I don’t own an iPod. I don’t even know what an MP3 is.
I don’t own a hi-def, flat screen, liquid plasma, 5,800-inch television with picture-in-picture, cup-holders and magic fingers option.
I don’t have a satellite dish system that allows me access to thousands of really important channels like the Home Shopping Network for People Who Really Like Cheese (HSNPWRLC for short) or ESPN 8 (the Ocho), or cool packages like the Sports Freak package (watch 10 different football games simultaneously until your eyes bleed!) or the Movie Buff package (your chance to enjoy every single movie that came out this year, including classics like Codename: The Cleaner, Norbit, Premonition and Are We Done Yet?).
I don’t own a satellite radio in my car and I’m sure I’m missing all types of fine programming, such as Howard Stern asking a stripper if she ever got Chlamydia from her dance pole, and Anthony and Opie listening to people making whoopee in church.
I don’t have a digital radio set up. Which means that I can’t hear all of those secret, hidden stations in between the regular stations I listen to. This saddens me to no end because I can’t help but wonder how many other radio stations there are out in the void of the air waves, all playing 15 minutes worth of commercials, all at the same time! (Has anybody else noticed that at any given time, four of your five car radio presets are commercials?)
I don’t have an iPhone, so I can’t scroll through youporn.com whenever I want, or balance my bank account or do whatever it is people bought iPhones to do, (I assume that iPhones have some kind of super sweet option or ability that no other phone has, which is why people were stepping over each other to buy the damn things.)
I don’t have the latest video game console. I don’t have the hottest and newest game that looks so lifelike that I actually can feel the gun buck in my hands as I spray the streets of Los Angeles with lead. I don’t have large parties where I invite people over to play games where we have to simulate the act of bowling or fishing.
I have a c.d. player. I own hundreds of c.d.s. True lugging around a big ass c.d. case is unwieldy and heavy, but at least I don’t have to worry about dropping it, losing it or anybody stealing it.
I have a 20-something inch television. It isn’t super hi-def or whatever, but I can watch shows and movies on it regardless, so I guess it’s working. Works well enough for me, anyway.
I have cable. My cable gives me access to hundreds of channels, and you know what? Most of them are pretty pointless anyway. I basically just stick to the Food Network, Cartoon Network and a few other random odds and ends. Of the 300 channels available to me, I watch less than a dozen.
I’ve got a regular radio in my car. Nothing fancy, (though it does allow 12 presets on the FM dial. Classy!) but it gets the job done. I hit a button and I listen to a station. If there’s naught but commercials, I press another button and I get to listen to one of those c.d.s that I mentioned earlier. It’s a good system.
I have a cell phone. A Katana, actually. Guess what it does? It allows me to talk to other people when I want to. Isn’t that amazing? No need for extra bells and whistles. I don’t need to check my email on my phone, I don’t need to listen to the latest uber-digitized mega hit by Timbaland (I don’t think he even has real people singing in his songs anymore, he just uses Stephen Hawking’s computer voice thing. He wants to be this generation’s Roger Troutman, from Zapp.) And I don’t care about taking really grainy pictures that just end up looking like something Helen Keller took with her eyes closed (wait, would that even make a difference?)
I have a Nintendo 64. It came out in the late 90s. I’ve got a good half dozen games, but I play just one: Mariocart.
I am an analog man in a digital world. I don’t try to match my outfit or my mood to the color of the device playing my music. I’m not that shallow. I don’t want to turn my oven on with my phone from 300 miles away. I don’t need a feature that uses dots to represent where my friends are located on some map.
My laptop doesn’t work half the time and I don’t really mind. My digital camera has only 4 megapixels (for those of you that don’t know, megapixels are tiny little creatures that live in cameras and paint the pictures that you take. The more megapixels you have, the better the pictures) and is from Hewlett-Packard (which isn’t known for its cameras). It broke over the summer, but I don’t really mind.
I like it this way. I don’t feel the need to be a slave to technology. I prefer incorporating technology to fit my life, instead of trying to rearrange my life to accept new technology. I honestly don’t need a bunch of different little doodads to make my life any easier or more efficient than it already is.
So, when the day comes that some kind of technology-based disease or sickness arrives on the scene (oh, it’s coming, you’d better believe it!) I’ll be sitting pretty, laughing from my analog kingdom.
I think I’ll go punch Bill Gates in the face now.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Breeders’ Summit: The 2007 Accord
Ladies and gentlemen, a great thing has occurred. Never before have men and women come together for such a just and noble cause. You are about to bare witness to the birth of a new, more harmonious world wherein men and women are able to work and live together. Check it.
Back in the early months of this year, a cry went up into the heavens. Men and women everywhere were confused and angered by current events (like Britney going from a sex goddess adored by 98% of the human population to a diseased whorebag that not even Charlie Sheen would touch, Kobe Bryant humping random chicks in Colorado and giving out big ass diamond rings and gorgeous blond teachers banging their young and totally undeserving students) and decided to do something about it.
