Memarandus Savagerious

A Memo Concerning: WikiLeaks, Food Deserts, and Poison.

2010-08-02T17:29:00.000-07:00

Making trips to a gas station is without doubt the most emasculating experience an individual can make in the year 2010. It anything it magnifies the embarrassing fact that we are all slaves to a long antiquated technology controlled by the morally sociopathic and fear mongering fundamentalists. As if being caught in the bear trap/swirling shit storm of Iraq and Afghanistan weren't enough abuse over the past 10 years (and beyond), the immediacy of the Deepwater Horizon oil spill this year has been the equivalent of receiving “The People's Elbow” while laid out flat on the wrestling mat. What could be worse than that? Well, watching the morbidly obese painfully make their way out of gas station convenience stores at lunch time with their “meal” of 64 oz acid based sodas, cheddar wrapped, deep fried, weiners made of spare animal parts, and laboratory engineered “potato” chips, all of which come wrapped in plastic packaging that will last on this earth far longer than the corpulent individuals who have purchased them. There is horrifying harmony to the modern gas station as it pumps out a fluid whose base ingredient currently poisons unsuspecting sealife, while simultaneously dispensing food containing poisons that aggressively increase ass size while proportionally shortening lives, only to watch vehicles inefficiently use the aforementioned fuel to transport said fat asses while producing gases which poison everyone's air and turn skylines the color of armpit stains in white t-shirts. It is this harmony that leads me to two questions. How many inches does it take before you know you are getting screwed? How much longer does it take to know you are banging yourself? And so we have A Memo Concerning: WikiLeaks, Food Deserts, and Poison.

I've avoided this topic for months because as a skinny man I inherently lack the experience to fully empathize with the obese. But, as I recently flipped through photos of oil bukake-ed sea turtles I realized that the look in their eyes were curiously, and tragically familiar-- the image of a car wreck or gruesome injury, something you try to forget but whose image haunts in random, violent flashes, something like Hedi Montag or Carrot Top. It was a look of perpetual shock, helplessness, confusion, and silent surrender. “What. The Hell. Happened to me.” It's the same pain shelled stare you can find on the corpulent, bottled oxygen dependent as they scooter their way through the shitspray of exhaust accumulated in the middle of a busy intersection on their way to go grocery shopping at the 99 cent store.

The painful reality is that given recent studies it is increasingly difficult for me to judge the morbidly bovine any differently than I would a fish who has made the horrible mistake of deciding to swim through BP's million gallon sea of poison. For millions of Americans the option to not poison themselves is simply unavailable as large communities have zero access to fresh food without making a pilgrimage past an ocean of cheaper, toxic options chemically engineered to create addiction and dependence. This creates a horrifying Catch-whatthefuckdoyoudo. Given the option between traveling over an hour to find expensive yet healthy options or heading down the street and hitting up the dollar menu, what would you do? For the poor the first option leads to hunger, the other to a living death. In the Land of the Opportunity not everyone who has the desire to eat healthy food has the opportunity to pursue it. The results are frightening, according to the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation, the most obese state in the US in 1990 weighed less than the most healthy state in 2009. In twenty years, fat has become the new skinny.

I am not looking to absolve responsibility from those who have access to healthy, sustaining food yet choose to drink oil, but it would be equally irresponsible not to consider the waters we swim in. The concept of a Food Desert is dangerously foreign to many who live outside of them, but just as a non-smoker can get lung cancer from living in Los Angeles, the effects of this poison extend well beyond those actively killing themselves. Currently children are assaulted with more fast food advertising than any other form of food advertising, including ads for Frosted Covered Sugar Bomb cereal and High Fructose Acid Blaster beverages. The horrifying truth is that shit food is a more devastating killer than alcohol, drugs, and tobacco and yet shit food is able to wage a billion dollar seduction campaign promoting ways children can slowly kill themselves.

I'm sick and tired of having to wade through oceans of invitations to poison because in the end moments of weakness are inevitable. I ate Wendy's last week goddamnit, it gave me the shits, made me feel like my lungs were lined with bacon, and two hours later I wanted more. Isn't that what heroin does? Suddenly the answer to “Taco Bell, why can't I quit you?” is a lot more simple.

We live in a society where you can get McDonalds delivered, order a foot long cheeseburger from Carls Jr., and buy meat product in any shape you desire, while professional athletes peddle beverages scientifically proven to create weight gain, high blood pressure, and tooth decay (Gatorade). Yet we reserve our outrage and calls for action for instances/disasters when people poison other species by MISTAKE, rather than on purpose. Maybe the solution to this round of Gulf Crisis is to add sugar to the oil, get Nemo and Flipper addicted to oil consumption, and then say it's their fault for swimming in that shit.

I'm sick and tired of seeing people who look like they have been exposed to nuclear radiation and now have front butts and rooster jowls. Yeah, its a “free” country, so if people knowingly want to poison themselves, that's fine I can deal with it. But, that freedom shouldn't be a function of your tax bracket nor should it poison the water for everyone.

These things considered, I'm afraid that the underlying issue here isn't complacency or surrender, its an overarching desire to consume things that have already been digested. Too many of us choose to be chicks waiting in our nest for Sysco, Kraft, and Monsanto to vomit food into our mouths. Too many are afraid to acknowledge that meat has a face (and it's delicious) and that food, like all living things, shouldn't all look the same (you got that bleach blondie?). Too many are afraid to realize that eating living food means that sometimes your favorite food isn't available or in season. But this isn't just about food, its about frayed jeans and wood that's been painted to look old, its about facts that have been filtered through bureaucracy and panels of editors with conflicts of interest. It's about a desire that far too many have for things that have already been processed. I don't want to have to be a millionaire to get my food via WikiLeaks.

Click here for more information on Food Deserts

For more information on Nationwide Obesity, the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation can be found here

A Memo Concerning: Zonies, Migrants, and Cowards.

2010-05-02T15:25:00.000-07:00

Every year my community is invaded by a vicious hoard of unholy land beasts in pastel colored SUVs wearing oversized fanny packs and thick white cotton socks pulled high and split by Tevas. They come and go in migratory fashion, like Wall-Mart outfitted vikings pillaging up and down the Southern California coastline, sacking and raping our resources and turning our beloved homeland into a melancholy whore. Over time we have come to anticipate their migratory return just after the two days the grass is green in Spring, usually about the time we get that first sun burn, when the Padres are playing good baseball. Just as our beaches reach their most aesthetic potential, like petals of a flower finally extending themselves, a heard of monstrous, pastey white asses decide to plant themselves in the middle of it-- a shit streak down the middle of a recently washed pair of undies. They are leaches who threaten the safety and well-being of our children, are burdens on the tax paying citizens of Southern California and blights on the aesthetically appealing San Diego landscape. They are of course Arizonans. And so we have A Memo Concerning: Zonies, Migrants, and Cowards.

I'd say its about long time for residents of San Diego to rise up and confront the beast. Housing prices have dipped drastically, unemployment is up, the city flirts with bankruptcy, it is about time we start doing what everyone else does when they are frustrated and feel powerless: start assigning blame to faceless groups of people. The Arizonan, or Zonie, is obviously the destructive force behind our current plight. They make roads unsafe with their clueless stumblings through our cities, fumbling along the 101 or I-5 like geriatrics trying to find and mix Metamucil in the dark. The result is about the same as well: a series of curse words and shit flung everywhere. Recklessly driving the wrong way down one way streets, parking in fire lanes, veering into bike lanes while desperately stabbing at GPS devices fixed to carpeted dashboards, it almost feels like these people are purposely trying to get in car accidents so that they can extend their Southern California vacations longer by claiming residency in our hospitals.

I can't blame them though; their state undeniably blows. The people of Arizona are bleach white from days on end spent indoors in air conditioned cellars because their summer is hotter than donkey balls. Lets be honest, what does the desert state really have to offer? People have no business living there in the first place. It is no wonder then that Arizona is the crystal meth capital of the world, boasting the highest percentage of positive results for meth in workplace drug tests. But that is what makes the annual migration of Zonies to Southern California so dangerous. In addition to aqua colored Ford Excursions, chin strap facial hair, gold chains with faux-chinese medallions, tribal band tattoos, and oversized, grease stained No Fear T-shirts, Zonies also bring their meth in droves, specifically targeting small children, puppies and Shamu with their extraordinarily addictive drug. Whats even worse, some Zonies are even setting up shop on our side of the border, creating meth labs in East San Diego County. They have crept from El Centro all the way to Lakeside, slowly infesting the county with peach fuzz mustaches and TapOut apparrel, establishing anchor-businesses in form of meth labs in grandma's trailer. While not having a full set of teeth used to be a Zonie thing, their invasion into SoCal has made it an East County phenomena. Sometimes I wonder if I'm even in my own hometown when I see the amount of 98 Ford Mustangs with chrome painted plastic rims on the road. We must act swiftly, before our own children start wearing bandanas underneath their baseball hats. The number of dudes swimming in the ocean with white tank tops on is rising at a frightening rate. Outside of filling our restaurants and hotels, and buying messloads of pointless shit, I have a hard time seeing how these people really contribute to our economy at all.

When assholes force me to look at history, something many people try to avoid at all costs, I will admit that it is hard to acknowledge that yes, even my own family immigrated from western New Mexico to San Diego in the 1920's. But listen, the difference between my family's move from the desert to San Diego and modern day Zonies is huge. Those people in the past were my family, these Zonies are not. That's a difference whose weight cannot be minimized.

Considering the hazards that Zonies present I suppose we could close off our border with them and systematically remove those who have infiltrated (a task as dubious as removing gray from tan grains of sand). But, I don't think we should because outside of it just not working, that level of short-sightedness, mis-directed angst, and cowardice is the kind of shit Zonies like to pull of late. I call their recent legislation cowardly because it targets those with the least amount of power in the equation while at the same time doing little if anything to combat the issues that they face.

This is because confronting the real problem would mean acknowledging the extent to which America depends on migrant workers to fuel their economy. It would mean acknowledging how the US has looked at Mexico as its personal battery for the better part of the last 75 years. It would mean acknowledging how powerful domestic industries have used migrant labor as a means to navigate around our own labor laws. It would mean acknowledging the extent to which, because of agreements like NAFTA, our own successes are dependent on the success of Mexico, how our fates are intertwined. It would mean acknowledging that our trade decisions with Mexico hold significant impacts on our own qualities of life domestically. But Arizona Senate Bill 1070 does not acknowledge any of this and I think this is for a very clear reason. Deep down inside, we as Americans don't really want to stop the flow of illegal immigrants into this country. If we really did, we'd stand up and acknowledge the issues we like to keep secret.

What this legislation does is simply scratch the itch of a group of confused, angst filled individuals. It points their attentions to the least powerful in the equation, allowing those with heavily invested, domestic interests to continue to maintain their status quo while avoiding blame for their involvement in this horrendous scheme. It is a trap, a means of giving people the illusion of victory. Perhaps the most disingenuous accomplishment of this movement has been the ability of its supporters to illustrate that gestapo tactics are the only way to combat illegal immigration.

