Posts tagged I am Pointless!
Posts tagged I am Pointless!
I was looking at the movie news to clear my head, and there’s this article about a movie Will Smith wants to make— “ In a world where one percent of all children are born as “brilliants,” Will Smith plays federal agent Nick Cooper, a fellow brilliant who’s especially gifted at hunting down terrorists” — blah blah blah. Usual bullshit— Will Smith is terrible. But they superimposed Wild Wild West’s face onto an ad for the book this nonsense is based on— check out the ad quotes, the one from CBS Sunday Morning.
"This is how immortality gets started." This is how IMMORTALITY gets started. This is how immortality gets STARTED. This is how immortality gets started. I’ve never heard of Marcus Sakey or read anything he’s written, but luckily I have from now to the END OF TIME ITSELF to catch up because his immortality has already gotten started, as it turns out. He puts it on his website, even— can you imagine putting that on your own website?? ”Hey, guys— turns out my immortality has been started. So I’ve got that going for me which is nice." Somebody’s mom put too many of his drawings on his fridge. This is how immortality gets started!!
Am I starting the morning ranting about a pull quote for an author I’ve never heard of and will probably never read, in connection with a movie I don’t want to see, starring an actor I don’t like (whose raps I also think are bad)? Yes. Proud moment? Maybe not the proudest, but— let’s not pretend I have a bunch of prouder moments to choose from. On the other hand, I’m also gifted at hunting down terrorists. Or, well, I’m gifted at hunting down good gifts for terrorists. Which is different, but same basic thing. Those guys who blew up that one embassy? I know exactly where to buy them chocolate. It’s a gift. Some would call it a curse, but then I’d buy them a gift and they’d be like, “No, this isn’t a curse at all. I love this scarf! I will treasure this scarf always and remember you long after you’re dead." And I like to think that’s how my immortality will get started. Awwwww.
Dumb Question Dept.: Do you think when Steve Martin passes away, we’re all going to be, like, “Oh, we should’ve taken a break from saying nice things about Bill Murray to mention Steve Martin more." Are we going to all have like a retroactive Tito Puente moment with Steve Martin? Granted, Steve Martin thought he was the Pink Panther there for a while, but Bill Murray thought he was Garfield plus I don’t think he can play the banjo. Murray’s into golf and sports, and I don’t really care about either of those things, but Martin’s… probably into fancy paintings or acting snooty or something, so I get why Murray’s the one you’d want to be around. But when Steve Martin sees everyone rubbing their nipples over Bill Murray, like what’s that like? Martin didn’t make Groundhog Day or Ghostbusters or Rushmore, or even Quick Change or Stripes or Caddyshack, but the Jerk’s pretty good, Planes Trains & Automobiles, Dirty Rotten Scoundrel is about con men, a good amount of LA Story (bad memory, there; it’s been a while), My Blue Heaven is an all-time favorite thing with me, Father of the Bride is actually a pretty good movie for its target audience (e.g/i.e. fathers of brides), the Spanish Prisoner, Bowfinger’s got some stuff. I know Martin would rather write for the New Yorker than run into college kid parties, but … so would I because I’m a grown-ass man…? I just don’t write good and/or give that much of a shit about New York because I’m not into i-banking.
I don’t know. Lately, I’ve just been feeling like we’re all Tito Puente-ing Steve Martin… (Murray’s right about Tito Puente in that movie, incidentally— Tito Puente’s great. FYI).
This was totally worth typing out. I regret nothing.
The tricky thing about having a little bit of the ol’ self-loathing going for background music is when I start to accidentally have a nice little moment, watching that just get all weird and messy. I had to work today, but I came home and I had a really nice last hour or two doing my this and that, tinkering around on my projects. And I got a little soft because I’m a softie, feeling like “Oh, I’m glad 10 years ago, I decided to ___ because that lead me to ____ and ___, and then somehow here I am.” All the little tiny decisions that make a little moment happens, all the little steps you have to take that all end up being what your life was. Just a nice little moment— could just enjoy it and then put on some music and enjoyed a warm, nostalgic evening of contentment.
