Very well Shane, you asked for it.
I started small. Well, not completely true but more equivocating. I started smaller, but always felt big. Too simplistic, dig deeper. I started along a path, a path supposed to lead to happiness and glee, a place with halcyon days and ephemeral cocktails in the light. This isn’t making sense. Look, I have to tell the story my own way, just deal with it.
Most people would blame the partying. That’s the easy culprit. He was a great guy until he started freebasing Clearasil. Old ‘80’s jokes to make my point. Assuming of course I have one, not quite sure yet. The parties were never the issue, only a chance to take a break from the pain, the loneliness, the anguish of … absolutely nothing. That’s the problem, not having problems. It’d be easy to quip oh, everyone’s got problems, but the absence of problems actually hurts more.
Now supposedly comes the rant about how our parents dropped the ball, how all of this is their fault. But it misses the question in a sense of dimension. We might have blots on our souls where our parents taught us things that made no sense. A big fat man giving you presents (but don’t talk to strangers); a big pink bunny that lays chocolate eggs (but don’t eat the real bunny droppings). How much of childhood ******** is done simply to amuse the parents who have been trampled by life so much that the only joy they can bring themselves is to confound a smaller version of themselves? But blaming parents for finding even a modicum of entertainment seems wrong, as life is about experience and on a certain level, the ability to entertain yourself.
Before I continue, it seems important to me to give credentials. I was a bicentennial baby, born as a visitor in a Southern state. Not really important where, I didn’t stay long. We travelled a lot, both parents working. I usually had my homework finished and was growing to be a smartass. Now people often consider the class clown to need attention, to prove something. I was just bored. Always. Something would grab my attention, I’d figure out whatever I needed to figure out, and then just didn’t care. Best example I can think of would be video games. I love the game, buying that shiny wrapped thing, the excitement of opening it up the first time, getting home and realizing the game won’t let you past a certain level without doing something so unbelieveably stupid that the game loses integrity. Integrity of a video game? I know, sounds stupid, but if the game is making any strides to be realistic, it only takes one frame, one split second of wrongness to totally destroy a game. Or a movie. Or a person.
Life went forward for me, until it didn’t. Cruising along, going to the school, getting a degree, graduate school, then nothing. No plan, no ideas, no reason. Move out to Arizona, grasp something that feels real. Even if you know it’s fools gold, it’s just good to have something to look forward to. Even if it’s knowing you just ****** off any English majors in the audience by ending the sentence with a preposition. Rules. Don’t get me started on rules.
No smoking. Keep off the grass. Yield for pedestrians. All rules. Guidelines, really. You can do whatever you want in this world, long as you’re willing to die for it. And if you’re not, then it probably wasn’t that important anyway. If I could go back and talk to myself (a cheap trick, hopefully I won’t resort to that later), I have no idea what to say. I mean I’m older, but have I answered any questions? For anyone? I still don’t even know why I’m writing this except to have the ideas on paper. Nothing. Everything starts with nothing.
My parents divorce around my junior year? Nothing. My mom has some issues I’m probably not allowed to talk about? Nothing. Just moving forward, taking my advice from the after-school specials and gracious platitudes I learned from the cookie monster. Now he eats vegetables. Can’t we just give the kids back their damned cookies? Nothing, not even from you.
Where to go next, a misanthropic unparched looser who never cared about anything; never felt anything, just processed emotions based on the music cues from a long lost televised sitcom that even I don’t remember. Happy? Then we do the main theme in an upbeat style? Sad? Then we just slow down the tempo. Gotta have the “awww†moment. Everything wrapped up neatly, a little bow. We do get to have Christmas after all.
So much beauty in the world, so much to see. But so reserved that nothing sticks. I have seen Big Ben, The Crown Jewels, Broadway, Yankee Stadium, Kennedy Center performances of show-tunes (I swear I’m not gay; parents just wanted me ‘cultured’). None of it matters, not the sentence fragments or the words. The thoughts come through by themselves. No control, no limit to what can happen. Would you know if I made something up? Would it sound less real, less compelling? I’ve often thought people instinctively know the truth. It sings to part of us we don’t quite understand. But would a lie speak more truth? I can sit here and pour out my misbegotten pearls of wisdom, shower them down upon your head, try to prove I’m smart, witty, attractive (wink, wink) but if there’s no feeling behind it, the truth … the truth withers on the vine.
