The New Empty of Graduate School

Here's a sample of some of the crazy shit I end up saying in class:

Just as the Skeptics refuse to rely on the senses, so too do the Buddhists. But in Buddhism, the mind (or mentality) is considered one of the six senses, so that every thought construction is as susceptible to error as every sense impression. In this way, prajñā too is empty (śūnyatā): it is not a knowing of a thing, or any thing; rather it is a way of knowing that all things are not things-in-themselves or things-as-such. Prajñā is a knowing that everything is beyond the conception of thingness; it is a knowledge void (śūnyatā) of content.

If it weren't for Andy's whispered admonitions and sometimes passed notes that read "Don't hate," I think my head would explode from frustration with my classmates, particularly the one who attempts to reduce (meant in the most derogatory manner possible) everything that is not Aristotelian metaphysics to Aristotelian metaphysics. For fuck sake: is that your frame of reference for everything? Including all those things that aren't really things at all?

Andy's right, of course. What's even more frustrating, however, is that I have no vested interest in Buddhism. No intention of being a Buddhist. No design to convert anyone. But if we're talking about Buddhism, should we not use terms and metaphors proper to it instead of imposing and superimposing our own sorry worldview, opposing a new thought or a new way of thinking, disposing of an opportunity for transformational thinking, hiding ourselves--what we conceive to be ourselves--from possible exposure to something wholly other? I suppose so. Otherwise, education becomes more of an unnecessary travesty and a waste of time.

Two days after my last class meeting, I still find myself seeking composure, a releasement toward letting-be. Away from any egoism or intentionality. À la Buddha himself. But there's still another class next week with the same sorry people. Thank G-d Andy will be there to remind me what I most need to learn.

Demockery for All!

... or why women and blacks should not be allowed to vote.

Yes, children: it’s that time again when Uncle Skajlab resorts to name-calling and racist comments in order to make a point about politics in the good ol’ US of the A-hole. Today in the great state of Texas was the run-off election for candidates who did not receive a majority of votes during the primary. I waited until 1:00pm to cast my vote, knowing full well what I was about to find out anyway: nobody fucking bothered to show-up! I was the eighth person at my polling station, which is in one of the largest Democratic districts in the Dallas area.

All those goddamned women and blacks who were all up in arms about ensuring their “own” candidate wasn’t going to get cheated out of a single vote just a month ago apparently couldn’t be bothered to ensure that the best candidate from the Democratic party was going to make the ballot come November. When it comes to declaring their own victimhood, they’re at the front of the line, but when it comes to actually participating in the political process, they are just too busy eating fried chicken or sloughing off another uterine lining.

Way to go, girls! It’s time to go back the “long way” you’ve already come, Baby. This angry, middle-aged, white Anglo-Saxon male is glad to do your job for you. Now get back in the kitchen and make me a grilled cheese!

And woe to you goddamned Obamanations who have shot your wad on the one time a “black” candidate ever made it this far. May it take another century before another Half-rican makes the ballot! (‘Cause you certainly don’t think a real black man would’ve made it this far, do you? You know you can’t run for President with a criminal record, right? I’m just saying….)

Finally, just let me say: you fucking useless “Democratic” fucks deserve another eight-year Bush administration.

It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to...

Here is what I wrote:

I was elected to be a delegate to the district convention, but I will be unable to attend. Would you please select an alternate to go in my place?

Here is what I should have written:

There is no way in hell I’m giving up my precious few free moments to be part of the mockery known as American party politics. After seeing the organizational fiasco the night of the primary and the cartoonish/buffoonish personae with whom I would be forced to contend, I really have no desire to see any of you again.

And remove me from the email list populated with incessant rants about the other candidate and the latest conspiracy theory about how “our” candidate is going to be cheated out of votes/delegates/brownie points. Classroom elections in junior high were never so asinine!

I cannot see how my participation in this corrupt system would benefit freedom, democracy, or justice. Should I continue serving, I would be merely supporting a system that needs much more than an overhaul in order to serve properly the people of this country.

If ever you need help completely dismantling this injustice, give me a call. Until then, I do not want to play your reindeer games, particularly when the result will be the election of yet another politician in a regime devoid of intelligence, morality, and insight.

Gay for Democracy

I wonder if I’ll ever post to this blog again. I wonder if my days will ever stop being so damned full of foolishness and nonsense and incessant busywork. I wonder if I’ll finally slip over the edge of sanity and land in a puddle of my own full-blown, hard-core, crazy-assed lunacy. I wonder if my neck will ever stop hurting.

These are all good things to wonder about as I get to luxuriate by not having to drive to campus this evening for the worst class in graduate school. Thank the heavens for crappy winter weather! Snow day in Texas in March—just two days before “spring” break? Why thank you very much.

Today I was thinking about tautologies and dogmatism … and how dogmatism is always a form of tautology: what could be more dogmatic and tautological than I AM THAT I AM? Even the skeptic critique of the dogmatists’ syllogism is based on the uselessness of tautology: premise A, that all human beings are mortal, is necessarily always (and in all ways) no less tautological than all black chess pieces are black. Dogmatism asserts its own meta-self-recursivity. And all must bow before it(self).

Truth however asserts in perfect Heraclitean fashion that I am that which I am not. Truth embraces its own opposite. In balance. And resonance: a non-Narcissistic echo that decenters and destabilizes its own frame of reference. The truth is big enough to embrace that which it is not. In my opinion, the apophatic god is the only one/not-one (not) worth worshiping!

