2009-06-26 16:49:45 PDT
Yeah, I love Thriller, too. It's a great record. Michael Jackson was a fantastic dancer. I'm not saying you can't feel some wistfulness for the loss of a marker of your childhood, or even miss a cultural icon. But now that that's out of the way...
...dude!
The wailing over Michael Jackson the person? I demand that everyone shut the fuck up immediately. Michael Jackson was a pedophile. A rich, connected, protected pedophile who preyed on powerless, ill and poor kids. "Oh, but he wasn't convicted!" people are saying on message boards. Well, no. Funny how "rich" and "not-convicted" often go together. And by that logic, O.J. Simpson is not a murderer, either.
Suddenly the extreme child weirdness is totally dismissed. I'm seeing words like "eccentric" and "recluse" and "persecution" all over the place. Fuck off. Jackson was a "recluse" in the way a spider keeps to the centre of its web to see what drops in. And eccentric? That makes me think, say...Frank Zappa? Building a little kiddie train at your house that leads straight into your quasi-military pants is not "eccentric." It's "predatory."
And I love how all these whiners are explaining all that oddly juvenile landscaping away with the wounded unicorn Christ fetus nonsense. Oh, he never had a childhood! His dad was mean! He was too gentle-- fame killed him! Um, no. It's a trick: Get an ax. It was a fucking PERSONA!
Because how much more obvious could the guy make it that he was a sophisticated, experienced sexual predator? I mean, there's a lot of actual crushing evidence (Confirmed penile mottling? Good the fuck enough) that he was a molester that never made it to trial because he bought the accusers off, but we don't even need to know that, because anyone can see that Jackson built a kid honeytrap. If some childless bachelor dude who had never recorded Thriller put a Ferris wheel and monkeys and arcade and shit in his yard, Spidey would be like, "Uh-oh. Rape carnival's in town." But no: Michael Jackson just wanted to recapture his childhood. Well, the "capture" and "child" part, sure. Normal men do not admit to having sleepovers with kids. No, not just kids-- male kids. Always boys, of a certain age and look. That's not some charming, ragtag band of Lost Boys. It's a fetish.
And fuckin' Facebook-- "We'll miss you sooo much!" all over the place. Yeah, you know who's not going to miss Michael? 11-year-old Latino boys. I'm truly amazed at the sentimental and nauseating grief-posts: "We love you forever, MJ!" "I'll keep you in my heart!"
Clay and I amused ourselves last night bein' dicks on these kinds of Facebook statuses, and people get freakin' outraged when you take the piss out of this. "Have some respect!" Oh, wait-- did some nice person also named Michael Jackson die yesterday? Because I thought we were talking about the ghoulish, narcissistic child rapist. Sorry.
The Onion had it exactly right, a long time ago: The Michael Jackson everyone's thinking of died in like 1985. But people seem to want to love him again, now; they're relieved to have that bleached Cryptkeeper impostor with the prepubescent entourage dead, so that they can fix him in place as that handsome, talented young guy chompin' on the popcorn in the Thriller video. Hey, I liked that guy, too, as a fun pop-cultural projection. But keeping the Mayor of Creepytown in our hearts? Really? Why? Is everyone so afraid of being left behind by the little Neverland train of contrived grief? The guy was a talented entertainer, but my calculator says that that's not enough to buy two decades of blameless kidsexing.
2009-06-06 00:21:16 PDT
You know when you realize you're old? When you host Clay's ball team for a BBQ, and everyone's in the basement drinking beer and having fun with Rock Band, and you sneak gratefully away with your fizzy water to load the dishwasher and type in your online journal.
Sad.
On that note: there is a guy here who seriously needs some social skillz (says the old girl blogging away on Friday night). I met this guy at last year's BBQ and he rubbed me the wrong way then. Just everything he says is sex-inflected, you know? Okay, so we have this creepy playhouse in our back yard, right? A few people were remarking lightheartedly on it, with the edgiest comment along the lines of "It's like something out of The Blair Witch Project." Cue pleasant bland social laughter, blah blah blah suburban rituals.
