Gay Filet With Freedom Fries

It may come as a bit of a surprise, but I am not a saint.  The greatest title that I could possibly allow is “prophet,” but even that is a bit of a stretch, but a wonderful opening line at cocktail parties and bar mitzvahs, (the Jews eat it up!)  But I have to admit, and give myself a pat on the back, that I have refrained from indulging myself in societal taboos or religious sins.  Believe it or not, I have yet to have an abortion.  I have never been involved in drugs, illegal or otherwise.  And perhaps the greatest of shocks, I am not a homosexual, nor ever plan to be. 

But if I wanted to partake in any of these activities, I believe I should have the right.

(Allow me to quickly say something about a labeling epidemic that I have become a victim of.  I hear it quite frequently – more often from females – that I seem like a guy that “could be gay.”  I don’t necessarily take this as an insult, but I’d like to point out that I am, for lack of a better word, disgusting.  Despite the fact that I wear collared shirts nearly every day and involve myself in the arts, I also am a chauvinistic mess of filth and fantasy, the likes of which have only been seen in single-digit centuries.  To be strikingly to the point, the average human being would find much of my behavior more disgusting then the thought of slug-on-slug  blue-collar sodomy.  You dig?)

But to get back to the point, for the safety of all involved, I have a quite serious point to make.  Recently, a firestorm of chattering has come up over the topic of gay marriage – and rightfully so.  In the eyes of organized religion, homosexuality is one of the most cardinal sins, and the basis for more anger and faith-based frustration than perhaps any other area.  And the arguments can be made that religion must be separated from government, (boring,) or that there are plenty of other sins, perhaps more private sins, that don’t receive the kind of attention that same-sex partnerships do.  Did you know that 90% of men and nearly 65% of women masturbate on a regular basis?  Last time I checked, this is fairly looked down upon in the eyes of churches across the globe.  A tremendous waste of possible procreation to boot.  Yes, I’m talking about scattered semen residue in the middle of a potentially poignant article about personal rights, but who’s keeping track?  Certainly not the Catholic Church, pro-family organizations, nor Newt Gingrich.  That’s for sure. 

And in the past I have apologized for length, but I won’t do that any longer.  I’ve read arguments from every end of the spectrum and from people that honestly don’t know a thing other than the fact that male and female genitalia aren’t designed as they are out of pure coincidence.  Which is another argument all together: my Wrangler isn’t designed to take sharp corners at breakneck speeds or drive through 3 feet of standing water, but I do so because I can.  We’re a very independent species, human beings.  We challenge the limitations of our existence.  It’s kind of cute, really.

Which brings me to the larger point that I am desperately trying to make.  I believe that we are presented with choices every day, the option to do this or that, perhaps even right or wrong, and when to it comes to matters that directly affect only your own life, (or matters such as abortion that are a direct correlation of your life,) you should have the option to do what you want.  You will be the one suffering the ultimate consequences – whether mental, physical, or otherwise – and there is no need to insist people follow any direct routes.  This obviously doesn’t apply to certain things such as rape or murder, but instances of abortion, (not quite murder,) drug use, or gay relations are all matters of choice that seem to fit my theory quite nicely. 

And when it comes to this topic of gay marriage, I don’t understand the outcry.  With abortion or even drugs, there are larger forces at work.  The idea of a mother killing a potential human being is, in my eyes, a matter of perspective.  With drugs, there are underlying factors of gang violence and even circumstances that arise from long-term use, (ailing children, violence, and so on.)  But aside from the fact that God seems to wag his finger at the idea of sexual plugs that don’t seem to fit, there really is no major argument to suggest that homosexuality is a threat.  “It’s a threat to the American family!”  Why?  Has your husband been waiting to ditch you and the kids for his accountant Rico? 

Unless, of course, God will smite our entire globe for the allowance of gay marriage – (as opposed to PRACTICE of homosexuality, which has been practiced since the beginning of time,) leaving us a post-apocalyptic world of ash and stone all for the sake of a few incorrectly bumped uglies.  Shame on you gay America – your selfish practices have cost us all. 

Speaking of costs, you’d think that there could be some practical economic argument to make over the idea of gay marriage.  Something that Mitch McConnell or the Evangelical movement could really sink their teeth into.  “The gays are costing us millions!”  But economists are suggesting that the allowance of gay marriage, in just the handful of states that have overturned bans, could generate a new $32 Billion in wedding related fees alone.  That’s a lot of cash, friends, and a lot of cash that looks pretty enticing in the middle of an economic crisis such as ours.  But when I suggested this to my right-wing road-sign changing cohort at the Roads Department, he told me he would rather pay, “triple the taxes” than to allow the homosexuals to receive some kind of governmental recognition.  Go figure.

