Showing posts with label curmudgeons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label curmudgeons. Show all posts

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Speaking of Nerd Trolls--Howzabout "Trolling"?






Those n'er-do-well Scandinavian creatures to which we have been referring to: (nerd) "trolls" have sent me off on a quest for the true meaning of internet "trolling" now.

As I understand it, internet "trolls" attempt to bait others, either by going off topic or, alternately, staying somewhat on-topic but using sarcastic, insulting, demeaning, or patronizing language that will incense others to "flame." It's not unlike hate speech in the legal lexicon--it is so powerful that others cannot help but fly off the handle!

It all started when I encountered someone on gamespot who told me to "say goodbye to my thread" because I had used "A**hole" for "asshole" when I should have used only "A____." Instead of reporting me to the "mod" she pointed out my folly glibly, smugly. I looked her up and found that she does this on all the other forums, too--never engaging with others on the topic of discussion and only narc-ing on them and otherwise policing their language--even signing off with a link to a cyber crime site with .gov at the end.





So when I objected to her methods (calmly, rationally--I wasn't flaming), I was stunned at how many people called me "noob," "newbie" and the like--"learn the rules, dude." Hardly anyone said, Hey, You're right. You broke the rules, but she is trolling--so both of you quit it. No one pointed out her stupid ass American Flag avatar icon, either, probably because it cyberwind was blowing through their Gold-Bonded cyberballs.

It's like a weird version of Stockholm Syndrome in which narcs are more beloved the more they hypocritically cloak themselves in the mantle of "saving" the board from...what...swear words? On a board that was, admittedly, about a game in which you shoot people in the F**king head. I'm sorry, I mean F---- head.

No. I mean THE FUCKING HEAD, goddamit.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Ten Reasons I Love to Hate HBO's Tell Me You Love Me







In anticipation of Valentine's Day, the most godawful of holidays (except maybe Thanksgiving--and Christmas is really a "season"), I've been watching HBO's Tell Me You Love Me. I knew that there wouldn't be any personal identification going on, that it'd be the exact opposite: pleasurable disidentification: l love feeling smug and self-satisfied that I'm not one of "those people." (I doubt this show is very high on anyone's Netflix queue, so don't worry about spoilers. The show is lame. Read on.)

So who are "those people," anyway. Well, first of all they are 30-somethings, most of them. Late 30s or early 40s trying to appear in their 30s. Yes, I'm aware of my own age, but 30-somethings belong to a culture, one to which I don't belong at all. These people have pretty much given up on all their "childish" hobbies and taken up child-rearing only or simply become ultra-serious. There's no joy left, no playfulness in their personalities. They are Uber-adults.

Okay, so there's one youngish couple so far, but they're the "immature" couple who uses sex as a way to cover up their real issues. What issues are they?







That leads me to Smugness # 1: I Am So Glad I Will Never Have The Conversation About...what the mother-in-law's power trips are doing to the relationship. Bride-to-be wants no cake; groom wants his mom to be happy and have her way--to be thrown a bone and allowed SOME decision-making; they argue; they fight; they don't resolve it; they fuck instead. Ah yes, I can sit back and relax knowing that I would never marry anyone who allowed their parents to control shit about us. Period. Have fun with THAT tug of war.



Smugness # 2: I'll Never Have to Worry About Jealousy Over The Other One's Masturbation. Indeed, what has increasingly a primal scene in Hollywood is the straight female's wanting sex, the male's rolling over and feigning sleep, her leaving, the guy secretly masturbating under the covers, and the girl accidentally walking in on that--usually without being seen by him. Classic! And hilarious, too, because it suggest that for the years and years that they've been married, they've actually held to some kind of contract that each person's entire sexuality is funneled into the other --or perhaps, they've believed masturbation is resorted to when the other is absent for a long time (supporting fantasies, of course, feature the other as the main attraction, right?).






Smugness # 3: I ALready Had the Whole, "Do You Think I'll Be The Last Person You're Ever Attracted To?" conversation at like, 19 years old. How can any adult 30-something human being pretend that they don't have an unconscious? And yet on Feb 14 of this year alone, thousands and thousands of couples around the world will break up precisely over this sticking point. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Jealousy is so fucked anyway, but that kind of jealousy is just petty.








Smugness # 4: I get to make fun of Coupledom in general. The show loves close ups of faces and all the "little things" that couples do that also say "I Love You"--without the actual words. Words are so...trite. Like this is a lesson people STILL need to learn!!!!! Cue "More Than Words" by Exxxxtreme. Got it folks? Body language says so much more! Except that yet ANOTHER 10,000 couples will, on Feb 14, break up precisely because one of them didn't use those exact words. Or include a Pooh bear with a Valentine sewed on to its nappy fur. That's right folks, I've actually been there AND received such a gift, which was then bitterly snatched from me when I dared to debate the semantics of that trite and meaningless phrase. Looks like I'm actually allowing the show to make a good point...




