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Acid Wash

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What is it about this bookstore and the people we attract here that makes me so terribly angry all the time? I just completed a conversation with someone about The Secret and the “law of attraction” that apparently governs the universe, and I almost threw up on my sneakers.

I think that, when discussing metaphysics with Self Actualization junkies, I should be allowed to bring up the Holocaust. If reality really does conform to our every (properly manifested) conscious whim, then were Europe’s Jews just not thinking happy thoughts? Does karma really explain a monstrosity of such incomprehensible size?

If you’re going to lean on corrupted pop-Buddhist values and bring up Deepak Chopra, lady– to suggest that we all must be thankful for where we live, focus on our own lives, and leave the rest to God– then I want you to repeat this phrase out loud, to yourself, and see how you feel.

They had it coming, because that’s how they chose to be born.

Sounds kind of extreme, doesn’t it? Maybe a little old-fashioned? Say, Romans versus Barbarians? Say, the ascendant, God-given right of the White Races to rule over the Dark? But there it is. This is a law of the Universe that we’re talking about here, right?

They respond with a wide-eyed, willful sort of sudden stupidity. Suddenly, the workings of the universe are no longer easily controlled through happy thoughts. They are now mysterious and unfathomable, especially to the unbeliever. A slight, knowing smile creeps up, a rueful cast in the eyes, chastisement for asking such a simple and obvious question. It’s a sort of performance believers put on, a smug aside to an invisible observer, odd physical framing to the reflexive rejection of contradictory evidence.

In Grade 10, one of my best friends converted to an evangelical sect of Christianity, and suddenly, he had no more questions to ask. A virulent sort of metaphysical apathy had taken root in his mind, and his responses to existential questions were reduced to that wistfully insulting half-smile and a few rote party lines. Automatic self-censorship is one of the hallmarks of a cult, as it derails lines of thought that deviate from dogma and suppresses individual will.

The self-actualization movement is selling salve for itchy middle-class egos. It is a religion specifically marketed to those who believe themselves to be above religion. Its world-view is autistic, seeing each and every human being as an isolated island unmoved by any outside force.

If you’ve ever sat down and shot the shit with me over a coffee, you probably know where I stand on this one. That people, legions of people, actually believe the universe to be an enormous dream-machine configured by the very hand of God to give them whatever they wish hard enough for is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. I defy you to posit a more arrogant view of reality than I am the centre of the Universe.

After a while, her eyes clouded over and she slowly lost momentum, like a dying Walkman. She went off somewhere to get a coffee or something, and I wrote this post, my stomach slowly dissolving in a soup of impotent rage.

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Written by wholewheatwords

August 11, 2007 at 4:48 pm

Posted in bile

Today’s Wisdom

with 5 comments

Hello, Dear Readers (or, should I say “Deer Readers?” ha! You’ll see in a second! Wait for it! You’re the best!), and welcome back to Joe’s Blog. I am your host, Joseph Yachimec, and it is Sunday. Do you know what that means? I do: it’s time for Today’s Wisdom. I am excited and aroused to begin, but before we start, I want to address a problem that I was posed recently by a concerned reader.

Dear (Deer! There I go again!) Joe, he wrote, I like very much you’re blog especially you’re scenes that feature sad young people. They are good and please keep writing them in you’re own special way. I am doing good and I also don’t like complaining but here it is: I have a complaint. When the nurse reads to me I like to make pictures in my head and one of my favorite types of pictures is imagining what the person looks like that wrote what the nurse is reading. You’re name is Joe but since you never say what you look like too much sometimes I think that you look like the nurse, and a woman named Joe talking about liking girls or a man named Joe with a funny lady’s voice and big veins on his legs would be just plain weird and maybe more. So I have a complaint or a request and here it is: please tell me what you look like so that I can imagine you reading instead of the nurse because I feel bad about thinking about a man with a funny lady’s voice and veins, that’s weird.

Sorry about complaining,
Robert Frumm.

Robert, I stand over seven feet tall and I have a long white beard. I often dress in flowing silk robes, which were made especially for me by my passionate, dusky Spanish seamstress. I have been educated at a University, and I will tell you as many times as I need to. Tucked behind my left ear is an ivory pen, and occasionally will pull out a notebook from my golden sash and write in it with the pen, muttering “brilliant, brilliant.” If people ask me a question, sometimes I ignore them for twenty seconds just to show them what’s what. My eyes are piercing, like coals, but hard and flinty, like chips of mountain-slate, but full of kindness. I smell like knowledge.

No sad young people today, Deer Robert. Only wisdom. I want you to close your eyes and think of me sitting on my plinth, surrounded by flowers, basking in a shaft of lucky sunlight. Ignore this nurse’s voice and focus on the words. To the nurse: this part should be read softly, and low, with a hint of sexiness and regret at things missed on the path to knowledge. Not too much regret, though.

