Houses

Some houses inspire you. The kinds of houses that have tiny attic windows that you can't see into but desperately want to, because on the other side you expect to find something charismatic, like an elderly woman perched behind an antique wooden desk in a room only big enough for her, her sewing machine, and a lethargic metal fan that keeps her cool during the heat of the day. The kinds of houses with yards manicured to indicate care and indifference all at once, whose inhabitants are rarely seen and thus invented by each passerby. The sorts of houses where each room is an individual, where an upstairs bedroom must be found by word of mouth, where trinkets and ornaments have stories behind them. These are the kinds of houses that have yellow siding that is either the result of repainting or wear, that make you feel reminiscent and melancholy, because their ripened charm reminds you of long forgotten summer evenings at your grandparents' house. You write stories about these kinds of houses. Stories with little girls in white sundresses running in and out of patio doors onto wooden porches, and adults in rocking chairs drinking lemonade out of a jar and gazing at the sunlight reflecting off the mist of the sprinklers. Stories where, outside, the rain is pouring or the sun is blazing, but never anything in between. Stories with characters who change when they move in, who discover a new side of themselves, who find their favorite room before they even know what furniture it will hold. And in these stories, the house means something, something that shifts and is yet unchanged, something that is built on eroding soil but has a solid foundation, something that represents the permanence of home.

Poets?

I told myself I would write everyday. Today is a day, so I must write, even though I am not in the mood. I have read in so many reliable places that writing every day is the best way to be a better writer. When I put it that way, it sounds obvious. I want to say practice makes perfect, but I hat cliches. I also hate them. Sitting at a coffee shop as I am doing now can be inspiring, but it can also be oddly irritating. The coffee shop - home turf for the "creative" types - is always bustling with people like me, people who think they are different, who think they are the ones who are going to "make it" in whatever dead-end career they happen to be aspiring to. Even right now, I can look in front of me and slightly to my left and see a woman typing a screenplay. I want to go up to her and say, "I am better than you. Stop trying." She may be much better than me, but I want to be the only one in the coffee shop working on my craft so that it doesn't seem so difficult to get ahead. Yesterday, a group of - OBNOXIOUS - young show-offs sat in a prototypical coffee shop circle, two on a couch, one in a recliner, one cross-legged on the floor, all surrounding a hippy-looking glass coffee table, and talked about things at a volume that made eavesdropping a necessity, not a desire. They were all "poets." I was irritated that they were calling themselves "poets." If they were really "poets," they wouldn't be sitting in a coffee shop talking about it, they would be - well, I don't know where poets go. The point is, I could tell they weren't accomplished "poets," they were just people who try their hands at poetry, then sit in stupid hippy circles at coffee shops and brag loudly about the latest reading they went to. Then they watch loud youtube videos with no headphones and piss off everyone around them. I am writing right now, but do I consider myself a "writer?" No. I haven't accomplished anything deserving of that title. If I walked around telling everyone I was a writer, I would be pretentious. The coffee shop "poets" need a lesson in humility. What is poetry, anyway? Here, I can write poetry on the spot:

Here I sit to write words
They do not spell, they say
To whom is not to know
For to find the meaning
would be to know too much
And this is why
sense is lost.

Yes, that took all of 30 seconds, and it makes just as much sense as any poem I have ever read. Maybe I should become a "poet." I could just make shit up and mush words together in a way that sounds "poetic." This whole prose thing is tricky because it has to actually make sense, follow the laws of English.

This is really not as satisfying as it was yesterday. Hopefully tomorrow I will be more inspired.

