An American Tradition
Rainy today, and not much to do without a working vehicle. Were it not for a shitty fuel pump, I would have had a mouthwatering Subway sandwich and mobile phone reception in Winter Park. I would have a bitching new red and white tie-dyed hoodie I’d seen at a shop there, and I could have stopped at a photography shop for some good color film for tomorrow. I would have had a chance to listen to the new CDs Terrance, my executive chef, had given me.
But the truth is, I do not have a working vehicle right now. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t until this afternoon that I finally got to tow it from the lowly spot on the side of the road that previously I had to coast over to as I was breaking down. Patrick wrapped a chain around my frame and he towed me two blocks and up a hill and then I coasted down the hill and slowly road the momentum into my parking spot at the bastard corner of the property. The part of the property where you can throw up beside a tree in the middle of the day, and no one sees or hears you doing it. The part that you can openly smoke pot in on the front porch of your cabin, without being burdened with the abstract possibility of someone seeing it or smelling it, or, at that, actually giving a damn.
So that was the great accomplishment of my day: finally retrieving my unlucky car, abandoned for two moons a short three blocks away. Then it started raining, and it got cold, and I didn’t want to walk to the coin laundry in weather like that, so I just hung out with my roommate and couldn’t believe how boring that was. I’ve more or less spent the whole of today waiting for him to go to work so I could do something remotely cool, like getting high, or jacking off, or just listening to whatever fucked up music I like to hear loudly, you know?
Well, I retreated to the lobby to waste some late afternoon online. And not only is Zion making it up from Boulder tomorrow for a day of All-American mayhem, but:
SARAH PALIN IS FUCKING RESIGNING HER OFFICE OF GOVERNOR OF ALASKA IN WHAT HAS TO BE THE FIRST CONSCIOUSLY MISGUIDED POLITICAL STUNT OF THE 2012 REPUBLICAN PRESIDENTIAL PRIMARIES.
SWEET JEEBUS THIS IS SURREAL! WHAT IF JOHN McCAIN HAD BEEN ELECTED, AND HIS 71-OR-HOWEVER-FUCKING-OLD-AND-GROSS-HE-IS-YEAR-OLD HEART GAVE OUT ON HIM, BUT LIKE JUST PRIOR TO THAT, SHE HAD RESIGNED BECAUSE THE MEDIA WAS TOO AGGRESSIVE WITH HER RETARDED BABY BOY, AND McCAIN HADN’T FOUND A VICE PRESIDENT TO TAKE HER PLACE YET, BECAUSE MITT ROMNEY WAS BUSY BEING THE WHITEST WHITE MAN ALIVE, AND SO NANCY PELOSI, AS SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES, ASSUMED THE OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENCY AND THEN FULFILLED MY FOUR-YEAR-OLD PREDICTION THAT NANCY PELOSI WOULD BE THE FIRST WOMAN TO BECOME THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA? WHAT THEN? THEN I’M A GENIOUS. I TOUT THAT SHIT ALL OVER THE INTERNETS AND BOOST MY SOCIAL BRAND AND GET RECOGNIZED AS THE MIRACULOUSLY TALENTED AND PROMISING WRITER THAT I AM! THAT’S WHAT’S THEN. AND I MISSED IT BY ONLY A FEW MILLION BACKWARDS INGRATES, AND ONE 71-OR-HOWEVER-FUCKING-OLD-AND-GROSS-HE-IS-YEAR-OLD HEARTBEAT RUN AFOWL.
ON A DISTANT PLANE OF EXISTANCE, I HAVE BILLY-PILGRIM’D INTO BECOMING THE MOST NOTABLE INTERNETS CELEBRITY, AND I HAVE PUT INTO MOTION THE FIRST STEPS OF THE 2010 PRODUCTION OF OUR ART YEAR. AND I AM PAYING OFF MY STUDENT DEBT. AND I AM DRIVING A CAR THAT WORKS AND FINALLY MOVING ALL OF MY SHIT FROM OHIO TO DENVER, AND I AM ASSUMING MATERIAL NIRVANA. I HAVE REACHED PARADISE.
