squidbag

Bulgarian Dog Spinning?

Let me start out by saying that I in no way endorse the practice I'm about to describe and find it disgusting. That said...

This week I got sent a petition to sign protesting Bulgarian Dog Spinning. I freely admit that while I wanted to be outraged right away, my first reaction was more kind of that "Whaaaaat..." where you just trail off at the end.  I didn't believe that this was really a thing at first.  I mean, I grant you - the depths of depravity to which humans - even the ones who aren't Michael Vick - are pretty deep, but give me a fucking break; Dog Spinning?  For good fortune and to ward off rabies?  Yeah, hah?

So I did the Internet version of due diligence on this thing - I Snopesed it. Nothing. Not a sausage. I have blog readers who translate my blog into French, Chinese, German and Cyrillic to read it, (I know, right?) so I emailed a couple of those guys, and one of them directed me here, to a Greek site with a video that has Cyrillic titles of this shit actually being done. So it's real, and totally fucked up. Apparently, a fair number of dogs drown and lose limbs doing this. Once again, tradition rears its ugly head as the dumbest fucking reason to do anything. I'm going to warn you about the video - it's very hard to watch and will make you want to punch Bulgarians, even if the dog at the end does run the fuck off from these assholes under its own power.

Eventually, I realized that there's a Wikipedia entry on this, but not a very good one.  I also found a Green Party article (also referenced in the Wiki article) about it, and a recent Daily Mail piece declaring that activists have managed to get the practice modified, so the dogs at least live through it, just traumatized and abused.  So this is real and messed up and ongoing, so sign that shit and then send me better solutions if you find one.

I propose a new tradition of Bulgarian Prick Spinning.  Anybody down with that?  We spin some Bulgarian pricks over a river and then, when they're wet and disoriented and sick and scared, we put the dogs on them.  I'd watch the hell out of that.

Hate Away the Straight

Pastor Sean Harris of the Berean Baptist Church (pictured here talking about his recent trip to the boys' showers) made headlines the other day (which was probably always the plan) with his comments about beating homosexual tendencies out of the children of Christians.  While the propensity to do such a thing is not news nor even rare, talking about it where everyone can put you on the Internet for it is just stupid, so now we all get to act like preachers like this doorknob are a rarity.

There's nothing even remotely special about Pastor Sean - the garden-variety hate he preaches is pretty standard for deep South Baptists, and his 180 turnaround and full retraction are pretty par for the course in a 24 hour news environment.

What's really interesting about Pastor Sean is that he's the first volunteer for a revolutionary new program being offered by Squidbag Solutions (which is wholly owned by Squidbag Enterprises, DBA Squidbag Group, global pioneers in Bockwursting and Field Screaming) wherein intolerant straight motherfuckers take a series of skull-crackingly focused courses designed to help them reject their hateful heterosexual lifestyles and become completely gay.  

"It's a fairly easy procedure," said (not a) Dr. Garrett Crowell, wearing a plastic stethoscope from his daughter's doctor dress-up kit, "we 'Hate Away the Straight™' in a series of physically and psychologically demanding intimidation and violence sessions that eventually culminate in the subject becoming more open-minded, or dying, and more to the point, an order of magnitude more fabulous.  Ultimately, everyone benefits as the subjects become more interesting and fun to be around, stage parades and shows, and the hope is, pass the evolutionary gayness along to the next generation.  Somehow.  We're still working on that."

The newly-established Squidbag Clinic in a basement will be offering several "Coloring Your Rainbow" sessions a month, tailored to help currently straight social conservatives give up their damaging lifestyle and embrace a new path to being productive gay citizens.  "It starts with them ponying up a truckload of cash money," said (not a) Dr. Crowell, brandishing a pink bejeweled baseball bat, "which symbolizes their deep and pure commitment to the process and my revolutionary procedure.  Besides, these 1% fucks can afford it.  We move on then to a series of exercises in science, sociology, sexuality, gender studies, musical theater, alternative media, and yes, even riding crop beatings in order to make it clear to these conservatives that even if they don't want to go the full gay, so to speak, that their current lifestyles are too destructive - to themselves and everyone else around them - to continue.  The last bit is up to them - after all, it's their choice to make."

