Tuesday, March 3, 2015

The Adventures of SHOWERHEAD!


 


When we first meet him, Showerhead is unaware of his hidden potential.  Like any other super hero, shower head thinks he’s just a normal, dumb, boring asshole.

Showerheads girlfriend walks in.

“Hey asshole, make me breakfast fag.”

“Ok.” He says with an odd excitement to please her.

Showerhead makes his girlfriend breakfast, not knowing that he has the ability to not do that.

“Here you go, do you like it?”

“It’s ok pussy.”

“Now go to work and make money so you can buy me shit.”

Showerhead’s girlfriend says as she sits on the couch wearing sweatpants.

Showerhead goes to work. On the way to work, someone almost runs him over on his bike.

“Watch out nerd!”

A football player yells out of the window of his truck.

An old lady standing on the street corner laughs, “That guy is such a pussy.”

Showerhead's real name is Jim, but no one cares and we will continue to call him Showerhead as at some point in the story he will realize the hidden potential that will be revealed to him in the shower. Unfortunately Showerhead is kind of slow and it takes him quite some time before he discovers his special gift.

For now, we can enjoy how poorly everyone treats him.
.
Showerhead walks into work, he works at an electronics superstore.

“Hey bitch! Get me those speakers for my car!”

Some fat guy said.

Jim, that is, soon to be Showerhead pulls the speakers off the top shelf and accidently drops them. Of course it is likely that he subconsciously dropped them on purpose as they are the last of their kind on the shelf.

But no, it is not his time, he is just a clumsy asshole.

Showerhead hangs his head in shame as everyone in the store circles around in order to laugh at him.

"You’re fired! His boss said."

“Ok.”

Showerhead walks home as someone stole his bike.

There is a note where the bike was.

“Hey loser, your bike sucks but I wanted to steal it because you suck.”

“Wow, people really don’t like me.”

Showerhead is really feeling down now.

I’m going to go home and take a shower.

A little light bulb appears above showerheads head.

But it turns out it was just a street light turning on.

Showerhead is now in the shower.

“Hey, I deserve respect. I don’t think people should talk to me the way they do.”

Then Showerhead looks up and realizes that he feels very confident in the shower.
 
I know what I’ll do.

Showerhead removes the showerhead from the shower and heads to the basement.

“Where do you think you’re going, give me an orgasm loser.”

Showerhead's girlfriend is very unattractive.

Showerhead holds the showerhead over his head.

“NO!” he says confidently.

“Well, maybe later.”

But that is only because he is horny.

Showerhead's girlfriend has a baffled look on her face, baffled, but aroused.

Zoom to armpit stains.

Showerhead spends an hour in his basement trying to get his showerhead on but is really confused.

Then, from the darkness appears, “SHOWERHEAD!”



Monday, February 9, 2015

Click Here and Make Money, well, Make Me Money



So I finally got approved for advertising on this thing.

I really am excited about this.


                                                                   

Not because I am going to make money, I will not make money. That is a proven statistical anomaly.

I am excited because we live in a time when the only true measure of one's worth is the amount of money companies are willing to invest into your existence.



Now the ad for removing warts, some gun company and the one in Spanish are really not investing a whole lot in me as a person but, the fact that on some level, some person at some place pushed some keys on a board and sent an email to someone else at some other place that had my name on it, well that's simply modern day validation at it's best.

I know that some of you are thinking that what is more important is to live a life of relative anonymity in which you are loved by perhaps only a few people who are in themselves inherently valuable.

But you're wrong.

I hate to say it but it is clear that the times of spiritual, emotional, artistic and even aesthetic authenticity are over.



All that shit has been been cut and pasted into a folder where all someone at a desk has to do is chop it up into 3 second increments in order to give you whatever sensation you need to get through the day, like a cup of coffee.

And this is a good thing.

I swear, I can wake up, feel five different emotions in less than a minute, believe that I am part of the collective human experience and then go on with the rest of my day making money at a job where I am part of the whole wonderful system of packaging the human experience and selling it to telephone companies.

Look, if ATT can make you feel like love is real and you are living in a beautiful world and Tinder can get you sex to your door in 30 minutes or less, well, we already have pizza delivery so what else do you want?