This could not be farther from the truth. As Mark Flores of the Critical Minds recently put it, “you do not have to condone illegal immigration to condemn racist policies.” Its not just that the strategy outlined by SB 1070 isn't the only way, it is that it is the least effective. We are in the middle of a crooked relationship, one whose problems are exacerbated by our willingness to deny it. I feel it is best described as domestic abuse. No matter how much we beat the shit out of our favorite girlfriend (migrant workers) in front of our friends, the next day we'll still offer roses and chocolates, because in the end it's not that we don't like her company, we are just embarrassed with how much we are in love with her.

A Memo Concerning: Big Wood and Why Stephanie Meyer doesn't want you to grow up.

2009-12-16T21:46:00.000-08:00

The female equivalent to the male awkward/unjustified/phantom boner is the Twilight Series. I once felt that I got the most random phantom boners in the history of Pubescence. No really, I'm comfortable with that distinction. I don't mean to be irreverent or crude when I write about this, I believe that our bodies and their functions deserve the observation and reflection I have given them. The Boner Phantom struck me often and with a violent lack of consideration. Ms. Asilstein, all two hundred pound, moo moo dress wearing, hairy wart, varicose vein cankle, sausage toe ready to explode sandal straps of her, could be talking about exponents, and for some reason my Weiner would increase in mass exponentially; the Phantom seizing on the opportunity to exploit expanding sums in my universe. And so grows (pun) one of the great paradoxes of the human condition. The angel on one ear told me I was sinning when having an awkward, Bronx-sized boner while looking at an actually attractive young lady because sins come from your mind and inevitably become actions. From the other ear an angel told me it was totally natural for me to get hard when driving along an extra bumpy road, that I was no better than my dog who used to hump the shit out of pillows. Since the last Memarandus, what may have seemed like an eternity for some of you, I have witnessed funerals, weddings, and birth in my life. Old men will scramble to open the next box of Cialis; a 13 year old will frantically flip his erection beneath his waistband because someone said “thrust” while talking about model airplanes. But during this time the course for the modern female has been particularly difficult to navigate with a semblance of dignity and self respect. This is because Stephanie Meyer wields pubescent nostalgia like a massive phallic sword, knighting middle aged women as damsel in distress nobility, and slicing back the proper growth of teenage girls. And so we have A Memo Concerning: Big Wood and Why Stephanie Meyer doesn't want you to grow up.

During my childhood, family and community were two elements in life that I was told and shown to be of unparalleled importance. They were to be respected and honored, much like in the way that gravity should when standing safely on the edge of a vast cliff. This is why Disney's “The Little Mermaid,” and the character Ariel, really confused the shit out of me. Here was a scantily-clad princess who was willing to exchange the safety of her family and well-being of her community for the affection of a dude she had seen in fleeting moments. We often identify “creeps” as people with hair dolls, or with alters filled with photos and possessions of their lust target-- this bitch had a life-sized statue of the guy she was stalking. Yet, at the same time Ariel was/is the most attractive looking female character in the entire Disney catalog of centerfolds. I mean really: a smoking hot ginger with eyes like abalone rocking a shell bikini and a stomach that could make a full grown man want to motorboat a pile of broken glass just to touch. Ariel was my object of intense prepubescent desire. She embodied something strongly opposed to my own values, yet I was intensely attracted to her. And that is precisely where we found common ground. My deviant attraction to her (how exactly does one sex-up a legless nymph?), and her dangerous elements, were very much like her attraction to a two-legged prince.

Stephanie Meyer's “Twilight Series” is by no means a unique tale, it is a reprisal and dangerous elaboration on “The Little Mermaid,” unflinchingly reinforcing prepubescent follies and delusions. I find no difference between the careless, disturbing, and shallow lust illuminated by “The Little Mermaid” and “Twilight” than the desire of a child caught in the allure of a brightly packaged piece of candy. I could put a bronx sized bow on a piece of shit and unfortunately someone would try to unwrap it. The most dangerous part of this dynamic though is that I was able to grow up and learn that broads like Ariel will never be happy, and their unhappiness is cuntageous. Stephanie Meyer though, through the course of her abhorrent trilogy, does not want you to grow up. Her attempts to write on the same plane as her supposed target audience (teenage girls) only magnifies a stunted development in adult clothes, much like Vern Troyer (mini-me) trying to drink alcohol with full sized humans.

I'm going to try and ignore the demented nature of an extended narrative disingenuously promoting abstinence while also being infatuated with blood. I'm going to try to ignore a narrative that obsesses over the hiding of unwanted blood, of keeping said blood clean, and that the appearance of blood suddenly makes the female protagonist vulnerable. This is because the correlation between this obsession and the pubescent fears of menstruation are too obvious and the message too disturbing. But honestly I can't ignore this, the message is quite clear: “Girls, as soon as you have your period, boys will begin to assault you. The only ones who are safe are the ones who aren't attracted to you.” Unfortunately logic then dictates that the only safe boys are either gay or are the ones who aren't nice to you. The fact of the matter is, you don't empower teenage girls, or help them develop into functioning adults by making them fear interactions across gender lines. I'm sorry I cannot ignore a narrative that condones suicide attempts as a means to gain attention, the idea that women exist in a perpetual state of needing to be saved by men, the helplessness of attraction to love interests who would be otherwise considered abusive/engaging in criminally obsessive manners, the promotion of the idea that a female only reaches their fullest potential when producing babies.

At some point I have to give respect for Stephanie Meyer for so fully capturing what she feels is the pubescent condition of females. But that point holds the same strength as the period at the end of a run-on sentence-- a forgotten mark, almost like an apology, placed far after the damage has already been done, but in the end just a reminder that someone fucked up. For Meyer the pubescent female condition is about rejection, not feeling good enough, being ignored, and then when finally given attention, realizing that the greatest show of affection is something that will destroy her. Essentially that you must destroy your ego and self respect in order to do something that you have always been told is wrong and immoral. If you were to write the male version of “Twilight” it would be about boners, having them explode randomly, and of the fear of putting them in anything with a pulse, even though you may have to pay for shit..

I guess my problem is that I believe people can be better than that.

I cannot blame the attraction to the “Twilight” series by teenage girls. It offers reassurances that their fears and preoccupations are normal for that period in life. That's the key though, it should just be a period in life. Puberty is a very difficult and rough time in life for both men and women because those fears and preoccupations characteristic of the stage hold no value in successfully relating to other people. Helplessness, selfishness, visceral dependencies on other people, these are things to grow out of in order to be happy adults; but, unfortunately they are celebrated within the “Twilight” series. The danger of Stephanie Meyer's narrative is that it crafts these elements nostalgically, it causes adults to yearn for those days and fails to show teens the dangers of behaving this way. The danger of nostalgia is that it idealizes the past and allows us to forget that in reality the way things used to be weren't really that great, that's why they aren't around anymore. If everyone decided to be helpless, selfish, and viscerally dependent on each other, we'd all be screwed. Nostalgia is hypnosis, and too many of my peers have been duped. Now I am not implying that everyone who has read this series has developmentally disabled themselves, but I do offer one simple question in assessing the effects of this narrative on you. Has your reading of “Twilight” played a role in helping you improve your relationships with real, healthy adults, or has it made you yearn for something that has never and will never exist.

A Memo Concerning: Cartwheels, Encinitas, and Swimming in Fountains.

2009-07-06T22:55:00.000-07:00

Time is far too precious to keep track of. That is what I say to myself when obsessively checking clocks in anticipation of some next great, grand and wonderful thing, all the while letting moments escape. I was once propositioned by a horrible person. When she became offended that I declined her advances I simply answered “I'm sorry, I'm more concerned with having good memories.” She didn't like that. I suppose I could have done some rather sinful things, and perhaps would have liked it within the moment, but the manner in which Time returns to us is far too precious my friends. The following memo isn't about wasting time/waiting or about declining to bang sub-par partners, it is about how the Wind Cries Mary, and the act of suckling the delicious teat that is one's own pulsing heart. And so we have A Memo Concerning: Cartwheels, Encinitas, and Swimming in Fountains.

When Encinitas, Califronia, my home town, opens itself, swollen and raw, pulling the sun down upon it, there are those who ignore its bold and explosive advances. Prudes. The day spreads itself before you, ripe, and you may yawn. As many of you know, my tolerances have been exhausted. Of late I have been targeting the Emo, those with a despondent disposition, self imposed derelicts, dickheads who have decided that life is what presses down upon our shoulders with each passing moment. I believe in moments, that our happiness hinges on our ability to make each moment more kick ass than the last, or next. I believe that happiness is a decision--that we can draw strength from even the most hideous of elements. I enjoy high-fives from strangers at the DMV when I give a rebel yell and first pump after my number is finally called. As a child, when at the Dentist, I used to imagine myself being transformed into a glorious half man/half robot/100 percent bad ass machine that could crush the shit out of kickballs when at bat and be able to do handstands on top of monkey bars. The pain of the Dentists knuckles slamming my jaws open further, tooth shrapnel spraying into my eyes, Michael Bolton pillaging my ears through the office speakers, all of these things were just a means to become a more efficient warrior. I'd get home, with sore jaws and swollen cheeks, and chase my dog feverishly around the yard until it felt like the Novocain had spread across my entire head. Me: invincible.

I'm impatient, when walking somewhere to experience something specific, more often than not I will run.

At age four I started WWIII via a series of deft and savage maneuvers. It was an act of bold strategery that history has not seen since Germany allowed Lenin to return to Russia. Unfortunately none of you will get to read about my fury in history books or watch over-powdered actors feign journalism and grotesquely comment that my war defined the Greatest of Generations (those born in the year of our lord 1983). The lone trigger of my War: being told that older people, most importantly my siblings, lived and shared memories from before my birth. At the moment of tragic realization (anagorisis, really) I screamed and ran from the room, returning only to wag my finger in vicious accusation and denial. My explosions were intense and even long after my family had talked me down into accepting that others lived well before my time, when trying to sleep, deep into my pillow, trying to think of nothing so that my brain could move into slumber, all I could focus on was the time, the life that I did not get to live before my own began. The pain kept me up all night.

I've made a concerted effort to not turn “Memarandus” into a platform on which to explain myself or my behavior. And that is probably why I have failed in that very regard. The fact of the matter is that there are many who don't understand why I will do a cartwheel in public or yell “LETS MAKE A SANDWICH” with both arms in the air when walking into a Subway, or dance with myself when waiting in an unforgiving line. I'm haunted by memories of opportunities that I have let pass. The chick in Intro to Shakespeare Freshman year of college. We used to secretively hold up sheets of paper with frown faces on them when pretentious students would talk for too long. Never asked her out, she totally wanted me. Not calling out a teacher at La Costa Canyon High School for blatantly lying to all of us about students that he had taught. But then again, lets be honest, I did whatever the hell I wanted at that school. Or maybe swimming in the fountain inside of Terrace Dining hall at Ithaca College, one of the few fountains within a five mile radius that I did not swim in. Entering my diorama of our Solar System in the 5^th and 6^th grade science fair even though I was only in third grade. My teacher wanted me to. I was scared. That diorama belonged in the freaking Smithsonian. These are just a few of the regrets that drive me forward though. They remind me that every opportunity is precious. That is why I find life to be delicious-- a supple element, meant to be experienced in glorious terms and as such I choose to give it the very things that I draw from it. Simple moments, waiting for love to be made with them, waiting in the “same way that the complex form of a plant is contained in the seed.” The tragedy of our lives are the moments un-lived.