BUT I HAVE MISSED IT. I HAVE MISSED IT BY SAID VOTES AND SAID DEATHLY OLD HEARTBEATS.
But there was still something to celebrate on this plane of existence, because she who might have led those droves stepped down her post in the Army of Ignorance. The second of the four strongest Republican Presidential aspirants succeeded in broadcasting televised public breakdowns, thus completely obliterating their political futures, and freeing us of their odious clutches wrapped round our cultural experiences, in the course of one week-ish.
And I knew exactly how I could celebrate this rare alignment of celestial bodies. I would read about how bizarre the speech was, excitedly discuss it with a friend, and then retreat into my bastard corner, and smoke drugs, and watch in an altered state as Sarah Barracuda bit into an electrical eel and got her ass fried.
It was like the first time, after years of anticipation, I saw the trailer for Spike Jonze’s and Dave Eggers’s and, most especially, Maurice Sendack’s lives’ triumph, Where the Wild Things Are.
It was like the first time I had sex.
It was like the first time I kissed a girl and meant it.
It was like the first time I stood up against authority.
It was like the feeling I got when I first drove through Utah, and the miracle of the American West.
It was like reading The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay in under a week.
It was like the feeling that sat in the pit of my heart when I heard Barack Obama’s speech on race; the first time I saw Wil.I.Am’s music video for “Yes We Can;” the spirit that I was a part of when I visited the DNC with my best friends; when, on a difficultly cold Los Angeles evening in January, after a week of depression upon leaving what still felt like my home for a too-foolishly engineered plot against my life, I saw Bruce Springsteen and Pete Seeger perform “This Land is Your Land” on the Washington Mall, and it opened up my heart to warmth and hope and life.
It was like reuniting with some of my best college friends in what might be the coolest metropolitan area of our country.
It was like the year of my life early in high school that I realized I didn’t have to pretend I believed in Jesus Christ.
It was like the first time I knew I was a writer, when in eighth grade I wrote a three-page essay about the house I’d grown up in.
It was like when my mom told me that I had been her daily inspiration during the most grueling stretches of her divorce.
It was like when my dad confided in me as we sat around a dying bonfire in the cold night of Ohio winter his fear that his life was falling apart.
It was like the last time I saw my dog, Zak, before she died, and somehow knew enough to grab her gently by the back of her ears and nuzzle her face against mine, lowered to where she lie on the floor, feel her coat and smell her homely, good-dog smell, and enjoy the relationship that we had shared for eleven transformative years of my life.
It was like discovering 107.9FM The End coming out of Cleveland radio during middle school, and falling in love with rock’n’roll.
It was like the year that Amy, Steve, Gilmore, and I chose to explore what film had to offer, and consequently fell in love with artists like Wes Anderson, Stanley Kubrick, Woody Allen, P.T. Anderson, Quentin Tarantino, Spike Lee, Danny Boyle, Richard Linklater, Sophia Coppola, Terrance Malick, Alfonso Cuaron, Noah Baumbach, Gillo Pontecorvo, Darren Aronofsky, Jean-Luc Goddard, and Michaelangelo Antonioni.
It was like cooking my first meal for my sophomore year roommates-a linguini with a fresh marinara and a simple salad with a lot of balsamic and garlic-and soon after realizing that I love cooking.
It was like the first time Buddhism made any sense.
It was like the time WLT threw a huge party, and I danced so hard on so many different objects, I fell from a rolling chair and landed on my head and oh my god I’d partied so hard I got a concussion.
It was like the first time I got high at the secret spot.
Watching Sarah Palin resign from her office was one of the specialist moments in my life, because her resignation represents the decapitation of the political might of bigotry, xenophobia, intolerance, religious zealotry, corporate exceptionalism, trickledown economics, saber-rattling, preemptive warfare, and torture.*
I set my laptop aside, took another hit, and danced around my 10x12ft cabin to "Built to Last" by the Grateful Dead. And I was very grateful, indeed.
