tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026245507336799562024-03-13T12:49:31.719-05:00RasslesRassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.comBlogger514125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-55527680699941071982016-08-17T03:25:00.002-05:002019-08-07T10:50:10.273-05:00 A Love Letter to DuskDear dusk,<br />
<br />
I have been writing this post for over a year now. How does this go? How do I do this correctly?<br />
<br />
Let's begin again.<br />
<br />
Dear dusk,<br />
<br />
You are, without a doubt, the best part of the day. I've always loved the dawn, but only after being awake all night. When there are stipulations to your love, it's not real love. Is that true? That might be true. We could argue about this from dawn to dusk, regarding love and its limitations and confirmation, but until then, let us pretend this to be true: love requires no limits, no exceptions, and only inclusive annoyances.<br />
<br />
Dusk is the time to shine in the darkening world, beginning the exact the moment of the day when it becomes impossible to read the words in a book without a headlamp.<br />
<br />
That's a real thing. You can google it. Fucking google.<br />
<br />
Technically, it's the moment when terrestrial objects can no longer be clearly distinguished by natural light, but the reading thing sounds more romantic.<br />
<br />
A common mistake among laymen, humans, everyone, really, is making<i> dusk </i>synonymous with the <i>sunset,</i> which is wrong. Dusk is just after that. <i>Just</i>. It doesn't last very long before evening officially begins. The world darkens and fades, a shadow of what it was during the day. Distinct forms melt and merge into silhouettes, creating new, peculiar shapes. If you're in a city, it's that time of the day when everyone collectively sighs and turns on the lights. At least I do, and I'm like, fucking dusk, you know? I can see in your window, do you look into mine? Sometimes I think dusk is superior simply from the perspective of voyeurism. Then I remember that voyeurism is not something I love, necessarily, just something that I find interesting sometimes, maybe once every three months or so. Which is enough.<br />
<br />
When I was a kid, dusk was when I would leave for home, wherever I was. No one ever measures time like that anymore. Be home before dark. We'd hop on our bikes and ride home like our very freedom depended on it. Technically, that was true. Once it was too dark outside for my parents <i>to distinguish terrestrial objects by natural light--</i>after that, they began to worry.<br />
<br />
So for them, dusk was the exact last part of the day when their children were safe from the inevitable night.<br />
<br />
The mystery of dusk is that bridges the light of day and the dark of night, like traveling between realms, shaded in grays and blues. Shadows have grown old throughout the day, and by dusk they're experienced. They've learned their task at this point, which is, of course, to grow into things that are menacing, ancient, and enormous. Shadows are children of the light - so says that one guy. You know, the one with the books and the TV show. He says that. He's not wrong. By dusk, they've matured into things that aren't merely warnings of the waning sun, but representations of it.<br />
<br />
Of course there's the golden hour, or the magic hour, which is nice and all if you're a photographer or a filmmaker. Dusk is better. Not necessarily for pictures, but for...like...duskiness. It's eerie. Peaceful. Aware.<br />
<br />
Dusk feels like activity, it feels like you're gearing up for something. The change in light brings on a change in you. It's deer-thirty, which is the worst, but that just makes everything a little bit more terrifying and a little bit more exciting. Driving at sunset is hard, specifically when you're facing west after the rain and the road is all brilliant and bright. But driving at dusk is like a dream, especially in the country. There are low lights ahead, a hazy shimmer. At first, you think it's a town, or the remains of the setting sun. But the closer you get the farther away it glows, because it's not an existing thing that occupies three-dimensional space, it's just the look of dusk.<br />
<br />
The mythology surrounding dusk is boring, and almost always intertwined with the dawn and lumped in with twilight, and as we all know: fuck fucking twilight. The only godlike thing that mythologies tend to agree on regarding dusk is this: wind happens.<br />
<br />
Once I heard a myth about a Russian burning bird called something, which I've been googling and coming up goose eggs. But it's a burning bird who swallows the dwarf who steals its eggs, like the evening aurora swallows the sun. There are fantastic myths about sunset. Shalim is the Canaanite deistic depiction dusk, and his appetite is as large as his mouth that swallows the heavens: one lip to the earth and the other to the sky. He was a god of completion and peace.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Well done, myths.<br />
<br />
Basically I love it. But the question of the day is this: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A6a6MLDwZJE" target="_blank">what happens in the meadow at dusk</a>?<br />
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-top: 0.5em;">
<br />
<span style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/A6a6MLDwZJE" width="420"></iframe></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-top: 0.5em;">
<br />
Is it nothing?<br />
<br />
Or everything? <br />
<span style="background-color: transparent;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent;">Love, </span></div>
Rassles<br />
<br />
<br />
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Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-91378047479063252232015-06-03T13:08:00.000-05:002017-07-12T01:45:52.312-05:00A Love Letter to BlurtDear blurt,<br />
<br />
<i>A quick one before we begin: I AM DETERMINED TO FINISH THIS. The 52 love letters, that is. For me. I have to finish this for me.</i> <br />
<br />
Maybe it's not necessarily pervasive, but conversational subtlety is generally a lost art, and because of this I have no way to gauge my skills in the matter. Even though there's a sneaky comfort in conversational code-breaking, it's stressful just to think about it. When the words someone chooses to use have as much weight as the words omitted, it forces us to think about things. Motivation.<br />
<br />
Not to sound too theater-y, especially since I am far from a theater person, but motivation is the key to everything.<br />
<br />
Motivation is not an excuse. It's a reason. It establishes causality without begging, and excuses are all about begging - begging for belief, forgiveness, or empathy or whatever. Excuses shirk responsibility, reasons establish it. I mean, your motives can be pure that the result can be disastrous, but that's not an excuse. It's a reason.<br />
<br />
So the reason for impulsive blurting instead of prudence is either (a) ADD/ADHD, which is a whole other hulking thought process that I am not going to touch with any part of me, or (b) to mitigate discomfort. People don't blurt things out because they're calm and collected, they blurt to relieve pressure, and like zit-popping or itching mosquito bites, the results can be super fucking ugly and uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
Still. There's a <i>reason</i>. <br />
<br />
Sometimes it's simple: blurting could happen to lessen the stress of keeping a secret or to interrupt a stretch of silence or to assert your relevance when you feel dismissed. It's about excitement and impatience, it's rash and reactive. It's a compulsion, a betrayal, an admission, a scramble, a flood. It hinders and helps. Blurting is selfish and shortsighted and only serves the intentions of a very few for a short while, because blurting never sees the big picture. Blurting is the honest truth or the fattest lie - rarely is blurting tiny and inconsequential. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRenZtGcZCfpAx4WAGv9Qu-iDu5uiZh-gTPLP50wA3QFsaDF97uN0hiCbtWDqsV7r7AzLfNikNeYLb3Cl1fVJJjdskGfiSWfvE7L14gMppXdl-ybXC5nzS5RruEhdUqwRxtvxuDBykVmI/s1600/littlefinger+arrested+westeros.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRenZtGcZCfpAx4WAGv9Qu-iDu5uiZh-gTPLP50wA3QFsaDF97uN0hiCbtWDqsV7r7AzLfNikNeYLb3Cl1fVJJjdskGfiSWfvE7L14gMppXdl-ybXC5nzS5RruEhdUqwRxtvxuDBykVmI/s320/littlefinger+arrested+westeros.jpg" width="277" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From <a href="http://arrestedwesteros.com/post/9627662976/george-sr-you-know-i-wine-em-and-dine-em" target="_blank">Arrested Westeros</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It is not thoughtful, unless you're a manipulator and you're blurting on purpose, in which case...damn. That's some evil, Littlefinger shit. Then again, a thoughtful blurt is probably more accurately described as an interruption. See, you guys, conversation is hard.<br />
<br />
I guess I just usually prefer a well-honored blurt instead of a deliberate response. No, that's not right. I don't <i>prefer</i> the blurt. It's just much more fun. Just say it. Say it and let it linger. <br />
<br />
Then again, why is it fun? Does this mean I find glee in the discomfort of others, having established that a well-wrought blurt stems from there?<br />
<br />
No. I find glee in the relief. I'm glad that you were able to blurt, because it feels good. It might not be the best thing to do in the long run, but hey, no one is perfect. <br />
<br />
Blurting reassures me. People are human, and humans can sometimes be selfish. We err, we lose control, we say things without thinking. And that's okay. It's the action of blurting, not the words that are used. I love the reason.<br />
<br />
I love talking to people that just blurt shit out. Stupid nonsense or brilliant insight, I really don't care. And of course, definitely, I also love conversations where people who think about their words, people who speak with heft. But I have a soft spot for those folks that just have to<i> get it out.</i> Words with reckless urgency, artless and regardless. Sometimes it's just more fucking interesting. <br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Rassles<br />
<br />
Oh, PS: I also love this:<br />
<br />
<div class="lr_dct_ent" data-hveid="30">
<div class="xpdxpnd" data-mh="66" data-mhc="1" style="max-height: 66px;">
<div style="margin-top: 10px;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="def-header">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a class="word" href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=blurt&defid=377286">blurt</a></span>
</div>
<div class="meaning">
A Belfast Slang Word For A Wee Girls Vagina!
</div>
</blockquote>
<div class="example">
<blockquote>
I booted her in the blurt</blockquote>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-top: 10px;">
</div>
</div>
</div>
Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-76329443009334774722015-01-03T18:02:00.000-06:002017-10-01T11:38:10.257-05:00A Love Letter to South DakotaDear South Dakota,<br />
<br />
I fear this will be brief, since so many others have raved about your majesty before me.<br />
<br />
Half-kidding.<br />
<br />
Great things about South Dakota:<br />
<ul>
<li>The Badlands</li>
<li>Mount Rushmore (well, just coast past the thing)</li>
<li>Peter Norbeck Highway</li>
<li>Wild Bill Hickock/Calamity Jane graves </li>
<li>Deadwood</li>
<li>Corn Palace</li>
<li>Laura Ingalls Wilder shit</li>
<li>Beauvais Heritage Museum (in all honesty I've never been there, but I've been to Beauvais in France and it was possibly the worst place in the world, so the fact that there's one in SD is gigglesome)</li>
<li>Wild Horse Sanctuary </li>
<li>General Lee (the only surviving General Lee car from <i>Dukes of Hazard</i>!)</li>
<li>Pioneer Auto Show in Murdo (see above) </li>
<li>Wall Drug HOLY CRAPs</li>
<li>Porter Sculpture Park</li>
<li>Black Hills (I named places in the Black Hills above, but it's one of the most beautiful places I've been)</li>
<li>Seriously. The Black Hills. </li>
<li>random roadside sculptures </li>
<li>probably like a gazillion other rad things </li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5yc5El3nG3hQl67Z9Yna_SeJfuQxbSaToZcluAzvQ5SkHQiivuHSmcI_5ZDUZ-wga3cXWCk-F9GMZD9IXIj-3j39LBrfZJw80w0x91LPNjZnlfL_mFl3a-RYMjILg18e4GIHkftVwv0/s1600/il_570xN.248214277.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5yc5El3nG3hQl67Z9Yna_SeJfuQxbSaToZcluAzvQ5SkHQiivuHSmcI_5ZDUZ-wga3cXWCk-F9GMZD9IXIj-3j39LBrfZJw80w0x91LPNjZnlfL_mFl3a-RYMjILg18e4GIHkftVwv0/s1600/il_570xN.248214277.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
That's not my picture, there. I found it online. I've driven past that sculpture twice and both times it was sunset and I had no way of stopping. But I WILL GO THERE.<br />
<br />
When you're in South Dakota, you're still a stranger. They won't let you forget it. It's not the overbold welcome you can find in Midwest. It's not the indifference of New England or the general wariness in Appalachia or the confusion of the Rockies. No, South Dakota tells you you're an outsider, dangles prizes five feet away from your face and dares you to jump for them with maniacal glee. It has an unabashed approval of and tolerance for tourists while still blatantly making them feel like outsiders, but in a good way.<br />
<br />
That's a mark of greatness, to me. South Dakota is a place of worth, a place of history, beauty, art, and tourist traps.<br />
<br />
There's something to be said for a place that treats you <i>exactly as you are</i> instead of, for example:<br />
<br />
a) what they assume you should be<br />
b) what they wish you were<br />
c) what they hope you are not<br />
<br />
I love Chicago with my very soul, but we're a surly and defensively sociable people, and that dichotomy is off-putting. Chicago hates you for visiting and hates you for ignoring them.<br />
<br />
New York waves its shit in front of your face like a child with a really big leaf he found in the backyard that he insists he discovered, and then when you're not impressed he scoffs and says, "It's a New York thing." Shut up, New York. You're fucking relevant, okay? <br />
<br />
California is a pretty name with a pretty face, and it <i>knows</i>. It's definitely a flirt. Sometimes it's a tease. And sometimes it's a rapist. California is all, "You like that? Do I feel good, baby? Huh? Does this feel good? Huh? Stop crying, you whore! This cock is always seventy degrees<i> and you fucking want it.</i>"<i> </i>And it's like whoa, hey, California. Calm the fuck down. Stop forcing yourself on me, okay? No means no. You're pretty, okay? Dude, you're being a real dick about this.<br />
<br />
Denver is a mash up of people who think they're better than you because <i>mountains</i>. Fuck off Denver, you're not better than me. Go back to REI. Besides, stop bragging about your damn mountains. Salt Lake City has waaaay closer ones. Speaking of SLC...it is very nice (fin). Portland is so smugly focused on being different that it just sounds boring. Boston and Philadelphia survive on sheer will and historical relevance, Texas works on being Texas and Austin works on being as Texas as possible while simultaneously being <i>not Texas</i>. Atlanta plainly does not give a fuck about you unless you married into them or took a midnight train. No one belongs to Vegas because it's about lingering where you shouldn't stay and no one belongs to Florida because it's about escaping to a place you shouldn't want to be (gaters, yo). Oklahoma is just the worst. Oh, and don't even get me started on NORTH Dakota. Fuck off, Oklahoma and North Dakota. Fuckin fracking.<br />
<br />
There are others, and if I didn't include your hometown or your favorite US location, I apologize. As of right now my familiarity with your area is sub-par, or at least undistinguished enough that I don't want to make generalizations off the top of my head. And even my generalizations are probably wrong from your perspective, but as far as I'm concerned the greatest places in this country are South Dakota and New Orleans.<br />
<br />
I think it's just...a celebration of differences is more appealing to me than a celebration of pre-approved differences. Almost everyone wants you to recognize the greatness within them, however beautiful, humble, or terrible, and they want you to react accordingly. <br />
<br />
Maybe the distinction is that South Dakota is like, "you be you, I'll be me, but it's good to see you, and thanks for stopping by. Whatever. Cool." Then again, I'm a straight white girl who smiles at strangers, so that could be part of the reason why I felt so welcome. And pleasantly solo.<br />
<br />
South Dakota invites you to relish the sheer ridiculousness of things, and it does so without irony or shame. It takes your notions and your hatred and your love and accepts them and discards them, because it knows it can only be South Dakota and nothing else. <br />
<br />
Have you set foot in South Dakota? Did you hate it there? Did you love it? Were you apathetic? My view is from the perception of a
tourist ambling along I-90, and when I say I love it there, someone responds with, "you fucking would" and then goes on about their business.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's because other places are focused on living up
to the expectations of their name, while my expectations of South Dakota were so low that the state could only surpass it.<br />
<br />
I love you, South Dakota.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Rassles<br />
<br />Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-36163488371225750172014-12-07T03:02:00.001-06:002017-04-15T02:58:53.398-05:00there is a thing and it's called growing upDear Peter Pan,<br />
<br />
I had no intention of loving you as much as I did, and I had slash HAVe no intention of turning this into a love letter because half of my criticism is complaints, but fuck off, I've had a few bottels of wine and this shit is happening<br />
<br />
I cannot, first of all, that believe that I believe that they took away the thing that made the Mary Martin Peter Pan a big fucking deal in my life which IS. You guys. It's so sad.<br />
<br />
(scroll to the bottom if you're all like what's the point, TL:DR)<br />
<br />
And sad things are good?L ARe they good? I always thought that the acceptance of sad things was good. Not everything can be happypants sing song time and Peter Pan is one of those things, because in the end Peter and Wendy totally fight and get all you grew up fuck off and wendy is all you didn't because you're a silly bloody boy and that means something.<br />
<br />
So here to me is the thing: Peter Pan. PETER. PAN. It's about being a child, yeah, whatever. You're a child and you have no comprehendible (WORd?) sense of danger, so you're all pannish and then Wendy is a grtown as person who understands life, so when pan comes back into her window and shit she's supposed to be all I AM A GROWN ASS LADY WHO KNOWS ABOUT YOUR LIFE AS A DANGER PUPPY and then she schools his ass on adulthood. But instead, in this fucking live teleplay of magic and wonder and crocodiles that function as time-telling devices, the passage of time, of adulthood and the goddamn beauty of JM Barrie, who is not a pedophile because pedophiles actively seek out sex with fucking children and technically he didn't do that, even though his work suggests a macabre fascination which is creepy as all get=out (dude, you named your hero after a little dick). Just because you find children attractive doesn't mean you're all pedo, HOWEVER finding children sexually attractive is FUCKED and I shouldn't even have to mention this but I just did because honestly? It's a thing, and although we don't have any proof and although we don't know if his life involved abuse I guess what I'm saying is inaction? I don't know. I feel like areally, really terrible Bible.<br />
<br />
Maybe I'm alone in this, but there are scertain stories that I read or watched or listened to or paid attention to as a child that affected me particularly because they were sad. You don't nneed to go around telling your children about the Holocaust, but maybe you should? Is ten old enough for Holocaust tales? That's not a thing. I don't mean that. But I kind of do.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's because I had parents that gave me very honest, historical answers for questions I had, and if I had questions they couldn't answer, they literally told me to go to the library, so I did. Eventually I would ride my bike there...starting in 5th grade? Yes? But I would ride my bike to the library then, and I would <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2012/06/inhale.html" target="_blank">sit in the aisles and read about things.</a> Read about everything.<br />
<br />
