Hungry, Lazy

Super Size Me Must Have Been Tough

Matthew and I traveled down to Boston yesterday. It’s about a five hour journey, so we thought we’d stop and get some food on the way. Where do you get food when you are traveling down an interstate? McDonalds. It’s the only place acceptable.

I have had The Don’s food multiple times in the past couple of years, though definitely not more than once a month. The thing I realized yesterday is that Micky has not graced my mouth with her presence before midnight since I was in 8th grade coming back from a soccer game in Bucksport and I, as the only vegetarian on the team, had to order a hamburger without the patty and fries. This means that I have never had to function after a trip to the golden arches – I have been able to let the processed chicken meat gently rest in my stomach forcing me into a deep food coma on the couch.  After my Ranch BLT, chocolate milkshake, fries, and McChicken* that had some sort of vien/tendon/rat foot in it, I headed on to attempt to complete the rest of my day. As it was still only 1:30, the rest of my day still supposedly included another meal.

Around 6pm Matthew suggested that we go grocery shopping for dinner. I suggested we vomit. 6:30 Matthew suggested walking, I suggested assisted suicide. I wasn’t able to eat the rest of the night until a 1am Klondike Bar, but really you can’t not eat a Klondike Bar so that doesn’t count. I’m hoping I can muster up the energy/will-power to eat breakfast at some point this morning if only because I want to make sure that the last thing I ate  besides a Klondike Bar wasn’t the hard chunk in the middle of my McChicken.

The reason my body is so unable to enjoy this golden intake is because I grew up in a health food store. Every day I would walk to my parents’ store and try to convince them to let me buy a bag of kettle chips AND a fruit juice spritzer, but usually they thought that was too much sugar. I’m not saying I’m mad at my parents for not preparing me for the burgers of the world, but I am. Why didn’t you shove a Big Mac and a couple Whitecastle sliders down my throat right before a track meet. Maybe I would have lost that 800 meter race, and maybe I would have lost a couple of internal organs from hcore vomiting around lap 2, but I would have learned a very valuable lesson: Choose to eat fast food OR do things, both is not an option.

I think I’ll go get my Micky Double Ds for breakfast. It sounds easier than walking around Boston and visiting the science museum.

 

* Calories Total: 1810, Fat: 73g (112%), Sat Fat: 20.5 (102.5%), Cholesterol: 100mg (33%), Sodium: 3000mg (125%), Carbs: 238g (79.3%), Fiber: 15g (60%), Sugar: 84g, Protein: 65g (130%)

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Lazy, Socialism

Others Should be Socialist

At the improv club I work at they end their show by asking a member of the audience up on stage to recount their day. They then improvise what that person’s dream might be like based on the theory that people’s dreams are based on what their days are based on. This sketch always makes me think about how I would retell the events of my day. Sure my blog is supposed to be, and at some point was, an account of my dull day, but I’ve strayed away from that in favor of rants against society as a whole.

Here’s what my day would be like typically.

I woke up around noon only to realize that none of the food in my parents’ fridge looked appealing. Instead I spend the next three hours on my computer saying that I’m looking for a job while I instead get distracted by NBA Live 2008. By that point I am too hungry to function so I eat the ingredients of a sandwich without putting the effort into placing them together in sandwich form. This is usually Tofurky, mustard, and bread. I then tell myself that I’m gonna go outside and enjoy the day. I then play another hour of NBA Live. That gets me in the mood to play basketball for real, which I do for 15 minutes before deciding that that was too much work, so I opt instead to analyze my blog stats and attempt to find correlations that will allow me to increase my viewership, only to come to very obvious conclusions like: “when I post a new entry I get more viewers.” I watch fox news on youtube for a while and then realize that I have to go to work. That’s when I put on pants (that’s right, I played basketball in briefs) and take a shower, and run to work. After work I go to sleep.

That would be a boring day to try to recreate on stage. I don’t think it could last the 7-10 minutes it needs to last.

