Monday, October 24, 2011

Diary 9/7/11: Gas Powered Leaf Blower

A fucking gas powered leaf blower going. Which is illegal,right? Gas powered leaf blowers are banned. But I have never seen a leaf blower operating without the sound of a fucking outboard motor blasting. The ban on gas powered leaf blowers has had absolutely zero effect. What did they do-- was there some amnesty where you could turn in your gas powered leaf blower in exchange for a toy or something? For an electric powered leaf blower? I've never once seen anybody using an electric powered leaf blower.

Still, the fucking gas powered leaf blower. Accelerating now. Crescendoing. And then diminuendoing, murmuring almost, then roaring again as its operator discovers a new patch of leaves. What the fuck does the gas powered leaf blower do? How is this a more suitable tool for cleaning up the approximately 30 leaves that accumulate in front of an apartment building in Studio City, where the flora consists almost entirely of evergreen or tropical trees? Why, in the area I am from in New England, where there is a legitimate problem with the enormous mountains of leaves dropped annually by oaks, birches, maples, etc.-- why in that place where there are genuinely a shitload of autumn leaves to deal with, do you never hear a gas powered leaf blower? People go out with a rake and rake their leaves into piles. Kids jump in them.

I think it's because a gas powered leaf blower, or really, a leaf blower operating under any sort of power, is an essentially useless piece of make-work that only blows the leaves onto some neighboring property where they will have to be blown off with another gas powered leaf blower, etc., forever. So a gas powered leaf blower only works if you have no real problem with leaves to begin with. If the leaves don't really need to go anywhere, and it doesn't really cost you anything, there's a whole underclass of illegal immigrants willing to strap on this loud fume-blasting arm cannon and walk around blowing leaves three feet off their original location, and that's just what's done here. You just hire Mexicans to do things, they bring a bunch of big serious-looking tools, and you feel like they've been of some use. Back East where you don't have a secret caste of slaves and there are actually a fuckton of leaves, you must dispose of them yourself and use the actually appropriate tool, a rake.

In rich neighborhoods in California there is a constant roar of gas powered power tools being operated by Aztec-looking illegals. Every tree on every fucking rich man's block is constantly being sheared, and chainsawed, and otherwise attended to. The only cars that are parked outside Hollywood Hills homes during the day are '86 Mazda pickups with big illegal pipe-cages welded on the back, filled with branches or 2x 4's. And seriously nowhere-- nowhere in this town will you go 15 minutes without hearing a sound like an old outboard motor, or an Ent getting thrown screaming into Saruman's lumber mill. The amount of landscaping that goes on in Los Angeles is ridiculous-- for a desert. We live in a desert. Our native plants are dry queasy herbs and gnarled chaparral bushes that grow point oh one millimeters per year and have roots that stretch five thousand miles below the Earth and are three thousand years old. Aside from just watering the shit, there shouldn't really be anything to be done, because every other plant should just fucking die basically. But still. Even on my humble street there is never not at least one illegal landscaping business truck parked out in the street and a guy with no health or liability insurance hanging off a high branch with a long claw-shaped saw at the end of a catchpole, hacking off branches so some other, more desirable branch might live. So that the tree might not just be left alone. So that one's neighbors might not be undisturbed by loud gutteral machines screeching and roaring and whining like a dirt bike making constant laps in your driveway.

Saturday, October 22, 2011

OK, fuckstick: how about YOU make ME laugh

Because we all know you like to be made to laugh; you’ve told us, over and over and over again. Collectively you have said “live laugh love” or "make me laugh” a thousand million billion times. Or you’ve put up the whorish-sounding “make me laugh and you can make me do anything." Make me laugh and you can sneak it in my ass, is that what this means? Make me laugh and you can jerk off in my mouth while watching porn? Make me laugh and I will fuck guys off craigslist and bring you back the money? I mean, I shouldn’t complain about this-- I am not a professional comedian, but I consider myself funny. And girls do in fact “do anything,” although the “anything” that I’m asking for is just to fuck me in the most vanilla manner imaginable. I don’t require that they cook me a meal or take me on a date or engage me intellectually or anything, and they certainly haven’t offered. Make me laugh and you can make me do anything. That pretty much spells it out-- you bring the personality, I’ll bring the pussy.