I guess I just don’t understand the basis for all the hooplah.  There is very little evidence to suggest that homosexual marriage will effect the typical Nascar fan at all, unless they themselves decide to hitch with a fellow dangler.  (I hear Jeff Gordon is single.)  The only argument I’ve heard involves the dangers to the existence of the American family, but as Jon Stewart suggested on a show earlier this week, is the real danger the idea that dudes can just hook up now, for legal purposes, and no longer have to deal with nagging wives or menstruation cycles ever again?  Or perhaps a whole collective of “Chuck and Larry’s” just looking to milk the system?  Is this really a consideration?

And to bring it back to a political standpoint, (which is always the best way to approach such matters,) it seems like a strange philosophical stand for the Republican Party.  Putting the influence of the religious Right aside, (and the fact that most homosexual scandals, with the exception of Barney Frank, tend to come from the GOP’s side of the aisle,) the idea of gay marriage seems to fit in with a distinct part of their message: less government.  But this would include privacy, which doesn’t apply to the Republican Party at all, considering the topic of abortion as well.  (Abortion is a privacy issue, not one of life.)  And even the Libertarians, (Ron Paul from the past,) seem to shy away from supporting such a measure, which agreeing that the War on Drugs is lost and that Americans need to be left alone.  Hell, even the Democrats shy away from the issue.  Obama does not support gay marriage specifically, in an elaborate plot to keep with mainstream America on issues that will never cross his desk.  I told you he was smart.

But the message I present remains simple: So you don’t agree with gay marriage?  Then don’t do it.  Don’t agree with drug use?  More power to you.  Abortion isn’t your style?  Enjoy your little booger eaters.  Is it really enough to justify killing an abortion doctor?  Or to drag a teenage kid 5 miles down a gravel road behind an old Chevy truck?  I don’t tend to think so, but I’ve been known to be wrong.  I have the great belief that God’s greatest creation, should there be an Almighty in the skies above us, is the amazing idea of free will.  When asked the meaning of life, most devout Christians will say the answer is to serve and praise God above.  And my only complaint about such logic is if God is so concerned with adoration, then why were we given the option to go astray?  If the Lord never wanted abortions to be done, then why isn’t the womb an impenetrable steel trap?  And why did he give us so many damn holes to stick things in?  It almost seems like some sick kind of encouragement that, to be honest, I want nothing to do with. 

Perhaps it’s all a trap.

But I wanted to take a shot at my own little perception of the argument over gay marriage, having seen efforts from other well meaning writers.  I suppose there’s no right or wrong, and as my mother said to me earlier this morning, “morality comes from conscience.”  It’s just another matter of perceptive free will.  The idea of morals is a topic for another day, but the taste should serve this piece quite well – who is to say what is right?  God it often seems, but he also sends mixed messages.  “Peace and love, blah blah blah – DAMNATION.”  It’s confusing for a young thinker such as myself.  So my answer, as always, is simple: Do what you want to do.  Think what you want to think.  And challenge the system if necessary.  Drugs, babies, and sexual agendas all fall into my realm of moral ambiguity, so follow your heart, little dreamers.  And who knows – you might get it right.

Nigger

It may be hard to believe that someone as far to the left of the political compass as I am, (and as outspoken as possible,) would surround themselves with people that disagree wholeheartedly with almost everything I appreciate about the American way.  Homosexual rights, the female agenda, gun control, social services, and abortion are all topics that have been brought up in too many smoky garages, and around too many half-drunken bonfires.  Here in Burlington, my friends look for as many subjects to challenge me on as possible, knowing all too well that I can never shy away from an argument.  But the number one debate that I have been having over the past few months is one that I feel extremely passionate about, but will never be able to win amongst my associates here in town.  Can we move past the use of the word “nigger”?

It’s not that I’m uncomfortable around the word, especially after having heard it for close to 6 years now with the maturation of camo-clad bigotry.  I have no fear of being associated with hate-mongers and ending up with a baseball bat to the knee caps.  This is the kind of racist fear that is as damaging to the credibility of black America as any chew-slathered comment.  And my argument against the use of the term “nigger” is as simple as I could possibly make it – void of all references to differences in social upbringing or urbanity – and instead focusing on simple logic.  Allow me to give you a taste:

First we have to get past the frequent argument that “black people call each other niggers,” because it really doesn’t apply to the situation at hand.  If you had any sense, you would understand that it is a matter of desensitizing the word – taking away the hateful context and defeating it by creating a term of solidarity.  It, in essence, attempts to take away some of the punch of the word, and to suggest anything else would be stupid.  As an argument that this justifies white people calling black people niggers, it certainly falls flat on its face.  But so many of my neo-Nazi friends’ arguments do.