There are those who don't allow themselves to be shaken. These are those who walk right by magnificence and blindly find concern with other, supposed practical or serious things. The unimpressed continue to move forward, unmoved by the majesty that surrounds them in the way a song strikes them at the perfect moment, or how the wind pushes a cluster of clouds over them, or someones words catch exactly what they are feeling. And they are fucking cowards. They lack the courage to allow elements to change them. I want everything I encounter to change me, and I only want to be surrounded by those who feel the same. Quality of life comes down to being bold and open to inspiration within any moment. I have listened to Beethoven's “Ode To Joy” while while watching the sun rise from a park resting against the ocean, the rolling waves behind me, deliriously tired, but so thankful for each breath as it falls into the next. I hold my experiences to be self evident, the only things we get to keep when tomorrow washes everything away. Will you come with me?

A Memo Concerning: The Assault on Youth, Lohan, and Parenting.

2009-05-21T08:12:00.000-07:00

Working for an organization with a fitness center exposes me to regular overdoses of the bizarre, the equivalent of a syringe of human eccentricities injected directly to the brain stem with the same frequency that most Americans sip their coffee. On a normal day this double shot of awesome manifests itself in the amoeba shaped ass of a middle aged woman trying to tame her undulating caboose within spandex. Just past her ass, and trying to ignore it, is the cut off/slash mid-drift baring tank top of a curiously tanned and ambiguously aged dude with frosted tips hairstyle sucking on his teeth like plaque was birthday cake frosting. He is distracted harmoniously by the retentive walk of an over-appareled and esteem-deprived individual who has chosen to be so romantically engaged with their fitness that they hold the demeanor of someone embalmed in vinegar and lowered expectations. I believe we live in symphonies, music of our masses that travel thousands of miles before they slam into each other within every individual moment of our lives. This particular one is played for me almost every day with simple variations. Why take note? The fact is that in three distinct and horrific episodes during the last month I have been infested with Miley Cyrus lyrics. Certain tolerances have been exhausted. And so we have A Memo Concerning: The Assault on Youth, Lohan, and Parenting.

About a week ago I was sauntering through my workplace when I found myself staring directly into a conflict that was beyond just the two of us. A young girl, maybe 12 years old was sprinting towards me with feckless and reckless abandon. Naïve as I am in the year 2009 I quickly looked to help her, shaken by the Jihad in her eyes. I was blind to her tennis shoes, shorts, t-shirt and sweatbands –yes, the usual signifiers of fitness-- and found myself focusing on an apparition of Miley Cyrus chasing her in heinous wrath. The Menace, Miley, tore behind this poor young lady beneath a cloud of glitter, pink accessories, shit cosmetics, air brushed pictorials, music studio produced low-grade narcotics breathing over-sexed lyrics in several media platforms. Yes, this viciously assaulted girl in front of me, before her teenage years, was working-out and on a “jog.” Behind her manic eyes I couldn't help but see her as a victim, disoriented by the silent assault that shapes her. I understood that all of this poor young girl's actions were a defense mechanism against ethics deprived adults with their hands lodged firmly up poor Ms Cyrus's asshole-- turning that child into puppet, then into predator. Pinocchio is staring at the newly transformed donkeys and in the year 2009 he is no longer frightened.

Time is a very violent thing. It will never pause for negotiation or allow its self to sympathize with the elements it unceremoniously leaves behind, heartless. As a people we don't allow ourselves to fully appreciate our lives. Botox and Ferrari's, hair coloring products. What began as a fear of dying has evolved into a fear of no longer being cool. When older our birthdays haunt us, as if the landslide of experience now chases, forcing us to run to places we do not want to go. We long for the past, not realizing that it is the very thing that shoves us away from it . Yet when young, we hunger to be older. The ridiculousness of this dynamic is magnified within Ms. Cyrus and “High School: The Musical,” when the old prey upon the young and escalate their desire to advance in years. This is the very reason why Pop Puppeteers and “High School: The Musical” are a terrible thing to do to kids.

“High School: The Musical”? Really? Listen folks, adults portraying teenagers in media targeted towards children...are you fucking kidding me? I'm sorry but the age dynamics are too bizarre. I think I'm going to do a Biopic film about Lindsay Lohan, starring Bea Arthur with post-mortum botox and propped in “Weekend at Bernie's” fashion as Ms. Lohan. Then I'm going to play the film only in theaters near Columbian cocaine operations where no one speaks English. I'm pretty sure everyone in that audience will start ripping the coke they produce and think that it's cool to wear Depends at night clubs in Los Angeles. Does Lauren Conrad have a nice ass? Naw, man, she's just wearing a DooDoo rag under those apple bottom jeans.

Did that last paragraph not make sense? Of course not, we are dealing with madness here. Listen, it is like this: Forces like “High School: the Musical” and Hannah Montana are the spearhead of the disillusioning assault on youth that began midway through the 20^th century and is gaining even more vicious momentum in the beginning of the 21^st. We have developed as a people who continually prey on youth through pedophilic economics. Marketing degenerates have given up on selling to adults. The only ones with an open, manipulatable ear are children. They are a hyper-active consuming base because we feed them what their parents cannot give. They fiend for certain levels of guidance and models and the only nipple, consumption, feeds them. Our markets exploit the void left by parents, then make those same parents pay for the deficiencies they have left. Why are deodorants now more marketed towards teens (not because they smell horrible) but because they feed to their most base desires (see my Memo on Tag/Axe Body Spray). Alcohol commercials test best with children. If I hear another child ask me what kind of cell phone I have, then list the one they want to have, I'm going to flip the fuck out. But here is the tragedy. The assault on youth has made even the most diligent parents helpless to the army of consumption built upon the backs of parents disinterested in the details of rearing humans. And that is why I write about it, because now it is hurting the ones doing a phenomenal job.

I have said it many times, but I'd like it on the Savagerious Permanent Record: Puberty is a terrible thing to do to kids. But even more vicious is the savage economic hand of adults attempting to rip youth into their adulthood. The fact that this is often built on the nostalgia of adults captured within their own past is the most creepy. I choose to live each moment of my life with the value that the past has built for it, and the radical times that the future patiently waits for. No more, No less, immediacy holds enough weight. Many of you think I'm strange or act weird because of it. My actions are unpredictable or jolting, rude, or without direction. Well it is a fact; I choose to get caught in the rapture of the moment, realizing that my direction is built one series of moments at a time. When we fuck with the dynamics of age and time we fuck with the quality of our lives. I'm going to make right now kick ass because my past drives me to it, and the future waits for it. Right now I'm doing a celebratory dance because I just finished another memo. Fist pumps, high kicks, booty shake or two.

A Memo Concerning: TJ Max, Naughty Dogs and Rod Freaking Stewart.

2009-03-28T06:33:00.001-07:00

I don't think anyone actually gets weened off of breast feeding, we just swap one nipple for another. Now this isn't going to be a long winded diatribe about why we suck. I stopped wasting my time wondering why we have to breathe a long time ago (although I am still disturbed by the autonomic nervous system). My preoccupation with understanding these so called needs (air, breast feeding, American Idol) really stems from my love of studying economics and the illusive pursuit of logic. It is a simple fact that across the world we are punching each other in the private parts trying to retroactively build roots for a tree whose branches were too pre-occupied with the sun. In other words: fabricating capital to pump into a system that grew under false pretenses. It is nothing new, in fact history, as my friend Charles Kindleberger illuminates, tells us that it happens often. Again, we trade nipples for other nipples. I truly believe that the global problems we face are no different than conflicts between children, only there are greater elements at stake and the resolutions are less civil because the players are sexually aware. But honestly, the subject at hand here is not the outer shell of human behavior, namely economics and global conflict, rather what I feel is the pseudo-whatthefuck.com of motivation and complacency. And so we have A Memo Concerning: TJ Max, Naughty Dogs and Rod Freaking Stewart.

One of my favorite things in this world is the look of a dog that has obviously “escaped” from their owner's backyard. Those jackasses who do the “Girls Gone Wild” videos-- you know the videos where blacked out hammered co-eds flash their tits because their fathers marginalized them as children and thus failed to instill a concept of self-worth-- really missed the boat. A “Bad Dogs Gone Wild” video series would be exponentially more entertaining/not depressing. Anyone who has seen a dog on the loose knows that Bad Dog usually keeps a low profile, their heads dipped close to the ground and decorated with a savage shit-eating grin that undeniably signifies that they know fully the naughtiness of their behavior. They usually trot with the awkward briskness of a competitive speed walker, realizing that this moment of bliss may end at any moment while also saving energy for the possible longevity of the excursion. The most gratifying element though is the manic, juvenile glint in their eyes, so innocent yet sociopathic, filled with the euphoria of delinquency. The other dog's in the neighborhood usually freak out completely when they see Bad Dog and begin screaming “Attica! Attica!” in Woof. This causes Bad Dog's smile to shift into the smile of the fat kid with chocolate all over his face sitting next to the kid who is gnawing his way through a piece of organic fruit leather. The other day I was walking to work to begin a day that I anticipated would be about as gratifying as dry humping a porcupine when I crossed paths with one of these glee filled canines. The poetry of the moment was undeniable. The rest of the day I whispered to myself “Just be a Bad Dog, you are a bad, bad dog.”

They say that only in America will large groups of people wait patiently for a traffic light to change when there is no cross traffic. Even though it makes my skin smell like hotdog water just thinking about it, I'm forced to recognize the ridiculousness of this behavior. There is something bizarre about a man dressed in business casual squeezing the shit out of his driving wheel with knuckles jittering in the manic pulse that obviously followed the consumption of a thirteen phrased Starbuck's beverage. How could an individual so in touch with their needs and particular over so many variables (double venti, jamaican, chai, cumshit, mocha, fetus, double pumped, latte, pulled out, single whipped, twice homogenized, thrice fellatiated) later surrender all control to a light on a small metal box? I'm forced to think that freedoms are only given in exchange for dignities. Fish in an aquarium may be able to convince themselves they are in the ocean by staring at the sea-floor rendition on the other side of glass. The chick wearing painful, but “stylish” footwear is having a goddamn party. The dude going to a tanning salon to look like an Oompa Loompa is having a goddamn party. The guy at work whispering to himself “You are a Bad Dog” is having a goddamn party. But the truth is some parties are more kickass than others. So if you catch me sitting before an empty intersection, singing my heart out to early Rod Stewart and ignoring the honking horns of cars behind me, then you will know why toddlers scream with glee when running through their house naked. Just chill you muppets, the song is almost over.

It is 9:52 AM and in 8 more minutes someone will briskly move behind finger print stained pane glass and unlock the door to TJ Max. There will be a click at the moment the deadbolt slides, but only one person will hear it. Just seconds ago I pulled my car into an anemic parking lot positioned deep within the walls of this strip mall, buildings extending like an exposed ribcage. It is a ghost town, tumble weed shopping cart stuck against a curb, For Lease signs on empty storefront windows. The ghosts are the middle aged women waiting within their cars, spread across the lot in a few stoic blemishes to emptiness. None of them park next to each other as if hoping to hide within an empty sheet of paper. They are junkies waiting to tie off another one in the wrist jerk reactions of credit card swipes. An empty home with children at school, a husband at the office, the television voices that have grown so common they are hard to distinguish from their own. From within my vehicle I look across them, spread like a constellation within polished SUVs and wearing meticulously painted make up. Two years ago they congregated at Nordstrom's and Banana Repbulic, now they cower as if stepping into an AA meeting for the first time. Either Alcoholics Anonymous or being leashed by bank statements into shopping at TJ Max. They are mothers, and they suckle, waiting for daddy to blow up another balloon. Attica! Attica!