Ok, beer.

Oh wait, there is an app that will get you beer too. 

Cool. 








Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Sex, Drugs, and Excel Spreadsheets



I don’t really go to shows because I am a boring person who does nothing interesting. 

Last night I was hanging out with some friends and we met a couple of Canadian girls who liked the idea of one of my friends rubbing her own feces all over her body before they copulated. 

So we went to the bar where Scotty’s friend was, “spinning records.”

So we’re in the bar and the band is rocking hard. No shirt, tattoos, people making out, iphones at the ready. 

I don’t know, I mean, I had a pretty bad day, feeling down and everything so maybe that’s why this thing made me even more upset. 

Usually when I have had a bad day and my friends make me go watch music I will have a couple of drinks and I will feel better. 

There was a Black Sabbath cover band. 

Black Sabbath is great. 

These guys just made me unhappier. 

I guess I feel like if you go to a show and the music is hardcore, or metal, or core, or death, or death core, or punk rock, or punk core. Or basically something involving anger, and social unrest, then people should be hitting each other in the face. 

Instead people were gently bobbing their heads and swaying. 

Maybe they don’t get angry. Maybe they were raised to have self respect and self esteem. Maybe when they were in high school they were busy studying for their SAT s and planning the course of the next 40 years of their lives and setting up 401ks and mutual funds and their kid's college fund and mortgage and health plan and healthy relationships with healthy, happy friendships at a good job that pays well with good benefits that had nothing to do with their major and they just didn't have the time to be an asshole and smoke pot and sneak out and have sex and other things you should be doing in high school and now they are trying all that stuff after they have settled in to their responsible lifestyle and just can't seem to get it right because they don't know how to be the right kind of asshole. 

Maybe.

I wish I didn’t get angry and was raised in a more nurturing environment.

So yeah, the girl with the brand new Samhain shirt and her boyfriend with the brand new jean jacket with the brand new patches all over it, I hated them the most. 

I asked him if I knew him from the office down on soma. He didn’t know what I meant. 

Then I broke a glass and spit on the floor. (because I am stupid)

Some girl said, “that’s gross.”

I said, “I know, it’s hardcore.”

Or was it punk rock? 

I don’t know, I try not to pretend I’m something that I’m not.


Saturday, December 27, 2014

If Bald, Gay, LSD Tripping Philosophers who were Friends with Freddy Mercury can't Play Video Games, the Terrorists Win




My dog was trying to ask me a question this morning. 

I thought it might have something to do with the relationship between our historic tendency to associate behavior with morality and the juxtaposition of the psychopathological turn of the nineteenth century as elucidated by Foucault.

But she was just asking for food. 

I knew she just wanted food in the first place but I am hopelessly optimistic. 

I get called that a lot. 

In fact I have lost friends from being as they so unsympathetically referred to me as, “positive.”

I don’t consider myself to be positive as much as I think of myself as, “realistic.”

The truth is that I heard someone say that once and I stole it. 

I thought it was a clever cop out.  

Everyone is realistic though. 

Our views are always rationalized by our sense that they are, in some obvious way that no one else can understand, realistic. 

I’m pretty sure we are all right though, I just can’t put my finger on it. 

The pulse that is. 

Maybe that’s because our culture has finally reached its inevitable end. 

We are a country that has been referred to as an experiment. 

Our culture has reacted to itself every ten years, taking drastic turns whenever it seemed to become self aware. 

At least that was true for the twentieth century. 

(I can’t really speak for the Whigs and manifest destiny. That shit was not hip.) 

We have been out of the twentieth century for almost 15 years and we can’t let it go. 

I would be ok with that if we would have learned something from the generations we try to emulate but it seems we are only taking the worst qualities out of each of them. 

The clothing style of the 90s, the greed of the 80s, and so on. 

Actually I don’t have any more examples because the 60s and 70s were a rock and roll filled drug orgy, which is pretty cool. 

So yeah, it appears that once the 90s ended we didn’t know where to go from there and we pretty much got stuck shopping at the Gap and investing in corporate takeovers. We wear plaid shirts and drive Beemers. We eat cheese and drink wine. We talk about the new place and the new show. We try and feel emotions when we hear that black people are still being abused institutionally. We save for our kids education and tell them that someday they might be president even though we know that we live in an oligarchy run by obscenely rich sociopaths. 