There has to be a consideration for the word itself.  It is unparalleled in weightiness of insult.  For a white person to call a black person a nigger is to take them back in time and insult generation after generation of African descendants.  It was a word created specifically for hateful intent, and this connotation will remain as such.  No other word in our language is such a direct rocket of hatred. 

So when the argument comes up, (as it usually does,) that there are two kinds of black people, “decent black people,” and “niggers,” I usually begin to sweat with anticipation for a verbal knockout.  We can easily split black people up into categories of people we admire as fellow citizens, and those of which we despise for their flaws, but we can easily do the same for whites.  There are white people that I enjoy and appreciate, and there are white people that deserve their share of criticism.  This applies to people of every race.  But the difference is that we have no word to apply to white people, (“crackers,” “wankstas,” “wiggers,” dumbasses,” etc.) that could ever compare to the term nigger.  There is not one.  For every “nigger” that is selling drugs, doing drugs, enacting violence, or committing crime, there is a white person that is doing the same, yet only one is the “nigger.”  The white guy is a “dumbass.”  They don’t even out.  And they never will.

There’s simply no reason to target the black population in this way, (and I know I am preaching to the choir.)  Now, I have come to terms that I have many, many racist friends – they have the right to believe anything they want, and call people nearly everything they want – but I in turn have the right to argue them down to exhaustion.  Furthermore, this usually works, with most people eventually just agreeing not to use the word in front of me, and to think before they speak.  But this isn’t what I’m fighting for.

I have been fortunate enough to be able to plead the First Amendment several times in my life.  My article a few years back about Randy Winegard’s unfortunate condition of penis envy gained me a few new readers, but no friends among community leaders.  (I lost a website for the stunt, but will stick by my original claim.)  We have this Amendment to protect the viewpoints of all citizens, whether they be through print, religion, or otherwise, with only minimal exception.  But I often wonder, where is it inside the human mind that allows for decency to be thrown out the window in exchange for capability.  You are legally capable of calling someone a nigger, but what possible explanation can be given as to why you would want to do so?  It’s the most loaded of words.  It’s the nuclear bomb of racial remarks.  So many are lucky to be in the sole environment of fellow bigots, or worse yet, friends that are too kind and quiet to challenge such behavior.  I have never been considered kind or quiet, and have no problem making a scene.  Eventually, the scene is going to be made in a place where the odds are not so favorable, and the consequences may be grim.

I make the simple request to treat people with similar respect, if possible.  When a friend makes a mistake, we call him a moron.  An idiot.  When a stranger does the same, he’s a dumbass – maybe worse.  But for some reason, when a black man acts in a way that we consider reprehensible, he becomes a nigger, and that just baffles me beyond belief.  There’s no way to kill it.  I certainly can’t do much more than fight my futile battles.  But for the love of God, (yes, the same God that so many of the right-wing foul-mouths claim to be their ever loving savior,) can we at least entertain the idea of equality for a while?  Maybe just for a moment, between slugs of Miller High Life, we could acknowledge the similarity of our shared flesh and blood, regardless of our color, and in spite of past concerns? 

Martin Luther King, Jr. had a dream.  As usual, I have more of a complaint.

Begging for Lies

It has been only sixty years since the publication of George Orwell’s 1984 and the introduction of double-speak and telescreens to the vocabulary of the public.  But within this short amount of time, the media has evolved into a propaganda powerhouse that perhaps not even Orwell could have conceived.  There are twenty-four hour “news” stations, up to the minute coverage of every major event, and all of the convenient perks that go along with an internet connection.  For all of these resources, there is a public that is dying to consume as much content as possible, regardless of credibility or truth. And although every news outlet presents itself as factually accurate, media consumers are now using these same outlets to be propagandized, and the lines between factual journalism and punditry have been effectively blurred. 
           
There are currently three major networks that provide a national nightly newscast: NBC, CBS, and ABC, respectively.  PBS provides a nightly broadcast, but enjoys nowhere near as many viewers as the other networks.  Each of these stations claims to provide a fair and factual account of the day’s news stories, and for the most part, this can be seen as true.  The anchors provide the majority of the details, while reporters and eye-witnesses collect further evidence for support.  There are no pundits, nor analysts, and the journalists rarely make any comments toward the news.  Only in extreme circumstances, such as Brian William’s recent on-air disgust with an Air Force One photo-op gone wrong, will a journalist break from their traditional role to comment on any report.  This is what is expected of the major network broadcasts, and in comparison to other media outlets, such as cable news or talk radio, the complaints of bias are far less prevalent.
      