Creepy Guy: Yep, some rape has happened in there! Whoo boy!
General silent discomfort. Creepy Guy looks around proudly, like he's totally fitting in with the tone.
Me: What.
2009-06-02 11:33:49 PDT
i moved my base of command to my living room instead ! my teevee wayching is about to hit levels previously only DREAMED, poppin my colla colla
dude shit was dope i giot so hi** and hit on all the nurses and they LOVED IT y'hurrd me
after te surgery i demanded that all female nurses come to my room so that i might call them SHAWTAAAAY-EE
doctor seemed el confeedanto that the shit went straight, th nurse accused me of not being ready to leave or stand until i informed her tgay she was unablr to noy get mauy thai'd with that attitude
i don't think she knew what muay thai was iirc but i was already a hitttin the do' ass nigga like payce
i hope she didn't think it meant bukkake
beacuse she was old
2009-05-29 15:32:15 PDT
I lost my temper at the lawnmower this morning. It's got this cuttings-catching canvas thing that attaches to the machine itself, and the bag started randomly detaching itself and falling off in the middle of a row, spraying grass and dirt and chestnut shrapnel everywhere.
The first time, I was like, oh, okay, I didn't attach it quite right. So I was extra-careful about hanging the little metal grippy-hooks to the bar at the rear of the lawnmower. Then I cranked the thing up again, took two steps, and the bag collapsed. Gross powdered yard everywhere. I took a breath, then put the thing back on with the care of a surgeon reattaching a finger to LeBron James. Then I yanked on it a bit to test its commitment, which a surgeon would hopefully not do to LeBron James or anyone. It seemed sound. I pulled the cord, completed the row, was just starting to enjoy Impeccable Blahs again, got halfway through the next row, and: the thing falls off.
So I called it a fuckface, which is my longtime assault word of choice. I didn't scream it or anything, more conversational: "Hey, canvas bag. What's new? Oh, yeah. You're a real fuckface, you know that?" Totally calm. "I'm going to kill you, you stupid fuckface bag." And the rhythm of that sort of stuck in my head, and I was kinda singing it to myself in a creepy little voice with a reedy accent, like I was some pre-WWI British child who'd gotten tuberculosis so had been locked away from people for, like, two years in a room with no company excepting a picture of his mother (Viola) and an evil rocking horse, but could see other kids out his window playing by a pond.
Anyway, I found a twig and tried cleaning the little chewed-up bits of grass from the grooves where the little hooky-things go, thinking that might be the problem, because there was no other problem that I could see, no reason why the metal hooks would not remain hanging on their metal bar friend like a bitch is supposed to. And damn, I wouldn't even use the stupid bag, except that it's printed right there on the bag that it's dangerous not to, because you can get projectiled in the face or something. And I just didn't want to be the moron with a hole in her face who appears on the Darwin Awards list because she ignored safety warnings clearly printed on her lawnmower's helpful canvas bag.
I attached the bag. I leaned on that bag. It held. I pulled the cord; the bag quarter-inflated like a diseased lung, coughed, and slid flaccidly off the lawnmower.
I draped the bag on the grass, took a long breath and went for a walk around the perimeter of my yard, pulling measured air in through my nose. I cracked my neck. I'm trying to make a good impression on my new neighbours, right? They're a nice elderly couple on one side and a kindly family on the other. They do stuff like bring us cookies and lend us trailers to haul yard stuff away. They do not deserve to be exposed to the toxic depths of my constantly enraged true self. Then, I asked the bag if it had had a good rest, and soccer-kicked the fucker as hard as I could, which sent it spinning into the air. Because I am an idiot, I ran after it as it soared, the better to give it the finger, and so got gritty yard waste rained all over my sweaty idiot face. I flailed the bag to the ground, and kicked it around the yard, then flogged it against the ground for awhile like I was Pete Townshend, calling it USELESS FUCKING FUCKBAG FUCK.