The idea-less ramble

Writing. Writing, writing, writing. I have been writing all day, but I had to stop writing and come here to write. I plan to write here until I am satisfied. The good news is I have already accomplished more here than in the other thing I was writing. I wish it was always this easy to write. I am finding this very satisfying. The other thing I was writing all day was much harder to write. I told myself I would come here and write without editing at all, in order to actually get some writing done. I have made a few typos, and I will admit I did go back and fix them. But fixing typos is ok, I just don't want to sit for minutes on end deciding how to edit ideas. Ideas are difficult to write. That's why I am writing this, because I have no ideas to write. This is idea-less, and it feel great. Sometimes you just need to write with no ideas. Should I publish this? Then I would be publishing no ideas. Writing with no ideas and publishing those no ideas. Is that productive? Will anyone enjoy it? Who knows? Who cares? I kind of care. I don't want people to think I'm a crazy person. Maybe I am a crazy person. But I don't want other people to think that. But now I already wrote that I might be crazy, and I can't go back and edit that, so if I publish this, people might think, oh he even thinks he might be crazy, maybe he actually is crazy. They will think I am a crazy person with no ideas. No ideas at all. I just stopped to re-read everything I wrote, which is something I told myself I wouldn't do. But it's ok, I am slowly learning how to not edit my writing every 5 seconds. It is important, and I think writing with no ideas, like I'm doing now, will help cure  me of my need to constantly edit my writing. I just stopped to re-read everything again. This is quite the ramble. The idea-less ramble. That sounds catchy, the idea-less ramble. Maybe that's what I'll call this. But I only need a title if I publish this. Still haven't decided if I want to. But now that I have a good title maybe I should. Hmm. Now I am running out of no ideas. For the past 2 minutes I have been writing with no ideas whatsoever, and it flowed perfectly. Now I have no more no ideas and I don't know what to write, except that I am out of no ideas to write about. I am a little scared to stop though, because I am worried about going back and trying to edit this. Here's what I'll do, I'll count to 3, and on 3, I will click publish. Yeah,what the hell, I'll publish it. I'm not crazy. 1-2-3!

The Spirit of a Jewish Mother

                Eli's mother hovered forebodingly beside his bed, hands on her hips, her head shaking slowly back and forth. She always had a way of making Eli sense her disappointment from body language alone. He spent half his childhood feeling like a scolded puppy. 
                This time, she had caught him in a rather compromising position.

                "For God's sake, again?"

                 He quickly covered up and chucked the latest edition of Maxim magazine across the room.

                "MOM! Oh my God!" He hoped an exclamation of utter shock would distract her from present circumstances. It didn't.

                "Don't mom me young man. So this is what you're doing with your life now? You just lie there all day and do...this?"

                "God mom, not all day. Just because you're a ghost doesn't mean you don't have to knock."

                That was stupid. He couldn't control himself.

                "Excuse me? Oh yeah, sure! Lock your dead mother's ghost out of your room! Real nice. This is my soul, you know."

                 Eli's mother was dead, and still she knew how to make him feel guilty.  She even looked the same while doing it apart from the pale, partially transparent skin. She wore the same old dilapidated nightgown he saw her adorn every single night of his childhood. He somehow found a brief moment to contemplate ghost clothing. How can an outfit pass into the afterlife? And is that outfit what the spirit is stuck in for the rest of eternity?
                The exchange continued.
                "It's not that I'm trying to lock you out. It's just...embarrassing."

                "Embarrassing for you? What about me? Having a son who treats his body like it's an amusement park! Do you want to give me a heart attack?"

                "...A heart attack mom?"

                She turned her ghost body and started looking around Eli's bedroom - "What else can I yell at him about while I'm at it?"        

                "And what is going on in here? Did you forget how to clean?"

                There it is.

                "I was going to clean up tomorr..."

                "How can you live like this? It's disgusting."

                "Sorry."

                "Sorry. You're sorry. I'm sorry. Sorry that I raised such a slob.

                "Ok m..."

                "Why can't you find a girl so you don't have to lie here and waste your life away? Is it so hard? You are a handsome, smart boy. I'd even be ok with you dating a Goy if she distracted you from this nonsense.

                "OK mo..."

                "If you're going to continually abuse yourself, you could at least do it to some nice Jewish girls. Not this Maxim garbage. You could at least get the right image into your head!"

                "MOM!"

                She hovered quietly for a moment, hands still on hips, head still shaking. It couldn't be over yet.

                "And just how long has it been since you've visited my grave?"

                There it is.

                "Mom, how many times do we have to go over this? You're a ghost. You can visit me whenever you want."

                "Oh yeah, sure, but I better 'knock' first, or I might find my son treating his body like it's the state fair!"

