Theoretical construct: Extreme Makeover Edition (or not)

The thing about having these amorphous theories of mine is I lack any kind of scientific validation. As I'm not particularly interested in convincing anyone that what the theories propose is true, I feel no compulsion to do much in the way of research. I suppose I could offer my theory about why there's no convincing anyone of anything to explain why that is not important to me. (A philosophical theory is "true" if it jibes with what one already was inclined to believe. There is no actual truth, as interpretation lends itself much better to an interesting world than does absolution.)

("Absolution"? How I just used it is not what the word means. "Definitivism"? I don't think that's a word at all. What indicates there is no room for interpretation, that there is only one way of regarding something? Perhaps my greatest failing as a theorist is not lack of proof nor lack of interest in proof but lack of adequately impressive vocabulary.)

Oh well.

I also believe everyone should try to come up with his or her own theories, not merely accept those of others (certainly not at face value), so I'm not as motivated to share mine as I might otherwise be; they cannot steal from me what I do not show them.

All theories should be self-serving. How can someone else's theory, in an unmodified form, possibly be in your best interest (even in theory)?

I'd be hard-pressed to convince anyone to even consider my theories if I paid him to do so. There's no reason for any human to ruminate on these things; I cannot justify encouraging this madness in others.

Dougression Exclusive

Last month my friends David and Rebecca got hitched in a delightful ceremony.

When I shared with them the photos taken with my camera at the festivities, this shot of me is the only one I didn't include.

However, I know how my readership has been champing at the bit to see me in a dress shirt and tie, so this one's just for you.

Okay, calm down.

Boy, it's a good thing no one took a picture of me (where my head was cut off) when I had on the coat to the pinstripe suit I wore. That would push you over the edge, I fear.

Morning dance

Outside the door to the Burger King, Janice wiggled to the music coming from the blaring, crackly stereo of the old grey Ford Fairmont parked in the handicapped spot. The intermittent dance was interrupted by periods of sitting by the worn-down kids play area. At 8:45 in the morning there were no children around, but no children played there at any time, with all the indolent people like her taking up their play area.

~

Well, that could have been something. It didn't pan out, at least not yet, because I had nowhere to go with it. I'm not sure I had an interest in making those hanging out in front of the BK seem sympathetic, and if I'm mocking them there's little point in kicking them when they're already down.

Of course, it's only from the perspective of those of us with permanent residence and regular meals that hanging out in front of a fast food restaurant, possibly waiting for a drug dealer, seems worthy of scorn; I have to presume that someone approximating dancing by a major street in the morning must be reasonably happy. I'm not saying it is or is not chemically enhanced happiness, but I'm guessing that if asked she would claim to be so; if happiness is not the belief that one is happy, then what is it?

It serves my attempts at happiness to perceive my choices as superior to this woman I've fictionalized as Janice, but I'm not dancing this morning. And from what I observed, I'm a much better dancer than she is. She was not ashamed of her cottage cheese thighs, displaying them by wearing short shorts; clearly she did not suffer from a great many of the stereotypical hang-ups that afflict women in our society. Sure, if it was her car from which the loud music eminated, she was inconsiderate toward those who lived in the buildings near the BK, but I've encountered much worse oblivious behavior, and from people who didn't seem anywhere near as happy.

When I'm frustrated by the concerns of the choices I've made, I can imagine how loitering outside a Burger King on a November morning in an area where it's warm enough to wear shorts with nothing troubling me enough to prevent vague rhythmic movements could an improvement over what I am suffering at the moment. I'm sure waking up sober on a stranger's couch, or on a cold piece of sidewalk, would not seem so good, but I can understand the appeal of relinquishing all responsibilities.

