I just don’t see them very often.

There are people of privilege in this world and as much as I would like it to be different, that is a cold, hard fact of life. When my father finally divorced my mother, my family’s economic situation became less than ideal, but long before that, I knew that we were not people of privilege.

My father worked very hard for a number of years just to put enough food on the table for my brothers and I to eat a decent meal. My mother, through a very capable lawyer, managed to wrest everything my father owned, including the house we grew up in. To add insult to injury, my mother “allowed” my father to reside in the house so long as he took care of us. When my brothers and I all reached the age of 18, the house would then again revert back to my mother to do with as she saw fit.

Throughout my high school years, we lived just slightly above the poverty line. The only difference between us and the homeless people you see on the street begging for food/change, was the simple fact that we had a house. Keep in mind that my father still had to pay the mortgage for the house, even though when it was all said and done, he would not get a penny from its sale.

Anyway, my father busted his ass to give us what he could, but when we were old enough, my older brother and I worked. At 14 I was bussing tables and washing dishes at a restaurant. The money was used to pay for the extras my father couldn’t afford to give me… things like clothes, shoes, lunch money.

When you go into a restaurant, chances are you’ll see people working their asses off to make sure you have a pleasant experience. Of course, people of privilege have no idea what it is like to work hard only to have their paycheck split 60/40 with uncle sam. People of privilege can afford accountants who find the loopholes that allow them to keep even more of their money. Taxes are, afterall, the bane of the working class. People of privilege are above that.

When I go into a restaurant, I tip. I tip at least 20% unless I was patently ignored by the waitstaff. When I was living large in San Francisco, I would often tip 30% and ask the wait staff to give 10% to the kitchen kids, just because I remember what it was like to work hard and have the people of privilege ignore the “undesirables” in the kitchen.

I see people of privilege quite often here on maui and my distaste for them still burns as brightly as it did when I first encountered their arrogance. Yesterday while the Red Queen and I were shopping one of these privileged few cut in front of us in line and said, “I could be one of those kinds of people who lets you go first, but I’m not, so I won’t.”

My girlfriend tries to make me a better person. She’s kind, gentle and most times operates with a grace that is completely free of pretension. She tries to get me to ease up and emulate her when it comes to dealing with these people. Which is to say, she ignores them. Now, I could have said many things when the man opened his mouth… for instance, I could have said, “I could be the kind of person who beats the living fuck out of you, walks outside to skull fuck your wife in the back seat of your caddillac, then finds every member of your family where ever they may be and systematically guts them like fish, but I’m not… so I’ll just kick your fat old white ass!”

But I didn’t… I could have said, “I could be the kind of person who explains to you how incredibly rude you’re being, but I won’t.” But I didn’t say that either…

What I did instead was just laugh and look at him until he turned away. You can take the mexican out of the prison, but you can’t make him kiss a white man’s ass…

I’ve read a shitload of books in the last few weeks. I really should post reviews of all of them since many of you have read the same books (meimur, I did like bringing down the house tremendously).

Of course, if I write and post book reviews, I should also take some time to write and post movie reviews for all the movies I’ve seen in the last few months as well.

Er, maybe this isn’t such a good idea afterall.

A few weeks ago the Web was astir with conjecture about the identity of the breasts being sold on E-Bay. Well, actually, the breasts themselves weren’t for sale, just the space overlooking the prodiguous, if not slightly leathery, cleavage. The auction claimed that the cleavage belonged to a celebrity. Now, I dislike liars more than just about anyone else, but my dislike for exaggerators is without peer. This hag is about as much a celebrity as say, the Taco Bell chihuahua. Well, actually, the Taco Bell chihuahua is an even bigger celebrity since the dog is at least famous for something remotely in the realm of “entertainment.” The clues given included:

CLUE# 1: This mystery celebrity HAS NEVER been affiliated with nor worked in the porn industry. (arguable once you know the identity of the “celebrity” in question)

CLUE# 2: Most everyone on eBay knows this mystery celebrity! (notice how the “celebrity” is limited to an auction site)

CLUE#3: This mystery celebrity hails from a celebrity family. Her grandfather was a movie director, grandma was a radio personality, and Dad is an actor/comedian. She had a an uncle who was a famous movie star but died in a motorcycle accident. A cousin is a famous actor/singer married to an also famous actress/singer. (I once had an uncle who was friends with the guy who once was a cellmate of the great grandson of the second cousin of Fattie Arbuckle! Does that make me a celebrity?)

CLUE#4: This mystery celebrity is older than Britney, younger than JLo.
(between 25 – 35 years old) (well that narrows it down some. now there are only 16.5 billion women who fit this particular criteria!)

CLUE#5: This mystery celebrity first appeared on TV at the age of 9. She also auditioned for “ANNIE” when she was 10 years old and was one of the TOP 3 choices. (the local news in bumfuck Egypt does qualify as “TV,” but as with every other claim, an exaggeration of the truth. as far as auditioning for annie… so did I! once again, a local stage production of annie is not really that big a deal is it?)

Now, any and all of these things maybe arguably true… the one thing all of them have in common is they are incredible stretches of truth. The winning bid was $7,875 and wouldn’t you know? The winning bidder renegged… why? Because the “celebrity” was about as famous as the local toothless hooker I’d see all the time down in the Tenderloin when I lived in San Francisco.

It’s GoldenPalace.com, or as she was known before she legally changed her name, Teresa Ilagen… her biggest claim to fame is that she is the cousin of “eighth-rate” pinoy actor Jay Ilagen. While I’m sure lots of people watch Pinoy Cinema, it doesn’t mean it has value as an artistic artform. If you’re a Pinoy actor/actress, you’ve got about as much pull as a door handle at home depot… you’re a dime a dozen in other words… Heck, millions watch and love Bollywood Movies, but they’re still crap… I’d rather watch back-to-back episodes of Full House than just 15 minutes of a Bollywood movie. A Pinoy film? I’d rather slit my eyeballs with razorblades and squirt them with lemon juice… Anyway, the local fame and international fame gained from appearing in either Bollywood or Pinoy cinema are a far cry from true celebrity… and while it might make you a star on a tiny island in the pacific or in the rural cow-worshipping grasslands of India, it does NOT by any stretch of the imagination, make you a celebrity in the US.

And legally changing your name to advertise a gambling website is not “controversial” it’s just plain fucking sad. Like her ugly mug. Sad, sad, sad. In a pathetic, “I wish I were famous” way.

And while I’d like to claim that I figured it out, someone else figured it out long before I even cared.