And yes, I did vote in the Texas primary Tuesday. I even returned to the caucus afterwards to experience the glory of the chaos and insipidness of democracy. Sorry, Iraq. Sorry Afghanistan. Sorry Iran … eventually. Sorry for bringing all our overwrought freedom your way! And my small role in democracy is not over just yet: I’ve been elected a delegate to the district caucus. I’ll report back near the end of the month how absurd that procedure is.

Fidelidad

Just let me say amid the shouts of self-congratulatory glee across DC and Miami today: the problem with Cuba has never been Fidel Castro. Cuba’s problem has never had anything to do with anything as embedded in Cuba as Comrade Fidel.

From its colonization under the repressive thumb of the Spanish Empire—may you and your conquistadores de terrorismo (todo en el nombre de Dios todopoderoso, por supuesto) rot in hell—Cuba and the inhabitants of Cuba have always gotten the short end of the stick, and the rotten end of hegemonic imperialism. And when Spain was finally banished, the US came riding in atop a brown horse named Little Texas, no less, to take charge, subjecting Cuba to de facto American rule for half a century.

Both corrupt American political parties have played along in the game of World Domination. From Kennedy’s Bay of Pigs fiasco (don’t worry, children: he got his just a few years later in Dallas) to Clinton’s signing of the Orwellian-named Cuban Liberty and Democratic Solidarity Act of 1996, Democrats have been just as thickheaded and insular as Republicans when it comes to dictating policy toward one of America’s closest neighbor-nations.

So on this glorious, sunny day in Havana, the “Cuban problem” still remains and will be around for quite some time, for as long as Americans keep electing imbeciles, for as long as crazy “refugees” in Miami keep dictating a bankrupt policy toward their homeland despite reasonable proposals over the past 50+ years, for as long as that pinche Dios todopoderoso sits on his shiny gold throne puffing away on his El Rey del Mundo cigar.

Until then: ¡Viva la Revolución!

Skeptical to the very end

Thankfully I shaved my head last week or I would've spent three hours last night pulling out my hair in the worst graduate class of my life.

First off, there's the Boy Wonder, named for a superhero with "spidey" powers. As one of my friends put it: "I was scanning the room to see who the professor was, and I would've never guessed it was him!" It's a game he calls Who's In Charge Here? Not only does Prof. Wonder allow Student J. to teach the course for him (which thankfully it is someone who at least knows what he's talking about ... despite the fact that Student J. is the most stubbornly obtuse and willfully Philistinian graduate student I know), but he even raises his hand to ask Student J. questions, further corroborating who wears the pants in this seminar.

Then there's Weezy--short for Crazy Fucking Retarded Red-Haired Girl--who practically sat on my lap last night. She's a mover: constantly shifting from side to side, trying to mesmerize all of us with her slippery stupidity. She's the one who nods her head and verbally agrees with absolutely every single statement made, especially the ones she makes the speaker repeat because she wasn't paying attention in the first place. She did that four times. And her most impressive contribution to the class thus far: "What was that anti-essentialism that wasn't really essentialism essentially called by the essentialists who essentially believed in essentialism?" (My parody of her actual question makes more sense than the crazy shit she was talking.)

Sitting at the corner of the seminar room was Pontiff Jerkopedia: "Pontiff" because he profusely pontificates ad nauseam, and "Jerkopedia" because he knows absolutely something about almost everything and wants to share his encyclopedic wisdom with the rest of us. In 6th grade, he would've been the student the teacher described as "having diarrhea of the mouth." I was underwhelmingly impressed. Yet he presented last night, taking approximately two hours to fill in the gaps of the eight-page, single-space "outline" he handed out. His one truly savant quality: taking something that a smart person says and writing missives on that topic, posting them on WebCT. Hence, I no longer log in to WebCT.

And these are only a handful of the colorful folks who populate my Thursday evenings. I won't even begin to describe the lame-ass reading requirements, except to say they are from a poorly edited and thrown together anthology Prof. W. worked on as a TA when in graduate school. As he described the course on the first night: "This is the best I have to offer." Really? You can't teach a class on a topic you actually know? God save us all! I usually spend a few hours after class decompressing with my intelligent cohorts over several drinks, but our debriefing last night was pre-empted by Valentine's Day obligations. Thanks for allowing me to rant a little this morning.

Perhaps next Thursday evening I'll just gnaw my arm off.

A walk down memory alley

December 11, 1988, Sunday

Four days of
foreplay
and by the end of the week ...
Is no one real anymore? or anymore real?
I touch and tease and talk,
But I don't see him when he's not there.
And when he's here his face is not familiar.

Moving in dreams,
And yet I lack sleep.

December 13, 1988, Tuesday

I met a damsel in distress
Who fought dragons with broken wine glasses
She moved in shadows of candlelight
She showed me sights without a sound
And broke the silence with laughing gods
I'll build a tower for my lover
Keep her safe from herself

Instead of throwing myself under the academic bus this afternoon, I decided to drag out that old yellow spiral-bound notebook and see what kind of crazy shit I wrote almost twenty years ago. These were two particularly poetic passages that stood out from that cold December; the first entry was for Todd, the second for Melissa. Funny how I never wrote anything readable before then, and sad how even then what I wrote was pure shit.

The uselessness that was Todd (although I still sometimes mistype his name as Tod, German for death) dragged on till late the following summer. The bizarreness of Melissa petered out sometime in the spring.