And I know, from experience, that my questions and ideas made/ MAKE people uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
In retrospect I think this is a good thing, but who knows? Some people believe that they grew into their current personalities because when they were younger they were adventurous with authority or substances and that makes them more worldly or knowledgeable - I think I feel the same way about that in some ways, because let's be honest, I would seek out histories and logic like a sponge. But other people sought out different experiences...actual ones? They followed a path that led towards a different kind of risk. Let's be honest: Dude, I was so super straight edge. Until I was eighteen I was basically at the library or work, and work was a video store. My entire existence was founded on my ability to relate one idea to another, however disjointed. Still is, pretty much, but now I'm not nearly as ashamed of myself as I was before.<br />
<br />
It didn't matter how much I idealized rebellion, or how much I was drawn to the idea of a Neverland. The parts that struck me most about those stories was the part where reality sets in, where we have to accept that our lives are not a fairy tale, because wanting is different than experience. Wendy grows up and she realizes the dangers of Neverland, but she doesn't regret going. However.<br />
<br />
<i>However. </i><br />
<br />
HOW. EVER. As an adult: half the point of the wonder of Neverland is choosing to go there even though you're not supposed to. When your mom is all like, okay, 11 year old daughter, you can leave the house with a man-child, but be back before autumn, to you I say fuck off.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.rassles.net/2009/04/if-we-were-to-assign-her-word-it-would.html" target="_blank"><i>Supposed to</i></a> is more combustible than oil. I've written about that before, and never eloquently. <br />
<br />
Supposed to involves adhering to principles that you did not define for yourself, and I think THAT is the key. I was never rebellious as a child, in the general assumption that rebellion involves the wrong crowd or the wrong substance, but I was rebellious because I know that whatever I thought I was supposed to do was avoided. You guys, I am so drunk right now. I was rebellious because someone would say, "but we're supposed to behave this way" whether "that way" was following the rules of Christianity or the rules of rebellion where you dye your hair and wear altnernative clothes and act like a dick to peoplel and take a bunch of ecstacy and pretend your expierience ius realer than someone else's. <br />
<br />
At least I know, always always always, that I did what I thought was true. Not RIGht, but True.<br />
<br />
Peter Pan IS SO SAD. IT'S SO SAD. It's sad because Peter kidnaps Wendy since she didn't know any better, and then she grows up and he comes back and then kidnaps HER DAUGHTER. I understood that as a child. I did book reports on that shit.<br />
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<br />
<i>The Last Unicorn</i> is sad because...well, because it's about loving someone who is incapable of reciprocating. <i>Where the Red Fern Grows</i> is sad because it's about separation. <i>The Giving Tree</i> is sad because it's about surrender. <i>The Velveteen Rabbit</i> is sad because it's about helplessness. <i>Stone Fox</i> is about the compassion of strangers, <i>The Devil's Arithmetic</i> is about sacrifice, <br />
<br />
Obviously other books and stories are sad, but these are all the stories I mentioned are for children. Children wonder why, but the greatest thing about reading these things when you're a child is the fact that you ASK WHY.<br />
<br />
And when you ask an adult that has a modest bit of understanding, that is how you learn.<br />
<br />
Peter Pan is sad because it's about adrenaline and the different ways people respond to it. Just because it's withing the guise of children, and racism and sexism, doesn't change the fact that its strongest suit is the fantasy rooted realism, perception changes, nothing is absolute, and hence the absolute ridiculousness of Peter Pan. In case you don't get it: Growing up and understanding that your actions have consequences is NOT A BAD THING.<br />
<br />
So: Do what needs to be done, and accept the consequences. It's not about being fair, or right. It's about accepting the fact that your actions affect people. Always. And you probably can never predict why or how, but know that they exist, and your job as a human is to deal with that. That is the point of Peter Pan: there are repercussions and reactions that are beyond your control. And by stealing those lines away, by turning the story of Peter Pan into a fantasy where you can do whatever and not worry about what happens to the people that surround you, you're cheapening the story. <br />
<br />
Make a decision, and deal with the consequences. You can hope for the best, but no amount of fairy dust is going to surpass the events of your life. <br />
<br />
It is soooooooo a good thing. I mean, don't be shitty. Stop being shitty. I've told my share of lies. No one is perfect, and super duper definitely one hunderd thousand definitely not me. Just...you get it. There's no need for further explanation. All I'm saying is that right now I think I'm laying some serious truth, but not like bricks to build a wall and more like a beat. Stop talking, Rassles.<br />
<br />
You guys, seriously. I have had so much wine. I can't believe I was able to type all of this. <br />
...Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-21068132503480648972014-11-20T03:29:00.001-06:002014-11-21T19:16:31.495-06:00A Love Letter to YonderDear yonder,<br />
<br />
Anticipating the goings on at the hill beyond yond hill is usually better than being there. Yonder. Yonder yonder yonder yonder. Good word, yonder. <br />
<br />
In case you didn't know, I quit my job back in July and then drove around the country for a month. I spent a lot of time studying state maps, memorizing the major highways and then avoiding them as much as possible, fanning off in every direction with a loose plan and no schedule. <br />
<br />
I ministered the marriage of two of my friends on a mountain in Colorado. Hit up a rodeo. Then I hit a deer in Utah and was stranded while I waited for shiny new bumper. I finished a case of High Life on a motel porch with a couple of sixty year old Hells Angels in Greybull, Wyoming. I worked at a sheep farm in Montana for board and I camped alone for the first time. Many times. Camping alone is relaxing. I drank wine at Hemingway's grave, hiked a few miles of the Oregon trail, took way too many pictures on the Enchanted Highway, gambled poorly in Deadwood and tailgated the sunset every night I could. <br />
<br />
Good country, this.<br />
<br />
On a trip like that, there's always something over yonder. Nothing here? How 'bout over yonder? Yep, sure enough, something's yonder. But then once I got to one yonder, THERE WAS ANOTHER THING OVER YONDER. <br />
<br />
And I couldn't fucking wait. I wanted all of it. Couldn't wait til I crossed yonder mountain, hiked yonder trail, wandered the town over yonder. Everything looked like this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnydqNLsUbihpsY0tErbJWodJu2aK32P6C-g2bydnp41RzPVDVR_CpS9Dh4NeoRpaGL4oSyYEcpIIesLSfYLLZfZorniLgwsx96Pwqk1Nq9Pxi_sjXhT92AV7Ukv6NT_Dn2TcN67CqcAs/s1600/sawtooth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnydqNLsUbihpsY0tErbJWodJu2aK32P6C-g2bydnp41RzPVDVR_CpS9Dh4NeoRpaGL4oSyYEcpIIesLSfYLLZfZorniLgwsx96Pwqk1Nq9Pxi_sjXhT92AV7Ukv6NT_Dn2TcN67CqcAs/s1600/sawtooth.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
All yonder. Distant, but within sight. Possible.Yonder yonder yonder. <br />
<br />
I do not miss my job. It was an amazing nonprofit with wonderful humans, but I had a shit job with shit responsibilities. Daily dread. Eventually I started showing up at 11am, daring them to fire me. I just started doing shit without asking. Because fuck off, that's why.<br />
<br />
Honestly, they treated me well. Over seven years there were two promotions and seven significant pay raises. But my responsibilities never really changed. Every year the higher ups learned more about my workload, but they never had a clear picture until I left. They split parts of my job between two existing coworkers, hired two people to replace me for day-to-day stuff and then outsourced my event and fundraising responsibilities. If they had doubled my salary I still would have left. <br />
<br />
Working in a job absent of variation, growth, and advancement can really murder your outlook on the future. My imagination couldn't take me far. I basically decided that I had to keep earning money so I could survive, sustain, and take care of my parents eventually. <br />
<br />
A lot of wanting is involved in that. A lot of self-reflection and inaction, a lot of realizations that zero in on one thing, like the point of a dagger: if I follow this road, there isn't anything over yonder. I had to quit.<br />
<br />
Right now I'm scrambling around looking for writing gigs. It's hard. I'm not making much money and I'm burning through savings. I'm inspired, hopeful, worried, restless, daunted, eager, and fucking terrified. IT IS WONDERFUL. There are so many things over yonder, just littering up and down my timeline, and none of it is dreadful. I could move to Ireland! I could get married! I could die alone! I could publish a book! I could start a business! I could fail goddamn miserably! I could get a dog! I could declare bankruptcy! Isn't that brilliant?<br />
<br />
Everything over yonder, some of it's good, and some of it is not so good. But all of it is vivid and possible. Distant, but within sight. It's not a stiletto. It's a feather. Yonder yonder yonder yonder. <br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Me<br />
<br />
...Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-8395637452500684782014-11-17T02:22:00.000-06:002014-11-18T00:32:16.600-06:00A Love Letter to WordsDear words,<br />
<br />
In the summer of 2012, blogger <a href="http://tedmccagg.typepad.com/drawings/" target="_blank">Ted McCagg</a> created tournament brackets for words beginning with every letter of the alphabet and let them duke it out on his site to <a href="http://tedmccagg.typepad.com/drawings/2012/08/best-word-ever-the-elite-eight.html" target="_blank">determine the best word ever</a>.
The winner was <i>diphthong</i>, which is a grand old word, but it's no <i>hobgoblin.</i> The whole thing was just fucking thrilling, and while I agree with
several of the words on the list (like <i>rapscallion</i> and <i>juggernaut</i>), there are words that I love so much more than his top eight. The sound of a word is so personal that it's hard to completely agree. <br />
<br />
It is probably totally pointless to explain why I like words. They are words. I like to use them for writing and speaking. I would write a love letter to just general literacy, but that's kind of like saying, "I love the concept of currency" or "I love the distribution of resources" or something, and thar be monsters and repercussions. So instead, here is a list of words that I really, really, really love, and not because of their meaning, but because of how they sound.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="12">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="text-align: left;">azure<br />
bamboozle<br />
blurt<br />
bungalow<br />
cahoots<br />
cinnamon <br />
copacetic<br />
dusk<br />
egregious<br />
epitome<br />
esoteric <br />
forbidden</td>
<td style="text-align: left;">fuck <br />
glutton <br />
gossamer<br />
hobgoblin<br />
incognito<br />
jade<br />
jam<br />
jaunt<br />
juggernaut<br />
keelhaul<br />
lasagna <br />
lullaby
</td>
<td style="text-align: left;">magnanimous <br />
nemesis<br />
neologism<br />
ogle <br />
pandiculation<br />
phallus<br />
pilfer<br />
quicksilver<br />
rapscallion<br />
ripple <br />
shuttlecock<br />
slaughter</td>
<td style="text-align: left;">somnambulism <br />
spelunking<br />
thrum<br />
tyranny<br />
ubiquitous<br />
velvet<br />
verbose<br />
warlord<br />
woebegone<br />
xenolith<br />
yonder<br />
zealous
</td></tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<br />
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Some of these words sound the same, like<i> dusk, lullaby, </i>and <i>bungalow</i>. They got that "uh" sound. (Typing out "that 'uh' sound" looks ridiculous. I don't like it. Phonetically that "uh" sound gets a symbol that looks like an upside-down v, but I can't be all like, "you know, the phonetic symbol that looks like an upside-down v sound" because that is a silly thing to say, and it would confuse people.) All I'm saying is that I love the soft u. <i>Shuttlecock. </i><br />
<br />
Who's with me? Don't you all have favorite words too? Words that <i>pilfer, ripple</i>, and <i>thrum</i>? According to the google machine, a common favorite word is <i>serendipity</i>. Not my jam. It sounds like saccharine smarm. But that's one thing that makes a word great: my saccharine smarm could be your blessing and truth. Another that seems to pop up all the time is <i>loquacious</i>, and that reminds me of a racist joke so fuck that word. <i>Ephemeral</i> is popular too, but it's a little too melancholy for me.<br />
<br />
<i>Pandiculation</i> is a word I discovered like an hour ago: <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div>
<i>A stretching and stiffening of the trunk and extremities, as when fatigued and drowsy or on waking, often accompanied by yawning. </i></div>
</blockquote>
</div>
<br />
I <i>pandiculate</i> pretty much every time I stand. I like it. It's like a scientific surprise. There are other words like that on the list. <i>Cahoots</i> sneaks up on you, because it sounds like a cartoon rabbit instead of a sneaky alliance. <br />
<br />
Sometimes a word is almost too well-tailored. <i>Glutton</i> is brutish. It catches your throat and forces you to stop breathing, just for the tiniest of spans. <i>Magnanimous</i> sounds all ancient and grand, and it stretches out like an extended hand. Or a hero, standing akimbo. Ah! Akimbo! Great word. <br />
<br />
I suspect I've always been better at words than nearly everything else. Or more accurately, I've always felt more confident in my words than nearly everything else. Words are about sharing something personal and valuable, and about believing your rhetoric is impressive enough to be shared at all.<br />
<br />
Words are an antidote to loneliness. They're bridges. Words are about pride. They're paranoid and lovely and full of brass and balls. Brass! Balls! Also excellent words. <br />
<br />
Each word has a specific function, and words chosen are just as significant as words that aren't. At the moment of use a single word is the most important part of a person's vocabulary. Even if a word isn't carefully and consciously selected, word choice is so damn particular. It's mesmerizing. I love listening to a well-crafted sentence. The rhythm of a phrase is salient. Cadence is captivating.<br />
<br />
Words are just plain dreamy. Yes you are. <i>Yes you are. </i><br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Me <br />
<br />
...Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-91585080856462058412014-11-08T18:10:00.001-06:002014-11-10T14:09:57.293-06:00A Love Letter to JamDear jam,<br />
<br />
In no particular order, here is a list of things consisting of or relating to <i>jam</i>:<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcr9AvBburOBaicxelEuFkDTj7yPeMBoNtI_LoaBdKDLhaUxvDTymI0qG0PWWmV0PcTR7LnHVzOw-VFh9qFCDrfankOF-LnZhyenR4ka81ZtpvSdoKpRIy1fdejuQGPMLunV5cIFNB9Ls/s1600/Michael_Jackson_Jam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcr9AvBburOBaicxelEuFkDTj7yPeMBoNtI_LoaBdKDLhaUxvDTymI0qG0PWWmV0PcTR7LnHVzOw-VFh9qFCDrfankOF-LnZhyenR4ka81ZtpvSdoKpRIy1fdejuQGPMLunV5cIFNB9Ls/s1600/Michael_Jackson_Jam.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Blackberries </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YfpRm-p7qlY" target="_blank">Town Called Malice</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Space</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Traffic </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Doorjamb</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Radios</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sand</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Stephen Colbert</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It's the connected versatility of jam that really, really makes me love it. But my favorite jam-related rendition is the verb. Not because I like the idea of things being crushed, crammed, or hinged, but because it sounds so aggressive and resourceful. Just the sound of it. JAM.<br />
<br />
In physics, jamming is the process where particles harden due to increased density and take on the behavior of a solid, like when sand becomes glass. Traffic jams when the space between cars decreases, and then no motherfucker is driving anywhere until it cracks. Jamming a radio frequency disrupts a transmission. Jamming is tenacious and resolute. Fruit gets jammed for preservation purposes, machinery jams when it breaks, and sometimes we get ourselves into a jam and we can't move forward. Jam-packed. Shit, I hate crowds. <br />
<br />
But then again, jam is a freedom. Musical notes jam into one another to create an improvised wall of sound, but the wall ebbs and flows with mood, ever-changing and evolving. It's living in the moment and allowing things to happen. It means something sweet and excellent, like blackberries. That shit is my <i>jam</i>. Michael Jackson jams because he's Michael Fucking Jackson, and that dude can goddamn jam.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Culture jamming, which is, you know, the subversion of mass media and popular culture messages designed to expose flaws or hypocrisy in whatever system is under fire, is <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=culture+jamming&biw=1467&bih=680&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=h69eVP6WJoqpyAStgoCADg&sqi=2&ved=0CAYQ_AUoAQ" target="_blank">usually obnoxious</a>. Seriously. Stop changing "FedEx" to "FedUp" because it's stupid. We get it, you're jamming corporate communication. You're sooooo rebellious and interesting.<br />
<br />
But when it's done well, like in the case of Banksy or Stephen Colbert, it makes us question and dissect an idea, and I'm all for that. Especially when it's unexpected, when it sheds light on something I've never thought about before. Like anything awesome, it takes skill to do that shit right, and sometimes it's so, so good. <br />
<br />
Jam is diverse. It works as both offense and defense, control and release, a means to either make something happen or to prevent it. You, jam, you sound like anger and bliss, you can slam into us unexpectedly or creep onto us slowly. You're the convergence of particles and ideas. Jam, your dichotomy makes me love you. All of your parts. <br />
<br />
Love,<br />
RasslesRassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-42314718765474653442014-10-17T06:04:00.002-05:002014-10-17T17:01:10.255-05:00A Love Letter to The Field MuseumDear Field Museum,<br />
<br />
I was debating if I should write an entirely new post or if it's acceptable to <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2011/01/terribble-powerful-wondrous.html" target="_blank">pull from a previous post</a>. It would be a raging pile of horseshit if I denied something I love the words it deserves, so in the end of course I have to write another. <br />
<br />
The Field Museum's objective is "<a href="http://www.fieldmuseum.org/about/history" target="_blank">the accumulation and dissemination of knowledge and the preservation and exhibition of objects illustrating art, archaeology, science and history.</a>” What's better than that? Answer: nothing. Nothing is better than that. <br />
<br />
The first time I went to the Field Museum, or the first time I remember, I was in first grade. The Nature Walk blew my fucking mind.<br />
<br />
I knew about the pros and cons of a zoo at the tender age of seven: I
loved the zoo because I loved the animals and I hated the zoo because
they were caged. Let's not start a debate about zoos. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRkdxsZTHTth-96JpHeACjmeBGbZbQ43m9JIYABiKWvPC1-4OOgmtkAdOnKoGZVjP0sIWwsiUZDnfEhyphenhyphen4fqpByx48Bl8R66-JRdKJbEemOOVAaWLJGayUWI5oM9zc93BO9jhK7X-pCQTI/s1600/field+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRkdxsZTHTth-96JpHeACjmeBGbZbQ43m9JIYABiKWvPC1-4OOgmtkAdOnKoGZVjP0sIWwsiUZDnfEhyphenhyphen4fqpByx48Bl8R66-JRdKJbEemOOVAaWLJGayUWI5oM9zc93BO9jhK7X-pCQTI/s1600/field+2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Field Museum</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The Field Museum was like a replacement zoo: it was full of these frenzied, gorgeously creepish dioramas piled with taxidermy animals, some of them living in their natural habitats, grouped by geography and species and like, foraging habits or something. There's a poetry to immortalizing an animal that most humans will never see in its natural habitat. They were shrewd and outlandish and I<i> learned things</i>. <br />