*That's not to say that the head might not grow back. These are Republicans we're talking about, and certain reptiles are known to re-grow body parts lopped off, after all.
But the truth is, I do not have a working vehicle right now. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t until this afternoon that I finally got to tow it from the lowly spot on the side of the road that previously I had to coast over to as I was breaking down. Patrick wrapped a chain around my frame and he towed me two blocks and up a hill and then I coasted down the hill and slowly road the momentum into my parking spot at the bastard corner of the property. The part of the property where you can throw up beside a tree in the middle of the day, and no one sees or hears you doing it. The part that you can openly smoke pot in on the front porch of your cabin, without being burdened with the abstract possibility of someone seeing it or smelling it, or, at that, actually giving a damn.
So that was the great accomplishment of my day: finally retrieving my unlucky car, abandoned for two moons a short three blocks away. Then it started raining, and it got cold, and I didn’t want to walk to the coin laundry in weather like that, so I just hung out with my roommate and couldn’t believe how boring that was. I’ve more or less spent the whole of today waiting for him to go to work so I could do something remotely cool, like getting high, or jacking off, or just listening to whatever fucked up music I like to hear loudly, you know?
Well, I retreated to the lobby to waste some late afternoon online. And not only is Zion making it up from Boulder tomorrow for a day of All-American mayhem, but:
SARAH PALIN IS FUCKING RESIGNING HER OFFICE OF GOVERNOR OF ALASKA IN WHAT HAS TO BE THE FIRST CONSCIOUSLY MISGUIDED POLITICAL STUNT OF THE 2012 REPUBLICAN PRESIDENTIAL PRIMARIES.
SWEET JEEBUS THIS IS SURREAL! WHAT IF JOHN McCAIN HAD BEEN ELECTED, AND HIS 71-OR-HOWEVER-FUCKING-OLD-AND-GROSS-HE-IS-YEAR-OLD HEART GAVE OUT ON HIM, BUT LIKE JUST PRIOR TO THAT, SHE HAD RESIGNED BECAUSE THE MEDIA WAS TOO AGGRESSIVE WITH HER RETARDED BABY BOY, AND McCAIN HADN’T FOUND A VICE PRESIDENT TO TAKE HER PLACE YET, BECAUSE MITT ROMNEY WAS BUSY BEING THE WHITEST WHITE MAN ALIVE, AND SO NANCY PELOSI, AS SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES, ASSUMED THE OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENCY AND THEN FULFILLED MY FOUR-YEAR-OLD PREDICTION THAT NANCY PELOSI WOULD BE THE FIRST WOMAN TO BECOME THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA? WHAT THEN? THEN I’M A GENIOUS. I TOUT THAT SHIT ALL OVER THE INTERNETS AND BOOST MY SOCIAL BRAND AND GET RECOGNIZED AS THE MIRACULOUSLY TALENTED AND PROMISING WRITER THAT I AM! THAT’S WHAT’S THEN. AND I MISSED IT BY ONLY A FEW MILLION BACKWARDS INGRATES, AND ONE 71-OR-HOWEVER-FUCKING-OLD-AND-GROSS-HE-IS-YEAR-OLD HEARTBEAT RUN AFOWL.
ON A DISTANT PLANE OF EXISTANCE, I HAVE BILLY-PILGRIM’D INTO BECOMING THE MOST NOTABLE INTERNETS CELEBRITY, AND I HAVE PUT INTO MOTION THE FIRST STEPS OF THE 2010 PRODUCTION OF OUR ART YEAR. AND I AM PAYING OFF MY STUDENT DEBT. AND I AM DRIVING A CAR THAT WORKS AND FINALLY MOVING ALL OF MY SHIT FROM OHIO TO DENVER, AND I AM ASSUMING MATERIAL NIRVANA. I HAVE REACHED PARADISE.
BUT I HAVE MISSED IT. I HAVE MISSED IT BY SAID VOTES AND SAID DEATHLY OLD HEARTBEATS.