And frankly not much else. I know this is sexist and has been done to death, but why are girls so fucking unfunny if they like funniness so much? It’s like fat guys who are really into televised sports. If you consider this activity to be the greatest thing in the world, why don’t you go out in the park and toss a fucking football around once in a while? If this thing brings you so much pleasure, why aren’t you interested in creating some of it yourself? Why do you have to be a completely passive participant? Don’t you want-- like, even if you just selfishly want to be made to laugh without having to contribute, don’t you understand that being at least marginally funny or fast on your feet will help the person whose job it is to actually be funny to get out of his wheelhouse and create fresher, funnier material for you to laugh at as a precondition for fucking? Don’t you see the guys getting bored telling you their canned pussy-getting funny story for the ten thousandth time? Don’t you want to help the poor bastards out?

Friday, October 21, 2011

Diary 10/16/11: Occupy LA Part 2

I went down to Occupy Wall Street yesterday. Occupy LA, rather, in front of City Hall. I wanted to see what it was about, what people were actually protesting, what they actually wanted. Also, I figured there would be girls there.

The talk on the internet seems to be that OK, it is understandable that people are pissed off about "the way things are right now," but the "movement" has no concrete goals and really stands for nothing besides inchoate frustration. And so while it's growing, while it's spreading worldwide, while cops are cracking heads in Zuccotti Park and Carbanieri vans are on fire in Rome, until this "movement" gets its shit together and actually asks for something it'll all be for nothing.

From what I saw at occupy LA this is entirely accurate. First, I was a little disappointed that it is in fact a peaceful, organized protest. There was a march right before I got there, which seems to have gone smoothly and in an orderly fashion. There is a tent city around City Hall that is completely confined to the grass with fastidious volunteers appearing out of nowhere every five minutes to pick up cigarette butts. Protestors happily stayed contained in the few streets that the city had conscientiously blocked off to keep shit from getting out of hand, and gathered around a stage and PA system that seems to have been set up with all the appropriate permits. There was an adequate amount of Port-o-sans. The few cops visible were the LAPD's bike-bound squad of "courtesy officers," or whateverthefuck they're called. They wear purple shirts that make them look like the world's most militant kickball team. They kept to themselves, returned eye contact and smiled when smiled at. This is different, I gather, from New York, where the NYPD is crushing people's femurs and throwing haymakers at nancy-boy college kids. As is their wont.

I wonder if this comes down to the difference between the city's mayors. Bloomberg is a billionaire businessman who made his business billions off a proprietary information network for other businessmen to get tips about business. A paper pusher for paper pushers. The ultimate meta-captain of non-industry; basically a glad-handing blue suit stuffed with hundred dollar bills. Of course he wants to just get the freeloaders off the lawn. He doesn't strike one as the head cracking type, but if it gets in the way of money, that’s what needs to be done. Also all his cigarette-banning shit and no bicycles on the grass, etc., shows a totalitarian instinct. Villaraigosa is an unprincipled intellectually bankrupt game show host, but at least on the surface he stands for unions and immigrants and that type of Old Left shit, so it makes sense that his instinct is to peacefully let the hippies camp out outside his office.

Anyway. My shameful urge to see cops punched and tear gas going off was not slaked, and the protest was exactly what I expected it to be. The protestors stood for exactly nothing, or at least collectively they stood for nothing; individually there were countless micro-agendas that people had brought in in an attempt to glom on to the movement. Lyndon LaRouche disciples authouritatively screaming at people. Medical marijuana advocates. Anti-human trafficking activists. An Indigenous Peoples Committee with actual daguerrotype-looking Native Americans involved. There was a big banner about chemtrails, which is what people call visible jet exhaust that they think is the government dropping chemicals from the sky to sterilize blacks or cause autism or something.

