Brian Wilson's Sgt. Pepper Journals

In the back pages of rock and roll folk lore, it is rumored that Brian Wilson, the brilliant yet troubled singer/ songwriter of the Beach Boys, took copious amounts of LSD while listening to the Beatles' album Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. Wilson became a notorious shut-in for several years—overreacting, perhaps, to the sense of inferiority Sgt. Pepper inflicted on him.

Here's an entirely fake entry from Brian Wilson's journal. With the symmetry of Dark Side of the Moon and Wizard of Oz, it chronicles his thoughts on the Beatles album he found so incredibly inspirational it made him feel like giving up completely.

8/30/67

12:50 pm—My lady-friend seemed kind of miffed 'cause I slept in again today. She tried to rouse me out of bed at 9, but I could only moan and quip, “I guess I just wasn't made for this time.” She didn't laugh. I'm starting to think the only tunes she recognizes from my last record are the hits.

Oh, well. Not long after I woke up, I took a pretty mighty dose. And now I can't wait to celebrate the psychedelic ecstasy of the record that shattered my soul and waylaid my will to live.

1:00 pm—Man, that guitar riff has such a great melodic sting to it. The orchestral touches are so precise yet ambient that I wanna stick my head in an oven. Plus, apparently they finally found a guy to replace Ringo: a fellow by the name of Billy Shears. I'm really looking forward to getting a load of his chops as a vocalist.

1:02—Oh, that's right. It turns out Billy Shears and Ringo are one and the same. I forgot: the Beatles are going for an “alter-ego band” sort of approach. I gotta stop jotting down reminder notes on rolling papers that I later smoke. Anyway, this tune is totally groovy. My one qualm is that you really don't need friends in order to get high. I'm living proof!

1:05—I dig the ethereal keyboards and far-out imagery, but I can't help but wonder if there's a hidden meaning in its name, some kind of an inside-joke for the counter-culture. Hmmm... “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” Lucy. Sky. Diamonds. I love it, but I'm drawing a blank. Maybe the “I,” “T,” and “W” in the title are a clue, a small piece to a puzzle that's, like, bigger than a million universes put together, ya know? “I.T.W.” Think, man, THINK... Internal Transcendental Wonderment? Intergalactic Thai-stick Wantonness? Golly-damn these Beatles; I can't crack their CODE!


1:09—I've got to admit, the happy demons in my skull are getting better all the time.

1:12—After Rhonda pounded on the locked door to my bedroom, she asked me what the you-know-what I'm doing in here. I groaned and quipped, “I'm fixing a hole where the rain gets in!” She didn't laugh at that one, either. She screamed something about how I can't tell the difference between a hammer and my own “fanny” 'cause even though I can sing and write and she really likes that and stuff she doesn't think I'm a real man. Then I heard her muffled cry from the other side of the door and I got a vision of tears pouring out of her eyes. I puffed on a reminder-paper and sang along to the chorus about fixing a hole where the rain gets in and couldn't help but feel lousy when I considered what it all meant.

1:14—It didn't take long for Rhonda to pack her things and drive away from this place. She must have planned it beforehand. She was nice enough when I barely heard her say, “bye-bye.” I guess she's leaving home. Trippy.

1:18—This band does way too many drugs. Yet they're so brilliant I wish I could plummet from the moon blindfolded onto the piercing peak of Mt. Everest...or maybe just get a hug from somebody.

Dude! More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook you've wanted for so damn long!

Tall, Dark, Handsome Men in Uniform are Overrated

^The one on the right is Ashton Kutcher. This was taken from the movie The Guardian, by the way, which was a drama, but remarkably, it was still funnier than That '70s Show. ^

For those reading this who don't know what I look like: I'm about 5'8”--which is by no means tall.


I've got brown hair—which is darker than blond but not as dark as black. Plus, my skin is white—so white that, during winter, when sunlight become scarce in Wisconsin, my complexion turns paler; it becomes even less dark.

In regard to handsomeness, I rank somewhere between dreamy hunk and sideshow monstrosity—and whether I'm deemed a '5' or a '6' or (on my most debonair days) a '7' out of 10 in the eyes of women is awfully tough for me to gage with any zest or accuracy because I've never had the urge to fuck myself. So, sure, let's just go with a '7' 'cause I guess confidence is kind of a big deal to women for some reason.

Finally, although my beloved fantasy football team could not exist without men in uniform, and regardless of the fact that men in uniform fight in wars on behalf of my country, on a personal level, there is nothing more demeaning than dressing in the exact same fashion as a bunch of dudes who don't at all represent who I am.

Obviously, I'm nonplussed by the way our culture gushes about tall, dark, handsome, men in uniform. But since I'm not genetically geared to smooch or fondle another man without choking down some of my own barf, I should at least try to bridle my scrutiny of heterosexual women and homosexual men. I am, after all, incapable of truly relating to their physical desires. For the sake of self-preservation, however, I can relay some reasons why the ideal man is not necessarily one that is tall, dark, handsome, and dressed in a uniform (which, by and by, will almost certainly compromise and corrupt his ability to think and act for himself).

