Anger.
Note: Surprise, Blogger is being picky about photos tonight, so screw it. I'm posting this and going the hell to bed.
ANGRY
Today was an angry and frustrating day.
I took my lunch break—and oh how I hate that phrase, by the way: “Here’s your one hour of time for you smack dab in the middle of eight hours of something you hate”—and fully intended to write a good blog. Instead I called to my wife and frantically babbled about how meaningless our lives are then cried for the remaining 45 minutes, wondering how on earth I would regain my sanity and make it through the afternoon.
Of course, I did…I always do…and my mom would attribute it to God. As the verse goes—I don’t remember which one and I don’t care to look it up—the Man Upstairs in his divine grace will never give you more than you can handle. We’re instructed by the Good Book to pray “Thy will be done,” “If it’s your will,” blah blah blah…and one day it struck me that I’m really praying for no more than I could accomplish by myself. By praying, I’m doing little more than going through self-affirmations: “Today you will encounter shit that will drive you crazy. Don’t let it. You’ve got through it before and you’ll do so again.”
Sometimes I look at my schedule and the demands I place on my brain and wonder how I do it, and how much longer I can last. It seems like a bona fide nervous breakdown is always just on the horizon and I manage to push it away long enough to get through the day at work, get through school, churn out another column or two, blah blah blah. Lately, however, it seems like the “sane” times are becoming fewer and further between.
I remember my band days and how when I was dealing with depression and insomnia I got through some gigs that I thought would drive me insane. There was a place we played in Elk River, Minnesota—Broadway Bar and Pizza—that was always particularly hard to play. It was in the boondocks necessitating a two-hour drive in the worst rush-hour traffic imaginable, and there were never—ever—good crowds there. It was a shitty bar.
Many was the gig night when, after setting up equipment and doing sound check, I would retire to my pickup truck and cry. Literally cry my eyes out until 8:55, and then I’d dry my eyes and go inside and play.
I remember vividly that the nights I felt the worst were invariably the nights I did the best. Playing ear-splitting rock and roll was the best outlet I had for giving a hearty middle finger to the Cosmos; to whatever Powers lurked out there that seemed bound and determined to make life as close to unbearable as it could be.
The thing that sucks about having creative hobbies—music and writing, for instance—is that you can’t do them brain-dead. You need your senses to be sharp in order to pull it off. Right now, for instance, I’m typing my fingers off but my brain isn’t sharp. My eyes are glazed over and I’ve no doubt that what I’m writing is shit that will matter little to me and less to others, and I wonder “What’s the point?” I’m excited about writing; I want to write plays, books, screenplays, columns, etc., but after working all day and going to school at night, my brain is drained. I can see how people fall into the couch potato routine. It’s so easy to say “Tomorrow I’ll write a chapter of my book, next week I’ll do comedy,” and before you know it you’re 55 fucking years old and have no options left other than to stick it out another 10 years at the job you hate, collect your gold watch and measly pension, and get a part-time job distributing carts at the local Wal-Mart in order to afford your 30 monthly prescription drugs.
I get angry. I’m angry at Sharon Stone for going on Dateline NBC last night and giving America an insider’s view into her life as a multi-millionaire single parent. Stone’s willingness to share her life just happens to coincide with her appearance in Basic Instinct II, a movie in which she proudly reports she shows the world her pussy again. She’s out to prove that women can still be desperate for attention—excuse me sexy—at age 50. She proudly displayed her young son and told America that “You can never really be sure if you’re ready for parenthood; you just have to throw caution to the wind and go for it.”
It might be more apt to say that “You can never really be sure if your housekeeper is ready for nanny-hood; you just have to throw caution to the wind, give her a raise, and hope she doesn’t smother the child.”
I cannot wait until her child grows up so that Sharon Stone has to explain how all the opulence surrounding them came about: “Because your mom showed the world her pussy,” she’ll explain, “Twice. Your schoolmates will snicker at you behind your back because your mom is the actress who took cinema down a notch by doing a gaping wide beaver shot in a mainstream motion picture.”
I hope to God Joe-fucking-Eszterhas is choking on his own vomit right now.
I’m angry at hypocrites. The place I work for pushes the idea of “sustainability;” they’re going so far as to host an evening with Arctic explorer Will Steger who will give a presentation explaining that global warming is real and is caused by the wanton consumption of fossil fuels.
The President of our organization, by the way, drives a Cadillac Escalade SUV to cart her 80 pound, five-foot frame around the Twin Cities. She consumes about 10 gallons of gas every day driving to the building for her daily five-minute appearance.
