No More Fools

I’m tired of holidays. I’m tired of days dictating how we act or dress. I had several assholes on St. Patrick’s Day read me the riot act because I wasn’t wearing green. Who cares? St. Patrick’s day began as an Irish religious holiday. Now it’s a day when a collection of pasty-faced assholes wear green, swear they’re Irish and drink until they vomit their lower intestines. I don’t need dead saints or green in order to have an excuse to drink until I vomit my lower intestines, okay?. I’m an American. It can be an overcast day outside and that’s reason enough for me.

Easter is another one. Another religious holiday that actually celebrates the death of Christ because supposedly he rose from the grave a few days later and ascended into heaven. One thing I never did get, you know besides that whole rising from the dead thing, is why the cat moved the stone blocking the tomb. Couldn’t he have just walked through the rock? I mean, you’re about to ascend to heaven, I feel certain you can pass through solid rock.

Personally I think Jesus was a prankster. He rose from the dead and moved the stone so everyone in the town would come to see what had happened and would be greeted by the lovely smell of those unfortunate enough not to be the son of God and therefore were still rotting, stinking and dead in the crypt. That Jesus, what a guy. And another thing about that rising from the grave bit: If someone were to do that today, I think I’d be more concerned whether or not they were going to eat my brain. To hell with worship, I’m aiming for its’ head.

So Easter celebrates the death and resurrection of Christ. Yet, when I was a kid, the only thing we did on Easter was search for painted eggs that were supposedly hidden by a giant bunny rabbit. Talk about weird. I think we need to do a little digging into the history of the cat who came up with this idea because I’m pretty sure a hallucinogenic of some kind was involved. If I see a giant fucking rabbit hiding painted eggs, I’m going to assume someone slipped something in my drink. Holy shit!

What’s another one…..Valentine’s Day. A day when pig-grunting idiotic men and women are reminded to treat their mates with love and affection. I don’t need February 14th to incite me to take a woman I have passion for out to dinner or buy her flowers or be kind to her. I do that anyway because I have genuine respect for the person in question……or I’m trying to get laid. I don’t need to be reminded to express respect for someone or that I need to get laid. I’m reminded of that every day.

However, there is perhaps no day that annoys the piss out of me more than April Fool’s Day. The day when a million assholes make shit up for the sole purpose of telling you what you probably already know – it’s April Fool’s Day. No shit, Sherlock. Did you really need to waste 15 minutes of my time with a load of bullshit simply so you could tell me what day it is and then giggle like a fucking elementary school student?

What did me in yesterday was a collection of news items and emails from acquaintances that all contained information that was, for the most part, believable. Not to mention quite interesting. To be violently reminded after processing this information that it was in fact an April Fool’s Day joke was very disparaging for me.

Perhaps it left me upset because I suddenly realized that the only good news these days seems to be fake news. We’re living in a world where every day is April Fools. What is real? Does anyone know? We are continually lied to and deceived by our media, our elected officials and our fellow citizens for the express purpose of achieving power over something or someone or for simply cheap amusement. The end result is it’s difficult to tell where fact and fiction truly reside in our world.

Even I’m guilty of this. Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you: “Oh, Tobias isn’t anything in person like his blog.” So, you see, I’m obviously as full of shit as the rest of them. I can’t or won’t express myself honestly in person; I prefer to let this collection of words do it for me. It begs you the reader to ask the question, who is this person? Is he everything he writes or simply a figment of his own mind? It’s a pertinent question, I assure you.

It’s like the story about the boy who cried wolf. Now I don’t even flinch when I read or watch a news story or listen to a politician or a bystander tell me how bad it is. It means nothing to me. I immediately assume the opposite of what they say. Every event that occurs, I think several other events were involved to make it happen. There is no official story that I don’t question the validity of. If someone apologizes for an affront, it’s only to gain sympathy and trust so they can do it again. Americans don’t care about justice anymore. All they need is an apology and they’re coming in their pants.  Sue me, but I believe everyone has a selfish motivation behind everything they do or say. I’m not falling for the prank anymore. I know at some point they will chuckle and say “April Fool’s Day”.

