we've licked every nine volt
Here is something about traveling:
Often when I explain to the lovely ladies of the world that I have no desire to travel (...that it, in fact, might be a negative desire), it is normally followed by a disappointed "Oh," one of those dispiriting exclamations that lets you know that your erection might unlock the key to their panties but not the key to their heart. (Aw. Erection keys. Aw.)
It's a pat statement, honestly, and expounded upon does reveal some exceptions - that with enough time and money, etc. But it's more meant to illustrate that I have no outright desire to travel, and that I do not feel that I'd be missing out on anything necessary by choosing one burgh and sticking to it for all damned time. The key, methinks, is in keeping one's eyes open to the ever-changing Ever-changes that go on everywhere, whether it's in your room, on your local streets, or on some picturesque thoroughfare in the middle of Italy. And you know what? I doth not judge ye, motherfucks. If it helps YOU to witness change by licking an elephant's ass in Djibouti, then so be it, mang. Go for it.
So that is response to the notion of traveling for the sake of experience. There are amazing things that go on in other places, of that I have no doubt. But that's right, Shitshins, amazing things go on here too. It's just that you see it every day, so it blends in. Are there pyramids here? Can I get the gist of the GRANDEUR of these things without seeing them firsthand? You'll tell me no, but you're not me, and I'm not you. Just as you might not get the fucktasm that I do when watching a Miike movie, I might not get the same shock from seeing ruins that you do. And it's a lame explanation, but I do write, and I do spend an awful lot of time in my head. Perhaps I have seen those ruins, many, many times over, in much more detail than could ever be possible, all within my imagination. Just... perhaps. Okay?
Now there's another thing about travel, and it's not so much travel as it is the "I've been to..." syndrome. I see London, I see France kinda shit. You spent a month in Africa working the fields. You backpacked through Europe. You lived on a mountain in Pangea. Grand. Great. Now you will tell me that I haven't experienced life elsewhere, that I should try other places, because maybe I'd like somewhere else better than here. (Here being NY, of course.)
First: you might be right. Dig? I might like it better somewhere else. BUT...
Second: what the fuck do you fucking know? You spent a month in Africa, right? Well then you haven't lived there either. Now this is where it gets a little sketchy, but I'ma gonna toss out some generalisms here:
That in order to "live," somewhere, and not just experience the surface appeal, you need to be there for at least two years. That you can't backpack or sex your way through fucking hostels (I'm looking at you, mom), or bike ride through slave camps or build houses for the homeless. You've gotta fucking work. Get a job, get an apartment, and live there - really live there - for two years. Only then are you qualified to rate the experience. So. Let's say you abide by these rules. Let's say that you live to a nice ripe 80 years old. That's 40 different places (2 years per) you can truly live and speak to, and probably subtract at least 10 of those because yer not old enough to know what's happening. So, wise elder, when I tell you I want to stay in NY, that I love it here, and you tell me I should try some other places, well, darling, you can only really compare to thirty other fucking joints on this globe. And though I'm bad with geography, last I checked, there were more than thirty viable options for setting up camp worldwide.
Again, there's a key here -
Do you like where you live?
If you don't, then by all means, go move somewhere that you think will fill that black hole in your rotting heart, you rapist soul-less slug, you. But if you like where you live... fuggens, if you LOVE where you live, why should you waste time and effort uprooting just to turn around and say, "shiz, dogg, I love me this UK gay Paree mad Australia biz, but I miss that NY, bitch."
Boom.
Now crap in my mouth and call me your uncle.
Often when I explain to the lovely ladies of the world that I have no desire to travel (...that it, in fact, might be a negative desire), it is normally followed by a disappointed "Oh," one of those dispiriting exclamations that lets you know that your erection might unlock the key to their panties but not the key to their heart. (Aw. Erection keys. Aw.)
It's a pat statement, honestly, and expounded upon does reveal some exceptions - that with enough time and money, etc. But it's more meant to illustrate that I have no outright desire to travel, and that I do not feel that I'd be missing out on anything necessary by choosing one burgh and sticking to it for all damned time. The key, methinks, is in keeping one's eyes open to the ever-changing Ever-changes that go on everywhere, whether it's in your room, on your local streets, or on some picturesque thoroughfare in the middle of Italy. And you know what? I doth not judge ye, motherfucks. If it helps YOU to witness change by licking an elephant's ass in Djibouti, then so be it, mang. Go for it.
So that is response to the notion of traveling for the sake of experience. There are amazing things that go on in other places, of that I have no doubt. But that's right, Shitshins, amazing things go on here too. It's just that you see it every day, so it blends in. Are there pyramids here? Can I get the gist of the GRANDEUR of these things without seeing them firsthand? You'll tell me no, but you're not me, and I'm not you. Just as you might not get the fucktasm that I do when watching a Miike movie, I might not get the same shock from seeing ruins that you do. And it's a lame explanation, but I do write, and I do spend an awful lot of time in my head. Perhaps I have seen those ruins, many, many times over, in much more detail than could ever be possible, all within my imagination. Just... perhaps. Okay?
Now there's another thing about travel, and it's not so much travel as it is the "I've been to..." syndrome. I see London, I see France kinda shit. You spent a month in Africa working the fields. You backpacked through Europe. You lived on a mountain in Pangea. Grand. Great. Now you will tell me that I haven't experienced life elsewhere, that I should try other places, because maybe I'd like somewhere else better than here. (Here being NY, of course.)
First: you might be right. Dig? I might like it better somewhere else. BUT...
Second: what the fuck do you fucking know? You spent a month in Africa, right? Well then you haven't lived there either. Now this is where it gets a little sketchy, but I'ma gonna toss out some generalisms here:
That in order to "live," somewhere, and not just experience the surface appeal, you need to be there for at least two years. That you can't backpack or sex your way through fucking hostels (I'm looking at you, mom), or bike ride through slave camps or build houses for the homeless. You've gotta fucking work. Get a job, get an apartment, and live there - really live there - for two years. Only then are you qualified to rate the experience. So. Let's say you abide by these rules. Let's say that you live to a nice ripe 80 years old. That's 40 different places (2 years per) you can truly live and speak to, and probably subtract at least 10 of those because yer not old enough to know what's happening. So, wise elder, when I tell you I want to stay in NY, that I love it here, and you tell me I should try some other places, well, darling, you can only really compare to thirty other fucking joints on this globe. And though I'm bad with geography, last I checked, there were more than thirty viable options for setting up camp worldwide.
Again, there's a key here -
Do you like where you live?
If you don't, then by all means, go move somewhere that you think will fill that black hole in your rotting heart, you rapist soul-less slug, you. But if you like where you live... fuggens, if you LOVE where you live, why should you waste time and effort uprooting just to turn around and say, "shiz, dogg, I love me this UK gay Paree mad Australia biz, but I miss that NY, bitch."
Boom.
Now crap in my mouth and call me your uncle.