from the gut
Eat shit! Trillions of flies can't be wrong! We are not flies. Shit does not taste good. It does not feel good. If you eat shit, surely you will shit shit. Surf the tsunami of shit if you want, but it won't take you anywhere, just back to the same old filthy shore. I know your gut is telling you this. You only need to listen.
I both love and loathe the internet. Mostly loathe. Especially blogs. Most of them are self-serving narcissistic mouth farts. So naturally I'm going to add my stink to the greater cacophony because I am a shallow, self-serving, narcissistic, lower-intestine of a person. I'm going to fuel the illusion that I'm communicating with other human beings when I'm really just furthering the bottom line of whoever is advertising above. Still dry-humping the American Dream but with a new set of gadgets.
My friends tell me they will look when they really won't. I know this because that's what I do. I see a wall of insipid text and I throw up in my mouth. But then what do I do? Politely swallow it. So why would I start a blog? Because no one wants to be proven wrong more than a cynic. Because I need a place to work out the contradictions in black and white, to drag the diseased guts out into the open and see what they augur. Ultimately it's about keeping it simple and not being a slave to the tool. About using it to try to tell the truth while letting the rest lie.
Copyright © 2009 by awfulstink. All material contained herein, unless pilfered from someone else, is the property of me. I don't have very many good ideas, so if I find that they have been used without credit or permission, I will hunt you down and expose you for the unoriginal simp that you are. Oh, and I reserve the right to delete anyone's idiotic comments without notice, including my own.
Coming Soon:
not your father's gangster flick:
a critique of Public Enemies
But that’s not how I feel. It’s more like an amalgam of nightmares: taking the test you haven’t prepared for, giving a speech naked, banging your dad’s bowling team with your mother looking on. How do you make yourself valuable to forces you have no desire to please? To forces you abhor but who have complete control over your life? How do you smile at people who look at you like you’re the one diseased sperm trying to wiggle its way back into the corporate egg? Or maybe it's more like, "Sorry, not enough life boats for all the passengers. Nothing personal, but go drown out of sight, will you?" My one consolation is that the whole flippin' boat's gonna sink anyway.
And then there are the freelance writing “jobs” advertised on the internet. I received an offer to write amusing "viral" email quizzes. You know, those things you annoy all your friends with or vice verse? Ten dollars for a job with a list of instructions longer than a federal employment form. I had promised myself I would swallow my pride and consider any and all offers, but all I could do was write, "Are you fucking kidding me?" twenty times. Not very amusing.
While entertaining these dark thoughts I started taking measures. I removed evidence of my education and humanity from my resume. I started dumbing-down my vocabulary. I investigated the eBay value of my half-used toiletries. I considered the viability of drug dealing as a career (still working on that one). I wondered how well I could fake insanity to get a hand out and at what point I’d no longer have to. I pondered whether selling blow jobs on the street is more or less humiliating than trying to write lame-ass email quizzes for $10 a pop. Or if there is really any difference.
Not long ago I was checking into a hotel dragging my usual canvas bag of books and papers when a man said, “you look like a writer.” At the time I was flattered. Now I’m thinking that that means I look like I let people fuck me for money. A terrible thing to say to a total stranger. But the truth is that it’s the only skill I have, such as it is. There is no plan B except to sit in front of Johnny Depp’s house with a sign that says, “will cream my pants for food.”
Perhaps it’s better not to look too far down the road. When I do, all I see is bankruptcy, homelessness, and death by auto-erotic asphyxiation. Not the kind of immortality I imagined for myself.
Welcome to craigslist, the Land of Unrealistic Expectations. So here are mine.
Looking for a smart man. I’m no genius but I don’t last with people who are a lot dumber than me. Nice if you’re into books, art, etc., but I don’t care that much as long as you approach life with a little wit and don’t have to look up the word irony. I sometimes prefer to hang out with men, I guess because I have more of a male temperament, if there is such a thing. I too often find women to be bitchy and yappy, and hey, I already have a poodle. I hate to disparage my sex, but there it is. I’m not good at platitudes or hanging on the phone for hours--spill it and get off! I tend to swear a fucking lot. My politics are pretty far left. If you’re right wing or religious we’ll probably run out of things to talk about because pretty much everything is political if you get far enough into it.
That’s the good news. If you’re looking for Angelina Jolie, I’m not your gal, though I did ok back in the day. (Hey, I’d prefer Johnny Depp, but I don’t think he’s waiting for my call. Then again, if he does show up, you'll have to be willing to wait in the hall without complaint.) If you find yourself caring about how I look, maybe you need to look up platonic. (Or maybe you're just a shallow, self-centered asshole who needs to look in the mirror.)
Please examine your motives before responding. I’m not looking for a "date" although I never rule anything out. I’m no one’s meal ticket (anymore), and I won’t bear your children. In fact I may have trouble bearing to be in the same room with them. I don’t have any fetishes that I’m conscious of, and I’d like to keep it that way for now. And if you feel irresistibly compelled to send me a picture of your penis, at least throw something in for scale.