My mom got mad at me the other day because I was arguing for socialism because I thought it was okay that people don’t work. I said that we should just make sure everybody has living expenses without working and then working just adds perks. She disagreed. I think it’s because I’m her only example of a person who comes close to not working, and my day is unproductive. I argue socialism not for me, but rather for others who I think would do more with that free time. Also they should outlaw dynasty modes on any sports video game because it is too distracting.

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Attention Whoring, Selfish

Why I Was a Math Major (Part II)

For a large portion of my life I’ve been trying to ironically dress like a hipster. It’s the reason I wore oversized (as is everything on me) pale colored business suits for a week straight in high school. It’s the reason I wore a sideways trucker hat, sunglasses, and a chain that said “NG” all complimenting my tight bright white shirt that accentuated my 124 lb. body/waist. It’s the reason I am now wearing a wilderness jacket, a Gilligan hat, a vest and a tie that says “A father’s place is in the boat.” I’m trying to out hipsterize the hipster.

The original concept of hipster-wear comes from over-confidence melded with self-denial. Hipsters’ goals are to take the most “unfashionable” and make it fashionable. Take what poor people would wear – people who couldn’t afford to care about how they look  and then look good in it. I’m beyond that. It’s not just fisherman, lumberjacks, and gas shop attendants who deserve to be called ingrates of the fashion world (to be ingratiated is to be dressed like in irony), there are groups of people who dress nice and care about what they wear that still deserve to be determined ingratable. Those people: Hipsters. (This co-opting of another culture is the self-denial aspect of hipsterism: they don’t have a personal style because they refuse to analyze themselves so they adapt someone else’s culture)

I also have supreme confidence in myself. Maybe not in my looks, but definitely in my lack of caring what I look like. I also like to deny my true opinions, feelings, and thoughts for lack of thinking them worthwhile to share with others. So, I should be a hipster. But I am more confident and better at denying myself an existence than hipsters, therefore I can’t just become poor ironically, I have to become ironic ironically. This is where the mix of Miami Vice, Jamie Kennedy, or Midwest father who enjoys lake fishing with classic hipster accents like untamed hair, skinny shirt/torso, or thrift store vests comes to play.

This isn’t an original concept. Many people have attempted to out-ironize each other, but the claim I will make is that I only like people who land on the even spectrum of irony. People who are ironic are boring, people who are earnest, or ironically ironic are interesting. People who are ironically ironically ironic are douche-bags, throw in another irony, and you got a person I’ll chill with.

Why?

We always land in one of these categories – we are each on some level of irony. If we are earnest then ironic people are making fun of us., where 2nd levelers are making fun of them. So we have to like 2nd levelers because they are standing up for us, and 4th levelers are standing up for 2nd levelers from the 3rd levelers so we hate 3rd levelers and look up to 4th levelers. This continues til infinity.

The other noteworthy note (and redundant redundancy) about this caste system of irony is that the further you go up the irony ladder the more people look up to you for psychological protection, also less people are looking out for you. Especially because there are less people the higher the level of irony. The graph is skew right, not uniform – in fact I have determined that the probability curve for people on levels of irony is f(x)=1/(x+1)^2 where x= irony-level and goes from 0 to infinity. This graph shows that more people are less ironic and less people are more ironic.

Since I lie between x=1.5 and 2.5 (we’re assuming that this is a continuous function in that you could be at x=1.53 as if you are mostly doubly ironic but sometimes slip to regular irony), 60% of people are less ironic than me and 28.57% are more ironic.

This also means that more people are closer to being in an even group (about 57.52%) than an odd group (about 42.48%).

This also means that 33% of people look up to me,  I look up to 12.76% of people, 11.43% of people are similar to me, 26.67% of people envy me, and I envy 15.81% of people. In real words: I’m pretty cool within the dumb, popular, un-hip group. Shit.

I just mathematically proved that I’m everything I profess to hate: Boring.

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Death, Gender, Media, My favorites

What Works?

I didn’t really want to review Whatever Works because I saw it late, I don’t like writing reviews, and I didn’t think I could say anything that hadn’t already been said. Then I saw Whatever Works and I had lots of feelings.

