The Boom Ends
afternoonsnoozebutton:

@SelfAwareROOMBA

in a stunning reveal self aware roomba is actually billionaire playboy bruce wayne

afternoonsnoozebutton:

@SelfAwareROOMBA

in a stunning reveal self aware roomba is actually billionaire playboy bruce wayne

More Venal Than Ever

Have you ever tried to bargain your way out of something by conceptualizing it as a mere nothing in the great face of death? Something’s on your mind. It feels important. It feels, despite being a unstable chain of quick-fire thoughts and unearned emotion, like it has a weight and a depth and a real physical space within you. And the best thing you can come up with is “LAWL ILL BEEZ DEAD SOME DAY, DIS STOOPID” (turns radio up even louder) 

It feels like a depressing thought, a thought that cultural forces have told us is ‘depressed’ and ‘troubled’ and ‘disturbing’ and ‘not advised on resumes’. But it isn’t. Think about human nature. If life went on forever, do you really think people would be infinitely free to work through their problems… or just be infinitely trapped? I assume the latter. Musing on mortality is FREEING, because it doesn’t make a 1 hour work-commute seem like a horrible waste of a a commodity so uniquely precious that it doesn’t even belong on the same logarithmic scale as all our other commonly understood earthly resources, but rather as a thing to be done because it is a thing to be done; Even though we’d rather be going to a hippie jam band festival with our vegan girlfriend named Krispie or SageWolf, and listen to the kind of free-flowing toothless acoustic jam music that everyone says is awful but deep down everyone knows is the best.

So if you can finally admit that you are going to die without sounding like you have a death wish, the way old people occasionally do at parties when they make some joke that kind of bums people out, even though they’ve earned the right, then you might just get something accomplished. Those who think they’ll live forever view the details of their life as grains of sand on the beach. Those who know the clock is ticking sell towels. And if selling towels sounds like the bad part of the metaphor, then I feel sorry for you.

-MG 2012

Must write must write must write

Must write. This but for the sweat on my forearms and the ambassador swell of a liver and gut during the holidays, I feel my voice dwindling. I must punch out keys of words as if arranging some wedding march on the piano. It’s all weddings and funerals these days. I want some prose to reach heights and soar and bloat and come down and disappoint a family. It’s an arc to which many are accustomed. We are all held up, propped up, elevated and restrained by words, and then we strive for the pretty ones, and are undone by them. Pretty words do all the talking, but the worker bees make the rhythm of the written word, they are ignored, and make the titles betters, fill the empty space, and punch, and punch, and kick and spit. Elect your favorite boring word to congress, they do the work of a thousand thank-yous and hand-me-downs from a loquacious uncle who drank too much. He might have been a gentleman, but he was never a writer.

Writing Like A White Genius?
It used to make me feel weird and sad that when I thought of my favorite writers, I could only come up with white men, Hemingway, H.S.Thompson, Capote, William S. Burroughs, Tom Wolfe, J.D. Salinger, etc. Now, older, later, I mostly think that my tastes don’t make these men bad writers, they are still some of the best writers who ever lived, but that 1 - I haven’t really even tried to read women or non-white authors as much, and 2 - Equally talented women and non-white contemporaries of aforementioned writers never got the same chance to get published or were not celebrated to the same degree, for the same reason that there were separate drinking fountains, let alone literary tropes. Then I think of how Sylvia Plath and Chinua Achebe rocked my fucking world. Or how I long for the lyricism of Langston Hughes. And it makes me less defensive. And less of an all-knowing asshole, I suppose.  And acknowledging societal racism in relation to the arts doesn’t make white males less good, it just makes every other demographic shine with deserved attention.
A Seasonal Drink for YOU

I created a drink tonight. It was so delicious, it was like squeezing a dream, or pinching a dragon-cheek. Perfect for Autumnal boozing. Here it is, as follows, the “Yates Hot Apple Pie & Ice Cream”.

Ingredients. (Serves 3)

3 cups fresh apple cider from your local cider mill.

3/4 cup rum, preferably a dark 100 proof.

1/4 cup creme de menthe.

2 teaspoons vanilla extract.

Dash of nutmeg.

Directions.

Pour three cups cider into a pot, bring to near boil.

Pour hot cider into a pitcher. Add rum and creme de menthe.

Add vanilla extract, dash of nutmeg. Stir.

Serve in large mugs and enjoy!