Take 9/11 for example. The day it happened, I immediately began to question everything that the news and government reported. Since then they tell me terrorists want to kill me and rape my domestic animals so I assume the reality is there are only a handful of nutballs that are puffed up to appear to be bigger threats than they actually are in order that we become consumed with that so that we don’t pay attention to how we’re being spiritually, physically and mentally dismantled on a daily basis by our supposed protectors so that they may continue their dominance over us.

Questioning everything you see and hear is not always a pleasant way to live, but what choice do we have in this world of April Fools pranksters? How do you get a child to sleep? You read it a story. How do you keep the same child happy? Continue reading it the same story every night. I’m tired of the same story and I’m no child. Therefore, I dismiss the same story and even dismiss the sleep because I hunger to be awake and see the world for what it really is. And that’s no joke.

Manco’s Movie Reviews: Rear Window

I love movies. I watch movies in my spare time, and, believe me, I’ve got a lot of spare time. The writing experts say write what you know. I know a few movies so I’m going to write about them. If you don’t like it, you know what nearest tailpipe you can start sucking.

Today’s selection is Rear Window. This movie was released in 1954 and was directed by Alfred Hitchcock. Maybe you’ve heard of him. For some reason an asshat thought a remake of this movie, made for television no less, would be a good idea. That travesty starred Christopher Reeve (taking advantage that the actor was now wheelchair-bound) and Darryl Hannah (taking advantage that the actress didn’t have a pot to piss in by that point in her career). Despite the existence of the remake starring a crippled Superman and a Mermaid, the original continues to stand strong and is considered to be one of Hitchcock’s greatest films. It is currently at #48 in the AFI 100.

Jimmy Stewart is a favorite of mine. He’s one of the few actors who can improve any movie he’s in, even if the film he’s in overall is a big steaming pile of crap. Fortunately, Rear Window is a great movie starring Jimmy Stewart.

Jimmy plays this photographer laid up in a wheelchair in his apartment recovering from a broken leg. He lives in this great little Greenwich Village apartment. In fact the apartment and the surrounding apartments and courtyard is like a character itself. It adds a great ambiance to the movie and fills one with the romanticism for New York that only exists in those old movies.

Jimmy is bored shitless sitting around his apartment all day. In order to pass the time he spies on his neighbors. Among them are a gorgeous young dancer, a lonely woman, a songwriter, and a few married couples, including a salesman who’s an older version of Perry Mason. He’s married to this bedridden wife who nags at him noon to midnight. The other two couples are a newlywed couple who spend half the movie between the sheets with the blinds drawn and another married couple who sleep on the damn fire escape with a nosy dog. I never understood why those crazy bastards sleep on the fire escape. I bet you wouldn’t see some shit like that these days in New York. You’re liable to wake up missing half your face.

It’s not all bad for Jimmy. He receives daily visits from a home care nurse. Unfortunately the nurse looks like Thelma Ritter. She massages him, hooks him up with food and bends his fucking ear about marrying his old lady. As if men don’t hear enough of that shit. However, Jimmy’s girlfriend happens to be the beautiful, mesmerizing, tantalizing Grace Kelly. With the exception of Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca, I don’t think an actress has ever looked as gorgeous on screen than Kelly in Rear Window.

It makes you wonder what’s in Jimmy’s eggs every morning as the story unfolds and you learn that Jimmy isn’t quite content with Grace as his girlfriend. She’s uptown and classy while he’s Greenwich Village and day-to-day. In fact, that’s the only part of the story that doesn’t do it for me. It’s a stretch to believe that a woman who owns a fashion magazine would fall for a freelance photographer. Jimmy’s character travels around the world to hot spots taking photos of exciting and dangerous events. I’m not sure where he found time to woo the beauty queen.