      But with the help of the internet, these same journalists are able to shed their reputations as news professionals and participate in the frenzy that is web-logging, or “blogging.”  NBC Nightly News anchor Brian Williams updates his blog, the “Daily Nightly,” after every broadcast, including opinions and criticisms of the same stories presented earlier in the evening.  More importantly, these blogs are usually part of the network’s website, and are often advertised in the nightly broadcast.  This ties the traditional presentation of news to the personal opinions of the journalist while eliminating the professional courtesy of pure fact.  Established and respected journalists such as Jack Cafferty , now of CNN, have been asked to turn their attention to the web to not only reach an even larger demographic, but to allow a more intimate channel for the news.  Viewers and readers alike are asked to comment on news stories, and these same comments are often used on air to gauge passion between two sides of an argument.  The blogger responses to the news become as large a part of the story as the news itself, creating an entire ocean of possible pundits through the advancements of the internet.  These opinions are now integral parts of the news. 
         
   Consequently, with thousands of viewers later logging on to view journalists’ blogs, the opinions of an anchor can help to solidify his station’s ratings, or ultimately damage credibility.  This is nowhere more apparent than in the realm of cable news.  Each of the three major cable news channels, CNN, FOX News, and MSNBC, cling to slogans such as “The Most Trusted Name in News,” “Fair and Balanced,” and “The Place for Politics,” while offering more commentary than news reporting.  Deceptively, hosts like Keith Olbermann, Bill O’Reilly, Chris Matthews, Sean Hannity, and Lou Dobbs all present an account of the day’s events, but litter their broadcasts with opinion based reporting, punditry, and spin.  Each of these stations has developed a reputation based on their broadcast personalities, with FOX News being widely considered the most conservative, and MSNBC the most liberal.  Furthermore, the stations do very little to argue against these political constraints.  The reason for this is simple: people tune in exclusively to hear their side of the argument in full swing, effectively offering themselves up for propaganda, and contributing to huge ratings in the process. 
          
  With this in mind, each of these networks has created a business model based on their targeted demographic, pumping out partisan propaganda over an entire twenty-four hour span.  According to a recent L.A. Times article, FOX News has led the ratings war for the past seven years, “delivering an average prime-time viewership of 2.1 million” in 2008.  Michael Wolff, author of the book Rupert Murdoch: The Man Who Owns the News, has spent a great deal of time with Murdoch, owner of FOX News, and claims that the biases and tilts that are often associated with the station’s reporting are not a matter of political preference, but are purely based in business.  “If [Murdoch] felt there were any money in far-left reporting,” Wolff wrote, “he would gladly do it.”  With MSNBC and CNN being labeled as liberally slanted and center-left networks, FOX News has monopolized the conservative viewpoint, and consequently reaps the rewards.  It should be noted, according to reports by the L.A. Times and the Nielson Ratings for television, all three of these cable networks saw over 40% increases in viewership in 2008, while only NBC gained viewers among the major network nightly broadcasts.  This could suggest an even more dramatic shift toward commentary-based broadcasts and further highlights the viewers’ desire for propaganda. 
           
To complicate things even further, many of the commentators double as reliable journalists and experts.  Tom Brokaw, the former NBC Nightly News anchor and frequent moderator for Meet the Press, has recently opened himself up as a commentator and pundit, most notably for MSNBC.  He’s even begun writing op-ed pieces for the New York Times.  His most recent article is a scathing criticism of what he calls “small town big spending,” which details his complaints over the economic practices of states like South Dakota and Iowa.   During his tenure as a news anchor, he rarely allowed his opinions to leak, but now in semi-retirement, he has made a comeback through punditry.  For viewers familiar with Brokaw, this could easily blur the line between journalism and subjective analysis.  Furthermore, guests are brought onto cable news programs and labeled “experts” or “journalists,” then proceed to share a slanted mixture of thoughts and fact, most often never differentiating between the two.  To a viewer that is relying on journalism to provide them accurate reporting, these guests’ arguments can easily be misconstrued as completely factual.  Eric Alterman, a columnist for The Nation, actually claims that the blog revolution has kept windy pundits in check, citing that bloggers “fact-check statements and compare them with previous utterances.” This might very well be true, but the fact remains that these statements are already being consumed, and many will escape the pursuers of veracity. It can easily become a vicious cycle of one-sided debate that can unfortunately muddy the waters of truth. 
          