A Memo Concerning: Excess, Stimulus Packages, and ejaculating into the future.

2009-02-01T03:03:00.000-08:00

Rolling tumblers and ticking clocks, as deep and real as waifing sheets of calendar paper, they thrust us forward like the uncontrollable Gatling gun of rabbits banging. Even Bob Barker, for all his tanning salon, intravenous viagra ingesting, creeping hand dangerously close to the ass of contestants-ing, holding his microphone as if it were as delicate as Michael Jackson's nose-ing, knows that some beasts won't allow themselves to be spade or neutered. In our bizarre reality it is as if suddenly the once fumbled drive of goals and dreams set in in the past are now recklessly thrown to the future, rejuvenated by the bizarre idea that after 365 slumbers we have reached a marker that can finally deliver everyone a swift kick to the ass. Yeah I love it; I fiend for the absurd. Lately you may have found me swimming with a nose plug and floaties on my arms, navigating through a sea of pomp and champagne glasses, resolutions that echo dreams forgotten, inaugural addresses, vehicle registration tags, Y2K-like scramble, Oprah's fluctuating waistline, Sasquatch's illusive penis. Yes the New Year is a goddamn circus kids, but lets just step back and grin at this elaborate production. And so we have A Memo Concerning: Excess, Stimulus Packages, and ejaculating into the future.
(Before you judge look up the word in the Dictionary.)

Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm putting together a search party for Sasquatch's penis. I am appointing Robin Williams as associate deputy chief vice supervisor of weiner larceny vice and schtein. Yes it is also a law office. It is my belief that Williams is best suited for this position because of his love of suspenders and his personal duty to our cause: finding a long lost “member” of his fury little family. He will be directly supervised by the band of gnomes living underneath Rod Blogojevich's come-over. My girl Lindsay Lohan will also be involved with the search as Special Counsel. In the air of transparency I will admit that her involvement is solely due to the fact that cameras have seemed to unwillingly find her pubis with bizarre frequency while Monseigneur De Sasquatch, a figure of grand infamy, has, after eighteen hundred years of activity, failed to surrender his beast-hood to the catacombs of print immortality. In the tighty whiteys of circumstance I suppose it is all fitting. If Sasquatch wishes to remain a deceptive creature in our lives then of course his most private element would be his privates. But what are we to make of an entity well documented without clothing of any kind, yet who has failed to reveal that crucial element that truly signifies nudity. In a matter, Sasquatch has given us a delicious cake, but has miserly withheld the sugar. Does this penis really exist? Is it as majestic as mathematic equations and simple ratios would persist? Will it set precedents and build complexes? Will it inspire many to purchase landbeast SUVs, Don Johnson sports cars, or Rolexes that could choke a bullfrog? And what does any of this have to do with the year 2009 and the current set of myopic crisis mongering?

As a finely crafted product of America I possess an inherent affinity towards excess and convenience. As a child I used to wear my pajamas underneath my clothes. There were two primary functions to this behavior. First, as a slender young fellow the additional layer of clothing made me look less an Ethiope and more a filled out, dope ass dude ready to try and kiss hotties underneath the big kid slide during recess. Second, when it was bed time all I needed to do was shed one layer of clothing and I was ready to dream about being an underwater cowboy herding a band of multi colored seahorses through an undulating anemone. It seemed so silly to have to completely change clothing twice in one day. Convenience demanded that I put on all of the day's clothing once and then simply shed layers. Things change though people. I haven't worn underwear in over ten years. I think there is a lesson to be learned here, and at the end of it we might find both Sasquatch's “penis” and Obama's “stimulus package.”

I believe in pruning, hunger, seasons and recessions. Deficits ignite some very powerful survival mechanisms. They force efficiency. When Rudy Giuliani tells us that billions of dollars worth of Wall Street bonuses are necessary to feed the same New York City economy that feels justified in charging nine dollars for a domestic beer I am forced to believe that the excesses we have grown accustomed to are about as necessary as the penis of an 8 foot tall hairy man beast. I'm sorry Monseigneur de Sasquatch, in the year 2009 certain cuts have had to be made. And suddenly it all makes sense.

I usually love watching people freak out, but when parents decide that death is a better option for their family than unemployment I have a hard time enjoying the myopia. During our nation's Great Depression the image of business men jumping to their deaths captured the times. The suicide of two unemployed parents and the homicide of their own children is the image that ejaculates us towards 2009. And that's when I gotta say “Ladies and Gentlemen, chill the fuck out.” Yeah it's gonna suck bros, the sun must set in order for it to rise. It's like going through adolescence again: you're gonna take some hits, there will be some awkward posturing, you might get a silly haircut and listen to some terrible music, but if you can get through it with some kind of semblance of identity and dignity you'll end up looking back on it all with appreciation that it happened, and that it's over.

It is true, the past 29 years our economy has been fueled by the excitement of a household with absentee parents. Well, somebody got knocked up in Mom and Dad's bed (even if it wasn't called sexual relations), some kids gave the neighbors all the laundry then bitched that they had nothing to do, the older kids spent all the home improvement money on an Atari system, the septic tank has overflown into the backyard but it was decided that it'd cost too much to fix it, when the septic ooze went into someone else's backyard the neighbors set a couple of trees on fire, someone used grandma's china as projectiles to fight off imaginary thieves, on the front porch some kids have been selling empty lemonade cups then flashing their quarters and nickles to other kids hoping that they will keep the lemonade stand going, the babies have been eating leftovers and as a result never had a proper bowel movement, the older kids have been feeding the middle children marshmallows and chocolate syrup to get them to stop asking for steaks, nobody knows who is supposed to mop the floor or vacuum, and at the end of the day the only response from anyone in the house is “Not my fault.” So they'll bitch about the parents coming home in 2009 and getting all bossy. Half of the kids will say the parents should go away again, they can handle it, having parents is bad for their development. The other half will be super stoked that there are rules again. Meanwhile I'll be scared shitless knowing the parents were once kids themselves.

History repeats itself. For some reason this is a mystery for people even when our clocks are circles and calendars return to the first month at the beginning of the “year.” Get on the ferris wheel kids. My Angel of History again and again reaches into the inferno of mankind and pulls out a delicate flame. It will run with the flame as far and as fast as it can, taking different routes each time, some will get them farther than others. But the burden of History is that the flame will always burn out, destroyed by its need to run. It knows that this will happen every time but it always moves with the hope that the next journey will be more special than the last.
Either way I'm going to start referring to my manhood as “the stimulus package.”

A Memo Concerning: Coors Light, Prop. 8, and progress.

2008-11-07T22:46:00.000-08:00

I remember my first erection about as vividly as I remember my first birthday party, and in many ways I can consider both as a glorious celebration. I was a toddler when I found myself fixated with a Madonna record cover. It was one of my sister’s albums and I was laying on my belly in front of the record player. Madonna’s music had reached into my ears like a blessed tongue as I stared at her god-given figure, finding myself lost in every bend, loving every moment of the experience. Whoa there, yeah, it was some horny ass shit. It wasn’t until ten years later that I understood what this feeling was and meant and then I did cartwheels within myself, looking at females like a college kid stares at a ten dollar 30 pack of Coors Light. It had come to me as natural as breath. A bizarre notion has become a part of the national dialogue of late and it’s forced me to answer two questions. At that moment, starring at Madonna, did I choose to be heterosexual? No. If asked today, could I decide to be gay? No. So we have A Memo Concerning: Coors Light, Prop. 8, and progress.
I must preface the following by saying that there are many who I love and respect who will actively disagree with what I’m about to write. And to those I say this: Listen, I’m not saying that you’re an asshole, all I am saying is that you are acting like one. Agression that is oblivious to the damage it causes is the most dangerous kind. Don’t worry, you’re not alone, on November 4th the State of California, the state that I love, that has historically been one of the most progressive states in the Union, broke my heart.
The facts are simple: 100 years ago over half of the states in the Union had legislation that did not recognize Miscegenation. These numbnuts who were Anti-Miscegenation referenced the Bible, the fragility of the family unit, the vulnerability of children, and anti-miscegenation as an important pillar to a healthy society. California was one of these states. Does this sound familiar to anyone? Fuck, maybe I’ve got Jungle Fever but I am so glad we got over the idea that Miscegenation, also known as interracial marriage, would destroy America. But where do we as a nation stand now?
Those who know me well understand I often hallucinate. It has nothing to do with drugs, or watching too many Terry Gilliam movies, or being so unfuckwittingly kick ass in the year 2008. It’s the not so kosher bi-product of dis-harmony between what I see with my eyes and what I can understand and process in my brain. So it is no surprise that for the months leading up to the Tragic Events of November 4th I’ve been assaulted with visions of faggot pirates breaking through the doors of Norman Rockwell paintings, annulling heterosexual marriages, engaging in anal sex on the kitchen table in front of children, telling hundreds of thousands of people not to breed, and then turning around and saying its okay for people to have sex with animals. These are the images that have assaulted me through the campaign signs, radio and television ads funded by people who years from now are going to be unbelievably embarrassed, much like grandpas that don’t like talking about being in the KKK. For that alone I must say “Fuck you Prop. 8 and all your fascist, anti-American, bigot supporters.”
On November 4th our soon to be 44th president stood at a podium and spoke about how our Nation’s greatest strength is its ability to change. Guess what you assholes, Prop. 22 received 61% of the vote in 2000. 8 years later homophobic legislation received only 52% of the vote. Over 70% of voters between the ages of 18 and 29 voted against Prop. 8. Gay marriage is going to happen because the best part of our nation is that the voice of the minority cannot be silenced forever. No amount of legislation will make homosexuals disappear. No amount of legislation is going to enable you to shirk off your parental responsibilities on to the state. No amount of legislation can destroy families. No amount of legislation can prevent the inevitable. When as a nation we look back on ourselves where do you want to say you stood? In 1948 the California State Supreme Court ruled that Anti-Miscegenation was unconstitutional. When gay marriage is legalized do you want to be one of those who felt that an “activist” judge ruled against the will of the people just like they did in ’48. As for me? I know exactly where I can say I stood.
On October 25th 2008, I signed my name as a witness to the marriage of my father Mario Aranda to my step-father Greg Hinson. It was so gay. On that day I signed that marriage license for my family, both for the living and for my own un-born children. I wanted them to know where I stood. I wanted my state to know where I stood. I wanted to create a legacy that will reach forward in time, something that my children can stand on and then be able to experience the sanctity of change, just as we saw in the election of a black President. Outside of all political posturing, religious and scientific debate, outside of all the money and thumping of chests, was one simple fact that made it necessary for me to sign that marriage license. That fact is this: the understanding and embracement of homosexuality as a legitimate human attribute did not destroy my family, it saved it. The passing of Proposition 8 was an assault on my family. It took something away from me-- a straight man who loves his family and his country. And to that I say fuck you kindly Prop. 8.
Bible thumpers this aint over yet. Progress will be made. You fucked with the wrong dude. It’s inevitable because I'm making it so. I will accept apologies at that time.

