Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Bill and Ted Are Kind of Dicks

In the spirit of giving this holiday season, I've decided to repost one or two of my own personal favorites from the past six months in an effort to both make up for my lack of new entries this past month...

And to also remind myself how clever I am.

Dudes, so congrats passing that history exam of yours, but all those hilarious, goofy guys you travelled back in time to help you, most of them get seriously fucked up after this so-called “excellent adventure” of yours…

The least you could have done is warn them or something.

Let’s take a gander…

Socrates: People in Athens got pissed b/c he was smarter than them and had him tried, found guilty, and forced to drink deadly poison.

Joan of Arc: Maybe if you weren’t so busy trying to get under her chainmaille, you might have remembered to give her a heads up on that whole ‘tried as a heretic and BURNED ALIVE AT THE STAKE’ thing she’d have endure down the road. How painful do you think that was for her? But yeah, she probably didn’t want any kind of warning or anything.

That certainly looks like fun, no? Thanks guys.

Billy the Kid: So not only was he a wanton murderer to begin with, he was also violently gunned down in New Mexico at 21.

Abe Lincoln: I mean, really? Not even like a “You probably should avoid Ford's Theater if you can”? The guy brought an end to slavery…no heads up?

Sigmund Freud: Granted Freud lived into his eighties, he was alive to see his books burned by the Nazis and then had to flee to England once Hitler annexed Austria. Oh, and he also committed suicide to avoid a battle with oral cancer.

Beethoven: Basically the guy shat and vomited himself to death.

But I’m glad you had a good time at the mall with him.

You guys are always saying ‘Be excellent to each other.’ How about you start by being excellent to your friends?
Fucking dicks…

The Lost Art of Stalking

In the spirit of giving this holiday season, I've decided to repost one or two of my own personal favorites from the past six months in an effort to both make up for my lack of new entries this past month...

And to also remind myself how clever I am.

Kids these days don’t know how easy they have it.

Stalking used to mean something.

People used to care. People used to make an effort. Now, like much of the 21st century, it has become an automated, disconnected experience where efficacy and quality’s been replaced for expediency and ease.

It’s laziness.

In the post-Obama world we should be standing up, getting involved. But it is a lost cause.

As a youngster, if someone wanted to stalk me, they’d have to put some time into it. Follow me after school, figure out ways to leave me notes in my text books so that I’d find them when I’d open to a specific chapter for that day's specific lesson (diabolical!), waiting outside my house with binoculars, hoping to spot me in case I was home, or at least to wait patiently upon my return. This is an impressive obsession.

But now facebook, twitter, myspace, IM, etc., they’ve done half the job for you. You’ll know where to find me simply by looking at my status.

You’ll know who to duct tape and leave in the trunk of your car for days by checking who I’m “in a relationship” with.

Why bother clandestinely following my route after school if you see on Twitter that "ianweinreich@twitter: seeing startrek at the plaza this afternoon." It's like being handed a road map.

Before, in my day, if I didn’t have the same feelings for you, I could easily just ignore you at school. And then have my mom answer the phone at night to screen the calls.

Caller ID was the impetus for the fall of stalking.

“Oh it’s that Dayna broad.” Ignore. Click.

We didn’t know how good we had it.

Now there’s IM, email, skype, facebook chat, texts, facebook message, wall posts...the ability to ignore you has become something of an uphill battle with the myriad of outlets for communication to be facilitated from your end.

A key element that used to drive obsession and turn a crush into an infatuation into a dangerous broad ready to kill my little girl’s rabbit in a boiling pot of water then bring her onto a roller coaster ride? (b/c I base much of my knowledge on stalking on the idea that Fatal Attraction is a realistic, down-to-earth depiction of just this), is not being able to expel the feeling for me inside you. having it bottled deep inside just drove you ever the more insane and furious with lust.

But there are just too many forums for you to blog, instant messange, or twitter me about that it’s cut the legs off a lot of that old school ferocious crushing (not unlike how you wanted to cut the legs off from me to keep me from leaving your bedroom after having me ‘study’ that one time in 8th grade – I know what you were thinking, I saw the axe in your closet, the iodine, and the chains).

When I want a stalker I want someone who goes the distance. I want to see her out there, waiting for me to come home at the end of a long day, following me haphazardly, not knowing my final destination.

That’s obsession.

This, today, this…it’s just such a sadness.

Little Drummer Boy

So it looks like Ringo has a new album coming out soon...

Y Not

Y Not, indeed.

Well, I can think of a few reasons. First of all because your clever parlance of using the letter Y to represent the word 'why' is as about as hollow and meaningless as your career for the past twenty-five years.

Do people show up to see you perform these days in the off chance that Paul McCartney might show up as the surprise guest for the encore?