What they did was this: both sexes nominated 10 of their most lauded and respected members (you might remember all of those stupid banner ads on Myspace asking who was hotter based on their chin or whatever) and sent those 10 people to Djibouti, Africa to take place in the first ever Breeders’ Summit (sorry Friends of Dorothy, you’ll have to have your own summit).
These 20 people represent you, they represent your friends, your lovers and all other people who get down with heterosexual sex. It’s no use trying to argue or fight with the results of the summit. And there’s no reason you should. The 2007 Accord marks a break-through that all breeders can embrace. I was given a press release by the P.R. department involved in the Breeders’ Summit, to share with you. The following is a sample of the rules that have been agreed upon by men and women that you will follow for the rest of your life. The Accord has been divided into three parts, one for men, one for women and one for both. Included are a few of the most important rules. Don’t bother arguing with me about the rules. I didn’t come up with any of ‘em. I’m just the messenger.
For Men and Women:
· Whenever a date has been scheduled, the inviter either pays for everything or gets to choose the venue.
· “I love you,” doesn’t always have to be returned. There is no obligation to say it back.
· If both parties are drunk when any sexual activity goes down, then it is considered consensual for both. Even in the morning when you wake up next to Medusa’s uglier sister. No backsies!
· There will be no more dressing to match as a couple. Such uber-sweet activities have led to an increase of diabetes.
· Sex three times a week. Rain or shine.
For Men:
· You have to give up control of the remote 35% of the time.
· When cooking for women, be sure to have more than one item of food. Include a salad, or appetizer. Some sort of chocolate-laden desert is a must.
· When watching a long sporting event, (anything over two hours) an equal amount of time must be given to such channels as DIY, Home & Garden, Oxygen or Lifetime.
· You must watch at least one show that your woman watches, so that you can keep abreast of what interests her.
· Foreplay must take place at least once a week.
· Complement her in a way to make her feel special and unique, at least once a week. (Complements can be recycled.)
For Women:
· Only call your man with an agenda or purpose. Not just to talk.
· Feelings don’t always need to be shared.
· If your man has done something to upset you, you must tell him. Men are unable to read minds.
· From now on, you must check to see if the toilet seat is up or down. Having the seat down is your responsibility.
· You must lose an argument every other week. The previously established rule that women are never wrong has been repealed.
· You must watch one show that your man watches. So that you can keep abreast of what interests him.
· All fashion, talent or beauty-related reality shows must be watched on your own time.
Like I said, these are just a few of the more than 75 rules that we decided upon. If you were a part of the Breeders’ Summit, what rules would you make up?
Back in the early months of this year, a cry went up into the heavens. Men and women everywhere were confused and angered by current events (like Britney going from a sex goddess adored by 98% of the human population to a diseased whorebag that not even Charlie Sheen would touch, Kobe Bryant humping random chicks in Colorado and giving out big ass diamond rings and gorgeous blond teachers banging their young and totally undeserving students) and decided to do something about it.
What they did was this: both sexes nominated 10 of their most lauded and respected members (you might remember all of those stupid banner ads on Myspace asking who was hotter based on their chin or whatever) and sent those 10 people to Djibouti, Africa to take place in the first ever Breeders’ Summit (sorry Friends of Dorothy, you’ll have to have your own summit).
These 20 people represent you, they represent your friends, your lovers and all other people who get down with heterosexual sex. It’s no use trying to argue or fight with the results of the summit. And there’s no reason you should. The 2007 Accord marks a break-through that all breeders can embrace. I was given a press release by the P.R. department involved in the Breeders’ Summit, to share with you. The following is a sample of the rules that have been agreed upon by men and women that you will follow for the rest of your life. The Accord has been divided into three parts, one for men, one for women and one for both. Included are a few of the most important rules. Don’t bother arguing with me about the rules. I didn’t come up with any of ‘em. I’m just the messenger.
For Men and Women:
· Whenever a date has been scheduled, the inviter either pays for everything or gets to choose the venue.
· “I love you,” doesn’t always have to be returned. There is no obligation to say it back.
· If both parties are drunk when any sexual activity goes down, then it is considered consensual for both. Even in the morning when you wake up next to Medusa’s uglier sister. No backsies!
· There will be no more dressing to match as a couple. Such uber-sweet activities have led to an increase of diabetes.
· Sex three times a week. Rain or shine.
For Men:
· You have to give up control of the remote 35% of the time.
· When cooking for women, be sure to have more than one item of food. Include a salad, or appetizer. Some sort of chocolate-laden desert is a must.
· When watching a long sporting event, (anything over two hours) an equal amount of time must be given to such channels as DIY, Home & Garden, Oxygen or Lifetime.
· You must watch at least one show that your woman watches, so that you can keep abreast of what interests her.
· Foreplay must take place at least once a week.
· Complement her in a way to make her feel special and unique, at least once a week. (Complements can be recycled.)
For Women:
· Only call your man with an agenda or purpose. Not just to talk.