A Memo Concerning: Penguins, Anthony Keidis, and war heroes.

2008-09-17T09:07:00.000-07:00

Last week I woke up on my kitchen counter. Considering it is a small surface area this was nothing short of a miracle. The fact that I was not on the counter was even more stunning. At the time though, I was just glad that I had exited a dream. I had gone to sleep that night with one simple question resonating in my head: Do I really want to put my fate in the hands of a child surrounded by wise men, or in the hands of an adult surrounded by dumbasses? I passed out hard that night, and so we have: A Memo Concerning: Penguins, Anthony Keidis, and war heroes.

I came to at what can only be described as the opening of a network newscast: a flury of bright shapes, key terms flashing, lines extending in opposite directions and stale, self important music. Once the myopia ended I realized that I had ridden Kate Moss’ tapeworm out to Vegas, listening to Mercedes Sosa and Anthony Keidis sing duets on my WalkMan the entire way there. I believe it was somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert when we slithered past a heard of fluttering female bats and I put out my cigarillo on one set of flying pudenda. I caught some heat for that but my comrade Edward Signaigo, now revealing himself on Ashley Olsen’s tapeworm, reminded me that we had business in the City of Sin. Apparently our beloved haven of debauchery and libations had been invaded by a swarm of Alaskans, and if it is one thing we know about Alaskans it is that they belong in Alaska. There is a reason they live all the way the fuck up there folks and it is because we have a mutual agreement that they belong on the fringes of society. We need a place for the freaks to go, so that freaks can be freaks rather than risking that they may attempt to make the rest of us a nation of freaks. But when the freaks come down the mountain and into places I love, well that’s when dudes gotta ride out the bounty on tapeworms, throwing peyote buttons at evangelicals and singing Manu Chao to Neo-Minutemen. We were doing god’s work I’d say.

The next thing I knew I was in a crowded auditorium staring at a stage anxiously covered by paisley curtains. A midget dressed as Oprah (how one dresses like Oprah is beyond me, but the impression the dream left was that she was dressed as the John Rockefeller of female consumer masses) was walking up and down the aisle selling vampire novels written by a Mormon. My dropped jaw quickly snatched up tight again to see a childhood acquaintance descending from a series of wires down on to the stage as the curtains quickly opened. She was a magician proficient in such pagan skills as psycho-analysis and curing the mentally handicap via embryonic stem cell Satan worshiping. The stage soon revealed a crescendo of ivory stairs. On each step, packed tightly like patriotic cumshits in SUVs dropping F-bombs in stop and go traffic, there stood a quorum of penguins ready to perform with my dancing friend. They began to dance synchronized and it was of course the most kick ass thing that has ever happened on stage. As for my fire-breathing, national debt disappearing friend? She preformed miracles. What miracles? I don’t know. She valued education, and this of course was most peculiar during a dream such as this. The only vivid thing I remember is when she made us disappear.

This is usually when the cowards say, “Pinch me when it’s over.”

I came to again at Circus, Circus. Once again a member of a restless crowd anxiously holding sheets of paper with nothing on them, crinkling them tightly as if to pour the last drips of something out of an abused and dried up teet. We watched a grizzly bear getting its ass kicked by a series of foam letters straight out of a Sesame Street episode. I looked to the right and saw two infants shitting their pants in the seat next to me. They looked like Benjamin Button, aging strangely and smoking fat cigars. From the end of the stogies I could see the feet of their children—or maybe just the idea of them—wiggling helplessly in the air. They blow fat plumes of smoke at me, the wee feet at the end of their stogies swinging more frantically. And then they spoke to each other, waving their infant hands in grand platitudes.

“Mortimor, I still got my money on the Bear. It’s still doin alright. That beast is a quarter horse, lets wait this shit out.”

“Agreed Randolph, I hear Jesus the Christ still is backing the bear. Did you hear that some people still question Jesus the Christ?”

“Oh the horror! The man gave his life for us! Imagine the sacrifice! He is a true hero to all mankind. How can you doubt him? If anything we owe him this debt!”

And with those fatal words the letter Q delivered the death blow to the poor bear. There was outrage in the crowd, the masses reaching up and over banisters trying to seek revenge on the foam letters. But the letters soon dissipated into a gaseous ghost, rising up and over the crowd and raising one finger to their lips, whispering: Martyrs have no say whether or not marbles fall from the counter.

I soon blacked out again consumed in the smoke of their burning progeny. The smoke disappeared and I found myself as an infant looking up at the kitchen counter. There is the crack and pop of hot oil from the frying pan, and I see it falling to me. I try to move but I can’t. I pray that this is just a shitty dream that I will wake up from with a raging boner and dry throat. But I look down and my knees and hands have turned into roots, plunging deep into the kitchen. I follow the roots and see wise men holding on to them, they are forgotten and chained, just as I am chained to them. The oil will soon fall and burn me and Julia Child is fucking pissed.

I woke up that morning and stumbled out of my residence, thankful that it was all just a dream. But on the front porch was…goddamnit…yet another love note from Kate Moss’ tapeworm asking, ugh!, when I want to ride again…

A Memo Concerning: Why it is hard to be True in the year 2008.

2008-08-10T23:25:00.000-07:00

Perhaps I am the sound that you hear in your head right after you do something you know is wrong. And if I was, I don’t think I would say something as foolish as “Stop.” We stumble, roll, then fall and when we get back up again nothing can ever be the same. I fuck up more often than fuck could ever be up. It’s called gravity bitches and there is nothing worse than giving a warning after the danger has already arrived. That is why we have A Memo Concerning: Why it is hard to be true in the year 2008.

I’m not being an asshole when I say that my generation will go down in history as the best thing that has ever happened to this world. I’m talking about my beautiful babies born seven years before and after the year 1983. Why seven years? Because it is the perfect number you Godless aliens. Maybe I’m being naïve, maybe it’s just a hangover from watching the opening ceremonies of the Beijing Olympics, but I still believe the difficulties my babies and I face are more badass than those of “The Greatest Generation.” Maybe it is because Tom Brokaw still eats his own boogers when he’s positive that nobody is looking. Maybe it is because hindsight is for television and foresight is for print. Maybe it is because I see pictures of my grandparents and the sense of pride in their smiles that rests in the idea that no matter what their challenges were they were leaving their children with something grand and beautiful. I don’t know, maybe it’s all of these things. Maybe it’s because when I look at people my parent’s age, the booming ass babies, the ones who handed me a world, they look back at me like a jackass who tries to pass a bounced check.

Please allow me to introduce myself, I have taste and crave wealth. I have a sense of entitlement based on years of US History taught to me by underpaid teachers one parent conference away from a mid-life crisis/high stage flip out/buying a Miata. I don’t know a President not named Bush or Clinton. Reagan is a re-election commercial for me. I understand that under the scope of history my family, and by family I mean country, has less than 100 years of kickassitude. We were born by the acts of bold men and women who loved wealth enough to shitstomp the world’s most powerful nation with slingshots and pea shooters. I understand that our only success is because nobody with real balls has tried to legitimately fuck with us. Japan thought they were ruled by the sun, radical Islam lives in caves, everyone else loves Coca-Cola and Tobacco. I can see the view from Ellis Island to Manhattan every time I see a girl I’m attracted to. It’s called opportunity, either that or clear skin and eyes that could light up the bottom of the sea.

It’s really simple my beautiful babies, if you aren’t stoked about America, what it means, what it could do, and where we can take it, FUCK YOU, you don’t deserve the birth certificate that makes you a citizen. Several million illegal immigrants think you are a brat. We are all the descendents of amazing people who dreamed big, acted bold, and dared to be progressive. Act on your birthright bros. How is it that we are brought to our knees by one region of the world that 75 years ago commuted by camel & horse and another that got it’s shit dominated by a country smaller than the state of California? (Sidenote: is there a bigger two pump chump than Japan? How embarrassing…) And here we are now as one region buys our debt and builds shitty, unbelievably ugly resorts and skyscrapers in what used to be, and should be, the anus of the world. The other? They make pacifiers made out of lead and throw elaborate opening ceremonies for the Olympics that cost enough to feed the entire continent of Africa for 100 years.

**For those of you not on the level, I’m talking about the Middle East and China. Don’t worry, it’s cool, I understand ignorance is a disability**

Am I mad? Of course. This is not what my Dad thought he would give me when he decided he should raise his family in America as opposed to Mexico, then worked his ass into a state of legitimate mental collapse in order to make it happen. This is not what the McNicoll family thought they would give me when they left the bullshit in Scottland for the idea of America. This isn’t why my great grandmother walked across the United States of America, feet bleeding, stomach empty, hoping to make the most of the dream of the West. This is not why George Rosado sacrificed his life while instructing pilots during the Second World War. There has been too much sacrificed before us to allow for our dominance to expire because of gasoline and neo-communism (AKA the re-emergence of monarchy).
I’m sorry, I’m still really distraught that Anheuser-Busch is owned by an Old-World company. By “sorry” I mean I’m not at all. I’m more stoked to be in a position to be able to say “Hello world, much like Wu-Tang, the USA aint nothing to fuck with. We are gonna Michael Phelps that ass."

My beautiful babies, I'm 25 years old and not even close to having kids, but these days I’m already worried about them. What country do I want to give them? What challenges do I want them to have? What will they need? Every day I see children who are born in a post-9/11 world. Their entire lives have been housing crisis, janky gas prices, the seed of Billy Ray Cyrus, and war. They might as well have hoped to be the sperm that missed the ovary rather than have to wake up into a life like that. But here we are. Can I give them the pride I have, or will we crumble under this shitty challenge that my generation now inherits? If we want change we do not do it for ourselves, we do it for our children. If we want change we can either make it happen or fumble the dreams that our ancestors cried for. When we look at the young there is a heavy weight my friends. They can either love us for our actions, or curse our names for leaving them with our mess.

Lets do this.

A Memo Concerning: Tigers, Vietcong, Jesus, and LEGOs.

2008-07-09T22:34:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wake up and wish there was a note at the end of my nose telling me not to be an asshole. The note is written in crayon, at least it is in crayon until the end of the note when I realize that it is written in lipstick, the same lipstick that someone once used to write a similar message on the windshield of my car. That note was slightly different though in that it asked the question, in bold capital letters, “WHY ARE YOU SUCH AN ASSHOLE?” I blame the fact that I’m writing about this on a particularly strange note I saw on the dashboard of some broad’s car that pulled up next to me at an intersection today. In Sharpie it was written: 65 MPH. And ladies and gentlemen this is why we have a Memo Concerning: Tigers, Vietcong, Jesus, and LEGOs.

A condescending smile usually explodes across my face every time someone tries to claim that we live in a strange world. The only strangeness in this world comes from how we have trained our minds to believe that the world can and should function in ways determined by our own expectations and desires. I say this while sitting in front of a large picture window, captured in this neighborhood’s reaction to midday, gorgeous sunlight, all while alternating between my testicles freezing to the insides of my thighs and slamming ice cold glasses of water one moment, then wiping the sweat from my brow and wishing that I was completely naked the next. It has become wildly apparent that this air conditioning unit was installed by Communist gnomes who never got to lick the butter from the inside of microwave popcorn bags and therefore are attempting to torture me. It is a highly elaborate torture chamber. An air conditioning unit behaving like the demented dreams of the Vietcong as it alternates between blasting ice cold air and neglecting needs as rank sweat puddles in the bottom of my shoes.