After a few more pages--on the level of "I still smell you on my clothes"--we get to this:

December 14, 1988, Wednesday

The moon wasn't right tonight, but I was. And I remain hungry. If I get on your nerves, just brush me off. Both of you are pretty good at it already, and you're such great teachers. Perhaps I may one day brush you off like the dandruff you left on my sheets or like the mud caked on my muffler after we trampled it in your car. I may just fucking wash my hands altogether and be done with it.

And then there's some Russian phrases. We three were studying Russian together; in fact, Melissa and I met in Russian I my first semester at UTA. I was smitten. Todd was in a different section, but the subsequent spring semester we were enrolled in the same section of Russian II.

If I remember correctly ... and I do ... that double-whammy significantly contributed to my almost flunking out of college:

Fall 88 GPA: 4.000
Spring 89 GPA: 2.385

But how exactly did I manage to earn my one A that term in Russian II? The one class I only went to when I was drunk and depressed? (My one D was in PHIL 2311 Logic, as if my personal life needed that little reminder! Too bad there wasn't a PHIL 2312 Fucked-Up Crazy Shit that I could've drunkenly aced!)

Now I rarely write bad poetry (or poetry at all). Bad relationships no longer inspire me. And I don't compose verse as I'm getting laid. I only pray I have the good enough sense to burn all these notebooks (as well as push this big delete button) before I die.

Pitstop on the Way to Mensa

My popularity has soared over the past several months, while my faith in such things as popularity has plummeted.

When I was in high school, I always thought it strange that I wasn’t invited into the honor society until the end of my sophomore year. I had been earning the highest grades of my class since my family moved into the district when I was in third grade. And of course I was destined to be the valedictorian of 1986.

Even though I knew I was “the smartest hillbilly in Hillbilly Town,” I really received an education with the politics of popularity because one, after all, had to be invited into the honors club; one could not merely join based on one’s merits, or grades, or intelligence, or aptitude, or IQ, or any other factor. One had to earn it, ostensibly by being noticed by those already accepted.

But I too was destined to obscurity, especially among my peers. I think eventually enough of my teachers or perhaps the honor society’s advisor probably felt awkward enough to convince the popular kids to invite me in, even though my gpa had always been and would continue to be several points higher than theirs. It would’ve been scandalous, no doubt, not to have the soon-to-be valedictorian as a member.

I did join. And I also briefly toyed with the idea of not joining just to prove an already over-proved point. By “accepting their invitation,” I also proved that I could play nice even when the cards were stacked against me. That lesson, I’m certain, was lost on my smart (in a popular sense) classmates.

I’ve always felt clumsy and shy when people noticed my intelligence anyway. Just in the past couple of weeks several of my friends, colleagues, and professors at the university have made very flattering comments about how I stand out on campus as “the smart one.”

I’m even more flattered by the fact that I really value the opinion of those people whom I respect as some of the smartest people I’ve ever known. It’s like an ungainly feedback loop of smarts and flattery falling back upon itself as if upon a black hole. But lessons learned at sixteen temper too much egoism.

That said, I’ve always been jealous of Stephen’s graduate school cadre of geniuses who would spend hours sitting in coffee shops having fabulous and articulate conversations for hours at a time. I’m not sure if it was the number of people in the group (popularity) or the quality of their conversations (intelligence) I was most envious of. But now it seems I have some of that for myself. Finally. After how many freaking years in school! I’m really looking forward to the next couple of years working with these people.

To quote an email I sent just last week: “P.S. Do you think Andy likes me?” And no, I'll never join Mensa.

What part of “don’t fuck with me” do you not understand?

I’m fairly mild-mannered as I move through my days. And although patience is not one of my virtues—blame my sonofabitch father for passing along that characteristic—years of meditation, qigong, and deep thinking all play a part in keeping my heart rate lowered while confronting “difficulties.” I’m never a dick … unless pushed to extremes. And yesterday I had to rely quite heavily on my coolness as I encountered several people bent on pissing me off.

Eating at Luby’s always stresses me out: I’m never quite sure which (or how many) sides to order. And the servers are rarely under sixty and (even less) display any serenity of their own. The first woman behind the counter didn’t grasp my order of coleslaw (pronounced “coleslaw”), so she ended up repeating it three times before finally spooning some in a bowl for me. Not too much of a problem, but it was enough to put me on edge for the next station.

My order: mashed potatoes. The server grabbed a plate with a huge chunk of pork on it and began slinging mashed potatoes. I asserted, “That’s not my plate.” Most people who know me know I haven’t eaten meat in 22 years. Since the server didn’t know me from Meat-Eater Marvin, I could certainly understand (and overlook) her mistake. But then she scraped the mashed potatoes back into the serving bowl and started slamming dishes around.

The next server asked what else I wanted, and before I ordered broccoli, I looked the previous woman straight in her 65-year-old face and said, “I could use a little less attitude.”

It was enough to make Stephen’s day, I think. He was still laughing about it later at night. The best part about it for me was that I said what I wanted to say, what needed to be said, and then let it go. Usually I’m worked up afterwards, but I was fairly calm while eating my coleslaw (pronounced “coleslaw”), (angry) mashed potatoes, and broccoli—hold the attitude.

After a stressful first day back on campus, filling out paperwork, meeting with students, attending orientation at the college, commuting for more than an hour, dealing with Surly Magpie at Luby’s, and trying to move into an new place, I was looking forward to relaxing a little once I got home.