All I do is caloric intake and mindcrime: An Autobiography

Hello there, I’ll be your pet portraitist today at Poodle Doodles.”

Is what I would say if I was employed as an artist-associate at Poodle Doodles, a chain of pet portrait retailers spread around the Midwest and Sunbelt areas of America, but I am not. I not even employed anywhere. My days now alternate between caloric intake and mindcrime. The same is true for a lot of Americans. But rather than a meditation on the world of the unemployed and politics and the economy, I’d instead like go through a typical day of a Poodle Doodles employee. And because I’m tired of composing full sentences and thinking about their structure and internal rhythm, I will instead complete the rest of this entry in list format. This is because I am quite tired.

7:01AM - Punch in at Poodle Doodles, located in Iowa in a dying mall. Attempt to scratch off mustard stain on apron.

7:10AM - Look over docket of appointments for today. 2 entries. First one is “NOON - Robinson, 2 parrots.” Second one is “4pm - Steve?????”

7:15AM - Put up sign that reads ‘Walk-ins welcome’

7:30AM - Make coffee.

7:35AM - Drink coffee, too wired.

8:00AM - Alone, so alone. Too wired.

8:01AM - First swig of flask. Burns so good.

8:02AM - Second swig of flask. Burns even better than before.

8:03AM thru 9:34AM - Intermittent swigs, no complaints.

9:35AM - Wasted. Fuckin’ poodle doodles man, fucking poodle doodles.

9:36AM thru 11:59AM - Naptime/Social Network Updates.

Noon - True to her appointment, Gladys Robinson shows up for her appointment with her two parrots, Strom and Thurmund. They’re well-behaved. With one on each shoulder, she manages to force a smile for the required 20 minutes while I sketch out an outline. She retires to the coffee nook while I begin the portrait, and colorization. Total charge, $115. I’ll take home about $45 of that.

1:30PM - Bid Gladys a fond farewell. Go to my cubicle in the back. Open drawer. Retrieve Luger. Discharge one bullet into side of temple.

My duty as an Absurd American

We live in absurd times, you know it, I know it, we all know it. It’s time to start acting like it. Politics have made me so mad recently, the ongoing wars, the curtailing of rights, the use of rhetoric so Orwellian and so Kafkaesque that it would have made George Orwell poop into Kafka’s butt only to have Kafka poop back into George Orwell’s butt, back and forth, forever. Sources close to me, (read: imaginary) have told me this is called “Space Docking” and it makes up over 25% of NASA’s peacetime budget. The point is I, at one point, thought the only way to deal with the idiots and fascists masquerading around as “candidates” was to boil them alive in a cauldron of piranhas. The piranhas would remain safe, as they have hearts made of some kind of strange lacquer. But my anger was just another sign that ‘they’ were controlling me. Nothing controls me except the desire to drink alcohol and listen to ‘race’ music, as it was historically known.

So how did I break free? By embracing my role as an Absurd American. By embracing the absurd - the lies that pass as more truthful than truth, the bizarre, the twisted, the abhorrent, and the fact that making sense is now a liability, you too can shed your anger and live nakedly, freely, happily. 

This doesn’t mean you should just give up, particularly if you are of the activist stock; Don’t fight the powers-that-be with facts and reason, fight the absurd with the absurd. Mail a goldfish to Rick Santorum’s house. Call in to Glenn Beck’s radio show and ask him the difference between grapes and grapes. What does this accomplish, besides being riotously enjoyable? Power seems to stem from people who are sure of themselves, people who know that their views on how others should live is the way, the light, the truth, the ONEJUICE, if you will. By acting inoffensively yet totally absurd and ridiculous in a way that does not appear to be politically motivated, you will get people to question their own reality, and by proxy, their views.

Consider the gay activists who glitter bomb right-wing politicians. For those of you who are unaware of this trend, it consists of throwing a handful of FABULOUS GLITTER at an anti-gay politician when they are making a public appearance. This has happened a bunch of times now, but it is problematic. It is problematic because it is an attack, albeit FABULOUS, at a person, and it is politically motivated. Because of this, it can be dismissed easily - by the politician, by the media, by even-handed people who just see it as annoying or rude. BUT, what if instead of throwing glitter at a politician, two activists showed up and began messaging each other’s faces with raw steaks? Or walked up to said politician, thumbed open the elastic waistband of their own sweatpants, and poured a gravy boat full of Gatorade down their pants, all while complimenting the politician on a hat they are not currently wearing? People would say you are crazy. That is partially the point. Because your act can not be interpreted, it becomes exponentially more powerful. It says, “you cannot govern me, for I am ungovernable.” You’re practically a Libertarian now! (Except you aren’t because while we may disagree on Ayn Rand’s political philosophy, we can all agree she is really unpleasant to look at, and we imagine her voice to be ‘kinda bitchy’. Therefore she is irrelevant. Who is John Galt?)

