Saturday, October 17, 2009
I Hate Phonies
"Hey, Jim. Doesn't your exhibit at the Met start today?"
"Oh, geez! I completely forgot!"
"Oh, well no worries. You can just eat a bunch of oranges and throw the peels and seeds all over the room."
"Oh my god! It's a statement on modern society!"
How can someone accept something like this as art, yet ignore ultra-important media such as video games? Video games are not only a completely valid form of art but also a superior one. They offer a degree of interactivity the likes of which have never been seen. And why is this? Because pretentious people go around deciding what is and isn't art and the mindless sheep of the public have no choice but to follow them. In the words of Holden Caulfield
"I hate phonies."
Misinformed overcultural anti-philistines are everything wrong with the country and the world as a whole. Deep inside, all humans have mankind's essential , there is always some sort of hostility towards some other culture or man that you hold, but these 'phonies' that litter the modern art houses of coastal American cities and the various coffeehouses of Western Europe are spreading their lies that we live in a global commons, that all men should cooperate and coexist despite fundamental differences in ideas, and these lies are tearing the world apart. These phonies convert more and more decent people into phonyism and indoctrinating them with their hippie ideals and self-contradicting lies. These phonies live in their million dollar houses bought by their investments in the stock market or their creation of an internet company and sit back in their imported Swedish-designed, Indonesian-made ultra-comfort chairs and watch their Wes Anderson movies while preaching communism and socialism and anarchy. But, just like in the 60's, after a time of relative peace and happiness, people have to seek out problems. Unfortunately, these people are surprisingly charismatic. So again, phonies are in style. Here's to hoping it'll all blow over.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Lucas
He is all-powerful.
He has a plan.
He is unstoppable.
He is George Lucas.
Story Time Again, Though This Time, It's Not As Good.
“Dmitri.”
“Yes?”
“Dmitri.”
“Yes?”
“My god, Dmitri! I demand your presence!”
“Of course, comrade. I apologize for having you wait.”
“Ah, this you must see. Do you recall the event beginning Experiment 123K9?”
“Was it the event in which a stuffed bear was inserted into the human’s cage, sir?”
“Look at what he did, comrade.”
Some five hundred feet below them, a man about the age of thirty stepped out of his crude straw and wood shelter cradling a small brown woolen object. The man walked leisurely to a second shelter near the river surrounding his encampment where the roof broke the line of sight.
“Sir…”
“Of course.”
The superior of the officers struck a few levers and twisted a few dials, when suddenly, the window in the front of them quickly switched to a view of the hut’s interior. The man’s waist long light brown unkempt hair swung and tossed about animatedly as his body twisted and turned in strange ways, forming a sort of rhythm with his body. Above him on a shoddily made pedestal sat the stuffed bear. Dmitri’s eyes filled with awe and wonder, his mouth opened. His commander merely sat back and smiled calmly. Dmitri was amazed.
“Sir, do you realize the significance of this? He is the first to display non aggressive behavior when presented with the animal!”
“Yes. The implications are astounding. He is the first human subject to be sentient without contact, save the teacher of course.”
Dmitri’s expression of glee faded.
“He is sentient, sir? He is self-aware?”
“Yes, Dmitri. I am glad the meaning is not lost on you.”
Dmitri’s expression hardened and his smile turned to a frown.
“Sir, should we be containing him? Should we be subjecting him to these experiments? Should we be testing him like a rat? Is he not the very same as us?”
The officer stepped calmly out of his chair and reached into his pocket.
“Sir, what is it you are doing?”
The officer pulled out a long whip from his coat pocket.
“Sir, I will behave, I will behave.”
Dmitri dropped to the floor and started sobbing and reciting the pledge.
“I will serve the Ulterior under any and all circumstances presented to me, and will lay my life down for him no matter what strifes or toils face us-“
The superior officer struck the whip across Dmitri’s face and dragged his unconscious body to his bed.
That night Dmitri did not sleep. The prisons they contained the natives in helped control overpopulation and war by prohibiting reproduction and containing each person in their own personal all-natural jail cell. What they did was good, they were a benefit to the human race, they were rebuilding their once great empire. But what the Soviets were doing had a cost. The cost was their own humanity. The Soviet Empire was savage and evil, they had forgotten what freedom was and were perpetrators of genocide and mass torture. Dmitri could no longer be one of them. Dmitri would leave and explore the once-great world, seeking out a new home for himself. It was decided. Dmitri was to be a deserter.
The Ulterior seized Dmitri’s unconscious body by the collar, shaking it in the face of Dmitri’s superior officer.
“What is this? You could allow such scum to grow in your company?”
The superior officer stumbled over his words,
“Ulterior, I apologize for my inferior’s defiance, for his spit thrown in your face.”
“Yes, well consequences will be harsh. I will make sure he will see. He will see what is received when the Ulterior is angered.”
