On a Soap Box #1509

Gun Control: Can I GET Some!?

Ted Nugent has lost it, he's gone through a meadow, over a hill, and absolutely fucking crazy.


I was watching No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain today, and they did a segment with the Nuge. No need to describe it, as it was exactly like every other time he’s been featured on anything in the last 20 years. Lots of guns, lots of testosterone, and all kinds of intense staring from the snake eyes of this beast in a man-suit. I’m pretty sure that in all of his years of pursuing the “beauty of the kill” he has finally snapped.


We should put the Nuge and Gary Busey in a cellar and let them just hash it out. THAT stare-down would be intense. Froth at the mouth intense.









It’s not the Nuge who scares me though*. It’s the ease with which anyone, including completely bent nutbags like him, can get their hands on giant, fuck-clobbering assault weapons. Where is the rationalization, what could you possibly need an automatic rifle for?

Our government’s permissiveness reflects the way some of us in this country choose to live our lives; constantly with our backs against the wall, protecting our fort. When is the next attack going to be? Who’s at the border? When’s the next 9/11? Some people use them as security blankets, but other people are out there, and yeah, they’re killing people. It’s a sad reality, and we facilitate that reality by living the mantra of personal protection is a right.

Hunting for sport, there’s a justification, but that could spiral off into a completely different discussion. Without casting any kind of value judgment on hunting, where is the need for assault weapons? It’s a one-shot, one-kill affair, not spray-painting.

We are a nation of compassionate and mostly rational people, and small pockets of vigilantes, militiamen, gangbangers, and hicks are fucking things up for the lot of us. Our acceptance of a harmonious relationship with deadly weapons may just have something to do with why a good part of the world thinks we’re a country of cops & cowboys. Just a thought.


This is just one in a billion examples of old world habits of the privileged protecting their privilege. That unique sense of entitlement is alive and well today, just look at Uncle Ted!



Check out this video. Apparently he’s also a sexist and a bit of a racist.



* For the record, I AM scared of Ted Nugent. He is 60 and he scares the shit out of me.

Musical Musing #1509

Kanye West Does Not Care About Poor People

So I honestly love Kanye West, it's true. I think The College Dropout was easily the most influential Hip Hop record of the last 10 years. Not saying it's the best by any means, but to claim that the landscape of mainstream rap would have been the same without that album is downright ign'ant.

Only if Michael Bay takes over for Christopher Nolan, Nelly.

Remember Nelly? You can thank Kanye for Nelly's newest album Brass Knuckles selling something like 60,000 copies.

No new record till I get the red ring.

Remember Lil Jon? You can thank Kanye for helping you forget the sound of a referee whistle on the radio.

Regardless of how you feel about 'ye as a person, you've got to admit that the man has the whole "not givin' a fuck" attitude on lock down. Instead of putting out another rap record, he went with his gut and composed an album about the death of his mother and his break up. He took his recipe for success and turned it on his head. There's not a single soul sample on this record, and only 2 guest verses from Lil Wayne and Young Jeezy. That's like Death Cab for Cutie making a record not meant to be played at Starbucks (ttw: 2 Ben Gibbard: 0).

He's like my Buddha, not a god, but definitely an inspiration on my lifestyle. I have the outlook down, as many of you have experienced first hand that I do not give a fuck about what folks think about me, but still can't take it to the next level because of one reason: Money.

He's disappointed that I'm not rich. Sorry 'ye!

If you've never had the chance of checking out Kanye's blog, do so now (sometimes NSFW):

http://www.kanyeuniversecity.com/blog/

Kanye (or his assistant) posts some pretty incredible things on here. He hardly ever actually writes anything, but instead fills his blog with shoes, new mp3s, art pieces, modern design, models, and other stuff that costs way too much money. The blog is great, and he's actually posted things before the other major blogs get them (a Justice video if I remember correctly).

But the thing is, I want a lot of this stuff. This clock is amazing! However, going to the designer's site, I am told to email in and ask how much it costs, etc. Yeah, that means it's way too expensive for me. What's the deal, Kanye? Can't you post some stuff within my range? I mean, your music has talked about how you faked it before you got rich, so how about pointing me in the right direction?

Anyway, I guess blogging at work isn't how one makes money...
Victor C.