But no, instead, within 5 seconds all that horseshit gets replaced with, “Then again, if I hadn’t of done those things, maybe I’d have found some other way to use that time.” 10 seconds after that: “Maybe I’d be a married astronaut right now. I’d have kids and a house by a lake. There’s no way to know.”
I just Sliding-Doors myself-ed, and now I’m basically all mad that I’m not Astronaut Mike Dexter. What the hell is that? I don’t even want to live by a stupid lake— there are flies and stuff, right? And what if you have to run from CHUDs or home invaders?? Can’t run on a stupid lake, Dexter. Mike-Dexter-me might be smart enough to go into space, but he’s got shitty tastes in housing and/or defending himself from CHUDs. My life, I don’t own a house but you see any CHUDs around? Answer: no. So who came out ahead?? Which of us won??
Goddammit, it’s going to be a long week.
Came home from a long day of work to a black Santa Claus I’d forgotten I bought myself at 3 in the morning one night when I couldn’t sleep and I was fucking around on the internet, like, “Capital idea— let my stupid future-self figure out what the hell to do with this. Haha, good luck, future-me! Adventure!" I have to say— Santa Claus is really pretty jolly though, and I think he’s going to add some coziness to this bookshelf that maybe was missing before.
And thanks wherever she is to Megyn Kylly! Every letter of your name is a Y, you crazy Fox news weirdo fascist valkyrie, but now I own a Santa Claus figure thanks to you and maybe … maybe Christmas cheer is exactly what I’ve been missing this entire time. <Cue: Bill Murray’s speech from end of Scrooged>.
“The very worst place to lose your keys is your own back pocket,” I said for maybe the 5th or 6th time in my life. Why do I even have back pockets?? I don’t blame being absent-minded— I blame the history of inefficient tailoring! It probably had something to do with— in the medieval times, having back pocket meant that you were loyal to the King. Stupid feudal monarchs and their stupid back-pockets where I lose my keys.
Yesterday, I was watching Wolf of Wall Street and being like, “Man, maybe I should’ve been a rich degenerate that looks pretty fun I bet there’s a lot of lobster involved that lobster stuff’s pretty tasty" and today I can’t find my goddamn keys… Life and pants just always go out of their way to keep a person humble.
Do you ever wonder if Paul McCartney thinks a lot about how dictators probably know the words to all his songs? Like, the worst, most oppressive scum this Earth will create going forward, they’ll be doing Hey Jude karaoke in their bunker or girl dungeon or wherever. I mean, just think about how many times awful, obnoxious douchebags have probably gone up to Paul McCartney and been like, “Your music changed my life” and he’s had to keep from going “Omg, what were you like Before??" At some point in that, it stands to reason he stopped and thought about, like, Gaddafi or whoever. I don’t know. I’m just eating my lunch and wondering how McCartney does the math on that. I’d settle to find out about how Ringo feels about it, though, I mean, I guess.
I hate ties. I like owning suits and being a person who owns suits and has purchased suits because that’s all roughly congruent with “how a grown-ass man should be” platitudes that I guess I’ve received and subscribe to on whatever level. I’ve bought more than one issue of Esquire magazine in my life, or whatever, so there’s all kinds of that gunk between my ears. Especially in this city where the way some guys dress, you look at them and wonder, “How are you 40? You’re 40 years old and now I know what your favorite band is! Do you have a photo of a Lamborghini above your bed, too, big guy? Those are the fastest cars! Zoom zoom!" But the ties! I turn into Professor Wadded-Panties and start pontificating about "This is an archaic relic probably from a medieval era where ties signified a man’s fealty to a feudal hierarchy and mores that are outdated Oh no my pocket protector Where did I leave my copy of James Joyce’s Ulysses?" They’re snazzy and they can improve the suit, but just having to take that 5 seconds to put one on, I always get all whiny and turn into Paul Rudd throwing away the trash in Wet Hot American Summer. I always feel like I lost some big game, like if I were more successful, I’d be able to force people to accept that I’m not wearing a tie, using my author-itah. (Which is irrational because powerful people all wear suits with ties). I don’t know. I just dislike them. I dislike ties. Go into your day now armed with that knowledge, young Christian warriors! Wage war into the deepst depths of hell now steeled by knowing of my mild distaste for elementary haberdashery!