Tall is attractive, eh? As a short guy, I'm supposed to concede superiority to all those self-righteous stiffs who blocked my vantage-point of Radiohead when they played at Alpine Valley in 2003—is that the idea? Fate dictates that I should bow down to their genetic inclination for changing the bulbs on ceiling fans?

Nuts to that. Tall men oftentimes get so complacent with their God-given ability to inform others when their uppermost cupboards get too dusty that they don't even bother trying to hone interesting personalities. Tall men become so impressed by how easy they can slam-dunk a basketball without jumping very high that they scarcely consider the feelings and thoughts of others doomed to live at less freakish heights. Tall men flourish on the same superficial premise as women with double-D breasts because tall men are expected to have sizable penises—to the extent that every time I hear a woman pine for tall men, I strip her statement down to a likely longing for large cocks, and once that becomes clear, I really don't see why it's so offensive for a man to admit that his ideal woman “has some big titters.” The language is draped in a degree of tact by the finer gender, but the sentiment remains the same: Big cocks, big tits, go BIG or go home. That has become the American mantra on sex.

Now, if I'm exaggerating too much, ladies, if I'm mistaken that the appeal of a tall man has a whole lot to do with the size of his penis, please lure back to your bed a tall man who, unexpectedly, is not especially well-hung, and candidly report back your assessment of getting it on with that guy.

Particularly for short women who desire tall men, the penis has got to paramount. When those couples hug, the scene looks like a baby orangutang with her arms looped around her male caretaker. Who would want to endure such a farce in public without the boon of a big wiener?

Tall, dark, handsome men in uniform must necessarily be DARK—and that's an especially vexing expectation in a country who gave its first black residents such a cruel introduction to the workforce. If “dark” is truly idealized in the eyes of heterosexual women, there really should be more interracial couples. And I'm OK with that, but racially conscious women just might assert that—and hey, no offense—the longing for “dark” men does not imply a longing for African-American men, but rather for Caucasian men with black hair. When those dopey idealizers say “dark,” I guess, they don't necessarily mean to say “black,” even though “black” is as dark as a color can possibly get.

Ultimately, these women thirst for an inverse-version of the Arian race. Whereas Hitler had a creepy, Nazi hard-on for blond-haired white boys, advocates of the dark=sexy persuasion seem to have a bias against men who were born with light-colored hair.

If I were to substitute a synonym for “dark,” why on earth would it seem edgy to assert that the ideal American man is tall, BLACK, handsome, and dressed in uniform? Because perhaps more than half the nation would jump at the chance to replace such a man with yet another rich white asshole with dark hair.

And as far as the quality of handsomeness is concerned, do we really need to devise more ways to make ugly people feel inferior? Does it have to be a priority to make homely dudes feel even less special than they already do by gushing all these platitudes about, “tall, dark, HANDSOME men in uniform”? Jesus. At least give the mutated underdogs a chance.

The “men in uniform” part of the worshiping is the funnest to debase. In most cases, a man in uniform is but an average guy who's willing to scream, “YES, SIR!” And he doesn't find the experience humiliating since all the others in the group are screaming the same thing, and anyway, once the war is over or the game ends, he knows he can go home to a woman who will fuck him because her sex goes gaga for men in uniform. We have the appeal of anatomically correct Ken dolls to them, dressed fancily in a neat and tidy row.

I realize men have been culpable for just about every global catastrophe throughout history, but women could do their part to reduce ongoing plights like warfare and concussions in the NFL by simply gazing at the occasional man in uniform and shrugging: “Meh...I don't see what all the fuss is about.”

And if just ONE less 18-year-old quits the army or his high-school football team, thereby avoiding death in the cross-hairs of a foreign soldier (who is also fighting with the main intent of impressing a chick who digs men in uniform) or sparing his brain from 6 concussions in the span of a month that will cause him dementia and depression later on his life...it will be worth it.

Tear down the self-esteem of a man in uniform every once in a while, will ya? I can't do this alone, ladies; most people don't care what I think.

That's why I think tall, dark, handsome men in uniform are overrated. If I failed in my argument against them, however, I have a request to all the women reading this: Bang LeBron James. He's got to be the gold-standard of tall, dark, handsome men in uniform, and if you're gonna tune out my rhetoric, don't be middling about your desires. Bang Lebron James so that his tall, dark, handsome, uniform-wearing seed spreads all across America. Bang Lebron James until he surpasses Wilt “The Stilt” Chamberlain's record of 10,000 bedded women. Make The Stilt feel like an emasculated sissy in comparison to Lebron James. Bang Lebron James as lustily and as often as you can. Live life to the fullest.

Go big or go home.