                "Can we please, please stop talking about this now?"

                At that, the ghost of Eli's Jewish mother gave one last sigh, floated up into the ceiling, and disappeared. On the way, she used her lifeless, gray index finger to take a quick swipe of his bookshelf.

                "Would it kill you to dust every once in awhile?" 

For the Betterment of Mankind, Part II - The solution

It may be useful to incorporate something into the everyday lives of humans to remind them of their duty as a species to remain incorporated in evolutionary improvement. This would be an evolutionary "challenge," something that would act discriminately to punish those who chose to embrace idiotic behaviors, reestablishing once again Natural Selection as the ultimate ruler of survival in human populations.

There are many species of predator that could act as such a challenge, wild animals that could easily catch, kill, and consume an incautious human. A lion, for instance, could deal almost certain fatality to a human, if the animal so desired him as a meal or perceived him as a threat. In fact, a human is no match for a lion's stealth, speed, and power. A large serpent such as an Anaconda could also easily swallow and digest even a large human if presented one. However,  its inherent sluggishness and lethargy render it unlikely to manage such a feat, assuming the target is mobile and comprising the five senses. A creature somewhere in between the prowess of a lion and the sluggishness of an Anaconda may well be a good match for a human.

A bear, perhaps, stands as the most appropriate middle ground. Bears can be fierce but often cumbersome, lethal but not exceedingly stealthy, and a human may have a fair chance against a bear, if they are paying heed to their surroundings. Certainly, an unwary human in a famished bear's habitat stands little chance. However, humans have the advantage of intellect, and in a situation where the human is in familiar territory and is aware of the possibility of an attack, he has a fair chance of evading an encounter.

Therefore, and for the betterment of mankind, I propose we introduce bears into society. This will serve a grand purpose, to reintroduce a primal element of Natural Selection into human populations. For without Natural Selection, the idiots continue to reproduce, and our species cannot improve.

This, of course, must be carried out systematically:

Because the United States is the most modern, industrialized nation in the world, its city centers would be the first to incorporate bears. If the goals of this project were being met, or at least if its successes outweighed its failures, bear incorporation could begin elsewhere in the developed world.

It would become legal in all city centers and areas of the US in which bears per capita equaled less than the national average for enough animals to be released to reach that limit. Release of bears would be strictly limited to licensed, federal wildlife officials who were specifically appointed in the management of this project. Specific, mapped points of introduction would be carefully coordinated taking into consideration predicted roaming patterns and habitat usage of each introduced animal, as well as human population densities. This would ensure even dispersion of bears among groups of humans.

Animals to be released would be born of wild bear mothers in captivity, and reared under such provisions until they were able to survive on their own. Thus, the bears would be juveniles at release, old enough to be self-sustaining but young enough to be non-threatening on introduction. This would allow humans in the area to learn the bear's habits before the animal became lethal. Humans who chose to be observant at the beginning would have less chance of an encounter. Only female animals would be released, as to avoid breeding and territorial disputes between individuals.

By growing up in city centers, the bears would learn to live in human areas and to tolerate human presence, which would habituate the animals to human activities and illuminate humans as prey items. Furthermore, naturally occurring bear populations would help keep introduced bears within their desired ranges.

Attacking or killing a bear in situations other than self defense would be punishable by law. All instances of fatality of both human and bear would be thoroughly reviewed by a panel of legal administrators, specially trained forensic examiners, as well as local law enforcement in order to determine circumstances and legality of death.

As to ensure all humans' participation in this project at all times, there would be a strict "no-limits" clause in regard to where the animals could roam. If a bear wandered into a Wal-Mart, college fraternity, or the Jersey Shore beach house, no measures would take place to remove it until it was killed during an altercation or it decided to exit.

Crucial to this project would be to minimize casualties that were not a product of the overall goal. After all, the objectives would not be a drastic reduction in human population size nor to endure copious innocent lives lost. By releasing only enough animals to reach natural, average bear densities per capita, humans would still grossly outnumber bears, and each human's chance of an encounter would remain relatively small. However, the possibility is what would change behavior. One could not completely engross themselves in their fast food burger, bury their head in their mobile device in disregard to the rest of the world, or act otherwise idiotically, because they might get attacked and devoured by a bear. Those that persisted in such a lifestyle would become the individuals most likely to be selected out of the population.