Bitchy Rant #1509

I've Got Standards, For Literature.

In order to make a novel irresistible to me, there are only a few simple criteria that need to be met:

A] Reference historical apocrypha, legend, or unsolved mystery
B] Reveal a hidden "factual" foundation to the legend
C] Insert enough legit-sounding details to make it sound academic and well-researched. Add invented footnotes and citations to taste.
D] Top with a long-running international conspiracy theory to add spice.
E] Shake well and publish.

This shit is like crack to me. In fact, I spent all of yesterday reading "The Historian," a bestseller from a few years ago that squarely hits all of these nails on the head. Like The Da Vinci Code, but with better characterization and less plagiarism.











With visions of Dracula and Cold War-era intrigue still dancing in my head, I stopped by the library this afternoon, intent on finding something similarly titillating and addictive for my winter evenings. Hopping off the bus, I congratulated myself for choosing the public library instead of temptation-laded used bookstores.

(New Year's Resolution: save money/no more book-buying until I finish the gazillion unread books I've got at home.)

But my pleasure at this burst of self-discipline did not last long. "Maybe it's just the reading habits of this neighborhood," I told myself. "The librarians are just doing their job. All of these stacks of trashy novels- this is just what the folks in this neighborhood have requested, it's what they want to read."

Making my way down the few aisles of the fiction section, these were the plots I saw in 90% of the books:

-Romance novel masquerading as midlife existential crisis: marriage falls apart; woman takes risks, finds her true self, and discovers the love of her life.

-Romance novel masquerading as historical fiction: life in 16th-century England/14th-century Italy/1st-century BCE Egypt is stifling for beautiful, headstrong woman; she takes risks, finds her true self, and discovers the love of her life.

-Romance novel masquerading as murder mystery or thriller. Man has been wronged (by a woman or a male comrade); he seeks revenge, takes risks, and discovers the true love of his life.


Also:
-Books that have been made into Oscar-winning movies and/or have been featured on Oprah.
-Required reading for high school literature class.
-Chuck Palahniuk.

HOLY FUCK, IS IT SO HARD TO FIND A DECENT BRAINLESS BOOK THESE DAYS? I do not want to read another 200-page book in which a shabby adventure plot serves as the vehicle for an undercooked, one-dimensional romance with sex scenes that read like junior high fan fiction.

If I wanted that, I could've just gone to Borders.

I wouldn't even mind that every single one has the same female character and the same male character that do the same things with only the most minute variations. I wouldn't mind all the stories of suburban adultery and tortured masculinity and leading ladies afflicted with Princess Buttercup-syndrome. I could maybe even handle the fact that there's not a single queer, not even a stereotyped one, to be found. I could do this, if I could be assured in any way of literary and artistic merit to be found in their pages.

But since I found no such assurance, I settled for an Umberto Eco book and slunk back out the library doors. Next time, I'll just play it safe and stick with nonfiction.



Eyes in a book, ears to the street,




Jenn H.

On a Soap Box #1309

Taco Trucks: A Love Story

I live my life between the meaty musk of Taco Trucks; everything else is a grey blur.

So delicious, so nourishing, so much better than the chains and the sit-downs. The day I discovered fresh cilantro, lime-drizzled beef, radish, onions, majesty; my family, my friends…women I’ve loved: all were dead to me. Taco Trucks are not a game to me, and I’m here to spread the gospel.I love Taco Trucks like some people love Jesus. I found them in my life, and I get upset when other people don’t feel the same way. Seriously, I feel a bit disappointed if someone isn’t willing to at least try it.

Hey, if you don’t like the food, that’s your thing. However, over the years I have had more than a couple of friends who have turned their noses up at the idea of eating food cooked in a truck. It’s always the same excuses, “It’s dirty,” “I’ll probably get sick,” “I don’t even speak Spanish.” That last one is just racist, slow down, Pat Buchanan.I’ve got no love for people who think Taco Trucks are but a trifle, none. In fact, I’m struck by how sanitary these people think food is prepared in a normal restaurant’s kitchen. Do you think we live in a world where everyone washes their hands after deploying bombs? How much do you think honesty and compassion are a part of the fabric of our society? Enough that if someone dropped your steak on a dirty ass ground, they wouldn’t still serve it to you with a smile?

