06 May 2017
Publishing That Blogpost Exposing the Deeply Embarrassing Thing That Happened to Me Deeply Exposed and Embarrassed Me
This is the post I have been afraid to write. Terrified, actually.
Because it will reveal me to myself and force me to face up to my private desires and in the end I may be exposed as a total moron and still not have any Followers on Twitter – well you can imagine how terrifying that must be. I know I can, and imagination was never my strong suit.
I feel cheated, robbed of my privacy and stripped bare of my most innermost thoughts. Embarrassed, insulted, kicked around, pushed out the door and left for unsuccessful by the side of the road to my horizons.
And it's all because I bared my soul for the world to mock in that (dumb stupid) blogpost.
When I wrote my tell-all self-expose of the complete story of the shocking revelation that I wet the bed until I was twenty-seven, and detailed the many therapy sessions and corrective surgeries I had gone through in what can only be described (by law) as a pitiful ordeal, I thought I was just telling an interesting story, it was a simple exercise in 'writing what you know' that I imagined would help me attract a bevy of new "Adherents" on Twitter or Twongle or Twozzle or whatever the new one's called.
I never imagined it would ruin my life forever. That people would laugh at me, make all manner of hurtful wisecracks at my expense, create hysterical memes with pictures of cats or famous movie characters captioned with embarrassing words that I myself wrote under an intense emotional spell, in a fragile, vulnerable state of mind, when I felt that I just had to get that out of me or I would explode and was utterly unable to understand or even consider the consequences of such a revelation, in today's internet era where your words once published can come back to haunt you and take your dignity and obliterate your future, forever.
Now I'm unemployable. I can't keep a job or a boy/girlfriend. My pet hamster Mr. Gerbils ran away when he discovered my secret, he left a note saying all the other hamsters were making fun of him and he was confused about his gerbility and why did I post that on Facebook am I a complete moron and he simply couldn't face the world as my hamster any more.
Courage exacts a price, and if having the courage to stand up and make an ass of myself in public in order to get attention (which these days of course can be monetized) is the cost of having the courage to take a stand, to show yourself to the world, then so be it. I am not trying to run away from the consequences of my choices. I did get 71 new Followers on Instagraham and although there's no way to tell how sincere any of them are, in that sense it was almost worth it. But alas, the suffering of being stigmatized for my own blogpost. Of being made a parasol, or a paragon, whichever is correct there, on account of my own deeply personal account of my past stigmatization and sufferings. To be bitten by the very thing – social networks – that had given my life some semblance of meaning for the past three and two-thirds years! How cruel is fate, how savage the vicissitudes of Instagraham and how bitter the poisoned fruits of cruel demon Twitter!
O wretched internet, I am SO like, Eli Eli lama sabbachtani to the max! Why hast thou forsaken me and whatnot?
15 April 2017
The following essay was originally "published" in September of 2012. It remains as timelessly relevant as it was on the day it was originally "published", which is not to make a claim about the matter one way or the other, purse a.
It is clear that The Country is coming apart at the seams, and what is needed is a heavy dose of social cohesion. One of the few subjects capable of bringing diverse groups of people together these days seems to be professional sports. Therefore, professional sports must be brought into the political process. And not just implicitly – as for example the Cleveland Brownshirts – but by law. The teams and their fan bases must become political parties to advocate for and protect their particular interests. This will increase political participation and our sense of community and go a long way towards revitalizing this great nation of yours, mine, and ours.
Sure some people don't like sports. Nothing wrong with that. But every citizen is or can be persuaded to become a fan of at least one team, if not for the policy platform then for the ancillary social benefits or the color scheme.
Instead of extending unemployment benefits for 'the poor', a vague and easily otherizable designation, it would be framed as, "We need to extend Lombardi Benefits for needy Packer fans." This is something all Packer fans can get behind: Green and Gold, The Glory, Bart Starr, Jerry Kramer and all that. Any Packer fan would support a modest surtax on every brat with the money earmarked to fund community education programs for Packer fans less fortunate than themselves. Just like the Giants didn’t give up on Eli Manning after his first three subpar seasons – and look what it got them: two friggin super bowls – we can't give up on young Brian even if he's flunked his welder's certificate twice, we can extend those benefits because we know he's gonna get back on his feet, consume his share of cheese-filled foodstuffs and give us much-needed special teams depth for the stretch run.
We will have to redraw the electoral map a little bit to accommodate the overlapping fan bases of different sports and cities. After all, Raider fans should not be taxed to support 49er fans and vice versa. And a Bronco fan living in San Diego should not have his hard earned money taxed to support the Chargers, I think we can all agree that is not what The Framers had in mind. Yes the world has changed a whole hunk since they met behind Fort Sumter circa 1763, but some principles are enduring.