At some time around 10:45pm, the flipping Filipinos—since I don’t know any racial slurs for Filipinos—started vacuuming. That is a common occurrence, and an issue that has been addressed by both the old management as well as the new. Since the last time I had to walk upstairs to tell them how to be decent neighbors and instead had a door closed in my face (after I was forced to knock three times before they deigned to answer), I decided I was above such face-to-face confrontations. So instead I crawled under our building and turned their electricity off. Fuck you, stupid fucks! Start making unnecessary noise when I’m getting ready to sleep and you’ll stumble your ass around in the dark.

Needless to say, I slept like a baby until about 6:00am, when I turned their electricity back on. Oh, did I say, “Fuck you”?

What comes when I try to write...

"All of your anno Domini
the whole year long
has turned to
anno servi, or two, or
better yet:
ano polaco...
in a piece of the wor(l)d
where slave and Slav
de-fine the di-stance between
six years—nine, but who’s counting?
seven hours, and
365 degrees,
the temperature at which this flesh burns."

Skin Deep

There are already so many things wrong with the story about the French woman who received the first face transplant. Like how did she “lose” her face to begin with? Well, she took an overdose of sleeping pills in a botched suicide attempt. She didn’t wake up when her pet Labrador retriever started chewing on her face. But she did wake up after it had already gnawed off her lips, chin and most of her nose. Note to self: feed the dog before killing yourself. Or better yet, kill the dog first!

I’m thinking this would’ve been a ripe time for another suicide attempt, but no: instead medical science in all of its vast uselessness decided to cut the face off a brain-dead woman and transplant it on our heroine. After a couple of near rejections of the face—we could be here all night if I was going to pursue this line of thought!—it seems the face was there to stay. Now she has regained nearly full use of her facial muscles. Or the facial muscles of the other woman. I’m not sure exactly where one woman ends and the other begins! Our heroine is currently “satisfied with the aesthetic result,” according to her surgeon.

Of course, none of what I’ve written or thought about thus far concerns the real problem at hand. The most disturbing aspect of the article I read in the New York Times is the final two sentences:

Ms. Dinoire’s [face] is a bit crooked, with one side slightly higher and one eye more open. But it is not unlike that of a typical Frenchwoman trying to convey a vaguely insouciant sarcasm, with hints of mordant wit and a certain je ne sais quoi.

I have lost all respect for the New York Times for publishing such an offensive, misogynistic and xenophobic article. I have lost all respect for modern science for thinking it was within acceptable ethical bounds to perform such a surgery in those circumstances. And I have lost all respect for Labrador retrievers, or as I shall henceforth refer to them: “face eaters.”

It all reminds me of something my mother used to say when I was a kid: “Beauty is only skin deep, but ugliness goes clear to the bone.” (She would know.)

Bullet-Point Friday

• Ah, the last of the Bullet-Point Fridays!
• I started this segment when I returned from Germany and began the fall semester just to ensure that throughout the long and difficult term I would sit down at least once a week and post something on my blog. And now it’s almost over.
• Well, not quite: I still have to submit another essay Monday. My research on the Redon painting has been fairly interesting, but—ohmygod!—I have no energy to just sit down and pound it out. I wrote about half of it Thanksgiving Day. While most of my compatriots were stuffing turkey down their throats, I was fasting and writing—what I tend to do best on that holiday. And I spent more than three hours at the museum Wednesday, so I have plenty of information to write about. Just tired.
• I exhausted myself with the first essay due before Thanksgiving. And thankfully that proved to be worth the effort. My professor wrote that I was “gifted.” (And I’ve hence decided to start a “Gifted & Talented” program for my Ph.D. curriculum! Too bad few of my colleagues will meet the requirements….) Of course, I started the research and reading on the flight to Germany last July, so it’s fairly accurate to say that I’ve done some serious thinking about my topic over the past 4½ months.
• Perhaps I will start my Bullet-Point Fridays again come January. But I think I’ll change the name: no good ever came from bullets. And “bullet points” imply a reduction and a leveling that I hope to never be guilty of.
• I submitted my translation portfolio for the term this morning. I feel like after the first draft I was no longer doing translation but merely leveling, making the text palatable to the pack of illiterate philistines who were in the class with me. After several classmates complained that one particular sentence was “hard to understand,” I declared, “Perhaps I should just translate it back into Polish, and then we’ll see how well you understand it!” If nature abhors a vacuum, then I’m certain she would indeed hate my classmates as much as I do.
• So, it’s time to go to bed. I still have so much more work to do over the next couple of weeks: exams to write and grade, essays to grade, grades to submit. And my winter break is quickly filling up with things wanting to be done and read. (And I’ll try to write so much more consistently throughout the week that Bullet-Point Fridays will be unnecessary.)