Smugness # 5 (by now simply an extension of # 4): I will never stare nonchalantly at my wife's peeing upon a pregnancy testing stick. HBO is heralded for showing the "frank" and "mundane" aspects of couples' lives. But before you accuse me of being squeamish about bodily functions--I'm not--at least consider that if you've gotten to the point at which the sight of your partner taking down her underwear, peeing (while possibly yawning and talking about the weather) and then pulling it back up is somehow boring, you've definitely left the initial passionate phase far behind. And this can be a good thing, I suppose. But I'm willing to bank that this couple's sex life is as vanilla as the Febreeze that they spray when they're done. There so damn domestic. BTW, she had a airline runway pube-doo. What's with these people who are boring in every way but that way, who try to "spice it up" with a hip pussy-shave? Another episode will probably feature the V or the Hitler, which one of them looks at but totally doesn't say anything about because he's chewing on a ham sandwich. Oh Brenda of Six Feet Under, where are you? I need you "Tell me Your Not Serious With Your Shaved Balls" running commentary during these moments. That show was so fucking awesome, HBO. You totally blew it going in this new direction.

The show has one good thing going for it: the queerest couple in it is... old. Not to old. Post retirement age. They aren't too lusty or too domestic, just perfectly attuned to each other in a way that you don't see much on TV, either because it really IS rare or because the U.S. can't handle senior citizens' sexuality. Yes, as love objects they are hetero, but as characters, and in the context of all these other cringe-worth straight couples, they practice a queer lifestyle indeed! And NO Viagra necessary.

#6: I'm Not a strict Monogamist. The drama of the show is built around Compulsory Monogamy and the problems that monogamists face because they have to spend so much extra time structuring themselves around the always already structuring demands of monogamy. They can't get too involved in something because they have to do one of the thrice daily "check in" phone calls; they can't share too many perverse desires because someone will be left out and have to experience a temporary shattering of self-esteem; even intimacy itself becomes equated with monogamy, endlessly mirroring, mirroring, mirroring..... I wonder how many other Eager To Be Normal viewers watch intently at how one couple manages to have sex without ever ceasing to passionately kiss each other. No other physicality takes place but the kissing and the penetrative copulation.

# 7: (extension of 6) So far, the show has depicted not a single queer act of love: no untraditional erogenous zones touched (say, an elbow), no fingering as its own means and end, no oral sex for a woman that is its own means to and end, no means without an end, no blurred lines between talk and sex or music and sex, no discussion of the politics of what their doing--no 'meta' talk, that is. Oh wait, one couple sneaks away during dinner and has sex without the dinner guests even knowing!!!! Okay, that's slightly perverse. It was unplanned, didn't occur in their own bed, and involved more laughter than serious eye-gazing. But ultimately there's nothing yet queer about the show except that one senior couple. And of course no gay sex occurs at all, vanilla or queer. HBO wouldn't want to step on Showtime's toes!

# 8 The dad whose TEN year old daughter got her period finds himself STILL reading bedtime stories to her. Glancing from the book to the Kotex on her dresser, he swallows nervously. Ha! Even I, the non-breeder, wouldn't lose a wink of sleep over the whole "daddy's little girl ain't a little girl no more" bullshit. I wouldn't be able to wait until my kid was older because then we'd finally be able to talk like adults--precisely the point of me not liking kids so much, I guess.

# 9 I'll never experience the fear surrounding that oldest of dictums: No Matter What, You Always Sleep in The Same Bed. Even if you're flu-like, or simply need some space, or just "want to." These monogamists steel themselves at bedtime! The awkwardness, the monotony, the dressing ritual in silence--all because they can't break habit or simply sleep away from each other for a while so that, you know, absence makes the heart grow fonder. It's unthinkable!

# 10 I laugh and cringe as the 30-somethings take a lesson from the Baby Boomers and decide that they can perhaps patch up their relationship by either sailing or gardening together, even though only one of them is good at either at any given time. Throw that trowel down in a huff! Aw, go inside and find out what's wrong, dude! She's never had an orgasm and her therapist found out before you did! And all this right before your twilight years start to come around the bend!

#11 Ah hell, I'll save the rest of the bashing for Valentine's Day. More to come kiddie-winkies!


Monday, February 11, 2008

Um...In Your Face?

