Friday, July 29, 2005

Tsunami Relief

This is a bit of a delayed reaction, by about 8 months, to something I saw during the campaign to help the victims of the big tsunami. I want all three of you who are reading this to know that what I'm going to say isn't a criticism. On the contrary, what I saw is rather touching. It just also happens to be really funny to me.

Some small town somewhere in our fair nation decided to put together aid packages to the millions of people who were punished by God for not being Christian. The wrath of God comes in many forms, including a big wave, which is another indication that God is a total prick. That's called sarcasm, and it is the coin of the realm in the magical land of Darren.

These people, out of the goodness of their hearts (seriously) wanted badly to help. It's not like life in Sri Lanka is a bag of apples to begin with, and natural disasters don't help. And what an outpouring of support for these poor people! So people busily put together little packages of soap, toothbrushes, baby food, and various other sundries. In my opinion, a mass export of sponges would have been a good idea. But I have no right to mock, given that I didn't do a single solitary thing to help any one of them.

Somebody has to take the time to watch all the Internet porn, play Flash games, and maintain self-indulgent 'blogs. And let's not forget the dancing bacon...I should set up a link for that.

But people, don't tell me that sending toothbrushes to orphans on Phuket isn't funny. I can just imagine a child, whose family was recently consumed by the big foamy, holding a toothbrush in the middle of a town that was wiped off the faced of the Earth, ala Dresden or Hiroshima. It's like getting a John Tesh CD for your birthday; you appreciate the thought amid confusion and a strong desire to forget it ever happened.

And baby food was a poor choice, given the number of babies found floating around in the Indian Ocean. That's probably why the United Nations immediately told people to send MONEY. You can buy toothbrushes with money if you like, but something tells me that most aid agencies used it to buy anything else. Literally, anything else.

If you think I'm a crass bastard, just tell yourself that I'm a sensitive soul who uses humor to cope with the crushing pain that comes with being an empathetic and compassionate human being. But if that dog won't hunt (thank you Ross Perot), then "crass bastard" will do nicely.

End Communication.

Sunday, July 17, 2005

Neighborhood children talking and whistling


It's 9pm on a Sunday night and there are children playing outside. There are a lot of kids around here, and it's a warm summer night, so it's not unusual. But some son of a bitch gave one of the kids a whistle. It sounds like the whistle used by British cops in old movies. For all I know, Jack the Ripper is loose out there. Perhaps not. I'm trying to resist the compulsion to go find that kid and, you know, take his fucking whistle. What if it doesn't stop? Worse yet, what if I'm the only one who hears it?

Earlier today I was out for my morning constitutional, which was strange because it was 3:00 in the afternoon. A six year old child on an itty-bitty bike with itty-bitty training wheels rolled by, and he looked at me. As our eyes met, I smiled and he said, "I don't quit." I quickly replied, "That's good." What do you say to that? Naturally, I do quit, and I'm acutely aware of that, so for me the air was thick with an implicit challenge. Was he zinging me for being a pessimistic sad-sack? I doubt it, but I'm still thinking about it. Then again, I probably would have attached meaning to anything the little bugger spat. If he said, "I don't eat ice cream" I would have taken it as a crack about my weight. This is a 6 year old kid we're talking about. He's probably the kid out there with that fucking whistle. The little uber-toddler should be in bed, not out looking for criminals in the fog.

My therapist tells me that I think I'm surrounded by people who hate and mock me because I despise myself. My anxiety, he says, is partially rooted in paranoia. There's some truth there. If I don't hear from a friend for a few weeks, I start to imagine that he or she has come to the conclusion that I'm worthless and need to be avoided. And when I pass strangers on the street, I get the feeling that they think I'm a hideous freak. I guess on some level I know that this is nuts. But that doesn't explain why neighborhood children feel the need to make fun of me via cruel innuendo. Hah!

Monday, July 11, 2005

The Dark Chuckle


Early this morning I read a story about a fellow who slipped on a subway platform and fell in front of a train. He was, of course, pulverized with extreme prejudice. Because of the myriad miracles of modern technology, these nasty tales are brought to our attention at the speed of light every single day. It's not so much withering as it is numbing. Still, the ignominious end of this guy struck a nerve with me. I could have easily have met such an end countless times, with trains, buses, inexplicably angry people with weapons, etc.

But there is always an asshole nearby who says something to make it worse. If I'm killed in such an accident I really hope that nobody sees it. And if it has to be seen by anyone, let it be a poet or a painter or some such gentle soul. Perhaps not a musician, though. I wouldn't want the end of me put to music by a band like Gwar or 'N Sync (that about covers both extreme ends of the spectrum). More than likely, however, the comment on the nightly news will be made by a rube, yokel, jackass, or boob.