This survival-of-the-fittest schema would drastically increase the overall quality of mankind by producing a human species that was more adept, involved, and aware of their environment. The knowledge that, at every point in the country, somewhere within several miles, there is almost certainly a man-eating bear, would force humans to adapt, to improve. It would force humans to evolve.

For the Betterment of Mankind, Part I - The problem

The defining feature of humans as a species is extreme intelligence. The presence of so many idiots among us, then, is the epitome of irony.

It's true, the idiot is on the rise and can be found in most corners of modern society. Evidence is abundant in your local Wal-Mart, college fraternity, and the Jersey Shore beach house. It has arisen in airports, newsrooms, and city halls, and it is unmistakable on television and the internet. The idiot may be ferociously text messaging on the interstate, boorishly fist fighting at a sporting event, or verbally abusing a Starbucks barista for incorrectly preparing their grande single shot 4 pump sugar free nonfat extra hot no foam light whip stirred white mocha.

Interestingly, humans have exclusive rights to idiocy. After all, there are no idiots elsewhere in the animal kingdom. There are no stupid chimpanzees, no moronic salamanders, and no imbecilic salmon. Indeed, all of these species are less intelligent than humans, but as a collective, and only due to a less evolved brain. In the animal kingdom, the only appropriate equivalent to an idiot is the individual that is promptly selected out of the population. It is the individual that does not survive, the one that is killed by a predator or by one of its own or by other variables in its environment, because it is less fit than others of its kind. And is that not the way it should be? Is that not the beauty of evolution? It is the brilliant simplicity with which the "idiotic" individuals die that so gracefully embodies Charles Darwin's central theory on the evolution of life - survival of the fittest by Natural Selection. In the face of challenges within an environment, variability between members of a population heeds differential survival. It's simple, and Darwin made it clear 150 years ago - the idiots are supposed to die.

Alas, the idiot human does not suffer the same fate as the "idiot" chimpanzee, salamander, or salmon. In fact, the idiot human often outlives the non-idiot human, both in terms of longevity and lifestyle. I return to the the Jersey Shore television show, where exemplar idiots live a lifestyle often dreamed of by the non-idiot. These individuals are rewarded for their unhealthy behaviors, in this case with riches and fame. The more they engage in physical confrontation with others, expose their bodies to copious amounts of alcohol and other harmful substances, and have unprotected promiscuous intercourse yielding more people like themselves, the more success they find in life. This may not seem like a problem, but it is a slap in the face of Darwin. Indeed, any other species cannot take part in comparable behaviors, because each one has its own specific, and prompt, consequence on the overall fitness - and therefore survivability - of the individual. Take a chimpanzee. Say this chimpanzee foolishly challenges a much stronger, more experienced chimpanzee to a fight for dominance of a troop. Defeat for this chimpanzee most likely means death of its injuries - Darwin's survival of the fittest at its height. Conversely, a cast member of the Jersey Shore who demonstrates similar foolishness and who suffers the same end result gets a high-five and a ratings boost. Certainly, the entire, overly tanned Jersey Shore cast may die of cancer caused by harmful UV emissions, or of liver disease resulting from alcohol abuse, but these are only eventualities. Such will not occur before they have had the chance to live auspiciously, reproduce plentifully, and pollute the minds of millions of viewers with incessant bouts of idiocy.

The question must be raised, then, why does a member of the Jersey Shore not have to abide by the same rules as a chimpanzee? Are they not both primates? Are they not both products of thousands of generations of continuing evolutionary advancement? Why are human idiots not enduring their due fates? The answer is a paradox: it is a consequence of intelligence that allows idiots to survive in human populations.

Continuing in the vein of idiots on television, reality TV programs like the Jersey Shore are prime examples of this phenomenon. Despite its noticeable lack of surface value, reality TV is a direct product of human ingenuity. The recognition of our society's attraction to such humans as are found on the Jersey Shore television show has yielded a multi-billion dollar industry cashing in on the promotion of idiots. In this way, we are enabling their idiotic behavior. Such cultural exploitation is strictly human and must be attributed to sheer mental capacity.