I'm immensely happy that a jazz artist FINALLY won a Grammy for Album of the Year. It's especially gratifying that Winehouse didn't get this one because a) she's good, but overrated, b) soul is just a more pop-friendly Black art form, no matter how good you are, c) she beat out FOUR women of color (okay two had already won in previous years, so maybe this isn't racism). But let's not call her the "Queen of Soul" okay? Most people that own her album don't even own any other soul records, let alone New Soul Records, like Me'Shell or Jil Scott, etc.--they just like the whole "badass girls who can sing" thing. True, a small percentage of her fans will indeed subsequently purchase Stevie Wonder's Inner Visions or perhaps the Best of Aretha.

Unfortunately, Herbie Hancock is a "crossover" jazz artist, and The Joni Letters songs are very palatable: smooth and short (radio-friendly), with lots of guest artists (sort of like how Santana made a comeback). The only other time a jazz album won this award was in 1965 for the Getz/Gilberto collaboration ("The Girl from Ipanema"--you know this one), and even THAT was another palatable, bourgeois record. When, oh when, will BE-BOP jazz actually win? I guess never, since, pure musicality, especially the "I can't understand it--meh!00it make my brain hurt--meeeh!--I can't dance/fuck to it--meh!" kind of musicality never wins (see: every classical music record every made).

So, I wanted to say, "In Your Face!" to everyone who voted for the hipness and the cool-factor over, you know, musical ability or something, but Winehouse's record is just better--because Hancock's is ust not that great of a record, folks. If you wants you some Herbie Hancock, buy Maiden Voyage--anything with his post-Miles Davis group. Just not this. And certainly not the "Rockit" album or that horrible "Cantaloupe Island" song!

Urgh. It's fucking cold out. Urghhh.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Blood Orgy--Yayyyy!!!!

We at Hatchety-Murder strive to bring you the very best in funny violence, but around Christmas it becomes quite a problem to find the appropriately themed links and embeds. Unfortunately, we aren't a fan of "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer," for obvious reasons, but we still yearn for some relief from holiday stress by enjoying an Xmas song or skit that would not be appropriate for work. Nothing beats South Park's Woodland Critters' Christmas. This is just a little something to take the sting off.



Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Do I Really Need to Set This Up?




Thanksgiving is a turd of day and anyone who says otherwise gets a fork in their eye. Howzabout I eat YOU?

Sunday, September 2, 2007

Get Outta My Way!

To the twenty-year old dude in Wegman's who thought it'd be "fun" to drive a shopping scooter around just because it's midnight: soon you will be obese as fuck and it'll be me, not your silly-ass scooter in the bulk isle that makes backing-up beep noises as you fall into your fucking fat-lubricated grave (XXXLarge!).




To the lady driving the red sedan (licence plate NY DEW 5748), you're not fooling anyone by driving sloooooooooowly and howeeeeeeeeever you liiiiiiike. I see the Handicapped badge on your rear-view mirror and you probably ARE officially handicapped--what lardass isn't? But you obviously went to Home Depot, bought STICKERS and pasted "S-T-U-D-E-N-T-D-R-I-V-E-R" on your rear bumber--poorly, and with no attempt to appear like a legit driving school vehicle.



Saturday, July 21, 2007

Chuck & Buck & Larry

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Saturday, June 9, 2007



This bridge is the one Webelos walk over as they become Boy Scouts. I chose it because the wood is cheap: no frills, just utility. It serves the ritual perfectly because ritual is by definition an action with symbolic value: there's really no need for frills and fluff, right?

So why was the high school graduation I just attended a study in emphasizing frills? Imagine: The underclasses wore immaculate white, each carrying a red rose. The seniors wore white dresses with white gloves and an entire bouquet of roses. Music written specifically for them—composed over 30 years ago on the very organ in the stiflingly hot church we were in (Satan, I will believe in you if you get me out of here)--combined special “trumpet” pipes with the regualr organ pipes. Fanfare! It was as if a king were arriving.

Oh, and television cameras. Weeping parents. Me in a borrowed gown that cost $350 (thanks GC), which itself was deemed the mot remarkable gown of all 60-70 some odd gowns in attendence (notice my clever synecdoche—the gowns stand in for the people themselves. Which is precisely my point--both frills AND symbols--become greater in meaning than mere mortals in their reg'lar ol' skin.

Which brings me to my point. The ritual of graduation made it seem as if we were not people but saints or even gods. What I liked about it was that because regular people—many who are sloppy, disorganized people in their private lives—were made to compose and compartmentalize themselves. They were interpellated to behave. It is kinda funny seeing grown men who would rather be wearing sweat pants try to act "proper."

