But mark this: There will be terrible times in the last days. People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, without love, unforgiving, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not lovers of the good, treacherous, rash, conceited, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God— having a form of godliness but denying its power. Have nothing to do with them. 2 Timothy 3:1-5
Is it a sign of deeper mental illness manifesting that I’m beginning to wonder whether current world events are indeed a sign of the coming apocalypse? Are we indeed in the End Times? I hate myself for suggesting this during earthquakes and tsunamis. There are more important things that we should all be considering. But this here I’ve been thinking about for awhile. Please forgive me. All I know is that I go to Twitter or my tumblr dashboard or Facebook and it’s about 1/3 Serious News and 1/3 Charlie Sheen and 1/3 Other Legitimately Upsetting Social Things. I feel like a dilettante trying to comment on any of those topics. But it’s not because I’m uninterested. The Internet is full of experts. I’ll let them be the experts.
But seriously. Have you seen TV lately? The fact alone that two Jersey Shore cast members have books right now is a sign of…something. There are still bird and fish kills going on. (I really expected that to die out before the elections.) And seriously: Has anyone watched the Real Housewives franchise critically? Because those harpies are harbingers of Dark Times, mark my words. I can’t watch. It’s too hard. Anyhow: We’re all gonna die. Enjoy.
So. I feel effete saying so, but beyond making vague gestures at TV and pointing drunkenly at easy targets, I can’t make a better argument than HOLY WALKING FUCK WHAT IS WRONG WITH US. Seriously, though. We’re doomed. Start stocking up on canned goods, kerosene, wool blankets, and firearms. Because in 10 years…well, just trust me. Maybe five years, even.
My new shrink (not the old one, who did the “you-can’t-fire-me-I-quit” dance with me this past fall, and I am fortunate she ditched me when she did) is an amazing mix of Zen calm and Texan laidbackitude and he looks like a cross between Anderson Cooper and John Corbett and I don’t ever suspect that when we meet he’s eager to google a Robert Mitchum film while we’re talking. Anyhow, he laughs at my jokes, and I suspect that’s part of the therapy, but I mentioned that I went to the Karlheinz Weinberger show at the Swiss Institute and he was all like oh, you mean the photos of the Halbestarke?
Which of course it’s because he’s familiar with because he spent a few years growing up in Zurich. Because that’s how unexpectedly cool he is.
We talked about the show, and various Swiss subcultures, for a bit. Their subcultures were far more interesting than ours are. I remarked that the Halbestarke seemed a lot like a cargo cult in some way — or to paraphrase LCD Soundsystem, full of false nostalgia for unremembered eras. He laughed, as I expect him to do. But you look at a photo of a guy who has a hubcap-sized belt buckle with a picture of Little Richard pasted to it, with TEXAS and MEXICO written in bleach lettering on his jeans, and you think, “This happened in somewhat of a vacuum, didn’t it.”
Which makes it all the more amazing. And of course, the later photos reveal that the cool weirdo rockabilly Halbestarke kids grew into neo-Nazi biker dudes. (But isn’t that what happens in all underground movements? Look at that Friends Stand United dude getting thrown in jail. Thugs are thugs. I bet if half those FSU kids liked Oi music better, they’d be neo-Nazis instead of antifa.)
Anyhow, we talk sometimes about compassion. And how compassion for others has to start with compassion for oneself. Lately I’ve noticed that I’m not feeling a lot of compassion for other folks. Like, in the morning when I’m on the subway I look at little kids who are asleep on the train at 9 am and I’m like WHY ARE YOU SLEEPING YOU SHOULD BE AWAKE YOU ARE A LITTLE BALL OF ENERGY AND THIS IS PRIME TIME FOR YOU. That’s pretty hateful, I acknowledge that. In fact, I acknowledge that I’m fairly judgmental of anyone sleeping on the train at 9 am. And I acknowledge that I’m hateful for that. My point is that I’m NOT COMPASSIONATE.
Speaking of, we’re heading down to Florida for a few days to see my mom. She had cancer a few years ago, and it’s come back. So she has to go in for surgery this week. And regardless of what I may say about her, you know what she asked me a few days ago when I called to give her our arrival time?
“What kind of wine should I get for you guys?”
This is how blood-related people talk to me. We may not fully get along, but we speak the same language.
Anyway, I told her the truth: “Don’t worry, we’ll drink almost anything.”
We’ll be out of town for St. Patrick’s Day. I’ve never been a fan of the holiday myself, but I will say that one of my favorite live shows ever was the Pogues on St. Patrick’s Day a few years ago — N and I went with a friend who had extra tickets and we spent the night on the floor with a bunch of NYFD. The only thing that would make it a bigger stereotype would be me drinking from a flask, which yes, I did.