Then I looked up and there was a man doing some yardwork at the church that backs onto our property, and watching me. I mean, he wasn't even maliciously enjoying the fact that I'm clearly a total spaz. No, he just looked dismayed, maybe even a little wounded. I pointed at the bag and sort of shrugged, like dude I'm really sorry but it has to be this way, you know. But he just turned away. I'm not even worth saving!
But the canvas bag was, because it held. It clung to that bar! The bag was champion through the rest of our huge back yard. So I was enjoying my Thin Lizzy, just finishing up, when the fuckin' basement window spontaneously exploded! I wasn't even really near it! I jumped in the air like, again, a complete spaz, and (embarrassingly) reflexively looked around. I mean, what did I think? That I was under sniper fire from another canvas bag, positioned in the church bell tower? Why am I such an idiot? Anyway, I guess that some projectile-- a rock? A chestnut?-- had been spit forth from the lawnmower into the glass. So now I'm thinking, Jesus Christ, how well does that bag work, really, if shit is still ricocheting around the yard at death-force 6 even when the damn receptacle is affixed?! I went to all that effort, and for what?! I felt extreme wrath: Mind-warping wrath. Tony Soprano beating his bartender with a phone wrath. Vietnam wrath!
But I just made this long bereaved animal lowing sound, threw my hat across the yard, and stomped inside. There's a mirror right inside our back door, which reported to me the wealth of sooty filth that had adhered to my face, leaving me looking like a butch Oliver Twist. With rolling white crazy-eyes. The dog took one look at me and peaced me the fuck out.
Pretty sure I'm going to stab that bag until I can stab no more.
2009-05-26 18:14:17 PDT
Prop 8 was supported in California, and dudes, that makes me mad. Perplexed, too. I just...can never believe that anyone cares so much about controlling other lives.
Gay people marrying each another is a non-issue to normal, non-idiot, non-bigoted people. It is none of anyone's business what consenting adults do with, to, and for one another. And it's not like the Catholic and Mormon churches, who have spearheaded this proposition, are spotless examples of propriety, either; Mormons marry an endless series of fourteen-year-old girls. The Catholic Church has sanctioned and enabled the mass rape of children. But even if these organizations didn't ever sexually harm anyone helpless, I'd call bullshit, because zealots are people who believe in silent, omnipotent sky-ghosts. They worship statues and plaques. They eat little magic cannibal toasts. (I feel a song coming on! This little ditty can be found on my children's album, We All Just Die and That's It.) They are not to be listened to about anything, because they are gullible, and easily led, and downright primitive. They want to drag everyone else back to primeval, superstitious nonsense, too, where we will all read wrath into thunderstorms and fear random buttsexing.
Good thing Kate Gosselin, that badger-headed woman wearing her martyred husband's balls like a St. Christopher's medal, gets to be legally married. These dumbasses, who are whoring out their obviously rancorous, but blessedly legal, marriage (not to mention exploiting their children), are evangelical Christians. You conceived six children at once through artificial means, and then were too smug and sanctimonious to cull any of the embryos; how does having a lab-litter fit in with God's will? You don't get to avail yourself of the advances of fucking modern science, which belongs to SANE people, and then preach religion, which is the mental and moral equivalent of leeching, at us. It's one or the other, cockface. THUG LIFE!
How come these cave-dwelling sky-fearing people-hating magically thinking hypocrites always get to make, and break, the rules for everyone else? They do not have any right to dictate anything to the rest of us, because they are crazy people.
Speaking of which, why can we not say, hey, these are obviously crazy people? What's up with the whole religion-must-be-accomodated thing in this day and age, anyway? Why do we indulge this glorified schizophrenia at all, let alone when it infringes on human rights?
The Jesus
"Eschew Obfuscation."