<br />
There are greater and lesser gnus. Hyenas were the most bizarre and bewitching animals in all the kingdoms. <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=mouse+deer&biw=1333&bih=618&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=htk-VLHPHObl8AGDk4HIAQ&sqi=2&ved=0CAYQ_AUoAQ" target="_blank">Deer can be the size of squirrels</a>. The streets near my parents' house are named after common North American birds: warbler, swift. I took notes and wrote an article about birds, streets, and what I learned at the Field, then submitted it to the neighborhood homeowner's association, and they totally published it in the local paper. I was seven.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKYBuikTkcYy6SgcsnQBOxgSaD03l8hYFLLlkt-kqBR7nxhzCZFp-pBp7V5Z0-AndjjGQlwvyLnTnYynwO8WZpDTlIxLaXH2Uu2z3ktaxoOJtrvcrxau7xKIwGbfQ3G4irs6LIgt1Q74U/s1600/ireland+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKYBuikTkcYy6SgcsnQBOxgSaD03l8hYFLLlkt-kqBR7nxhzCZFp-pBp7V5Z0-AndjjGQlwvyLnTnYynwO8WZpDTlIxLaXH2Uu2z3ktaxoOJtrvcrxau7xKIwGbfQ3G4irs6LIgt1Q74U/s1600/ireland+1.jpg" height="320" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Natural History Museum in Ireland</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's not as if I have a great appreciation for taxidermy as an art form, although I know that many people do. And there's a difference between the delicately prepared specimens at the Field Museum and the fucking <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Natural_History_Museum_%28Ireland%29" target="_blank">fantastic bullet-holed nightmares</a> at the Natural History Museum in Ireland, although both are hypnotic in ways that open up a world of questions...how did this animal die? Who skinned, stuffed, and mounted it? Are the bones on display somewhere else? Did it have a family? What was its last meal? Did it have a favorite tree? Why did the taxidermist choose to display it in that particular pose, with that snarl or furrow or bend? Is it because of a meticulous love for science, for art, or for both? Do they only stuff animals professionally for museums, or do they mount family pets in their spare time just for giggles? If an animal has a soul, would this animal feel pride or despair knowing what happened with its body?<br />
<br />
We can google a diagram of bears and their relative sizes, we can go to a zoo and hope the bears are outside at the same time we are, but at the Field Museum they're lined up in a row and you can <i>feel </i>their sheer size, marvel at the biological diversity, wander around just generally overwhelmed. Full of whelm. There's so much goddamn whelm that if we measured whelm on a scale of sun bear to polar bear, my whelm would be arctic as fuck.<br />
<br />
Then there are the cultural exhibits: everyday items are presented fat with memories and purpose, arranged in relation to other pieces that have their own story. Each object is used to create a narrative that helps visitors understand how things were made, used, valued, and discarded. But why is that relevant? Why...why does it matter?<br />
<br />
I have a favorite piece in nearly every exhibit. I watch every single video and I try to imagine how to use each tool, because everything has a purpose. Every thing was chosen for a reason. Every damn thing is significant and part of the narrative, even if it's a needle or a spoon. <i>Especially</i> if it's a needle or a spoon. Now all other needles and spoons are trite in comparison yet fundamentally extraordinary, designed so efficiently they haven't been improved upon for thousands of years. <br />
<br />
It matters because museums facilitate understanding. They exist not to pass judgement, but to share things that are extraordinary and true. Collect, question, display, involve, educate, connect: good verbs all.<br />
<br />
Here's a chicken and egg scenario: do I love certain things because they fascinated me at the Field Museum when I was younger, or does the Field fascinate me because it exhibits things that I love? Animals and biology, evolution, travel, cultural exploration. I've always had a weird thing for jade...is that because of the Hall of Jade at the Field? Or vice versa? <br />
<br />
Most likely I love those things because of the Field. A good museum should make you yearn for more knowledge and boost your aspirations, and no place, nowhere, does that like the Field. Fuck this, I'm going there tomorrow. <br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Rassles<br />
<br />Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-27450639807713588882014-09-24T22:20:00.000-05:002014-09-24T22:21:22.108-05:00A Love Letter to ZealousDear zealous,<br />
<br />
It's the way you make me feel, it's the way you sound. You're a word I love to use and a word I love to say, probably because you're just so <i>fucking rad</i>. <br />
<br />
If you're gonna do something, do it with everything. With punch. With fucking zeal. Drink the blood of the divine and burn it like fuel, let your purpose, your passion, your enthusiasm and intensity blaze until your only release is single-minded obsession. Become a radical. A fanatical. FANATICAL. Hashtag MusicReference.<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Do not be slothful in zeal, be fervent in spirit - </i>That's
from the Bible (nerds) and it's about the lord, but I'm not talking
about god. Or maybe I am? I must be, in a way, because talking about the
zealous without referencing religion is like amateur hour at the Sears
Tower ("Can you tell me where the Willis is?" "I'll tell you where you
can put it."). <br />
<br />
Have zealous energy in your actions, because zeal is the action that fuels love. When someone is zealous they not only have something they love, but they pursue it with warmth. So love your obsessions. <i>Fuck the shit out of them. </i>Unless it's a person, then ask politely first, and if they say no then you have to suck it up and be all, "oh well, crumbling cookies etc" and then you need to redirect your fucking zeal. I might start saying that to people. "I'm with you, champ, but maybe you should redirect your zeal." <br />
<br />
Like most things in the world, being zealous is only a good thing as long as you're also being nice to people. When we are properly zealous, our love is sincere.<br />
<br />
The reason zeal is so damn enchanting are twofold:<br />
<br />
1) Sincere zeal for a subject is way more interesting than irony.<br />
2) Sometimes zeal can go a little too far.<br />
<br />
When your zealousness is just scrambling on the edge of <i>over</i>zealous, dipping a toe in every once in awhile, that's when your shit gets excessive. And annoying. And WAY more interesting. That's when zeal moves into the zone of requiring analysis, that's when zeal becomes the focus instead of the subject, and let's face it: no one is interested in things that you only care about a little. We're interested in the things you care about a <i>lot.</i> <br />
<br />
So...do I support aggressive advocacy of ones beliefs? <i>Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhh</i>YES. But see above: as long as you're being nice to people. <br />
<br />
I think this subject requires further exploration. <br />
<br />
<span class="p">Do you know what the super very best thing is about being a real live person who lives in a place and has thoughts and feelings? It's not just the layers, which I'm allowed to have. It's that I can change whenever I want. </span><br />
<br />
Love,<br />
RasslesRassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-71090151233706699162014-06-17T12:28:00.002-05:002014-06-17T16:51:21.231-05:00Turn SignalWhy can't you use a turn signal? ANY OF YOU? Mad scientists built a lever into your wheeled robot house, <i>on purpose</i>, just so you could alert other robot drivers that you are moving laterally. And just to keep it simple, this lever lives <i>next to where your fucking hands go</i>.<br />
<br />
Your assumption that you can just weave in and out of traffic all willy-nilly with little regard for your fellow travelers is fucking egregious. EGREGIOUS.<br />
<br />
As with all things in life, when you make a decision, please take a second to reflect on how your decision is going to effect the people around you, and in the world. Even Ashton Kutcher knows that <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0289879/" target="_blank">small actions make a difference</a>, and he's a fucking dumbass. Then he made a shitty movie about it and made things worse. Don't see it. It's terrible and it doesn't make any sense. In a bad way, not in a good way. Ashton Kutcher did not consider the butterfly effect of his own movie back in 2004 that makes me feel angry today. The fucking nerve.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<i>Thor 2</i> didn't make any sense either, but that movie goddamn ruled. Do you know why? Because the filmmakers didn't try to logic something that they didn't really understand, they
were just like, "um, bibbity bobbity bifrost <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/04/a-love-letter-to-preposterous.html" target="_blank">SCIENCE = MAGIC BLOODSMOKE</a>" and then everything was fine.<br />
<br />
Ashton Kutcher, on the other hand, tried to explain something that he didn't understand to serve his own agenda, like when Christians appropriate "science" for <i>their </i>religimagic, which is backwards. Technically not Ashton, but the guys who made that movie. You can't say "magic because of science." That defeats the purpose of fucking magic. Science will negate the magic. BUT! Undiscovered science? That is magic. Do you see? Idiots. EGREGIOUS.<br />
<br />
Don't try to make sense of something you cannot fathom in the first place. Or...no, that's wrong. Always try to make sense of things. But do not flaunt your blatant misunderstanding of a concept on film. Talk to someone who knows what the what before you act like an idiot.<br />
<br />
Then again, I got my shit on here, and I have absolutely no fucking idea what I'm talking about.<br />
<br />
I didn't get in a car accident or anything. I just really don't like cab drivers. They're slippery bastards.<br />
<br />
AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT? I don't think cab drivers really like NPR! I think I just get into a cab and they switch the radio to NPR because I have glasses and I dress like a hungover junior high school teacher. Well, your deduction is inaccurate, cabbies, because I like my ignorant pop music from time to time, and I'm only wearing these pants because finding pants I enjoy is very difficult, and <i>I'm not as cultured as you think I am</i>. BOOM!!!! Suck it.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCY3_WTfruWN3PiYKzwQU19w2KTrBwbKFypfkQge4igCW8Igyaj72OoftLRUyXPM8vDZ1nmFqhB4ow3XUI7XFpYHz9BBo01tRJpa-PNTS3CS_snhFYgwaUllnebMh1VY0qTybzjPXHppM/s1600/thor2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCY3_WTfruWN3PiYKzwQU19w2KTrBwbKFypfkQge4igCW8Igyaj72OoftLRUyXPM8vDZ1nmFqhB4ow3XUI7XFpYHz9BBo01tRJpa-PNTS3CS_snhFYgwaUllnebMh1VY0qTybzjPXHppM/s1600/thor2.jpg" height="169" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">GRYFFINDOR</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-72172413897159175682014-05-05T13:11:00.000-05:002014-05-05T13:19:33.108-05:00A Love Letter to QuizzesDear quizzes,<br />
<br />
I guess this can go back to <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/02/a-love-letter-to-assigning-things.html" target="_blank">assigning things</a>, in a way, but not really. Because this is more...I don't know. This is more. <br />
<br />
Yesterday my dad sent me an article called "Why Are Social Media Quizzes So Popular?" and my first thought was, obviously: <i>um, because they're fucking awesome</i>.<br />
<br />
I love internet quizzes. At first taking them was kind of fun, but now it's a full-blown obsession. I'm fascinated. <br />
<br />
I'm not linking the article my dad shared because it's stupid and it's basically an advertisement for the Chicago theater scene, full of clickable cues to determine which character you are from <i>Sound of Music</i> or <i>Peter and the Starcatcher</i>. Also, what the devil is<i> Peter and the Starcatcher</i>? The article doesn't let you know, but it's playing at the Goodman. No, sorry, it's playing at the Bank of America Theater. Honestly? Who gives a shit?<br />
<br />
And then, in the most telling fashion, the article lists and links all of these quizzes you can take, and how theaters are using these quizzes to do absolutely fucking nothing. They're doing it for the clicks. Theater employees even explicitly admit they don't know how to use the data they're collecting to their advantage, which is probably why they're in media.<br />
<br />
Well done, college. People like to write stuff, and no one can draw a fucking conclusion that isn't a personal preference. This, by the way, is why I hate Buzzfeed. <br />
<br />
But I loooooooooooooooove their quizzes. <br />
<br />
Sometimes I feel like the way a quiz is worded lets me understand the motivations behind changes in pop culture. When Buzzfeed asks which city we would like to visit, do their marketing algorithms change the ads I see to echo my choice? I mean, if they're not doing that they're idiots.<br />
<br />
Why do quizzes ask about food? Pick a Beyonce? Pick a social media platform? Pick a sunset? What is the relevance of these things now, after a year's worth of collected information? Do they write quizzes on a whim, or are they specifically tailored to learn something about their audience? I'm trying to figure it out. It's probably Google's fault. Fucking Google. Google is the worst.<br />
<br />
Major money-making websites generate a massive amount of income by creating pointless quizzes that we choose to share. The company thinks anyone who pays attention is their target audience. They will pay attention again. "Keep them doing useless fucking crap," says the company, "maybe we can sell it to someone who knows what to do with aggregated data."<br />
<br />
Apparently people cheat on these quizzes to yield an expected result. Because...why? They're trying to create a way for people to identify them, so people will see them the way they want to be seen. So as far as the audience is concerned, it's is less important for them to <i>find </i>they're own voice than to be <i>told</i> that they identify with an already substantiated voice. That's just...it's so sad.<br />
<br />
That meas we're a society of personal branding instead of a society of people. That is terrible. How is it that some 20-year old asshole that works at Buzzfeed is
granted the authority to determine which character I am from <i>Star Wars</i>? Why do I believe Buzzfeed? Why am I happy or dissatisfied with my result? WHY DO I GIVE A SHIT?<br />
<br />
The article, by the way, doesn't deal with any of these questions, and that pisses me off. But maybe the most telling thing about the article is that without saying anything, the message is clear: social media quizzes are popular because companies are telling us they're relevant, and we believe them. Pop culture is about money, which means it does not <i>reflect</i> the culture, it controls it. I give a shit because Buzzfeed and Facebook tell me to give a shit.<br />
<br />
Look at that: they are telling me they are relevant, so what did I do? I spent an entire post trying to fucking justify their relevance.<br />
<br />
Goddammit, they are villainous, dexterous, bastardous geniuses. I love quizzes.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Rassles<br />
<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>This Love Letters series is for true. <a href="http://www.rassles.net/p/love-letters.html">Click here for the list so far</a>. </i></span>Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-73945085336133720372014-04-16T16:13:00.000-05:002014-04-22T14:30:12.717-05:00A Love Letter to Having a DayDear Having a Day,<br />
<br />
Jesus fuck I love having a day. <br />
<br />
Requirements for having a day include:<br />
<br />
1) totally unplanned<br />
2) probably hungover<br />
3) two or more persons, at least one of which is displaced from their normal residence by at least 500 ft<br />
4) hilarity<br />
<br />
It's not necessarily that <i>you</i> are hilarious (although I'm always hilarious, natch) when you're having a day, it's more that, like, when you're having a day, everything is hilarious. Having a day is something we invented. A term we <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/02/a-love-letter-to-assigning-things.html" target="_blank">assigned?</a> No, something we <i>Named.</i><br />
<br />
When we have a day we tend to speak in primitive basics: "We are people and we are having a day."<br />
<br />
It's never "Hey, can we have a day tomorrow?" It's always "Come play! We are having a day." Sometimes we try to plan it, but whenever we plan we fail.<br />
<br />
Sometimes we can see having a day up ahead like a silhouette at sunset, our terrible, inevitable future: "Uh oh, Rassles. We're going to have a day tomorrow aren't we?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, Schmee. I'm afraid we might."<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLBIFA3EgNZ7As9_Tto7MdqXMBWuCRBBvljqU_Dv_w5YrGjwNHfkaMnK8hpsdhIQM_ue5I86DbleYpnBlPQKUG0-5Pla6Ht5N2Rpl6e8pES6y95VSR8cxqIrnxtb5ZsXmPzphSNdU0dxQ/s1600/bloomingdale1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLBIFA3EgNZ7As9_Tto7MdqXMBWuCRBBvljqU_Dv_w5YrGjwNHfkaMnK8hpsdhIQM_ue5I86DbleYpnBlPQKUG0-5Pla6Ht5N2Rpl6e8pES6y95VSR8cxqIrnxtb5ZsXmPzphSNdU0dxQ/s1600/bloomingdale1.jpg" height="350" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bloomingdale Trail. I found this on the google, I have no idea who took it. Rad though, yeah?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Sometimes having a day is just wandering around petting strangers' dogs, or an impromptu bar crawl in rain, or deciding to get drunk but instead we just sit around watching <i>Back
to the Future </i> MST3K-style. Sometimes we go to Chinatown. Sometimes we walk down the street and <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2013/01/high-five-bro.html" target="_blank">collect high-fives</a>. Sometimes we accidentally end up at the Circus Museum in Baraboo. Sometimes we hike the Bloomingdale trail, but not anymore because they're turning it into a sensible, three-mile elevated park. Chicago loses its wilderness foot by foot, day by day. <br />
<br />
Sometimes we go see a psychic who tells us that throughout our childhood our usually-absent father, with whom we do not get along, had a secret family in Georgia, and because of his sins we are cursed to never find love unless we pay the psychic $45 a week so she can light giant candles and meditate and cleanse us of our misfortune and woe. Sometimes that psychic describes, in detail, our damaging miscarriage (????????WHUUUT??????). She says we have good business sense, we love our job cuz its what we do best, we do not enjoy reading and are not terribly creative. Sometimes that psychic also says that no man will love us because we are too ugly and intimidating (it was 6pm and I smelled like PBR and my soft pants had schnauzers on them) so we might want to consider settling with a woman just so we aren't so lonely anymore. Sometimes psychics are stupid fucking cunts that try ruin our day, but they fail, and do you know why? Because we are having a fucking DAY, that's why.<br />
<br />
Nothing can ruin a day. Spending $25 on a shitty tarot card reading is worth it, and plus?<i> Awesome.</i> She did not list a single accurate or recognizable trait of mine. It was like the <i>exact opposite</i> of a psychic, treading water in the toilet of lies. Seriously, did this witch divine vibes from a stranger on the sidewalk? Who was this stranger? Can I meet her? Would we be friends? I doubt it, we have nothing in common, and half of my apartment is books. Also, absent father? You kidding me? My dad worked from home. I saw him every day. Too ugly to be in a relationship with a man? Foolish, fuckeyed, gypsy harpy, your mystic science is stuh-<i>rate</i> up slander. <br />
<br />
But none of that matters, because Sara and I were having a day.<br />
<br />
Sometimes when we're having a day we buy all of the champagne at CVS and drink on the porch and yell at people on the street so they'll join us in our day. Sometimes we stay in and turn off all the lights and drink bloody marys and watch Buffy. Shooting the shit, being an idiot within the safe confines of your friends.
