Thursday, October 30, 2014

Odd Affirmative Action Issues

Cowboys/Cowwomen/Gay and Transgendered Cow Individuals,  with affirmative action guidelines strictly enforced,  there is bitter cactus juice to expectorate.   An obsessive cattle roper of the urban high plains,  it is remembrance of disgruntlement formed around the time people were at their most obnoxious with their computers.   The Peguins won two Stanley Cups the decade I was to learn of something that pisses me off now.  Recollections from the 1990s deserve a few extra puffs on the peace pipe for having taught me that women have a social hierarchy.

Don't men?  Yeeeeee-ee-eeehhh-essss.  Are men referred to, jocularly, as pigs?    Do fish swim?

Isn't the social ordering of people in some ways the nature of civilization, without which people are too plainly barbaric to function beyond hairy bear-skin wearing brutes?  I must respond in the very same long creepy affirmative as above.  Yeeeee---esssss!  And at the same time, no.   Some people have been noticing, and commenting, that civilized people would be a fuck of lot nicer if they quit engaging global combat and fulsome social meddling.   But I wasn't trying to go global.  I have a local pain in the ass I need to talk about.

I was told that some nearing-middle-age woman from Upper St. Clair, name withheld to protect the gold-digger, a so-said lovely, wonderful woman, so elegant, so entertaining, had one strike against her.  Or, the only strike I know of, as people weren't telling me much in those days, but I'll whine about that at another time.  For pecuniary reasons, she married a Jewish man.

Did/does she love the man?  Irrelevant.   As the local hierarchy went, any woman facing financial ruin from previous behaviors/relationships/hush-hush arrangements tended  custom by marrying a man who has money enough to cover debts and needs past/present/future.   Per more localized custom, wife and husband are bound to enjoy a nice way of life in the suburbs, or ex-urbs, or bedroom community, or gated community.  Or penthouse, if the missus has superior aim.    There's gut-wrenching tales of black widow type poisonings on television, but none of that goes on, that reaches the news, at least.    There was, as still is, country club anti-semitism.

To have top billing among the blue bloods in Upper Saint Claire, a woman has to marry a rich Anglo-saxon man with mucho dinero.  A German or Austrian dude with any pedigree at all is fine, in a pinch, if they are solid in the banking zone, must have a Benz, and there are some lower ethnic preferences that permit relatively complete social status.  But quite low, too low on the short list for pleasure on my part, a woman has to marry a rich Jewish man if she is unable to rope any of the more preferred ethnicities.  The married lady I was informed about had done so, and was aggreived.   Best I can figure from a half-long gossip session, in a shitty kitchen, in a shitty efficiency apartment, the one right next to mine, identical to it, the two people liked each other well enough to act as a couple no matter what the emotional digital read out was on love or sex or feelings of any kind at all.  And at the same time, she was dissatisfied with having had to marry a Jewish man to sustain her standard of living.  The standard she saw herself entitled to.   This type of marriage was clearly understood and tolerated, which could be described by some as some sweet Neil Simon theater shit.  Or  gold-digging and racism all at once, against people to whom greed is too often ascribed.  Jews are greedy little money persons, and wealthy Brittish men are handsome no matter how bad their teeth rot out and their  jowls flop on the floor.  White suburbanites, uber alles.

Well I can't close the show without some sort of positive humanistic snake dance.  You might say that a community of prosperous individuals, all sharing fucked up customs and norms, could be no better or worse than the rest of fucked up human kind.  Productive, hardworking and accomplished men of several races get to cohabit with some attractive, warm, witty aging socialites.   I'm only mad because I don't have the big bucks, and can't play in their big jungle gym in Upper Saint Claire and other fat honey jars.  I'm still disgruntled, but who cares.

Sunday, October 19, 2014

A Too Fucking Revealing Blog Entry About What's Eating My Balls At The Moment

I shouldn't be telling you this because it's private and possibly hurtful, to myself, but then it's a two way street, I tell things, other people enjoy hearing it, it's how the news and information industry survives.  I still want to be 'The Kid.'  It's a fantasy, I believe it's organic, universal, and in theory, a person, any person, could be any age, like me, I'm turning 57, and I have this need to be something called 'The Kid.'  There is work involved in this matter, and acquisitions.

 I'm in the final decision stage of buying an electric guitar, a cheap copy of the famous Fender Stratocaster.  There is a choice of six colors, two different styles of pick guards all shaped like a squashed squid, and two types of fret board to choose, white maple with black dots, or rosewood with suspicious white spots marking positions for the beginning guitar student.  Leaning towards blond, but am still thinking.  Rosewood might possibly better personify an arrant rock musician of perpetual youth and flair.  A total insane glutton for clarity as I am, the choice of candy colored guitars are for sale on ebay, mail order, postage paid, ninety dollars for the cheapest imitation of a Strat available to anyone, anywhere, on Earth or Outer Space.  The God-like power of global economics makes this sort of shit possible, both the product and the living rock fantasy enabled by one's electric bauble.

To toughen up what may seem like some weak connections, buying the guitar and revitalizing my pilfered, affected alter ego, 'The Kid,' are like a heroic couplet, if my life was a poem.   It isn't, it hasn't been, but metaphors are here, for sale, like Hebrew National weenies from a stainless steel cart on wheels with umbrella and portly, mustachioed vendor.  There have been pentillions of archetypal 'Kids,' ranging from James Dean to Marlon Brando to Pancho Villa to Joan Jett and why, even, to some degree, Debbie Harry, though she's so, so a class act I'm not completely comfortable using her as a model, though she makes a splendid one.  All right, already, David Bowies 's 'Ziggy Stardust' was about a person who was filling the shoes of a 'The Kid' by being a cool looking guitar wizard.  Countless 'The Kids' were viewed looking cool and callow in a pool hall, hustling for a living in the asphalt jungle.  I still plan on being an incarnation of 'The Kid,' and I am counting on the purchase, mail order, of a fake Stratocaster.

Why, why,why?   I need to scratch an itch, and the scratcher is an electric guitar, probably the one that is candy apple red, with a blond maple fretboard.  It's a large back scratcher.    The need to fill out an internal paradigm, one that synthesized through media presentation of 'the kid' archetypes, include the hallowed Sid Vicious, is all together valid and real,  but is in fact no different from a permanent obsession with nobility, such as believing you deserved to be a knight of the round table, if you were putzing your way through the times of King Arthur.  Rock and roll obsessions are eminently more practical.

Buying the guitar is a form of sexual perversion, replete with anticipation, guilt feelings, a ritual, and even the disruptive thought patterns that could disrupt an ordinary career, if I had one.  It has become my career to buy shit, cheap generic copies of a iconic things, things that reflect what American used to be, such as a perpetual youth being sassy in a free representative democracy made for fast cars, easy poon, young men with big dicks, and young women eager to give it up to a 'Kid.'  Of any age.  Mine.  I'm the Kid.  Will complete purchase of electric guitar by weeks end.  Will play the fucker.   Will proceed as The Kid.

Sunday, October 12, 2014

latest movies by Bruce

This is desperate cinema.    It's cheaply made.   Yet I feel grandiose.  

Go.  Watch Ingmar.  Watch Federico.   I understand you are unable perceive the new wave in film.  I perceive it.  You don't.   It's alright.