The sentient native stared at his reflection in the river, marveling at the quiet wonders of his world. Tranquility was always good to him, never hurt him like his cursed memories. Peacefully, the silence enveloped him. It was at that moment he felt his greatest, the best he ever felt, he felt at one with the world. With his own private world. He and his home were finally at peace. He instinctively shifted his head away from the water when he heard the raucous noises of machinery. With great horror, he realized what exactly was happening. His shelter was being destroyed by an enormous metallic god. His eyes widened. In a frantic haze, his body was set into motion. He was sprinting, pushing his body to limits never reached before, galloping across the nine acres of woodlands until finally, he reached his destination. He stopped, stunned. Where his secondary shelter once lay, there was only wreckage, splintered pieces of salvaged wood and rocks lacking cohesive shape. One thing and one thing only lay before him, standing tall above all the rubble. It was his personal god upon its pedestal. Running toward the god, he heard the ominous mechanical sounds of the god that destroyed his home. He refused to look back, only ran. Finally, the metal god spoke.
“Please evacuate your shelter, your cell is being taken by a new subject.”
But he kept running, hoping against all hope that he and his personal god would be together once more. His hoping was to no avail. With a crash, the claw sent the pedestal and the god into the rapidly flowing river. Only shocked for a moment, the native’s gaze hardened, his brow forced into a position of distinct anger. Enough bad memories plagued him, this one was not going to do the same. Without a running start, he dramatically dove into the freezing waters of the river, eyes set on his god, unaware he was being tossed into a brand new world, one which he was not accustomed to.
In the native’s cell, an extremely loud noise was heard as metal was thrown to the ground. A large room had fallen from the ceiling, the smooth shelter being pushed several meters into the Earth below. With a loud pop, the kind you get when opening a bottle of champagne, the room’s lid flew off and was absorbed by the ceiling to be recycled for scrap metals. Smoke and haze poured out of the small room, building up to a blast of fire shot from the shelter’s bottom, throwing the room’s inhabitant into the native’s former home. The man stumbled across the ground, blindfolded until he eventually ran out of energy. There he lay for a considerable amount of time until he mustered up the strength to stand. The man was young, strong and tall, cropped hair dark and dirty. Slowly, he untied the rope connecting his hands and removed his blindfold, grunting primitively. This man was Dmitri.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Beauty
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Stimulation
should just shut up.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
...Story Time
Atsu was never one for drugs. Oh, yes, he had been pushed, like a young girl into the mud, but he resisted. It’s not like his parent’s words had any significant impact on him, he was never one for parents, either. Alcohol was simply what he wanted. It was and always had been. Was it simple rebellion? No. Atsu liked to think it was more than that. Atsu was very in touch with his inner chi. Like a middle aged housewife, he constantly attempted to make up for his past sins by attuning himself with nature. He liked to think that he and alcohol shared a bond. Atsu was sentimental, and very frequently recalled his meeting with alcohol with affection, as if it was some sort of lost love or strange guardian. One day, Atsu was lying in bed, curled up in fetal position, green eyes darting impatiently from his window to his clock, as if he was itching for the day to end. It was one of those mornings where the fog blanketed the ground like the surface of the earth itself, one of those days where you were afraid that if you left the house, the white would swallow you up, you would become part of it and it part of you, that it would polymerize you into nature itself, that it would swallow you and spit you out as a sick, fragile ghost. Atsu’s peace was disturbed by the loud creaking of his door, old, dead and rotten, his mother sauntered in. She was a woman of high esteem, a social climber, who, though very cheap and lacking in social skills, thought much of herself. Needless to say, she was less than charismatic.
‘Atsu,’ She mumbled, as if she was very busy and had no time on her hands ‘I believe you have a friend here to see you.’
And in walked a man dressed in rags, wearing what was quite obviously a toupee. He had a certain way about him that made you think he was much wealthier than he was. A certain way he carried himself that made you want to congratulate him, regardless of if he deserved it. He sat by Atsu on his bed. Atsu paid no mind. He was quite shaken, but he couldn’t let down his tough exterior. The man in rags gazed softly at Atsu for what seemed like hours before lightly placing a paper bag on the table by his bed. He paused, looking like he was about to speak, but stopped short before speaking.
He simply spoke,
‘This is for you. Do what’s right.’
The man in rags patted Atsu on the shoulder, attempting to show affection, but failing miserably. He mumbled something softly and stepped silently out of the house.
It was a good while before Atsu had made his choice. He pushed and pulled until he unraveled himself from the labyrinth that were his covers and outstretched his dominant arm (left, of course) and seized the bag like he should have been the day. Atsu opened the bag, slightly ripping the sides. Inside he found a large bottle wearing a label bearing a cartoon of a well dressed plump man ambling along the road, bearing a cane and a top hat. Atsu smiled at the picture and opened the bottle. His bottle.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
See how this sounds.
'How's it going cleaning the gutter, honey?'
'Eugh. I think I found some Kibble.'
Now imagine this.
'How's it going cleaning the gutter, honey?'
'I think I found some Fancy Feast!'
'Yum! Bring it downstairs, let's eat some lunch.'
As you can see from these comparative sentences, anything even related to cats sounds delicious.