Man, I’m enjoying this photo a bunch right now, but later, not tonight but later, I’m going to be at a grocery store. And I’m not even going to be buying food— I’m going to buying laundry detergent or garbage bags— I’m going to be buying tolilet paper. And then there’ll be that moment where I stop and remember that while I’m buying paper to help me wipe the butt-stuff from out my ass, so I smell less like butt, other people are living Addams Family lives filled with all kinds of Halloween glamour— scaring kids, taunting horses, attending waltzes inside exclusive mausoleums, just living it up all kinds of weird. That’s a moment that’s going to happen that I have to be ready for. That’s in my future. That and waking up in the middle of the night and seeing these two standing at the foot of my bed, laughing and laughing, and there’s a grisly green light coming from below them lighting them from below and Roy Orbison’s “In Dreams" is playing from somewhere that’s both far away and close by. That probably in my future, too— safe bet.
Things I Don’t Get but Not to My Credit: Crosswords. Smart people are really into them, so there must be something there, some there-there. Jon Stewart; Bill Clinton; people in the J. Crew catalog probably. Sure; great. But when I actually sit down and play one, I always just feel belittled and mocked. ”I know something you don’t. Can you guess what it is? Boopity boop." You know who the screenwriter of Cimarron (1931) is? Then just tell me. Just tell me who it is! If it’s so damn important to you, try sharing it with me instead of— instead of playing games with my emotions. Crosswords just seem like these smug jerks of the newspaper page. And what do they prove anymore? I could find out who wrote Cimarron if I just googled it. It just tests how stubborn I am, that I don’t. G. Gordon Liddy used to hold his hand over a candle to prove how loyal he was to Nixon, but we don’t put photos of that next to Ziggy in the newspaper every day… I know I’m missing out and I know this isn’t to my credit because, like, Jon Stewart! Bill Clinton! But anytime I do one, it just leaves me a wreck. 70-across, four letter word for "Puts on TV" that ends in r and s. I put on a TV every night!! How dare you, crossword? How dare you…
I’m really taken by the box that my chicken popper dinner (jealous?) came in tonight, this little Ziggy comic strip they put on it. I like how they don’t even bother to tell you the Papa John’s Founder name. There’s something really wonderfully tragic about it that makes me having chicken poppers for dinner not seem so bad. ”Nobody cares who I really am! Nobody loves me! Just call me Papa John’s Founder— that’s all anyone cares about." I like to imagine Papa John’s Founder is just some crying teenager. Because otherwise it’s just a smiling man in an apron who insists he be called Papa, Notorious BIG-style…? "You want some chicken poppers? This is Papa’s chicken. NOW I AM YOUR PAPA. MWAHAHAHA." That’s just creepy— I’d much rather think of him as an aspiring Ziggy. I Was a Teenage Ziggy…
Come on, you guys! Come on! There’s a beer I drank in college, a professor got me drinking, Fullers ESB, which is a beer that always made me feel happy for some reason. It’s a beer a lot of places don’t carry, but I went to a place that had it and enjoyed one or two tonight, (not such that I’m inebriated by any means so please don’t take this as an inebriated drunky-drunk thing). And I was in a good mood all day to begin with, so maybe I’m what Verbal Kint would call an “unreliable narrator.” But my point, here’s my point: my point is come on, internet! I just looked at gifs of model ladies in kinda-superhero costumes looking foxy, and then I followed it almost immediately by looking at gifs of Halloween cats doing funky Halloween stuff, all cute and whatever. This is great; we’re all having a great time! I’m going to go do things that aren’t about the internet now because it’s finally the weekend and I got my work done and so forth, but in conclusion and summation: come on.
I’m just in a good mood this morning— I was all mopey yesterday, and today I’m all cheerful and “We built an amazing computer that lets all of us share neat videos with each other, you guys! I’m going to reblog everything I see because it’s all so wonderful, zippy-do-da!" I’ve just felt like that part of Anchorman where Steve Carrell says "I love lamp" since I woke up in the morning. Moods are so weird— it’s like weather at some point; I can’t pretend like I have any control over it, at least. Neurochemicals go one way, neurochemicals go another way— I’m just their sexy marionette. That’s what I have on my business card anyways.