Bullet-Point Friday

• It’s like, you know, flamenco piano: when you hear the first measures of just such a beast you recognize the form (flamenco) but don’t recognize the medium (piano) because your ears are not trained to interpret that form through that medium. After a few moments, a new synapse fires, and you are better prepared to hear flamenco piano again: a new possibility has been created in your world.
• It’s like, you know, when human beings rely too heavily on infrastructure designed to keep them safe (i.e., guardrails, stop signs, traffic lights) that they behave irresponsibly because someone else is policing their reckless behavior; they have a false sense of security because they’ve relinquished responsibility for their own actions. (It’s also like, you know, when parents expect legislation to supplement their demonstrably poor parenting skills: they want society to be policed instead of being responsible for the raising of their own children. I mean, think of the children!) Remove the guardrails and pedestrian accidents fall 60% because pedestrian and driver behave more responsibly when they must think for themselves. If I choose to jaywalk, then I’ll be sure to look both ways—twice, even—before jumping out in traffic.
• It’s like, you know, trying to get through a lecture on Berkeley’s immaterialist idealism when your students would much rather hypothesize about “crazy people” or “people on LSD” or “the blind”: if someone falls in the woods and no one is around to perceive it, did the person really exist in the first place? (Thankfully, for Berkeley, God is omniscient and omnipresent: He’s always watching/perceiving! And even if you don’t believe in God, He still believes in you.) I sometimes wish my students would stop invading my sensory world so their drug-induced craziness would simply stop existing, even if only for me.
• It’s like, you know, hotdog!
• It’s like, you know, accepting the alternate relationship with truth that wanders to supplement one’s acceptance of truth that remains coordinated on a grid. To start walking with the right foot (techne, the logos of techne, the word: “technology”) is quite alright as long as the next step is with the left foot (organic, systemic (uncoordinatable) episteme, the organicity of the epistemic); otherwise, you spin around in circles going nowhere. And no guardrail is going to protect you from doing that!
  
• It’s like, you know, attempting to speak language as such without using any of the words from the language of humankind. Or perhaps like, you know, speaking a word to(ward) an other all the while speaking a word as (an)other. This too shall not pass.
• It’s like, you know, Liberace’s famous question: “Would you rather have roses on your piano or tulips on your organ?” Vote now!

Professional Experience Optional

I love my teaching job. Really. My students are bright and inquisitive and ask really difficult questions. It's easy to see that many of them are engaged with the subject. Of course, I have a few slackers and wanna-be dozers as well, but most days I feel more akin to them—thank you, insomnia!—than those students who always raise their hands and want more information.

What I’m utterly sick of, however—and mind you, it’s only the third week of classes—is the shitty secretarial/clerical pool who can’t seem to do one fucking thing except sit on their asses and scold you for something completely out of your control. I still don’t have a key to my classroom. I was hired last April, but the key request wasn’t submitted until after the fall term began. And the one person on campus who duplicates keys took the past week off for vacation.

So I calls the gurl who should be able to get things done and am told I needs to just contact the campus police via the emergency phone to have someone sent up. My first thought was to simply pull the emergency alarm—feigning ignorance and misunderstanding—and fuck up the entire campus at least for a few minutes.

Of course, campus police feel they have more important things to tend to—and they really should; no argument here—but my class and I sit in the hall until about a quarter past before someone appears with a key. And I have to show my faculty ID, blah blah blah, because I look “like just another student” to the trained professional campus security force. Funny how some back-assward compliments tend to just piss you off.

Yesterday my email account stopped working, so while on campus this morning I called IT to solve my problems. Instead I’m confronted with Bitchy Bitchison. Now I don’t want anyone reading this to think I don’t like bitches. That’s just not true. Some of my best friends are bitches. But if she didn’t sound so completely laughable with her deep southern accent when she scolded, “Wahn thang atta tayme, now!” my head would’ve exploded right then and there.

I understand your jobs are shit. And seeing your plaques that read “In Honor of 5 Years of Service,” “In Honor of 10 Years of Service,” “In Honor of 15 Years of Service,” and “In Honor of 20 Years of Service” above your desk everyday has got to just rub you as raw as your inner thighs when you think back to a whole constellation of bad decisions that got you this far in life. But you have insurance—I don’t. Your paycheck—despite my almost Ph.D. compared to your Associates of Secretarial Training (I’m not making this shit up!)—is much more than mine since you’re fulltime and I’m barely part-time.

Is it too much to ask for a little respect? If not for my degrees, professional demeanor, maturity, functionality, then at least for the fact that once, a long time ago, I too served as a secretary/clerk, but that I used my secretarial powers for good and not evil. And that I got out of the secretarial pool to evolve into the super boy-genius you see before you. And I probably type just as fast if not faster than Thou. So fucking do your job and stop telling me how to do mine!

Spam from the Great Beyond

If you are reading this, then the Lord Bobcat Jesus has come down in his infinite flames and glory, surrounded by heavenly hosts and neighborly guests, in order to take those whosoever believeth in Him into the folds of his celestial paradise for eternity ... or until the boredom settles in. Millions of His believers have been called into heaven, and you, dear, have been Kept Down on earth.

Rumors are surely abounding around the globe about the disappearance of His followers, but in case you haven't heard about it already, then you must just assume that there is a huge worldwide conspiracy to suppress the fact that Bobcat Jesus has returned for His chosen.

I was one of them. So there! See, I was right. All those long, preachy sermons about how the flames of hell will lick the boils on your ass if you don't believe in the sacrificial graciousness of His Lord Holyroller were not in vain. Whereas my cup of everlasting mercy shall overflow, you will lick the dregs of your Dixie cup of Tang.

The only way out of this infernal predicament is to clasp your hands together oh-so-tightly and repeat after me: "I was wrong. There is a Bobcat Jesus. I believe in Bobcat Jesus. I offer up my worthless piece of shit self to your unlimited grooviness and love."

Only if you say that three times fast and really really mean it, then maybe--just maybe--Bobcat Jesus will pick you up next time he swings by planet Earth. Keep your fingers crossed!

The only trouble with this is that some people would rather waste their time believing in Jesus (without the "Bobcat") than accepting the Bobcat (perhaps without the "Jesus"). Thanks to I Blame the Patriarchy for the Good News!

Dog Day Afternoon

Saw a dog of a movie this holiday weekend: The Year of the Dog. Who in their right mind liked this film? And why did so many people recommend it to me? Just further proof, it seems, that human beings are ultimately unknowable.