“I couldn't care less if she never came back/ I was gonna leave her anyway/ And all the good times that we shared/ Don't mean a thing today/ Say 'Sour grapes'/ You can laugh and stare/ Say 'Sour grapes'/ But I don't care” --John Prine

My Goofy Eulogy

^ This delightful picture was taken moments after someone reminded me that someday I'm going to die.^

I wrote this when I was 17-ish, remembered it recently, dug it out of a drawer, thought the jokes held up pretty well, revised it a little bit, and now it's the first story I did in high school to appear on this blog.


The year was 1982. A young MTV actually aired music-related programming. Ronald Reagan led the country on an outrageous roller coaster ride of ultra-conservatism. And a man and a woman had sex. Their names need not be mentioned, but the youngest child of Bill and Ruth Olig turned out to be the greatest human being of all time.

The talented visionary showed promise at an early age when his first means of verbal communication was not a mere word but an elaborate sentence: “Whoa, Christ, I'm carrying around a ten pound load of crap here; somebody wanna change me or what?”

In 1987, he became the youngest person ever to be shot out of a cannon through a series of blazing rings. His parents would later apologize for the reckless act.

At age 9 Nick won the Nobel Prize for coming up with conclusive evidence that Spiderman could indeed beat Batman in a fight.

On his graduation day, he solidified his reputation as class clown by accepting his diploma, pulling out a toy gun from under his gown, and pointing it at the principal before declaring, “JUST KIDDING!” He squezed the trigger and a small banner unfurled from the barrel which read, “School Pride.”

Nick's legacy of peace and nonviolence was firmly established at age 22 when he pummeled Saddam Hussein in a steel cage wrestling match.

The next year Nick made the move to New York and won a Tony Award for his stirring performance in the musical adaptation of Booty Call.

He made his contribution to the world of science by renaming that hanging ball in the back of the throat to something plain and easier to remember. Since 2009, it has been called the “Chankakitanuevenhoto”--the Cherokee word for “simple.”

Before game 7 of the 2012 World Series, Nick was so determined to see his beloved Cubs win that he knocked out, gagged, and stole the uniform of the Yankees' center-fielder in an effort to sabotage the opposing team. Incredibly, nobody detected his scheme, but he accidentally hit three home-runs and the Cubs lost.

More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook.

Songs I Could Do Without

^This is the most disturbing photo I've used on this blog since I wrote that one about Jerry Sandusky.^

I sat in a folding chair beside a poker table with my friend Fred and his dad, Mr. Ferg, flanking me. As I folded my lousy cards, the CD player shuffled to a new song. It was “Arco Arena,” an instrumental from a mix of Cake tunes I put together and burned for the Fergs.


“This one's damn good, too,” Mr. Ferg said.

Fending off the undue conceit that comes with assembling a well-received mix, I just nodded in agreement. Fred quipped that Jay-Z sampled “Arco Arena” for a track he rapped over. Taken aback and flummoxed, Mr. Ferg asked, “What's sampling?”

Without scoffing, for I had a hunch I was about to break some grim news to Mr. Ferg, I gave him a rough definition of sampling.

“Basically, rappers or their labels pay royalties to musicians so they can use their beats or riffs for their own songs. The producers blend these samples with the rappers' rhymes...” (Here I gathered that I was losing him but I nonetheless blundered on.) “You know The Police? Well, they had a hit song that was sampled by Puff Daddy...that's one example.”

The crinkles in Mr. Ferg's brow squeezed and deepened and I could almost see molecules being crushed between the creases. Name-dropping The Police was rare and perhaps eccentric to Mr. Ferg, who had opted to turn a deaf ear to most of the bands that made it in the 1980s. And more concretely, I gathered that devout fans of Buddy Holly and Johnny Cash clearly aren't part of the Puff Daddy demographic. For a beat, Mr. Ferg glowered at me as though I was the offspring of a Beastie Boy and DJ Spinderella. Before we dropped the subject and returned our focus to the card game, he took a swig of beer and tartly grumbled...

“Rap crap.”

###

The upshot of that little story is that passionate listeners are so often bipolar in their tastes; they have intense likes and dislikes of certain bands and genres. I'm the same as Mr. Ferg in that regard, and the fact that I'm enthralled with the sampling mastery of the Dust Brothers whereas he'd consider shooting a deejay in Encino just to watch him die doesn't change anything.

When his son mentioned to him that he saw Huey Lewis perform at Summercamp, Mr. Ferg replied, “I wouldn't walk across the street to see Huey Lewis.” I felt the same way about the jam bands who typically play at that annual show. In college, I once turned to the bubbly hippie hostess at a party after she put on O.A.R.'s “Crazy Game of Poker” and said, “You know what I'd rather listen to? Anything but this.”

We make feisty overstatements because we care. And because everybody is trapped in the vacuum of subjectivity, anyway, I prefer to voice my opinion—provided I don't mistake it for absolute truth.

Tunes can inundate me with joy, goosebumps of melancholy, or rump-shakin' grooves, but they can also make me cranky, resentful, and unpleasant.

Before I crucify the songs I could do without, I'd like to pass along the ones that are among my favorites so that those who enjoy shit like Paula Cole and One Republic can vengefully crucify them if they so choose.