  This is seen most interestingly through a study done by the Pew Research Study in 2007, which tested the political knowledge of news consuming participants.  Pew claims that despite the fact that “today’s citizens are about as able to name their leaders, and about as aware of major news events, as was the public nearly 20 years ago,” not all sources are equal in effectiveness.  Among national broadcasts, FOX News viewers actually recorded the worst scores in the study, and viewers of network nightly news broadcasts did even poorer than CNN viewers.  And to add the icing to the cake, viewers of Comedy Central’s Daily Show and Colbert Report, shows based on the mockery of the news, recorded the highest scores of all participants.  Understandably, newspaper website and NewsHour with Jim Lehrer viewers also ranked near the top of the list, neither exhibiting any major concerns for bias.  But what these results show, above all else, is that a steady diet of one-sided rhetoric may not be the best way to remain educated in news-related matters.  In fact, it may be the best way to lose sight of the truth.
          
  But for all the flack that journalism receives for its perceived biases and spin, most would agree that the good outweighs the bad. It was our third President, Thomas Jefferson, who famously said, “Were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without newspapers, or newspapers without a government, I should not hesitate to choose the latter.”   Newspaper journalism, sadly the least profitable method of news media, still remains a well respected force in the presentation of fact, and most networks do indeed have entire blocks dedicated purely to news reporting.  But with the invention of the internet, and the advancement of technology, the opportunities for media propaganda and spin have become greater than ever, with even less scrutiny.  And perhaps most frighteningly, new methods of media propaganda have been able to bypass the watchdog of journalism entirely, while still providing the partisan rhetoric that much of the public desires. 
           
This is seen most strikingly in New York Times columnist Virginia Heffernan’s article “The YouTube Presidency.”  The Obama Administration, widely considered the most high-tech administration in our nation’s history, “maintains an entire staff devoted to new media.”  Part of this staff’s responsibilities include continuous updates of the Barack Obama YouTube channel, which not only supplies clips from Obama press events, but also weekly speeches from the President himself, created solely for YouTube purposes.  These speeches are full of the same rhetoric and promises that most politicians are known to spread, but what makes this considerably different is that journalists have virtually no say in the presentations when all is said and done.  Obama is able to communicate directly to millions of his subscribers who willingly follow his channel and swallow the propaganda.  As Heffernan notes in her article, it is “unsettling” to realize that political reporters can’t keep up with the steady output from the Obama team, and that millions of American citizens are attracted to the unfiltered content.  This material escapes all fact-checks and analysis, and goes directly to the viewers that want it.  It’s the most direct form of propaganda available, and with the number of subscribers going up each day, it’s scarily effective. 
           
One must accept that propaganda is always presented with business in mind, whether it be financially or even governmentally.  But the worst part of this current struggle with propaganda is easily the loss of truth in a technological age that should enhance our ability to find it.  Instead, most media consumers are simply that: consumers, and not thinkers that are able to cut through spin and bias to find the core to every story, and the facts within every report.  And although we should be able to confidently trust our nation’s journalists, the lines between journalists and pundits have become less clear than ever, and people are still too willing to accept what is given to them, without any consideration for further research.  These consumers prefer to hear viewpoints and opinion that mirror their own, as opposed to the truth and the consequences that result from it.  With every partisan blowhard claiming to be a newsman, and with every report being sprinkled with falsities, the media is taking advantage of our entire culture, and no one seems to mind.

Hoffman

There are things I do not know -
Is it obvious?
The Bible never told me so.

And it’s not that I’m a slow reader -
I’m not!  I have read some lengthy prints,
I have been through lengthy stints
Of continued education.
But now I question, just one question:
Is it mental masturbation?
And have I learned at all. 

Because I can tell you about Kings,
And lots of other worldly things.
Did you know Chester Arthur changed his pants seven times a day?
You probably didn’t – and you shouldn’t,
And if you were truly bright you wouldn’t
Waste your time with such trivialities so you can boldly say,
“Did you know…”
“Did you know?…”
“Did you know?!…”

And perhaps you did! Congratulations, I wish you all the best,
Hoping someone, anyone, will find greater use for such great fact.
But do you know how to hold a woman?
Do you know how to kill a man,
Should the time arise
And you lock eyes
With a villain in the flesh – and you have a stainless knife.
A timid looking wife.
Those ideas didn’t come out of a book – you can try and look
But they came out of your mind.
You made them up.
I made them up.
Did you know?

Dali

Tick-tock, says the clock, as though anyone else would,
Dare to be so bold.
Recently, I have been told,
This is where the great commanders stood,
When they shook hands to end the battle – rightly so,
But did a clock ever tell them, “It’s time to go,”
I hope not. 
But there were no latte machines in Appommatox Courthouse.