I almost always take my cue from a film’s popularity: if it grosses more than a couple of million, then it’s probably not to my tastes. But everyone was talking about this film. Hell, even Saturday Night Live brought back Molly Shannon to host—only the second time a former female cast member returned to host—because of the success (or buzz) of this movie.

There wasn’t a single likeable or believable character. And a very fundamental note to the director/writer/producer: a real vegan wouldn’t be drinking wine or brushing her teeth with a big-name brand displayed on the tube. Those things typically aren’t vegan! I learned those things when I was a teenager on a farm in East Texas. I have no idea why someone in Hollywood wouldn’t be as smart as a dumb country fuck.

Another DVD I rented this weekend was Strangers with Candy. Still not sure what the point of that was. It was strange and bizarre, but I certainly didn’t find it funny. Thankfully the third DVD was a winner: Wanda Sykes’ stand-up routine filmed in Seattle. Now that made me laugh out loud.

To wash the gullet and clear the (mental) palate from crappy DVDs, I went to see the latest Bourne film this afternoon. Not quite as good as the first two, but still something worthwhile. I really like Matt Damon’s character, and I also really like Joan Allen’s and Julia Stiles’ characters as well. I’m glad Ludlum kept developing those female characters. Finally a film I would recommend.

Internationalismus

… or the post where Euro-Franz offends absolutely everyone. (By the way, here "euro" is pronounced "oy-Roh," pretty much how a Jew would address Rosie O'Donnell.)

Sitting at Café Angst yesterday afternoon, I asked myself the following question: is it racist for me to call my professor a smelly Romanian? She is indeed from Romania, and my nose can attest to her smelliness especially after sitting rather a bit too closely to her these past couple of days during our one-on-one sessions. And the next question: why am I in Germany studying German with a smelly Romanian? (I guess maybe a better next question would’ve been: why is this particular Romanian smelly? But my advanced education and intellect preclude obvious segues.)

Then I remembered: my morning language instructor is from Hungary. Quick: what’s German for “What the fuck?!?!” So I am sitting miserably at Café Angst—and no, that’s not the real name of this place, but Café Angst is such a better, more appropriate name for the basement of the Mensa, which is Roman-Germanic for "Student Union Building (SUB)"—slowly realizing that I’m here (heute Deutschland) studying German with a bunch of foreigners (“New Europeans,” I believe is the official term used by the US State Dept.; Morgen die Welt! no doubt.)

I refuse to believe that these so-called new Europeans are somehow better or even similar to the old ones. When are the old Europeans going to export their superior "bathroom technologies" to the east? Will there come a day of no smelly Romanians? Hell, why doesn’t Herr Professor Dingleberry just outsource the whole fucking program to the Chinese? That way, my solid German education would be just as good as poisoned dog food without the messy analogy.

Herr Professor Dingleberry, you must know, is the quintessential oompa-loompa kind of German who has a surreal lilt to his perfect cartoon caricature voice. I suspect he secretly wears lederhosen and plays the tuba.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to accept “feedback” on my German from teachers who misspeak and mispronounce almost every word in English. If I can understand their comments in not only broken but completely butchered English, then certainly any poor slob on the streets here won’t bat an eye when I use the “soft” pronunciation of the German ch instead of the “hard” one. But as the Nigerian woman who sits next to me attested, there are still a few old Hitlerites who appear out of nowhere (history? the bushes?) to scold foreigners for speaking English and/or bad German. Funny how it takes an 80-year-old German fuck to protect the language from a young African and Asian woman who came all this way to study the devil's language and who are simply waiting at a bus stop.

Oh, and you thought the Nigerian woman was going to get off easy: I refer to her (in my mind) as the Nigerian communist because what is mine is hers. One day this past week she, throughout the course of the class meeting, had "borrowed" my dictionary, pencil, pen, and notebook. A question I had never really considered asking before: Can I borrow my dictionary again?

Funny how speaking Polish last night after the concert with Kasja was the most normal I’ve felt since arriving in Germany. Looking back at just last week, speaking Spanish (with a lisping Castillian inflection--I sounded like a gay Puerto Rican--redundant?) was pure bliss, being able to express what I wanted and being able to understand the replies. The people I share English with here are not worth the pixels on your computer screens. Besides, there’s no way I could capture their insipid conversations and “observations.” (Case in point: we see a fabric store, and one says, “There’s a fabric store. I like fabric stores.” Gee, thanks for sharing. Why don’t you save that to blog later and just be quiet for now?)

The cute Azerbaijani boy asked me rather rudely in German on the way to the concert last night, “You don’t speak anything other than English?” I replied in Russian that I understood pretty much everything he was saying to the people he had just been speaking Russian to, and then in German I filled out my resume: Polnisch. Spanisch. Japonisch. Suckmydickbisch. I didn’t take it too personally, though, because he’s probably the prettiest eye candy around. When he wasn’t looking, I snapped a few photos of him. What the hell is going on with my fetish for widow’s peaks?

Hillbilly, go home!

It was raining this morning when I left the dorm, so I didn't bring the laptop today. So this will have to be quick. Last night--another sleeping fiasco. I think I'm giving up afternoon coffee altogether. Both times I had one, I didn't sleep but 3-4 hrs. I guess the Germans mix heroin in their coffeebeans. Too bad I can't get an afternoon coffee in the morning before classes.