If you’re going to get messed with, it’s pretty much going to happen anywhere, so hop right off that hater train. Why not enjoy DELICIOUS food for a fraction of the price? Let me buy you a taco, I’ve got a pamphlet you should check out.

Bitchy Rant #1209.2

Ben Gibbard's Comeuppance

Until he died, I was only vaguely aware of Heath Ledger. I thought he was really good in “Brokeback Mountain,” and I was excited to see him play The Joker in “The Dark Knight.” I’ve seen “10 Things I Hate About You” more times than I care to recall. I even watched “Roar” when it was on TV. But when a classmate told me he had died, I was shaken. I could barely recall that day’s lecture because I spent most of the hour thinking about Heath Ledger.

Later, I wondered why Ledger’s death was such a big deal to me. Part of it was surely the reminder that we are all mortal and our lives could expire at any time. But I think another part of it was that, even if we may not consciously think about it, we think of celebrities as people we know. We imagine futures for them. I’m sure many people wondered what Heath Ledger would do after “The Dark Knight,” even if they didn’t really sit there and think about it.

Taken a step further, those imagined futures could involve us in some way. Even if I’d never thought about it before, I now know that any hope I may have had of co-starring in a cop buddy movie with Heath Ledger is now entirely outside the realm of possibility. I can no longer entertain that fantasy. The chances of me co-starring in any film are now greater than the chances of me co-starring in a film with Heath Ledger. But enough about Heath Ledger; what I’m really getting at is that Ben Gibbard is ruining my life.

My high school girlfriend was a huge Death Cab for Cutie fan (“before they got big,” of course), so I was vaguely aware (and vaguely jealous) of Ben Gibbard. I now go to school at Western Washington University in Bellingham, Washington, where Death Cab got their start. Therefore, I’ve heard plenty of stories about how “this dude who knew the dude from Death Cab gave my brother this sofa,” etc. To be fair, I know a dude who knows Chris Walla. But my beef has always been with Gibbard, if only because “Such Great Heights” was the sing-along favorite at so many parties during my first couple years of college.

So imagine my frustration when I discovered that Gibbard was engaged to Zooey Deschanel. You may remember her from such films as “The Happening,” “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” and “Elf.” She has big hazel-ish eyes and long wavy dark hair that often falls down in bangs over her forehead. Also, she does this adorable thing where she doesn’t open her mouth very wide when she speaks and sort of talks out of the corners. She’s ridiculously cute.

And she’s engaged to this guy:

Really? This guy looks like your weird uncle that sits in the basement and watches Star Trek during family gatherings. He looks like Rivers Cuomo’s reflection in a fun house mirror. Now, I’m sure he’s probably more interesting than me. He’s probably read more classic literature and seen more obscure movies. He’s definitely a better songwriter. He may even be a better lover and all-around more thoughtful and decent human being than I am. But frankly, it’s really easy to superficially mock someone’s physical appearance, so I’m sticking with that.

Oh look, it’s John Krasinski. Man, he’s a looker. And there’s Rainn Wilson back th—HEY, wait a minute, that’s some other four-eyed moon-faced smarty pants!

Yeah, I play the vibes too, fucknut. Have since junior high. Did your percussion ensemble win second place at state? No. That’s what I thought. Jerkweed.


So anyways, whatever my chances were of marrying Zooey Deschanel before, they are now zero. I’m heartbroke. And yet at the same time, I’m still mulling my chances of one day rubbing elbows with America’s new indie sweethearts. As I write this, I think, “What would Ben Gibbard think if he read this? Would he just have a good laugh? Would he even read the whole thing? If I met him in person, would it come up in conversation? Would he be like, ‘oh yeah, you’re that tall lanky dweeb that wrote that blog about me getting engaged to Zooey’? What would Zooey think?”

That’s the magic of celebrities: We are on a first-name basis with them, even though they don’t know we exist. But there’s always the possibility. There was always the possibility that Heath Ledger might one day buy me a drink. And there was always the possibility that Zooey Deschanel might one day give me a smooch on the cheek.

And even as I write this I wonder, “Would Zooey still give me a smooch on the cheek even if she was married to Ben Gibbard, if only to fulfill the fantasy I disclosed in this blog?”

What’s a tall lanky dweeb to do?


Angrily yours,



Steve R.