Critics of the procedure have argued that being conservative is natural for some people, and that people are born straight and can't really change, but the Squidbag Clinic is committed to social transformation, and has responded to this initally with more beatings and repeated heavy drinking.

Taking a Break

Once again, there will be people who will know more about this - even people who come here deliberately to read what I write - than I do, but here goes:

I would be willing to bet green money that the last rational thought that goes through the mind of someone before they have a violent break with reality is something akin to "that's not right."  Or perhaps, "Well, that shouldn't be."  I would also allow for, "I've had about enough of this shit," but I bet it's not "Herman the brain elf says to kill the wretched now," or anything like that.  I bet it's a perfectly banal, socially normal and everyday tiny outrage and then there's an audible SNAP, and the next thing you know, people are calling 911 while you're realizing that it's really slippery stepping on someone's broken face pieces like that.

It just seems far more likely that when people really have a nice break with/from reality, they wouldn't have been expecting it, or it probably wouldn't have happened.  I'm guessing most people don't head out to a street meeting or post office or cafeteria or rooftop when they're in a fragile mental condition. Those who do end up on the news of course, but come on - there's lots of non-newsworthy snapping going on, and I suspect it's mostly spur of the moment, happening when people were just out picking up a few things at the grocery, 8 o'clock on a Sunday night.

So I was picking up a few things from the grocery, 8 o'clock on a Sunday night, when I see this guy driving a lemon-yellow Godzilla-sized pick-up truck park in the "RESERVED FOR EXPECTANT MOTHERS" space. He's alone and sporting a handicapped tag, so you'd think he's illiterate, except the behemoth is for sale and there's price info and phone numbers scrawled on the back windows in shoe polish (which I assume at this point is used exclusively for window messages and stucco ceiling cover-ups).  He parks crookedly, of course, because none of these motherfuckers driving giant pickups can ever maneuver them into a normal sized space at anything other than a 35 degree angle with the ass end sticking out into traffic.  He then proceeds to get out without crutches, a limp or assistance and stand there having a smoke.  I step on my thoughts and go fucking shopping.

Fifteen minutes later, and I'm leaving with my purchases.  Now he's just sitting in the banana land barge. As I'm putting my bags in my car, I see my last rational thought - a hugely pregnant woman passing by this jackoff, having parked six spaces past even where I am.  The camel's spinal load maxed out.  I turn, grab my camera, and take this mental giant's picture, starting the conversation with a flashblub.

FUCKO: What are you doing?

ME: Oh, this?  This steals people's souls and converts them to pixels.  I wanted your picture 'cause I see you're expecting a blessed event.

FUCKO: What?

ME: I assume you must be one of those goddamn medical marvels I hear about on cable; a pregnant man, sitting here in the expectant mother's parking space, waiting for your water to break?

FUCKO: Well, I don't - I didn't see any handicapped spots.

(This is when the back of my head gets really cold, and my feet feel like they've left the ground - just for a second.  I've gotten really good at identifying this moment as an adult, and have had fewer police and conversations in my life because of it.  Irrationally, I had a quick vision of staking him through his heart.)

ME: (slowly turns head)  I can see four.  They're directly across from where you're parked.  Right there. I particularly noticed them when that pregnant lady walked past us.

He started his truck and in a labored way, pulled out of the space and left the store.  Once again, I've accomplished only this; I did not entirely give into the moment - there was no snap, and no harm done, unless you're a pregnant woman who had to hike an additional 150 or so feet.  And my eyes hurt.

Dream 3/13/12

For the last 24 hours or so, my brain has been in a fog of poisonous murder thoughts, where I hate almost everyone I run into, consider the interaction with them a burden that intrudes upon my time (which is better spent in a white rage), and wish for a cloud squadron of winged air piranha that surround me and can skeletonize doorway blockers, phonetalkers, slow young lovers and speaky prickholes with a flick of my scornful eyebrow.  I don't know if it's me coming down from a great weekend, or some previously denied effect of Daylight Savings, but - MDK thinking prevails.  Arguably, then, this dream I'm about to relate is the happiest time I've had since about 7am yesterday, so enjoy.