“In My Life” by the Beatles, “Jack-ass” by Beck, “Paranoid Android” by Radiohead, “Modern Love” by David Bowie, and “Lookin' Out My Back Door” by CCR.

If you feel like it, go nuts with hatred for these songs! You're entitled to that.

And with fuck yous to further ados, to me, the following songs are sonic poison.

“Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?”--Paula Cole

This debacle of estrogen-fueled balladry stands as convincing proof that women are in fact impossible to please. Once I get past the staggering unlikelihood that this armpit-hairy lady never thought to tour Texas—where modern-day dudes don't even wait until Halloween to dress like cowboys—I realize she's blubbering a critique about diminished masculinity. She uses a personal narrative that leads to a broader commentary on how men simply aren't as manly as their cowboy forefathers, which leaves women unsatisfied.

Let me tell you something about these cowboys you yearn for, Paula Cole: They mostly treated women as inferiors. They frequented whorehouses, amassed and spread VDs, and shot and killed people in whiskey stupors because they lost a fucking poker game. They raped and beat women without consequence and denied women the right to vote. If their saving grace was manliness, it follows that mankind is doomed—and women enabled such a grim fate. Men had to give up some power so that women could have more power—and a woman who condemns that compromise is basically saying, “I sure miss that oppression.” "Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?" is maddening bullshit.

At one point, Paula desperately pleads, “Where is my happy ending?”

Here is my answer: It's unattainable because the progressive movement toward gender equality doesn't jibe with your standards of what constitutes an ideal man in the 21st century—the century we're living in. And if you can't understand that, you don't deserve to be happy, but if there's a silver lining, it's that you're allowed to pollute millions of eardrums with annoying drivel. You can do this, ironically, because of the freedoms women have fought for and gained since the bygone days of those asshole cowboys that make you all hot and bothered.

“Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?” has at least inspired in me a ballad in response. Its working title is, “Where Have All the Submissive Brothel Whores Gone?”

Now, Paula, ladies everywhere, honestly...does that seem fair to you?

“Apologize”--One Republic

These d-bags have yet to apologize for raping so many eardrums, which leads me to believe that just one republic is entirely too many. The bed of music beneath the words is a stale wasteland. The guest singer on this God-awful ballad is Timbaland, who can be heard on the chorus, grunting, “Huh-huh!” That's all Timbaland had to do to earn another hefty paycheck. For the hook of “Apologize,” a vain male model whines about a woman who cheated on him before he found a rebound-lay the next day, coddles his own damaged ego, and then an over-hyped producer who sounds like a mental invalid moaning in his sleep tacks on, “Huh-huh!” As of 2008, that has become a winning formula for a hit song.

Before launching into the tawdry chorus, the singer from One Republic states he's afraid...and so am I.

“Dreamlover”--Mariah Carey

This would actually be a passable song for me to ignore at the dentist office if only Mariah refrained from showing off for the overdubs of the chorus. “Dreamlover" is a tame and catchy and accomplishes exactly what fans of pop-music crave...until Mariah tries to dazzle listeners by making an unholy, high-pitched and ascending shrill with her voice. Why? Because she can—not because she should.

I gotta call bullshit on someone named Jozen Cummings whose glowing review of “Dreamlover” is featured on Wikipedia.

“Truth is, she is never crass in the use of her amazing instrument. She keeps a close, tasteful rein on the acrobatics.”

That's not the truth. Mariah is crass in the use of her voice, which does not count as an instrument. She does the polar opposite of keeping a close, tasteful rein on the acrobatics. She sounds like a torture victim who thoroughly enjoys it. When Mariah hits those rarefied notes, she inflicts suffering on those with hangovers, terrifies dogs, and ruins what could have been a solid hit to tune out while roaming the aisles of Pick 'n' Save. When she flaunts that unholy shriek, she becomes an evil mutant hellbent on splitting the skulls of the innocent.

On “Dreamlover,” Mariah's voice is not an instrument. It's a sinister weapon.

“Back on the Train”--Phish

Fond du Lac, WI, has a cult problem. The one in question doesn't condone mass-suicides nor anarchy like other, more nefarious cults, but if you simply don't care for hippie music that emphasizes the jam more so than the song itself, Phish-heads can be a real nuisance.

Similar to the Stonecutters, that chauvinistic club from Springfield, when Phish-heads congregate in private, they address each other by numbers that correspond to how many shows they've attended. These numbers determine their hierarchy in the group.

“Pass me that bong, number 36.”

“Anything you say, number 42.”

These people never get tired of marveling at the Bittersweet Motel DVD or scrutinizing and discussing every single set-list Phish have played. They feed dollars into jukeboxes at bars and monopolize two songs about possums and fluff that collectively go on and on for a half-hour.

And to a fault, perhaps, I'm thrilled to be apart from that cult, happy to bash that unhealthy obsession with four great musicians who write dismal lyrics, sing poorly, and jam and solo for waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay, waaaaaaaaaaay, way too long.