This is why I am so confused by this broad and her reminder to keep the speed limit. I am haunted by my mental picture of her nervously accelerating on to the on ramp, trying to ignore the Parliament Lights winking at her from the center console, relaxing then flexing her hands around the steering wheel, chest shaking as the car accelerates which in turn begins to gyrate her salon-cut hair that perfectly mimics the magazine clipping she handed to her hair stylist, so much so that her haircut looks more like a clipping. As she merges into Lane 1 her speed hits 68 MPH and she looks to the dash and is immediately frightened and in turn slams on the brakes. 95% of all US Americans are behind her in that they now curse this ignorant broad’s ass face, brake sharply, then on first opportunity pull around her just as rapidly as every other car on the freeway soon will.

For a majority of my late teens and early “adult” life I have had multiple people attempt to illuminate events in our world as “signs of the times,” as warning signs of either the return of Jesus The Christ or the end of Mankind. Some have even ventured to say that the two are linked to each other. I venture to think of these douche-cocks as people who only used their LEGOs to build things into the jank instructions that they came with. As for my relationship with Jesus, in short it is none of your fucking business. But to quench your curiosities my relationship with Jesus is as healthy as it was the day I was born. That said, I would like to say this: I am completely positive, being that he is and always has been a good friend of mine, that Jesus is pretty fired up that billions of people allow themselves to live miserable, helpless and deprived lives, then force other unsuspecting individuals to live the same miserable lives, all because of the bogus notion that He will return to fix some giant elaborate mess that we have all created. Where did this thought come from? Don’t worry; he’ll fix it all for us. Real mature folks…real mature.

There is no doubt that humans are getting shit upon from famines in Timor, to a Golden State on fire, our midsection holding tornadoes then savage floods (what did Noah say when the levee broke?), clean water in scarce supply in South America, to empty grain barrels in Africa. Are we helpless then? Some sadists even believe its ok, because this has always happened, only now we have the media to recognize it—as if that somehow makes the death of infants and the loss of fortunes an alright thing.

At age 25 I’m just starting to understand my self; which is weird because I’ve been playing with myself for over ten years now. It has taken this amount of treating to realize that the tragedy of our situation lies in the struggle between seeing our world as something beyond our control, or as something we are meant to control. This is even more tragic when we have cumshits counting down days for Jesus while voting oil barons for President like dick-flagella surrendering to the course of nature/God and in effect giving mankind a bottle of vodka and some sleeping pills as a solution. It is either this or we raise de-clawed Tigers and deny that they have teeth, in other words spending millions so that we can grow green grass in the desert.

Speed limits. Air Conditioning. We have created an elaborate set of parameters and boundaries. Rules and regulations. Modifiers and governors. Fences beyond and before our desires and will. But in the face of our environment they act more like sand castles, built boldly and with intricate design, ignorantly rising up from the beach as if attempting to stare down the rising surf.

Perhaps I am wrong in all this and I will be the first in line at the gates to hell. Or perhaps I will die and that will be the end Joseph Nicholas Aranda, soon to be forgotten and never to live again. I have my own thoughts and designs on the matter, but all that truly matters is that I wont ever let the fear of either a world waiting for its saddle or a life uncontrollable change how savagely and beautifully I will approach such an incredible day as tomorrow will surely be.

A Memo Concerning: Ripe Avocados, George Harrison and Jihad.

2008-05-04T00:55:00.000-07:00

Tonight I was dancing by myself in a supermarket checkout line when I couldn’t help but become fascinated by the gentlemen in front of me. He was mysteriously tan, rocking a fancy collared shirt with half the buttons un-buttoned so as to unveil his nipple to nipple shag carpet, sandaled and holding a wad of cash that would have humbled Michael Corleone. Obviously I had to know what this walking cliché was purchasing so I looked up at the check out monitor see three items. 1. A box of Trojans 2. Female contraceptive inserts and 3. What I had already noticed, a massive floral arrangement. Hmm, what was on the itinerary for this fellow? And so we have A Memo Concerning: Ripe Avocados, George Harrison and Jihad.

About a month ago I found myself showering with George Harrison. It was one of the most kick ass bathing experiences of my life and although George passed away years ago, I know he was feeling it to. The simple facts of the matter are that as I was digging shampoo into my pelt I found myself consumed in a beautiful duet of “As My Guitar Gently Weeps” with Mr. Harrison. My apologies to George though because in the bathroom my voice carried much stronger than his. During the course of our rendition I found myself captivated by one particular lyric that sings “I look from the wings at the play you are staging.” I am extremely fond of the wings and sometimes I wonder if the most entertaining things in life occur there. I guess that is why later in the day I was curious if my co-workers could tell, judging by my appearance, that I had bathed with a deceased member of the Beatles that morning.

Now if we consider my supermarket experience I believe that a majority of US Americans would conclude, after judging the gentlemen’s appearance in relation to his purchased items, that this man was looking to engage in coitus at some point in the next 24 hours. And so I wonder if the same holds true if I was found purchasing all three items at once. The answer, not surprising to many of you, is no. If I was purchasing all three items at once there would be only one conclusion—I was attempting to stop the spread of FSTD’s. (Floral Sexually Transmitted Diseases for you poor ignorant fools.) Let us consider this epidemic for a moment. These colorful beings have been breeding irresponsibly for millions of years virtually unchecked. If Margret Sanger, Karl Rove, and Magic Johnson aren’t going to take a stand I feel it my patriotic duty. And don’t think I’m not holding the bees responsible for their role in this terrible and reckless cycle as well. My anti-virus jihad will strike them with equal doses of vicious retribution.

So what items would I purchase if I was looking to fully engage myself into a female? Well some of you chosen ones already know the answer, but for the rest, the list is as follows: one warm, ripe avocado, two gallons of peanut oil, the latest issue of The Economist, three squirrel pelts, one 24 once container of homeopathic Vaseline, a blow torch, the HD DVD of Disney’s Fantasia, and one purple glue stick. If I had a well-balanced breakfast that morning I’d also throw in a bow staff and at least one VHS tape issued by fitness legend John Basedow. But that’s just how I roll.

Reading back through this Memo I realize that things got a little bit weird. Weird as in probably not appropriate for the play that you are all staging. I’m okay with that, I’ll happily stay in the wings ladies and gentlemen. Recently I told a dear friend that the things I love most are those which develop the most passionate opinions—those things or people that you either absolutely love or absolutely hate. Indifference is what I have a problem with. Show them your wings and they may hate you, that’s the fear isn’t it? That is what this play you are all staging is about right? Well just know that I respect the things I hate a whole lot more than the things I don’t have an opinion about. So I look at you all and see the weird there that is sleeping, all while the rest of the world gently weeps for it.

A Memo Concerning: Animal Love, V Day, Face Lifts, and Douching.

2008-02-16T14:32:00.000-08:00

On any given night I just might bite a pillow. It is a sad fact that I still have nightmares about particularly cruel games of Musical Chairs. I bite hardest when the music has stopped and the whole world freezes, the faces of my peers caught in all stages of fear and apprehension. Eyes shift to the insufficient collection of chairs, the outstretched hands hoping to seize one of them. We are blind to what we are about to do to each other, too caught in the fear of being the last douche bag standing. Alone, without a chair. On Sunday night, moving well into Monday morning, during a rather emotional exchange I was accused of being "an emotional coward" (an “emotional coward” during an emotional conversation, paradox anyone?) and too "scared to listen to (my) feelings." And so we have A Memo Concerning: Animal Love, V Day, Face Lifts, and Douching.

It all begins during News Years Eve, usually after that third bottle of champagne when your totally rocking outfit has already begun to disintegrate into a disheveled walk of shame-esque jumpsuit. By this point Prince's "1999" has been played twice and you have begun experimenting with brand new, never before attempted dance moves that will surely leave muscles you never knew you even had a little sore the next morning. It becomes magnified as individuals begin to pair off randomly much like red rocketed dogs start humping at the park. What is this "it" I speak of? "It" is the realization that in fifteen minutes they will wheel out Dick Clark in typical "Weekend at Bernies" fashion and the clock will strike 12. This means that you have fourteen and a half minutes to catch the eye of a stranger, usually someone three notches lower on your standards scale, and box tonsils or else risk being that awkward douche bag who is just screaming while everyone else is sharing germs. The worst part of "it" though isn't those fourteen minutes, rather that after those minutes pass they are stretched out over an entire month before Valentines Day. The music plays and the music plays and we round the chairs and the behavior of full grown adults gets more and more bizarre, and then I get phone calls in the middle of the night.

For many years, and sometimes even now, I would spoon my dog at night, so dedicated to the animal that I would spray my bed with flea repellant. I come from a large family of dog lovers so this was not considered strange. There is an exception in one of my most passionate and loving brothers. I think it began several years ago when a puppy under his care died after it exercised some less than stellar judgment. From that moment forward I wonder if he has felt that dogs are not trustworthy enough to risk giving his affection to. Maybe he is cautious with his heart and afraid of going through the pain a dumbass animal could bring to him. Even as someone who dedicates a daily portion of his day to rampant adoration of My Crown Prince Champion of the World (my mother’s standard poodle) I understand where my brother is coming from. I will never forget the look on Siegfriend and Roy’s faces during their first public interviews after the tiger attack. Not because of their botox paralysis and intense nips and tucks that made it look like I was watching clay-mation, but rather how torn (pun intended?) they were over the fact that something they had spent their lives advocating and loving had suddenly turned on them. They were heartbroken. But what did they expect with a tiger right? What fucking douche bags.

For me, the most tragic part of heartbreak is not what we do to each other, but rather what we do to ourselves. We are probably the least qualified stewards of our own hearts. We betray ourselves-- refusing to see the ones we think we love for who they really are. Or, even worse, we try and convince ourselves that the person we love is someone that we really want, ignoring our own needs. Then we are somehow surprised when tigers bite. The fear of “it” drives us to this, drives us to kick our own asses, and then we get angry at ourselves for letting “it” all happen again. Jimi Hendrix sang that there was nothing more “Bold As Love.” These days I feel that there is nothing more courageous than saying no to feelings you know will hurt you. There is great courage in saying goodbye to someone, into moving on. Realizing that what may be best is being without someone is very bold. The fear of “it” is cowardly. Perhaps in some ways this makes me a coward; maybe I am afraid of my own feelings. I might just be the douchiest of bags.

In a couple of minutes the sun is going to come up. Blades of grass will turn to it, petals will open, and everything may change. I’m sorry if this isn’t the most entertaining memo you have read. I’m sleep deprived. Maybe today I will realize that everything I just wrote is complete bullshit. But I know one thing ladies and gentlemen, there are no chairs set out before us, the music will not stop playing, it keeps on going. There is nothing as bold as love, and there is nothing more bold as saying this is someone I cannot let myself love.

A Memo Concerning: Falling in Public and Assholery.

2008-02-16T14:30:00.000-08:00

Several years ago a friend brought to my attention a timeless, character defining dilemma. He had been walking to class through a nipple cracking frigid day at Ithaca College when the unsuspecting young lady in front of him dramatically slipped on a patch of ice and fell on her face. My friend suddenly found himself captured in a whirlwind of emotion and looked to those around him for some kind of direction. His eyes caught the stranger next to him and it quickly became evident that he too was caught in the same quandary. This friend later came to ask me, and I now attempt to answer for you all, in this situation who is the bigger asshole? The guy who laughs when someone falls in public, or the one who doesn’t? So we have...