And they had bands, and speakers. The speakers were middle aged Chicano Studies professors offering the exact reheated Trotskyist boilerplate you would expect, which the young people were politely supportive of even if they seemed a bit bored. The only people who seemed genuinely excited were the old people. The old hippies, who looked delighted to be pulled down from the attic and dusted off for some old-fashioned agitation. I’d seen plenty of these types up in Santa Cruz and our LA hippies were exactly the same; focused on Dick Cheney and the wars but now trying to tie this stuff into the issue of money.

I ran into a girl, someone I'd been on one date with off OKCupid and never called again. Despite this she was happy to see me and introduced me to her friend, who was, judging by her hairstyle, a true believer. The OKC girl was cute, way hotter than I remembered, and I had to go back and kick my past self in the ass for not getting a second date and sealing the deal. What was I thinking?

They asked me for my thoughts on the protest and I started to tell them the truth, that while I felt I stood for whatever vague principle they were having trouble articulating, that at least in LA this is a nebulous jerkoff that will ultimately amount to nothing. I brought up the chemtrails banner-- shit like this is what gets legitimate movements dismissed as nuts. I was doing well, seeming smart about politics with a little humor thrown in; I was on my way to recovering from my earlier blowoff and earning my way back into the hot girl's panties. I would text her later to say "cool to see you at the protest” and casually ask her out for a drink, and the ass would be mine. But then her friend was like "well, you know there is something to that chemtrails stuff."

What do you do in this situation? There is nothing to this chemtrails stuff; only a retarded idiot could possibly believe in this type of thing even for an instant. I had an urge to bite her head off and yell at her for even suggesting that such a thing might hold water.

But I opted for the pussy. I shrugged it off and said nothing. I took a bus back home and texted the OKC girl and then jerked off to her facebook photos. We'll see if she gets back to me.

Diary 10/15/11: Occupy LA

Thinking about going down to Occupy LA today. Not that I give a shit. Or rather, not that I think it is a meaningful movement with any concrete goals. And if they did have concrete goals, they would be impossible to achieve.

Not that I'm against them either—while the “I am the 99 per cent” people complaining about student loans seem dopey to me, far worse is this “I am the 53 per cent (of legitimate income tax payers)” canard; the people holding up signs that say I bootstrapped my way to the bottom attending a state school while working 30 hours a week at a minimum wage job and never having an instant of freedom, now I will buy a shitty house in Phoenix and have kids who will also have to work 30 hours a week getting yelled at by some undereducated jerkoff because they didn't adequately mop down the little channel between the beef and chicken grills at Arby's -- congratulations, you're a fucking idiot. I wasted my youth grinding myself down to the bone in the most debasing manner possible and now I insist that people with billions of dollars be able to contribute nothing, is what you're saying.

So I'm not going down there to yell at them or argue with them. Like most people, I am going down there because I think there will be young pretty girls in revealing outfits. I won't talk to them, because they need a guy who sings for a band about communism or something, but you reach a certain age and just looking at a nineteen year old's barely clothed tits and ass is enough.

And you know, it does suck to have just got out of college right when the price of education reached a high water mark; it cost you a quarter million fucking dollars to go to school for four years, and you got out at the exact moment when the job-getting value of all this education became utterly meaningless. Or, for certain "desirable" white collar professions this fancy education is necessary, but it is no longer even close to sufficient. You have graduated to a snowball's chance in hell of being able to work in any kind of meaningfully air-conditioned environment. And in fact this fancy education now works against you at the kind of it-sucks-but-at-least-allows-basic-life-sustaining-expenses kind of gig that might be available-- management at these places thinks you will get bored and move on; they don't want to waste the time and money training you. And they're right, you would move on. Except there won't be any place to move to for at least a decade. The shortsightedness of these HR professionals for shitty jobs is that they fail to see that the guy out of Berkeley is going to have nowhere to go for ten years, and hell yes you want him telemarketing.

It's funny, the 53 per cent movement seems dedicated to painting the 99 per cent movement as rich, elitist snobs. Overeducated, over-worldy layabouts. They are saying "we are even poorer than you, and we are proud of it." Not necessarily monetarily poorer but somehow culturally poorer-- we are the real blue collar bedrock of this country and blah blah blah, and so stop complaining, you lazy rich people. Stop complaining and let the really rich people keep their money.