Detach, keep that little hipster dude inside your pocket, the one that screams, Dude, that is so lame. Keep him, he’s a part of all of us, so unsure as to what we’re doing, why life is so damn hard, why, well why anything? Would the world be so different without art, without people randomly screaming profanities, How boring do we want the world to be? It’s easy to be cool, it’s easy to be cynical, but does it actually help anything at all. ******** on someone may be fun, but is it productive? Does everything need a purpose? Is just feeling good enough? I know this running dialog is breaking all the rules my creative writing teachers taught. I’m supposed to show, not tell. Make you feel my pain. Problem is, I’m sure I’ve said this before, but how am I supposed to make you feel my pain when I feel nothing.
Don’t get me wrong, I know the cues. I’ve studied human interaction long enough to know when I’m supposed to say, “that’s too bad,†or “gee, that’s tough.†It seems like a lot of ego stroking, I’ve tried to replace everything with “bummer†as a general term. Not too specific, can use in a lot of situations. The ability to empathize without having to feel it. How’s that for an oxymoron? Or maybe it’s ironic. Never quite sure anymore, we’ve destroyed the language too thoroughly.
In a world where nothing makes sense, a hero strives for a better day. Shame that guy died. He could make any crappy movie sound halfway decent. Everything and everyone dies. But what is life that makes death so painful? Unadulterated joy and love, it’s all anyone wants. But we’re too selfish to accept it. Always something else in the way. That new job, that new secretary, that new purse, that new computer. There’s a way around everyone’s heart, and love just doesn’t seem to be the key to that lock for most people. Christ, I guess I’m the cheesy main character in all those bad movies. Hope it’s not a tragedy, but I have a sneaking suspicion that all stories are tragedies if they’re told to the right place. Happily ever after? People would just be bored off their ***. How would that be as an end to the fairy tale? And they lived bored off their *** until one of them died. Too cynical? Maybe. Or maybe I’m on to something.
I know the lack of direction is difficult, and I’m supposed to do this differently, have a plan, a beginning, a middle, and an end, but I don’t think I’m telling that story. In fact, I’m not sure I’m telling a story at all, maybe it’s just the randomness of my brain at this moment that is making me keep going, and a stubborn pride that I can do anything because that’s what I was taught when I was little and didn’t know any better. Back when the world was new (at least to me).
Barely remember that little kid, smiling at new people, singing for no apparent reason. I sing now, as a sign of detached irony. All the songs about miscommunication, trying to show yourself to the world, only to have the world collectively say, “put yer clothes back on. What kind of place do you think this is?â€
How to visualize someone you don’t remember. It seems important, like it would give you a visual into what happened. Wait, that’s way too dramatic. A visual into what didn’t happen, why not caring seemed like a good idea at the time.
Hard to write a story about why you don’t care. It’s hard to put the effort in. All writing is just masturbating anyway. Everyone else is just a voyeur, wanting to see exactly how you stroke. Right handed? Old sock? Showerhead? Tissue? Vibrator? You can find the clues in the writings, even the bad ones. I never thought this would happen to me… The girls are all DD’s, the men all have 8†members, and everyone comes and comes again. So not true. Sex… dunno what else to say. A momentary connection, a faulty socket finding the circuit open for a fleeting second, springing to life, then burning out the filament. Time to get a new light bulb. Forever, what a joke.
Forever is the sky, doesn’t mean anything. Forever is infinite. We are small. Attaching ourselves to forever might make us feel better in the short term, but misses the point. We’re monkeys wearing clothes. That’s all we are, monkeys killing each other over clothes, drugs, colors, races, and religions. Light a candle; curse the glare. The ones who care end up winning. Not because they’re right, but because they are willing to die for it. I don’t have anything to die for, which really means you have nothing to truly live for.
