Quentin Tarantino: an auteur, a legend, an innovator, a perspicacious commentator, a giant amongst men….bullshit. I know that Tarantino is the darling of all so many critics and film buffs. His witty dialog is consistently quoted and hashed out in the common male vernacular. But I have not enjoyed a Tarantino film sense Pulp Fiction, and at that, I have never had the urge re-watch even this film of his. And although I admit to having a rather macabre sense of humor, I find little to laugh about in Tarantino’s blood soaked productions. His films amount to nothing but hollow scenes: masturbatory works of violence and excess.
And it is not that Tarantino’s movies are an affront to my sense of propriety. They offend me because they are simply not enjoyable to watch, while simultaneously offering no insight or reward for sitting through them. It is not because I do not understand his films, as I am often accused. Being captivated by pop culture, and stylizing gore is not penetrating or pleasant. Holding up a hyperbolic mirror to the baser fixations of society is not an excuse to then indulge them. Tarantino’s acknowledges the cultural obsession with violence and the banality therein, but offers no revelatory criticism or path out. He seems content to relish in the filth. As Allan Bloom so trenchantly opined on the American psyche “it is nihilism with a happy ending.” Tarantino’s message is superficiality squared, couched superciliously as wit and vision. For him, as Bloom puts it, “nihilism is a mood, a mood of moodiness, a vague disquiet. It is nihilism without the abyss.” Personally, I don’t have the time or the stomach to waste on the insipid phantasmagoria of a vapid masochist.
Or maybe I am just squeamish around blood.
I know I said I would call. You all but made me promise that I would. How could I say no? And it really isn’t work at all to pick up the phone and dial. I could do it while I walk home, or while I clean the dishes, or whenever. It is not a time thing. Anyone that says they don’t have time to call is either too poor to have a cell phone or completely full of shit. I just don’t want to talk to you. Sorry. I know how these things work. If I call, then invariably you will call me some other night, and I really do not want to hear about how your boss is a bitch, or how smart your cat is, or whatever else you think I would remotely care about.
And next time we run into each other, if you ask, I’ll say that it’s not you, that it’s me. This will be a lie. It is you. I just don’t want confrontation. I would rather things regress to awkwardness, than have to deal with them head on. Call me coward. Call me a caitiff. Call me a lying son-of-a-bitch. Just don’t call me. Please.
As a drinker St. Patrick’s Day fails completely as a holiday. What would have normally been an enjoyable night at my local pub has now been ruined by the influx of assholes wearing green that have swarmed seemingly every bar in the city.
When I think of the holiday now, my first thought is not of the Irish, but rather a plague of verdant locus, a green mob of drunken assholes destroying everything that it comes in contact with. My favorite bar? Now overrun with a bunch of animal-house types who have valiantly, yet with no signs of composer or skill, been imbibing since the morning. They crowd the counter and spill their drinks in a misbegotten orgy of high-fives and chest bumps. The sidewalks are splotched with lime tinged vomit. Cabs are impossible to get. That cute girl at my local that I have been slowly mustering the courage to talk is now being hit on by a dozen preppy looking douche bags wearing Guinness baseball hats and green polo shirts. The beer I liked? Now perverted with green food dye. The pub food I crave? Not tonight, they’re too busy. Everything that was sacred at my bar – my temple – unremorsefully stuprated and debauched. What should have been a joyous evening turned into a surreal nightmare of sacrilege.
St. Patrick may have succeeded in driving the snakes out of Ireland, but he also managed to drive all the pricks to the bars one night a year. If you want to find me next St. Patty’s Day I’ll be at home with a bottle of scotch and six-pack of Bass.