The witness to the afformentioned tragedy was, I think, a yokel...it's tough to say. And what did he say? "It's really horrible, he never saw it coming." I'm harshly critical of what this guy said for a couple of reasons. For one, it's a cliche. And for such a unique and horrible tragedy! I can tolerate banality as much as the next fat person, but some moments require thoughtful consideration. It reminded me of the scene in the movie "Titanic," when Kathy Bates says, "You don't see that every day" as she witnesses the epic demise of a big, floating thing with lots of people on it. I'm the only person in the theatre who laughed at that line in that context, which doesn't speak highly of me. But I digress.

And isn't it a blessing that he never saw it coming? I'm happy for him. Otherwise, his last words might have been, "What the f---!" Or perhaps he would have just said, "Fuck!" Personally, I'm working on something to say in advance, in case something happens. My favorite is, "Life's too short for fat-free pretzels!" That may be too long, though. One word is practically best. Something mysterious like "Rosebud!" would be good. Or British, "My word!" Perhaps an ode to "The Simpsons" would be most appropriate; you can't do much better than, "D'oh!"

But like everything else, it all comes back to movies, as in "Caddyshack." How can you beat a guy yelling, "Rat farts!" just before getting hit by lightning. And that may be the best route to go. To provide one final chuckle, albeit a dark one, to the shocked and horrified crowd.

Sunday, July 10, 2005

Listen for the sausage that ISN'T served.

Who would want to read the rantings of a man who is a self-loathing, neurotic nihilist? Of a man whose entire philosophical and spiritual outlook is couched in the belief that his life is of no consequence among the living, and that he will soon become nothing upon his death?

No one really likes that shit, which is why so few people claim to be fans of independent French cinema. Even among the coffee house crowd, most people are talking about sex, art, college and careers. I've spent enough time in Someday Cafe to know that the quality of overheard conversation is excellent, and wonderful works of art hang on the wall. But even on the darkest, coldest, bleakest February evening, most people would rather nail their genitals to a car battery than listen to a depressive complain about his or her existential plight.

I'm fond of the notion that nobody is reading the musings posted to this web-blog. At least I am half the time. The other half, I want everyone to read them. It's annoying, but I'm not concerned with that may be annoying right now. Today I find myself in a horrible depression, and am beyond even music for comfort. I'm listening to music right now, but I don't really hear it. Stop the presses.

My lips ache from biting them, which I do whenever I get nervous and/or depressed. As a result, I do it often. I'm dirty, my body feels very, very wrong, and I just want to sleep, but I can't. So many people get up on a Sunday morning and go out for brunch, and then read the paper while listening to music they don't listen to the rest of the week. Or watch televised news shows that exude a rarefied air, as if what they show is of greater importance than what is seen on the news every night of the week. Imagine being a musician playing at a "Jazz brunch," surrounded by people who never, ever listen to Jazz except when it's accompanied by Canadian bacon and waffles. That has to be Hell for someone. Heaven and Hell are right here on Earth, it's all a question of timing and location.

I think I'm going to take my psychiatric medications for the day. Marijuana and Vicodin would help, but they won't give it to me. Aspirin will help the headache go away, though, and I have that. Happy Sunday, everyone...today is somebody's birthday.

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

How to fly a flag the way God intended

As we all know, a great deal of respect and proper protocol is required when displaying the American flag; whether it be in front of a school, courthouse, or private residence. A flag must be taken down when it is raining, and illuminated or taken down at night. Many times in our lives, after a national tragedy, the flag has been flown at half-staff. This is meant to indicate our collective, and usually feigned, sorrow. What most of us do not know, however, is that the flag is supposed to be lowered in degrees, depending on the extent of the tragedy being recognized. The varying degrees of recognition of national catastrophes are listed below. It is very important for the collective dignity of this country for anyone who flies Old Glory to follow these instructions. God Bless America, support the troops, and embrace the march of freedom and democracy. If you don't, then go back to France you cheese-eating surrender monkey.

CIRCUMSTANCES AND CATASTROPHES REPRESENTED IN FLAG HEIGHT, BY 10THS

10 - Normal flag-flying day. America is proud, dumb, and happy. And usually flying faded, tattered flags from China.

9/10 - Congressional sky-diving mishap

8/10 - Karl Rove crushes the collective will of all who oppose the Bush Administration, on any conceivable issue.

7/10 - Four words: Bad batch of fudge.

6/10 - A vegetable with a half-sized brain gains the earnest attention of the entire executive and legislative branch.

5/10 - Generic tragedy that almost certainly has less impact on your life than running out of toilet paper or getting a hole in your sock.

4/10 - Secretary of the Interior can't get Pepsi machine to take his dollar bill.