This movie, and more importantly, the beginning of it, came at a point in my life in which I am attempting to analyze and do away with my unhealthy obsession with undoing teen-movies through the actions of my life. Undoing teen-movies isn’t unhealthy, but my methods of doing this is. … very much so. Since I was in high-school I have wanted girls to like me. Okay, more specific. I’ve wanted to create friendships with much prettier girls only to have them realize in a fit of honesty, and possibly drunkeness, that they are deeply and unmanageably in love with me. This is where my fantasy undoes the teen movie. I want to reject them because I did not have those same desires towards them. I want them to want me, and think that I want them only to make them feel miserably pathetic because they followed a contrived, cliche, copycat formula to fin love, and in my twisted psyche they deserve this punishment. “Miserably pathetic” is a feeling that I am used to and am trained to assume is the typical feeling I should have when I want to have sex. Well, “fuck you” pretty girl who is surprisingly proficient at something I’m interested in. I’d rather bone the uglier girl who has the annoying laugh and makes people uncomfortable with her constant talk of vaginal excretions.

The big problem has been that I love to place people into that first category (The “Perfect” Girl) and force an awkward sexual tention, and have a bunch of people assume that me and “perfect” girl are dating, and have my friends think I’m desperately into the girl, only to have the pleasure of rejecting her advances that never come.

As I got older, and believed myself to be wiser, this disgusting fantasy of backwards crushing began to involve the girl be educated by me. She would see my indignance and views on religion, love, and society as enlightening and that would force her to realize that she had a deep sexual and intellectual infatuation for me, which I would reject.

Fucked up. I know. I claim no higher moral purpose, and ask for no pity.

My recognition of these desires and the sexism inherent within them – though I claim more egotism than sexism because I assume I’d have the same fantasy if I were gay – has made me just have uncomfortable non-sexual tension with most of these women and usually involves angry fights that should only happen between people who are boning. Each of my relationships with these women forced into the role of my perfect/anti-perfect girl has ended differently or continues now, hopefully without this element of tension and misogyny.

I’ve counted over a half dozen women that fit into this category and all of them hopefully recognize that respect them dearly and have only come to respect them more through this self-analysis.

So Whatever Works starts with my gross fantasy: an idealized version of my indignance finds a cute but dumb girl, educates her, and she falls in love with him. I loved this movie because I thought it was being presented as a/my fantasy, but then instead of Larry David fulfilling my desires he marries the dumb southern child. This allows Woody Allen to explore his already over-explored theory of “Whatever works” – as long as it doesn’t hurt anybody whatever you want to do works. He throws in a healthy dose of “luck and chance are the greatest variables in life” – the part of Woody’s philosophy that I disagree with most and am most annoyed with – and ends with everyone happy in their societally determined immoral relationships.

Two big problems:

1. Larry David’s character is a prick. I love it, and think that it was a bold and powerful choice to create such an unlikable and (at least to me) relateable character. Especially because of the fantasy element and how that relates to fiction in that it analyzes if fiction is just fantasy renamed (see: last scene in Annie Hall), Larry David’s character made me delve into a deeper self-analysis – a powerful thing for a movie to do. But, because he’s a dick, society should not accept him. It would have been fine for him to be happy and alone (sorta like “Confederacy of Dunces”), but he maintains friendships through his incredible ability to insult. This proved unrealistic and therefore made the message less pertinent – almost too fantastical to even be a realistic fantasy. Too bad because I think Curb Your Enthusiasm illustrations societal disfunction well, where Larry David constantly loses friends because of his “well-intentioned” honesty of dickishness.

2. The movie ended making me feel like it should have been called Everything Works. I see this as very different than whatever you do it’ll work out. I see this as everything you do, no matter who weird, is a positive influence toward an end goal of good. I wish this movie had followed my thought process/life process (as all movies should), and had Larry reject Evan Rachel Wood, only to realize his motivations were immoral and try to become a new, more moral, person by falling in love with the teenager, only to realize that that was not good either, and so on in a spiraling out of control in deconstruction of fiction as a concept that ends with bitter reality. I guess I wish that it had been called: Not Much Works.