Posted in Begrudged Maturity, Holidays, Societal Woes
Tagged bars, beer, drinking, Holidays, Irish, scotch, should but don't, shouldbutdont, squalor, St. Patrick's Day, St. Patty's Day, twenty-something, whiskey
America cannot consider itself a civilized nation until the scourge of the wave has been eliminated from sporting events. I do not care if you think it is a magical moment of community amongst fans. Any activity that leads to that much beer spilling can never be considered benevolent. No activity that involves unwarranted exercise can be considered joyous. The only possible benefit the wave has is the shaking of female bosoms caused by the rapid standing, but even on this account, the wave is organized all wrong. Everyone is facing the backside of everyone else. Instead of quivering tits, you get ass crack and back sweat. I came to watch sports, not to do rudimentary calisthenics while having my draft spilled to ghastly sights.
And let’s face it, after the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics no amount of mass coordinated movement will look cool again. Thanks China. So can we all agree that the wave is now unequivocally lame and desist from making asses of ourselves? If the Chinese want to prove how far they come by having thousands of people memorize basic actions and then perform them with slave-driver oversight type precision, that’s fine with me. They can have that honor. But this is American, the supposed land of cowboys and entrepreneurs – a country of self starting, independent thinkers – and the wave flies in the face of all of this. We are not a country of joiners; we are a nation of doers (and borrowers).
Anyhow, can we all hold off on doing the wave, at least until the Chinese call in our debts and we all have to learn Cantonese and synchronized box-crouching? That is all that I am asking.
Posted in Societal Woes, Sports
Tagged america, back sweat, beer, Beijing Olympics, China, drinking, exercise, national debt, should but don't, shouldbutdont, slave drivers, sporting events, Sports, the wave, tits
I should but don’t like swimming. I do not care that it is good exercise and easier on the joints. I do not find it fun, nor do I not find it relaxing. It is unnerving and tiring. Swimming is not a sport. It’s avoiding death.
When you fail at running, you fall, scrape your knees, and bleed a little. When you fail at swimming, you sink, have your lungs fill with water, and die. With my tendency to do most activities slightly snockered, I think it’s best that I avoid the pool. Any form of recreation where the downside is accidental death is not for me.
And what is up with all the hoopla that surrounds swimming events at the Olympics? It’s a bunch of men with not enough swimwear on, and a bunch of women with too much swimwear on. On top of the questionable aesthetics, they don’t even go fast. Next time you watch a swim meet, focus on the judges that *walk* alongside the edge of pool. With a measured gait, and in chinos and blue blazers, they match pace with the *fastest* swimmers in the world. What a lame event. D-bags in cruise-ship apparel keep up without breaking stride.
The most absurd of all swimming related activities are the polar bear clubs, where men prove how manly (and by extension hairy) they are by donning Speedos and jumping in freezing water and having their balls shrivel. I’d love to go back in time and explain these events to the passengers on the deck of the Titanic as it slowly sank. I bet they would take real solace in knowing that their soon to be deaths would become a yuppie pastime within the century.
Or maybe I don’t look good in a swimsuit.
Posted in Defensive Self Posturing, Sports
Tagged drinking, drowning, exercise, Olympics, polar bear clubs, should but don't, shouldbutdont, Speedos, swim meets, swimming, swimwear, the Titanic, tired cliches
I should like the middle class, right? What have they ever done to offend? They work hard and pay their bills (unless it’s their mortgage). They’re content and pleasant. And yet I can’t really stomach the vast lot them – they bore me to no end. If I want good conversation, I head to a dive bar or the University Club, and not the bar at Chili’s.
The way I see it, life exists at the ends. Feast or famine, binge or purge: beauty through conflict. And then there is the middle class, whish is just sort of there, entirely blasé and uninspired. They have few real struggles, and as a result, limited aspirations. Entirely safe, they have nothing to drive them, content to vicariously live through others.
But creativity demands distention and contraction; requires extremes and the internecine quirks of those with too much or not enough. The tragedy is that there are many things that are so destructive (and by extension inspiring) that only the very rich or the very poor can afford to indulge them. The middle classes have just enough to lose to convince themselves to live completely dull lives. Is it any wonder that they are shrinking: they are dying from boredom.