Society's attraction to observing idiots on television and elsewhere is widely evident and may serve as an indirect source of their success. However, human intelligence has contributed to this apparent hitch in Darwin's evolutionary scheme in a much more remarkable way. Essentially, humans have manipulated their environment to an extent to which it is no longer evolutionarily challenging. That is, after all, a crucial aspect of Natural Selection. In every other species, environmental challenges, be they predation, competition between or within species, or resource acquisition, are what act on variability between individuals and eliminate those that are not fit to survive. Without such variables, survival becomes easy for all, including those that are less fit. The average, modern human is our prime example. His challenges have nothing to do with his inherent, natural environment. Rather, his problems, the things that really threaten his survival, surround elements of life that he himself has created - automobile accidents, crime, drug and alcohol abuse, war. These are all  elements of a strictly human society, because only humans have the advanced intellect necessary to create them. Even disease, seemingly the only true "evolutionary" threat left to mankind, is largely driven by the actions of humans. Even when it is not, it does not act on behavioral discrepancies, and it does not serve to punish an individual's idiotic behaviors.

In summary, because there is no longer a viable evolutionary threat to exploit human idiocy, the species cannot improve. In part II of this commentary, I will suggest that, perhaps, it would be useful to reintroduce that element of threat into human populations.

Rap line analysis

I often find myself in debate with a friend over whether or not rap music is indeed music. The arguments are always the same: I maintain that music requires harmony, melody, and musical instruments. My opponent usually declares the existence of some sort of raw musicality, wherein the sounds of someone banging two rocks together could be considered musical. I respond with an explanation of the difference between noise and music, followed by sarcastic applause for their entirely accurate comparison of rock banging and rap music. The argument usually terminates at that juncture in a mutual exchange of "to each their own," and maybe that's how it should be.

However, sometimes the dispute drags on and morphs into a ping pong match of verbal insults aimed at each others' music tastes. It is at this point that I am forced to bring out my completely air tight, irrefutable winning argument. It is as follows: rappers, without question, come up with some of the worst lyrics in the history of lyricism.

In an endeavor to prove this point, I will now fire up Google and illustrate some examples. Then, for fun, and in an effort to provide even the slightest benefit of the doubt to past and future debate opponents, I will attempt to explain, even rationalize, a selection of some of most heinous usages of the English language I can find. But mostly, I am just going to make fun of them.

Be warned, some of the following will definitely be offensive. Just remember, these lyrics have earned their writers millions of dollars - there must be something good about them, and I'll try to find it.

Dr. Dre - "Nuthin' but a 'G' Thang"

"Never let me slip, cause if I slip, then I'm slippin."

What I really want to do is start with the title of this song. For length reasons, I will refrain except to point out that a "G thang" is not a real thang. I mean, thing.

Apparently, this self-appointed 'doctor' (I'm pretty sure you're not allowed to call yourself a doctor without the proper credentials. Besides, now anyone with the last name Dre can never become a doctor without infringing on trademark laws) does not quite understand the concept of cause and effect. It goes without saying, doctor, that if you slip, you are indeed slipping. There is no need to spell this out for us. Never unnecessarily repeat yourself, because if you unnecessarily repeat yourself, then you are unnecessarily repeating yourself.

If I'm forced to try to rationalize this, I suppose our doctor could be pleading to not let him physically slip, let's say on some ice, because he doesn't want to hit his head, because that often leads to a more metaphorical slip, like a mistake or blunder caused by head damage from the initial slip. Who am I kidding? This sentence is simply nonsensical. Not a good start.

LFO - "Summer Girls"

"When you take a sip you buzz like a hornet, Billy Shakespeare wrote a whole bunch of sonnets."

