Sam Fels, but who’s buyin’?

Let me first say that I was extremely moved by the events of last Tuesday.  I cried after the election results in 2004, and I did again in 2008, for completely opposite reasons.  But, the rush to pronounce America as progressive and reformed leaves me cold.  It’s a step in the right direction, but hardly “destination reached.”  Let’s take a look at what it took to elect the clearly better candidate.  It took two wars that have turned into a plugged toilet.  It took an economy nosedive so viciously, Russians are laughing at us.  It took the clearly superior candidate to run against a walking cadaver, who then had to pick an overturned short-bus as a running mate.  Let’s not pull a muscle patting ourselves on the back just yet.

Secondly, do you know what’s been flying off the shelves since Obama’s election?  Do you know what’s setting purchasing records?  Guns.  AK’s, Glok’s, 9mm’s are flying off the shelves.  They can’t keep them in stock.  Do you know why?  Some think Obama is going to take away assault weapons.  Because we need assault weapons, apparently.  Some are buying them thinking he’ll take all guns away, as if that would be so bad.  And some have claimed to be arming up for the race war they think is coming.  It’s rare I get to quote Paula Abdul and have it stick, but I’m going to take this chance:  “Two steps forward, and two steps back…”

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So, obviously, now that I’ve taken on a writing job, finding time or motivation to write even more has come up short.  I know there are people who enjoyed reading this, and however small the smile it may bring to your day, I apologize for not providing it.  You’d think at the age of 27 I’d at least be on speaking terms with a work ethic and discipline.  But clearly we are still eying each other suspiciously from across the bar.  Maybe one day….

Anyway, today I’d like to share the effects of looking for parking.  Having come back to Lincoln Park in Chicago, I have put down stakes in what very well may be the worst neighborhood in America to find an open parking spot.  Too many people, with too many cars that are too big, and too many fuckwads who take up two spaces.  Throw in a construction site here, and a street cleaning there, and you’re trying to find a needle in a yuppie-filled haystack wearing Prada.  It’s not a good scene.

What I find myself thinking when a search goes on too long leave me a little jarred.  I try to imagine what scenario would have to take place in order for someone to leave their parking space at 12:30am or later.  Things like:

“Come on, I just need one slampig to have a fight with her boyfriend and storm out of his apartment.”

“All this takes is one dude who desperately needs an 8-ball of coke to finish off his presentation for tomorrow.”

“One thug boosting a BMW, and I’ll get home before my bladder explodes.”

All of this indicate that I am completely willing to have someone have their life greatly altered simply so I can get out of my car 5 minutes earlier.  I would have been so at home in the 80’s.  I could simply ask for someone who works the night shift heading to work, or someone getting a little hungry and making a Wendy’s run.  But no, I wish real events.  After all, I’m unhappy looking for parking, so match my discontent, people.

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They’ve made me sick.  I’m sure it wasn’t my father catching a cold and living in the same cramped apartment with him.  I’m sure the stress of what’s to come weakened my immune system and left me with a throat that feels like a trash bag in a frat house.  Positive.

I know most people think I’m a little silly, and they’re right.  I know that if the Cubs should win, the feeling will be fleeting.  But I will have a memory I will look on the rest of my life, of time spent with my closest friends and family, witnessing something that no one has seen in far too long.  I find myself actually more excited than nervous.  This is something I’ve waited for all my life, and it’s no different than seeing your favorite band, or going to a place you’ve never been.  Sure, it could end up very painful, but those memories shape you too, and whichever way it goes, I look forward to all the emotions and memories that will come with them.

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So, with the choosing of Governor Nutjob to the Republican ticket, there’s been a lot of talk about sexism and such.  Frankly, most people shouldn’t talk about a subject they don’t know anything about, and most people don’t have any idea what’s going on here.  But whatever, no one needs another schpiel about the stupidity of Americans.

But there was something that strikes me as peculiar when Daughter Nutjob was discovered to be pregnant.  It seems to me that when a teenage girl gets pregnant, everyone is in a rush to pass judgment on her, whether to care for her, as is more likely these days, to brand her a slut and tell her to keep her knees together, and this wouldn’t happen, and that’s just the bellowing from my dad’s room.  There never, ever, seems to be any scrutiny of the male involved.  Ever.  Like he can’t be held responsible for what, when, and where comes out of his flesh pistol.  Apparently, it’s his right to be an irresponsible prick and do whatever he wants with his irresponsible prick, and he can’t help himself, he’s just a boy after all, and it’s all the girl’s fault for providing safe haven for his oh-so-eager brigade of white soldiers.  What a load of crap, and I’m not referring to what gets deposited into the girl’s ovary, though I might as well be.  Yeah, sex without condoms is better than that with, but for fuck’s sake.  I like to go to a good burger place when I can, when I can afford it, but a McDonald’s burger is always pretty satisfying too.  Shape up.

The other problem is that guys, though they may claim otherwise, don’t fear any consequences.  Because nothing happens to our bodies, and we won’t feel the pains that come with bearing a child.  Guys may say that they’re scared of the emotional, and financial responsibility that comes with it, but they don’t care, honestly.  Quite frankly, if they thought they could get away scot free they’d be on the first plane out of town.  There was a comedian who once suggested all women, during child birth, should be allowed, no, forced to hold on to their husband’s/boyfriend’s/pimp’s balls.  If we had that physical pain to fear down the line, I’m sure the vast majority, if not every single one, would opt for a strict cum-on-tits policy.

By the way, there’s footage of Governor Nutjob asking a church in Alaska to pray for an oil pipeline, describing it as God’s will.  Please, for the love of all that’s sane any more, don’t let anyone you know vote for this basket-case.

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I know better.  I’ve learned this lesson over and over.  And yet I couldn’t help myself.  I went onto ITunes, and saw Metallica’s new single.  My heart sank.  What they’ve become, well, I die a little inside every time I see the name, really.  But then I noticed this new single was nearly 8 minutes long.  Like classic Metallica.  Like REAL Metallica.  Not this Plastic-a or Tupperware-ica they’ve become.  I thought, maybe, maybe this one had a chance.  Perhaps they’ve come back around.  Sure, that was a lot to hope for when they’re close to 50 years old.  But look, Kirk grew his hair out again!  Maybe, just maybe….

Then I hit play.   And the dream died.  It’s just as bad as all the others have been.  It’s Unforgiven II.  If that good.  Lesson learned.  Maybe one day I’ll wave the white flag on Metallica.  Maybe I’ll realize that Leper Messiah, Harvester of Sorrow, Shortest Straw, all of these are never to be duplicated again, or anything like them.  They’re a special time and place.  I should leave Metallica now to the angry young dudes.  But it’s those dudes I feel sorry for.  They won’t know what it really means to Orion in the car doing 95 MPH.  That’s being young.  They’ll never know.  And it’s their loss.

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Sorry, it’s what’s going on.  There isn’t much more in my life at the moment that galavanting around the country and watching people ruin their lives.  (Just a joke.  What really ruined their lives is what was done to their ass at their bachelor parties.)  Anyway, just back home from my college roommates wedding in Boston, which was a lovely time.  Good people, lots of booze, in suits, you can’t complain.

What follows is simply my opinion, and not meant to pass comment on anyone’s beliefs, other than my confusion at them.  I also understand the need for tradition, or how some people feel the need for it.  To it, then.  This was the first wedding I’ve ever been to that was actually held in a church, and had serious religious overtones to it.  A traditional wedding, then.  And frankly, I don’t get it.  Every time there was a reading, or prayer, or song, the only thing that crossed my mind was what exactly did this have to do with God or Jesus?  It felt shoehorned.  Here are two people who love each other immensely, and wish to commit their lives to that.  Unless God is coming down to say that’s cool, then frankly, he/she should stay out of it.  Something ironic about a priest talking about love, what does he know about it?  Has he gotten those emails from crazy ex’s about how he’s ruined their ability to love?  Has he been told a girl he cares strongly about is sleeping with someone else?  Has he tried to figure out what to buy a woman for her birthday and fucked up terribly, resulting in the silent treatment for 4 days?  (It could be argued priest continually get the silent treatment from the one they love, God doesn’t seem to ever pick up the phone and hash things out.)  Does a priest have any concept of always thinking about someone, where you shake until you see them again?  The bounce in your step it brings?  The sickness when you lose it?

People have their faith, I get that.  From where I sit, and admittedly I got some shitty seats from the scalper, religion is supposed to fill a void.  Answers to questions we can’t find, make us feel less alone, meaning, all that crap in a fortune cookie.  And here are two people who have found that not in an invisible man or woman in the sky, but in each other.  So for at least this one ceremony, or day, can’t we leave the crosses and bible’s out of it?  They don’t seem to be needed.

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I was having this discussion the other day with my father.  He was of the mind that the line in Paul McCartney’s “Live and Let Die” which reads, “In this ever changing world in which we live in.”, which does contain a preposition three times in one sentence, is the worst.  Grammatically, he may be right in nominating this.  But no one looks to rock to adhere to those rules, except for maybe my friend Dan.  I’m merely looking for simply the worst, the one that makes no sense and is clearly written by someone not even trying.  It is my contention, that the worst lyric in the history of rock n’ roll takes place during the chorus to “So Happy Together” and is as follows:

So happy together,

How is the weather?

This has to be the laziest piece of writing in an American field, much less music history.  Clearly stuck in merely because it rhymes and only that.  It has nothing to do with the song or lyrics or anything.  My father suggested, “A goat on a tether.”, would be a better lyric, and I’d have to agree, as at least it’s abstract and someone could try and read into it somehow.

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Yet another sign of the ooze you’re surrounded by here, in the good ol’ U.S. of A.  The Obama campaign is concerned that more people feel they relate to John McCain’s life story than Obama’s.  Quick show of hands here, how many people feel they can honestly relate to being locking in a prison camp for 5 years, having your shoulders repeatedly separated, bamboo shoots under your fingernails, and other tortures we can’t even imagine?  Even those of you who are married?  Yeah, exactly, no one.

Contrast that with someone who played high school basketball, and not terribly well by all accounts, and went to Harvard.  I know Harvard is out of the reach of most people, but at least you can go there and see people doing it.  You can even touch the buildings.  (Or as my attorney Patrick and I once did, steal about 4 pizzas from it after drinking 40’s on their quad.  Different strokes for different folks.)

Basically, it means people just can’t fathom being black.  At least say that.  I’m sure I can’t either.  But to say you relate to the horrific experiences that McCain went through is a load of shit.  Which I’m sure the Vietnamese threw him in at one point.

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So, apparently, lot of Americans are heading to Mexico for stomach-stapling surgery, as they don’t qualify as fat enough here to get them.  We’re exporting fat people, people.  This is our legacy.  Send us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, and we’ll trade you ours who closed down the buffet.

Hell in a hand-basket.

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