Friday, October 28, 2011

Get off my plane

There is something very fatalistic, reactionarily nihilistic even, about the jaded dismissal of seemingly everything around this "alternative" culture we hipsters have created for ourselves.  It's so self-devouring that when it really comes down to it, everything you care about can be pruned and chipped away to a very embarrassing set of human emotions and actions that we like to pretend we don't possess.  Things like a need for social acceptance, jealousy, and self-interested motives.

The past few years have left me fairly confused on how to combat something like this. I've been pretty deprecating about my own life and about this heterogeneous subculture I somehow fell into when punk rock became more appealing than Kid Rock.  I do things with ironic intentions.  Listen to Lil' Wayne. Watch the movie Air Force One. Revisit old professional wrestling matches.  Somehow, these things, mixed with the drive to consistently be above caring, become important to me.  I think the Carter II is one of the best hip hop albums ever made.  Air Force One is an immaculately perfected American movie (Harrison Ford has to choose what wires to cut to hotwire a fuel dump and chooses the green and yellow wires because the other three are red, white, and blue.  I mean, Jesus Christ, that's too fucking perfect for what they were doing. But what that movie is doing could be written about for years). I also follow wrestling again with a serious critical passion.  I argue over plot devices and postmodern narrative techniques, capitalist consumerism's role in the televised product, and character development among pseudo-realistic, 4th-wall-breaking, REAL human beings constantly acting for years on end.

These are things I've come to deeply care about.  The fate of CM Punk's career with the WWE and Weezy's promethazine addiction are important to me.  They are rooted in a flippant holier-than-thou attitude I've taken toward things (and still maintain), but they've grown to become something much more.  And then I thought that I needed a good closing line and an inner-dialogue began that said, "Why? So you can tie this high-brow essay up nicely? Good one Hemingway, you're a real writer now."

Monday, October 24, 2011

Losing all the shit you've written on your computer really blows, yo.

Wrestling is cool, dudes.

Big Show is ok, but big men are still lame.

He's got so much momentum.

Programs filmed in front of alive audience in Mexico but broadcast to American television have an interesting added layer of pandering to the crowd.  The contexualized instances of the annunciation of national identity are completely different and skewed.  UltraAmericanized formalities turn into a double farce or something.

Cody Rhodes is such a good heel.  Incredible.  Orton needs to fight for the IC belt at Survivor Series.

Sheamus' music is the fucking worst.

The amount of legacy wrestlers out there today is astonishing.  Multiple top billers, mid-carders, and low-rung schmucks that are sons and daughters of former superstars are consistently broadcast, and I wonder if this is just a new phenomenon to me because I haven't watched for a few years, or if it's something that's plowed through the WWE recently.  I hope lil DiBiase has a job for a while.

Watching Smackdown by yourself late at night really fucks with your brain.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

The application process for professional writing positions kinda blows when only things you have really written with heavy effort and revision are super serious four-paragraph explorations of alcohol-fueled existentialist melodrama with one good punch line at the end.  No one wants wants a copywriter that cant stray from death.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

I almost bought Tender Buttons today, and then I thought, "is this worth $2.50?"

I'm having a very difficult time writing about anything but writing and I am barely a writer as it is.

If I ever buy a gun, it'll be a really big revolver.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

I'm trying to write like a blogger for blogsites and I feel like a turd because I don't write like a blogger and barely have the ability to mimic writing like a blogger, yet I'm still doing it.  I don't think I'd even like to read whatever it is that I'm writing right now, but I'm not writing anything else, so I might as well spit some shit and see how it goes.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

We should hang and blackout together

If I were a famous musician, I think I'd get to a point where I strictly wrote music to my friends, using inside jokes and intra-referencial lyrics.  That one Bright Eyes song on Lifted  where he tells Tim Kasher that he likes the new Good Life album is so cool.  I just want to do that.  Maybe I'll blow up one day by writing songs that rip off the lyrics of This is My Mess.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

is crumbbum a legitimate insult?

I think I just came to the realization that I am awful at remembering to brush my teeth, That's a shitty thing to learn about yourself.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

The Blowjob was Invented in 1999.

He grew discouraged by his inability, or was it a decision?, to provide commentary for the popular culture of his time. Even the wirestrung niche groups on the outskirts of the broadcast matte of society evaded his chickenscratch. Their tendency to shimmer for brief moments painted his tongue with disgust. The taste of ashes or old eggshells.Through all of this, however, he also steadily came to the conclusion that generations were not so different from one another. That such commentaries were nothing but self-absorbed attempts to differentiate and eventually validate an existence. What benefit does it bring to determine demographics and epochs as more wildly special or erratic than the rest? He sat in the sun and sipped iced tea, knowing that the lord would come in rapture to save the kids of his own generation, who started fucking each other at a surprisingly early age.