And it can all turn on a dime— in an hour I could be in the mood to sit at my desk eating cupcakes and regretting things I said in high school. Or I could be in the mood to burn something— you know, to light a fire and then run for it? I think I would use a really long fuse— that way I could run really far before the fire started and it’d be harder for them to catch me. Is that a good plan? I just googled “best way to commit arson” — here’s a listicle on the Top 10 Tips to Commit the Perfect Crime (“Chose a crime that can be committed in the early hours of the morning or that can be done very discretely during the daytime”). That seems like good advice. But nothing in there about using a long fuse. Or maybe people don’t even use fuses these days…? Maybe I should try to figure out how to do some cool radio-controlled thing. Or is there an app I could use? I think a fun part would be buying gloves so that when they’re looking at the charred remains of whatever I burn down, they can’t figure out my fingerprints; I haven’t bought gloves since I moved since the weather doesn’t get too cold, so that’d be a pretty fun thing to do, right?
My glass is half-full! Of Arson fantasies!
For the last week, I’ve been staring at my computer screen and my eyes have been flashing dark. And at first I just thought, “oh, I’ve come home from a long day of work and I’m just falling asleep." Then, a couple days later, it happened again. I used to have a high school teacher who talked about having that— she had, like, an episode. So I started thinking, “Oh, there’s something wrong with my eyes. Oh well, I guess it’s started. It’s started, the inevitable process of death and decay, some problem with my circulation probably, probably because I each too much candy and junk food, something I should google on webMD eventually and learn about the thing that’s going to make my last years miserable, oh well. It was bound to happen sometime. Just— just don’t think about it because if you think about it you’ll have to google it and then it’s just hospitals and doctors and oh man, well, it was bound to happen."
It took about a week but I finally looked up at the lamp above me— turns out I got a broken lamp! The air conditioning in my apartment broke, the building elevator has broke twice this month, and now my overhead lamp’s broke, but the good news is I’m going to live. Eeyore’s going to live, you guys! Yaaay. Took me a week to look at the lamp…
(Vampire, Abraham-Lincoln-Hunter on TCGS tonight— that character’s one of my favorites…)
I find this interesting because at this particular moment, at least, sitting here today with my mental state today, my instinct would be to go with “yourselves.” Wouldn’t I? The internet’s more than one person— that’s what makes it the internet, and not just an especially shouty version of ZORK. So if you wanted to tell everybody on the internet to engage in a violent self-fucking, you would go with the plural form. Right? You would tell them to fuck themselves, not it to fuck itself.
Then again, maybe I’m wrong because … because if you’re anthropomorphizing the Internet, Carl Barks Ducktales style— no one anthropomorphizes an abstract concept to be a multitudinous entity— at least examples of doing so don’t spring to mind right this second. Mother Nature, Kool-Aid Man, King Shit of Fuck Mountain— all one guy/gal, not some cloud. Though … Kool-Aid Man’s not really supposed to represent a sum collective of the individual consciousness of Kool-Aid drinks extant in reality either— at least I don’t think so. I think he’s supposed to be, like, just one particularly big jug of Kool-Aid that was so awesome that it achieved sentience, right? So it’s different.
Of course, if we were to make internet the subject of the sentence, I wouldn’t have a problem going “the internet hates being reminded to floss.” There, I’d go with hates instead of hate, suggesting that despite the foregoing, I believe that the internet is properly singular and not plural. So I guess it would be “yourself…?”
But then, imagine a— imagine in your head a little crying teenage girl who got picked on, by the Myspace Cheerleader mom bullies, say, and her dad comes in and he tries to comfort her. In my head… in my head, he’d be like, “Bonnie Sue” — her name’s Bonnie Sue, I forgot to mention that before— “Bonnie Sue, you go and tell the internet to go fuck themselves.” And then rock and roll guitar twang, cut to her walking down the hallway, maybe with a new haircut or something or clothes that say “i don’t care about your bullshit, internet— I’m going to live life the way I want to!”, and everyone in the hallways being like “oh shit”. Good movie, right? You change that to “Bonnie Sue, tell the internet to go fuck itself”— not as good a movie! Not as good…
I have a hard time with grammar.