A Memo Concerning: Falling in Public and Assholery.

This past Thanksgiving I was waiting in an airport terminal burping up the 9 dollar Cadillac Margarita I had slammed at the bar minutes before, letting my eyes scan across the scene for weirdos and boobjobs (same thing?), keeping close guard of my luggage from suspicious brown people attempting to brush anthrax on my backpack, when a flustered lady in testicle smasher heels came sprinting through the masses. Behind her whirred the wheels of her luggage, the same roller luggage used by flight attendants, self-important businessmen, and the pagan splinter cell of the Knights Templar. The furious clatter of her sprint immediately caught the eyes of the rest of us patiently waiting for our cattle call for the simple fact that no boarding calls had recently been made, much less any last minute warnings. What was her hurry? Then, as if the mighty hand of Karma came sweeping across us mere mortals, this broad tripped her self on her luggage and was sent spilling through the air, hair waving like the star-spangled banner before fantastically falling on her out stretched wrists and then face. I completely lost it. From the dirty looks coming from the sea of strangers around me I suddenly realized nobody appreciated this moment as much as I did. It was either that or the issue of blood coming down her chin that allowed everyone else to keep their composure.

Maybe I can blame my reaction on the dashing way I had earlier asked my waitress to make my margarita extra special.
“You want another one honey?”
“No m’am, I probably shouldn’t. I have another one of these I might start flirting with you a whole lot more.”
“Oh baby, that’s not the cocktail that’s doin that to yah.”
She looked like a combination of Lindsay Lohan after about ten more years of coke benders and Mr. Burns embalmed in vinegar. Her hair could have housed three generations of chinchilla breeding.

Someone helping the fallen terminal angel back up on her feet shot a nasty look at my still silently chuckling grin and I wished that I could explain to them what the pickled Burns had done to me earlier. But I doubt they would have wanted to hear that. Asshole.

Everyday I am amazed at the human ability to not seize the opportunity to laugh. To me there is no bigger asshole than someone oblivious to life’s comedy. A few weeks ago I told a dear friend that seeing her slip while crossing a tile lobby would make my day. She immediately grew offended. For about point niner of one second I tried to explain myself but quickly realized that simply shrugging my shoulders and pleading “C’mon!” would be a better response. That’s the only way I know how to respond to Assholery (DISCLAIMER: I’m not saying that this friend is an asshole, just that at this brief moment in time she experimented with Assholery).

Even now there is a photo still permanently ingrained in my mind. The airport terminal sprinter is suspended in mid air. Hair spreads across the air above her in elegant fashion, as if blown by some distant mystical wind. Across her face is an eruption of surprise, fear, vulnerability and anger, all topped off with a hint of self-disappointment. Both hands extend in front of her desperately in Joe DiMaggio-sliding-into-home-plate fashion. Her luggage is stuck in motion moving away from the back of one of her legs. Behind her someone sits in a chair with eyes wide open and mouth in a perfect O shape. Next to this person is someone immediately concerned, already on their way to help the falling angel and maybe they predicted the fall—like a parent reaches for a cup before their child knocks it off the table. In the foreground to the left of the angel someone else has half turned around with curious eyes waiting to look back and see what that sound was. They are mid stride in the same direction. There they all are, stuck forever in this frozen composition.

Behind the edges of this photo there am I, enjoying the symphony of it all, eyes a-glaze, awe-struck like an 8 year old at their first IMAX movie experience.

A Memo Concerning: Vengeful Jews, Carl Winslow, and the Ford Focus.

2008-02-16T14:26:00.000-08:00

At work several days ago I watched a kid casually, but with vicious intention, spit from an elevated position down on to some younger, unsuspecting children. In those precious moments right before I fall asleep, in times when I make an effort to think about nothing, I can still perfectly see his snot mixed saliva floating through the air, and although I’m not proud of it the image still causes me to laugh uncontrollably. And so we have A Memo Concerning: Vengeful Jews, Carl Winslow, and the Ford Focus.

When I was little my brother and I used to play a game that always ended up with me either getting my ass kicked or swinging a haymaker at his balls. Ok, maybe both happened every time. The game began with us standing directly across from each other. The objective? To see how close we could get to spitting on each other without actually doing it. The bigger the lougee the more points you got. It was basically the Israeli-Palestinian conflict minus the BBC and Stephen Spielberg. But we never kept score. He and I both preferred face-blasting spit on to each other rather than something as abstract as a “score.” I mean who counts anything when they are wiping brain dooky off of their face cheek. Much like the Israeli-Palestinian conflict I'm forced to ask what kind of jackasses would create an environment where ass kicking would inevitably happen? I suppose I could blame my parents, but I blame them for everything from my girlish figure to my penchant for pissing off people who love me. But why would I play you ask? I remember my brother easily talking me into playing the game once he noticed I was sick of turning tree branches into swords and beating the shit out of my mom’s tomato plants. Minutes later I’d miss the ooze of tomato juice as he’d smile and tell me he was going to spit first. I can still perfectly see his snot mixed saliva floating through the air and onto some younger, unsuspecting…me.

I have issues, I perfectly understand that. Most people I encounter pick up on this rather quickly. So it should be no surprise that the other day I was driving through a rare and precious Southern California drizzle and began hallucinating with several bumper stickers in front of me. A stick figure family began dancing like a band of gypsies about the back window of an Explorer while a Christian fish started swimming back and forth across a bumper nashing its suddenly appearing teeth. Letters began to dance about in Sesame Street “Today’s show is brought to you by the letter…” fashion. This obviously led to the wheels of a purple Ford Focus turning horizontal like some sort of hovercraft and then flying up and over the flatbed truck in front of it at cosmic speeds—
Ok, I understand this is pretty weird. But you know what’s weird?

Siblings. Siblings are a weird fucking thing. While I know my brother loves me, I have to always wonder if there was one event in our lives that triggered the conflicts and bullshit, contentious games that would inevitably start between us. There has to be one long lost incident that started it all. Right? Everything has a route cause. Like the first event that made the Hindu and Muslim salty on each other. For them I’d like to think it was about hairstyles, fat bellies, face paint and the naked boobie. And what made the Catholic get Inquisitive on the Jew? Maybe someone realized that bitter herb is bitter because nobody likes it so don't ask people to eat it, and conversely that walking on water isn’t as easy as it looks—I mean that hippie could have at least warned us and told us to rock our swimsuit in case we fucked up in the process.

This is the part where I write some naive, idealistic, and softbatch diatribe about how my brother and I found a way to get along so why can’t everybody else in the world. But the truth is I shit purple more often than I talk to my brother and in the rare occasion that we spend more than three days together we both get close to stabbing each other to death with spoons and toothpicks. But I think about Karl Winslow. I think about his patience for Steve Urkell and know that it stems from the fact that they share so many memories with each other. It all becomes very simple at that point. At the end of the day I may swing a haymaker at my brother’s balls but I’m scared shitless of the day when there is no ball-sack to box. The Ford Focus has landed. The Ford Focus has landed.

A Memo Concerning: Nancy Drew, Weiners, and SuperSoakers.

2008-02-16T14:21:00.000-08:00

So today I was once again possessed by the keen desire to storm into a Wells Fargo Bank wielding Super Soaker 3000’s with aims to assault every banker with geysers of my aqua-fury. Now while this desire is usually a result of catching ACDC over the FM radio at just the right attitude, today it wasn’t and so it is noteworthy. I suppose the root of this desire extends back to habits from my youth-- the penchant for walking into banks with my mother, squirt gun tucked into my elastic waistband jeans, feeling like I was about to take all the money up in that bitch even with the leaky squirt gun making it look like I had just pissed myself.

I used to be deathly afraid of the dark, a firm believer in ghosts, monsters and ne’er-do-wellers. This is why I have to question where my childhood courage came from, the shameless and bold behavior. Where did I find the strength to cut my bangs the night before school pictures? How did I smile with the bizarre combination of oversized adult teeth and soon-to-be-loose baby teeth stacked in my mouth like a drunken game of Boggle? Why did I feel no shame when sliding my foot along Jessica Chesborough’s ankle during SSR no matter how many times she moved it away from me? I remember a series of dialogue one young Halloween:
Degenerate Child: “Who did that skeleton make-up for you?”
Me: “My Mom.”
Degenerate Child: “Well she did it like a pig.”
Me: “Well at least my mom didn’t make my belly like one.”
Where did this come from? Yes it is true, I no longer sleep with a Mag-lite flashlight under my pillow ready to simultaneously illuminate the undead and beat the crap out of them, and yet I still don’t feel like I have the same amount of courage as I did as wee youngster. When I think about this I come to very bizarre conclusions/actions. This is why it is no surprise that even recently I have found myself getting a lightening bolt nail polished onto both of my big toes from elderly, former prostitute, Vietnamese women just before dusk in Santa Barbara. And as if that wasn’t bold enough, half of my mani/pedi-cure experience was preformed by a dude. What would Jessica Chesborough think about this?

Well, perhaps the best haircuts are the ones we give ourselves.

After reading recent quotations from Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad I am once again mystified by the bizarre human ability to convince ones self that anything is true. I think of the woman who feels she is more attractive with three eighths of an inch of makeup and a collagen treatment that leaves lips on the verge of explosion. I think of the dude cruising around in a bright yellow hummer h2 with thirty inch spinner rims who thinks his weiner is massive. I think of the senile old man walking into a supermarket convinced that this is where he used to live, his bed right in the middle of a paper towel display. I think of the emo teenager so casual with life before it has even begun, sucking down cigarettes as if it was the most bold act since casual sex, confused within confusion. And so I am scared, frightened, and yes even confused by the thought that I once was sure that something from beneath by bed would eat me.

Whenever I think that I have grown up I realize that there is no such thing. “Grown” signifies completion and this I know will always be far from true. But one day during SSR Jessica Chesborough sneezed in violent, Mt. St. Helens fashion all over her copy of a Nancy Drew meets The Hardy Boys epic. Her snot/lava flow dribbled down to her upper lip and she quickly attempted to cover it with her already tainted book. I never could have imagined that the answer to all my lustful childhood prayers could be answered in one custard snot rocket. I can still remember the softness of Jessica Chesborough’s lips when I kissed her underneath the swirly slide on the playground days later, the sweetness of it all as I later licked my lips, and her subsequent willingness to fully engage in footsy for the rest of our elementary school experience. Today I think about this episode and I think I can wait things out. Who knows where we will next find our courage?

And so we have A Memo Concerning: Nancy Drew, Weiners, and SuperSoakers.

A Memo Concerning: Avril Shits, Subaru Submarines, and Time.