· Feelings don’t always need to be shared.
· If your man has done something to upset you, you must tell him. Men are unable to read minds.
· From now on, you must check to see if the toilet seat is up or down. Having the seat down is your responsibility.
· You must lose an argument every other week. The previously established rule that women are never wrong has been repealed.
· You must watch one show that your man watches. So that you can keep abreast of what interests him.
· All fashion, talent or beauty-related reality shows must be watched on your own time.
Like I said, these are just a few of the more than 75 rules that we decided upon. If you were a part of the Breeders’ Summit, what rules would you make up?
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Dr. Gooch’s Guide to Happiness: 101 Ways to Tickle your Fancy
(Featured here is an excerpt of the preface from Dr. Gooch’s award-losing book: Dr. Gooch’s Guide to Happiness: 101 Ways to Tickle your Fancy, published with permission from the author. Any links added to the text are for the benefit of Internet readers. Views expressed by Dr. Gooch are not necessarily those of Eighty-Four Glyde or its parent company the Sheinhart Wig Corporation.)
This can be quite the sad world we live in these days; with wars, lead poisoning, Senators with wide stances and Myspace-induced suicide, it’s no wonder that people feel overwhelmed and close to death.
Death surrounds us and it’s closer for some people than others.
“For those aged 15 years and over, the number of deaths in 2004 of persons who were married was 919,270; widowed, 892,017; never married, 248,424; and divorced, 286,758*.”
In an interesting fact, according to the National Vital Statistics Report with final data from 2004, (the most recent statistics available at the time of this book’s printing) is that in America, you’re more likely to die from Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s or even Septicemia (a form of blood poisoning) than you would of homicide or even sexually transmitted diseases such as A.I.D.S. Yet, you don’t often see as many people rallying around those causes (actor Michael J. Fox being the most notable exception.) This is because people are not fully educated with regards to statistics and other information. People often fall victim to the Availability Heuristic, which shows a bias in common knowledge based on available information.
Those are facts not often addressed or considered by “John Q. Public” on a daily basis, and I don’t blame them. There are enough things in life for people to worry about, without adding more problems.
***
Even with many people lamenting these as the “end of days,” there’s no reason why people need to feel stifled or burdened by life. In fact, life should be celebrated and enjoyed by everybody (Except for the poor, diseased and others whose lives completely suck and cannot be salvaged, regardless of how much optimism they have. This book isn’t for people with real problems who should be allowed to be as depressed and as miserable as they see fit. This book is for the rest of us.) everywhere!
It isn’t always easy to turn that frown upside-down. That’s why I’m here. With the steps and tips included in this book, I promise that I can make even the most cynical, pessimistic person out there into Lil’ Miss Sunshine. I have over 50 years experience in medicine and behavioral studies. I have worked with the likes of Dr. Timothy Leary, Dr. Zimbardo and Dr. Mengele, amongst others. My knowledge is vast.
I have taken all my knowledge and crammed it all into this simple and easy to read, 150-page book. I will take you on a step-by-step journey to discover your inner happiness. Topics covered in my book include:
· 43 muscles to frown and 13 to smile, fact or myth?
· How to save money on electricity by smiling to brighten your life
· Alcohol and drugs, the lazy man’s route to happiness
· Is happiness really a warm gun?
· How to brainwash yourself into happiness
· Which religion promises the most happiness
· And a very special chapter by Will “Pursuit of Happyness” Smith
After reading this book, in no time your attitude about life and the world in general will be described by one of these words: bouncy, upbeat, optimistic, cheerful, bubbly, elated or deranged.
***
When this book first came out, I was speaking at a seminar in Elephant Butte. At the end of the seminar, a gentleman approached me. He was over 300 lbs, he was balding, his clothes looked to have been stolen from the children’s bin at a nearby Salvation Army and he could only afford to buy and wear Gators on his feet. But he was happy! His name was Esten Able, and he told me that reading my book (101 Ways to Tickle your Fancy) had given him a whole new outlook on life. He was feeling better, his health seemed to not be as bad, he had a bigheaded Korean girlfriend and was even considering moving out of his mom’s basement. It was all thanks to me. And those results can also be yours! Just read on my friends. Happiness is just a few chapters away.
Lastly, at the end of the book, if you still aren’t happy with your life, I’ve included a cyanide pill. Because face it, if you’re not happy, you’re just sucking up valuable air.
Cheers!
*Minino A, Heron M, Murphy S, Kochanek K, National Vital Statistics Report, Volume 55, Number 19: August 21, 2007
This can be quite the sad world we live in these days; with wars, lead poisoning, Senators with wide stances and Myspace-induced suicide, it’s no wonder that people feel overwhelmed and close to death.
Death surrounds us and it’s closer for some people than others.
“For those aged 15 years and over, the number of deaths in 2004 of persons who were married was 919,270; widowed, 892,017; never married, 248,424; and divorced, 286,758*.”