Jimmy begins to suspect Perry Mason is up to something after he witnesses him making several trips late at night carrying a large case with him each time. His suspicions are heightened once he realizes the nagging, bedridden wife is gone. As Jimmy, Grace and Thelma watch the continued activities [Perry Mason cleaning a knife and handsaw, having moving men haul a large packing crate away], they come to the conclusion that Perry was nagged one too many times and put the bitch down.

Jimmy contacts an old army buddy, now a cop, and relays the evidence to him. His buddy’s name is Doyle [A.K.A. Useless Piece of Shit. Seriously, this guy is a clear example of someone who doesn't take his job seriously until the final reel] and his half-ass investigation turns up that the nagging wife is in the country based on a postcard to her husband [Case Solved! Good job, Doyle. Useless bastard].

Doyle is pretty convincing though and the others realize they may have been wrong about Perry Mason. After all, he was once a lawyer. A damn good lawyer too. The bastard never lost a case. I always hoped that prosecutor would turn up evidence that Perry had helped get a murderer or rapist off the hook. That would have dented that smug asshole. How’s it feel to be wrong, Perry? Perry Mason and Matlock: what a couple of assholes.

Jimmy and Grace attempt to go back to being normal when the night is interrupted by a scream. Turns out the nosy dog belonging to the fire escape sleepwalkers has been found dead. Jimmy, being the keen guy he is, you know being a photographer and all that, notices the only cat who didn’t come to the window to check on the commotion was Perry Mason. That cinches it: Perry Mason killed the dog because it posed a threat to him.

They decide they have to get Perry out of his apartment so Grace can snoop around. Jimmy would do it, but, you know, the bum leg and all. Jimmy calls Perry Mason and leads him to believe that he knows all about Perry’s nefarious dealings and the fate of his wife. In order to get him out of the apartment he sets up a phony meeting with Perry at a bar down the street. This will give Grace and Stella who just couldn’t stay away an opportunity to find out what the dog came close to finding. The idea is that Perry Mason buried something in the courtyard outside and the dog must have been trying to dig it up. Therefore the dog had to die.

Perry Mason scurries from the apartment, but Grace and Kelly find nothing buried in the flower patch. This is where Grace goes nuts. She decides to climb the fire escape and break into Perry Mason’s apartment. She obviously doesn’t realize who she’s dealing with. Stella and Jimmy are powerless to stop her, instead forced to watch from Jimmy’s window as she goes through the apartment looking for clues.

As luck would have it, Perry returns to the apartment before Grace can exit. Jimmy frantically phones the police, neglecting to tell them it’s Perry Mason who is about to murder his girlfriend. There’s no way the police would believe that Perry Mason would murder anyone.

Perry confronts Grace in the apartment and is about to do some major damage when the police show up literally minutes after Jimmy called them. Now, I don’t want to see Perry mess up Grace, but come on, the police arrive minutes after a call? When has this ever happened, particularly in a city the size of New York, in the Village no less? Nevertheless, the police arrive, saving Grace’s ass. As Jimmy and Stella watch, Grace signals to them with her finger. On it is the ring of Perry’s wife. Unfortunately, Perry notices this and now realizes that Jimmy Stewart is plotting his destruction.

The police take Grace away. Stella leaves to go bail the princess out. This leaves Jimmy all alone. It’s him and Perry in a battle of wits. Perry wastes no time. He saunters right on over to Jimmy’s apartment building and up to his apartment. Jimmy, unable to adequately defend himself, turns off the lights and can only find a camera flash to use against the hulking figure of Perry Mason who intends to teach Jimmy Stewart a lesson. After all, Jimmy didn’t know what it was like to have a nagging wife. He had a fashion princess and his own personal nurse.

Grace, Stella and the police led by Doyle’s worthless ass arrive back in time to see Perry Mason attempting to push Jimmy Stewart out of the window. The police subdue Perry but not before Jimmy falls from the window. Lucky for him, a few cops break his fall, saving his life. Days later, it’s all over. Jimmy is resting, now with two broken legs from the fall. However, he is not alone. Grace sits quietly by, probably contemplating how difficult would it be for the crippled son of a bitch to give her a thrill.