<br />
<br />
It occurs to me that the majority of them when I'm having a day, Schmee is there. Well done, Schmee. We are people and we are good at things. <br />
<br />
Love,<br />
<br />
Rassles<br />
<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>This Love Letters series is for true. <a href="http://www.rassles.net/p/love-letters.html">Click here for the list so far</a>. </i></span>Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-45963476282925753532014-04-11T00:00:00.001-05:002014-04-11T12:17:48.735-05:00A Love Letter to DinerDear <i>Diner</i>,<br />
<br />
I love you.<br />
<br />
Sure, you're sexist. Then again, you take place in 1959. If you weren't sexist, this would be a fantasy, and your strength is your realism. <br />
<br />
If any movie perfectly illustrates the dynamics of friendship without relying on stereotypes, this is it. You can keep your buddy films and your bromances and your coming-of-age.<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Diner</i> is one of the only movies that leaves me with: <i>Yes. This is how friends behave.</i> This is friendship amongst a group of equals. It's not about heroes and sidekicks or mentors and students or rivals that 'respect' each other.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihuDBPZqV-0XHBg6SZuY1APR5ge_213QKg2-rAHO8nefr7Hn2x0B32XybG1qMogAWRZX64AwpohxMTKWSfWWRzeutM2q8TN6IkzNlvX2rBGU8waUMDQogfFkSYgC8ypQbJjgpGiPSRgyE/s1600/diner-670x242.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihuDBPZqV-0XHBg6SZuY1APR5ge_213QKg2-rAHO8nefr7Hn2x0B32XybG1qMogAWRZX64AwpohxMTKWSfWWRzeutM2q8TN6IkzNlvX2rBGU8waUMDQogfFkSYgC8ypQbJjgpGiPSRgyE/s1600/diner-670x242.png" height="143" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I think one of the main reasons I identify with <i>Diner</i> so much is because there are (please don't hate me for where I'm headed, here) so fucking few healthy female friendships represented in popular culture. Why is it that female friends are always jealous and backstabby? My friends aren't like that. If I met a person like that, I would just <i>not be friends with them.</i> <br />
<br />
Hollywood has very, very, very low expectations of friendship, especially with women. Stories about camaraderie are usually better friendship barometers than stories about friends. <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2013/03/please-allow-me-to-nerd-out_5.html" target="_blank">Movies about growing up</a>
that are written or directed by a person who is, simultaneously, coming into their own self, are always the best.<br />
<br />
<i>Diner</i>'s success lies in the level of comfort these actors feel around each other, how they ricochet and couple and strain. I don't think I have a single friend I relate to in the exact same way
as another. Friendships are fueled by reflection. It's how you respond to each other, the unique phrases you use, how you reminisce...if you reminisce at all. Some friends are for arguing and debates. Some
friends need protection. Some give the best advice, some spill out a slow reveal of our similarities or flagrant differences. <br />
<br />
The things that I remember about my friends are the parts that were easy, and those are the things I tell the most. <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2009/03/we-need-more-beer.html" target="_blank">Staying up all night in on the train to New Orleans</a> with Bobbay, shaking creamers because Muffy told us that if you shook a creamer, it would turn into butter. What did we talk about? Shit, I don't know. Buttermakers? I just know it was effortless and rad, and my favorite part of that trip was <i>getting there. </i>One summer I remember drinking around a fire reading passages from erotic novels with CrazyLiz and Phil and Tyler: I remember the nuances ("<span class="st">You know what word I'm not comfortable with? Nuance. It's not a real word" - Modell, <i>Diner</i>) </span>and stress that each of used and how differently we all read the text. Driving around with Schmee in college looking for cigarettes, refusing to buy our own, just having a day. We weren't out of control or fucked up or anything, we were just...us. Sometimes it's the simple lazy times, when no one is faking it, when you're completely at ease and you don't need to work at anything, when you're not trying, when you're just effortlessly idle. But tthings end, and people grow.<br />
<br />
<i>Diner</i> takes place just before the minute hand strikes sixties: the world is about to change, to call out the boys' collective narcissism and smash it up. But no matter what, they'll always have the guys at the diner. <br />
<br />
Then they're getting married, having kids, starting new jobs and leaving town. But you know that the next time they're together, Modell and Eddie are going to bicker about absolutely anything and everything, Shrevie and Boogie will remain friendly, but tensely competitive, Fenwick will probably be drunk and brilliant and pissing off everyone else. <br />
<br />
And it's stories we all know: the universal, gap-mouthed look Eddie gets when he realizes <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F3QANzPkkR4" target="_blank">he just lost a pointless argument</a>, but he still keeps arguing because he must, because he is making a goddamn point, and then later on he brushes it off, why so serious?<br />
<br />
Seriously, Steve fucking Guttenberg is a goddamn genius in this movie (words that have never, ever been spoken, and technically they still haven't since I typed them, but whatever jerk). As far as I'm concerned his role (Eddie) is one the most well-actualized characters I have ever seen - because we know him, we can tell how he's going to react to anything outside the sphere of <i>Diner</i> because he does such a fucking <i>perfect</i> job reacting to things. I could go on and on and on, but that shit's boring to list and dazzling to watch. I'll let the movie do it.<br />
<br />
In a way, I guess, it's about taking shit seriously: my serious business is much more fucking important than your serious business. Nah, just kidding, super sors, we cool? <br />
<br />
Maybe it's because, stripped of the question of masculinity and what it means to be a man and all that bullshit (which I could talk about, but don't want to) <i>Diner</i> is really about learning who you are and admitting those faults, and how none of it matters with the people you love. <i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
Maybe I the reason I love <i>Diner </i>is because it's like...it's like when an old friend gives you a confident a kick in the ass and tells you to fuck off, so you do a round of shots and make fun of each other for five minutes and feel better about the world. <i><br /></i>
<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Rassles<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>So I guess I have a Love Letters series now. I mean, I do. <a href="http://www.rassles.net/p/love-letters.html">Click here for the list so far</a>. </i></span>Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-51978372862658915212014-04-01T13:18:00.002-05:002014-04-10T20:31:36.348-05:00A Love Letter to PreposterousDear <i>preposterous</i>,<br />
<br />
Of all the words that mean "contrary to common sense," including but not limited to:<br />
<br />
1) ridiculous 2) absurd 3) foolish 4) silly 5) etc.<br />
<br />
You are the best.<br />
<br />
I'm predisposed towards the preposterous automatically, but only in a very specific way. I like my preposterousness to have intent, somehow. I think it's because preposterous things are best when they veer swiftly from a serious something. When they have a reason and that reason is, itself, preposterous. All that is probably rooted somehow in absurdism, right? <br />
<br />
Still, I'm not directly talking <i>absurdism</i>, here - like the disharmony created by humanity's continuous search for meaning in a meaninglessness universe - for example: mathematicians rummaging for the secrets of pi, or people who do the "paleo diet" (which is worst name ever, and here's a tip if you want to lose weight: <i>exercise</i> (yes, fine, pots and kettles and their inherent blackness, whatever, but at least I'm not jumping on fads)) because, you guys, we have no way of knowing that Paleolithic humans refrained from starch. Or Catholicism. Pi, paleo diets, Catholicism. All the same thing. Everything is the same thing, nothing is different, everything is different, everything is absurd, but omg, why? So obviously I agree with absurdism, pretty much, but I don't <i>like</i> the fact that I do. Which is, of course, fucking absurd.<br />
<br />
But I'm talking about artistically preposterous, or personally preposterous, or professionally preposterous. The kind of preposterousness that springs from the cracks of too much seriousness rather than a lack of understanding, of the willing neglect of things that are sensible in order to embrace the nonsense, <i>because</i> of the nonsense. It's just more fun that way.<br />
<br />
In light of disappearing flights, I'm going to use LOST as an example here: LOST excelled at characterization. Each person portrayed on that show was pompously elaborate, fat with memories and glaring idiosyncrasies. <br />
<br />
The plot to LOST was developed, but shittingly preposterous, and that made me love it more. The more entangled and irrational each story became, a pervasive concern arose among viewers: the scriptwriters wrote themselves into fallacy. But then instead of writing themselves out of it they just said, "Eh, fuck it. Let's do this instead: EVERYTHING IS MAGIC."<br />
<br />
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<br />
Look at that foot. Why is the foot there? Because it used to be a statue of Taweret. Why was there a statue? Because someone built it. Probably an Egyptian. Why Taweret? Because she was the goddess of makin' babies, and no one could have babies on the island so the statue was an appeal for fertility. Why? Because some people like babies<i> and the island is magic. </i><br />
<br />
That is my idea of a good time. Instead of solving our problems, let's just use magic.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>pre·pos·ter·ous</b></span><br />
[pri-pos-ter-us s, -truh s]<br />
<i>adjective</i><br />
completely contrary to <a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/nature" target="_blank">nature</a>, <a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/reason" target="_blank">reason</a>, or common sense; absurd; senseless; utterly foolish: a preposterous tale.<br />
<i><b>Origin: </b></i>1535-45; from Latin <i>praeposterus</i> with the the hinder part foremost. See <a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/pre-" target="_blank">pre-</a>, <a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/posterior" target="_blank">posterior</a>, <a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/-ous" target="_blank">-ous</a>.<br />
<div class="tail" style="text-align: left;">
<div class="ety">
<i>Synonyms</i><br />
unreasonable, excessive, ridiculous. See <a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/absurd" target="_blank">absurd</a>.</div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<div class="luna-Ent">
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<div>
<span id="hotword">Sure, saying that using magic is better could be utterly foolish. Why? Number one, magic isn't real. Two, it's cheating. But most importantly it means taking that thing that we were all wondering: is there a fucking logical explanation for all this? No. There isn't. There is only magic.</span><br />
<span id="hotword"><br /></span>
But how, do you ask, is that putting the <i>hinder part foremost</i>? That which defines preposterous, which is why this is preposterous and not absurd? Literally, "pre-" meaning before; part of "posterior" meaning subsequent, followed by, hinder; and "-ous" meaning...you know...the part of the word that makes this an adjective. Either way, preposterous magic is the driving purpose. We're well aware of what should be done, if things were right and proper, and we just...do it differently for no goddamn reason.<br />
<br />
Things that are literally backwards and preposterous, just off the top of my head: <br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Looking-Glass magic plum-cakes (hand it round first, then <a href="http://www.alice-in-wonderland.net/books/2chpt7.html" target="_blank">cut it after</a>)</li>
<li><span class="st">“We should forgive our enemies, but not before they are hanged.”</span></li>
<li>Put your thing down, flip it, and reverse it </li>
<li>posting something on Facebook just to see different sidebar ads </li>
<li>butt chugging</li>
</ul>
<br />
The obvious preposterous thing to list is "don't put the cart before the horse." <span id="hotword">But what people always forget is this: horses can push, too. </span></div>
</div>
</div>
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<br />
Do horses dream of hauling booze or is the very notion of this preposterous? <br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Rassles<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>So I guess I have a Love Letters series now. I mean, I do. <a href="http://www.rassles.net/p/love-letters.html">Click here for the list so far</a>. </i></span>Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-85796884806603618192014-03-17T12:29:00.004-05:002014-05-29T12:58:26.015-05:00A Love Letter to BreadDear<i> bread</i>,<br />
<br />
As far as <a href="http://www.rassles.net/p/love-letters.html" target="_blank">love letters go</a>, I've already fallen behind on these bad boys. I refuse to give up now.<br />
<br />
So, dear bread, for you I shall write Shakespearean sonnets. Multiple sonnets written with the same theme, by the way, are totally called a <i>crown of sonnets</i>. How rad is that? I love that. It's like a George RR Martin novel. Speaking of which, if I ever have a son and give him two alliterated middle names beginning with R, will he <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_R._R._Martin" target="_blank">automatically</a> become <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J._R._R._Tolkien" target="_blank">a best-selling</a> fantasy novelist? Let's hope. <br />
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<br />
My <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2010/03/things-i-fear-are-made-less-scary-with.html" target="_blank">sad attempts</a> at poetry <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2012/03/things-that-are-sad-are-less-depressing.html" target="_blank">did not go over</a> well in the past, but fuck all. I think it's fun. More fun poetry is what I say. No joke, I walk round shouting it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3>
Shit. UPDATE: </h3>
<br />
So the past two months have yielded ZERO worthy sonnets, so I think I'm just going to post some screw ups and notes that I just...it is <i>not </i>fucking easy to write about bread, you guys. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Ode to Bread #1: The Sourdough
</i></b>
<br />
<br />
This taste and smell is the hearth of hearts <i>(gag yourself)</i><br />
Warmed and golden brown, with crunch<br />
Snuggled crumb sponges and flirts<br />
With the cushioned strength to pad a punch<i> (< punching bread should be a thing. make it a thing.)</i><br />
<br />
If breads and scientific theories shared beers,<br />
Sourdough and cosmic expansion would bond <br />
They'd bro around and feed for years<br />
<i>- stories about heritage (because of starters) and stuff. Rhymes with bond?</i><br />
<br />
That slight sour snap is electric, literally<br />
(something about protons, taste cells and triggers)<br />
- With a...goddammit, SHUT UP.<br />
A thick, snacky respite from life's...rigors? <i>??? eh? Visit rhymezone.</i><br />
<br />
<i>(This line is about how bread is delicious)</i><br />
<i>(This line is about loaves and fishes)</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>"There is evidence that the protons that are abundant in sour substances
can directly enter the sour taste cells. This transfer of positive
charge into the cell can itself trigger an electrical response." - kinda neat. mention that.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><b>Ode to Bread #2: Fraternity</b></i><br />
<br />
You're there when I knead you <i>(ads;lfkjasd;flkjsdfl;kdsf I am hilarious)</i><br />
<br />
Sourdough<br />
<i>omg zucchini bread is soooooo goooood</i><br />
Breaking bread is universal<br />
share your bread <br />
IT IS A SYMBOL OF FRIENDSHIP<br />
<br />