To end on a little optimist swing: I don’t think things work out, but I do think that a lack of comfort forces new experiences and change, both of which are my interpretation of the purpose of life. So maybe it should be called: Not Much Works, but That’s Good Because Working is Boring.

I really like being unemployed.

Also Larry and Evan both suck at acting but that’s less pertinent to my life besides that it made me jealous that they got to work with Woody Allen instead of me.

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Lazy

Why I Was a Math Major (Part 1)

This is part one in a three part series of places where I explain my mathematical thinking in real life. I’ll try to keep the math simple, partly because I don’t want to confuse my readers, and partly because I’m not that good at math.

Yesterday I was making a hummus sandwich with Tofurky. I pulled out hummus, bread, Tofurky, red pepper, and honey mustard and began making my sandwich. After smearing on the hummus and honey mustard and placing on the red pepper, I attempted to tear open the Tofurky packaging only to fail. It looked as though I wasn’t going to grace my hummus with slices of soy protein. Then I saw the scissors sitting on the counter.

I stood.

I now had to make a tremendous decision. Was I to make the trek to the cutting device that had, thankfully, been left out by someone in a rush, or was I to deal with a plain sandwich that had honey mustard and hummus mixing on bread as opposed to in my mouth? Really the decision was based on two variables: How much worse my sandwich would be without fake meat (x), and how much extra work it would take to use the fake meat (y). If y>x, then “fuck it. ” If y<x, then “It’s Tofurky time!”

So what goes into y? The work involved would be getting the scissors (g), cutting the bag open (c),, wrapping the Tofurky (w), and putting the Tofurky back in the fridge (f). If I don’t use Tofurky then my work is just (f), so the difference in work is y= g+c+w+f-f   -> y=g+c+w. The difference in taste is harder to figure out. I haven’t tasted the sandwich, but the lack of protein sans Tofurky, and my knowledge that I wasn’t going to make another “meal” for 6 hours at least. Put x at 10. 10 is a good number.

Cutting the bag (c) is a 5, wrapping the Tofurky (w) could range from a 2 to an 8 depending on where the closest saran wrap was. Luckily there was a plastic bag next to the Tofurky. w=3. Getting the scissors (g) was either a 1 or a 3 based on whether or not I could reach them from my current position. I reached. I grabbed the scissors! 5+3+1=9! 9<10! Tofurky time! I went to cut the packaging open only to find that the vacuum sealed packaging made cutting open properly somewhat difficult: more like a 7 or 8 than a 5.

7 or 8+3+1=11 or 12 which is > 10.

I made the wrong decision.

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Gender, Media

Sexism is Cliche

I recently watched “Public Enemies.” It’s a new movie about the gangster life of John Dillinger. I’m not writing a review of it because it was boring, but it did remind me of a paper I wrote in college about the Maltese Falcon. My essay was called “Fedora = Condom?” and it discussed the idea that private dicks were in fact representations of dicks. When they had no hat on they were working for themselves and able to use harsher (Jack Bauer style) methods of interrogation, and only once they put on their fedoras did they become members of the actual police force – meaning they were safer from being accused of a crime themselves, but also able to get less done. Thus the fedora was a condom.

Public Enemies was attempting to hearken back to the noir movies of the early forties and did so very well, but that was the issue with it. There is a reason that noir movies stopped getting made the way they were. It wasn’t because people weren’t talented enough to make them anymore, it was because they got boring. So, we stopped making them. Not Michael Mann. He decided to just remake a bunch of old movies in one shitty, boring diatribe of sexism and cliche.

I said in my paper about the Maltese Falcon: “The woman uses love as a valid defense for lying, while the man uses duty as a defense for doing something that he ‘doesn’t want to do.’”

The female is an emotional creature unconvinced by logic and reason, but completely driven by her irrational emotions. The male, on the other hand, has to complete tasks and accomplish goals, and must be noble in doing all of this. This was the golden age of chivalry (aka sexism). In Public Enemies, Depp/Dillinger decides he wants a girl, and so he tells this woman that she’s gonna be “his girl.” He demands she follow him through his adventures of lawlessness, and he is looked upon as a hero for this.