Boy, is that **** depressing. Took a little break, decided to re-read my ramblings. Not gonna erase ‘em, just gonna continue until the words stop flowing. Am I supposed to tell you when I take a break? Would it be obvious if I didn’t say anything? Does my tone change as I write on a different day? My personality sure hasn’t, that’s for certain.
There’s a big oil spill in the news. Massive amounts of crude oil is running into the Gulf; killing all its creatures. We’re next, supposedly. We kill off everything to prove our importance, then wonder why we’ve nothing to eat. Classic. Gotta love it. Maybe even a few other Coca-Cola slogans. ****, am I going to have to get permission to use their name? Probably. Happy birthday to you is copywritten, can’t use it on the air without paying for the rights. If you ever wondered why all the chain restaurants have their own idiotic, self-respect draining “it’s your birthday†song that’s why. Didn’t want to pay some ******* the money for the song. Then again, we never want to pay for anything, do we?
No new taxes, but more government aid. Almost like we don’t remember the government gets all its money from us. That’s right, every time you ask the government to solve anything, they’re gonna take that money from somewhere, usually education. Why should we educate the children? They might figure out how full of **** everyone is. Slave owners wanting to be free from excess taxes. But don’t let the ignorant or women vote, oh, and black people only count as 3/5ths of a person. They don’t talk about that much in US History class, do they?
All the fighting and angst over color, religion, sex. Yup, all meaningless. Listen, I can guarantee you that you have more in common with someone from a completely different culture than you do with someone from your own background if they are much better off financially than you. That’s right, you’ve got more in common with those people you make fun of (you know who they are), than with the rich person you’re trying to become. That rich person’s dog eats better than you, and probably has a prettier girlfriend.
Look, I’m not trying to rile you up, just pointing out that the lower class always gets ****ed by the rich. If the rich can keep us arguing with each other over stupid differences (and they are stupid), then they don’t have to worry about us getting together and taking back the money they stole from us. You kill yourself working your *** off for a modest paycheck, the company lays you off a week before your retirement vests, and the CEO gives himself a million dollar bonus. How are we not more ****** than we are? Doesn’t anybody notice? Or do we actually believe there’s nothing we can do? I don’t have the answers, but shouldn’t somebody be asking the questions? Right, I forgot. We’re too busy updating our facebook status.
Maybe I’m being too hard on everyone, I mean, porn is plentiful, religions are looking more and more like the cults they are, and female cup-size is increasing. By the time I’m a dirty old man, the average girl will have DD’s. Makes it harder to argue about hormones in milk, doesn’t it? But, again, I digress. I’m supposed to be busy talking about nothing, and all you’re getting is random thoughts that only make sense to me. Now, for those of you who read this far and think it’s gonna calm down, I’m sorry to say you’re mistaken. Nothing can’t take over a paragraph. It can barely last for a sentence. See, a sentence is supposed to be a complete thought, but the absence of thought is nothing. It’s a ditty repeating itself in your head ad infinitum, until you transform it into something useful. I doubt any of this will be useful. But I’m just the writer, how the hell am I supposed to know the inner meaning of my work? Especially since most ‘symbolism’ is made up by the reader.
I remember having a huge argument with a 11th grade English teacher who thought the sun rose and fell with John Steinbeck. She said he intentionally put so much thought into his work that there were actually seven different levels to the depth of his writings. Now, I’m not claiming to be any kind of writer on Captain Bummer’s level, but I have created things, some lyrics, some stories, and usually the only thing on my mind is getting it done. Now, if someone comes up after the fact and tries to claim I wrote something incredibly deep, I would, having artistic integrity, congratulate her for seeing things no one else was smart enough to see. When it comes straight down to it, all art is masturbatory. If I can make you watch me jerk these emotions onto the canvas, the paper, the air, the screen, whatever, then maybe you’ll think I’m deep, maybe, just maybe I’ll fit in.