2008-02-16T14:17:00.000-08:00

Well I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to stop apologizing for the time gaps between these memos. While the complaints for my lack of consistency are flattering it has become painfully obvious that your requests have a motivation power rating of shitballs. Besides, it has always been my goal to not suck at anything I do. Call it pride, call it OCD, call it fear, call it pretension, call it precociousness, call it my own insecurity, call it shut the hell up. The fact is I’ve learned some things in the past couple of months and now I’m ready to write about them.
For those of you who may or may not know a couple of months ago I almost died in a bizarre and cinematic car accident. It took me only a matter of hours to realize that it was the worst, the best, and most important event of my life to date. I’d like to think that it has changed me, but then again I have never been settled long enough to feel that I have ever stopped changing. It is noteworthy because the result, as many of you have come to expect, has given fruit to some pretty kick ass realizations. So, without further adieu, A MEMO CONCERNING: Avril Shits, Subaru Submarines, and Time.

A couple of weeks ago I waited patiently behind an undulating, portly woman as she made her way up a flight of stairs at my work. By patiently waiting I mean cursing her undisciplined, fat curdled ass as it made its way up to my destination with the same amount of determination as a bottle of molasses fighting the forces of gravity. I would have passed her if it wasn’t for fear of her random, vicious grabs for the handrails. They landed so desperately that I was sure if I didn’t time my move past her perfectly her hands would permanently plant me into the walls housing the staircase. They call my patience Time.

I contrast this moment with another trip up these same stairs but this time following an elderly couple. He flirtatiously slides his hand across her geriatric ass while pretending to stretch out his arms. She understands his true intention and smiles, bringing herself closer to him. He leans in and tries to hold her hand, she moves away from him and laughs, the wrinkles on her cheeks signifying the years. They finally reach the top of the stairs and leave me. I feel that there is an entire lifetime of love within a span of seconds.

I remember the thud of my Subaru slamming the water, the jolt and then soft fall beneath the surface. The water filling my shoes. At first my body couldn’t move fast enough to match the panic. Flailing arms and rapid breath were silenced only by the thought that these could be my final thoughts. And then I was assaulted with a lifetime of thoughts in a matter of seconds. The places I had dreamed about but had not yet been to. Goals. The people I wanted to laugh with again. Things I wanted to say to faces I have never seen before. Smiles that I had held back. The conversations that would follow. I heard the steady breath of my childhood dog Cid next to my bed on the night that I realized my parents were getting divorced. What would people say about my absence. Would I hurt them? The feeling of my siblings crammed next to me on a couch until there was no me, only the congruent feeling of our self, diverse but not ready to be apart. This all came in a matter of seconds; call it fear, call it pride, call it my insecurity, but I wanted more. I did not realize this until that first breath when I reached the surface again.
But what was this all about? What was its worth? Can it be wasted?

I have realized that taking really intense shits whilst listening to Avril Levigne power ballads may be the most pleasing body-music-body-spirit experiences known to man. I couldn’t appreciate this until staring desperately at a tile floor with a puckered, germ fearing ass as it tried to create an exorcism on a frequently, and recently, usurped thrown. There is something about Avril’s scream that loosens that which desperately clings to the inside of me. She is audio-fiber, musicenema. As someone that is generally an intense anti-fan of her music I feel that this is proof that there is nothing in this world that does not hold some kind of worth.

I have realized that there is a song attached to every girl that I have ever felt myself falling for. A lot of them are shitty pop ballads that would make you want to cram a rhino in your ears in leu of a que-tip. I say “falling for” because I don’t think I have ever really been in love. When people talk about love I feel like that college freshman who wonders what second base is like while attending Human Sexuality 101: I smile and nod my head but can only question if that was what I did that one time when it felt kinda weird. Even still, the songs remain. They used to torture me, remind me of how I had tried to protect myself and then her smile that made me drop my guard and make the same mistakes all over again. But I’ve gotten to a point where I stop cringing at the sound of them and started to realize how sweet it is to have those feelings in the first place. I’ve hurt many and been hurt enough to realize there is no use in doing either. Be honest, be true; do not hope for, or hide, just allow. When I listen to those songs I can go back to that first feeling of slipping into something really fucking rad, the risk, the boldness of it all; that is how I can I love these songs. So now instead of letting them consume me I can simply place them in that giant filing cabinet that time affords me.

Time moves. It moves and so I have the courage to change the dial on the radio, not knowing who or what will touch me, where the next fall will be, the next memory. These days maybe the memories don’t come back to me, maybe they just give me something to step up on.
So that is where I am right now. I have realized that time, in its steady, unforgiving progression, is the only salvation we have. As much as I want to slow it down, to go back, to undo the mistakes I have made, it is only in the changing of days that I can find solace. It charges forward whether we want it to or not because that is the only answer to everything we need: progression. It is only when we reach our end that yesterday finally catches us. When that day finally comes for me I hope to stand on top of my past, let go, and feel it hold me afloat, peacefully, upon the surface.

A Memo Concerning: Stunna Shades, Mutant Ninjas, and Dick Cheney

2008-02-16T14:09:00.000-08:00

A lot of you guys have called me out pretty hard on the fact that I haven't shared one of these in a while. I hope these same people aren't also fasting or refusing to engage in coitus until Sisqo, AKA "The Dragon," comes out with another radical hit single like "The Thong Song." But in case you were, without further adieu...

A Memo Concerning:Stunna Shades, Mutant Ninjas, and Dick Cheney

Today while punching myself in the penis, I mean filling up the gas tank, a brand new black Jetta pulled up to the pump across from me. I immediately knew this was trouble as my manners, patience and shame had been systematically dismantled while watching money being sucked out of my bank account. Just before the Jetta pulled up I had become dangerously entranced in the ever increasing flurry of numbers on the pump until within their movement I could easily see Dick Cheney dancing around in the fantasy sequence from "Happy Gilmore." Dick is wearing a satin leisure suit and dancing like a leprechaun on top of the white piano until he notices that I am watching him, lets off a snarl, then slowly lifts up a shotgun and sprays Keith Richard's, who happens to be playing the piano, across the face and chest. That is about when the Jetta pulled up.

She and her companion were riding in Daddy's Sweet 16 gift wearing Stunna Shades and blasting the radio. The driver hopped out and pranced to the pump and it was at this time that I began wondering if they were on their way to a Willy Wonka festival. I mean why else would they be wearing those ridiculous sunglasses? But I'm pretty sure Willy Wonka festivals are about as common as Berenstein Bear festivals (basically not nearly enough) so I was forced to conclude that these two girls were just wildly unattractive. Is there any other reason for a female to wear sunglasses that cover half of their face? How did this become acceptable? From now on I'm gonna wear a refrigerator box to cover the fact that I'm almost 24 years old and weigh 140lbs.
Anyways...tragically at this point that song "Soul Meets Body" by Death Cab for Emo McSlitWrists came on the radio and as if the song hadn't been in steady rotation for the past nine months these two broadulars erupted in excitement. The one still in Daddy's car even went as far as to scream "OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS SONG!"
And I was forced to respond, "OH MY GOD, ME TOOOOOO!" while McCauley Caulkening my cheeks.
The girl in the car quickly snapped her head towards me and slid her shitty eyewear to the edge of her nose to reveal, as predicted, an acne infested forehead/brow. She looked at me like I had three noses and two gnome sized Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles dancing on my shoulders (Michealanglo on right, Raphael on left--Go ninja! Go ninja!). I'm sure you have all gotten this look before, right? Well in this situation the look forced me to give both girls two thumbs down and belt out the most savage "BOOOOOO!" I have ever delivered. I waited for a response --didn't really happen, stepped into my car and drove away softly singing to myself "Dumps like a truck, truck, truck, thighs like what, what, what. Oooooh baby do it agaaaain!" Why? I don't really know. Sisqo is “The Dragon,” why don’t you ask him.

Now I write all this fully aware that I may sound like Andy Rooney sitting behind a typewriter writing complaint letters to Jesus for not asking if he wanted to be saved or not and failing to be punctual with "The Coming." But these memos are firmly dedicated to the absurd and the fact is, there is no use lying to the world. Leave the Stunna Shades at home. Don't hide. This world is complicated enough without unnecessary deception. The fundamental fact remains that you can't travel to some magical place where soul meets body, you live in that place every single day. Stop wondering if the grass is greener somewhere else while letting your dog shit on your lawn. Moving on then...

A Memo Concerning BBQ Tongs, Interventions, and Tag Body Spray

2008-02-16T13:54:00.000-08:00

Let me preface the following memo by saying that if you feel I am targeting you specifically, or you believe I am trying to shield a private intervention behind the veil of a public declaration then please stop thinking about me and my involvement in this tragedy because the problem is not me it is clearly you. Simply trust that I have your best intentions in mind, intentions which can perfectly disguise my own pursuit of happiness and quest for the destruction of the everyday absurd. I'm sure there is a simpler way to express the sentiment of this preface, but I have never been one for brevity. But, if I was I'd say: If you think this is about you, then it is, and even more so than the individuals who this is about but who don't realize it. Tolerant.

The topic at hand here is Tag Body Spray. I'm sure you are all familiar with the product and its ridiculous TV ads. They begin with an awkward washed-up 30 year old actor trying to play the roll of pubescent boy. He walks like he has just wiped his ass with sand paper then had his nipple hair plucked with a pair of BBQ tongs, so pretty much like no warm blooded homo-sapien ever walks. It is soon discovered that our poor young proTAGanist is being ignored by the mongolian hoard of "OC" casting-call rejects and "Next" contestants that surround him.

(I am tempted to go on a tangent about mongolian hoards like these and the paradox that is a group of classless females struggling their hardest to make their appearance stand out from each other, but whose collective struggle tragically makes them all predictable and ignorable, and who then bizarrely find it possible to ignore a "loser" who behaves like an alien. But going on that tangent would make babies eat their own feces so I wont.)

So what does our proTagonist do in order to gain favor of a group of boring sluts who have no morals and low self-esteem? He pulls out a can with "Am I deodorant or am I cologne?" identity issues and sprays it all over himself. Miraculously this triggers an even further drop in self-esteem for the mongolian hoard of American Eagle dressed sluts as they proceed to attack our proTagonist in lustful grabs and dry humps. At this point I usually blackout completely only to come to at the conclusion of the commercial as we see the can of deodo-logne pump to the horrendously fake moans of a female (Dude, the last thing I want to thing I want to hear when thinking about courting females are fake orgasms.) I mean at the end of the commercial they might as well call it It Will Get You Laid Spray.What happened to subtlety? What happened to Game and class? I’m sorry, but if you use this product I’m forced to conclude that you have given up on all three of these elements of courtship and finagling and prefer to feast on what I like to call facade sluts. Do you use the product because you can relate to the proTagonist? Are you really trying to pull chicks who want to get scandy with you because you smell like chemicals? Are you desperate enough to believe in the wildly obvious– and false-- premise of its advertising? Have things grown that hopeless? Of course they haven’t so why do you choose to use a product that openly questions your intelligence, game, class and ability to pull chicks? FUCK YOU TAG, WHO SAID WE NEEDED YOU?

The bottom line is, if you use Tag chances are you are trying way too hard and sacrificing your dignity in doing so. Listen I’m no Don Juan or Errol Flynn and I’ll never claim to be. When I get laid and friends ask how I pulled it off seldom do I have a logical answer which points to anything that I “did.” Maybe I’m just passive when it comes to naked time and I’m pretty sure my sex life is just the product of blind luck. I don’t really know how it works I just know that it happens and when it does its rad. I do know one thing– there is no chick in the world worth numbing your intelligence, sacrificing your dignity, or forgetting your class for. To sum it all up: No cool chick digs tag and I only let cool chicks do me.