I mean, what the 99 per cent movement wants, at least the college kids, certainly is some kind of socialist, redistributive shit to happen. In their bones, that's what they want. Give us money. They want a jubilee. A forgiveness of debt. I don't know why they have to be so cagey about it, and couch it in demands for nitpicking banking reforms-- we all know that's bullshit. They want money. They should come out and say it. French people aren’t chickenshit about this type of thing-- we want the government to give us money. And good! Fucking give it to them.

Friday, October 07, 2011

Premature Ejaculation

Michel Houellebecq once said "there are two stages in a mans' life: the first where he comes too fast, and the second when he can't get hard anymore."

This is close to the truth, but the reality is more like you are constantly in one or the other stage at all phases in your life. I am thirty five and a half years old and I STILL feel like I'm going to blow the second I get in the pussy. Or I'm too drunk and I can't get wood at all; you have to come out and tell the chick she has to suck you off to get you hard and this is not a proposition that your average first date off OKCupid smiles on, you know. Sucking off some drunk's musty whiskey dick. Really the only way you're going to get laid on the first date, unless you really have a live one on your hands, is to masterfully eat her pussy for a good five minutes and then just vault up on top of her and put your dick in smoothly. Any break in the action is going to kill it.

I used to look forward to my old age when I would put my dick in a girl and give her a good finesse-ful fucking for the exact right amount of time for her to cum, and me to cum shortly thereafter or simultaneously. I knew in my youth that there was an age when you couldn't get wood or get off anymore, and that as a young man it was natural to have to concentrate really fucking hard on pictures of hideous mutilated corpses to not pop off, or to pin down the girl's hips to keep her from moving because even the slightest suggestion of a shimmy from her would make me cum. But I figured that somewhere, between these two extremes, I would hit a sweet spot where I could still get a boner but simply being inside a pussy for a half second wouldn't make it puke. I figured that time would be right about now. But no.

Or actually, there is a sweet spot, but it's a sweet spot in terms of your relationship with the girl. When I am fucking a girl for the first time, I am excited by seeing a new naked body, tasting a new pussy-- and when you fuck a girl for the first time you have had to do so much foreplay to even get there that your jizz is at three thousand atmospheric pressures, you know. I always end up warning them that I'm gonna cum too fast, stopping them from moving for thirty seconds while I'm holding my breath, pulling my dick out suddenly and hoping that the sensation of merely pulling out of the pussy isn't enough to make me cum. That I won't have to vainly try to clench in a pleasureless orgasm with my fist. So that's the first time. Maybe the second time.

But like, the third through eighth time you have sex with a girl, you are used to the idea of fucking her a little but it's still novel enough that you really want to. You know her physical being well enough, her smells, etc., that you can have holodeck-like jack sessions where every detail is perfect. And when you fuck her, you are still excited, but you have calmed down enough that you can actually try to get off; you can accelerate rather than decelerate your own pleasure. You can actualy enjoy yourself.

After that, it becomes a relationship, and you don't give a shit about fucking her anymore. You fuck her as a favor. It takes you so long to get off that you wish you could fake it. Your dick gets about 80 per cent hard and flops around in the pussy, and she doesn't get excited and doesn't tighten up, and so you get even less hard, and she gets even more floppy, and who gives a shit. In relationships, I will look for any excuse not to fuck. Because after a certain amount of time a girl feels unclean to me, in the kosher sense. She feels haram. She is not meant to be fucked-- only new pussy is meant to be fucked. This is with every girl I've ever dated, except my very first girlfriend, whom I loved desperately, and who broke my heart. Either she ruined me, or it's like this for everybody.

But in your youth you think you're going to get to the point in age and expertise where it's always like that third through eighth time, and you never do. You can get to the point where you can get through that first wave of i'm-gonna-cum-too-fast, but this just leaves you on this long plateau of able to keep a boner but no crescendo in sensation. If you can stem yourself from cumming too fast at first, you end up in this forty five minute fuck marathon where you have to resort to porn positions and jackhammering to get enough feeling to bust. It becomes rote and mechanical. What you want is for you both to be building to something together, and you just--- you have five times to do that. Otherwise you can't.