With every tick, I loose a hair. 
And with the tock – well, do I dare
To think about what my body’s doing at this moment?
It’s chilling, but I’m willing
To assume that I have time to sit and think about such things,
Without a taser to my neck,
After all, it’s just a speck,
This time, this tiny feather on the larger span of endless wings.

And I wonder when I’ll get the veins. 
You know the veins?  I’m sure you do.
The strange roadmaps on the canvass of the elderly.
They’re blue.

But thinking back, had the great leaders had a cup of latte froth,
And a stopwatch in their pocket that also received calls,
Would we have fought for slaves at all?
Or would we have surrendered all our lands to Visigoths,
The last of heathens.
The last barbarians.
You may be surprised to know that they had froth,
White and foamy, as you’d expect
Not to be lost in ancient dialects,
It came from their mouths.
It’s true.

Rocking With The Reverend

It’s not often that I get out and go to the shows. I’ve already skipped a handful of events that I promised myself I would attend, and instead, fell asleep in a puddle of my own drool with Squidbillies blaring through the night. But I made a commitment to the Reverend – a commitment I could not break – that I would attend his show and like it, maybe even love it, so help me God. And dammit – I did. Jeff and I, both half-sloshed shoveling burritos into our faces, reminded ourselves of why we were going in the first place: the music. Most of our friends down here went to Of Montreal a couple weeks ago and apparently had the time of their lives. I have a couple of their albums, they’re okay, but I wasn’t willing to shell out $20 to see a bunch of transvestites in animal masks – I already have HBO.

When I told people I was going to see the Reverend Horton Heat, I usually received some gentle nods that suggested they had never heard of him – but they all had! Guitar Hero has catapulted the rockabilly sensation into unchartered territory, and as soon as I mention “Psychobilly Freakout” the signs of realization start to sweep over their face. And indeed, Psychobilly Freakout has been a new ticket to stardom for the band – an underground touring favorite for nearly 15 years – but it is not the end all, be all of their career.

Not only was I revved to see the Rev, I was also happy to share a local act with Jeff. The Hooten Hallers, a couple of twenty somethings that have undoubtedly been sleeping on futons and floors their entire lives, put on one hell of a show. I caught them once before at the Blue Fugue and decided not to skip their opening act. Though tuned down, (they had free reign at the Fugue – not to mention a sufficient amount of alcohol, marijuana, and adoring fans,) they did not fail to disappoint, howling their way through punk-folk-blues and sounding as loud as a two-piece could possibly sound. If you get a chance, (and I hope you do,) catch ‘em while they’re stoned. It’s wild.

The usual openers for Heat are the Wildcats – a ragtag group of guys that all look to be pushing fifty. Most notably, the drummer looks like John Kruk in four or five years, and the front man looked like Joe Pantoliano. Their set was tight though, (well practiced, I’m sure,) and they swung their way through some rusty blues diddies under the flow of a gorgeous stand-up bass: black with white trim that shone in the dark; a neon effect of the finest quality. But to be honest, I didn’t come here for them. If it had been a free concert, I would have left – it’s true! But God was shining down last night, he was. He was.

I have to remind you that finals are wrapping up, and I had 2 final exams yesterday that warped my mind into a mushy mess of hookers and hierarchy – separate courses, I promise – and I began to wonder whether I would make it out alive. Ambitious little girls in mini-skirts pumping their way through stacks of paper. Frat boys stealing signals from their buddies across the room. It was like a Goddamn conspiracy, so I thought, and I was tired of it. Tired of it all, I say, and I needed to get out – just get out! And I did.

“Can I get a Budweiser, sweetheart?”

“Sure. Got your wristband?”

“Wristband? No wristband.”

“Then you can have a Pepsi.”

“Fuck it.”

I was pushing my luck on account of the bouncers downstairs that were shocked when I didn’t get a wristband from the counter. They kept asking how old I was, and I kept admitting “nineteen,” partially out of pride for my beard and partially because my jaw was loose from outside distractions of sorts. I assured them it was alright – I don’t get carded often – and they were only doing their jobs. I felt like a big man – or at least the biggest little man who can’t legally consume. We had a moment of mutual admiration, those wide-eyed bouncers and I, and I wandered up the steps to our seats without malice. It’s all just fine.

Furthermore, Jeff and I agreed that we are men – the finest men – that no longer have to shuffle giddily in the middle of the scene. We can enjoy a show without drowning in sweat, and we did so, in the balcony. It was better for the actual appreciation – I always find something to complain about when I end up close to stage, whether it be drunkards running into me, or just the uneasy feeling of a crowd. We were safe in the balcony where we belong – like Statler and Waldorf – like vultures looking down on the shit storm. But it was a beautiful shit storm, I have to add.