gggaaahahahahaha<br />
<br />
punching bread <i>(because frat brothers punch each other? f;aldksjfa;sdlk full circ)</i><br />
bakin bread (bacon bread?)<br />
makin bread<br />
makin money<br />
gettin paid<br />
workin WHAT<br />
gettin laid <br />
<br />
Writing about bread is HARD. Like crust. what.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><b>Ode to Bread #3: Shall I Compare Thee</b></i><br />
<br />
Thou musn't. Shit. Thou mustn't shy from olde Englishe <i>ck olde-type spelling.</i><br />
If thou shalt hap to fail to rise, <br />
For want of leaven, there's naught so sad<br />
Thine self is leveled! <i>O damn mine eyes!</i><br />
Condemned me to darkness, my flour comrade<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Ending lines, no matter what:</i><br />
<br />
I sorrow for celiacs but fad-jumpers suck<br />
Gluten-free is not a real thing, you fuck.<i><b> </b></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<i><b>Ode to Bread #4: Haiku, Bitches</b></i><br />
<br />
Bread tastes so damn good<br />
I could eat like a fuckton <br />
just trust me, okay? <br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
See, I told you this was hard. <br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Rassles<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>So I guess I have a Love Letters series now. I mean, I do. <a href="http://www.rassles.net/p/love-letters.html">Click here for the list so far</a>. </i></span>Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-38371960762578007852014-02-06T17:01:00.000-06:002014-02-25T17:10:06.277-06:00A Love Letter to Assigning ThingsDear <i>assigning things,</i><br />
<br />
Oh, do I love to assign stuff to things! And of course the antipode: things to stuff. It's something I do automatically, usually, and well. It's probably because I have a <i>meager</i> morsel of synesthesia. When I say "meager" I mean it. My synesthesia - <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chromesthesia" target="_blank">chromesthesia</a> - is a dinky shrimp of a concept that sounds a lot cooler than it is, and I don't like to talk about it. For the uninitiated: sometimes I see colors when I hear sounds. Or <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2009/07/proof-that-im-immature-and-total-nerd.html" target="_blank">hear colors</a>. It is not nearly as extreme as you are imagining it right now. A symphony is <i>not</i> rainbow of light. It's not constant, it only happens during speaking, and again...I don't like to talk about it.<br />
<br />
It's a problem because some people sound like they are the most sluggish, defeated fluorescent yellow they could muster, and I automatically hate them. They could be a perfectly nice person, but I will refuse to give them a chance to prove it. It's terrible. If you've been reading this blog for awhile (all four of you lovelies), you would know that I <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2009/04/city-of-new-orleans-in-which-i-judge.html" target="_blank">ardently judge</a> people based on the <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2010/06/like-dream-im-flowin-without-no-stoppin.html" target="_blank">sound</a> of their <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2009/05/heart-wants-what-it-wants.html" target="_blank">voice</a>. Sometimes a person has an offensive timbre and they can probably do nothing about it without the help of Henry Higgins, so I graciously forgive them for shrilling like a human theremin, but that doesn't mean I <i>like</i> them.<br />
<br />
So I will assign that person to the list in my brain headed "<span style="background-color: #d1dc34;">people who sound like drabby yellow grass</span>." Of course, colors ebb and vary depending on the types of vocalization, the modality, etc., but in general, some people have lovely voices that flutter from pale blue to the night sky and others sing in a papal purple and speak in scarlet, but not everyone, just some. There is no mapping logic to it all. But once you've spoken a color to me I will remember it. <br />
<br />
And although some people sound like colors, most people don't. Which means I need to find something else to assign to them.<br />
<br />
The act of assigning, the deliberate synthesis of one thing and another, whether that thing is a trait or a phrase or a responsibility or a smell...it's different than something as omnipotent as <i>naming</i>. Naming asserts control over a thing. It involves taking into account history and future and the summation of the assigned parts.<br />
<br />
When something is named the audience places immediate judgement. Compare <i>Avatar</i> to <i>Ferngully</i>, two terrible movies with the exact same plot. Regardless of their similarities, the titles insinuate that the focus of each is different: one word is the manifestation of a god on a lesser plane of existence, while the other is a ravine fully of shaded plants. <br />
<br />
So naming is power. <br />
<br />
But <i>assigning</i>...assigning is mine. It's my personal association. Assigning could be interpreted as a claim to ownership, but to me it's more like a claim to relationship. Yes, this thing, this person, this place, it means something to me and I to it. We are relevant to each other. <br />
<br />
Maybe when I assign things to stuff or stuff to things, it's a plea to my personal vanity. Or is it a way to organize impressions, or memories? Is it a way imbue immortality? Or is it my own personal <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/01/a-love-letter-to-last-unicorn.html" target="_blank">confusion of the two concepts</a>?<br />
<br />
I've assigned sentences to the stars and certain behaviors to the trees on my street, smiles to people with a tendency to frown, friends to flashbacks and flashbacks to friends, degrees of
douchiness to flavors (what is going to be the kale or <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2012/10/another-conversation-i-overheard.html" target="_blank">cauliflower</a> of 2014? I need to make a list), gravity to versions of nostalgia, lovability to myself, unfair
judgement to drug addicts, giggles to <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/01/a-love-letter-to-dogs.html" target="_blank">puppies</a>,
personalities to letters, stamps of approval to restaurants that sell
cream of chicken and rice soup on days outside of Sunday, activities to days and
emotions to weeks.<br />
<br />
The following is a non-exhaustive list of things I've assigned to humans with or without their knowledge:<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMaJiwAkeBtlAY1FUMWYzDkl9E21CRchwgTI8jTNkBUuQ6mbzRN_SzPqgonkMi1cclDw9XA7z3MSw3-wohUXcn48O3pQMfjjiI6PTtKQaP9k9wmybKql5wSBB_7L2mqIzYmU7rAuTTJyo/s1600/6a00d8341c630a53ef0111689a893e970c-800wi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 4; margin-left: 4; margin-right: 4;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMaJiwAkeBtlAY1FUMWYzDkl9E21CRchwgTI8jTNkBUuQ6mbzRN_SzPqgonkMi1cclDw9XA7z3MSw3-wohUXcn48O3pQMfjjiI6PTtKQaP9k9wmybKql5wSBB_7L2mqIzYmU7rAuTTJyo/s1600/6a00d8341c630a53ef0111689a893e970c-800wi.jpg" height="198" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Speaking of animal personalities, I'm a bear. <br />
Which means, I'm sure, that I would be a cinnamon bear. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<ul>
<li><a href="http://animalinyou.com/" target="_blank">animal personality</a> (but only from this particular quiz, and I don't so much as assign animals as take the quiz for everyone I meet always) </li>
<li>toys </li>
<li>Hogwarts Houses (one time I assigned a Hogwarts house to every US President)</li>
<li>Myers-Briggs personalities</li>
<li>colors</li>
<li>actors and actresses</li>
<li>biography authors</li>
<li>walk songs</li>
<li>weather </li>
<li>nicknames</li>
<li>type of circus performer</li>
</ul>
<br />
Sure, all of these are the makings for a fine Buzzfeed quiz, but not really. Because it's not like I assign things to everyone, and I don't assign the same things across the board. I assign colors and feelings and objects to humans. Durrr.<br />
<br />
Still there's a problem: this turns humans into characters, and explaining away behavior by saying, "well, she runs from confrontation because she's a cottontail rabbit who speaks in peach." It's always unhealthy to turn a fleshy, living person into a character. That's objectification, not a relationship.<br />
<br />
I used to objectify myself completely. I thought, "I want people to think I'm this way" and so I would live up to what I thought other people's expectations would be of the person I wanted to be. Then I placed judgement on myself based on how I assumed other people perceived me and tried to anticipate and thwart those assumptions by berating who <i>I</i> thought <i>they</i> thought I was. Like in the mirror. <br />
<br />
Honestly? I still do that. Sometimes. But now I realize what I'm doing, and I'm correcting it. <i>Do not objectify everyone. We are people, and therefore unique and unknowable. Stop sucking. </i><br />
<br />
But assignments help. They reinforce knowledge...I don't <i>think</i> Emi is a gently carved bolt of affable lightning, I <i>know</i> she is. I <i>know</i> Fraya is a bouncy ball with an orange sunset singing inside, Xtine is a crown of perfectly roasted marshmallow stilettos. These are things I know. I have assigned things to them that will last forever.<br />
<br />
So thank you, <i>assigning things</i>, for being a thing I love to do.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Rassles<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>So I guess I have a Love Letters series now. I mean, I do. <a href="http://www.rassles.net/p/love-letters.html">Click here for the list so far</a>. </i></span>Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-76193694130091703022014-01-24T03:16:00.003-06:002014-01-30T15:24:15.184-06:00A Love Letter to The Last UnicornDear <i>The Last Unicorn</i>,<br />
<br />
Fucking hell, I <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2012/03/i-am-totally-quirky-and-adorable.html" target="_blank">seriously love</a> every <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2010/09/interrupting-cow.html" target="_blank">aspect of you</a> in every way. Those links, by the way, are the times I've dropped your name on this blog, but shit is about to get all <i>Bad Boys II</i> up in here. Not in the Michael Bay kind of way, but seriously: shit's getting real. <br />
<br />
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We become who we are by living up to the expectations of our gods, or
whoever: parents, the Buddha, Harry Potter, a friend who died when you
were seven, or a lovely young woman who used to be a unicorn as old as
the moon. <br />
<br />
This fairy tale is like a god to me. I
don't hold it sacred, but I praise its gospel. I can only hope that
someday I'm able create a story half as tender, tragic, and goofy as
hell.<br />
<br />
You guys, I own like all of <i>The Last Unicorn</i> paraphernalia. I have the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Last-Unicorn-Peter-Beagle/dp/0451450523/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1390587606&sr=8-1&keywords=last+unicorn" target="_blank">novel</a> and the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Last-Unicorn-Peter-Beagle/dp/1600108512/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1390587606&sr=8-3&keywords=last+unicorn" target="_blank">graphic novel</a>, I have the movie on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Last-Unicorn-Mia-Farrow/dp/B000KJU128/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1390587606&sr=8-4&keywords=last+unicorn" target="_blank">DVD</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Last-Unicorn-Jeff-Bridges/dp/6303047564/ref=sr_1_12?ie=UTF8&qid=1390587606&sr=8-12&keywords=last+unicorn" target="_blank">VHS</a>, I have the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iQ7zHWuit70" target="_blank">soundtrack</a> (by America, which is FANTASTIC). Whenever I list my favorite movies, I always forget to include this one, which is a crock of shit on my part, because <i>The Last Unicorn</i> is perfect. It's a haunt on my heart, always lurking just outside of my the corner of my eye and glittering away like a dream I forgot to write down.<br />
<br />
It's pointless to describe the plot here, because anyone can do that. All I can do is say what I love about it, and hope that it makes at least one person read this book. Because everyone should. You might be thinking that this is lame. That's
the thought process of someone who doesn't know what the hell they're talking about. Don't let the title fool you. This isn't about the magical ponies and their whimsical friends trotting around a land of rainbows. Even though it's about a unicorn and a magician and giant red bull that is, like, <i>always on fire.</i>..it's about princes who read magazines and carnies that tell dirty jokes, and the reason we need heroes.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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All I'm saying is this: if you haven't read this book, whatever you're assuming about it, right now, is probably fucking wrong. But anyone who enjoys this book should probably have a penchant for nonsense. And sorrow. And love. So if your ideal author is John Grisham, you are not going to like <i>The Last Unicorn</i>. Grisham has no fucking time for whimsy, as serious and true as that this brand of whimsy may be. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAK8rWKeypRnVDCHe1UFoxfpwW3VJpTxt66vpzx82GSZl7qJxLOS6qQlVGkU-BPSwgqEx3Vw4EPaqNfs7_dURULfCMJYaUvsVTgk1hZtm5P7WZNHXz2HH-jB_nl0EQvNnTFGpLzBpBNb8/s1600/last+unicorn+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAK8rWKeypRnVDCHe1UFoxfpwW3VJpTxt66vpzx82GSZl7qJxLOS6qQlVGkU-BPSwgqEx3Vw4EPaqNfs7_dURULfCMJYaUvsVTgk1hZtm5P7WZNHXz2HH-jB_nl0EQvNnTFGpLzBpBNb8/s1600/last+unicorn+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAK8rWKeypRnVDCHe1UFoxfpwW3VJpTxt66vpzx82GSZl7qJxLOS6qQlVGkU-BPSwgqEx3Vw4EPaqNfs7_dURULfCMJYaUvsVTgk1hZtm5P7WZNHXz2HH-jB_nl0EQvNnTFGpLzBpBNb8/s1600/last+unicorn+1.jpg" height="170" width="320" /></a></div>
The problem with this story is its extreme definitiveness. Everything Peter S. Beagle slipped into the story is now my personal truth. Butterflies communicate in snatches of songs and poetry. They know the lyrics to "My Wild Irish Rose." Of <i>course</i> they do. Duh. And...and bands of outlaws idolize Robin Hood and eat tacos. This makes sense to me. They fundamentally <i>must</i> be raging taco hounds. <br />
<br />
So now, because of fucking Beagle and his goddamn book, stories that are earnestly garnished with anachronistic fantasy are nearly always superior to those that aren't. It's an unpredictable surprise that lends a bit of credibility to a fairy tale that is by all other means governed by the rules of any classic fairy tale, although it supersedes and deconstructs them in every way.<br />
<br />
I love it because it makes me feel everything. And because I always forget the little pearls. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>We are not always what we seem, and hardly ever what we dream. </i><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>- Schmendrick the Magician, Last of the Red-Hot Swamis</i></div>
</blockquote>
<br />
<i>The Last Unicorn</i> is about the ways you cope when someone fucks with who you are as a person, with the very basic structure of your psyche. It's about the ridiculous things you will do for the one person who gracefully carries your heart around like toilet paper accidentally tucked into a perfectly fitted pair of pants. It's about how priorities change because of things beyond our control, it's about picking up discarded quests, it's about how worship can dangerously become a cage. We refuse to see what is plainly before us while we assume we can see what is plainly before others.<br />
<br />
It's about memories and mortality, and how we confuse the two. And it's about what happens when you judge yourself, and others, by what they possess. But I mean possess in a decorative way, something ornamental that really doesn't belong to a person but they claim ownership of it nonetheless, or how what others possess reflects in yourself, or as a phrase like, "He's a nice guy, just a little sexist sometimes." If we do not love people based on how they <i>behave</i>, how can we truly identify with or love anyone at all? <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>What is the matter with your eyes? They are full
of green leaves, crowded with trees and streams and small animals.