In an interesting fact, according to the National Vital Statistics Report with final data from 2004, (the most recent statistics available at the time of this book’s printing) is that in America, you’re more likely to die from Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s or even Septicemia (a form of blood poisoning) than you would of homicide or even sexually transmitted diseases such as A.I.D.S. Yet, you don’t often see as many people rallying around those causes (actor Michael J. Fox being the most notable exception.) This is because people are not fully educated with regards to statistics and other information. People often fall victim to the Availability Heuristic, which shows a bias in common knowledge based on available information.
Those are facts not often addressed or considered by “John Q. Public” on a daily basis, and I don’t blame them. There are enough things in life for people to worry about, without adding more problems.
***
Even with many people lamenting these as the “end of days,” there’s no reason why people need to feel stifled or burdened by life. In fact, life should be celebrated and enjoyed by everybody (Except for the poor, diseased and others whose lives completely suck and cannot be salvaged, regardless of how much optimism they have. This book isn’t for people with real problems who should be allowed to be as depressed and as miserable as they see fit. This book is for the rest of us.) everywhere!
It isn’t always easy to turn that frown upside-down. That’s why I’m here. With the steps and tips included in this book, I promise that I can make even the most cynical, pessimistic person out there into Lil’ Miss Sunshine. I have over 50 years experience in medicine and behavioral studies. I have worked with the likes of Dr. Timothy Leary, Dr. Zimbardo and Dr. Mengele, amongst others. My knowledge is vast.
I have taken all my knowledge and crammed it all into this simple and easy to read, 150-page book. I will take you on a step-by-step journey to discover your inner happiness. Topics covered in my book include:
· 43 muscles to frown and 13 to smile, fact or myth?
· How to save money on electricity by smiling to brighten your life
· Alcohol and drugs, the lazy man’s route to happiness
· Is happiness really a warm gun?
· How to brainwash yourself into happiness
· Which religion promises the most happiness
· And a very special chapter by Will “Pursuit of Happyness” Smith
After reading this book, in no time your attitude about life and the world in general will be described by one of these words: bouncy, upbeat, optimistic, cheerful, bubbly, elated or deranged.
***
When this book first came out, I was speaking at a seminar in Elephant Butte. At the end of the seminar, a gentleman approached me. He was over 300 lbs, he was balding, his clothes looked to have been stolen from the children’s bin at a nearby Salvation Army and he could only afford to buy and wear Gators on his feet. But he was happy! His name was Esten Able, and he told me that reading my book (101 Ways to Tickle your Fancy) had given him a whole new outlook on life. He was feeling better, his health seemed to not be as bad, he had a bigheaded Korean girlfriend and was even considering moving out of his mom’s basement. It was all thanks to me. And those results can also be yours! Just read on my friends. Happiness is just a few chapters away.
Lastly, at the end of the book, if you still aren’t happy with your life, I’ve included a cyanide pill. Because face it, if you’re not happy, you’re just sucking up valuable air.
Cheers!
*Minino A, Heron M, Murphy S, Kochanek K, National Vital Statistics Report, Volume 55, Number 19: August 21, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
Life’s a funny old thing.
Often though, life’s got a much different sense of humor than people do.
It’s a dark sense of humor. It’s mean, brutal, juvenile and often ironic in a way that’s only funny in a cosmic sense. You might think that a knock-knock joke is funny. Life thinks that a deaf guy getting his hands cut off in a horrible industrial accident is funny*. Seeing a guy get hit in the crotch with a wiffle ball on TV might amuse you. Life is amused by the fact that the invention of pills like Viagra and Levitra has given AIDS a whole new demographic to run rampant in.
Some people see the twisted humor in life, and while they might not laugh, they certainly get the joke. For some people, the best coping mechanism for dealing with their own existence is to laugh the pain away; make jokes at their own expense. Sometimes, when life has you on the ropes and is pounding the will to live out of you, it’s either laugh through your tears, or go mad.
The best comedians are the ones with shitty lives, or the ones that recognize how shitty life can be and how shitty we can be to each other. Those comedians harness that pain and turn it into something to laugh at, something to be made fun of until there’s no space for pain because its all been pushed out.
There are people who are very good at this. They perceive the world through somewhat jaded eyes and can appreciate humor in a cosmic sense. They get the joke, whether they want to or not. It can be a gift and a curse. Sometimes the funniest people are the ones who are dead inside, their point-of-view of existence turning them into cynical observers of life. It can be lonely.
I’ve been to Iraq twice, (three times if you count that adventure with Hiro Nakamura, but that’s a story for another time, and I’ve got Scheherazade’s panties to prove it!) Back in 2003 I was in Kuwait when the first rockets were fired in March. My unit was part of the second wave into Iraq, once the war started. I didn’t get to see too many battles; all I got to see were the results of American influence on the area. Destroyed buildings, homes with holes the size of manhole covers in bedroom walls, partial donkeys, horses and goats in the gutter. I never got to see a lot of Iraq in its original state, only after a military make over.