How could I forget about the Reverend himself? Hell of a show – Hell Of A Show. It was loud and well-played, (the catchphrase on the stumble home was, “Those guys knew how to play their instruments!”) and the crowd was a good one. You judge the crowd on whether they grab the encore, and they did, and I was happy, because those guys knew how to play their instruments, you know? No, you don’t. You didn’t show up! But it’s okay, now I feel more important than you. The guitar lines were slimy, the bass was a thumping dragon, and the drums tied it all down with the snaps you’d want from a rockabilly shit show on ice. How I drug this out for nearly two pages with only a tiny portion dedicated to the Rev, I’m not sure. How do I do anything? How do I survive? Should I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? Etc. The point is, like any good Reverend should, Mr. Heat was able to take my mind and fix it with his snappy orange axe. And what an orange axe – and what a show! But you know. But you don’t. It was more than a show, it was a mental revolution that pushed everything I learned in the past 2 weeks to the dirt – no more finals, no more books, no more teachers’ sexy looks – they want me – they do! – But it’s a story for another time. My fingers are numb to the bone, and it feels to good to waste on sloppy jukebox ramblings.

Let’s buy a typewriter.

Alex Denison

Celebration

Tonight we celebrate the finish of two of my finals, and consequently mourn the end of two more classes.  Goodbye journalism.  You were good to me.  Goodbye Deviant Sociology.  You were…well…you were around.  

To celebrate?  The Reverend Horton Heat – as well as a wonderful opening act: the Hooten Hallers.  It’s going to be a psych-punk-rockabilly Wednesday night.  I’ll do a little piece about it tomorrow – assuming I survive.  

“You’re a bad little chick – that’s the word on the street!  You’re the kind of girl I’d like to meet…”

Did You Know?…

Opium is illegal because of racism toward Asians.  

Cocaine is illegal because of racism toward Blacks.

Marijuana is illegal because of racism toward Hispanics.  

And not all female athletes are lesbians.

Just a few fun facts courtesy of Deviant Sociology 1650.  Enjoy.

Villain Wanted

Hunter S. Thompson wrote for fifty years, from the beginning of the 1950s all the way to his suicide in the 21^st Century.  But over the course of his illustrious career, he maintained one distinct and timeless arch-rival: Richard M. Nixon.  And for better or worse, Nixon characterized nearly everything that Thompson was not; sinister, secretive, dastardly, and politically successful.  One has to wonder whether the good doctor envied the man.

Nixon took the role of the devil in nearly every ranging piece.  He became the personification of evil. Thompson could be writing an article over the Superbowl, and somehow, Nixon would become a supporting character in the action – for reasons that often times were never clear – and before you knew it, Oakland wasn’t beating Pittsburgh, Thompson was beating Nixon – or in even more interesting cases, the other way around.

And I don’t intend to bore you with the works of an author that I’m sure most of you care nothing about, and will never read, (although you should; for those of you who like to complain about never finding material worth your time – SO BORING – this guy in incapable of such material.  He’s an anomaly.)  But as I begin to make a persona for myself, (looked down upon in journalism, admired in substance circles,) I’d like to have a villain for myself. 

I tried to explain this to someone the other day, and I’m sure I came across as pompous and arrogant and everything in between, but I stand by this following thought: In order to be a good writer – a successful writer – who demands an audience and inspires readership, you have to believe you are better than everyone else.  And it’s not a mater of arrogance – you don’t have to talk down to anyone – but you have to believe that you know more than the other guy.  You are the foremost authority on whatever subject you are conveying, and your words are a gift to the masses.  And if you don’t believe this, (which is probably healthy,) you need a persona that does.  My persona plays along.

Which brings me back to this idea of a bad guy – in comparison to me, the ultimate good guy – and the foil that is necessary for a good internal fight.  Superheroes are not superheroes without some kind of villain to destroy, and in reality, entertaining writing, in my eyes at least, follows a similar plot.  Especially if you become established, readers can identify your enemy and laugh with every mention of their name.  Nixon was perfect for this – “There goes Thompson, rallying against Nixon in the middle of a puff piece over motorcycles.”  I want that.  I crave it.  But I have no enemy of scale.