What I didn’t like about it was the religiosity, the ritualism. I’m using the word not in sense of the various Christian church disputes. Maybe the word is ceremonialism. Ceremony for its own sake. Or ceremony as its own object, the spectacle of it.
I'm not suggesting that there was no "real" object here, but the object was supposed to be graduation—the demarcation between being in high school and no longer being in high school. And certainly the categories of pre- and post-graduate are meaningful to me.

I just don’t know why we need the ritual/ceremony. If you complete the work and the teachers say you are done, then you’ve graduated. If employers and schools didn’t required documented proof of this, there would be no need for the diploma. In other words, in practical terms, there is no need for a graduation ceremony.

So what about the symbolic “needs”? We need rituals, right? Community bonds, public recognition, etc. Well, here are some possible reasons to participate. And these, I must add, are public reasons for the most part. There might also be private reasons, but one can thus perform one's own ritual in private: a ceremony has a public quality, and perhaps it is to conferm something official on a impetus that is private in origin.

1. Compliance. Someone told you you have to do it. You can’t be part of the “gang” unless you do it. This applies to religions and gangs the most, but I'm sure there are those who wear the gown against their will or are simply too brainwashed to know any better. Since I don’t believe in God or in the absolute necessity of organized religion in order to believe in God/spirits/etc., I will always have a hard time understanding why humans need outward signs of their inner beliefs, but oh well. I probably signify my own inner beliefs with my movie posters, Scotch bottles, and electronic devices. But at least no one made me do it. (But wouldn't it be great if, in order to be a horror movie buff, a horror "gang" beat you senseless, chopped off a finger, and locked you in a haunted house for the night? What set you playin', son?)

2.Tradition. Sorry, not a believer in tradition either, though I strongly value memory and history. The "cyclical return" via a ritual that involves the self in some grand participation, on extra-temporal level, in the "thing to be remembered/honored"—pheh! Gimme new words, new symbols, and new dates on which to party. Let the memories come naturally. I guess I'm showing my pagan colors here: aren't nature and its seasons enough for humans? What "believers" don't realize is that their traditions are so painfully obviously manmade that it's hard not to snicker when pople "feel the spirit." Even if God were in the room RIGHT NOW, the ritual is still as hokey as The Twist. The more they insist that that "God inspired" it, the more secular it appears to me, and the more I laugh.

3. Approval. I’m on the fence with this one. My (cult-side) family does not recognize my educational expertise as having any value whatsoever. So would seeing me in full regalia give them pause for thought? Some of my friends say that your getting recognition in a culture that doesn’t recognize you very often—feels awesome. For me, though, why should I seek approval from them? This sanctioned “moment” of "You've Accompllished So Much!" adds insult to injury by underscoring the ironic contrast between "this" moment and every other moment of my live when I don’t get approval or recognition. The school cranks us out, we all look the same, and they really care more about their tutition than the fact that they produced me, the scholar. No institiution has ever sent an officer to ask how I have been representing them these years. As for parents, only one will ever read my dissertation. If there's an approval I seek, it's from an intellectual or avid reader of my work, and this doesn't need a graduation day.

As for family approval—pppffft. I WISH my other family members really saw the "real me," but then I ask myself, why do I want them to? Are they really intelligent to understand anyway? What are they going to do with this approval? Tell others? Whom would they tell? Would those people help get me a better job, a book deal, etc.? See, we're back to the practical. IN the end, my (non-cult) dad approves of me already and believes I’m intelligent. His experience of my higher degree will come with the reading of my dissertation. My enjoyment of his experience will be in hearing what he as to say about what I’ve written. This is all an intellectual can hope for, and robes and colors and platitudes about the future given by some commencment speaker tha you don’t know gives me noe of waht I really want: it only suggests that I could, possibly, have a greater chance of getting it later.

3. Proof of Expertise. I very much want something to signify that I’m an expert. It can be my publications, my interests that peope know and then seek out for advice, even the title “Doctor.” But I don’t need rituals or ceremonies for any of that. If the graduation ceremony allowed each graduate to speak for 10 minutes about the subject on which they are an expert, that would be something!

4. Identity politics. “I belong with you guys.” Pfffft! Sorry, I’m an individual. And while I’m perhaps not unique or special in the elitist sense, I’d rather celebrate how unalike I am then alike. I belong with my friends because...we're friends! No ceremony required. (Although wouldn't it be neat if Best Friends got "married"--i.e promised to devote much of their lives to each other? Nope, sorry, spouses are more important than friends, at least legally. That's why they get a ceremony!