Glory. Fame. Fortune. All the things that you’re supposed to demand. Everyone can be a rock-star, you only have to learn three cords. Hell, most musicians are just junkies who need more money. How many times have you been sitting around with your friends when some band with one hit song from the ‘80’s gets back together, everyone says, “bet they ran out of money for drugs.†The idea of being a 60-year old singing ‘Taking Care of Business’ in front of the Sullivan County Hog Calling Festival just darkens my heart and makes me wish that all musicians could disappear at the height of their fame.
Think about it. No fat Elvis. No Metallica sounding like Pearl Jam. No heavy metal band that forgets to play guitar for their fourth album (you know who you are, you condescending bastards). No Yoko. No Dave Navarro infused Chili Peppers. No Remix albums. Wanna make music better? Let the performers leave when they don’t have anything left to say. Don’t make ‘em stay for an encore, they’re gonna play some of their new stuff. No one wants to hear Aerosmith write the same song again for the fifteenth time. Seriously.
More digression. There was supposed to be a point. Right, nothing. Turns out it’s harder to write about than I thought. Too many competing ideas. Nothing is staring off into space. It’s infinity. It doesn’t make any rational sense. So what do we do? Why, we fill the nothing with something, even if that something means nothing. Convince people that it’s important to have the latest phone, mp3 player, sex robot (checking if you’re still reading; they’re still at least a year away on that, trust me), and they will sacrifice to get it. Kids don’t need braces, we need the new piece of crap. Don’t believe me? Well, when CD players first came out, they cost $1200. Now you can pick up a portable CD player with automatic replay, shuffle, AM/FM, mp3 player, and vibrator for $15. Think of all the stuff you’ve accumulated around your dwelling space. Most of it is there to impress your friends. Gotta have the big screen, with satellite TV, premium channels, and such. There is no reason to own a car that costs more than a house.
I’ll cop to it, I swear. I mean I’m writing this on a new iMac, with a wireless keyboard/mouse, with autocorrect fixing my spelling errors. I’ve got the rest of the stuff, but don’t it make you wonder what that stuff really does? The more personal entertainment you have, the less interaction you need to have with others. I’ve taken a road trip with my cousins, maybe about 8 years younger than me, and they are so absorbed in their personal entertainment device that I actually felt rude trying to start a conversation with them. How dare I interrupt their 15th viewing of ‘Ice Age?’ How many times have you thought you were having a conversation with the person next to you when it became painfully obvious that they were talking on the phone? Then they look at you like you’re the big *******. All technology has done is change the point of view of rudeness away from keeping the society happy, and more to staying out of the individual’s way.
What’s all this anecdotal evidence based on? What empirical proof do I have? Well, none at all. But if I’m trying to prove a point, then I need some sort of basis. I grew up playing video games, on the internet once I got to college (Netscape came out my freshman year), and stuck on facebook for the last two years. Everything gives the illusion of contact, without actual human face to face time. Now, when I was really little, pre-8, I was pre-cable, we had like 3 channels, FOX hadn’t come out yet. There was some local channel 54 ********, but that was about it. I can recall playing games with my family, other families coming by to visit, and actual outdoor activities. Even when it was reading a book, I at least had to walk to the library and talk to the librarian. Hell, I don’t know what I would have done with 8 GB worth of music. I was still impressed my MacIntosh had 128K of RAM. Ahh, playing those black and white games, putting in disk 2 of 2, amazed the graphics moved. Now a game could have an enhanced physics engine, with realistic ballistic damage, and if a single frame falls out for a half second, then the graphics suck. The exploding technology has left any real human interaction forever changed by the haters on the ‘net. Interactions based on slang initials. Quick joke: A (fill in ethnically appropriate person who is considered ignorant to the mass public) texts one of his/her (fill in ethnically and socially appropriate person who is considered intelligent) friend, “What does IDK mean?†The friend texts back, “I Don’t Know.†The first person texts back, “OMG. No one knows.â€
Okay, possibly tasteless, but proves my point. We go through this elaborate dance where we are too cool for basic human needs, and wonder why we’re spending $4.99 a minute for someone to talk dirty to. We need some sort of connection, even if it means posting status updates and hoping your friends like them. What makes us better than anyone else? Why, nothing, of course. We focus on the myriad nothings around us, instead of the flesh and blood people who care for us. Funny, isn’t it, that the contact we so desperately need we refuse from those willing to give it to us. She’s too fat, he’s too needy, and on and on and on. I’m surprised we still have children, with so much interaction happening in the ether of nowhere.