The other night I caught a bit of a stand-up special on Comedy Central featuring comedian Ralphie May. Part of his routine talked about a friend he had growing up who was mentally challenged. Or as he put it, retarded. He mentioned envying the guy because the friend was always happy. He noted the only time the rest of us achieved that level of (ahem) "'Tard Happiness" was for those few seconds of euphoria during a really spectacular orgasm. Not during a regular orgasm, but the kind that leaves one incapable of speech. That's how happy the retarded friend was all the time.

Thought is the enemy of happiness. And I think way too much. But still I must delude myself with beliefs that it's better (approximating happiness) to be a thinking person and fit in with mainstream society, because it's what I've chosen to do.

That, and no one has had the decency to come up behind me and hit me in the head with a blunt object. People claim to care about my happiness, but do they take action to help bring it about?

I've left a note absolving the assailant of any culpability…

The story of Election Day (not what you're thinking)

In 1987, the Replacements put a song on the B-side of a UK promo single for "Alex Chilton"; it was called "Election Day."

(I'm going to assume my audience is not so young as to be oblivious to how music used to come on vinyl discs which could be played on either side, and thus a song that wasn't good enough for the album would get released only because they needed something to fill the other side of the disc, on the off-chance that the purchaser of the single got tired of the "good" song and decided to turn it over.)

At some point in the early 1990s I went to a record show at a rundown mall in Buena Park, found the UK promo single with "Election Day" on it. As I was a big 'Mats fan, and as the song was otherwise unavailable (at least as far as I knew at the time), I purchased it for $15.

The song's a kind of sloppy little number with a wailing slide guitar playing over Paul Westerberg's semi-slurred singing. I'm pretty sure drinking was involved--which, if you know anything about the band from that period, is not much of a stretch to believe.

For not particularly clever reasons, today I present the lyrics to said song:

I meant to close the polls
In the chill night, bitter cold
Someone close the polls
On a chill night, in the cold

Election day
I can't stay
Wannabe, wannabe, wannabe, wannabe

I don't care who gets elected
I don't care who gets to find out
I don't care who gets elected
Till I find me a one (to love)

Wannabe, wannabe, wannabe
Election!
Election!
I said election!
I don't care
I don't care
Our election day


By 1997 the band had long since broken up and Reprise threw together a double disc best-of/rarities collection, All For Nothing, Nothing For All; the second disc of that included "Election Day" (and you can hear a sample here) amongst many other hard-to-find tracks. That album I found in the used CD bins of Aron's Records in Hollywood for around $12.

If only I could have been more patient.


In a sad postscript to that tale, I should admit that I have fallen so far from fanatical 'Mats collecting that when a new retrospective album, Don't You Know Who I Think I Was?, came out earlier this year--complete with two newly recorded tracks--I passed on buying it. I'm sure if I wait a while I'll find a used copy on the cheap.

I like to think I have learned a little over the years.




(If you prefer a lighter background with dark text, you can read this same post over on my test blog.)

Halloween recap: Is make glorious Hollywood Western parade

This is how I looked at the end of the evening this past Tuesday.

That night my girlfriend proposed we head down to Santa Monica Blvd. in West Hollywood to check out the Halloween festivities. We walked for an hour to get there, seeing many people in various costumes striding down the street with us, but nothing that impressive. By and large the women were "sexy" versions of everything from witches to girl scouts to police officers. However, we figured once we got down to where the street was blocked off the renown drag queens would be the real display.

After walking around the crowds, past the Chrystler/Jeep entryway (yes, corporate sponsorship has come to the WeHo Halloween), we saw some worthwhile costumes, but the event proved disappointing; it seemed (at least where we went) there were more people there to see what was going on (many not in costume at all) than there were people there to have much going on. The drag queens, alas, were not to be found. We turned and started heading home after only about half an hour.

Most disappointing. And definitely not worth the walk.

However, if you're wondering what was the most common costume we encountered, here's a picture to demonstrate (not for the squeamish) :

"Sexy time in U.S. and A.!"

I think now you understand how I ended up in the picture of me above.


Next year we will be avoiding WeHo on October 31st.