For today's exercise in Phish-trashing, I have opted not to criticize the songs that are like rejected ideas for Dr. Seuss books (“Gotta Jiboo”), nor the ones that are like humorless Weird Al parodies (“The Wolfman's Brother”). Today I will focus on a Phish song that shoots for deep intellect and flounders: “Back on the Train.”

Key lines: "When I jumped off, I had a bucket full of thoughts...Ideas that would take me all around the world...It took me a long time to get back on the train."

If we are to accept the lyrical premise of a wanderer traveling along a figurative and literal train of thoughts, we have to question why such a wanderer would carry his thoughts in a bucket. (As well as accept the absurdity of storing intangible things in a tangible object.) An adventurous tramp like that would not employ a bucket for such a purpose. He would use a bindle—one of those makeshift, hobo knapsacks that connects a heap of belongings to a stick. “Bindle,” like “bucket,” starts with a “b” and both words count two syllables, and so the fitting word left unused wouldn't disrupt the lyrical structure. With song-writing, every word is magnified, every mistake is costlier. Whereas novels are composed of tens of thousands of words, songs typically have mere dozens. There is less margin for error in song-writing, and Phish phucks up in the phirst line of “Back on the Train.”

Furthermore, Trey Phish-man lied when he claimed he had ideas to take him all around the world. That guy barely has enough ideas to get him to the nearest Indian Weavings. If he had such an abundance of ideas, he'd have thought to find a real singer for his band. The only thing his bucket is good for is crapping in because that's where most of his ideas belong, anyway.


Anything by Nickelback

Too easy. Let's move on to a challenge.

“Mr. Roboto”--Styx

In the early-80s, a love-child of the Who's Tommy and the more effeminate Queen was conceived, but the ugly baby was dropped onto the hard porcelain floor and it flailed and knocked over a tray of sharp scalpels that rained down on the poor thing. The baby didn't fare too well, which leads me to believe that “was” is the tragically key word in the Styx concept album Kilroy WAS Here.

“Mr. Roboto” was the first song and single from this debacle. I'm too confounded by this cut to badmouth it much, but with a handful of few questions, I will try.

How long did Styx ponder a name for this song's namesake—a hybrid of man and robot, I guess—before they settled for “Mr. Roboto”? Is “Mr. Roboto” meant to be a novelty song? And if so, why isn't it funny? Did Styx aim to invent a genre of incisive, hard-hitting novelty music? Amidst all the ridiculousness, were they trying to be serious? Do their fans really obsess over the mythology of this Kilroy character and Mr. Roboto? Does it enrich their lives when they ponder a dystopian future contrived by the likes of Styx?

The answers, my friends, are blowing in the binary code of a computer simulation of wind.

The ballads on The Ballads—REO Speedwagon

I'm fully capable of digging “Roll with the Changes” at wedding receptions held in rural towns. REO ballads are toxic, though. The singer sounds like a hackneyed Cary Grant impersonator and his words and mushy delivery are embarrassing. The absolute shittiest REO ballad is probably “Keep on Loving You.” The singer claims the one thing he wants to do is maintain his love for his woman, but that's untrue; he also wants to SING about his about his love for his woman. And that's where I take umbrage. If that bozo's only goal in life is to romance Lucile or Dotty or whatever the hell her name is, I'm OK with that...but he shouldn't in good conscience blubber about it into a microphone, too.

And sarcastic-kudos for rhyming “do” with “you” in the chorus for the billionth time in rock history, ya sappy bonehead.

“A Horse with No Name”--America

Again, the issue here is butchered lyrics. Let's read:

“On the first part of the journey/ I was looking at all the life/ There were birds and rocks and things.”

If you're trying to describe the imagery of a given setting, “things” is the absolute worst word to use. There is no vividness in “things.” Without context, “things” conveys nothing—and artists should try to do more than that. Staplers, despair, and the National Football League all count as things. Birds and rocks? Fine. Things? Horrible. When you tell an audience to picture THINGS, you'll induce a thousand random thought-bubbles that are all vague and unsatisfying. Please narrow it the fuck down, pseudo-folksy guy.

The following phrases likewise drive me bonkers. 1.) “The heat was hot.” No shit?! Thanks for explaining that the heat was hot. In tropical rain forests, I wonder if the moisture is moist... 2.) “'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain.” That sentence is an abomination for multiple reasons. It is an indefensible mangling of the English language.

This was a chart-topping single, though—just like most of the others that made the list. Too many Americans will overlook shoddy songwriting and gush about a tune just as long as the singer tacks on some “La-la-la-la's.” The success of America is one of the downfalls of America.

"Harden My Heart"--Quarterflash

I don't want to repeat myself too much...

http://fistpumpsandbeyond.blogspot.com/2012/03/activism.html


That country hit about how getting Cancer is sad

The owner of the place where I used to work favored country music, and so when he was in the store, his employees typically listened to country as well. I could tolerate the upbeat tunes in which horny cowboys gush about how country girls are so damn hot and I actually heard a Toby Keith tune that I kind of liked (“Red Solo Cup”), but I was beset by miserable loathing whenever we were subjected to that country hit about how getting cancer is sad.

