Archive for February, 2010

May 29, 1453

February 28, 2010

Constantine the last
Dropped into the fickle soil:
Carrara charnel
In Hagia Sofia
Priests blown into particles
Stir in the bellywalls



February 15, 2010

From top to bottom, this day is gray. The weather is as dense and unyielding as concrete. The air is a brick feather. I can hardly stand it. Last night a squid made of snot attached itself to my head, worked its tentacles into my nasal cavities, and began to drip and pulsate there.
It was Valentine’s Day. G told me he doesn’t believe in Valentine’s Day. I reminded him that I heard that speech last year. He’s new to being with women for more than a month or two, so we’ll forgive him that. I told him I didn’t care that he didn’t care. Perhaps I was even convincing. He continued that he didn’t believe you should only do romantic things because it’s one particular day.
I asked when he believed he should do romantic things.
He laughed. And I laughed. And then we watched Mad Men, and I tried to pass out in spite of the crackling of lead expanding between my eyes and mouth.
Valentine’s Day. Who knows. Maybe I don’t care. Maybe I do. I can’t always tell what I care about and what’s just a bad mood with good timing.
Edda, you are finally building onto your days with words. Stringing two together for makeshift sentences. Ecco shoe! Oh no Bubba! One, two! Mamma sock!
The experts say you understand more than you can communicate. Join the club. I wonder if you also believe more than you understand. Miss things you don’t want. Mourn for things that haven’t gone away.
You climb into bed with us every night from your adjacent sleeper. Then you spend the remainder of the night, variously, performing horizontal cartwheels and kicking me in the face. Sometimes you scream or talk in your sleep. Your namesake Ruth did that as well. Night terrors, maybe not. Night tantrums, definitely.
I always thought, when parents would say that their kids were the best thing that happened to them. “oh, well, they have to say that.” Alas, it is true. You can kick my face all you like and I’ll still be happy if I wake and you are there. Like some woman with a bad boyfriend habit. Except you don’t have any tattoos or tell me nasty things about myself. Sometimes you grab onto my nose, but I’m trying not to take it that way.
But really, you are the most joy I have ever felt. Even with some illness unleashed from the labs of HR Geiger chewing up the inside of my face, I still manage to delight in you.

Relentless Roissy

February 9, 2010

This may be the most ghoulish, creepy slop I have ever encountered on the internet. And, having visited serial killer websites and born witness to anime porn, I consider myself something of an aficianado.
This dating ghoul calls himself Roissy. I got curious about him after reading this article from the Weekly Standard via J. The first thing I determined is that he deletes critical comments, leaving the appearance of a rather impossible echo chamber. Either that, or only other angry/horny borderline-personality disorders read his junk. Having lived there, I realize there’s no shortage of aging fratholes in DC, but he’s got to have some among the majority of normal citizens reading (ie disagreeing) with his content.
The second thing I thought, wondered really, was: What kind of real, ‘alpha’ male spends this much time neurotically analyzing the wants and needs of girls of low to middling intelligence and then declares his superiority when he figures out to play on their insecurities? Wow. Groundbreaking.
Here’s the big secret, men: If you are operating under the imperative to randomly hump whatever decent looking girl will spread, play on the insecurities of a lot of them and eventually one who hates herself will put out. And you will be happy for the rest of your life. Or until you leave adolescence.
So that’s all well and good. The real problem is that I tend to think there was some truth to the premise of Idiocracy, and studious hedonists like this are here to help us on our way. We’re animals, now forget transcendance, higher purpose, and go boink that log. It has big boobs and red lipstick!
Also, a lot of his jizzunk is a real load. Having spent a good long while in and among the dating world, the mechanics of what brought people together, kept them there, or drove them apart were not reducible to some cynical parody of human interaction taking place at 3am in the U Street Corridor. I’m growing weary of this trend wherein urban hipsters tell cynical “truths” about “realities” in which only the same three people that listen to their favorite bands participate.
Like their cd collections, this guy’s lifestyle is a lesson is obscurity.
I suppose there is a small realness to this purported reality though; a reality occupied by lonely people whose souls have corroded away beneath the weight of insecurities, or narcissism, or materialism, but even David Buss (the real master of what ev bio means) pointed out that our higher consciousness can and does leave us with the option of subverting our baser instincts in search of, oh I don’t know, a companion who enriches our experience of life in ways other than salivating on or near our genitalia. The real ‘real’ truth is that most of us don’t feel the overwhelming need to spend our lives sidling up to every pretty thing we see and attempting to hump it.
I suspect there is a subtler truth at play in this misogynistic persona. A story of some mediocre boy, probably a midback on the soccer team, who wept masturbation at all those cheerleaders who had the power to prove what he meant to himself, and yet refused to do so. And now he’s mired and wallowing in his ‘revenge’ of giving two pumps and a squirt to every gullible gal in the vicinity.
Meanwhile, there’s a lot of junk this ‘truth teller’ willfully ignores, up to and including the fact that men benefit substantially more than do women by marriage, in terms of stress and longevity.
But perhaps more importantly, that slutting around with young, insecure women who fall for being neglected and abused does not seem to have led to his own happiness. This guy’s choice of tone and topics, indeed his life, is more negative and depressing than Ivan Denisovich’s. A forever of bitter ranting and rutting? Reading his blog as ‘eventual suicide porn,’ I get. But as advice? Wow. Where do I sign up?