As a photojournalist, I went to the front lines (as if there were any) quite often in those first few months of the invasion (I mean, liberation) of Iraq. It was during one of my first embedded missions with an infantry unit that I came across Achmed.**
I was spending the night with an infantry company at an agricultural college in An Najaf. I was excited to be in downtown Najaf because it could mean that a firefight could break out at anytime. I wanted to see some action; getting shot at by SCUD missiles wasn’t doing it for me anymore. I was there to do a story about a cache of explosives that had been discovered and was going to be blown up by an E.O.D. team, (explosions are always kick ass!) As I wandered around the college campus -camera in one hand, rifle in the other- I noticed a group of soldiers hanging out by a grove of trees. They seemed to be having a good time, so I headed over there to see what the happy haps. That’s when I was introduced to Achmed.
Achmed looked to be in his forties, maybe early fifties. His hair and beard were white. He didn’t look like a soldier, or like much of a threat, which is why it was weird to see him with a giant hole where his face was supposed to be.
It seems that Achmed had attempted to sneak back onto the campus earlier in the day, possibly to steal some explosives (possibly to get back his red Swingline stapler from a classroom. We’ll never know) and ended up in a body bag for his troubles.
The soldiers were all excited about having Achmed around, because it was proof of their killing skills. He was shot in the back of the neck (just a tiny little hole, no bigger than a penny) by a M-16A2 gas-powered, semi-automatic rifle at 50 yards. At that distance, the exit wound made ground beef out of his face. Naturally, I took an assload of pictures. I’d seen violent movies and dead bodies in funeral homes and on dissection tables and I thought that I was properly desensitized; but I’d never seen a violent death in its natural state.
As gruesome as it may seem, I wanted to study my first dead body. See, the army doesn’t do a great job in introducing soldiers to the horror of war. They’re great at making sure soldiers have all their proper immunizations, but drop the ball when it comes to showing soldiers what happens when they do their job properly (namely, killin’ folks). They’d probably have a lot less cases of suicide and PTSD if they actually treated soldiers like people instead of disposable weapons with legs.
I studied Achmed’s head: the way the layers of skin and fat under the top layer of skin were exposed, the interesting shades of purple, pink and red that blossomed from the wound, the remaining eye: sitting gray and sightless in what was left of the eye socket. I tried to imagine if he knew when he got up that day that he was going to die in the outfit he had put on. I wondered if he was able to sense that he was going to die. I wondered if he felt the bullet go through his head and splatter his thoughts all over the ground, to dry in the hot sun or get eaten by feral dogs. I wondered if there was anybody back at his house waiting for his return; if he was going to be missed.
The soldiers around had no such thoughts in their heads. They preferred to practice their flying elbows. There were three of ‘em, they were guarding the body so the dogs wouldn’t come for a night buffet. It was a boring job, so they decided to spice it up. What better way than by practicing WWE moves on a dead body? With smiles on their lips and laughter in the air, they would take turns attacking this body lying on the ground. Flying elbows, flying knees and other aerobic moves of pain where inflicted upon this body, further damaging and insulting an enemy combatant who could do nothing in return. I’m not a religious person, but I felt that more reverence or respect would have been natural. I didn’t know that people would take such delight and pleasure in adding further insult to injury. I didn’t know that some people would like their job that much.
In the many months that followed, I saw more bodies. I saw bodies that were burned; torched until the fat under their skin liquefied and boiled. I saw bodies of adults with gapping holes in them (a testament to the shooting skills of the American soldier. God Bless the U.S.A.) abandoned in ditches. I saw frail kids held in the arms of parents --smeared with their own children’s blood-- plead with soldiers to be let into bases for medical aid. I saw what was left of a driver of a car bomb, hell I almost tripped on his large intestine, which, along with other unidentifiable pieces of the guy, were splattered all over a street and nearby buildings and trees.
I attended and photographed dozens of memorial services for dead soldiers. (For more info on that, read the first Eighty-Four Glyde ever!) People that I only got to know after they died, through pictures and anecdotes told by their grieving friends. I saw the good that soldiers are capable of and I saw the evil that they can do (sometimes with big smiles on their faces.)
I saw the best-prepared soldiers killed and people who should have been killed walk away from the scenes of their near-deaths, whistling. I saw a guy get blown up by a mortar on the way to the mess hall. It was the day after Thanksgiving and he just wanted a good turkey sandwich.
I was already an atheist before I went to Iraq, but what I saw and experienced just confirmed my beliefs. When you know that the guy to the left of you could die simply because he was standing in that the wrong spot at the wrong time, you start to question things. In Iraq, anybody could go at any moment. It doesn’t matter how well prepared you are or not. It doesn’t matter if you just got promoted. It doesn’t matter how smart, or funny or attractive you are. When you (and by you I mean I) realize that the only thing keeping you alive is dumb luck, well, you just gotta laugh. It’s either that, or a lifetime of medication to keep you from going nucking futs.