And that’s the end. All in all, a great film and one of my favorites. The direction by Hitch is fantastic, the performances spectacular, and the set memorable. If you haven’t seen this timeless classic, you owe yourself a favor.

Rant for the Insured

If you were to sneak up behind me and knock me flat in order to go through my pockets, you’d find a few crumpled bills, maybe a movie ticket stub or two, a driver’s license with my handsome mug scowling back at ya, and a card showing that I, Tobias Manco, have car insurance. Not only do I have car insurance, but I have homeowner’s insurance, life insurance and any damn kind of insurance that will protect me. You’ve got to have insurance these days. Between an increasingly pissed off Mother Nature and the bumbling, stumbling flesh-covered fuck-ups known as human beings, there’s no guarantee you’re going to make it from day to day without a little damage.

Case in point: I’m finally back on my feet after struggling with that cold. I don’t know what shitheel slipped that into my bloodstream, but it was a son of a bitch. It took every ounce of my incredible immune system to eventually flush that crap out of my pipes for good. That and a lot of good good medication.

Anyway, today started off well. It’s the best day I’ve had in some time since that last crazy woman I was shacking with took off with my affection, two bottles of Plymouth gin and my copy of Cool Hand Luke. Fortunately I always hide my car keys or I’d likely be hoofing it everywhere right now.

I wake up around ten with only a mild hangover. Amazing since I spent last night until 2 AM trying to convince this pretty young Mexican girl to give me a try. She wouldn’t budge. Smart girl.

The cat is bugging the hell out of me. She wants to eat. Won’t take no for an answer. I fall out of bed and fill her bowl. She eats loudly. I can hear her in the next room. You’d think the little lady doesn’t eat once a day. Unbelievable.

I step outside to check the mail. Every day, more and more junk mail. What do you think the percentage of the world’s city dumps are made up of junk mail? I try and do the right thing. I toss it in a recycle bin. Don’t know why. All I’m doing is assuring it will return to me.

The mail isn’t all bad. I’ve got a letter from my friend, Huey. Huey is old school. He writes all of his letters by hand or typewriter. He refuses to use the internet. Even his porno exists only in magazine form.

I admire the bastard. He refuses to follow the world to its final resting place. He’s happy being years behind the rest. As he puts it: “I’m in no hurry to go insane.” Good man. Damn fine man. One of the last.

I hustle back inside, locking the door behind me. Too many nosy bastards around here. I think some of them are spying on me. Maybe they know about the book I’m working on. I can’t let it fall into the wrong hands. It’s my life’s work. It’d be the victim of more editing than the Bible. And we all see how that worked out.

I open Huey’s letter:

“Hello, shit-for-brains. Let me guess: you’re still chasing young women and cursing young men, right? Then again, what else is there to do but curse these days? Scientists write about the possibility of the Earth spinning off its axis. I think it happened a long time ago.
Speaking of a long time ago: I recently had a memory that I had suppressed. Nothing bad. I’m not sure why I suppressed it, or forgot it or whatever, but it came back plain as day just yesterday.
This took place when I was seven years old. At the time my family and I were living in California, Glendale. My father used to pile us into the car and drive down to Hollywood. No reason, really. Maybe he was hoping a little of that magic would rub off on us. Fat chance.
I never paid any attention to what was going on. Even when we would exit the car and walk past the shops and restaurants, my parents and siblings hoping for glimpses of the stars, I never cared much about it.
And then this memory. We’re outside this boutique. I’m standing still, watching a trail of ants on the concrete. It was a hot day and the sun was destroying the ants. Just frying them as they scurried. I tried to offer them shade. Meanwhile, my family are screaming and pointing like monkeys wondering where to go, what to see. A car passes and I hear a DJ droning on until the car is out of sight. Then suddenly I turn and bump into the loveliest pair of legs you’ve ever seen. Even then I was excited by those legs. I look up and it’s Marilyn Monroe. Even at seven I knew who she was. You couldn’t miss her face those days, it was everywhere. She looks down at me and smiles. She reaches out her hand and runs it through my hair. It’s as if some Greek goddess has bestowed her touch upon me. It’s a very holy moment. There is no sound in the world. For a moment only the two of us occupying the universe.
And then she walks away, progressing towards her own sad fate. I look at my family. They’re speechless, they can’t move. They had no words to stop her with. My brother and father are licking their lips as she walks away. I’m surprised they don’t start whacking off right there. Who could blame them really? Marilyn was the personification of the American female.
I smile at my family. For all of their pontificating and huffing and puffing, I came closest to the stars by simply standing still. And that my friend has remained my philosophy since. Stand still and wait for the stars to come to you. If they don’t, then you’ll know you’re simply nothing more than a moon.”