Bush is too easy.  Cheney seems logical, but who cares anymore?  Condi would be creative, but you can’t fight a woman, and Hilary Clinton would be perfect had the Republicans not already done it nearly fifteen years ago.  So, in closing, I’m still searching for my perfect piece of meat – the scapegoat for writing that shouldn’t need a scapegoat.  This piece was a waste of your time…

Sadvertising – (Please Read)

(I need some constructive criticism. The following is a piece I wrote for MOVE Magazine here in Columbia, and before you read it, it deserves a disclaimer.  I was asked to write a “blurb” over the local television ads here in Columbia, which seems like a mundane topic.  It’s nearly 5 in the morning, the piece is due at 7, and I just finished it with a very abstract product.  But because my last adventures into subjective, cross-wired writing were received so well, (my J-Prof and TA’s seemed to really enjoy my piece over self-destruction at a religious event,) I figured I’d stretch it out a little further for mass consumption.  Notes: I do not attend strip clubs in either Columbia, or Gulfport, Illinois, the mentioned locale in the piece.  All descriptions, including the character of “Lava-face” Carter, are from friendly second-hand accounts, most notably of Floyd Womack – a lonely delivery driver back in Burlington.  You don’t need to know the ads to enjoy this, and I’d appreciate the feedback.  Thank you very much – A.D.)

            If advertising were seen as a medium of productive artistry, in the same vein as canvass or clay, local television advertising would be the pre-school doodles that grace refrigerators across the globe.  But just like these primitive pieces of developing motor skill, local advertising has its own distinct element of charm.
            Take the Add Sheet for instance.  For those who couldn’t possibly read through the publication, or even more unlikely, for those who managed to avoid receiving one here in Columbia, the advertising campaign makes sure to highlight the miraculous deals you are missing.  With no spectacular imagery, or even terribly hilarious acting, you’d think the ads would be nothing more than pauses in your “Little House on the Prairie” marathon.  But they’ve sucked you in much further than perhaps you even know.  Sometime down the road you may find yourself elbow deep in the chest cavity of a quadruple-bypass patient, but when you lean over to request a scalpel from your lovely assistant Marie, the only words that come out will be familiar: “Save a lot of money with the – Add Sheet.” 
            With that being said, a jingle can make or break a spot.  Steve’s Pest Control, a name that adequately sums up the services our friend Steve has to offer, seems to have found the short end of the jingle stick.  With a song so disgustingly bland that I often strain to remember it immediately after viewing, Steve tries to remind us that we have a “friend in the pest control business” – as though his competitors were enemies, and certainly not to be trusted.  What drags this ad up to the composts of mediocrity is the engaging storyline that can identify with even the most unique of viewers.  Remember those times when you were younger – silly times – when you thought cockroaches were the best companions the earth had to offer?  I hate to ruin the ending, and having failed to post a spoiler alert, I’ll simply give you a hint: Cockroaches are kind of gross.  And not the kind of gross that you can compensate for with personality, like turtles or Amy Winehouse, but a genuine gross that requires more than one hand-washing.  Maybe even a second baptism.
            And speaking of gross, (and certainly not baptism,) the award for most creative sleaziness easily goes to our transportation experts at MO-X.  As the old adage says, sex sells, and MO-X is certainly your sexiest shuttle service option.  I often like to look at situations with consideration for the deaf, and what it is that they would gather from the mute messages I receive fully accompanied by sound.  Shoving my fingers into my ears, I can’t help but think that these ads could be seen as some kind of escort service on wheels – and if MO-X is able to convince a few hearing impaired viewers of such a scenario, then more power to them. 
            There’s a tiny one-horse town across the river from my home city, and it consists almost entirely of shady strip joints and topless bars.  And inside every one of these little shacks are some of the most loathsome creatures to ever walk the earth’s green grass, and some of which I am willing to debate have never seen the light of day.  There are fifty-year-old dancers, some with missing limbs – no lie! – and a whole pack of melted faces begging for dollar bills.  And I know you are confused as to what this has to do with MO-X, but the link is very simple: desperation.  Every time I see those little vixens huddled around the chubby bald guy with the van, I think back to Thursday night’s regular, “Lava-face” Carter, at the Piggyback Saloon.  It’s the eyes of desperation, maybe even artificially induced, that always make me consider MO-X for my local shuttle needs.
            Are these ads tasteful?  Probably not.  Effective?  I can only assume.  For every person that claims that advertising has no direct link to their consumption, a company can provide a nifty graph that begs to differ.  I have no intention to argue either way.  I consider myself a connoisseur of the most lowbrow offerings, and local advertising has fulfilled this role quite well.  And it’s almost sad to think that between episodes of “Bonanza”, I find more entertainment in the ploys to grab my cash than the cowboys in the dirt.  Someone’s doing their job better than I give them credit for.

-Alex Denison