I write this to give people an idea of my sense of humor. It’s not for everybody. Sometimes my jokes are funny, sometimes they hit too close to home or piss people off. Sometimes they aren’t funny in the slightest (well, that’s a lie, I’ve never said an unfunny joke.) Sometimes they’re just too over the top and my words turn into an Andy Kaufman-like inside joke, funny only to myself. But hey, if you can’t laugh at how pathetic and miserable life can be, then what’s left to laugh at?
Now, who wants to hear something funny?
*In the land of the deaf, he with no hands is truly mute.
**Not his real name, but I doubt he’ll put up a fuss about it
Often though, life’s got a much different sense of humor than people do.
It’s a dark sense of humor. It’s mean, brutal, juvenile and often ironic in a way that’s only funny in a cosmic sense. You might think that a knock-knock joke is funny. Life thinks that a deaf guy getting his hands cut off in a horrible industrial accident is funny*. Seeing a guy get hit in the crotch with a wiffle ball on TV might amuse you. Life is amused by the fact that the invention of pills like Viagra and Levitra has given AIDS a whole new demographic to run rampant in.
Some people see the twisted humor in life, and while they might not laugh, they certainly get the joke. For some people, the best coping mechanism for dealing with their own existence is to laugh the pain away; make jokes at their own expense. Sometimes, when life has you on the ropes and is pounding the will to live out of you, it’s either laugh through your tears, or go mad.
The best comedians are the ones with shitty lives, or the ones that recognize how shitty life can be and how shitty we can be to each other. Those comedians harness that pain and turn it into something to laugh at, something to be made fun of until there’s no space for pain because its all been pushed out.
There are people who are very good at this. They perceive the world through somewhat jaded eyes and can appreciate humor in a cosmic sense. They get the joke, whether they want to or not. It can be a gift and a curse. Sometimes the funniest people are the ones who are dead inside, their point-of-view of existence turning them into cynical observers of life. It can be lonely.
I’ve been to Iraq twice, (three times if you count that adventure with Hiro Nakamura, but that’s a story for another time, and I’ve got Scheherazade’s panties to prove it!) Back in 2003 I was in Kuwait when the first rockets were fired in March. My unit was part of the second wave into Iraq, once the war started. I didn’t get to see too many battles; all I got to see were the results of American influence on the area. Destroyed buildings, homes with holes the size of manhole covers in bedroom walls, partial donkeys, horses and goats in the gutter. I never got to see a lot of Iraq in its original state, only after a military make over.
As a photojournalist, I went to the front lines (as if there were any) quite often in those first few months of the invasion (I mean, liberation) of Iraq. It was during one of my first embedded missions with an infantry unit that I came across Achmed.**
I was spending the night with an infantry company at an agricultural college in An Najaf. I was excited to be in downtown Najaf because it could mean that a firefight could break out at anytime. I wanted to see some action; getting shot at by SCUD missiles wasn’t doing it for me anymore. I was there to do a story about a cache of explosives that had been discovered and was going to be blown up by an E.O.D. team, (explosions are always kick ass!) As I wandered around the college campus -camera in one hand, rifle in the other- I noticed a group of soldiers hanging out by a grove of trees. They seemed to be having a good time, so I headed over there to see what the happy haps. That’s when I was introduced to Achmed.
Achmed looked to be in his forties, maybe early fifties. His hair and beard were white. He didn’t look like a soldier, or like much of a threat, which is why it was weird to see him with a giant hole where his face was supposed to be.
It seems that Achmed had attempted to sneak back onto the campus earlier in the day, possibly to steal some explosives (possibly to get back his red Swingline stapler from a classroom. We’ll never know) and ended up in a body bag for his troubles.
The soldiers were all excited about having Achmed around, because it was proof of their killing skills. He was shot in the back of the neck (just a tiny little hole, no bigger than a penny) by a M-16A2 gas-powered, semi-automatic rifle at 50 yards. At that distance, the exit wound made ground beef out of his face. Naturally, I took an assload of pictures. I’d seen violent movies and dead bodies in funeral homes and on dissection tables and I thought that I was properly desensitized; but I’d never seen a violent death in its natural state.
As gruesome as it may seem, I wanted to study my first dead body. See, the army doesn’t do a great job in introducing soldiers to the horror of war. They’re great at making sure soldiers have all their proper immunizations, but drop the ball when it comes to showing soldiers what happens when they do their job properly (namely, killin’ folks). They’d probably have a lot less cases of suicide and PTSD if they actually treated soldiers like people instead of disposable weapons with legs.
I studied Achmed’s head: the way the layers of skin and fat under the top layer of skin were exposed, the interesting shades of purple, pink and red that blossomed from the wound, the remaining eye: sitting gray and sightless in what was left of the eye socket. I tried to imagine if he knew when he got up that day that he was going to die in the outfit he had put on. I wondered if he was able to sense that he was going to die. I wondered if he felt the bullet go through his head and splatter his thoughts all over the ground, to dry in the hot sun or get eaten by feral dogs. I wondered if there was anybody back at his house waiting for his return; if he was going to be missed.