But there was still something to celebrate on this plane of existence, because she who might have led those droves stepped down her post in the Army of Ignorance. The second of the four strongest Republican Presidential aspirants succeeded in broadcasting televised public breakdowns, thus completely obliterating their political futures, and freeing us of their odious clutches wrapped round our cultural experiences, in the course of one week-ish.
And I knew exactly how I could celebrate this rare alignment of celestial bodies. I would read about how bizarre the speech was, excitedly discuss it with a friend, and then retreat into my bastard corner, and smoke drugs, and watch in an altered state as Sarah Barracuda bit into an electrical eel and got her ass fried.
It was like the first time, after years of anticipation, I saw the trailer for Spike Jonze’s and Dave Eggers’s and, most especially, Maurice Sendack’s lives’ triumph, Where the Wild Things Are.
It was like the first time I had sex.
It was like the first time I kissed a girl and meant it.
It was like the first time I stood up against authority.
It was like the feeling I got when I first drove through Utah, and the miracle of the American West.
It was like reading The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay in under a week.
It was like the feeling that sat in the pit of my heart when I heard Barack Obama’s speech on race; the first time I saw Wil.I.Am’s music video for “Yes We Can;” the spirit that I was a part of when I visited the DNC with my best friends; when, on a difficultly cold Los Angeles evening in January, after a week of depression upon leaving what still felt like my home for a too-foolishly engineered plot against my life, I saw Bruce Springsteen and Pete Seeger perform “This Land is Your Land” on the Washington Mall, and it opened up my heart to warmth and hope and life.
It was like reuniting with some of my best college friends in what might be the coolest metropolitan area of our country.
It was like the year of my life early in high school that I realized I didn’t have to pretend I believed in Jesus Christ.
It was like the first time I knew I was a writer, when in eighth grade I wrote a three-page essay about the house I’d grown up in.
It was like when my mom told me that I had been her daily inspiration during the most grueling stretches of her divorce.
It was like when my dad confided in me as we sat around a dying bonfire in the cold night of Ohio winter his fear that his life was falling apart.
It was like the last time I saw my dog, Zak, before she died, and somehow knew enough to grab her gently by the back of her ears and nuzzle her face against mine, lowered to where she lie on the floor, feel her coat and smell her homely, good-dog smell, and enjoy the relationship that we had shared for eleven transformative years of my life.
It was like discovering 107.9FM The End coming out of Cleveland radio during middle school, and falling in love with rock’n’roll.
It was like the year that Amy, Steve, Gilmore, and I chose to explore what film had to offer, and consequently fell in love with artists like Wes Anderson, Stanley Kubrick, Woody Allen, P.T. Anderson, Quentin Tarantino, Spike Lee, Danny Boyle, Richard Linklater, Sophia Coppola, Terrance Malick, Alfonso Cuaron, Noah Baumbach, Gillo Pontecorvo, Darren Aronofsky, Jean-Luc Goddard, and Michaelangelo Antonioni.
It was like cooking my first meal for my sophomore year roommates-a linguini with a fresh marinara and a simple salad with a lot of balsamic and garlic-and soon after realizing that I love cooking.
It was like the first time Buddhism made any sense.
It was like the time WLT threw a huge party, and I danced so hard on so many different objects, I fell from a rolling chair and landed on my head and oh my god I’d partied so hard I got a concussion.
It was like the first time I got high at the secret spot.
Watching Sarah Palin resign from her office was one of the specialist moments in my life, because her resignation represents the decapitation of the political might of bigotry, xenophobia, intolerance, religious zealotry, corporate exceptionalism, trickledown economics, saber-rattling, preemptive warfare, and torture.*
I set my laptop aside, took another hit, and danced around my 10x12ft cabin to "Built to Last" by the Grateful Dead. And I was very grateful, indeed.
Click to view*That's not to say that the head might not grow back. These are Republicans we're talking about, and certain reptiles are known to re-grow body parts lopped off, after all.