Where am I? Why can I not see myself in your eyes?</i><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>- King Haggard </i></div>
</blockquote>
The movie was written by Beagle as well, which means each line of dialogue is pulled directly from the book, although sometimes they're spoken confusingly and rarely how I read the line in the book. But that gives the movie a bewitching, elegant affliction that serves its medium. I saw the movie first and read the book years later, but I think because I was able to independently enjoy them both that effects me to this day: I always prefer to watch a movie before I read the book.<br />
<br />
It's just better that way. There are always new things to discover in a book after I watch a movie, but if I read the book first I can only focus on the missing pieces.<br />
<br />
I could go on for hours, probably, if you let me. I want everyone I care about to read this book and love it, even though I know that's impossible. Differing opinions are important to the world, and to me. But I want that to happen all the same. <br />
<br />
Instead I will just post another quote, and it's a silly poem from the book. It might turn people off. But maybe someone will read it and think, "There's wisdom in that. I should read this book." Yes, you should.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"I am no king, and I am no lord, <br />and I am no soldier at-arms," said he.<br />"I'm none but a harper, and a very poor harper, <br />that am come hither to wed with ye."<br /><br />"If you were a lord, you should be my lord, <br />and the same if you were a thief," said she.<br />"And if you are a harper, you shall be my harper, <br />for it makes no matter to me, to me, <br />for it makes no matter to me."<br /><br />"But what if it prove that I am no harper? <br />That I lied for your love most monstrously?"<br />"Why, then I'll teach you to play and sing,<br />For I dearly love a good harp," said she.</i> </blockquote>
I dearly love <i>The Last Unicorn</i>.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Rassles<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>So I guess I have a Love Letters series now. I mean, I do. <a href="http://www.rassles.net/p/love-letters.html">Click here for the list so far</a>. </i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>...</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Later Edit: DUDES.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><a href="http://www.tor.com/blogs/2014/01/havent-you-ever-been-in-a-fairy-tale-before-peter-s-beagles-the-last-unicorn" target="_blank">http://www.tor.com/blogs/2014/01/havent-you-ever-been-in-a-fairy-tale-before-peter-s-beagles-the-last-unicorn</a></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Is this a thing now? Is The Last Unicorn finally going to explode? </i></span>Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-25601016770587106052014-01-17T01:01:00.000-06:002014-01-17T01:03:30.897-06:00A Love Letter to CleverDear clever,<br />
<br />
You are just a great word, did you know that? Ticklish and vague, with a hint of spiritual association that slides across the spectrum of emotion. We know what you are, but we don't all agree on you. You're so fucking...<i>subjective</i>.<br />
<br />
Say 'cle' over and over. <i>kleklekleklekleklekleklekleklekleklekle.</i> It
feels like pieces falling into place, like a Rube Goldberg device at
the climax of brewing a pot of coffee, or clanking gears of an
astronomical clock. <br />
<br />
Say 'ver' over and over. <i>verververververververververververver</i>. It sounds like beginnings. A throttle, an engine, an action about to occur. <br />
<br />
<i>Clever </i>holds the promise of the truly awesome discoveries to come.<br />
<br />
But there's a darkness to you, clever. <br />
<br />
There's a darkness to "smart" as well, but that darkness is leaking out of a word that masks itself with a sharp bite and sudden stings. Smart is painful. And honestly, clever is just more phonetically pleasing (see sentences five through ten, thank you), and that's why I love it more. <br />
<br />
Clever can be negative, as if someone is a wee bit <i>too</i> mentally nimble for their own good. Should there really be such a thing as <i>too</i> clever? Too good at cleverness? We don't say a person is "too good" at basketball or painting or playing the violin. I mean, we do, but it's figurative, like "OMG, that Picasso guy is just tooooo good." We don't insinuate their talents are for evil. <br />
<br />
Cleverness, though, is slightly off-balance, elite, cunning, darkly and knowingly smart. Wisdom is honest, cleverness involves manipulation. It implies a confidence in ability that makes people somewhat uncomfortable. Then again, anyone who is not overconfident in their ability to play violin probably shouldn't compete in the International Tchaikovsky Competition, anyone who is not overconfident in their athleticism shouldn't start on the Bulls. But a violinist has clever fingers, and a basketball star has clever hands. As long as their main trait is something other than cleverness we revere them. <br />
<br />
So why do I (we? is this just me?) associate "clever" with a bit of wile? And why do I like the idea of being clever more than being intelligent <i>because </i>of it?<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<h2>
<b>clev·er</b></h2>
[klev-er]<br />
<i>adjective</i>, clev·er·er, clev·er·est</blockquote>
<ol>
<li>mentally bright; having sharp or quick intelligence; able.</li>
<li>superficially skillful, witty, or original in character or construction; facile; It was an musing, clever play, but of no lasting value. </li>
<li>showing inventiveness or originality; ingenious: His clever device was the first to solve the problem. </li>
<li>adroit with the hands or body; dexterous or nimble. </li>
<li>Older Use</li>
<ul>
<li>suitable; convenient; satisfactory</li>
<li>Good-natured</li>
<li>handsome</li>
<li>in good health</li>
</ul>
</ol>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>etymology: </b>From <a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/East_Anglia" title="East Anglia">East Anglian</a> dialectal English <i><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/cliver#English" title="cliver">cliver</a> </i>("expert at seizing"), from <a class="extiw" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Middle_English_language" title="w:Middle English language">Middle English</a> <i><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/cliver#Middle_English" title="cliver">cliver</a></i> ("tenacious"), perhaps from <a class="extiw" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_English_language" title="w:Old English language">Old English</a> <i>clifer, clibbor</i> ("clinging"), or perhaps from East Frisian (compare <a class="extiw" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saterland_Frisian_language" title="w:Saterland Frisian language">Saterland Frisian</a> <i>kluftich</i>), or dialectal <a class="extiw" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norwegian_language" title="w:Norwegian language">Norwegian</a> <i>klover</i> ("ready, skillful"); possibly influenced by <a class="extiw" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_English_language" title="w:Old English language">Old English</a> <i>clifer</i> ("claw, hand"). Related to <a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/cleave#English" title="cleave">cleave</a>.</blockquote>
<br />
By the way, for some reason I read "cliver" as an expression unto itself, like cockney Michael Caine is bent over and sneering into my ear: <i>"Fink yore cloiver, down' you? Wehw brayns is a bit more ven 'at, love." </i><br />
<br />
Of course, dear clever, I don't want to associate with the superficiality represented in definition two, but we can't just ignore it. I'm superficial all the time: I automatically assume anyone that's too pretty is a jackass.<br />
<br />
Oh, see what I just did there? Colon parentheses.<br />
<br />
I love the idea of cleverness being rooted in clinging tenacity and the ability to cleave...like the dissection of an idea, splitting it in two and trying to sew the thought back together again in as many ways as possible. Taking the concept of cleverness and just ripping it to shreds for the goddamn sheer joy of destruction, and building it back up again for the sheer joy of creation. Destroy and create, vicious cycles of mentality, playing God.<br />
<br />
God, by the way, is <i>very</i> clever. Dexterity is clever. Intuition is clever. Clothing is clever. <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/01/a-love-letter-to-dogs.html" target="_blank">Dogs are clever</a>. TV shows are clever, velociraptors are clever, sometimes, I think, I am clever. As long as you'll have me, dear clever. Will you have me? Of course you will, I demand it. I've always valued clever above nearly all else. A clever person can make anything interesting. With a little manipulation, of course. It's the inventiveness that I love about it.<br />
<br />
And I don't just mean "life hacks," like when you lather the old tiny sliver of soap on the fresh, sparkly bar of soap thus creating one piece of soap and eliminating that pesky little leftover guy (Someone took a picture of this and posted it on the internet? And then someone <i>shared </i>it? MILLIONS OF PEOPLE SHARED THIS? Haven't you been doing that since you were a child? You haven't? What? No seriously, <i>what</i>?) <br />
<br />
Cleverness involves not accepting things at face value, but most importantly, it involves knowing a reason. Some things are unknowable, but I know there's a reason for loving people/things that are clever: because they value what I value in myself.<br />
<a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/01/a-love-letter-to-dogs.html" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/01/a-love-letter-to-dogs.html" target="_blank">Whoa, that totally goes back to dogs</a>.<br />
<br />
I was raised to value cleverness. Oddly, I think I was raised to do what I believed was right to the detriment of reputation and people's perceptions of me, but I think that's a good thing. I think we should fight for what we believe, and we should have a reason to believe something. Cleverness is what gives me that reason. Perhaps it might involve stretching things a bit, sometimes I'm missing a point here and there. But if I'm clever enough I can provide a complete presentation in my brain. To myself.<br />
<br />
I love clever because I love the process of figuring out the <i>why</i> and <i>how.</i> But most importantly, I love trying to figure it out more than actually figuring it out. The conclusion is boring, usually. The process is what makes it fun.<br />
<br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Honestly, I thought I might have arrived at something more meaningful by now. Writing about clever. I guess we'll see where the next one takes me.</span> </b><br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Rassles<br />
...Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-18165923797107940382014-01-05T19:07:00.002-06:002014-01-06T02:52:29.814-06:00A Love Letter to Dogs<a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/01/love-letters.html" target="_blank">Dear Dogs</a>,<br />
<br />
In my oldest and happiest dreams, there is a small house swallowed by a gluttonous porch on top of a hill carved like bundt cake. And I'm <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2011/12/sherlotte-has-been-mia-for-five-days.html" target="_blank">with a dog</a>. <br />
<br />
Those are the consistent elements. Sometimes I'm reading or writing or napping, sometimes I'm laughing. Sometimes there is a man, sometimes we're in love, sometimes there are children, sometimes there's a pony. But there is always a house on a hill with a porch and a dog.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuw2Sq2v99S2mRyfEG9qOFqPsYYY-JoyK9KXqYq_OQ-zVT8STlMsv5QCamXwcPhyPAExgixSe70G1bIfT0eW6u_WA81ySHr8qpd_m5s6GlvGUulncnuXgdlJwhwa3vAmGbcYmxIe-nk8o/s1600/newf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
Sometimes the dog is a swarthy, enormous beast, like a lethal, cuddly tank with a bright pink tongue. It would be suitably named <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7D36Pwb6kY" target="_blank">Samsquamch</a> (or something) and together we would gallivant throughout the countryside or lazily laze about the porch. What does the name "Samsquamch" say about me, as a person? Is Samsquamch magic? I don't think it matters anymore, <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2013/12/i-am-snowflake.html" target="_blank">that conversation is so 2013</a>.<br />
<br />
Sometimes it's small and whiskered. Not too small. Maybe more...medium? Knee-high, or a bit taller. A proper mongrel, not a barking rabbit masquerading as a "Pomeranian" or a "Pekingese." Those little monsters are cute and everything, and I will hug them and giggle and say embarrassing things like "why are you the cutest little cuddles? Yes you are. <i>Yes you are! </i>What's that squeaky noise?<i> WHUSSA BUBBA DUBBA SKWEEKY NOSE? Bestest widdow skweeky sounds. You. </i>Yeah, you do<i>. </i> That's right." And then I'll turn to the dog's owner and say, "Oh my stars, your dog is fucking adorable." <br />
<br />
And I would mean it. But not the dog for me.<br />
<br />
If I have a dog, it's going to be a tangley mess of everything, probably with too much fur or scruff, probably with spots or stripes or patches, and probably way too smart for its own good. Most likely this dog will not be the biggest looker, although I'm sure I'll think it's gorgeous. Not like...the kind of smart where people say, "omg, my dog/child/boyfriend/wife is soooo smart" but they're using that word because they have never met a dog or a child or a person who actually IS smart. I'm talking enigmatically brilliant, loyal, and wonderful. <br />
<br />
We attribute human emotions to dogs as if they are human, but we really have no way of knowing how similar the emotions actually are - relief, despair, joy, agitation. I don't even pretend that my best friends, or my family can feel the way I'm feeling sometimes since emotions aren't cut and dry, but when I'm with my dog (more accurately my parents' dog) it's as if he hurts when I hurt, that he's happy when I'm happy. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhBhijsQoP40ipF_9mXhHw0miZwZ1fQvr4L6i4CsECJS7l19Nv9Z5_9hzoTdkGHk2KXyYL7PO8p-u0__JJ94Gf-PWw8hqkuB8HL2Ug7HzZRugLCIg7U3XR2j5ijtTDWfxfqMz6kpblEc8/s1600/rusty1604512_10101095044648597_482570720_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhBhijsQoP40ipF_9mXhHw0miZwZ1fQvr4L6i4CsECJS7l19Nv9Z5_9hzoTdkGHk2KXyYL7PO8p-u0__JJ94Gf-PWw8hqkuB8HL2Ug7HzZRugLCIg7U3XR2j5ijtTDWfxfqMz6kpblEc8/s1600/rusty1604512_10101095044648597_482570720_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maybe not a mongrel, but Rusty is rad.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Of course that's on me. When the dog is hurt, I hurt. When the dog is happy, I am happy...so I just kind of assume he's the same. How brilliant is that? That we have furry mammalian emotional barometers that can not only gauge but <i>influence</i> our emotions? We form intimate bonds with them, we feed them, exercise them, pick up their shit with our hands. We choose our dogs to reflect the things we value in ourselves: aggression, agility, playfulness, intelligence, gentleness, loyalty. Adorableness. They are our household gods. <br />
<br />
God created man in his image. Or is it the other way around? Humans created gods in their image. Sometimes with too many arms (or do we have too few?) and sometimes with animal characterizations, because humans tend to associate certain behaviors and virtues with different species. Athena has an owl for wisdom. Ganesha has an elephant head for strength and fertility (and because Shiva cut it the other one off). Ravens are vocal and opportunistic little bastards, so Odin has two for Thought and Memory. Bast is symbolized by a cat as a protector of the weak, for motherhood and grace.<br />
<br />
Dogs, however, are guardians or helpers, but rarely (and as far as I know off the top of my head, <i>never</i>) the manifestations or companions of a specific god. Wolves and jackals, coyotes...those are gods. But not the dog.<br />
<br />
In Zoroastrianism, dogs are not gods, but sacred in their own right. A dog's gaze purifies the soul. Murdering a dog is a crime punished by eternal damnation. Dogs are granted funeral rites and puppies are precious. <br />
<br />
The point is this: we didn't create dogs, but we assign them our image, like gods. Dog = god backwards, duh. It's a non-but-way-awesomer-and-better-than-usual palindrome. Dogs are anthropomorph-ized (is that a legit derivation? yes.) the world over. Some people beat them and some people eat them, and some people force them to fight to the death for sport, but societies across the world have partnered with dogs for as long as...like...forever. <br />
<br />
But they are still <i>dogs</i>. They're coworkers and friends. They're our counterpart. We assume they feel a range of emotions comparable to humans because <i>we want them to</i>. We study and write books on the language of dogs, we train them to value what we value, we <i>breed</i> them to value what we value. We genetically control their behavior and physical traits, sometimes for the better and sometimes <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bulldog" target="_blank">for the tragically worst</a>. <br />
<br />
At the same time, the idioms associated with "dog" are rude and terrible. Sick as a dog. Underdog. Dog-eat-dog. Go to the dogs. Work like a dog. Dogs of war. Put your woman on a leash. Get that kid a muzzle. Bitch. <br />
<br />
I don't like any of that. We should stop that. As humans we deserve better. Dogs deserve better. <br />
<br />
I'm no expert, and I might have gotten some of this wrong. I'm just writing what I know. Maybe this isn't a proper love letter to dogs, or about dogs, because I'm not describing all of the wonderful things about them. I don't really NEED to do that. That's what Buzzfeed is for. <br />
<br />
I guess what I'm saying is: hey, dogs! I love you because no matter what we belong to each other. You are the best. You do everything like you mean it, and like you mean it just a little bit more than your human counterparts. You're us. Cubed. Dogs are love. <br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Rassles<br />
<br />
...Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-76431972590653301452014-01-05T19:06:00.001-06:002014-05-07T16:21:36.326-05:00Love LettersI think, this year, I'm going to write 52 love letters. Thirteen nouns, thirteen proper nouns, thirteen verbs, and thirteen adjectives. <br />
<br />
That is all.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="12"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><b>Nouns!</b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/01/a-love-letter-to-dogs.html" target="_blank">dogs</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/03/a-love-letter-to-sourdough-bread.html" target="_blank">bread</a><br />
<a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/05/a-love-letter-to-quizzes.html" target="_blank">online quizzes</a> </div>
</td>
<td style="text-align: center;"><b>Adjectives!</b><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/01/a-love-letter-to-clever.html" target="_blank">clever</a><br />
<a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/04/a-love-letter-to-preposterous.html" target="_blank">preposterous</a><br />
zealous</td>
<td style="text-align: center;"><b>Proper Nouns!</b><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/01/a-love-letter-to-last-unicorn.html" target="_blank"><i>The Last Unicorn</i></a><br />
<i> <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/04/a-love-letter-to-diner.html" target="_blank">Diner</a></i><br />
The Field Museum<i> </i></td>
<td style="text-align: center;"><b>Verbs!</b><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/02/a-love-letter-to-assigning-things.html" target="_blank">assigning</a><br />
<a href="http://www.rassles.net/2014/04/a-love-letter-to-having-day.html" target="_blank">having a day</a><br />
jam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="12"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-13613014123626578152013-12-23T12:27:00.000-06:002013-12-23T13:10:39.076-06:00I Am A SnowflakeI started writing the draft for this post in July. Since then I've gathered eleven unfinished posts in my draft box, eleven thoughts I muddled over and discarded. Sub-par stuff, homies. <br />
<br />
Their titles, respectively:<br />
<br />
1. People Don't Bully Because of Their Insecurities, Dipshits<br />
2. The Thing About Cheerleaders<br />
3. Dear Memes: Stop Being Middlebrow as Fuck<br />
4. <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2012/12/a-request-for-people.html" target="_blank">ONCE AGAIN, AFRICA IS NOT A COUNTRY</a><br />
5. Drink a Beer In the Shower FTW<br />
6. OMG, So Many Baltic Monuments<br />
7. Don't Touch Me<br />
8. The Wiener Circle<br />
9. Cite Your Damn Sources<br />
10. The Trappings of Being Rad<br />
11. All the Famous People Are Friends With Each Other Which Means Everything Is a Conspiracy, Especially Google, I Just Haven't Worked Out Exactly Why Just Yet<br />