I wonder why i care so much about lasting past thirty seconds with one night stands. I wonder why -- it's not that I picture them snickering about me and mocking me, you know. I don't give a shit what they think of me. It really is wantingt to give them a good fuck. Unfortunately, it's god damn impossible.

Diary 10/6/11- This American Life

Good morning. The fucking car is breaking. Now it starts overheating the same day you put water in. I should just fix it, but that requires money. I should pay my bills, but that requires money. I should get my car registered properly, but that requires some lengthy process because while I’ve already payed for it, somehow the insurance wasn’t payed up at that time, which requires money, and so, the fucking registration didn’t stick, so I got a ticket, which requires money. And now I have to park on the (REDACTED STUDIO NAME) lot in their impossible parking structure, which requires time. How are they even checking expired registrations? It’s not like the thing was from fucking 1978, it says 2010. Fucking DMV. Requires money. Requires money. Requires money.

And I don’t have any fucking money. And I don’t have any fucking time, because I have to work eleven god damn motherfucking hours per day, leaving the two to three hours that aren’t consumed by work, commute, or basic life sustaining activities-- leaving those hours useless and passive due to emotional exhaustion. I just drink them away. If I don’t drink, I just sit there grinding my jaw and muttering to myself and fighting with my inner demons.

I work to earn not quite enough money to sustain the car, phone, apartment, insurance, computer, and food that allow me to continue get up every morning and work for eleven miserable hours per day. I earn ALMOST enough to cover these basic daily expenses that allow me to work to pay for them but once in a while you have a thing like the car needing a repair which takes a couple hundred bucks off the kitty; this gets added on to my credit card debt which is now gigantic enough to insure that if I ever stop working for even one day I am completely fucked.

How did this happen? How the fuck am I so broke? I mean, frankly, the answer is drinking, which I do to distract myself from the misery of working for a few scant hours so I don’t find myself shopping for a shotgun with a big enough trigger guard that my toe could fit in it. I spend money going out and drinking, taking girls on dates. To get laid, so I can feel good for forty five minutes when I wake up in the morning having gotten some new ass. To feel that I have some sense of purpose in this world besides getting up and working for eleven god damn motherfucking hours every day, I spend money that I don’t have, requiring me to work eleven god damn motherfucking hours per day.

This would all be different if I worked with hot chicks. If there were a reason to feel anything but dread at the prospect of going in there in the morning. If I could look down the crack of some twenty four year old girl’s blouse and see half a snow-white tit once in a while, somehow this lifestyle would be manageable. Or if there were some element of actual fun to work, if work actually produced tangible results that I could be proud of. If we actually made something. Instead it’s covering your ass, competing with ten thousand other people just like us over ideas, writers, projects—competing with ten thousand other people just like me except they have no hobbies or desires besides work work work and so they beat me every time. The work is all for nothing. Or if it ends up being for something, it will be stupid. Or it will fall apart at the last minute. There are no low hanging fruit in this world and it’s just slavering type A ivy league kids fighting each other at knifepoint over scraps. The world of white collar “creative” jobs has become the fucking Road Warrior universe and the last two viable ideas in Hollywood are fifty five gallon drums of gas guarded by a guy with hockey pads and a pink Mohawk whose dad runs a studio.

And when it isn’t work, it’s bills, it’s fix the car, it’s clean the house. You can’t spend eleven god damn motherfucking hours per day being someone else’s factotum and then be expected to devote further energy and time diving into the immense mountain of little pains in the ass required to stay afloat in modern society. You gotta pay the gas, you gotta pay the electric; they changed the payment system and they won’t take debit cards and now you gotta sit on hold waiting for an operator to tell you to call a different department where you gotta sit on hold, and please listen carefully as our service options have changed to serve you better-- this means you and everybody else got real good at pressing three two one one three to get to a person to give you support in this matter, before that you all got too good at pressing zero immediately, and then at pressing nine real quickly when we took away the option to press zero. Now we had to change our service options again because you fucking monkeys figured out too quick how to speak to a human being; now you need to listen to and select from ten to the fifteenth power amount of options and if you press an invalid selection we're gonna just hang up on you. And this is because it’s too expensive for you to be on for forty five seconds with the guy we’re paying sixty six cents an hour in India.