Today’s wisdom comes from Advanced Rut Hunting: Strategies for Taking Whitetails During Prime Time, which I’m sure everyone is familiar with. It had been on my reading list for several years, one of those classics I’d heard a lot about and I’d just sort of nodded knowingly when people brought it up after dinner.

Then I saw it in the window of a bookshop as Espritu and I made our way to the Silk Store, and I had to pick it up. I had assumed it would be one of those books, maybe that when you are told are great, are in actuality awful. Or you are told that they are awful, but they turn out to be great. Wrong! The book was neither: it was great.

I’ve had some difficulty summing it up, so I’ll quote from the ‘blurb.

Whitetail rut behavior and the hunting strategies that take it into account have come a long way in the past thirty years… We can translate and decipher deer vocalizations and language… and much more.

Still, one thing remains the same: The rut is a time for hope and big dreams– that the biggest buck in the woods will be so preoccupied with chasing does that he’ll finally make the mistake that brings him into range. This is the dream. It is a little bit like high school.

Chapters include:

Hitting The Rut Right

S-L-O-W Stalking The Rut

Climb High For Rutting Bucks

Romance: The Rut Stalker’s Best Ally

Sure-Cure for the Post-Rut Blues

A Sham In The Deer Woods

Follow Your Does

Tenderness

And much more. Now, Robert, settle back into your pallet or use your bedpan, whatever, I’ll wait. Wisdom is coming, exploding like unto a double shot of bong water in the stomach of a gullible frat-boy. Whoosh!

Rudimentary fawn-bleating calls have been on the market for a number of years, although it was Harold Knight and David Hale– founders of the famous Knight & Hale Game Call Company– who pioneered the development of a fawn call that was far superior to anything previously available. But their fawn-bleating call came about quite by accident.

“Over the years we had recieved numerous requests from coyote hunters for a call that would bring the predators in close,” Harold Knight explained. “Since young deer play a major role in the diets of coyotes, we collected tape recordings of actual deer bleating sounds from a fawn that was caught in a fence. Then we designed a call to duplicate those bleating sounds.”

“Yet disappointed coyote hunters began complaining to us,” according to David Hale. “They said the call brought in more deer than anything else! That gave birth to our EZ-Deer Bleat Call.”

Curiously enough, the Lohman Manufacturing Company, another producer of quality-made calls, also experienced a unique twist during the development of its Deer Bleat Call.

“In our case,” Brad Harris says, “hunters everywhere are having terrific success calling in deer, but those hunters living west of the Mississippi are enjoying an added bonus in that their use of the Deer Bleat Call is also bringing in antelope!”

Antelope! Did you remember to find the Wisdom? I did, and I’ll be disappointed with you if you didn’t.

Now Espiritu is calling me downstairs for Ice Cream Paella. I must go, Deer Readers, but until we meet again,

Stay Wise!

Written by wholewheatwords

June 24, 2007 at 6:40 pm

Posted in bile, fucking around, lies

Dan Schneider ITT

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Someone please take away Dan Schneider‘s keyboard:

The good thing about DVDs is that, aside from superior audiovisual quality, the extras that come with them can be engaging, more often than worthless. Usually, the best extras on a DVD are the film commentary tracks, and the making of featurettes. The worst are generally outtakes (there’s a reason most never made their films) and self-serving interviews. Sometimes all the extras blow, as when a director or star uses the commentary track as a vehicle for self-fellatio, and other times all the extras rock with insight. Such is the case with the DVD of the film Love Actually, whose extras are spare, but the few it has are good.

Such rare, powerful elegance! You were suckling deeply upon the great Bong of Truth, Danny, before you whipped off that nugget. I feel empowered now, and it tingles.

It got me to thinking, actually. I imagined a world where all reviewers shared Dan’s prodigious talent and smooth-drinking grammar, a world crammed with rocking insight, a world that did not, in a word, “blow.” What would such a world be like? How would its gifted peoples perceive our dim Earth, so lacking in Schneider? What of its cuisine?

Sadly, this vision-world tormented me with its beauty, and I found that I could no longer focus on it without gnashing my teeth in frustrated longing or getting an erection. Instead, I decided to play a fun game, called “Trope Shooting.” The object of the game is to try and find a review on this site where The Dan does not mention a) Political Correctnes, b) Bugs Bunny, or c) 2001: A Space Odyssey. I lost.

I have found consolation in the nightly prayer that someday, in an unclear and wonderful future when I am published, he will see fit to descend from his throne, extract Little Dan, and pee on my clothes.

Also, he hates George Saunders.

Written by wholewheatwords

June 24, 2007 at 4:58 pm

Posted in bile