It started with a chapel service at my old elemiddhigh school, Lipscomb.  People were singing, and so I sang along because I knew the words, being mildly impressed and depressed at this fact simultaneously. A couple of my former classmates filed by and remarked positively upon my singing, some normal looking, some regressed back to high school age, and at least one with an enormous head, though if Facebook is to be trusted, that's kind of true now.  Many people were dressed up, one woman was in formal wear, and I myself was in a black suit with black shirt and red tie.  That's not weird, though - I dress like that.  Eventually, I used what seemed to be coriolis/mosh movements of the crowd to inch toward a door and leave, walking quickly and being careful not to slip on the leaves.

It was a crisp Autumnal evening, and I ran into this one woman who I really like and with whom I used to feel very close.  She was dressed all sexy-retro, with headband and fruit pattern on her dress and stockings with seams up the back and garters.  Sometimes in your dream you just know.  Shit, sometimes you know in real life, too.  We ended up making out after a short conversation in front of one of the buildings where I used to have classes, and she nibbled on my earlobes, which I really like.  I could choose to be embarrassed by having told you that, but having also shared my feelings with you about Ryan Gosling, evil, umbrellas, my urine, cars, my own original poetry, and a bunch of other stuff that would have been personal in a bygone age, I think we're past that, don't you?

Then we had to get away from some cops for an unclear dream reason, but this was kind of hot, too. She had to go, and I ended up in a basement with a bunch of people where I committed to giving a ride in my car to a huge guy named Billy, and John Cleese.  I got hung up on saying "Cleese" over and over again while Mr. Cleese complained that my backseat did not have adequate leg room for someone of his height.  We drove to the border of Tennessee and Arkansas, and my alarm went off.

Good morning.

On Evil

I keep thinking about things that have come up in the recent past and thinking to myself: "Wow, I could deal with this so much more easily if I were just evil."

You know what I mean?  If you could just steal and break shit and fuck with people and kill those who need killing? Just fucking smash your car into the side of some prick when you know they're out driving, then drag them out and flaming crucify them roadside?  Or just target those who're a drain on others and shoot them 666 times while they watch TV, make people think it's a Satanic thing?  Burn some insensitive prick on live television and run like a bastard. I could get a lot done, very effectively, in a very short goddamn period of time if I was just evil.  I don't mean simply callous and cruel and inconsiderate and mean - though those things are the tools in the Toolbox of Evil™ - I mean really transformatively violent and premeditatedly invasive in a way that humiliates and cleanly strips away the human rights of others forever.  Evil, as I define(d) it.  Just efficiency personified, man.  No more chances, no more benefit of the doubt or pussyfooting around simple solutions - just burn away what's not working and move on.

The problem of course, is not that there's not some people out there who wouldn't deserve it - because there really, REALLY are - it's just that it's so amazingly hard to be evil without getting it on you.  And it stains.  You can't ever get it off - you have to carry around the evil thing you did forever like a drunken tattoo decision.  You can be thoroughly decent for the rest of your life, but it's gonna be your job to mule around the evil shit you did on your back forever.  And that can make it hard to be decent, since it's ultimately futile if looked at selfishly.  Why not just give in?  If you're always going to be burdened with evil - fuck it, give in just be bad all the time.  And once you do, it's easier to do it again and again - and way more satisfying, too.  Immediate results and complete catharsis.

Of course, you become what you beheld, having looked into the abyss, and if your hatred of the evil shit was what pushed you down this road in the first place - attempting revenge, retribution or correction on the evil fucks before you, now, having stepped over the line, you will have joined them in the cul-de-sac of evil if you give in.  When you don't give in, that's why you don't, of course - no one signs up for self-loathing, especially at a deep and personal moralistic level that's all tied up with identity like that.  So you can't just be evil, not even for a little bit - it's not a viable option, unless you're taking it up full-time and that doesn't work for most of us.

But if it did...I'm just saying, I could get a lot done.

Timethink

I think I've emotionally retarded my development by placing temporal restrictions on myself.

When I was a younger man, I had a really nice watch; a heavy Citizen with lots of superfluous bullshit on it, it told the time really accurately, and was tough as nails.  I still have it; the crystal is all scratched up to be damned, and the band's been replaced about four times.  Reached a point in my life, though, when I stopped wearing a watch.  I found that when I wore one I would check incessantly to see what time it was, and what time it was just wasn't important as often as I was checking.  That, and I lived in South Florida then and it was just the wrong watch for the climate.