So, fellow Absurd Americans, I say to you, it is time to embrace the strange times we live in and really commit to wearing suits and standing by the train tracks, slurping soup through a megaphone during a political rally, twitter inoffensive puns to dumb politicians by the hundreds, and insisting that everyone you know greet you with a different and complex handshake!

Here are a couple of starting off points for effective absurdity.

1. When someone says something you find backwards or offensive, angrily ask them if you can buy their shirt right now.

2. If interviewed by a political pollster or survey member, tell them you are voting for the candidate with the best on-base percentage.

3. If you ever meet a politician or wealthy businessperson, ask them if you can keep a toothbrush at their apartment. THAT’S HOW IT BEGINS.

4. Stand on a street corner and shout “I would never sign a co-lease with (insert your race and gender here)!!!”

That’s enough for today. Stay weird everybody, and take serious control of our society by acting like a completely unpredictable whackadoo, seriously.

Wait, this isn’t an erotic Marmaduke fanfic tumblr?

I think I need to start writing again. I’ll start off slow, writing a little bit every day about things like dreams and the terrible majesty of death. Once I get these sophomoric tropes out of my system I’ll move on to the truly important topics like breakfast cereals and soda-pop advertisements. 

And I think I’ll dive right in. Last night’s dream cast me as an octopus-man, and it’s hard to evoke in concrete nouns and adjectives what exactly I looked like, so I’ll explain it with an easy two-part declarative list:

1 - I had an intuitive sense that I was half-octopus, if not outwardly apparent, then inwardly sure.

2 - The climactic part of the dream involved me having three small fingers on the end of each regular finger. This looked really weird and gross. THESE WERE MY ‘OCTOPUS LEGS’. Even though simple math would show that I had thirty instead of eight, and that in the dream I had two REAL HUMAN LEGS, these tiny fingers represented my octopus-ocity in ways that I cannot convey to you through tumblr. Either way, an even more climactic part of the dream involved every other tiny finger being ripped off by a MORE SENIOR HALF-OCTOPUS MILITARY OFFICER, in order to conceal my octopus-ocity and blend in with actual humans.

2.5 - Another pretty amazing part of the dream had me in a gunfight with a rogue half-octopus operative on top of a tent above a wooden platform in a body of water, only to have the wooden platform break apart, SLOWLY AND CLIMATICALLY, by a three hundred food giant full-octopus that surfaced dramatically. Even though this was a frightening vision which immediately halted the aforementioned gunfight, I knew this giant creature was, by nature, my kin, ONLY MUCH DUMBER. 

And there you have it. If you’ve gleaned anything from this easy two-part declarative list, it’s that:

1. I have incredibly vivid, cinematic dreams.

2. Half-Octopus military missions are full of intrigue, very cloak-and-dagger-type-stuff.

I have been having big strange dreams my whole life. When I was much younger, I had a series of recurring dreams about stepping through a portal to interact with others. A totally benign dream except for the manifestation of a dream-memory, in that every recurring dream, sometimes weeks apart, built on the last one, like chapters in a story. ‘How is this possible?’ one might ask. But it’s the wrong question to ask of your mind and your brain; it’s a question better asked of a computer speaker that suddenly begins to pick up local radio signals. HAS THAT EVER HAPPENED TO YOU? TOTALLY WEIRD, RIGHT? I think the better question to ask is, ‘why is knowing you are part octopus more important than actually looking anything like that?’ Because as any suspenders-wearing stock character from television or film will tell you, PERCEPTION IS REALITY. Which is why I hate stuff like The Secret or any other snake-oil self-actualization pablum, because they’ve substituted perception for WISHFUL THINKING. Seeing things as they are and seeing things as you’d like them to be are two different skill sets. 

That’ll do it for today, f.o.l.k.s!

I’ll be doing jokes tonight, tomorrow night and then who knows?