The soldiers around had no such thoughts in their heads. They preferred to practice their flying elbows. There were three of ‘em, they were guarding the body so the dogs wouldn’t come for a night buffet. It was a boring job, so they decided to spice it up. What better way than by practicing WWE moves on a dead body? With smiles on their lips and laughter in the air, they would take turns attacking this body lying on the ground. Flying elbows, flying knees and other aerobic moves of pain where inflicted upon this body, further damaging and insulting an enemy combatant who could do nothing in return. I’m not a religious person, but I felt that more reverence or respect would have been natural. I didn’t know that people would take such delight and pleasure in adding further insult to injury. I didn’t know that some people would like their job that much.
In the many months that followed, I saw more bodies. I saw bodies that were burned; torched until the fat under their skin liquefied and boiled. I saw bodies of adults with gapping holes in them (a testament to the shooting skills of the American soldier. God Bless the U.S.A.) abandoned in ditches. I saw frail kids held in the arms of parents --smeared with their own children’s blood-- plead with soldiers to be let into bases for medical aid. I saw what was left of a driver of a car bomb, hell I almost tripped on his large intestine, which, along with other unidentifiable pieces of the guy, were splattered all over a street and nearby buildings and trees.
I attended and photographed dozens of memorial services for dead soldiers. (For more info on that, read the first Eighty-Four Glyde ever!) People that I only got to know after they died, through pictures and anecdotes told by their grieving friends. I saw the good that soldiers are capable of and I saw the evil that they can do (sometimes with big smiles on their faces.)
I saw the best-prepared soldiers killed and people who should have been killed walk away from the scenes of their near-deaths, whistling. I saw a guy get blown up by a mortar on the way to the mess hall. It was the day after Thanksgiving and he just wanted a good turkey sandwich.
I was already an atheist before I went to Iraq, but what I saw and experienced just confirmed my beliefs. When you know that the guy to the left of you could die simply because he was standing in that the wrong spot at the wrong time, you start to question things. In Iraq, anybody could go at any moment. It doesn’t matter how well prepared you are or not. It doesn’t matter if you just got promoted. It doesn’t matter how smart, or funny or attractive you are. When you (and by you I mean I) realize that the only thing keeping you alive is dumb luck, well, you just gotta laugh. It’s either that, or a lifetime of medication to keep you from going nucking futs.
I write this to give people an idea of my sense of humor. It’s not for everybody. Sometimes my jokes are funny, sometimes they hit too close to home or piss people off. Sometimes they aren’t funny in the slightest (well, that’s a lie, I’ve never said an unfunny joke.) Sometimes they’re just too over the top and my words turn into an Andy Kaufman-like inside joke, funny only to myself. But hey, if you can’t laugh at how pathetic and miserable life can be, then what’s left to laugh at?
Now, who wants to hear something funny?
*In the land of the deaf, he with no hands is truly mute.
**Not his real name, but I doubt he’ll put up a fuss about it
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
A better woman you’ll never find
My oddly disturbing appreciation of Danielle “Topanga” Fishel has been well documented in Eighty-Four Glyde, (you may remember my groundbreaking entry about Topanga in the appropriately titled “I have an oddly disturbing appreciation of Danielle ‘Topanga’ Fishel”*) but it doesn’t stop just there. I often find myself day dreaming about cute t.v. vixens from the 80s.
Anybody remember Soleil Moon Frye? You might remember her better as t.v.’s lovable Punky Brewster. Now, Punky wasn’t all that as a child --if I recall correctly she had the appearance of a Muppet—but she had one asset that many other girls in the 80s didn’t have. Well, two assets really, and I’m not talking about her Converse chucks with the mismatched shoelaces. Nope, Soleil had a disease. A terrible, life-threatening disease that affects countless people everyday and can destroy marriages and families.
I’m talking about whatever the hell that disease is that gives chicks ginormous ta-tas. Some call it a blessing; some call it a curse. Soleil was of that second group. Her ridiculously large bewbies often gave her back trouble and it was embarrassing for her to blossom at such a young age when all of her other friends were as flat as Mila Jovovich (have you seen her chest? She’s so flat I think it’s concave.) So, she got rid of her huge dirty pillows, and the fantasies of boys around the country died that day. It was as if a thousand voices cried out in pain, and were suddenly silenced. If you want to see pre-surgery Punky Brewster, then check out Pumpkinhead II. You’ll enjoy her performance.
But Punky, in all of her splendor was just the appetizer to the true perfect girl of the 80s: V.I.C.I., (which is short for Voice Input Child Identicant. And I’m pretty sure that identicant isn’t a real word.)
For those who may not recall, V.I.C.I. (pronounced Vicki) was a ten-year-old girl robot from the show Small Wonder. The concept of the show was that some nerdy guy created a robot but decided to hide her from the government by claiming that she was adopted. She lives in the bedroom closet of her “brother” Jamie, and gets involved in zany shenanigans. I don’t really care who the girl who played V.I.C.I. was, (though she was cute) I always thought the concept of keeping a girl in a closet was great! (Though not as good as keeping a girl in the well in your basement and forcing her to rub lotion on herself all day so her skin will be nice and pliable when it’s removed and re-stitched as a cardigan.)