I went without a watch for years.  Haven't really missed it.  Now, I carry a Skelanimals puppy watch, 100% plastic construction, fully digital, that my daughter gave me out of a fast food meal.  I can't reasonably fit it onto any appendage I have, so I keep it in the front pocket of my hoodie or the hip pocket of my pants.  I only carry this watch when I have classes or have to be somewhere at a given time.  In fact, I ONLY started carrying this watch when I started school.  Previously, I had disabled the clock on my iPod, and put the really nice watch Matt gave me in '04 in my nightstand.

I worked for years in a deadline-rich environment, and I came to the realization today, while pursuing personal deadlines, that maybe, just maybe, adhering to anyone else's concept of days, minutes, hours, timespans of any kind, is a mistake.  How often do I wish away a month because I wish it was next month already?  Or aim at the end of a week because I'm tired, thus missing what I pass on the way?  I do not cram my every waking hour with entertainment and diversion, but I cram a fair bit.  How much would it open our tiny little minds if everyone's perception of time extended simply from when it started to whatever I've got left without marking it all the time?  Would you still hurry?  Still care about how long anything took?  I think I still would, but I'm not sure.

People often ask me how many books I read in a year, and I usually know that answer, because I keep lists and check at the end of the year.  What if I stopped?  Here's the books I read since I read some other books.  I only read this one book while I was reading this book.  This kid's newer than that kid, but she seems older sometimes, due to the wiseness/creepiness thing little girls do sometimes.  Deciding to do this would be an easy process for me, since my sense of time is broken anyway.  15 years ago seems crystal clear, but I have troubles with the early 00s.  Maybe I exist better in the stretched out times and not so well in the smaller ones, or maybe my perceptions are all jacked up.  This might make me difficult to deal with in terms of being on time for stuff, but I'm fairly certain that I can pick out random instances marked by numbers and hit them without fucking up my whole "drifting through a limbostream without reference points internal anti-chronometer" thing I'm attempting.

(Today's art is by Ghetto, upon whom I visit a small art crush.)

No Retreat

So we're not even three full weeks into the semester, and I have dropped a class.  Actually, I only went once.

I originally put myself down for 18 credits this semester, 6 of which come from an internship with the Democratic Party of Tennessee, and I'm earning those already.  In fact, I've been earning those since early December, and I just finished a 32-page booklet layout for them last week.  I have to do 240 hours worth of work total, write a bunch of blog entries and file reports.  The remaining 12 credits were going to come from an Honors Tennessee History (Should be easy enough, yeah?  I grew up here.) a Survey of US History through Reconstruction (an absolutely MAMMOTH-in-terms-of-student-number class taught by a bored man who has already decided I was a cynic on the 1st day and is easily impressed by classroom use of Greek and Latin), Spanish II ('cause there were so many hanging plot points after the first one, I needed to see the sequel to see how it comes out) and the eventual problem: Intro to African-American Studies.

I enrolled in the course because immersion in things I don't fully grasp is effective in terms of education for me, as it is for many.  When I read the course description, it sounded great.  I was then told that I would need to purchase three books for the course - one history book written by the guy who invented Kwanzaa, a book by Queen Latifah, and Decoded, by Jay-Z, which I have since read.  I was a little dubious about books written by entertainers being 2/3 of the course reading list, but I soldiered on.

On the first day came the dealbreaker.  It wasn't my professor's kufi or dashiki, nor was it his use of 1970s black militant slang.  It wasn't his insistence on being referred to as "baba," a title he claimed he earned in Zimbabwe (and which is religiously-based, excluding me from using it ever), and would only answer to, eschewing "doctor" or "professor."  It wasn't the mild overtone of sexism evident in the division of the material in the syllabus.  Okay, maybe it was all of these things and more, but the big deal for me came in the form of a mandatory $150 retreat halfway through the semester.

I don't retreat.  I don't see the reason for it.  I've been on retreats, and they're not for me.  I know that the reason for such things is meant to be stepping back, stepping away, quieting one's mind, and getting in touch with what Kevin Spacey famously referred to as one's "inner selfness."  There always seems to be a spiritual element to such things, however, and I can't see myself once again getting roped into gossamer metaphysical bullshit that happens in the mountains where I'm undoubtedly seated around a fire with a talking stick or something led by a guy who fancies himself an African wise and holy man breaking down my issues with authority.  I could do it, and all I would get out of it would be a blog entry. So, here you go. Here's the blog entry.