I've stated this before: I'm anti-Cancer. I'm opposed to genocide, earthquakes, starvation, and the shingles, too. I'm a noble humanitarian in those regards.

At a place of business, however, where I am merely working an undesirable job for the purpose of self-reliance, it is distasteful and depressing to overhear the words, “Cancer don't discriminate/ Don't care if you're just 38.”

With the exasperation of a dozen failed lifetimes, I groaned whenever this ballad came on the radio. And that is not because I disagree with the singer that Cancer sure can be a bummer; it's because she plays the part of Debbie Downer in public places that in no way require an extra dose of sadness.

Cancer don't (sic) discriminate, but I do--and this sonic travesty is banned from my airspace. Ironically, those twangy Southerners taught me a thing or two about segregation.

That stupid club hit where the rapper screams “Shots” a thousand times

As with the previous entry, I don't know who the guilty party is and I won't bother with a Google-search. Here's a transcript I've contrived of the meeting between the rapper in question and a head honcho at his record label.

Head Honcho: “Rapper, your belligerent barks and primal lack of thought could very well become the new voice of a generation. What do you have planned for your next single?”

Rapper: “SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS-SHOTS!”

Head Honcho: “Outstanding. If I could hazard a suggestion, could you perhaps throw in a 'Shotty-shots' or two?”

Rapper: “SHOTS!”

Head Honcho: “OK, I see your point. It works much better without the 'Shotty-shots.' Congratulations, rapper, here's a check for two-million dollars. There will be a statue of you built in Brooklyn by Friday.”

Rapper: “SHOTS! SHOTS!”

Head Honcho: “All right, we'll have the statue bumped up to Thursday.”

Rapper: “Shots.”

Head Honcho: “You're welcome.”


***

Those are the songs I could do without. I'm not going to opt for the easy ending and quip “You're welcome” as a cheap tie-in to the previous joke. If you've made it this far, there is but one way to express my gratitude...

Shots.

The Fat/ Skinny Double Standard

A few years ago, while I chatted with a roomful of twenty-somethings at a party, a tubby acquaintance thundered into the kitchen. Not long after he bellowed a “hello,” he gestured at my short and slender frame and remarked, “Dude, you're nothing but skin and bones! Why don't you EAT more?”


The others were all heavier than me yet lighter than him, and they let out chuckles as my heckler's cheeks quaked with laughter. I assessed the situation and set my beer onto the counter-top.

“Point taken. But while we're on the subject of weight, have you ever considered eating LESS?”

My retort was met by an uneasy silence. Nobody laughed. Half of the suddenly stone-faced party-goers fled to the basement. The other half glared at me and shook their heads disapprovingly. And the overweight guy reeled back a step and stared at me as though I had just wiped my ass with a love letter he wrote to Little Debbie.

The shindig lost its appeal after that exchange, but I escaped without being sat on or sumo-splashed. Plus I learned a vital lesson about the Fat/ Skinny Double-Standard.

Chubby adults are allowed to poke fun at the waistlines of slim adults, but it's considered taboo for us to mock their flab—even if our jabs are done sheerly in retaliation. For grownups who have supposedly matured past the verbal cruelties of the playground, it's harmless to tell a beanpole to gain weight, but it's nasty to tell a fatso to lose weight—which is puzzling to me, since obesity is much more harmful and common than anorexia in America. Skinny people, or ectomorphs, get mocked in-person as well as when they're not present to defend themselves. Fat people, or endomorphs, get mocked strictly when they are out of earshot. The most genetically privileged of the three basic body-types, the athletic and muscular mesomorphs, are probably the ones who established these cultural norms.

And I'm calling bullshit on blobs, slobs, jocks, and cheerleaders alike.

Concerning endomorphs, to recall that tip about food intake I received earlier on, I'm eager to dismiss all dietary advice that comes from a guy who wads chicken McNuggets between the patties of his Big Macs.

“Eat more, eh? You want me to gorge fatty foods and sweets so that I can someday know the wonders of having my body overrun by lumps of flabby flesh...just so I can be more like YOU? Na. I'm good.”

In regard to mesomorphs, they tend to get away with more crimes of cruelty and ignorance than their corporal counterparts. They typically don't have to work as hard to refine their morals and intellects. Mesomorphs can behave this way because of their physical attractiveness. Whether good or evil, smart or stupid, a whole lot of people still fantasize about having sex with them. And mesomorphs fully realize this. All mesomorphs would have to do to exterminate everyone else is lure longing and unsuspecting blimps and pencil-necks into their bedrooms, where Calvin Klein models and sorority sisters would hide in the darkness, poised to ambush with baseball bats until, one-by-one, they'd rid the world of endomorphs and ectomorphs.

