Dropping Bombs Like Your Moms

This beautiful holiday weekend is finally in motion, thanks to my consumption of food rich in fat and beer rich in self-retardants. This holiday is a time dedicated to celebrating our victory over Japan (thanks to a couple well-placed atomic bombs) thus ending WWII and letting us all get on to greater things, like Urotsukidoji and Ichiro.

In homage to this great event, I’m going to drop a few bombs of my own.


Not everyone is like you.

During the early eras of civilization, it would make sense that limited education and sparse scientific understanding would ultimately lead humans to assume that anything else deemed intelligent must be, well, human-like. Worst yet, we’ve perpetuated this senile anthropomorphism for centuries, and there are no attempts to slow our species-centric ways.
Think about it this way.

God made humans in his image = A tree shaped like a cock

Aliens with homo genus characteristics, such as bipedalism = Your cat saying “I love you”

In each equation, the unseen factor is A, which is equivalent to how bad you want to believe something is true.
Here is another example.


The artist who rendered this beautiful portrait near my breakfast joint shares the same pathological ideologies as most of the world. Although the intent was to create an alien, they simply couldn’t imagine a creature being semi-intelligent unless it has two arms, two legs, saucers for areolas and cock and balls. This is simply a drawing of an unfortunate human with a crazy eye and antennae. Where is the blob-like torso above the cilia that are shuffling it along while one of its seventeen tentacles itches its retractable nose/ass?

If something greater than humans exists, give it the benefit of the doubt and assume it doesn’t look like we do, built with the same flaws and susceptibilities as we have. Use your imagination, since that’s the part of you that lends credibility to all the gods, aliens, angels and faeries you believe in. I personally believe God has mega-supersized areolas and that Florida was made in his penis image.


Nobody cares what you think.

I’ll keep it simple. You are surrounded in a multitude of mediums that beckon for your input; your MySpace/Facebook status, your Twitter tweets, your forum threads, call-in shows and the comment box following every single thing you read and use. These are all relatively healthy communicative aspects of our new Web 2.0 lives. Our unprecedented ability to process and share information sets us far apart from the goldfish.

What I hope you keep in mind is that nobody cares what you think. Not your friends, not your parents. Nobody. And this isn’t my opinion; this is a fact substantiated by how little you care about what everyone else thinks. That is what makes this “everyone has a voice” marketing ploy generation flawed. 100% is talking but only 20% is listening. People who love to shove their opinion in your available holes rarely make an effort to hear other opinions, even regarding the same subjects.

I post opinions everyday knowing that not one person in the world truly cares. Try it. It’ll sand down that destructive ego of yours.


You are not cool.

First off, the word “cool” was violently ripped away from hip blacks by jealous whites, pummeled like Jodie Foster in The Accused and is now a bruised, stretched out shell of its former descriptive self.

That being said, you still do not fit the definition because the definition is going to change again. I’m taking the word and running off, reintroducing it back to the Earth so it can heal and find its true meaning.

Coolness will now be defined as your ability to be yourself. How much you don’t act like someone you’re not and how little you spend to be accepted by others are just a couple of the qualifications for the new cool. It will be revolutionary. We can change the world one independently strong outcast at a time, and you better believe I’m starting with that man in the mirror.


Have an amazing holiday weekend and get your own personal VJ this Monday.

The Modern Plight of the Newly Single Thirtysomething

Seems lately many of my friends are saying goodbye to a partner. Marriages, long-term live-ins, short-term freaks. Most are doing so late in life, sometimes for peace, sometimes to return to school or pursue dreams, but always for freedom from a relationship hollowed by pain and miscommunication. They have given up on trying, on caring. They have given in for the last time and are no longer willing to give.

I am sensitive to this trend because I am currently embroiled in the slowest, most gut-punching, childish, mentally tormenting breakup I have ever experienced. Although none of my friends are tolerating the ridiculousness and despair I have endured, they nonetheless have their reasons and scars. The more I speak with them about their experiences, the more I begin to understand the modern plight of the newly single thirtysomething.

Although breaking up is always difficult, rarely is it the same experience after twenty-seven as it was before. What complicates things more are the millions of invisible strings you have tied between yourself and them, strung throughout your shared possessions, your habits, your friends, and even your memories. This is why a clean break is better; the time and energy needed to untangle each strand will painfully, deftly siphon your faith in humanity clean from your bones.

By the time you reach thirty, you have already lived a few years as the “you” you will retire as. Your habits are set and ideals are in place. But when you are coming out of a long relationship you find yourself back at square one, like a confused teenager. All that has defined you, from your partner to your mortgage, is gone. You stood on a mountain years ago and screamed to the world how you loved this person, perhaps even let them put a ring on you and change your name, and now have to climb back up that mountain, with no help and a hundred people asking you how they are, just to reach the top and scream that you’ve made a mistake, a mistake that cost you years of your life and all of your identity.

It’s almost no wonder why our thirty-and-up dating pool is filled with the bitter and the angry. If you are fresh from a separation, your bitterness and fear will take much longer to clean up than you think. If you have gone most of your thirty years bouncing from love to love, then you are probably doing something wrong and will no doubt be angry from the constant frustration and failure. There will never be a shortage of advice on where to go and what to look for, but facts are facts, and the fact is that you do not want to be the creepy old person or the sexual focus of the creepy old people in the bar. Nobody talks to each other in a library and singles attend church with either their parents or parole officers.

Dating is extremely hard late in the game because you have lost your identity and faith in love, plus you have social handicaps, like children or desperation, preventing you from wandering through the crowd with needed confidence. You are so entrenched in your routine that you are either forced to wear your needs on your sleeve or become someone you are not just to bait interested parties.

I’m not going to bother delving the new “American family” and how our collective societal values have rotted marriage at its core because, well, you already know why and how and what. It’s not hard to see the influences reflected in our media; however it is extremely hard to identify people that are going to be more prone to drama than others.

So far our collective dating experiences have been a quagmire of annoyance, inefficacy, fear and stupidity. Those of us brave enough to swim the troubled seas of the dating pool leave with nothing, unless they popped into an adult store or pharmacy on the way home. And it’s always the same stories: He freaked me out, she seemed more interested in herself than me, he was nice but didn’t have time for me, she has a bad past and took it out on me, etc. Most of us are waiting for that Mayflower-type vehicle to float us to a new land of opportunity and single inhabitants, or a bridge that leads directly to a civilization of normal thirtysomethings we’ve been cut off from for centuries, which may or may not happen, but I’m not holding my breath. That kind of belief requires commitment and I’m fresh out.

I considered writing about my ex and the madness I have lived since February, but the truth is I am afraid to. For the same reason a person in a terrible car wreck doesn’t want to converse about the traumatic accident right away. The details are saddening and ludicrous, which gives way to embarrassment about the whole matter. Worst yet, we have been living together since February and, as of press time, she is finally leaving in four days. For me, these six months could easily be broken into a three-piece pie chart, each piece being two months long, with the labels Trying, Angry, and Done. I no longer bother with what-ifs and simply put my head down and walk ahead. I no longer argue my points or wish she would make better choices, and I have no energy left to be hurt that she has ruined some of my friendships and is dating a (now former) friend.

Perched at the end of the diving board and staring deep into the dating pool, sick with the regret and fear I ate less than a half-hour before. Like they always say: Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt.