Whose Reality?
I grew up watching John Hughes films. The Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, Ferris Bueller's Day Off. During this small window during the 80's I really think Hughes captured the essence of what it was like growing up during that time. For everyone I've asked, it's been true. He was genius. The only film I've come across lately that depicts anything remotely plausible for kids is Garden State. And they're not even really kids. I'm 36, so it's all relative.
Years ago, the Screen Actor's Guild (SAG), the union which protects the rights of American actors, went on strike for greater protection. Well, let's be honest: more money. There was a halt to all US productions, including commercials. Historically, they have flocked to Canada to receive slashed prices in talent in addition to increased incentives in production values. ACTRA, the Canadian equivalent union, and its members were warned of doing any US productions during this strike. Threats included blacklisting from any future productions after negotiations and suitable results had been reached. The already starved little actors were very scared and heeded the warning.
I once did a voice-over which said, "Welcome to the 500 channel universe."
The foundation of commerce is supply meeting demand.
No actors = No programming
But networks still needed to make money by way of advertising. Advertisers still needed to hock wares that no one needs, creating as much frenzy as possible within the populace to own. Seismic shift sometimes means stepping several rungs down the evolutionary ladder.
Random Producer: I know! Let's make programmes that show real people doing real things!
This doesn't happen.
By the mere act of observation, the subject is changed.
I have watched one reality show through its entirety. The first season of Survivor. I got sucked in. I rooted for people. I put myself in their shoes. And in the end, when that disgusting, manipulative asshole won all I thought was, "Is that how a person gets ahead in this world? Fucking people over? Is that the lesson?"
Click.
Fade to black.
From reality shows all I get off them is this sense of survival. Everyone is the enemy. Trust no one. They're just going to fuck you in the end. But maybe that is the reality. I don't know.
I don't want to live like that.
I don't know how others live like that on a daily basis.
But they do.
I read things like American Psycho to try to understand different brains. Thus far it's explained a fraction of my family.
Riding my bike the other day, I'd recounted to Fatty that I received only one terse moron accusation. I was waiting for my turn at a light along the bike path on Lakeshore Drive. My light had turned green. The cavalcade of full ton pick-ups and SUVs were arcing their left hand turns. Unindicated. Illegally. They were moving on a full vermillion impediment. To a point. Cars were backed up ahead, after the turn. Stopped. I thought, "Screw it, I'm crossing."
Full ton pick-up driver: [rolling down passengerside window] You MORON!
It always astonishes me how quickly and easily words like "cocksucker", "totally illegal" and "fucking asshole" can hurl out of my mouth. Equally as astonishing is how difficult phrases like "Yes, sir" get stuck in a niche in my larynx. I'm not sure whether there is a direct correlation between that and the fact that I have been fired from more jobs than anyone I know.
A while back I was at a party hosted by Josh, my favourite ex-work comrade. In attendance was:
1. Eric, Josh's roommate. He had lost 30lbs on a protein diet.
2. Eric's sister. She buys interesting gifts like the fishnet stocking leg floorlamp from the movie A Christmas Story. She has the most beautiful hair I've ever seen, the framing for having the mouth of a trucker, one specifically on the road alone, eating nothing but acid reflux inducing fast food. I don't mean dialogue, I mean she delivers the kind of belches that make my stomach do Nadia Comaneci backflips with no gold medal at the end.
3. Eastern European Girl. She wears a white, mid-level mob, ill fitting track suit. She loves sausages... of all denominations.
4. Fiddy Cent Whore. Wife and mother of one; looks like Betty Paige; skirts barely graze her snatch. She likes to bend over a lot. She does leg extentions holding one ankle above her head, showing off a new red thong. Her necklines always plunge, revealing luscious cleavage. She gets drunk and very friendly. To everyone.
5. Killer. A small framed young man, handsome but with a terrible haircut. He has 2 black belts in different martial arts and has promised to kick the ass of any person I draw his attention to.
After a 7 month "relationship" with Eastern European Girl, as soon as he caught wind of Josh's break-up with Claire, Version 6.0 (Josh has a tendency to only have Claires as girlfriends for some reason), Eric asked for absolute confirmation that it was final. No going back? You're sure? Really? You're not going to change your mind? For sure, now?
Josh: No going back.
Eric broke up with the Eastern European 7 monther, sausage lover.
The Comrade: Why?
Eric: Because this is a bachelor's pad and Josh is the Man to hook me up.