I read through to the signature. I think his story is bullshit, his memory a simple hallucination. I could have sworn I stood in an elevator once next to Maria Conchita Alonso. Doesn’t make it real? Probably just some woman who’s never heard of Maria Conchita Alonso. Still, Huey’s story is a good one. All of his stories are good, which is why I look forward to his letters.

I put the letter where I stash all of Huey’s letters. I scramble me an egg, fix some coffee, some toast. I sit down and turn on the television. I know better, but I’m hoping for the best. The key is to avoid the news channels. Those pricks will drive you crazy with their insane debating. And the news is all bad or devoid of any meaning. How can you follow the deaths around the world with a story about a Dog who saves a cat from a tree. It’s terrible. Both stories. And I like dogs and cats. More than people, in fact. Sex is the only reason humans maintain relationships. Think about it: if we couldn’t fuck each other, would we really need each other?

I come across a Mel Gibson movie. Some post-apocalyptic film. Very dark, desolate wasteland with assholes chasing each other in cars. Gibson’s young. Obviously an older film of his before he went bat shit crazy ranting about Jews and Sugar Tits. I think someone got to him. I like the movie. Shows humans for what they really are – savages.

Later I have to leave the house. I don’t want to, but there’s no denying it. I need food and booze. I leave a note in case Jan comes by. Jan is the only person I would give a key to. Jan is a good friend of mine. She comes over and we sit on the porch and smoke and drink and talk. We talk about super novas and the President, songs, movies, the meaning of existence. She’s much more optimistic than I am. We compliment each other nicely. We’re just friends though. She’s young, hip, full of life. You can’t keep up with a woman like that with my personality. There are no roots in that tree.

Nevertheless, she’s very attractive. If given the opportunity, I would sleep with her. I know I would. I tell myself I wouldn’t, but I would. Why miss out on something lovely? Still, I’m sure it would be awkward, and I’d hate to lose those late nights on the porch talking and drinking. A part of me yearns for it though. I’m getting older and the bright spots in life are getting dimmer.

I get to the liquor store. Jimmy’s the owner. Doesn’t talk much. I like him. The grocery store is packed with people. Rows and rows of them. I hurry through, forgetting a few things in my haste. I’ll have to come back later.

I’m a block from home. I’m yielding to oncoming traffic. I’m stopped. Going nowhere. Standing still waiting for the stars to come to me. I’m listening to Sinatra, humming the tune. It’s a sad Sinatra tune. Sinatra always did sad best, I think. I see the glint of the metal from my mirror just before I feel the impact.

The bastard swerves but clips the corner of my car sending me forward. Fortunately the traffic has time to react and I avoid a second collision. I roll down the window. “What the fuck?!” The driver motions me to a nearby parking lot. The bags of booze and food have tumbled from the seats into the floorboard. I don’t smell booze, so obviously no broken bottles.

I pull over and get out. The other car caught it worse than me. The entire front end is hanging by a thread. Some piece of shit Jap car encased in plastic and bad engineering. My car is dinged up, but it’s old and American. It’s like a fucking tank. Unfortunately without a turret, but what can you do?