<br />
So now I will attempt to connect at least six of them in one post: <br />
<br />
Back in October I passed a couple putting up signs around the neighborhood for a missing black cat named Salem. <br />
<br />
Old roommate MoLinder had a giant black cat named Panther. Around Halloween this conversation would inevitably arise: black cats get fucked with around Halloween because of a, b, and c, where a = magic, b = assholes and c = boredom. The reasoning goes a bit deeper than that, but I am going to assume (pretend) that anyone who reads this has the ability to discern meaning on their own without having it spelled out for them, and let's face it: life can pretty much be distilled down to magic, assholes and boredom anyway. It's up to us to decide which will define us, as if we want to be defined at all. <br />
<br />
I'm <i>totally</i> not into like, being defined, man. I don't like limiting myself to one thing, I want to be free to be who I want to be. And now, upon completion of those sentences, I have assigned myself a label. Everything is a label, guys, don't go kidding yourself into thinking you're the exception. We can listen to country <i>and</i> hip hop, we can like action movies <i>and</i> romantic comedies - but then, we are defining ourselves based on what we like. Is that how we act? Which determines who we are?<br />
<br />
Honestly, it doesn't even matter. <br />
<br />
Of course, I am special because everyone is a snowflake, duh, but I still define myself by what I consume instead of how I behave.<br />
<br />
I have oddly matched layers with clashing tastes and topography. I know I want serve humanity in life, the point of living is to enrich and subsequently <i>be enriched</i>, although becoming enriched isn't the goal, it's the result of doing it right. And an enriching life is not, I think, defined by my preference for Coke over Pepsi, and although I drink neither I still have an opinion on both which is fucking ridiculous. Not that I sit around and debate the merits of one or the other, or even think about either on a regular basis, but having an opinion is integral to my progress as a person, therefore I should just have one.<br />
<br />
Are opinions consumption because they are something we have? We say "have" an opinion as if we hold ownership over them, as if opinions are something we purchase and flaunt about like preposterous doches in jewelry commercials (he went to Jared, son).<br />
<br />
Speaking of segues, here's my problem with engagement rings: <br />
<br />
As a middle-class, white, American heterosexual woman between the age of zero and fifty, I have an opinion on engagement rings. <br />
<br />
Did you read that? <i>I have an opinion on engagement rings. </i><br />
<br />
Whatever, so does the rest of my demographic. The Big Bad Media tries harder to target us for jewelry than they do for presidential elections.<br />
<br />
Traditionalists want A Diamond and romantic gestures. Rich Traditionalists want A Something-Cut Diamond, whatever those are (I know one of them is called "princess" but I have spend a considerable amount of effort purposely ignoring the names of gem cuts - not because I don't <i>care</i>, but because I don't <i>want to know</i> - there is a difference). Active moralists want a gemstone with less baggage and blood (pussies, if you ask me - go big or go home, nancygirl - but that doesn't mean you need a diamond, of course, a mere emerald would suffice). Revolutionaries don't give a shit, and they TELL YOU how much they don't give a shit, and they talk about why they don't give a shit because they've lent the topic a great deal of thought and then sat around waiting for someone to ask them how they felt about engagement rings.<br />
<br />
Narcissists - so, of course, me - want an engagement ring uniquely suited to fit them as an individual snowflake with memories and a story behind each facet to serve my gluttonous struggle for authenticity, romance, and self-worth. This means, of course, I don't want a diamond to represent me, <i> I want to be A Diamond</i>. <br />
<br />
Of course I don't want to literally be a fucking diamond, by the way. It's not that I like diamonds, or that I value diamonds: I value ME. I want ME to be valued. I want ME to be valued as much as I value you, which is, if you actually take the time to read read this, probably a whole lot.<br />
<br />
Next order of business: "I want me to be valued." If I <i>was</i> valuable, I probably wouldn't need to tell people about it.<br />
<br />
Donald Trump <i>reminds</i> people he is a /b/ illionaire. Kanye reminds us how valuable his wife is, and I don't know if anyone believes him but I'm kind of starting to. New York City, as an entity, never stops reminding us how goddamn important and special it is.<br />
<br />
The only people who give a shit about New York City are the people who (a) live there, the people who (b) lived there, and (c) would live there. They want to be valued and associated with the mythos, so they yell about how much we should value them like, all the time. And then the people who yell the loudest move there and just continue to be the loudest and the rest of us are like, OH MY GOD SHUT THE FUCK UP. NO ONE CARES ABOUT BROOKLYN. STOP BEING TERRIBLE.<br />
<br />
What I'm saying is this: The people who want to be defined by magic, instead of assholes or boredom, will get themselves a black cat familiar and name it Salem. Or Jinx. Or...Panther?<br />
<br />
Sure, Panther was so-named because he's enormous, and he was given to MoLinder, she didn't necessarily <i>choose</i> him. But they belong to each other nonetheless, and MoLinder chose a name that connotes with a badass jungle predator. Asshole. <br />
<br />
So the reason black cats get kidnapped around Halloween is the exact same reason people adopt/purchase black cats, and it's the exact same reason why they name their black cats Jinx and Salem. They are boring assholes, but they <i>want to be</i> magic.<br />
<br />
Someone with true magic would probably name the thing "Matt." <br />
<br />
In the end, this post is about basically nothing on my list up there.<br />
<br />
... Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-8793521381330344542013-06-28T18:42:00.000-05:002013-12-27T14:31:13.652-06:00WarpedAn angry letter I wrote to the world this morning, inspired by the gajillions of people that crammed into Chicago for a rally: <br />
<br />
Dear Blackhawks fans, <br />
<br />
Just because you have waited a tortured, arduous THREE YEARS since your team's last championship doesn't give you the right to be a gaggle of gooseshits. <br />
<br />
Honestly, it doesn't even feel like you're doing this for the love of hockey, it feels like you're just acting like a bag of dicks because you think Chicagoans are <i>supposed</i> to act like a bag of dicks. This isn't a cock measuring contest, it's a celebration. This is about pride and love and a battle well fought. <br />
<br />
I used to love sports. Did you know that? LOVE. Never was athletic, but I tried as hard as I could to be the best that I could. It was fun. I loved hockey, I loved baseball. I used to follow horse racing <i>religiously. </i>Lately nostalgia's been working overtime and I'm thinking I should get back into racing, but...it can be incredibly depressing. When an average of 1200 horses are euthanized on the track each year due to injury, probably cuz they're all jacked up on painkillers so they keep running even after they shatter their own bones - I mean, that's what made me stop watching in the first place. Hell, that's why <i>Luck</i> was cancelled. People kept on murdering horses out of mercy.<br />
<br />
Then again, the danger makes it exciting. Exciting and terrifying and depressing. <br />
<br />
Whatever, so at one point everything switched in my brain and I stopped caring about sports. At one point sports became a burden instead of a hobby. Don't remember when. But at one point everything stopped being fun.<br />
<br />
DON'T THINK I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE TO FEEL JOY.<br />
<br />
But this? Crazy fans running around this city in a wasted stupor because you think you're <i>supposed </i>to? This isn't joy. This is a mockery of it. This is just a bunch of fucking clowns walking around douching each other and then arguing about whether they're better at douching than all the other doucheclowns.<br />
<br />
Am I so jaded, or are they so deluded? <br />
<br />
I guess it's inevitable that I would change. I'm not talking about the old days, I'm talking about what it takes to feel joy.<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
Last week, <a href="http://yesjessicathompson.com/blog/" target="_blank">Jessica</a> and I just took a ten-day road trip through eight states. Someday we will talk about how much I loved South Dakota. I think, this summer, I'm going to do a post a week about things I love.<br />
<br />
We stopped at a place called <a href="http://www.pioneervillage.org/" target="_blank">Pioneer Village</a>, a museum of America's history and rapid industrialization, fashioned by adventurist and plastics mogul Harold Warp who is, <i>officially, </i>my new hero. <br />
<br />
Pre-Pioneer Village, we drove and discussed humanity's priorities and how they've shifted throughout the ages between third and second and first world nations. In the past humans felt differently about death because they were surrounded by it - we died at a younger age, most people killed animals routinely for food, etc. Progress and industry shifted first world humanity's priorities completely: survival is no longer a need. It's an interest. The immediate question is not "how will we live?" it's "do we like how we live?"<br />
<br />
The next day we detoured from our route for a few hours over to Pioneer Village, where we were introduced to Harold Warp, Colossal Collector, and hanging above our heads was a sign with a Warp quote that I will now totally paraphrase because I can't exactly remember it - <br />
<br />
<i>Man first fights for the right to survive, </i><br />
<i>then the right to create art, </i><br />
<i>then the right for power.</i><br />
<br />
Which is what I was trying to say but way better. <br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
When I was younger, sports were art. For <i>me</i>, of course. I can't speak for the world, and I can't assign a different value to another person because <i>I am not another person</i>. This isn't a hokey, "back in my day things meant something" post, because today <i>IS</i> my day, as are all the days after and before, from birth to death, so that saying makes no sense. But I've grown as a person, and my perception has changed.<br />
<br />
So again: When I was younger, sports were art.<br />
<br />
Now that I see them as a quest for power, I've lost interest. I don't give a shit who wins. I just want to marvel at a thought well-created, an action well-executed. <br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
And that is why all you fucking Blackhawks fans annoyed the fuck out of me this morning.<br />
<br />
- RasslesRassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-3390547653461875562013-06-03T11:31:00.005-05:002013-06-25T11:03:07.386-05:00ParadoxLast night during the Venture Bros. season premiere, Adult Swim aired a Diet Coke ad with Taylor Swift, and we - those of us who were watching it together - were annoyed. And we talked about it for the entire commercial break.<br />
<br />
We talked about how ridiculous it was that Coca Cola believed that putting T.Swift in an ad about "songwriting" and Diet Coke would make them actually sell Diet Coke, we talked about T.Swift's perception in society within our demographic and others, as a guilty pleasure and an artist, etc. etc. etc.<br />
<br />
And then at the end of the commercial break I said, "But see - the ad worked, it doesn't matter if we want a Diet Coke or not. We just talked about their ideas for five full minutes and tried to make sense of them. They win." <br />
<br />
Whatever we talked about is irrelevant, whoever they put in the ad is irrelevant, whatever the ad portrays is irrelevant.<br />
<br />
Our job is not to buy Diet Coke - people are going to do that anyway. Our job is to give a shit about Diet Coke, our job is to make it relevant to our lives, which we obviously just did by even thinking about it at all to the point where <i>we discussed it for five minutes and I still can't stop thinking about it. </i><br />
<br />
I mean, I'm not gonna stop buying Diet Coke when I'm hungover just because they put Taylor Swift in a commercial. <i> </i><br />
...<br />
<br />
So. <br />
<br />
There are certain types of places that I hate spending my free time, but I will inevitably do it anyway because people I love want to spend their time there. <br />
<br />
When I say "places" I mean "bars," really. Not all bars - some are fortresses of comfort. I'm talking about plastic bars. <br />
<br />
They're fucking toxic. They're awful. I was at one on Friday. <br />
<br />
Plastic bars are vast, loud, terribly lit places. They have obscenely high ceilings, giant bars full of 100 kinds of vodka, black walls. Bars that have multiple giant rooms. Bars where you have to yell for the bartender to hear your drink order. Bars where drinks are expensive and watery, where everyone is dressed the same and you have to wait in a line to go to the bathroom, and it doesn't even matter if you know that the people there are individuals with feelings and thoughts, it doesn't even matter if you care about them because once you get into there you are immediately part of the herd, and your environment is specifically designed to keep you into that herd.<br />
<br />
The amenities - beer, food, chairs, tables, dance floor - are designed to keep you in a room, the room is designed to amplify the sound of the music, the music is designed to make you feel a beat, and the beat is designed to make you fall in line with the herd, it's designed to keep everyone feeling the same thing and doing the same thing and drinking the same thing and wearing the same thing.<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Temple_Grandin" target="_blank">Temple Grandin</a>. You know Temple Grandin? She's amazing. She's an autistic woman that designed the modern slaughterhouse that is specifically designed to make cattle feel safe and part of the herd and not like they're about to be murdered and ground into Whoppers.<br />
<br />
That's the kind of bar I'm talking about.<br />
<br />
... <br />
<br />
Sure, they think they're retaining their individuality because they're wearing different colors or a different cut, but it's all designed by the same people and part of the same brand and they didn't choose those clothes, no matter what they think - those clothes were designed and marketed to them in a specific way so they would think they had a choice in the first place. That's how branding works. It creates a herd, gives them infinite choices of the same thing, gives them the allusion of individuality. But they all have the same goals, the same taste, the same job. They don't think so, but they do. And I share a lot in common with them. I know I do.<br />
<br />
Most importantly: I don't look down on being part of the herd, even though people think I do. That's their own insecurity. It's just another way of being, and as long as you're being <i>something</i>, and you care about it, I think it's rad.<br />
<br />
I cannot stress that enough. <br />
<br />
Here's what separates me: I know what's going on and I'm actively trying to not be a part of it. It's hard. It's easy to dismiss it, and say "that's the way things are" and just leave it alone and go about my business. People say I'm overreacting. That I'm looking to hard for something that isn't there. I say they're idiots because they're willfully ignoring something in front of their face because they don't want to see it. But there it is, and I want no part of it. <br />
<br />
The herd is not nice to outsiders.<br />
... <br />
<br />
I'm the type of person that people stop on the street and ask for directions. I'd say this happens to me once a day. People have yelled at me from their cars and asked for directions. I don't know why this happens, or what it is about me that makes them choose me - but they do, which means I give off some sort of vibe that either says "I know where I'm going" or, more likely, "I will answer your question." <br />
<br />
On top of that, I give off another vibe: I'm not connected to you. It will take me awhile to connect with a person. Like a year. Or so. Since <i>I don't believe I'm connected</i> - my connection has to grow. <br />
<br />
And people who believe they're connected and a part of things - they cannot understand what it's like to feel disconnected. They don't understand that it's not something you turn on and off, it's a <i>belief</i>. I cannot just stop believing something because you think it's a good idea. Welcome to religion. <br />
<br />
So back to the herd and the people I know and love that can vibe in the herd: we've already connected, so I don't know if they see the outsider part of me or not.<br />
<br />
But strangers can smell it. They attack and do their best to make me feel uncomfortable. AND I'M IN MY THIRTIES. WE ARE ADULTS. THEY STILL DO THIS.<br />
... <br />
<br />
Again, like the commercial, the details aren't important. The point is that it happened. It <b>happens.</b> The point is I'm still thinking about it. <br />
<br />
The point is I hate it there. Everything about it feels wrong to me. It makes me uncomfortable and angry and sad, it makes me question my existence and my purpose. An environment that is<i> specifically designed to make me feel one with my surroundings</i> makes me feel lonesome and alien. <br />
<br />
The point is that I will keep going back to these places because I don't want to lose the connections I have, but these places stress those connections more than strengthen them.<br />
<br />
<br />
It's inevitable that someone is going to tell me to stop caring what people think. No. You aren't paying attention. That's all there is. All I am is the people I care about, and what they think is important to me. Whether we agree is irrelevant. The point is not that our thoughts and feelings are the same, the point is that we care in the fucking first place.<br />
<br />
I am a paradox. <br />
<br />
...Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-64944215718719203472013-03-08T00:40:00.001-06:002013-03-08T15:17:36.214-06:00Blog Awards Are HardFirst of all <a href="http://renalfailure.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Renal Failure</a> is a dick and <a href="http://renalfailure.wordpress.com/2013/02/24/havent-done-an-blog-award-post-in-a-while/" target="_blank">he knows I hate this shit</a> and he knows I will fucking do it anyway, and the fact that he knows <i>both of these things</i> makes me <i>even more infuriated</i> and ensures <i>necessary italics to properly convey my intense displeasure </i>and<i> secret glee. </i><br />
<br />
In case people out there don't know...a Blog Award is when a bunch of people who still cling to their blogs with intense vanity all clump into a quixotic back-scratching chain, where we pretend we are relevant to the internet and by extension <i>the world</i> because we don't post pictures of our food. <br />
<br />
So now I have a blog award, whatever that means, and I'm supposed to answer questions and then ask someone else and I'm supposed to post a picture of the award, but it's stupid looking so I won't. You're gonna love this. <i><br /></i><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: #ffd966;"><b> <span style="color: white;"> <span style="color: #45818e;"> 11 QUESTIONS </span></span></b></span>
<br />
<div style="color: #45818e;">
<br />
<b>1. What do you like for the sole reason of everyone else hating it?</b></div>
That's just a fuckstick question. <br />
<br />
The reason that this is so hard is because pop culture has changed so much. Things that were previously reviled are now
celebrated with irony and zeal. The closest thing I can think of to answer that question is putting this out there: I have a growing love for Tom Cruise, and the more people that hate on him the more they fuel my love.<br />
<br />
People didn't always hate on Tom Cruise. When I was young and silly and I didn't know any better and he was Tom Motherfucking Cruise and he lorded over Hollywood with that fat brilliant nose and eyes like fangs, and I accepted him as royalty because, well, that's what they told me to think. <br />
<br />
Then somewhere it all fell apart, sometime around <i>Eyes Wide Shut </i>which is when we all realized that TC burns his ego like gasoline, and he has <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sRNWFtgXo2E" target="_blank">reservoirs the size of Saudi Arabia</a>. Then everyone was all, "Scientology is bad and TC made Oprah feel weird" and it's like, you know he was acting, right? <br />
<br />
And now people <i>hate</i> him, but TC keeps going, he blazes through every scene with more fucking guts
and rapture than 90% of the actors out there and their 'realism' and