Tonight is a violin recital by a world-class musician, and the buzz in class this morning included the ever-so-American question, 'Do I have to dress up for the concert?' Fuck yes! you're not on a farm, goddamnit! I thought stupid sorority girls liked to shop and buy pretty things. I guess they all left their fancy dresses in the hope chest at their parents' house. Trash trash trash. Thanks for not even trying to make an effort, now Hillbilly, go home! And burn your passport when you get there.

People Unclear

Over the past few days I've been completely surrounded by people unclear on the concept of how to be adult human beings. For example, when I dropped off my recycling Saturday morning, another man pulled up to drop off his recycling as well. The only problem was that he left his car running while he made several trips from his trunk to the bins. He probably would've done less harm to the world if he would've thrown everything out with the trash and left his car off and in the driveway. Never again will I be concerned that the 25-minute commute to the recycling plant is a waste.

Later that day, after we got out of the free showing of Todo sobre mi madre at the Latino Cultural Center's Pedro Almodóvar film festival, Crazy Bitch #1 started throwing soda cans out her car window as she was driving up North Central Expressway. We took her license and car model, and I'm happy to say this morning I passed that information on the Don't Mess with Texas office. My small vigilante work here is done. (But if someone would like to find out her address and slap the shit out of her, go nuts: 122 JVW (Texas) - Blue Kia Spectra.)

And speaking of nuts, what is going on in the world these days to produce a jock shortage?!?! I was in search of a jock for several days before I finally found one in my size. I wear large, and it's not that I'm a unique shape. Most sports/athletic shops didn't carry a single one; some carried only youth sizes; and a couple had only smalls or XXLs. What's a boy gotta do to get a jock around here? Thank you, Target for carrying the one single large jock in all of Dallas. Now restock so I can buy a second one.

Burnt Out

Cameron Diaz using her eco-friendly (and edible) hair gel.

Nothing makes Skajlab wish the whole world would burn to smithereens than the incessant and insipid Cameron Diaz talking about the environment. Yes, I bought those damned expensive light bulbs several months ago. Yes, I gradually grew accustomed to the bizarre glow that emanates from them. (Even my neighbors commented on the strange light coming from my windows!) And one of them has already burned out! So much for saving me money in the long run. So much for saving the world one light bulb at a time. So much for eco-spokesperson Cameron making a real difference: I’m sure now in the post-Live Earth fantasy she’ll refuse to be a part of any production that is not entirely green and utterly significant. I wonder just how many of those st00perstars are willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for the world and give up their careers and celebrity lifestyles. My light bulbs are not going to make the least little impact if Al Gore himself is still jetting around the globe presenting his fancy slideshow. Jets don’t run on rainbows. PA systems don’t run on love. Stop preaching (and “raising awareness”) and actually conserve energy (and my patience) by sitting your sorry ass at home in the ethereal glow of an enviro-friendly light bulb that’s about to burn out long before the world. And I’ll gladly keep my TV turned off for good measure.

Required Reading (definitely though with love)

This Independence Day it's important for us Americans to finally get it through our thick heads that there is a fundamental, essential difference between nationalism and patriotism. And that neither of those has anything to do with hegemonic warmongering. Just to keep us straight on those points, here is one of my favorite poems from patriot Nikki Giovanni:

I Laughed When I Wrote It
(Don’t You Think It’s Funny?)

the f.b.i came by my house three weeks ago
one white agent one black (or i guess negro would be
more appropriate) with two three-button suits on (one to
a man)
thin ties—cuffs in the bottoms—belts at their waists
they said in unison:
ms. giovanni you are getting to be quite important
people listen to what you have to say
i said nothing
we would like to have to give a different message
i said: gee are all you guys really shorter than hoover
they said:
it would be a patriotic gesture if you’d quit saying
you love rap brown and if you’d maybe give us some
leads
on what some of your friends are doing
i said: fuck you
a week later the c.i.a came by two unisexes one blond afro
one darker one three bulges on each showing lovely bell-
bottoms and boots
they said in rounds:
sister why not loosen up and turn on
fuck the system up from the inside
we can turn you on to some groovy
trips and you don’t have to worry
about money or nothing take the commune
way and a few drugs it’ll be good for you
and the little one
after i finished a long loud stinky fart i said serenely
definitely though with love
fuck you
yesturday a representative from interpol stopped me in the
park
tall, neat afro, striped hip huggers bulging only in the right
place
i really dig you, he said, i want to do something for you
and you alone
i asked what he would like to do for me
need a trip around the world a car bigger apartment
are you lonely i mean we need to get you comfortable
cause a lot of people listen to you and you
need to be comfortable to put forth a positive image
and digging the scene i said listen i would sell
out but i need to make it worth my while you understand
you just name it and i’ll give it to you, he assured me
well, i pondered, i want aretha franklin and her piano
reduced to fit next to my electric
typewriter on my desk and i’ll do anything you want
he lowered his long black eyelashes and smiled a whimsical
smile
fuck you, nikki, he said

And below some more worthwhile reading this holiday: first, an op-ed about immigration hysteria, and secondly, an interview with probably the most intelligent conservative thinker I've ever heard on what's wrong with the current administration.

• The Founding Immigrants
  By Kenneth C. Davis
  Published: July 3, 2007
  Disdain for what is foreign is, sad to say, as American as apple pie, slavery and lynching.


• Interview with Victor Gold
  By Bill Moyers
  Aired: June 29, 2007
  The impact of the sound bite mentality which you find in both parties...is there's been a debasing of the system. Because if you listen to these — I call them the Stepford candidates — on both sides in these debates the only two candidates that speak clearly are the ones they call the kooks.