Also at my place of employment Social Justice is the order of the day. They are excited as can be that Al Franken, the writer and comedian, might become a member of their organization if and when he decides to make his Senate candidacy official. Al wants to repeal tax cuts, raise the minimum wage and provide more social programs, with no litmus test for the latter, of course: The poor are universally above reproach. The United States Treasury is little more than a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow where money magically appears to be distributed to the less fortunate.
Al Franken and his ilk never make the distinction between the rich and the producers. Teddy Kennedy is “the rich.” Senator Mark Dayton is “the rich.” Bill Gates is a producer. Even Al Franken is a producer. When the hell will people stop vilifying people who provide valuable products and services to the people of this world? I’m glad Bill Gates is rich; I thank him every fucking day for the computers I use. I learned to type on a typewriter and I would never go back to those days. I thank Mr. Gates for his contributions to my life and hope he enjoys every cent of the fortune he has earned.
I am angry at the people who are involved in the “Voices for Darfur” campaign where I work. Not angry because they want to help, but angry because they think their efforts will help. If a campaign of genocide, torture and rape isn’t enough to get the attention of the world community, then why the fuck will a postcard-writing campaign from Minneapolis, Minnesota suddenly do the trick? You want to make a difference? Why don’t you and your thousand cohorts who profess to care more than the rest of us put your money where your mouths are, purchase one-way airline tickets and go to Darfur? Put your bodies between the murderers and the victims just like brave protestor stopping the tank in the famous Tiananmen Square photograph.
And while you’re at it, why don’t you ask the folks in Darfur who are starving and being killed to help themselves by curtailing their breeding until matters are resolved? There are those who will think this is an utterly callous thing for me to say, and you can think what you want. Ever since I was a child I’ve been shown pictures of starving children in Africa in order to tug on my heartstrings and loosen my purse strings. It occurs to me that despite the fact that they still haven’t gotten the whole human-to-food ration thing figured out yet, they keep having children.
It's the same in our own nation: You can't cut off welfare. What about the children? Let the paternity tests begin. I will bet you a cool million dollars that not one of those children is mine. Now, if you want my tax dollars to help track down the fathers and make them pay, now you have my attention.
And for Christ’s sake, please save me the standard line of how evil Republicans have curtailed spending for family planning in the Third World. I for one am heartily sick of having our nation, Republicans in particular, blamed for every failing on the face of the earth. If you don't like us, fine: Quit taking our fucking money.
Told you I was angry.
ANGRY
Today was an angry and frustrating day.
I took my lunch break—and oh how I hate that phrase, by the way: “Here’s your one hour of time for you smack dab in the middle of eight hours of something you hate”—and fully intended to write a good blog. Instead I called to my wife and frantically babbled about how meaningless our lives are then cried for the remaining 45 minutes, wondering how on earth I would regain my sanity and make it through the afternoon.
Of course, I did…I always do…and my mom would attribute it to God. As the verse goes—I don’t remember which one and I don’t care to look it up—the Man Upstairs in his divine grace will never give you more than you can handle. We’re instructed by the Good Book to pray “Thy will be done,” “If it’s your will,” blah blah blah…and one day it struck me that I’m really praying for no more than I could accomplish by myself. By praying, I’m doing little more than going through self-affirmations: “Today you will encounter shit that will drive you crazy. Don’t let it. You’ve got through it before and you’ll do so again.”Sometimes I look at my schedule and the demands I place on my brain and wonder how I do it, and how much longer I can last. It seems like a bona fide nervous breakdown is always just on the horizon and I manage to push it away long enough to get through the day at work, get through school, churn out another column or two, blah blah blah. Lately, however, it seems like the “sane” times are becoming fewer and further between.
I remember my band days and how when I was dealing with depression and insomnia I got through some gigs that I thought would drive me insane. There was a place we played in Elk River, Minnesota—Broadway Bar and Pizza—that was always particularly hard to play. It was in the boondocks necessitating a two-hour drive in the worst rush-hour traffic imaginable, and there were never—ever—good crowds there. It was a shitty bar.
Many was the gig night when, after setting up equipment and doing sound check, I would retire to my pickup truck and cry. Literally cry my eyes out until 8:55, and then I’d dry my eyes and go inside and play.
I remember vividly that the nights I felt the worst were invariably the nights I did the best. Playing ear-splitting rock and roll was the best outlet I had for giving a hearty middle finger to the Cosmos; to whatever Powers lurked out there that seemed bound and determined to make life as close to unbearable as it could be.