At this time, as with any cockamamie idea, we should focus not on the difficulties but the possibilities.
Imagine having elections decided by the outcome of the Penguins-Flyers series, determining the passage of legislation by the OBP leaders or taxation rates by the fifth at Pimlico, deciding whether to launch another pointless foreign war based on the results of another pointless late-season Wolverhampton match.
Let the games double as city council meetings, with seven minutes of every halftime set aside for civic matters, doing the public's business and so forth. Referenda or simple up or down votes on questions of public policy could be speedily conducted by asking fans to flash one of two sides of a pre-distributed placard. In election seasons games might include campaign rallies, where the candidates briefly outline their vision and policy proposals, take a few seconds to malign and misrepresent their opponent, and then demonstrate their physical fitness as well as ability to handle complex legislation in the Punt, Pass, and Kick.
Chew on that for a second. We'll be right back to talk more about politics, after this succession of slickly produced, highly charged moments from our sponsors.
21 March 2017
Since the Opening Statement, The Founder has modestly receded into the background, maintaining overall creative control while ceding the day-to-day jokemongering to a crackerjack young editorial staff.
But okay I guess it's time to get deeply personal about myself, I know a lot of people read these blog things looking to enjoy other people humiliating themselves, and I certainly wouldn't want to disappoint anyone.
I started this project with a simple maxim: There is no I in blog. That's why I started a blog and not a website, which has an I and a we and even a sie for that matter.
I still believe that's true, and that's the main reason this blog is not about cooking. Because I'm a helluva cook in the kitchen, let me tell you, I can whip up a buttercream souffle like nobody's business. But if I started posting recipes about the cheap, easy and delicious meals I cook for friends and family with stunning regularity, suddenly I'd just be counted on to produce more and more of the almost-the-same and I was not up for that kind of burden, I already have two kids of my own.
Or I could write about my collection of books, or do one of those compiler blogs where I link to videos off YourTube or to funny pictures of street signs that don't make any sense.
Heck I could start another Wendy's in my neighborhood, a good neighborhood can never have too many Wendy's's. And then blog about that: the trials, the tribulations, the neverending struggle ... tribulations sell.
I don't know what pancakes have to do with any of this but I've gotten off-topic here. Wait, what was the topic? Tenacious D has a new album? No way, that's great, that's like, I'm sure there's some really funny rock and roll on there and no one has ever heard it yet. That's gonna be terrific to purchase and then enjoy, a lovely respite from the bleak succession of blog posts and digging for grubs that modern life has become, at least for those of us who still have the courage to 'keep it real.'
Well I hope this post has given you some idea about me and the way my thought process works (or doesn't). I think it's important that you the reader understand and identify with me, that way everyone will start to love this blog, I can hire someone to ghost write it and finally retire and do something worthwhile like digging for fossil clams in the far reaches of the northern territories. That's supposedly where clams evolved gills to become fish and I want to be the lucky bugger to lay my mitts on the missing link, the final missing straw in the puzzle of evidence that fish descended from clams and their freakish hybrid offspring.
So I'll leave you with some food for thought: What if Jennifer Jason Leigh's screen name was Jennifer Jason Kearns? Or hunky QB Tom Brady had been Wally Brady, or maybe Dexter? Do you think their careers would have played out any differently? Do names influence the destinies of the stars and the horses they rode in on? It makes a body wonder.
29 January 2017
Special note or appendum type thing: This article may be a rehash, or a foreshadowing. Time has apparently been turned upside down (again) (whatever that means), and the future may or not guarantee present or past results. (The Future is Void Where Prohibited.)
Time itself, that cheap inviting bastard who flies when you'd have him crawl, and crawls when you wish he'd fly (e.g. when you're crawling with flies), stopped again on Thursday at 10:24 a.m., as the Central Clock went kerflooey and the fabric of the universe was once more torn asunder, whatever on earth that means. None reported hurt and no injured, Kent, no one seems to really know what happened, or if anything at all happened, and frankly some are starting to once again ponder the age-old questions, the nature of the cosmos, its source and its ultimate destiny, and the meaning of the fact that no good answer exists to the question of the meaning of existence.
People are kind of falling into two camps on this one, with one camp insisting that time actually stopped this morning, and for several days, though no one can really say how long it lasted, while the other side, in fact the vast majority of the citizenry, seems not to have noticed and continued about their business more or less as usual. There were scattered reports of a palpable weirdness, a definite oozy thickness to the atmosphere, and many if not most of the basic rules of the physical universe seem to have been suspended (one example being the law of conservation of energy, which states that great players save a little something for crunch time). Still, most assumed it was some combination of lack of sleep, gastrointestinal distress, or overindulgence in spirituous liquors, and bravely pushed on with their day.