That hasn't happened—not yet, at least—and so I suppose I'm left with a little bit of faith in humanity, the mesomorphs included.

Mesomorphs aren't all that bad, thankfully, but they nonetheless have too much power over the rest of us simply because they're good-looking.

What's more, why did those aforementioned party-goers with more idyllic frames show sympathy for the plump guy when he was insulted when, prior to that, they openly laughed at me when I was verbally reduced to “nothing but skin and bones”? If we the two of us embodied the extremes of metabolism, why is an anti-skinny remark acceptable while anti-fat retort is insensitive?

First off, America has an anorexia problem, but we have an obesity EPIDEMIC. Even though mesomorphs will always command the most attention and power, the population of endomorphs is swelling like so many elastic-worn waistbands. Ectomorphs have become the underdogs to both the bloated majority and the well-built elite. And if the movie The Karate Kid taught us something other than that cleaning techniques can translate to kicking some serious ass, it's that underdogs are common targets for bullies.

That explains part of it, but in personal interactions, why do mesomorphs so often display more tact and regard for endomorphs than ectomorphs? For mesomorphic men, I think it's because stout guys are more beneficial than lean guys in the two foremost competitions of men: war and sports. Whether they serve as expansive body-shields in battle or offensive linemen in football, soldiers and athletes can get some use out of the obese. It's a different matter with elfish physiques, however. My skinny brethren are capable of inventing deadlier weapons and conceiving military strategies. We can also draw-up successful game-plans and win Boston Marathons. (The ectomorphs from Kenya, at least.) But on a more tangible level, on landscapes packed with bodies, mesomorphs tend to brand us as the chickenshit medic from Saving Private Ryan, or the nervous kicker who choked in crunch-time and destroyed all hopes the Buffalo Bills had of ever winning a Super Bowl. A little bit of fat helps fuel the competitive fire of mesomorphs, but the value of male ectomorphs is stocked exclusively in our minds. To them, we're food for thought in a world where ideas have never kept anyone from starving.

It gets trickier for me to assess or condemn mesomorphic women for their dealings with their thinner kind. More pressure is put on women to be thin—by men, mass media, and themselves. Guys are sometimes encouraged rather than chided for packing on a few pounds to obtain a stout and endearing “Teddy Bear” look, but women rarely get that luxury. In our culture, plus-sized models and actresses are in less demand than those starry-eyed willows on the cover of Cosmopolitan who might as well be captioned: “Doesn't this bitch make you feel FAT?!”

I'm not stating that this is fair. It's not. But neither is the Fat/ Skinny Double Standard.

Returning to that conundrum: mesomorphic women are kinder to the heavy than the slender (face-to-face) because the latter group manifests as a threat. The fiercest competitive drive of the fairer but by no means angelic sex is the pursuit of true romance (and all that blossoms from it). For athletically built, medium-sized women, there is no need to talk too much trash to the easiest opponents during manhunt season...but that skinny skank Sheila could be a tough competitor in the playoffs.

I'm not immune to the gender double-standard when it comes to body shapes. The last time I spent most of the day shirtless, a plus-sized and cute woman from my group of campers needled me for being so thin. She demanded to know my weight. Without asking for hers, I told her. She disputed my estimate and accused me of fabricating ten pounds. She persisted until I groaned, “I'm so tired of these compliments on my body!” She laughed and shook her head as I walked away smiling. I had to choose between self-defense and submissiveness and I didn't retaliate as I did to the flabby man in the kitchen years ago.

I know exactly what Jack White meant he sang about how hard it's becoming to act like a gentlemen. The rewards for any act of submissiveness are growing scarcer everyday. When I next see that woman, if I have to endure that unoriginal “nothing but skin and bones” line again, I will at the very least reply, “Well, that's a silly overstatement...”

Before I get my thoughts outta here, I'd like to mention that one of my best friends from college was obese. Our eating (and drinking) habits were on par, but our metabolisms dictated that he remained overweight and I remained underweight. We both wrote jokes that were sometimes mean for the school newspaper, but we never wisecracked about each other's physiques. We had a humane truce on the matter, a shared realization that people should feel ashamed for putting so much onus on genetics instead of “minor things” like character, morals, and choices.

I'll always treasure what that wonderful endomorph said to me about my body: Not a damn thing.

  

April Fool's Day

This is a work of fiction inspired by actual events in my life. Names have been changed, but I'm still me.

(Love Interest: 1)
I suppose it all began—customarily enough—with a beautiful woman, and wanting to offer her the bare minimum required of a worthy boyfriend.

Amanda and I met at a bar. I was unaccustomed to meeting sweet and receptive women at such a place. She was unaccustomed to spending time in such a place whatsoever. I drew the latter conclusion after I caught her twice looking at me, pleasantly enough, and I introduced myself, confidently enough. We talked. On-stage 30 feet away, a raw yet rollicking band covered hard-rock standards. They employed a saxophone wired with pedal-effects in lieu of an electric guitar, which was a novel yet ultimately unsatisfying touch, I thought, but I didn't tell Amanda that because, hey, in due time and with all due respect, I was going to try to get laid.