"conversant on existentialism"

After hearing about yesterday's NPR article "For Shakira, an Emotional Homecoming Show," I imagined an encounter between Shakira, Beyonce, and French existentialist Jean Paul Sartre.

Being is. Being is in-itself. Being is what it is.

Shakira: (Twisting Beyonce's hair into braids.) You know those lyrics from "Hips Don't Lie"? It goes, "Oh boy, I can see your body moving / Half animal, half man / I don't, don't really know what I'm doing / But you seem to have a plan / My will and self restraint / Have come to fail now, fail now / See, I am doing what I can, but I can't so you know / That's a bit too hard to explain."

Beyonce: (Giggling.) Yeah, I remember.

Shakira: I was really trying to articulate Sartrean nausea in the face of overwhelming freedom.

Beyonce: Yeah, I got that.

Shakira: God, Beyonce, you're so smart! Your friendship is like the unavowable gift Derrida writes about: it unhinges the narrative contingencies of pure spirit and opens the word into the openness of being.

Beyonce: (Twirling her own hair.) Uh-huh.

Shakira: It's like what you sing in "Irreplaceable." It reminds me so much of Rilke's first Duino Elegy. (Taking the text from the nightstand, she reads from the original German. Then she paraphrases into English.) "Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror."

Beyonce: For sure!

Sartre recedes in disgust. Derrida turns in his grave. And Rilke wishes a rock would fall on Shakira's head. (Actually, we all wish a rock would fall on Shakira.... But really a rock should fall on Juan Forero, the idiot NPR reporter who wrote such drivel.)

Minority Report, or Little Frankie's Big Gay Dallas Election, Part 2

Here's the link if you want to see the anti-homo political promo promising a Starf*cks of one's own ... unless you take it up the ass.

As if living through the death of political culture in the United States wasn't enough, now we have access to the zombification of the citizenry through elections results based on a mere 12.85% of registered (not eligible) voters. Who are the real idiots: the 95,343 who mistakenly thought their vote would count, or the 646,782 who couldn't be bothered to spend the five minutes it took to cast a ballot in the runoff election even though at one point in their lives they had the initiative to fill out an entire voter registration card?

Oh, and the stupid fuck who "won," you may ask: his only concrete platform was the possibility of enjoying "a Starb*cks in your own neighborhood." You'd think that, considering this was "the most expensive mayoral race in Dallas history," wealthy retired businessman Tom Leppert would've come up with something a bit more insightful or necessary than overpriced burnt coffee. From early May to early June, Leppert raised $855,000 and spent about $1.1 million [source: Star-Telegram.com]. I wonder how much of that came from the Green She-Devil of Seattle....

One more minority report: why the fuck were all the black and Hispanic kids at the YMCA wearing David Neumann tee-shirts Saturday morning? Couldn't they find some other rich white Republican to support? And isn't there some sort of law about nonprofit organizations (such as the YMCA) not getting involved in political activities? I hope those damned campaign shirts come in handy when.... Yeah, I better just stop right there before I have my own Michael Richards moment.

When the revolution comes, make mine a venti soy latte. Peace out, mofo.

One Old Message, or Little Frankie's Big Gay Dallas Election

Yeah, this shit was left on my answering machine Saturday. My commentary is in brackets.

Hello. Crime, education & homosexuality are the three hot issues in the mayor’s race Saturday, June 16th. [Actually, the hottest issue of the Dallas mayoral election is to keep douche bag Tom Leppert out of City Hall.] Did you know that the crime rate in Ed Oakley’s city council district is eight times higher than the rest of the city? His district also has one of the highest dropout rates among residents. [The use of such statistics only obviates the real issue while revealing Leppert's "classist" (that is, elitist) and racist bent. I can only assume that if elected, he will tear down all bridges that connect downtown to the southern sector. (And yes, I meant that figuratively as well as literally.) His views on South Dallas/Oak Cliff are just as bent. Check out this website for a little background.] And the Dallas Morning News reported that Ed Oakley would be the first openly gay large-city mayor. [First off, that is non-issue, especially in this election. Secondly: 'bout fuggin' time, I says. Who cares that Ed's a big 'mo': he's experienced and has proven to be a leader, the kind of leader that this shithole town needs.]

We encourage your vote for Tom Leppert—a Christian, married, father of three children. [It's easy to get lost down the rabbit hole (not warren, but ass) of this "logic": "Christian" and "homosexual" are not mutually exclusive categories, as evidenced by the largest gay Christian church in the world sitting on the other side of town. I guess Tom ignores the north side as well.] For more information, go to www.isuckthedevilsteet.com. That’s www.isuckthedevilsteet.com. This call was paid for Heritage Alliance PAC. [Of course, some of the most revealing anagrams of "Heritage Alliance" include "Alienate Each Girl," "Ethical Reel Again," "Cheater Nag Ail Lie," and my two favorites: "Eager Anal Itch Lie" and "Anal Rage Lie Ethic". I don't know if this is important; I'm just saying.] Thanks, and have a great day.

I'm beginning to see the sense in firebombing telecommunication networks if not headquarters of fascist organizations. I mean for fuck's sake: I have paid to be put on do-not-call lists so I wouldn't be harassed by telemarketers but campaigners for Satan himself can still call and peddle their political shlock and version of salvation?!?! Instead of trekking down the stony path of a terrorist, I decided to merely blog my frustration. I hope you've enjoyed.

Oh, and if you're interested, you can call Heritage Alliance at 214.348-2220. Go nuts!