I could go on about the absurd representations of the relationship and the gender roles within that relationship, but that would make my hypocrisy too obvious, and I like people to have to search to find the hypocrisies that I sprinkle throughout these posts. Instead I’m going to make a claim: Sexism is cliche.

At this point, I wasn’t even offended by the sexism because of how it represented women, or men, or how they should interact with each other because I found it so absurd and obvious that it was completely uninfluential, but rather I am annoyed as an actor, writer, and artist that someone could copy so many tropes from others and think it reasonable to show to an audience. The writer relied on generic gender roles to define a relationship without at all attempting to subvert the roles, or define new roles, or try anything that was tried and true.

So, fuck you Michael Mann, your sexism is soooooo early forties.

ADDITION: Just to prove that these problematic representations of women are affective at influencing our society I feel like I should tell this story.

Last summer I went to a bar with a friend. Not just any bar, but Drink. Drink is a bar mostly attended by people who spent most of high-school at the “cool” table, most of college drunk, and all of their life White. Drink is a bar that told one of my racially ambiguous friends that he wasn’t allowed in because his pants were “too baggy.” I don’t know why I was in Drink.

So, I’m at Drink with a friend, watching bros and hoes interacting. To our left is a largish man with a lack of chin and an excess of hair gel. His shirt was black with plasticy gold lettering on it that said: “King of all Angels.” I pointed it out to my friend, a theater and music kid since birth whose understanding of how to throw a ball would make any homophobic father disappointed and whose wardrobe was filled with clothes that were a mix of steam-punk and girl, and he took this as a cue to begin a conversation with the black and gold douche.

“King of all angels!” my womanly dressed compadre screamed. The bro turned and the two attempted a conversation.

“What’s it mean? The shirt?”

“Oh, I don’t know. But the bitches love it, they just start feeling up on it and shit.”

“Ahhh.”

“You see this chick kissing up on this dude. What the fuck? She’s just living in some fantasy world, he doesn’t care about her, he doesn’t give a shit, she’s thinks he’s… y’know.”

“You don’t think the woman has any agency?”

“……nahhh.”

And this is the attitude that movies like Public Enemies, Maltese Falcon, and Ironman promote. The promote strong men who can take care of women and women who can’t take care of themselves. So when a man is asked does a woman have any agency, first he doesn’t know what it means, but then doesn’t care because a woman doesn’t have much, so he says: “nahhh.”

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Gender, Media, My favorites, Selfish

New Phrases

Lara got an internship at “The Onion” because of her ability to review movies and shit. I love Lara and respect her dearly, but this is what got her an internship?

We need some new phrases. Our old ones don’t make sense in our culture. I’m gonna come up with new ones.

1. Shooting fish in a barrel. Nobody cares about gaining fish anymore. And barrels aren’t prevalent in today’s society. New Phrase: Pointing out the problematic nature of “The Ugly Truth.”

2. Beating a dead horse. This is sick. It implies that beating a live horse is worthwhile. I hate horses, but I think we can kill them in a much more civil way. New Phrase: Pointing out the problematic nature of “The Ugly Truth.”

3. Avoid like the plague. The plague died with all the people who died with it. It’s sooooo dark ages. New Phrase: Avoid like being so cliche as to point out the problematic nature of “The Ugly Truth.”

4. Taking candy from a baby. We now know that giving babies candy is bad for them, so this has different connotations. Instead of implying something is really easy, it simply implies that you are health conscious. If we really want this to keep it’s original meaning we should use the new phrase. New Phrase: Pointing out the problematic nature of “The Ugly Truth.”

5. Watching paint dry/grass grow. We have quick drying paint and chemicals that increase the growth of plants! That makes these activities fun and interesting. Okay, maybe not fun and interesting, but we pay people to do this shit now, and that makes it less boring. New Phrase: Reading a diatribe that points out the problematic nature of “The Ugly Truth.”