Josh is very cute, very charming and often has female stalkers waiting for him in his bed.
The Comrade: Didn't you love her?
Eric: I didn't even like her.
3 open mouthed blinks issued out of me.
The Comrade: Are you capable of love?
Eric: Yes, but that all changed 6 years ago. Now I'm trying to get as many women as I can to fall in love with me. Once they do, I dump them.
Why do I think of The Boy with Kaleidescope Eyes?
It was at this point the Eastern European 7 Monther was trying to entice Eric by doing the Condiment Dripping Sausage dance in his lap.
But he looked disgusted.
Until he took a bite.
And then enthusiasm waned as quickly as he finished masticating.
She needed another tactic.
Could someone please explain this new phenomena to me?
1. A) Chicks making out with other chicks in front of guys that broke up with them, but still want to fuck.
1. B) Chicks sexually exploiting other chicks specifically in front of guys that broke with them, and still want to fuck.
This confounds me.
Everyone in attendance was most excited about a reality show that was to be aired at 8:00pm. Plans were altered to fit the programming into their irregularly scheduled lives.
Fiddy Cent was mock fighting with Killer who was blocking drunk punches and looking to me for emotional support. I tried to convey a sense of:
You're a good boy.
Try to keep her from showing her underwear too much.
Even though she's relentless in trying to punch your face, continue to be a good sport about the whole thing.
It works to a certain degree.
The Vulture/7 monther/ Eastern European Girl slithers over to Fiddy Cent, mid Van Damme kick to poor Killer's head, gently grabs a tuft of her hair and starts making out with her in front of Eric -30lbs of fat, +30 lbs of nilihism. Eric is enjoying the show. And then the commercial was finished. Eyes flick back to screen.
The Comrade: Okay, maybe you want to put your leg down.
The Vulture wants to take Fiddy Cent to an area outside of the party's sightline.
Fiddy Cent is really, really drunk.
Vulture: Kom, Erique! Now!
Eric is glued to one of 6 televisions in their condo.
Vulture: ERIQUE!
After a moment's glare...
The Comrade: She stays.
Josh backs me up.
The glare continues until the Vulture relents.
Vulture: (to me) I vasn't goingk to do anythink.
I make it a point to have my back facing television screens. They are bright, shiny objects that demand attention while distracting others from seeing predators trying to drag unsuspecting victims off to dens of perversion. I wrapped Fatty's sweater, the chosen wrap of the evening, around me tighter and breathed his recalled image in. Sanity Vision #1. I looked at the eyes which surrounded me and the only pair that weren't black vortexes were Josh's. Sanity Vision #2.
After putting Fiddy Cent into a cab, with a highly protective Killer...
The Comrade: I've got to go.
Josh: I'm sorry... I don't know what...
The Comrade: Don't be, dude.
I ride home on my bicycle and I know the only sight and sounds I'll hear is a gorgeous yelling cat saying, "You left me for that?
I sigh, because he's right.
And then we play tiddilywinks.
He's very good at that game.
Years ago, the Screen Actor's Guild (SAG), the union which protects the rights of American actors, went on strike for greater protection. Well, let's be honest: more money. There was a halt to all US productions, including commercials. Historically, they have flocked to Canada to receive slashed prices in talent in addition to increased incentives in production values. ACTRA, the Canadian equivalent union, and its members were warned of doing any US productions during this strike. Threats included blacklisting from any future productions after negotiations and suitable results had been reached. The already starved little actors were very scared and heeded the warning.
I once did a voice-over which said, "Welcome to the 500 channel universe."
The foundation of commerce is supply meeting demand.
No actors = No programming
But networks still needed to make money by way of advertising. Advertisers still needed to hock wares that no one needs, creating as much frenzy as possible within the populace to own. Seismic shift sometimes means stepping several rungs down the evolutionary ladder.
Random Producer: I know! Let's make programmes that show real people doing real things!
This doesn't happen.
By the mere act of observation, the subject is changed.
I have watched one reality show through its entirety. The first season of Survivor. I got sucked in. I rooted for people. I put myself in their shoes. And in the end, when that disgusting, manipulative asshole won all I thought was, "Is that how a person gets ahead in this world? Fucking people over? Is that the lesson?"
Click.
Fade to black.
From reality shows all I get off them is this sense of survival. Everyone is the enemy. Trust no one. They're just going to fuck you in the end. But maybe that is the reality. I don't know.
I don't want to live like that.
I don't know how others live like that on a daily basis.
But they do.