Prematurely, then, Happy St. Patrick’s Day:
I was a Facebook “early adopter” inasmuch as I created a profile in late 2004 or early 2005 so that I could do recon on the undergrads I was supposed to be spotlighting in the marketing publications that I worked on at the time.* Back then, I could see pretty much anyone’s profile, provided they attended the university where I work. Mostly, I needed to make sure that none of their profile photos included gravity bongs** and that none of their personal information said anything to the effect of “HITLER WAS RIGHT” or “Embrace Jesus as your personal savior or suffer His wrath.” If they passed on both counts, they became a Maybe. If they had academic honors or a special scholarship, they became a Yes. And if they were “diverse” in addition to that, we basically dispatched a limo to go pick them up and bring them in for an interview. Because that’s how the world works.
My own profile was entirely blank, no photo, nothing. I would periodically get friend requests from old college friends, but I’d ignore them, because that’s not what I was there for. Now I’m on Facebook every day. I do not remain in contact with too many high school or college friends. (You needn’t wonder why.) I’ve blocked a lot of people. (Look: I’m not up to anything interesting. You’re not missing out, okay?)
Friday night, I came down with a 102° fever, lower GI nastiness, muscle aches, general malaise, etc. I lay on the couch, wrapped in the amazingly warm and strange blanket my in-laws gave us for Christmas, watching Tivo’d episodes of Tabatha’s Salon Takeover. (What.) At some point, I checked my email. Work stuff, sale at Rugs USA, and a Facebook Friend Request from my first unrequited high school crush.
I was momentarily startled, but also quite delirious, so I promptly forgot about it and went back to sweating, self-pity, and concern that the salon in Palmdale was just plain unsalvageable, Tabatha or no.
My friend Tom has waaaay better dreams than I have. (In the past week, mine have included watching a leak in the bathroom creating a yawning, black hole in the floor and a trip to the laundromat.) In an email he sent today:
This morning I had a long anxiety dream that took place in a Mexican desert. I was trying to create several logos out of a large open field (I have a big deadline today). Suddenly, out of nowhere, you appeared and we had the following conversation:
D: Can you do me a favor?
T: Sure.
D: Do you think you could get me an Italian wedding cake that’s wired with explosives?
T: …Yeah, I can do that. Do you want enough explosives to kill everyone, or are you just trying to scare them?
D: What do you think?
And then you left. I was trying to figure out what an Italian wedding cake was, since I would have guessed that’s what you call a cake that’s wired with explosives.
Speaking of which, I don’t think I’ve mentioned this already, but in doing genealogical research on my father’s father’s family, I’ve discovered that there is an ‘ndrangheta ‘ndrina in Cittanova with our (original, unaltered) surname. In fact, one of the heads had the same name as my grandfather. (Or had, until he was assassinated — the ‘ndrangheta one, not the Hollywood, Florida, one.) If my great uncle hadn’t added that extra, superfluous S to our surname, I’d be apprehensive about visiting Calabria. Who knows what grudges those people still harbor.
Oh wait, I just remembered: I’m still apprehensive about visiting Calabria, because it’s the fucking armpit of Italy.
I just realized that I forgot the second half of this morning’s post. More music!
This weekend I hung out with an old college friend (who did not, apparently, suffer the consequences of 11 pm Indian takeout) and we took an electronic trip down music memory lane on the iPod on Saturday night. (Not enjoyed by the others, I suspect.)
We spent a good part of our time together as roommates in a drafty, leaky house and I can’t help but believe that this had some influence on our musical tastes.* (Also, we drank a lot.) I was really getting into Palace and Son Volt too, and finally picking up on all the country and old-timey that I’d listened to as a kid and forgotten about/dismissed. So basically what I’m saying is that if death, damnation, and/or concertinas and fiddles weren’t involved, I wasn’t interested in listening to it.
So I dug these out this morning. I think Tarnation came after he’d already moved out west to learn glass blowing. But it’s still part of the overall theme.
16 Horsepower, Black Soul Choir
Scud Mountain Boys, Silo
Tarnation, Game of Broken Hearts [sorry, this is a big ol' AAC file -- too lazy to convert it]
*This roommate got the first cellphone I’d ever seen up close — it was one of those flip Motorolas. I remember how excited we were at the Best Buy because the phone came with 100 FREE MINUTES (with each additional minute costing 25 cents). Not per month. 100 free minutes, period. Anyhow, we used those minutes up really fast, mainly calling our friends from the bar to tell them we were calling from the bar. Then my roommate moved away and never paid the (stupidly and, IMO, unfairly high) bill and I got 8 am calls from collections agencies for months afterward.
Where did she go?
I am lazy. If you're bored, go visit my tumblr, updated daily with other people's witticisms and erudition.Also by me
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