Base Jumping to Conclusions

Last night Jeff and I were watching 30 Rock and eating truly terrible pizza. I remarked how much fun I was having and he thought I was kidding so he responded in typical Jeff candor - "I'm enjoying 30 Rock, not your company". Which made me laugh. The weather is so nice right now. I forgot how accomplished you can feel if you just do things earlier in the day. Can't wait to find a real job, but I will settle for this one for now. Below is something I mostly dreamed, but some solid stuff, I promise.

Cherry Blossoms and Bullet Trains:

So apparently that wasn’t a story. Well, what was it then? Other than an exercise in failure, per usual? It is what Ernest Hemingway would call a bathtub piece, apparently. I am sure I’ve mentioned that I hate Ernest Hemingway, but in another of the rapidly multiplying adulthood lessons, you can’t apply ad hominum arguments to reason. Another reason I love to be alive, a chance to focus on the artist rather than their art, thus illustrating my perennial immaturity. I just want to write something that will yield sweet soda ad fame. Reality has never been your strong suit has it? (The truth as a non-partisan, used as a child of divorce. Objectivity is for philosophy majors and other unemployable assholes.) You can hurt someone just as easily with the truth as you can with a lie. Karma is a not a contract killer. Just because they aren’t on television anymore doesn’t mean they are dead. They could be leading rich, interesting lives in any number of ways. Alternately, they could be mourning their careers, as they watched it hemorrhage on the table; all they could do is watch. Imagine the creepiest thing ever and be amazed how it barely fazes anyone because we all conceal our less marketable quirks, like a black eye on a wedding day. I imagined a lady somewhere in the Midwest that makes Dolly Parton look like a dowdy housewife who has funerals for T.V. characters and arranges marriages for her cats. There is glitter, track lighting, and a craft room that should have been a nursery. But that’s life. Seems the transformation of the “American Dream” into the suburban dystopia playground cannot scratch the surface of real loss and I’m not talking about property values. Whoever lobbied to transform the notion of bastard into a love child for the sake of polite company; that is the guy I want to make out with while listening to Depeche Mode in a nearly empty club while a guy in a fish net tank top is blowing himself kisses in the wall to wall mirror. I suppose I do the same thing when I tell someone in all sincerity that the song “Sex on Fire” was written about Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun’s sex tape.

[the good times are easiest to forget – two dates and a name remembered]

Social contract killer – photo of Hobbes
Family Circus Circus – if Sunday cartoons were designed by Hunter S. Thompson.
Analogy of post-modernism as a room made of screen doors and complaining when you get wet …