The kicker to all of this is that I emailed him after the 1st class to ask for more details about the retreat, and he never answered.  Four days after I emailed, I dropped his class.  He still hasn't answered, i guess now feeling that he doesn't need to. I feel manipulated, cheated, and a little ridiculous about the whole thing, but I think those feelings would have been tenfold had I stayed in Baba's Self-Analysis Black Pop Culture class.

Yeah, I'm still pissed.

An Unwanted Xmas

Every year, there are albums and specials and stuff that I can't even begin to imagine the creative process behind, like that new TV one where Judd Nelson is Santa Claus.  What?!?  Here are some of the shittiest theoretical ideas for this kind of thing I could come up with; some ill-conceived special ideas for the "enrichment" of your holiday season:

1. The Next 14 Fucking Christmases: Rod Blagojevich sings the holiday classics from Illinois prison.

2. Herman Cain's Sausage Stocking Stuffer Special: On Lifetime, a 1 hour special where Herman Cain tries to run for Santa, but is caught by his wife making "special deliveries" to the sexier elves and is forced to discover the true meaning of arrogance.

3. A DaVinci Christmas: The "History" Channel - International art critic and DaVinci scholar Hans Doun will examine the Mona Lisa's history as a Christmas gift passed down between generations, and will finale with evidence that an image of Santa shaking hands with Jesus can be found in Leonardo's enigmatic and most famous painting.

4. Christmas On the Dark Side: Darth Vader breathes over your favorite holiday standards.  James Earl Jones.

5. The Palin Alaska Caribou Jesus Holiday Spectacular!  From the glassy shores of Lake Lucille, where Sarah Palin can see the North Pole from her backyard, comes a three-hour long return to the family values the Palins hold dear: Jesus, racism, speaking in tongues, stealing money from others, useless platitudes, lying, killing stuff in the woods and not seeing the sun go down until 1am!  Sarah will whine her way through the songs she can remember, and someone will probably give birth.

6. Merry Chimpmas: Three hours of chimpanzees ripping into elaborately wrapped presents.  Well, I'd watch it.

7. Occupy The Winter Holidays: The Occupy movement, represented in various major cities, will be filmed breaking into and occupying the homes of the richest 1% on Christmas Eve - Revolution abounds as the snow is dotted with red blood and green money.  Fat Asshole Cop will pepper spray people while dressed as Santa.

8. A Very Dawkins Holiday.  Richard Dawkins, along with special guests Ira Glass, Ricky Gervais, Natalie Portman, George Clooney and LIVE by remote Dr. Stephen Hawking will get sloshed on spiked eggnog and explain why it's just a very lovely holiday season and nothing more, so try not to get twisted up about it.  Ani DiFranco and Harvey Fierstein do "Baby, It's Cold Outside."

9. Naked Lindsay Lohan SINGS! (Holiday)  Another jailhouse recording, LiLo sings holiday songs from jail while naked.  True, you can't see naked on a CD, but like that's going to fucking matter in this day and age. To be released the same day as her Playboy debut, and free copies of the disc given away as incentives with the new issue.

10. Governor Rick Perry's Indeterminate Number of Days of Christmas: "On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...gave to me...one, two...oops."

11. Pack the Holiday Season: The members of the Green Bay Packers have a 12-0 days of Christmas Extravaganza when Santa's sleigh breaks down over Green Bay, Wisconsin.  As the Pack's Defensive LIne pulls Santa's sleigh across the night sky, QB Aaron Rodgers throws passes for all the world's children, hitting chimneys for holiday TDs!  Belief in Donald Driver spawns a new winter holiday - Drivermas.

12. A Secret Touchy Christmas: Proceeds to benefit the Jerry Sandusky Defense Fund.  Becomes the most unpopular album of all time, and is used as fuel to burn that piece of shit in a public Yule fire.

Because I like to end on a cheerful "up" note.

Chick-Fil-Gay

I was driving home from class today hungry, so I was checking every place on my route with any kind of food, and since it was lunchtime, all of the lines at the various fast food places were long, like windy snakes of hungry cars.  One was extra long, though - the line for Chick-fil-A.  It actually went out onto the feeder road in front of the little strip mall that it's in front of, it was so long.  In rapid succession then, inside my brains: "Wow, they have a little protocol for how to not block the road while they wait.  Wonder what's so awesome about the Fil-A compared to say, Wendy's which is right next door?  Or Steak and Shake?  Or that mom and pop sandwich place?  Is there crack in the food?  Probably a bunch of assholes looking for a gay-free lunch.  I bet that's a long line of cars filled with all straight people."

By which point I had turned around and found a parking space.  I got out and knocked on the window of the first car:

ME: Hi, are you heterosexual?

LADY: What is this?

ME: Just asking.

LADY: Yes, now - 

ME: (walking away, knocking again)

GUY: Yeah?

ME: Excuse me, are you a heterosexual?

GUY: No, I mean, yeah - why?

ME:  Which is it?  I need to know for my results.

GUY: What results?  I'm married.

ME: To a woman?

GUY: YES!

ME: Awesome.  (next car) Hi, are you a heterosexual?

MAN: (laughing) Yes, I am.

ME: Are you here for a specifically gay-free lunch?

MAN: What?

ME: Did you know that Chick-Fil-A has expressly said that they don't want gay people coming to their place here even though it's common knowledge that many gay people have green money and eat poultry?

MAN: (line moving forward) Really?

ME: Yup. (moves away) Hello, miss, are you a heterosexual?

WOMAN: (from behind window) I'm not rolling down my window!

ME: Understood, but are you straight, though?!?

WOMAN: Yes, go away!

ME: Did you know that Chick-Fil-A donates a not insignificant amount of money to anti-gay groups?

WOMAN: GOOD!

ME: So you're a homophobe, then?  A hungry homophobe?

EMPLOYEE: Sir?  You can't stand here.

ME: Why?  I'm not gay.

EMPLOYEE: It's illegal to block the line.

ME: I'm following the line backwards.  And what do you mean, 'illegal?'

EMPLOYEE: I think you're trespassing if you don't buy something, sir.

ME: I can't support your anti-gayness, Chick-fil-Clerk; but I will return to harass your homophobic customers!  (stalked away to my car)

So this did no good, but I feel better.

Umbrellas

An umbrella for me is just another sign that I am not, and likely will never be, entirely grown-up.

I have never purchased an umbrella, not even as a gift for someone else.  I have like, three or four.  I don't know where they all come from, though the one I'm using right now is a rare exception; it's a blue and yellow golf umbrella labeled "Parrish Medical Center" and I boosted it from my mom's car.  Kept meaning to give it back, then it rained a bunch of times.  Had a black and white one before that with some condo place or apartment name on it, but don't know where that is right now.  I like this current one; it has a wooden handle and the rain drains out through what I will call the finial when it's closed and turned upside-down.

I like it when it rains on campus and you get to see the vast diversity in umbrellas on display.

It doesn't do for me to carry one most of the time.  When it's open, I'm Sputnik 1 sending out a cold warning, or a guy on a streetcorner in a spy novel, making a dead drop in an alleyway trashcan.  I'm more likely to aggressively sing at people.  It's lucky that I don't know that many songs from front to back.  I do that Gene Kelly spinny thing and splash around.  I'm Violet Parr or Susan Storm with my impenetrable force field.  When it's closed, it's worse.  I'm Mercutio and Zorro and Inigo Montoya, and you killed my father; prepare to die.  I fenced a drama student on the way to my second class today.  I'm a ninja assassin drum majorette.  It's a microphone and I'm Elvis, Sinatra, Mick Jagger, Axl Rose, Steven Tyler.  I'm Alex DeLarge, the Penguin (always the Burgess Meredith version), and Lee Harvey Oswald.  Or, you know, an actual sniper.  I'm a plate-spinner, walking with it balanced on one finger, alarming the hell out of people getting off of elevators and passing me on the sidewalk.  I'm a spear hunting Jedi Master Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.  I'm Mr. Banks coming home or Mary Poppins leaving, a divination master, a suspicious prospector.  I'm the first guy to spot land from the crow's nest, a lion tamer, a drop-thumb banjo player walking to my car in a drizzly mist.

Next time it rains, I challenge you.