During a reprieve from the racket, I let her know that although it's pointless to attempt coherent chats once the music begins to blare, I'd be happy to resume our talk after the next song. And this actually worked. Four local musicians did a raw yet rollicking and novel yet unsatisfying rendition of “The Ocean” by Led Zeppelin, and when I turned around, Amanda was still there and I really was happy to resume our talk.

We agreed that it's usually much more fun to watch others embarrass themselves on the dance-floor and comment on it than partake in such nonsense when one is not in the mood. I got bought her a rum and soda mixer and then I got her number. When she replied to my initial text two days later, I felt like a had no regrets.

A week later, we met for drinks amidst the omnipresent green and racket of St. Patrick's Day. Beneath that racket, as I inched closer to her in gradual increments, she offered that she lived on the outskirts of town, a brief commute from the college in which she pursued her masters in Nursing, mainly because her preferred option—located across the street from the campus—lacked a carbon monoxide detector.

I thought, That was the deal-breaker? Really? I've always rolled the dice on detecting carbon monoxide and I'm still breathing. Jeez—LIVE a little.

But I said, “Well, you can never be too cautious.”

When asked about which TV shows and movies she liked, she eventually relayed that she can't stand humor that is edgy, obscene, or satirical, that she is put-off and not at all entertained by shows like The Simpsons and South Park.

I thought, Sometime in the post-tonight future, I will have to show this woman the Homer tattoo on my arm , reassure her that it is both real and permanent, try to keep her sufficiently attracted to me,  and--oh, I don't know, just keep my fingers crossed.

But I said, “You probably hate that show Family Guy, right? Yeah. Me too.”

In spite of these demerits, I was still attracted to Amanda, the subtlety of her eye-popping curves, the mastery of shampoo and conditioner that she squeezed into her chestnut locks, her sweetness and unflagging willingness to study hard so that she could provide sick and injured patients with the best care possible.

She let me know ahead of time that she intended to be home before midnight, but I coaxed her to stay until 12:01. I walked Amanda to her car. When we hugged goodbye, she turned her face away from me. I obligingly refrained from forcing my tongue into her ear canal.

I thought, I must move out of my parent's house quickly in case the topic of my living situation is brought up the next time I see this woman.

I said, “Do you want to have lunch together next Saturday? Well, how about the Saturday after next? Cool. I'll see you then.”

You know what? This one has been revised so many times. You're better off getting the eBook More Stories, and Additional Stories. Why in the fuck would I be shitting you about this?

It's rhetorical. See... I'm smart that way.

Offbeat Observations Not Found on Facebook

A few nights ago, I spent some time watching TV with a couple friends. During commercials, a promo for the remake of Total Recall was shown, and I quite honestly griped, "A lot of these kids today don't even know about the original Total Recall." That's right. At the age of 29, I've already begun starting sentences with the disapproving words, "A lot of these kids today..."

I was rightfully called out and kidded for saying such a thing, and I realized I had inadvertently provided myself with further motivation to delete my Facebook account. At my age, if you're going to begin a sentence in the fashion that I did, you don't belong on Facebook. You barely deserve to have an e-mail account. In light of that, I'm resigned to unleashing my grouchy nostalgia elsewhere, on a digital sovereign nation such as this blog.

On the drive home, my friend mentioned that he had read the final status I posted--which included the sentiment, "I sincerely want each and every one of you to know that I'd really like to stay in contact with half of you...tops"--and advised me not to take myself so seriously.

I replied, "Dude, that's why I'm getting off of Facebook in the first place."

What a verbal victory that was. Seriously.

Anyway, my plan is to provide some concise jokes and observation on this blog with greater regularity, and if the locals who asked to be my Facebook friend even though they don't acknowledge me in-person never happen upon these offbeat thoughts, that's better than OK: it's fantastic. I'm not going to miss that sort of maddening behavior in the real world.

But enough digital bridge-burning. Here are some jokes.

1.) In the movie Total Recall, after Arnold learns of the shocking fallacies of what he once understood as reality, he should have exclaimed, "ZEES IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL HOUSE! ZEES IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE!" Then there should have been a musical montage in which he puts on a comically oversized suit, snorts some cocaine with David Byrne, and at last becomes a Psycho Killer.

2.) So-called "animal-expert" Jack Hannah is a moron! I saw just him on an afternoon talk-show, summarizing the traits of a certain kind of sloth, and Hannah mentioned how often the animal "goes to the bathroom." Sloths don't go to the bathroom, stupid; they just shit in the wilderness!

3.) One of my co-workers is incredibly difficult to understand when she speaks. She speaks in the feisty and hurried cadence of James Brown. Sometimes I find myself agreeing with incomprehensible gibberish. I'm in the process of writing a candid yet respectful note to read to her, in order to address the problem, but considering that she is in fact African-American, I might have to change the name of it. Its working title is, "The Enunciation Proclamation."