So, where do we go from here? Nothing has accumulated a social cache, a niche in our culture, a desire to mock those vapid, drunken starlets, yet hide a secret desire to be just like them. People always say, “If I won the lottery, my life wouldn’t change.†Ninety-five percent of people if they won the lottery, it would just be a matter of time until they were back at the same job; broke again. I have a friend who spent years as a high-end, well let’s say middleman. I mean, stacks of benjamins, drinking fancy liquor, party every night. As soon as he stopped this profession, he was just as broke as when he started. This man who had thousands of dollars at a time, years of his life, nothing to show for it. Not even good memories, as he was blacked out for the majority of the partying. But I bet if I asked him if he’d do it all again, he’d probably give a hearty “Hell, yeah!â€
Wow, I think that’s my first exclamation point. See, I told you nothing was hard to get excited about. What is our money based on? Nothing. What is protecting citizens from a spying government? Nothing. What keeps anyone from being arrested? Nothing. That’s right, any time the government wants to **** with you, they can. Why, Mr. Jones, look what we found in your bag. What do you mean you don’t want to show us your business records? You must be hiding something. Of course, if they can’t prove anything, they can always just audit the hell out of you, make you justify every single exemption ever made on your taxes. Everyone’s a criminal; everyone violates the law. Hell, most laws are designed simply to raise funds locally. If everyone stopped speeding, a great deal of municipalities would go bankrupt. It’s not about public safety, or what the “real†speed limit is (I’ll give you a hint, it’s not what’s posted on the sign). Now, I’m supposed to be mad, but instead I feel nothing.
Wow, hard to top that paragraph. I wonder where this one is going. The news keeps coming out bleaker and bleaker, and the thing I find funny is the reason the economy sucks is no one is spending the money. Businesses don’t want to expand with a shaky economy, people don’t want to buy big ticket items when they’re worried if they’ll get fired. And what causes the economy to be shaky? Why, the fact that no one is spending money. Kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy that one. What’s keeping us from being prosperous? Nothing, of course.
Months and months later and the words are the same, the same meaningless verbal spew that complicates all work and make people think authors get paid by the word. We released our first album. Did I fail to mention I am a member of a talented local band. 10 years, one album. But we do have some kick-*** songs. At least I think so, I wrote most of the lyrics. Of course, we filed everything online, so even though the album was published a week ago, we have nothing. For only $84.99 you too can distribute your pain and anguish on the ‘net, have people send you money for nothing. Isn’t that the American Dream?
I’ve often talked about starting a foundation called, “Dude, gimme a dollar.†The whole idea is to see if you can get everyone in the country to send you a dollar. That would be $300 million right there. Now I know it’s a long-shot, but think of the simplicity. People waste their money on almost anything, maybe they’ll spend it on nothing. At least I wouldn’t be breaking any promises. Guaranteed to get nothing back; dude, gimme a dollar.
Have I missed any sacred cows? See, it’s hard to tell when nothing is important. ‘You can’t make fun of people.’ Why the **** not? Like I said before, monkeys wearing clothing, all of us. No one is above being knocked down a peg, not even me. The one benefit with me is I will admit when I’m utterly full of ****. I won’t guarantee I’ll care, but I will admit it. It’s a better offer than you’ll get from most people. Total value: nothing at all.
If any of you made it this far now would be a good time to tell you that I simply googled "long rambling diatribe" skimmed the results and then copied and pasted what ever the hell is written above - tldnr. Absolutely no idea what is written above - None.