Selected responses:
Responder 1: Sorry, couldn’t resist. [attaches picture of erect penis with coke can next to it]
Me: Well that’s… impressive. Thanks for sharing. You made my day.
Penis man: Glad I could help.
Responder 2: Your post was actually worth reading. I can assure you that I am not a LOT dumber than you are. I am however, perplexed by your post title. What is Champagne? Did you mean Champain? You know, that French sparkling wine stuff?
Responder 3: You should try stand-up. There are some really bad comics at the improv, perhaps you could work up a routine.
Responder 4: Funniest post I have read in a while. I'm 27 and live in studio city. I may not be the one.
Responder 5: Goddamnit. My keyboard is a nasty bastard. May I have permission to try again without the premature discharge? I liked your post. I'm 45. Never married, no kids, not looking for anything other than a compatible sensibility. I won't try to bone you or anything. I had a whole schtick worked up for this email, but now that my shocking intertube incompetence has been revealed, screw it. What do you need to know about me to know if I'm worth an acquaintance.
Me: You have my permission. So sorry to hear about your keyboard... you poor thing! Have you tried thinking about something else while typing? Baseball scores, perhaps? Well, you can spell, and in my book that's a huge plus. You are funny, smart, and show good taste by liking my ad. You probably sensed the ironic tone of my ad and know not to take everything as the literal truth. Good boy. I've gotten some very interesting pictures, let me tell you, scale included. Good thing I'm not easily offended. What to know about you? Tell me a secret.
Him: You flatter me.... keep it up!
Are you now or have you ever been an attorney? You know why I'm asking.
Remaining as vague as you deem fit, would you tell me what part of this bucolic wonderland you call home? I would love finding someone to bike with. I'm just a guy with a bicycle--I have no spandex ball-compressing shorts or $200 specialized shoes that can only be worn when on a bike.
And something I hate hate hate: Some dude (could be a lady) next to me on a treadmill, and I'm DYING and schvitzing and cursing how impossibly appealing Pop Tarts are, and he's RUNNING, like fast, AND he's not wheezing AND he's TALKING ON HIS CELL PHONE! Fuck THAT guy. Perhaps if we become pals, I'll share my secret method of coping with that. But for now, I'll share a different secret: I often cry easily when faced with the pedestrian emotional manipulations of certain commercials/movies/lost puppy stories.
Responder 6: You should take that show to Broadway, I would definitely pay to see that shit performed on stage. ! haha! I recently moved to a snobbish part of this town of twats called.. M_____ D__ R__, but I am originally from NY, via Havana. That's right.. I'm a Cuban/Italian... I think that means I'm able to wash&wax your car just before I steal it. ; ) Seriously though, I'm a retired chef that has found himself in showbiz of the seediest kind, I help make those movies mommy and daddy had in their closet but didn't want you to see.
I would send along a pic of my package but, I haven't used it in over 18 months so why bother.
BTW, 43 years of life, divorce and 2 grown kids and recently becoming a Gran dad has helped to extend both my anxiety and gut. PS My accent is more Goodfella's than Ricky Ricardo.
Me: Broadway, eh? Not sure what I'd call that... The Vagina Rants? The Twat Tirades? Given the business you're in, you might have more insight into angry vaginas. Re: Twattown, a friend recently said the same thing--that any day she expects to be pulled over and asked, "Lady, do you know how fat you were going?" Much more in your email that I’d like to comment on, but the hour waxes late. Hope to hear from you again.
From "Trouble with Fame," by the British actor
Sir Alec Guinness, in the January 17 issue of the
London Daily Telegraph. Guinness's memoir,
My Name Escapes Me, was published last August
by Viking.
This past year a refurbished Star Wars
seemed to be everywhere, but I have no intention
of revisiting any galaxy. I shrivel inside
each time it is mentioned. Twenty years ago,
when the film was first shown, it had a freshness;
also a sense of moral good and fun. But
then I began to be uneasy at the influence it
might be having. The bad penny first dropped
in San Francisco when a sweet-faced boy of
twelve told me proudly that he had seen Star
Wars over a hundred times. His elegant mother
nodded with approval. Looking into the boy's
eyes, I thought I detected little star-shells of
madness beginning to form, and I guessed that
one day they would explode. "I would love you
to do something for me," I said. "Anything!
Anything!" the boy replied rapturously. "You
won't like what I'm going to ask you to do," I
said. "Anything, sir, anything!" "Well," I said,
"do you think you could promise never to see
Star Wars again?" He burst into tears. His
mother drew herself up to an immense height.