6. Mad as a hatter. This idiom comes from the days when mercury was used to make hats and therefore hatmakers went insane. It is insulting to modern day hatters to insinuate that they are all mad. New Phrase: Mad as people who point out the problematic nature of “The Ugly Truth” and think they are accomplishing something.

7. Stubborn as a mule. When’s the last time you hung out with a mule? It doesn’t count if you were at the grand canyon – those mules aren’t stubborn because their spirit has been broken. New Phrase: Stubborn as a person trying to defend themselves to me after I wrote a bitterly mean rant against them and their desired livelihood on the internet.

8. Off like a bride’s nightie. We shouldn’t change this one. This is a good one that I didn’t know about until I wikipediad “English Similes.” It’s Australian. Australians are sooo horny.

9. A wigwam for a goose’s bridle. Um. The Australians are also confusing. But it means “mind your own business.” Well, if it meant mind your own business because it is not worth meddling with something so obviously and absurdly incorrect and obnoxious, and by analyzing it you are only giving credence to something that doesn’t deserve to even be mentioned, even if it is the #1 comedy in America right now. God I hate America. If it means that then New Phrase: A review that points out the problematic nature of “The Ugly Truth.”

10. Calling the kettle black. We don’t use kettles anymore. New Phrase: Me making fun of Lara for her obvious rants against shit that we all already hate.

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Attention Whoring, Gender, Horny, Indignant, My favorites, Selfish

I Wanna Be a Tween Hottie

I was called “cute” a lot when I was in high-school. As much as I hated it, I always looked forward to the days when I would be a famous actor and like so many Zach Braffs, Shia LaBeoufs, Michael Ceras, and Jake Gyllenhaals before me that nerdy cuteness would transform into teeny-bopper sex appeal and I would land myself on People’s 50 Sexiest Men and I would give some rant in the interview explaining why I wasn’t actually attractive and how society had formed our opinions about who was hot and therefore it meant nothing, all the while still posing with my hand over my chest and a goofy smile that showed off my “nerdy-cute” side for the spread.

While this dream dies a little every day I look in the mirror and see the thickening of my chest-pubes and the creation of my back hair, it is not dead. The reason it refuses to die is because I wait tables and many of my customers are 16 year old girls who will get small tatoos on their outer ankle when they turn 18 as a form of rebellion who are on family vacations.

The conditions are perfect.

They are with their family, therefore thinking about what guy they could bring back home to Mom and Dad, I am being overly nice as I am working for tip money, I also shaved so that my splotchy chin hairs don’t disgust people away from ordering spinach artichoke dip, I also am wearing nice clothes, and the 16 year old is on vacation and therefore has contrived fantasies about meeting the love of her life on a trip away from home that then extends to eloping with her new found love. These girls constanly fall in love with me. I am dreamy as fuck to them. I hate it.

Sure it satisfies my sick fantasies of giving a big fuck you to all the girls in high school who rejected me, but I hate those fantasies. Those are dumb fantasies that I shouldn’t feel. So I feel conflicted, and I get mad at the girl for liking me for reasons that I can completely explain away without using any reasons that relate to my actual personality, but also get giddly excited that my theories about my cuteness transforming are correct.

I ran into a girl from high-school yesterday who always thought I had a crush on her. I’m sure I’m not the only guy who she thought had a crush on her, but it always pissed me off. She was really dumb and I therefore made fun of her for it in class. This was misinterpreted as flirting via meanness, when it was truly me just being a dick. When she got in, we both pretended not to recognize the other and wee hoping to extend this fantasy through our entire interaction, but her boyfriend recognized me from high school (I did not recognize him) and killed our ability to dream.

I think that when people are away from a friend for a long time and then they go back to interacting with them, they revert back to their original self in that interaction. One evil condescending look from her grossly over-tanned face (she also has a round face so I used to joke to myself that I would someday just bring a straw into class and start trying to shove it into her head and when she was like “what are you doing?” I would say, “Oh, I’m sorry I thought this was the Tropicana Orange.”) and my voice started cracking, my hands started jerking around, and my jokes started flopping.

I wasn’t cute turned sexy, I was nerdy turned creeepy. That’s probably more likely to be what happens.

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