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask the driver. Some dumb fucking kid with a rich boys mop haircut, wearing shorts, some stupid sneakers and a goddamn football jersey. Little bastard has probably never played football. Who dresses like that?

“Huh?” he says. The typical response these days with these melon-headed, brainless fools running around with the ability to kill and maim and upset people’s lives. They should be locked down and rationed.

“Did you not see my car? Does that account for you running into it?”

“Yeah….man….yeah…I just didn’t see it. Sorry.”

I make a call to the cops. Fucking police never respond quickly to traffic accidents. It’ll be 45 minutes, at least. The kid lights a cigarette and watches me pace back and forth. I’ve got cold groceries in the back seat on the floorboard.

“You play football?” I ask him.

“Huh?”

“The jersey.”

“Oh. Naw, man. It’s just a jersey.”

I grunt and continue pacing. I try to occupy myself with good thoughts. I’m going to cook a nice steak tonight, maybe a few glasses of wine, catch up on my reading. Or maybe I’ll try my luck again with that Mexican gal. Now what was her name again?

“You want to swap information?” he asks me.

I nod okay.

“Now, I have to tell you, I don’t have no insurance…” he says. “But don’t worry, my dad has insurance.”

I close my eyes. A headache is coming on. I look down at the ground. There’s a trail of ants scurrying across the pavement. Lucky them, it’s not that hot today.

Sickness

Goddamn germs. Some human bastard sneezed somewhere and left me bedridden as a result. Yeah, I’ve been bedridden for the last two days with one hell of a cold. This cold is nasty. Feels like it came straight from the pits of hell aka Ann Coulter’s vaginal region (assuming the bastard has had the operation).

Lying in bed for days, feverish, drenched in your sick smell, your mind starts jumping all over the place. You suddenly find yourself inexplicably remembering people for no reason at all, no matter the circumstance of your encounter with them.

I remembered this sad blonde. Beautiful, but sad. We were having shots one night in this bar somewhere in D.C. Later, she took me home but got sick before anything could happen. She passed out and I watched her sleep. The next morning, she took me back to my car and that was that. I never saw her again. It happens.

The other memories were mostly detestable figures who have helped me shape this wonderful worldview I have. Yet, why should I think of them now? It would be easy to say the delirium of sickness recalled them because of their repulsive nature, but how to account for the blonde?

Perhaps she was no better than the rest of them? Perhaps she intended to take me home and stick a knife in my gut, but her intake of booze prevented this? Perhaps she had a dick? Perhaps she was disease-ridden? Who knows? One thing is for sure, nothing happened for a reason.

And isn’t that the way it goes? Everything happens for a reason. That’s why, as much as I hate this world of bootlickers, I know there’s a brighter day waiting for those of the soulful. I can afford to be patient because I have seen the future and it is just.

For the time being, I’m going to pop some serious capsules and descend into my sweat-soaked dreamland.

To Know Him Is To Love Him

What decade produced the best popular music in this country? Easy, the 50s. There’s no use in debating this with me, I will not be stirred. The 50s produced some of the best pop vocal performances that still resonate today as well as produced the roaring sounds of rock and roll, the continued evolution of rhythm and blues and the peak of jazz music before the start of its inevitable decline. Labels at the height of their powers: Atlantic, Chess, Sun and RCA.

I’m going to start posting youtube videos containing some of this treasured music. If you like it, great. If not, then I can’t do anything to help you.

The first selection is To Know Him Is To Love Him by the Teddy Bears. Besides this song, which remained in the top 100 for a total of 23 weeks peaking at number 1 for 3 weeks, the Teddy Bears are also remembered as being Phil Spector’s first band.

Yes, before Phil Spector became a famed producer and a crazy permed-up freak with a fetish for chicks and guns, he formed this band with Annette Kleinbard, Marshall Lieb and drummer, Sandy Nelson. Even though one gets the sense the naming of the band took all of 3 minutes, this record stands as one of the classics of the era.