All I can say is this, the Interview is $5.99 on you tube and I haven’t been able to log in to my Playstation network for 3 days. 

At least we can stare at our cell phones all day and avoid having any real emotional connection to one another because we pressed a like button. 

Seriously though, that might be for the best.


Monday, December 22, 2014

Too Young to be this Awesome



When I was 12 my friend Marciel and I came across a skateboard. I have no idea where it came from. The best I can remember is that he found it in his garage. 

I don’t know what kind of board it was either but we spray painted it white. It could have been a Powell Peralta board.

We got some clear grip tape and a Powell sticker that was the top graphic on their boards and stuck it on there. 

I think we found some roller skate trucks in his garage and put them on. One of them was on backwards. When we tried to ride it the board went all over the place.

Lesson learned.

I’m not sure what kind of wheels they were. 

Marciel and I were best friends since elementary school. 

Marciel was young but he had a majestic Aztecan nose. 

The first time I rode that skateboard I hit a rock and slid on my knees, skinning them both real good. 

So that sucked, I probably cried, I don’t remember but I hope I did. 

Not crying is for pussies. 

We both got new skateboards at the same time. 

He got a Per Welender and I can’t remember what I had. 

I have to be the dumbest shit. I can remember my first board but I really have no idea what my next one was. 

Oh wait, it was a Lance Mountain. 

Damn, I got scared for a minute. 

So it was an all white Lance Mountain future primitive. I put blue grip tape on it because Lance Mountain did. 

I have had a lot of all white boards and I think it’s because they were sick as fuck and I wish I had all of them sitting in my closet. 

I remember it had Indys. But there is no way I can remember what kind of wheels it had. 

So Marciel and I skated together for a couple of years, until I made other friends and then we just didn’t hang out anymore. 

I really don’t know why. Most likely because I’m a shit friend. 

He was really good though. He was the stylish guy. 

Christian Hosoi was popular at the time and Marciel was more stylish than Hosoi. I think some people were jealous of him. 

I also think he didn’t care that much. 

The last memory I have of Marciel is when this guy we were friends with punched Marciel in the face.  His name was Bill. He wore a glove because he was a dick and thought it would be cool to punch him in the face with a glove on. 

There was a big group of us and Marciel came skating down the street. This is the first time I felt like shit about a friend. 

Really I was just stupid and was convinced that Bill had some kind of real grievance with Marciel. 

In reality, Marciel probably was talking shit about Bill, because BIll was an asshole. 

I felt really bad. And confused. 

But I have always been a moron and could not stop it. 

I did go home with Marciel though. His face was red from where he got punched. 

Marciel was rad. He got chicks.

Bill made me leave my board outside one day so his friend could come steal it. 

Bill died of cancer. 

I’m not happy about that. And I am tempted to think he got some kind of karma, but really I just think that life is fucked and we all get fucked by it at some point. 

Another guy I know who is a really good guy was good friends with Bill. 

It hurt him deeply when he died.  



Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Simple Pleasures



Sitting on the couch, watching tv. 

A man types on keyboard. 

“I had a rough day”

He sits, pondering his existence. 

“I don’t understand.”

His wife walks across the living room floor. Her curly hair, shiny. Her shoulders obey the gentle commands of each step. 

She scratches her head with a crochet hook. Her head turns in his direction, her eyes follow, almost instantly. 

“Did I gross you out?”

She did not, although in some ways, it was gross. 

The television offered its usual comfort. 

The characters delving deep into the cultural psyche, exploring the idiosyncrasies of human nature while it softens the blow with the delicate comfort of humor. 

Then, when we are entirely at ease, like a stubbed toe on a hard wooden coffee table leg, our unsuspecting heads are smashed into the petrified poplar of harsh reality. 

“This is for sale, you need it, buy it.  We could work to make your life better but we don’t care, so we got this job, to make money, lots of it, and to keep you dumb, and desperate.”

The girl with the crochet hook and the animal lying on her side, lifeless, farts (the dog, not the girl.)

Although, she is not above it. 

Nor am I.