She’s the perfect girlfriend! No unnecessary emotions to complicate things, the need to do everything I say hardwired into her brain, and best of all, when you’re done with her, you can just put her in the closet or under the bed, for easy storage.
“But Josh,” the ladies say, “where’s the love in a relationship with a robot you keep in the closet? How can you grow as a couple or feel the joy of loving another human being?” To which I reply that if vibrators and dildos had the ability to listen (and care) to all the jibba jabba that comes out a woman’s mouth, they would have gotten rid of men a long time ago. Don’t judge me! I feel that I would find great happiness with a girlfriend whose off switch I could flip whenever I felt like it. And I’m sure a lot of other guys would agree with me.
Robot girlfriend: Josh, I heard some new gossip today that I want to share with you, about my friends that you are indifferent to. Plus I had a rough time at work because of my boss and I want to let you know all about that. And I think I’m getting fat, I’m considering taking up yoga, or that exercise class where women use stripper poles. What do you think?
Me: Wow! That all sounds really interesting! Tell me all about it!
Robot Girlfriend: Okay, well first I…
*sound of me pressing the off button located on her left nipple*
Me: There. Much better. It’s Miller time!
Now that’s a relationship that’ll last.
On another note, to get everybody in the holiday spirit, and because I love to educate and raise awareness, here’s The history of Thanksgiving. Eighty-Four Glyde style. Enjoy!
*Not the actual title, but an incredible facsimile
Anybody remember Soleil Moon Frye? You might remember her better as t.v.’s lovable Punky Brewster. Now, Punky wasn’t all that as a child --if I recall correctly she had the appearance of a Muppet—but she had one asset that many other girls in the 80s didn’t have. Well, two assets really, and I’m not talking about her Converse chucks with the mismatched shoelaces. Nope, Soleil had a disease. A terrible, life-threatening disease that affects countless people everyday and can destroy marriages and families.
I’m talking about whatever the hell that disease is that gives chicks ginormous ta-tas. Some call it a blessing; some call it a curse. Soleil was of that second group. Her ridiculously large bewbies often gave her back trouble and it was embarrassing for her to blossom at such a young age when all of her other friends were as flat as Mila Jovovich (have you seen her chest? She’s so flat I think it’s concave.) So, she got rid of her huge dirty pillows, and the fantasies of boys around the country died that day. It was as if a thousand voices cried out in pain, and were suddenly silenced. If you want to see pre-surgery Punky Brewster, then check out Pumpkinhead II. You’ll enjoy her performance.
But Punky, in all of her splendor was just the appetizer to the true perfect girl of the 80s: V.I.C.I., (which is short for Voice Input Child Identicant. And I’m pretty sure that identicant isn’t a real word.)
For those who may not recall, V.I.C.I. (pronounced Vicki) was a ten-year-old girl robot from the show Small Wonder. The concept of the show was that some nerdy guy created a robot but decided to hide her from the government by claiming that she was adopted. She lives in the bedroom closet of her “brother” Jamie, and gets involved in zany shenanigans. I don’t really care who the girl who played V.I.C.I. was, (though she was cute) I always thought the concept of keeping a girl in a closet was great! (Though not as good as keeping a girl in the well in your basement and forcing her to rub lotion on herself all day so her skin will be nice and pliable when it’s removed and re-stitched as a cardigan.)
She’s the perfect girlfriend! No unnecessary emotions to complicate things, the need to do everything I say hardwired into her brain, and best of all, when you’re done with her, you can just put her in the closet or under the bed, for easy storage.
“But Josh,” the ladies say, “where’s the love in a relationship with a robot you keep in the closet? How can you grow as a couple or feel the joy of loving another human being?” To which I reply that if vibrators and dildos had the ability to listen (and care) to all the jibba jabba that comes out a woman’s mouth, they would have gotten rid of men a long time ago. Don’t judge me! I feel that I would find great happiness with a girlfriend whose off switch I could flip whenever I felt like it. And I’m sure a lot of other guys would agree with me.
Robot girlfriend: Josh, I heard some new gossip today that I want to share with you, about my friends that you are indifferent to. Plus I had a rough time at work because of my boss and I want to let you know all about that. And I think I’m getting fat, I’m considering taking up yoga, or that exercise class where women use stripper poles. What do you think?
Me: Wow! That all sounds really interesting! Tell me all about it!
Robot Girlfriend: Okay, well first I…
*sound of me pressing the off button located on her left nipple*
Me: There. Much better. It’s Miller time!
Now that’s a relationship that’ll last.
On another note, to get everybody in the holiday spirit, and because I love to educate and raise awareness, here’s The history of Thanksgiving. Eighty-Four Glyde style. Enjoy!
*Not the actual title, but an incredible facsimile
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