'subtlety.' But I'm off the bandwagon. Fuck that. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9r0kb3e--ZY" target="_blank">Tom Cruise is a GODDAMN TOUR DE FORCE</a>. <br />
<br />
I love the scene in <i>Risky Business</i> where he pulls the catcher's mask over his face when he calls Lana for the first time, and we can feel his fear and shame and thirst. I love watching him wheel around in <i>Born on the Fourth of July</i> while <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IUk8bJJg8Kg" target="_blank">he snots and froths like a shaggy screaming rabbit</a>, I love him in <i>Magnolia </i>and <i>The Color of Money </i>(oh my god, I <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cmDACqyT_dc" target="_blank">love his hair</a> in tCoM) and <i>Jerry Maguire</i>. Yeah. I said <i>Jerry Maguire</i>. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mBS0OWGUidc" target="_blank">Jerry</a>. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l1B1_jQnlFk" target="_blank">Fucking</a>. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=moRXBFT1tbQ" target="_blank">Maguire</a>. Did you watch that last video? Did you see the veins throbbing in his forehead while his eyes burned with rabies? That's just the beginning, people (now that I think of it, the more people hate on <i>Jerry Maguire</i> the more I love <i>Jerry Maguire. </i>But not Renee Zellweger). I loved him in <i>Knight and Day. Mission Impossible. Rock of Ages. Far and Away, </i>terrible accent and all.<i> Jack Reacher.</i> And of course - the scene where TC showed the world once again that he is the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cp1jzNEOTCw" target="_blank">Dominator of Everyone</a>, and that's not just because of Luda. <br />
<br />
You go on hating TC, you pansy-ass sucktards, because you're just making it better for me. <br />
<div style="color: #134f5c;">
<br /></div>
<b style="color: #45818e;">2. Worst illness or injury?</b><br />
There's the time one side of my <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2009/08/doctors-have-asses-for-heads.html" target="_blank">face swelled up</a> and I took fuckloads of Tylenol so when I finally could see a doctor they <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2009/09/self-diagnosis-is-never-good-idea.html" target="_blank">thought I might have liver cancer</a>, and then there was the time I had an <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2008/04/er.html" target="_blank">abscess removed from my armpit</a>, but I think the worst was the summer I didn't realize I was allergic to lotion and my hands exploded with blisters for three months. <br />
<div style="color: #45818e;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #45818e;">
<b>3. What language do you wish you were fluent in?</b></div>
Probably Japanese. Or Korean. Because then I would understand what food I was ordering. <br />
<br />
<div style="color: #45818e;">
<b>4. Stout or IPA?</b></div>
Stout. Without question. <br />
<div style="color: #45818e;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="color: #45818e;">
<b>5. Favorite holiday that isn’t widely celebrated?</b></div>
February 28. Will you be my constant? <br />
<div style="color: #45818e;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="color: #45818e;">
<b>6. Are you in a current blood feud with anyone and why?</b></div>
I'm thinking about entering one with you right now, RF, because you tricked me into filling out this fucking survey, but then again you gave me a reason to talk about Tom Cruise, so I forgive you.<br />
<br />
I have had nemeses before - one was...let's call her "Kelly LarryLovesLana Kapowski" (seriously, this girl had a middle name like that) from college, and she took a massive disliking to me for no reason that I can think of and tried to convince my friends to stop talking to me. No idea why. <br />
<br />
<div style="color: #45818e;">
<b>7. Which Renal Failure player are you dressing up as for your next costume-required social event?</b></div>
<a href="http://renalfailure.wordpress.com/category/mercury-shadowcrimson-paraplegic/" target="_blank">The Crimson Paraplegic</a>, because wheelchairs are super fun and then I can do my TC <i>Born on the Fourth of July</i> impression.<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #45818e;">
<b>8. Your weapon of choice?</b></div>
Crossbow. NO! Ballistic knife. NO! A bowling ball. NO! The pen. <br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #45818e;">9. Who are bigger rapists? Football players or lacrosse players? Show your work.</span></b><br />
<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/01/05/football-player-rape-charges_n_2415937.html" target="_blank">Football</a> players. <a href="http://www.salon.com/2013/01/17/notre_dames_double_standard/" target="_blank">Easy</a> peasy <a href="http://www.people.com/people/archive/article/0,,20149501,00.html" target="_blank">lemon</a> squeezey. I don't like googling "football rape." It leads to odd places. <br />
<br />
<div style="color: #45818e;">
<b>10. Most hated karaoke song that other people sing regularly?</b></div>
Two years ago I would say Kid Rock and Sheryl Crowe's "Picture," but I haven't heard it in so long that it doesn't bother me anymore. <br />
<div style="color: #45818e;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="color: #45818e;">
<b>11. Which Renal Failure player would you want as your eternal roommate and why?</b></div>
You, RF. <br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: #ffd966;"><b> <span style="color: white;"> <span style="color: #45818e;"> 11 RANDOM FACTS ABOUT ME </span></span></b></span>
<br />
<div style="color: #45818e;">
<br />
<b>1. </b><span style="color: black;">I am looking forward to getting gray hair. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #45818e;"><b>2</b>.</span> On Tuesday I ate at least</span><span style="color: black;"> 6oz of peanut butter M&Ms.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black;"><b><span style="color: #45818e;">3. </span></b> </span><span style="color: black;">My least favorite phrase is "throw under the bus." Anyone who writes professionally should never, ever, ever write
anything about throwing or things that are "under the bus" unless they
are (a) deliberately making fun of people who use that expression, or
(b) talking about <i>Speed. </i>Caveat: if you are referencing <i>Speed</i>, accur-atize your fucking prepositions. It's "BOMB ON BUS." <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2011/09/debates-for-universe.html" target="_blank">Throwing under the bus</a> is pretty much the stupidest thing humans have ever said outside the Realms of Isms, which is totally a place. </span><br />
<br />
<b>4.</b> <span style="color: black;">My DVD player is slowly dissolving, like a heart in unrequited love. Does this mean I must now purchase a blu-ray player? Can my wallet withstand the pressure?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><b>5.</b> <span style="color: black;">Something I discovered very recently: I can be lulled into a crush on nearly any guy with
a spoken cadence who smiles when he looks me in the eye and regularly
brushes his teeth. I have no way of weeding out douchebags and evil
geniuses until I look back on a conversation and realize he mentioned he eats raw
bunnies and <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2012/10/another-conversation-i-overheard.html" target="_blank">pheasant hearts</a> for breakfast, but he spoke so beautifully that I was all, "oh, I've never had that, but it sounds <i>delicious</i>." </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><b style="color: #45818e;">6.</b> I firmly believe that bullying is the result of too much ego and has very little to do with insecurity. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><b style="color: #45818e;">7.</b> One time Neil Gaiman said to me, "Is that a hyena on your shirt? Brilliant." I kind of have a thing for hyenas. Actually, hyenas would work for the Tom Cruise category too. And they just brought hyenas to Chicago for the first time in decades, so I'm super going to the zoo when I get the chance. I found <a href="http://www.pieterhugo.com/the-hyena-other-men/" target="_blank"><i>The Hyena and Other Men</i></a> five years ago on Amazon and I never bought it because it was $100 - now it's over $400 and I regret my frugality. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><b><span style="color: #45818e;">8. </span></b> I'm extremely defensive of the Midwest. </span><br />
<div style="color: black;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: black;">
<b style="color: #45818e;">9.</b> P<span style="color: black;">ictures of </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lion_Monument" target="_blank">The Lion of Lucerne</a> make me cry like an asshole. Poor valiant, dead lion, who
sacrificed his life because it was his job and not because he believed
in something bullshit, but he won, even in death. The bastard got 'em.<b style="color: #45818e;"> </b><br />
<br />
<b style="color: #45818e;">10. </b> I watch PBS more than any other channel. Who needs cable? </div>
<div style="color: black;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: black;">
<span style="color: black;"><b><span style="color: #45818e;">11.</span></b> </span>From this point forward, I refuse to succumb to a case of the prollynots, which is a word I invented ten minutes ago.</div>
<div style="color: black;">
<b> </b></div>
<span style="background-color: #ffd966;"><b> <span style="color: white;"> <span style="color: #45818e;">YOU DON'T WANT TO DO THIS, DO YOU? </span></span></b></span></div>
<div style="color: #45818e;">
</div>
<br />
Who should answer all these questions? Honestly I would totally have picked RF, but then this will turn into a blog war of infinite mirrors and no one wants that. Therefore, using RF's logic, I will pick the person that will be the most annoyed: <a href="http://asshatlounge.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Kono</a>. <br />
<br />
<b style="color: #45818e;">1. </b> What are your top five favorite movies? Not the greatest. Your favorites. Five. No more. No less. Five shalt be the
number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be five. Six shalt thou not count, neither count thou four, excepting that thou
then proceed to five. Seven is right out.<br />
<br />
<b style="color: #45818e;">2.</b> If you could ask Werner Herzog one question, what would it be?<br />
<br />
<b style="color: #45818e;">3. </b> If Werner Herzog answered your shitty question, what would you want his answer to be? <br />
<br />
<b style="color: #45818e;">4. </b> If you could see any musician/band, in any venue, during any time, with any crowd, what would you choose? This doesn't need to make sense, it could be like, "Kanye West at the signing of the Declaration of Independence with our forefathers and James Van Der Beek, but they're all in the ancient Roman Colosseum and Caligula is wicked pissed." <br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #45818e;">5.</span></b> How do you feel about white guys with dreadlocks?<br />
<br />
<b style="color: #45818e;">6.</b> What is the largest kind of animal that you could wrestle and emerge victorious?<br />
<br />
<b style="color: #45818e;">7. </b> What's the most beautiful sound you've ever heard?<br />
<br />
<b style="color: #45818e;">8.</b> Do you have a "no fatties" t-shirt? Be honest.<br />
<br />
<b style="color: #45818e;">9.</b> What's the one book you want to make sure your boyos read?<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #45818e;">10. </span></b> Three bloggers walk into a bar. Finish the joke.<br />
<br />
<b style="color: #45818e;">11. </b> How would you break out of prison? <br />
<br />
Now that <i>that's </i>over with, if anyone else wants to play I say go for it. Thanks for playing, folks. <br />
<br />
...Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-702624550733679956.post-58683320649399514882013-03-05T00:26:00.000-06:002014-03-28T16:52:36.674-05:00Please Allow Me To Nerd OutI caved and watched <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0401729/" target="_blank"><i>John Carter</i></a> about a little over a month ago because I was on this <i>Friday Night Lights</i> kick and needed more Taylor Kitsch, and I'm now on a one-woman crusade to make everyone watch it because it's awesome. <br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Remember when I said <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2013/02/giving-it-up.html" target="_blank">I wrote something about <i>Star Wars</i></a>? I said it before and I'll say it again, talking about <i>Star Wars</i> is fucking cliche, but when something shapes your childhood pretending it's not important to you is just plain silly. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Then again, this isn't really about <i>Star Wars</i> at all - and it's more about how Hollywood fucks things up sometimes, and how they get it right sometimes. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Here is the abridged version of what I wrote a month ago:</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">First of all, I loves me some JJ Abrams. <i>Alias</i> and <i>Lost</i> are two of my favorite shows, <i>Super 8 </i>was fun (but waaaaaay too polished and aware for a coming-of-age movie) and I <a href="http://www.rassles.net/2009/05/omg-star-trek-yar.html" target="_blank">thoroughly enjoyed <i>Star Trek</i></a>, although I am an infant in Trek lore, so any arguments about JJ ruining <i>Star Trek</i> with lens flares don't even register. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">But the man is a walking gimmick. His <i>name</i> a gimmick. Obviously he's not as gimmicky as someone like Peter Jackson,
who couldn't identify a gimmick if a hobbit kicked him in the nards. Peter Jackson is so gimmicky he's George Lucas. </span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Since JJ gained a reputation as a creator of cult TV his name evokes certain feelings of dedication and camaraderie, and <i>Star Trek</i> was his breakthrough for those people who hadn't caught on yet. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446721}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">For <i>Star Wars</i> we need a director who is pure
and raw with a coming-of-age feel, not well-seasoned and mature with
little adolescent idiosyncrasies. </span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446739}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446739}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446739}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Maybe the guy that directed <i>Attack the Block, </i>but then again THAT was his coming-of-age movie. If this were a few
years ago I'd say Rian Johnson, but <i>Looper</i> pushed him up a notch from <i>Brick</i>, which was like watching a snake juggle knives and I mean that with the utmost respect.
<i>Star Wars</i> should MAKE the director and not the other way around.
People are looking at this thing in a totally wrong way.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
Of
course, <i>Star Wars</i> is itself a gimmick, it's a classic hero story and it's totally a coming-of-age
movie, and not in the when-oh-when-will-I-lose-that-v-card sense, but in
a teenager-learns-to-make-decisions-for-someone-other-than-himself kind
of sense. And it works because it was made by a man who was, at that time, coming-of-age in his career. <br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0].[0]">Kind
of like - okay, Andrew Stanton, who did <i>Wall-E </i>and <i>Finding Nemo</i>, would
have been a good choice. But then he made <i>John Carter</i>.</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0].[0]">Before that he hadn't yet made the full transition into
adult topics - the first of a trilogy </span></span><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]">is
always about finding your footing and beginning somewhere, so it would
make sense to have a director transitioning into more adult topics while
still appealing to children - hence "coming of age." JJ did his
"coming of age" movie with <i>Super 8</i>, but the problem was he make that
movie AFTER HIS OWN DIRECTORIAL TRANSITION, which was <i>Felicity</i>-era JJ, so it was
compiled of memories of what things were like, not experiences of how
things ARE. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]">It's harder to portray that emotional innocence if yours is gone - it'll only work once. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]">That's why movies like <i>Stand by Me</i> (Rob Reiner grows up) and <i>Now and Then</i> (Lesli Linka Glatter grows up) actually work, but movies like <i>Moonrise Kingdom</i> fail. <i>Moonrise Kingdom</i> was very cute, yes, but it was never innocent. Parts of it were supposed to be, but it was far too cunning to ever get there. It was Wes Anderson waving around a giant lollipop yelling, "LOOK AT MY FUCKING LOLLIPOP BECAUSE LOLLIPOPS ARE INNOCENT."</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]">The kicker is this: <i>John Carter</i> is what the <i>Star Wars </i>prequels should have been: a vehicle fully aware of the tropes and cliches involved in the story so it utilizes them to its advantage. Sensational, pulpy, cheesy, and ridiculously fun. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]">Compare that to something like <i>Snow White and the Huntsman,</i> which was just a series of bullshit used and irrelevant ideas that were painted to look pretty, completely oblivious to both source material and innovation. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]">Exhibit A: </span></span></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]">Fuck you, Rupert Sanders. Use real fucking dwarves. Haven't <a href="http://gameofthrones.wikia.com/wiki/Tyrion_Lannister" target="_blank">Peter Dinklage</a> and <a href="http://www.cinemablend.com/television/Warwick-Davis-Comedy-Life-Too-Short-Wrap-Up-With-Special-51077.html" target="_blank">Warwick Davis</a> taught Hollywood anything in the past two years?</span></span></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span></span></li>
<li><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]">Exhibit B: Queen that is mean because of some dumb groan-worthy background story that villifies feminism (a woman's only desire for power is to get back at the man that wronged her! Not everything is about you)</span></span></span></span></span> <span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]">and instead turns an otherwise interesting power-hungry character into a hackneyed woman who is bad because she is getting old and ugly, and women do not like to be ugly. You know what could have made a rad story? Re-write the whole damn thing to focus on Charlize Theron's rise and fall as <i>The Evil Queen</i>. It could be like <i>Wicked</i> (the book, not the shitty musical about shallow BFFs that fight because they totally have a crush on the same guy). </span></span></span></span></span></li>
<li><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]">Exhibit C: </span></span></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]">Pretty
girl that everyone believes is special but we have no fucking idea why,
since she's boring and annoying. And then Thor is all like, "you're a girl, you can't survive in the forest" and she's all, "no, I'm really pretty so no one will kill me" and then Rupert Sanders is like "let's give her a sword for no reason so we know she's a strong woman now! Swords =
strong." (??????)</span></span></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span></span></li>
</ul>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]">That movie doesn't mean anything. It's a pretty movie with pretty people who are all terrible. </span></span></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]">Granted, <i>John Carter</i> doesn't necessarily mean anything either other than the celebration of telling a fun story. It's also a pretty movie with pretty people, but they're presented differently. When they give the princess a sword, it's not a novel idea that she's a woman with a sword. It's not supposed to represent a transformation - everyone in the movie can use a sword. All of the women and all of the men. This is never pointed out with a line like, "Our women are equal!" It's just the way it is. There's no reason to point it out. Our villain is the bad guy because he wants to be a bad guy. Our hero is the hero because he's...well, it's because he's fucking American. But they amp that cheesiness up too, and nearly satirize it but never get all ironically detached and uselessly sarcastic, and I <i>dig</i> that. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]"><br /></span></span></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]"> I would love it if Andrew Stanton was captaining the Disney <i>Star Wars</i> franchise. But maybe not anymore...after all, he already made his <i>John Carter. </i></span></span></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]"><i> </i></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[230].[1][2][1]{comment498458480196083_5446929}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]"><i>...</i></span></span></span></span></span>Rassleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12370070146085209687noreply@blogger.com3