"What a dreadful thing to say to a child!" she
barked, and dragged the poor kid away. Maybe
she was right, but I just hope the lad, now in
his thirties, is not living in a fantasy world of
secondhand, childish banalities.
by Andy Borowitz
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/andy-borow
"Some people will say that words like scum and rotten are wrong for Objective Journalism — which is true, but they miss the point. It was the built-in blind spots of the Objective rules and dogma that allowed Nixon to slither into the White House in the first place. He looked so good on paper that you could almost vote for him sight unseen. He seemed so all-American, so much like Horatio Alger, that he was able to slip through the cracks of Objective Journalism. You had to get Subjective to see Nixon clearly, and the shock of recognition was often painful."
--Hunter S. Thompson
What made me start thinking about this was the recent war of words between bloggers, especially Nikki Finke at Deadline Hollywood Daily, and the journalists at Variety, Hollywood Reporter, and elsewhere. The issues that sparked this clusterfuck don't matter. What's interesting is that it's becoming a battle between two concepts of journalism, and everyone's involved from individual readers to big corporate guns. Here is a link to a blog entry written by Rod Lurie, a respected film director who has been the target of some of Finke's blogs. My response to his editorial follows.
________________________
Mr. Lurie,
So you think Nikki Finke is dangerous and part of an insidious movement to destroy Legitimate Journalism: let me tell you what is dangerous and insidious. The idea that a “legitimate” journalism with some sort of monolithic integrity actually exists. “Legitimate” journalists serve corporate owners and are as subject to bias as anyone, maybe more so. And it’s much worse than that because this myth of legitimacy gives readers permission to trust the source and not think for themselves.
And just who are these corporate owners? Could they be, oh, I don’t know, the same corporations that are neck deep in defense contracts? How likely are “legitimate” journalists to report on human rights violations by Coca Cola or Walmart when those companies are their sponsors? It’s hard to fact-check or verify stories that never get written. Given what’s been going on in the world for the last eight years, the negligence, complacency, and impotence of “legitimate” journalists constitutes a war crime. Even our esteemed paper “of record” is a well-known purveyor of bullshit. Judith Miller, anyone? Having press credentials doesn't give you integrity, and having a blog doesn't make you an asshole who couldn't get published.
You compare Nikki Finke to Joseph McCarthy. If I remember correctly, it wasn’t until after one man with balls of cryptonite took down HUAC that the spineless simps otherwise known as “legitimate” journalists followed suit. I wonder how well your older colleagues in
There is no such thing as an independent journalist. You can’t be independent from your own biases. There is no such thing as objective reporting. The sooner people are disabused of that idea the better. Bloggers can be trained journalists (like Nikki Finke), but they function as editorialists. Their work is subjective and opinion. Any blogger (or person) who claims otherwise should not be taken seriously. Are there errors, slanders? Yes. But in what other medium at what other time have we been so well positioned to publicly refute the bullshit? How many lives and careers have been ruined by “legitimate” journalists when the subject had no effective means to respond credibly? For the first time, information exchange resembles a dialogue rather than a one-way downhill street. Bloggers should not try to be “legitimate.” It should be clear that they are representing their own side of a story. If readers know this they have a choice to believe or not believe. A diversity of voices is crucial to anything resembling a free society--corporate entities are in cahoots as often as they are in competition--and those voices now have agency.
Nikki Finke is outspoken, abrasive, and maybe, as one commenter stated, an “uppity cunt,” though I think that was meant as a compliment. And maybe she needs to go back to charm school as Peter Bart seems to think, but who cares? How is her demeanor relevant? (Except perhaps that she is a woman and therefore ought to be pleasant and deferential, but who wants to go down that road?) She and her ilk have hustle and have brought new energy to an establishment suffocating under the weight of its own self-importance. I don’t deny that the aggregate amount of BS has increased a trillion fold because of the internet. I don’t deny that there is a sizable portion of the population who can’t or won’t bother to tell the difference between fact and crap—that’s not new. Errors and lies can cause damage. But if a few people learn to be a tad more critical, well, that’s real progress.
So you feel persecuted. Take it up with your therapist. All I can say is that you chose a public career, so tough shit. I like your work in film and TV very much, and given its nature, it surprises me that you would write such a careless piece. (Or is it an April Fool's errand after all?)
_____________________________This battle has yielded personal insults, corporate intimidation, and implications of yellow journalism. The journalists and their corporate owners claim that the bloggers break stories without proper fact-checking and corroboration and that there is no accountability. True enough. The recent disgraceful blog story of Natasha Richardson's death that appeared 24 hours before she actually died (and its ripple effect) is cited as a good example. And so it is. Now, I'm not a journalist. I've never taken a class in journalistic ethics. My understanding of how the news business works is probably shaped more by Howard Hawks than Edward R. Murrow. All I know is what I see as a consumer of information. If “Legitimate” journalists had been doing their job, how many lives might have been saved in
Mother of god! We are a nation of people who can't distinguish between taste (our own) and the larger reality. Ok, I've been schooled in the problematic arguments re: the subjective vs. the objective, especially when it comes to art. I carry the caveats like antibodies in my blood. But let's face it, being able to distinguish between these two nebulous concepts is the only thing underlying any level of civilized behavior and the only way to share meaning in anything.
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