Ok, I'm all with it for the first part. A "sip" of alcohol makes you "buzz like a hornet," because you are buzzed from the alcohol, and hornets go 'buzzzzzz.' I decoded that part pretty easily. Where the confusion sets in is in the second part, where, out of nowhere, the rapper finds it necessary to display his knowledge of the profession of William Shakespeare. Is this a rap about drinking or Shakespeare? Stinging insects or poetry forms? I certainly don't see the association. And where does this guy get off calling Shakespeare "Billy?" There is no way to be sure that was even his nickname. And if it was, this rapper certainly does not know him personally. Where are your manners, LFO?

Again, I'm hard pressed to find any semblance of sense in this (I'm getting the feeling such will be a regular issue throughout this process). Perhaps the rapper was in fact drunk when he wrote this, and while describing his current situation in the first part, his inebriated mind took over for the second part. This is the only thing I can think of, and the average running speed of an adult African ostrich is 43 miles per hour.

Kanye West - "Two Words"

"I live by two words: f*ck you, pay me."

I could write a whole essay on the irony of an eighteen-time Grammy Award winning millionaire film and fashion mogul who doesn't know how to count. But I'll leave that for now, and instead point out the unlikeliness of "f*ck you, pay me" resulting in any monetary success. The only profession I can think of where saying "f*ck you, pay me" would actually get you any money is prostitution. In fact, any John would likely respond to that statement with, "Ok." Regardless, I doubt Kanye West has made his fortune working as a prostitute. Kanye, I'm really happy for you, Imma let you finish, but you live by one of the worst mottos of all time.

I'm not going to try and rationalize any of this. This guy's a moron.

Snoop Dogg (before he became a lion) - "California Girls" (a Katy Perry song, which makes everything that much more relevant)

"Bikinis, zucchinis, martinis. No weenies."

Mr. Dogg, if you're going to randomly throw a member of the summer squash family into the mix with hot chicks and booze, why not at least add some ingredients that belong with it? Why not bikinis, zucchinis, martinis, and tortellinis? Still rhymes, and tastes delicious. How about bikinis, zucchinis, martinis, and Charlie Sheenies? I mean, he is just the kind of guy who would be creeping around a bunch of girls in bikinis drinking martinis. But I guess that would violate Snoop's "no weenies" clause - unless he's talking about cocktail weenies. But who doesn't like cocktail weenies?  Alright Snoop, what's going on here? This is quite the loaded lyric.

My rationalization is that he was high as a rocket ship when he thought of this. He probably giggled for 20 minutes after writing the word 'weenies.'

Lil Wayne - "Barry Bonds"

"I don't go backwards, and I don't practice, and I don't lack sh*t, and you can get buried, and suck my back b*tch.

This guy really needs to work on his insults. Maybe I will "get buried" Lil Wayne, maybe I'll get all buried in my comforter at bedtime. And no, I won't suck your back, not because it is insulting, but because it is a very strange request. And also you weren't specific enough. Your back is very large, and there are many different parts like vertebrate and shoulder blades. Maybe instead of asking people to bury themselves in their linens and suck non-specific body parts you should go backwards and learn what a run-on sentence is, and then practice it, and then lack one less thing, and then people will be able to understand you, and you will continue to make millions, and less people will wonder why.

Here are a few more lines whose idiocies are very apparent and require no explanation whatsoever:

"Rock star, flier than an ostrich." - Juelz Santana

"We from two different cities, Minnesota and Philly." - Freeway

"First family will gradually lift that a** up like gravity." - Lil Fame

".38 revolve like the sun round the earth." - Jay-Z

"I like them black, white, Puerto Rican, or Haitian, like Japanese, Chinese, or even Asian." - Chingy

"Thirty-two grams raw, chop it in half, get sixteen, double it times three. We got forty-   eight, which mean a whole lot of cream. Divide the profit by four, subtract it by eight. We back to sixteen." - Foxy Brown

"I'm an animal, half man, half mammal." - Jay-Z

"You a stupid hoe, you a, you a stupid hoe (x3). You a stupid hoe, (yeah) you a, you a stupid hoe. You a stupid hoe, you a, you a stupid hoe (stupid, stupid). You a stupid hoe, you a, you a stupid hoe (stupid, stupid). You a stupid hoe, you a, you a stupid hoe (stupid, stupid) (stupid, stupid)." - Nicki Minaj

These people make millions.