The thing that sucks about having creative hobbies—music and writing, for instance—is that you can’t do them brain-dead. You need your senses to be sharp in order to pull it off. Right now, for instance, I’m typing my fingers off but my brain isn’t sharp. My eyes are glazed over and I’ve no doubt that what I’m writing is shit that will matter little to me and less to others, and I wonder “What’s the point?” I’m excited about writing; I want to write plays, books, screenplays, columns, etc., but after working all day and going to school at night, my brain is drained. I can see how people fall into the couch potato routine. It’s so easy to say “Tomorrow I’ll write a chapter of my book, next week I’ll do comedy,” and before you know it you’re 55 fucking years old and have no options left other than to stick it out another 10 years at the job you hate, collect your gold watch and measly pension, and get a part-time job distributing carts at the local Wal-Mart in order to afford your 30 monthly prescription drugs.
I get angry. I’m angry at Sharon Stone for going on Dateline NBC last night and giving America an insider’s view into her life as a multi-millionaire single parent. Stone’s willingness to share her life just happens to coincide with her appearance in Basic Instinct II, a movie in which she proudly reports she shows the world her pussy again. She’s out to prove that women can still be desperate for attention—excuse me sexy—at age 50. She proudly displayed her young son and told America that “You can never really be sure if you’re ready for parenthood; you just have to throw caution to the wind and go for it.”It might be more apt to say that “You can never really be sure if your housekeeper is ready for nanny-hood; you just have to throw caution to the wind, give her a raise, and hope she doesn’t smother the child.”
I cannot wait until her child grows up so that Sharon Stone has to explain how all the opulence surrounding them came about: “Because your mom showed the world her pussy,” she’ll explain, “Twice. Your schoolmates will snicker at you behind your back because your mom is the actress who took cinema down a notch by doing a gaping wide beaver shot in a mainstream motion picture.”
I hope to God Joe-fucking-Eszterhas is choking on his own vomit right now.
I’m angry at hypocrites. The place I work for pushes the idea of “sustainability;” they’re going so far as to host an evening with Arctic explorer Will Steger who will give a presentation explaining that global warming is real and is caused by the wanton consumption of fossil fuels.
The President of our organization, by the way, drives a Cadillac Escalade SUV to cart her 80 pound, five-foot frame around the Twin Cities. She consumes about 10 gallons of gas every day driving to the building for her daily five-minute appearance.
Also at my place of employment Social Justice is the order of the day. They are excited as can be that Al Franken, the writer and comedian, might become a member of their organization if and when he decides to make his Senate candidacy official. Al wants to repeal tax cuts, raise the minimum wage and provide more social programs, with no litmus test for the latter, of course: The poor are universally above reproach. The United States Treasury is little more than a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow where money magically appears to be distributed to the less fortunate.
Al Franken and his ilk never make the distinction between the rich and the producers. Teddy Kennedy is “the rich.” Senator Mark Dayton is “the rich.” Bill Gates is a producer. Even Al Franken is a producer. When the hell will people stop vilifying people who provide valuable products and services to the people of this world? I’m glad Bill Gates is rich; I thank him every fucking day for the computers I use. I learned to type on a typewriter and I would never go back to those days. I thank Mr. Gates for his contributions to my life and hope he enjoys every cent of the fortune he has earned.
I am angry at the people who are involved in the “Voices for Darfur” campaign where I work. Not angry because they want to help, but angry because they think their efforts will help. If a campaign of genocide, torture and rape isn’t enough to get the attention of the world community, then why the fuck will a postcard-writing campaign from Minneapolis, Minnesota suddenly do the trick? You want to make a difference? Why don’t you and your thousand cohorts who profess to care more than the rest of us put your money where your mouths are, purchase one-way airline tickets and go to Darfur? Put your bodies between the murderers and the victims just like brave protestor stopping the tank in the famous Tiananmen Square photograph.
And while you’re at it, why don’t you ask the folks in Darfur who are starving and being killed to help themselves by curtailing their breeding until matters are resolved? There are those who will think this is an utterly callous thing for me to say, and you can think what you want. Ever since I was a child I’ve been shown pictures of starving children in Africa in order to tug on my heartstrings and loosen my purse strings. It occurs to me that despite the fact that they still haven’t gotten the whole human-to-food ration thing figured out yet, they keep having children.
It's the same in our own nation: You can't cut off welfare. What about the children? Let the paternity tests begin. I will bet you a cool million dollars that not one of those children is mine. Now, if you want my tax dollars to help track down the fathers and make them pay, now you have my attention.
And for Christ’s sake, please save me the standard line of how evil Republicans have curtailed spending for family planning in the Third World. I for one am heartily sick of having our nation, Republicans in particular, blamed for every failing on the face of the earth. If you don't like us, fine: Quit taking our fucking money.
Told you I was angry.
posted by Admin Worm at 8:05 PM
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