And the ATM fee from the cash you pulled out at the liquor store to buy a half pint of cheap brandy to take the pain from an eight down to a four kicked you down to sub zero balance on the debit card because unbeknownst to you match.com is still charging you sixty nine ninety nine every three months for a service you haven’t used in three years and that dings a hundred bucks out of your credit card that they charge you immediate twenty dollars interest on, and etc. etc. etc.

I would complain more, but now I gotta go to work. Whatever. At least I’m not fat.

The Value of Work

When I was fourteen my mom made me get a job. She was really hell bent on this, as soon as you can start working legally, you start working. I don’t mean to make her sound mean—this was perfectly normal. I imagine someone had made her start working the literal second it was legal as well. On the east coast, at least 20 years ago, there wasn’t an underclass of immigrants doing all the gigs that teenagers could do. You’re fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, you get a job. I wish it were like that out here; you’d see more fourteen year old girls working retail.

Anyway, she made me get a job. And again, not to be mean, and not to make me give her the money or pay rent to live in my own childhood home or any shit like that-- I got to keep the money. But just to teach me some lesson about the value of work. Or some other, more jaded lesson. Something about how all work sucks and is useless and horrible and the value that you actually get out of your labor isn’t shit compared to what some rich property owning guy makes, some guy who ninety nine times out of one hundred inherited some position in society where it would be easy to have these things. To own a McDonald’s franchise or whatever.

So my first gig was working on a cranberry farm. Not a bad gig at all, considering, it was for some family friends who were perfectly nice. I was working with the farmer’s daughter and the other girl who carpooled with us to school, in these cranberry bogs. For those of you who don’t know how the cranberry comes to your table or juice pak or whatever—it’s a swamp-dwelling fruit, a crawling vine that grows in cold, moist sand. It’s emblematic of southeastern Massachusetts, I think, because it’s a scrubby, twisty little vine that scratches out a bare existence in the miserly, unyielding, cold sand. Sand lashed by salt water, peppered with rocks. It crouches in frigid swamps, and yields a berry so hard and bitter that if you actually ate it it would hurt you. It would damage your digestive tract. And this is the only fruit that grows in any numbers in the area. In order to make it palatable you have to pump it with sugar, which of course, Puritan settlers did not have. They sweetened their food with pine cones or something. Sugar would probably have been viewed as satanic somehow. But anyway, this was the fruit they had, and they must have seen it as fitting. Eating this fruit is a punishment.

My job was to walk around in these giant man-made swamps and pull out rock maple saplings. Little eight inch high trees with a tap root that went all the way to the fucking Earth’s core, and if you didn’t extract every inch of tap root, the tree would immediately string back stronger than before. It’s weird, to be—to be killing trees, for one thing, when every public service announcement, every park ranger on a field trip, is telling you trees are a precious fragile resource and hey little boys and girls, we must be stewards of the forest and etc., and then your first job is getting paid four dollars an hour to walk around ripping up trees. And it’s weird to be, like—you leave one millimeter of tap root in the ground, and this fucking tree will be back in full form tomorrow. I am fucking impressed by that. I feel bad killing this organism that is so fucking resilient and badass.

But the thing that JUST occurred to me is that this swamp maple that I was going around killing is the same fucking tree that produces maple syrup. The only non-bee-infested source of sugar in the American northeast. If people, starting with colonials, had simply left the fucking swamp alone, they could have had huge stands of natural, impossible to fuck up trees that required NO EFFORT to grow and produced sweet delicious sugar. Instead, there are hundreds of years of backbreaking labor going into coddling a hard, bitter, inedible fruit. This is the true value of work-- generally, if you just leave things alone, things will end up pretty much OK and nature will take care of it. But if you throw in hundreds of years of human ingenuity, effort, and exploitation of one’s fellow man, you can get it so that you have something that is much worse than before.