5. Community with others. The feeling of comradery is nice. But again, you can get this sitting around with your friends and colleagues—you don’t need a ritual. In fact, I can't feel intellectually intimate with more than a couple at a time. Also, feeling a “togetherness” is best when it’s rhizomatic—you are part of other communities, too, and while in “this” one you may be the expert, in “that” one, you are not.

6. Empty egotism. Whatever. Overcompensation for lack, perhaps. Aren’t all of these reason starting to smack of LACK? The ceremony gives you something that you ALREADY HAVE, people.

7. Communion with a Higher Power, i.e, The Institution, The State, an Author, God. I understand the need for participants to look around at each other and see mirrors of the self, but easy does it. People talking about God together are the worst because they start comfirming each other’s fantasies the way little kidss talk about unicorns or Transofrmers. I'm certainly guilty of this because nerd gathering start to emit a hummmmmmm...........

8. Unexamined Interpellation. “I dunno. Everyone else is doing it. I thought I’d get confirmed, married, etc. too.” I guess this is the opposite of Egoism. I rather envy these people because they are Indifferent, while I am Concerned and Involved with Why I Should Be Here.

9. Power. Boy did I feel the power surging through me as hundreds of people stared and marveled at the colorful gown I was wearing. Some people actually said, “I want to go back to school so that I can look like you.” Sigh. See what I’m getting at here? It’s ALL EXTERNALIZATION that matters to these people. The inner truth—their wish fulfillment, my accomplishment—is entirely separate from the ceremony.

And when I said, “Yeah, this is a nice gown. I'm glad I came and I do want to honor the hard work these kids have done. But I’m just not much for rituals,” you know what they--inevitably--said?

“Just wait until you have kids.”

Friday, May 11, 2007

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

WHY? WHY?! WHY?!!

--must assholes who nearly let their dog bite your face off apologize that it’s a “guard dog” and expect that this statement neutralizes the ethical misstep. Hey fuckface, leave your “guard dog” at home--guarding the house. In his fence. In the yard. Where he shits in place other than where my feet might go. You have no business training a dog to bark loudly and then taking him out in shared public space where others have to tiptoe on ice or nearly die by smacking their heads on this ice because their fuckface owners can’t properly train the object of their power. If you like having power over the beasts of the earth so much, train your fucking dog.

--must moms and their two rugrats walk three abreast on the sidewalk. Listen up, Betch: I deserve EXACTLY ONE HALF of this sidewalk so walk behind each other in a cute daisy chain or something so that I don’t decide to attach razor blades to my stiffly (but briskly) swinging arms as I pass you. Slice. Ooops. There goes a snot-encrusted arm! Maybe next time you won’t expect the seas to part for your chilldwen.

--must racist homicide cops cover up a fucking MURDER in Elmwood’s Burger King. Oh, what? You didn’t hear about that? Because it wasn’t even in the fucking news. “Channel 2: On Your Side,” like hell. More like “Channel 2: On the Side That’s Winning: White People, Who Only Care When A White Person Dies.” And by the way, Burger King: you don’t belong on Elmwood either, fuckknuckles. Starbucks may be just as evil as you are, but they are clean and quiet: I can’t smell them or hear assholes yelling for drinks from inside their muffler-less cars. No one thinks: “I’ll go murder someone at Starbucks—no one will notice.” They think, “I’ll cap this fool at Burger King because it’s nice and fucking sordid. He sleeps with the fish sticks.”

--must I be expected to go to meetings to which I have no idea if I’m even invited? Oh, no one from the E Dept was there? If someone had told me to go, I’d go. I know, I know...I should do what it takes to become the new head of the dept. I should “get involved,” right? No one has said shit to me about said promotion, only smatterings of “you’ll probably be the one doing all that next year.” Oh yeah? Where’s the MONEY? Where’s the formal fucking OFFER and the power to hire and fire whom I please? I better not be asked this fucking summer just before the new year begins, after it’s too late to hire anyone. Oh, the head of school does the hiring? Yeah, that’s right, I won’t even really have that power—just all the work of interviewing people I don’t like when I already know some perfect candidates. I’ll have a title and no power. Does that mean that when I attend meetings and I can act like what I say matters when it matters as much a dirt does to an earthworm’s navel?

--must I do my taxes myself if I’m happy with whomever the U.S. Government picks? I’ve made at least one mistake every year and the error has been caught by a human who reviewed the whole thing and gave me more money. So how about I buy that human a cup of fucking coffee to do it all himself and call it a day? Or how about I pretend I’m in Idaho and never pay taxes again, but turn my house into a fortress stocked with water and canned goods, its windows meshed over with chicken-wire, and attach a bullhorn over the door so that I may rant at startled passersby? It’s much better than a blog!