3/10 - AOL sends out a mass mailing of CD's

2/10 - Any high-ranking member of the administration travels to another country and promptly talks down to the people of that country, thus alienating yet another segment of the world population.

1/10 - Republicans childishly advocate changing the name of French fries to "freedom fries."

Let the eagle soar,
Darren

Sunday, July 03, 2005

Favorite Comments & Questions

"You're not going to eat that, are you?"

"A meatball fell out of my sandwich."

"I'm giving you 30 Vicodin for pain."

"You really are tactless, you fucking douchebag turd."

"When will Garrison Keilor shut the fuck up about the lost innocence of his mid-western childhood?"

"You can't stab me with that, that's a letter-opener, not a knife."

"That place had more mimes than a French circus."

"I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free."

"Why is it that everyone has a story about shitting themselves at the fair, carnival or amusement park?"

"What's a plantain? It's essentially a banana with attitude."

Saturday, July 02, 2005

Of Carthaginian Cobblers and Anonymous Departures

The great Carthaginian general Hannibal is known for giving ancient Rome a hard time during his 63 years among the living. He was all the rage during the 2nd Punic War, with the elephants and the cunning strategy and all that. I'm oddly appreciative of anyone who managed to piss-off Rome, probably because the Roman Empire reminds me of the American Empire. Although I have to admit that I admire the Roman Patriarchs for their incredible decadence, Christian killing, orgies and bacchanalia; and don't get me started on the vomitoriums. Now THAT'S a culture! America doesn't have the good sense to at least be interesting. Our empire embraces all of the violence, but none of the sex, that comes with the role of "World's Biggest Asshole."

But I digress. About 35 years after the end of the 2nd Punic War, Carthage finally fell to the Romans. With spectacular cruelty (and a sense of theatre) Rome murdered 450,000 citizens of Carthage, razed the city, and then sowed salt into the soil so nothing would grow there again. Needless to say, Hannibal REALLY honked-off Rome.

As I was reading a book about all this late last night, I couldn't help but wonder about a few things. The very first thing I thought about was the cost of the book, which I bought several years ago for a university class. The price sticker says $60, which is obscene. Really. But my natural inclination to identify with a bunch of losers got me thinking about the half million people who were murdered by the Romans, essentially for dramatic effect. I imagine Roman soldiers eating, vomiting, fucking, and then getting drunk before riding off to stick sharp metal into people. And how creative they were at killing! Nailing people to wood, propping them up, and then leaving them to suffer is an astoundingly fiendish "zinger." There's no retort to that.

But back to Carthage. Imagine the untold stories and unspeakable suffering that became a mere footnote to history. Beyond an estimate of the number of people killed, does anyone care about what they went through? Of course not...we have enough tragedies and genocide that was actually captured on film to care about the distant past. But I'm sure that the few people who escaped the annihilation of Carthage thought something like, "Holy crap, certainly no one will ever forget that." But to empathize you have to look beyond the numbers and approach things on a human level. Sometimes the best way to get at a truth is through fiction. Consider Hammi the Cobbler, a citizen of Carthage. I made him up, but it puts a human face on the whole affair. And ignore that there weren't any cobblers back then.

Hammi isn't a fighter, but he does his best to keep Rome out of Carthage, which isn't much. He fancies himself more of an aesthete. People frequently tell him that he is kind and makes the most comfortable sandals around. Naturally, I'm fond of Hammi. But I have the good sense not to get to attached to him. Why? Because Roman soldiers will soon break in, set him on fire, nail him to a cow and fling him a quarter mile away via catapult. They'll probably go find him and do it again just for good measure. Then eat him.

But nobody will remember Hammi, who is a mere statistic. So what is different about me? Nothing...except I will probably die of a heart attack or get hit by a bus. Mercifully, I most likely won't be nailed to, or fired out of, anything. Although I can't be sure. I call this an "anonymous departure," and it is the fate of all but a very small number of people. But ultimately it is the fate of every single one of us. At any moment, a chunk of rock and ice could sail into us and after that it won't matter that you won the spelling bee in 4th grade; permanent record my ass.

It's wise not to dwell on this, as it doesn't contribute to the creation of a sunny disposition. People who happily whistle as they stroll down the street almost certainly aren't nihilists. Then again, knowing that none of this matters makes it far easier to endure...in a way. Some "its" are impossible to endure, regardless of lofty spiritual and/or philosophical notions. I'm only a pacifist, perhaps, because I've never known hunger.

As an atheist and a nihilist, I've reached the point in my life where the existence of god strikes me as a very scary notion. Most religions have judgment and the possibility of neverending agony as part of their sales pitch. If it comes down to having to choose between an anonymous departure and fearing the undying attention of a very unpredictable, all-powerful god, I'd rather travel with Hammi.