I kinda think that's the best you can hope for these days. Especially since you made a public announcement that you would NO LONGER BE SIGNING AUTOGRAPHS.

You don't even need to sign your full name. Just R-I-N-G-O. Five letters.
But apparently years of holding up peace signs to cameras have rendered your wrist muscles as weak and tenuous as your lyrics.

But I shouldn't be too hard on him. It must be tough to know an entire generation of people joke that someone should have shot him in the back of the head instead of John Lennon.

Or at least one person.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Shirt Off Your Back

So I'm at a concert last night for Ray Davies from the Kinks...

And needless to say I'm the youngest person there asides from the stray ten-year old whose abusive father forced to accompany with him under penalty of the belt.

And I'm sitting in my seat amidst a sea of gray hair and paunchy guts, when this guy walks past with me a fucking Who tie-dyed shirt on.

Now, let me first be clear. This is not about the fact that a grown man was wearing a tie-dyed shirt. No, this is not at all about some loser who grew up in the sixties and used to dip his white shirt in multi-colored inks and paints to achieve a rainbow effect that makes Paul Lynde about as masculine as George Clooney.

Not about the tie-dyed shirt man who then sold out his entire generation when he finally put down his hash pipe, stopped mourning over Mama Cass and her ham sandwich

and finally went to work, eventually voting for Reagan and taking out a loan to buy a three-story house in Long Island.

No. But...fuck that guy. Tie-dyed? Ugh, punch yourself in the face.

This is about the Who shirt. At a Kinks concert.

Ok, so they're both British based bands. And they both came to prominence at the same time. And they both played a similar type of British rock for at least awhile.

Now, let me ask you- if you went to a Blur concert, would you wear a Pulp shirt?

If you went to a U2 concert when they supported joshua tree, would you wear an Alarm shirt?

No. You're going to support the band you're here to see by wearing a shirt by a band from a similar genre??

Now, they're selling the shirts outside for 20 dollars, and I'm amazed enough that people are already wearing them and not carrying around the shirt they changed out of. Did you show up bareback for this concert, Lady Godiva?

It's obvious you're just trying to appear hip, like you have an encyclopedic knowledge of musical trends and genres, and you seem like the asshole who I'd hear at the urinal discussing with some stranger the ethereal significance of Satanic Majesties Request when looked at through the kaleidoscope of time and changing music tastes and production techniques. Thanks, Professor.

You have kids for christ's sake. Take off the tie-dye, at the very least throw on a shirt for the band you're here to see, and sit the fuck down in front of me- you're stupid old man comb-over is flapping in my purview of the stage.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

All Dogs Go To Hill Valley

If you're like me....and for your sake, I hope that you are...

Then you're plagued by the thought that maybe dogs dream the future.

Why not? Would we really know one way or the other if they did?

"You're gonna die up there."

No, we'd be fucking clueless.

You know that Chihuahua that trembles terribly every time you pick him up?

Well now you know why. The poor thing dreamt about the pick-up truck that is going fall off the overpass and crush you in your mini-cooper in a couple weeks.
All he wants to do is warn you. But he can't. Because he's a FUCKING DOG.

They shake themselves because they're trying to wipe the vision of their loyal master being paralyzed in that elevator accident three years from now clean from their minds.

Canines are out there left and right, just getting prescient temporal visions of their masters futures...

...and we're up here walking around on two feet like we own the world, when our fates and destinies are being played out by an animal that given the choice, would eat it's own defecation.

Though who knows? Maybe they're on to something. If they're smart enough to see into our futures, who am I to resist?

So next time you're lying in bed and your dog comes up to the side, sits down, tongue dangling out of the side of his mouth, what he's probably thinking is, "I KNOWZ HOW YOU GONNA DIE!"

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Bag It & Tag it

Cashier: Do you want a bag?
Me: Do you want a punch in the face?

Look at how much shit I just bought?
No, I don't want a bag. I'm a fucking traveling circus performer and prefer to live my craft by juggling these 13 items the three-mile walk back to my house.

Look, I'm a big Ringo fan too.

But we don't live in the fucking Octopus's Garden.

I only have 2 arms. I know your remedial math class through high school was basically just watching reruns of Sesame Street.

But I think the Cookie Monster would spit masticated, partially digested Oreos into your face if you asked him such nonsense.

Just give me the benefit of the doubt and assume I'll want a bag. If I was only buying one god damn tube of toothpaste, maybe I'll live dangerously and say I don't need a bag.

Or maybe you can just go back to whatever bridge it is you live under thinking up riddles and go fuck yourself.
And no Rite Aid, no I will not be taking the online survey you pointed out the number for on my receipt.