Authorities are calling all this talk of time stopping "a lot of dangerous nonsense," fearing that any anomalies in the flow of time could cause jitters among already-nervous investors and send them fleeing for the exits in a panic that could scupper the prospects for a robust period of growth for the markets, i.e. more free money for everyone involved. Allegations in the blogosphere that the time stoppage was engineered by Goldmen Sax so that their trading algorithms could rake in another zillion remain unsubstantiated, which is not to say disconfirmed, so you just go right ahead and believe what you want to believe, apocalypse be damned.
Many who claim to have experienced the stoppage were people who were meditating, as well as some (although interestingly not all) of those who were playing music at the time. One dude speculated that what happened was that they were so in the moment that when the moment stopped, they were still able to move and flow freely, inside of it. Asked to describe the sensation, the consensus is that it was pretty, you know, like, "heavy."
And then, whether or not it actually and in fact did happen, it was over. Snap! Just like that.
Physicists at the Institute for the Study of Time said they didn't notice anything, they were 'on break' at 'the time.' Then they started parroting my questions back at me but with extensive, inappropriate uses of air quotes, all while giggling uncontrollably; after twenty minutes I got tired of waiting for them to stop and I left. I don't know what they're smoking, chewing, snorting or shooting over at the Institute these days but I'd like to boil it, distill it and slip a little into my coffee one of these Sunday mornings.
Central Timekeeping was flummoxed, no one from the department could give a good account of what happened. Conflicting stories about the readings on their instruments at the critical moments in question were leaked to the media, and all we could get was an assurance that they would look into the matter thoroughly in due course. In other words, don't hold your breath.
Questions regarding this alleged event or non-event are many and perhaps, in the end, unanswerable.
If it did happen, how could it be verified? Does time stop all the time and we just have no way of knowing? Is this why people spend so much for a Rolex?
Is it even possible for time to stop? To speed up, slow down, or flow in other directions? And not just theoretically, but for humans to actually experience the fluctuations and live to describe them in comprehensible terms?
If a glass were falling, and time really did stop, does the glass just hang there in the air?
If time stops, how do you measure how long it stopped for?
What is time?
[Pauses, looks uncomfortably at shoes.]
We'll be right back.
23 January 2017
With the Super Bowl once again upon us, it seems important that (now more than ever) we settle this nagging question of the downs, which being the more and which the less critical of the downs, in terms of winning the football contest and capturing the big prize. We asked former Miami Gold Star Tiara Queens Linebacker Johnny "Big Uncle" Brownstone to explain it slowly and clearly once and for all so that even the most boneheaded among you can get it through your thick skulls, and he was like, You know what? I tell ya.
First down is the key down… Everything happens on first down and that makes first down the most important down, first down sets it all up for the downs that follow, first down sets the table and that’s why coaches call it the table-setting down and suchlike, first down is where you line up your ducks against their ducks and establish the ground game, or threaten the deep middle (of the pond), maybe set a few decoys out there, because if you can get a nice chunk on first down that sets you up nicely for second down.
Second down is where the rubber meets the road, not literally and not figuratively either but second down is the middle child, it exists in the shadow of first down which, though second has no control over it, has already laid down the broad parameters within which second down must exist and attempt to strike out on its own, make its own name, knowing that third down is coming and bound to soak up all of mom and dad’s attention and leave it the overlooked middle child of downs, as downs go second down is an absolutely critical down and it’s a down good teams make something on, good teams make something on second down that’s either gonna give em another first down or they’re gonna try and leave themselves with a nice short makeable third down.
Because third down is where reputations are made, third down is where the cream separates itself from the chaff and that’s why third down is absolutely the most important down, the down to end all downs, third down is where the Tchaikovskys of the world compose their best music, third down is when Julia Child finally got her own cooking show, heck even Hitler (who was evil) recognized the importance of third down although fortunately for freedom and human decency he was unable to convert the critical third downs that would have kept his team on the march and refused to listen to his generals even when they pleaded with him that everything is riding on third down because if you can’t get a first down on third down you’re stuck facing the grim reaper, the fortified bunker of downs, the end of the line: fourth down.
Fourth down is the down on which dreams die. It is absolutely the ultimate down, the sine qua down (res ipsa loquitur), fourth down is where you show your mettle, where you comb the burrs out of your thick winter coat and buckle up your chinstrap and buckle down your shinchaps and literally put the pedal to your mettle, the strive to your drive, where the guts and bolts of your desire to win rise like the cream to the surface of the kettle, like the wheat rises to the challenge of creating separation from the chaff. If there were a fifth down that would probably be the down of all downs, the be-all and end-all down-wise speaking, but nope. There’s only four and then one way or another it’s back to first down, which to be honest is not very important because you still have two or even three more chances after that and even if you have to punt it’s not that big a deal and besides football is stupid, the end.