Spector, at 17, not only wrote the song, but also arranged, played and produced a record that would reach the top of the charts. His future was set, as was Annette Kleinbard who continued recording after the Teddy Bears went their seperate ways, changing her name to Carol Connors and later co-writing the theme to the film, Rocky, “Gonna Fly Now”. Every meathead punk who has jogged to a high place, held their arms above their head while dancing around like an electrified monkey can thank Mrs. Connors.

The End Is Near

I don’t have any ice cream and flowers for you, kiddos. There ain’t no Jesus gonna come from the sky or from Washington D.C. or from your toilet bowl or your corrupted soul or black heart or your fevered blood or your last gasp. It’s not happening. Time to accept the reality of our situation. We’re stranded, all of us, on this rock floating in the middle of space.

I get the feeling the end is near. No, not that Biblical end bullshit where creatures with 1400 eyes and Rush Limbaugh rise out of the ocean before angels sounds trumpets, Jesus comes from the clouds and the “righteous” drink the blood of the sinners. That’s a horseshit fairytale used to control masses of people and keep them stupid.

Yet, I feel an end coming to it all….followed hopefully by a new beginning. Something has to happen. The tension is at a breaking point. The people are ugly, fat and stupid. We’re going nowhere fast. The American dream is just that.

Can you feel it? taste it? smell it? That feeling that we’ve gone as far as we can on this present course? All you have to do is pick up a newspaper [if you can find one these days] turn on your television, click on the internet or walk outside your front door to know that things are disintegrating. The great dumbing down of the people into cattle has worked beyond the greatest of imaginations. The cliff is quite close now with the first few rows already falling over the edge.

What the hell happened to us? We used to have soul. We used to have a pulse. We used to make the rules. Now we’re broken, in debt, trying desperately to convince ourselves that everything is okay. But it’s not okay. It’s fucked up. It’s fucked up beyond the wildest nightmare. Freddy Krueger couldn’t conceive of a nightmare this fucked up.

Popular Culture is important. It’s important because it serves as a mirror for the society in which it takes place.  What drives the people? What stimulates them? What do they find entertaining. We find ourselves living in a time when reality shows propel the most mediocre of us to the top of the heap; when NASCAR is a popular “sport”; when the music, television, sports and movie icons are a ghastly collection of unimaginative, mindless, classless, overpaid fools; when our children worship greed and materialism; our “leaders” consist of an embarrassing collection of hacks and puppets for special interests; and we reject intellectualism as something to be mocked.

I am truly sickened by it all, truth be known. I function in this society, but I do not condone nor do I hope for its survival. Every great moment in human history has been accompanied by fundamental change in the way we see the world and ourselves. I believe we are on the cusp of that next change.

In the meantime, here we are. I must be a sadist. I torture myself. No, I don’t cut or burn myself like those emo fuckheads booing and hooing about their terminal existence. If those twisted shitheels could think about something other than themselves for a day I suppose they’d find some sort of enlightenment…if only temporarily.

I torture myself intellectually with television. I understand its limitations in entertaining me or provoking me to think, yet I do find the occasional good program. Most of them though – and you know this – are glorification of the lowest common denominator in this country.How many hours have I wasted flipping channels looking for something truly entertaining, knowing of course the options are limited?

Goddamn, only in this country would we allow an egregious shitbag like Bret Michaels a second chance in the spotlight, let alone a first. And why? So we can see this plastic, coked-out, balding, fucking has-been make out with an assortment of brainless sluts? Look, if it only lasted a season, I wouldn’t think anything of it, but this horror show is now in its 3rd season, I believe.

And now Fox [Truly the champion of continued bad taste. Don't forget this is the network that came up with a show where people were hooked up to a lie detector machine, sat in front of their peers and loved ones, and asked to answer extremely personal, perhaps hurtful questions, all for the opportunity to take home some money] is bringing Ozzy Osbourne’s drug-fogged, mumbling stupid ass along with his incredibly worthless fucking family back to our television sets. In following the premise of all reality shows that people will toss away whatever ounce of dignity they have  for money, the Osbourne’s will be hosting a show in which a revolving group of turkey necks will embarrass themselves in front of, no doubt, an audience of millions. The latest promo is some balding, goateed freak [seriously, when is the white, pale, bald, goateed look going to disappear? dude, you're bald; no amount of facial hair can change that. age gracefully, you ninny bastards] blindfolded and asked to make out with a woman without seeing her. The punchline: it’s a woman at least in her 70s. Hah hah hah hah hah hah. Hilarious!

It’s all a game. Destroy your mind and sell you stuff. It might be nothing but junk, but your neighbor has it…and, well, you can’t let them be better than you. That’s just not American, goddamnit!

They’re not even trying to hide it anymore. A friend [yeah, I have friends...fuck you] of mine told me to check out this commercial where the simple agenda of it all is laid out for you to see. The question: is your brain too mushy to comprehend what you’re being told?

I’ll let Terence McKenna end this post in a much more eloquent way than I ever could. Take it away, Terence:

March Madness

For anyone who happens across this collection of words in the coming months and finds it reprehensible and seemingly without meaning, let me direct your anger towards March Madness. It drove me to this.

I don’t hate all aspects of modern American culture. Even I find myself continuously drawn to things that are holdovers from my youth or simply hold little more than trivial interest. I brush it off. Nothing wrong with taking your nose out of your own ass from time to time. You take yourself too seriously, you’re fooling yourself that you’re more important than all the other slugs out there.

It’s hard to exist in the middle of anything. You’re either too serious or you’re a complete imbecile. I’m working to maintain a healthy balance.

That is why I, like millions of people, fill out a bracket every March. I read over it meticulously as if I’m translating the Dead Sea Scrolls looking for that team that shall survive and make it to the Final Four. What teams will be upset and which ones will upset the field? These become the pressing questions of humanity in the days leading up to tip-off.

Filling out brackets for me is like being in a bad relationship: each year my hopes of winning the office pool are dashed by the first round, yet I continue to come back each year with that elusive dream expecting a different result. Those who attempt to intervene, I brush off; they just don’t understand. I mean, I’ve seen the bracket during a good year when I select over 75% of the bracket correctly. They haven’t. They don’t see how the bracket and I act when it’s just us. It treats me nice, gives me confidence and, I daresay, even a little love.

So what does March Madness have to do with starting a blog? Why am I here writing this first entry? Well, first of all, because I’m sick and tired of assholes telling me to write my own blog when they take issue with my comments to their blogs. Excuse me, Mr. Blogger, I thought a blogger encouraged comments and discourse…..and maybe a little confrontation?

It turns out this whole deal is little more than mental masturbation, done by pseudo-intellectual jerkoffs stroking their own ego. Well, allow me to throw my own hat into the ring. If there’s one thing I do well, it’s masturbation….of any type. I’ve jerked my Jekyll and Hyde and even finger banged the nearest accommodating female. What is masturbation if not between friends?

However, I’m also here in order to escape the shame of yet another dismantled bracket lying in tatters amongst the carpet fibers of my hovel. Truth be known, it was either this or sitting at the bar with the same four assholes trading conspiracy theories and shots in the same corner wrapped in the same sweat while stealing glances at the same women who enter in the hopes that an excuse to leave will come to me. Even if escape results in my stepping back out into the madness, surrounded by them all on the sidewalks, warped with their greed, their religion, their selfishness and their convoluted concept of love and hate.

So with that in mind I’m glad I sat down and started this blog. Feels good to feel those words jut forth from my fingers like poisonous eels coming to swim through your mind whether you want to accept them or not. The words are out there now. Let them go forth.

Now I have nothing more to say. That’s it. I’m thirsty and I seek companionship, either intellectually or physically.  I want to get out into the night air, rant and rave while having my fill. It’s necessary in order to forget those brackets. Those trivial goddamn brackets.

Buzzer Beaten,

Tobias Manco