I read things like American Psycho to try to understand different brains. Thus far it's explained a fraction of my family.
Riding my bike the other day, I'd recounted to Fatty that I received only one terse moron accusation. I was waiting for my turn at a light along the bike path on Lakeshore Drive. My light had turned green. The cavalcade of full ton pick-ups and SUVs were arcing their left hand turns. Unindicated. Illegally. They were moving on a full vermillion impediment. To a point. Cars were backed up ahead, after the turn. Stopped. I thought, "Screw it, I'm crossing."
Full ton pick-up driver: [rolling down passengerside window] You MORON!
It always astonishes me how quickly and easily words like "cocksucker", "totally illegal" and "fucking asshole" can hurl out of my mouth. Equally as astonishing is how difficult phrases like "Yes, sir" get stuck in a niche in my larynx. I'm not sure whether there is a direct correlation between that and the fact that I have been fired from more jobs than anyone I know.
A while back I was at a party hosted by Josh, my favourite ex-work comrade. In attendance was:
1. Eric, Josh's roommate. He had lost 30lbs on a protein diet.
2. Eric's sister. She buys interesting gifts like the fishnet stocking leg floorlamp from the movie A Christmas Story. She has the most beautiful hair I've ever seen, the framing for having the mouth of a trucker, one specifically on the road alone, eating nothing but acid reflux inducing fast food. I don't mean dialogue, I mean she delivers the kind of belches that make my stomach do Nadia Comaneci backflips with no gold medal at the end.
3. Eastern European Girl. She wears a white, mid-level mob, ill fitting track suit. She loves sausages... of all denominations.
4. Fiddy Cent Whore. Wife and mother of one; looks like Betty Paige; skirts barely graze her snatch. She likes to bend over a lot. She does leg extentions holding one ankle above her head, showing off a new red thong. Her necklines always plunge, revealing luscious cleavage. She gets drunk and very friendly. To everyone.
5. Killer. A small framed young man, handsome but with a terrible haircut. He has 2 black belts in different martial arts and has promised to kick the ass of any person I draw his attention to.
After a 7 month "relationship" with Eastern European Girl, as soon as he caught wind of Josh's break-up with Claire, Version 6.0 (Josh has a tendency to only have Claires as girlfriends for some reason), Eric asked for absolute confirmation that it was final. No going back? You're sure? Really? You're not going to change your mind? For sure, now?
Josh: No going back.
Eric broke up with the Eastern European 7 monther, sausage lover.
The Comrade: Why?
Eric: Because this is a bachelor's pad and Josh is the Man to hook me up.
Josh is very cute, very charming and often has female stalkers waiting for him in his bed.
The Comrade: Didn't you love her?
Eric: I didn't even like her.
3 open mouthed blinks issued out of me.
The Comrade: Are you capable of love?
Eric: Yes, but that all changed 6 years ago. Now I'm trying to get as many women as I can to fall in love with me. Once they do, I dump them.
Why do I think of The Boy with Kaleidescope Eyes?
It was at this point the Eastern European 7 Monther was trying to entice Eric by doing the Condiment Dripping Sausage dance in his lap.
But he looked disgusted.
Until he took a bite.
And then enthusiasm waned as quickly as he finished masticating.
She needed another tactic.
Could someone please explain this new phenomena to me?
1. A) Chicks making out with other chicks in front of guys that broke up with them, but still want to fuck.
1. B) Chicks sexually exploiting other chicks specifically in front of guys that broke with them, and still want to fuck.
This confounds me.
Everyone in attendance was most excited about a reality show that was to be aired at 8:00pm. Plans were altered to fit the programming into their irregularly scheduled lives.
Fiddy Cent was mock fighting with Killer who was blocking drunk punches and looking to me for emotional support. I tried to convey a sense of:
You're a good boy.
Try to keep her from showing her underwear too much.
Even though she's relentless in trying to punch your face, continue to be a good sport about the whole thing.
It works to a certain degree.
The Vulture/7 monther/ Eastern European Girl slithers over to Fiddy Cent, mid Van Damme kick to poor Killer's head, gently grabs a tuft of her hair and starts making out with her in front of Eric -30lbs of fat, +30 lbs of nilihism. Eric is enjoying the show. And then the commercial was finished. Eyes flick back to screen.
The Comrade: Okay, maybe you want to put your leg down.
The Vulture wants to take Fiddy Cent to an area outside of the party's sightline.
Fiddy Cent is really, really drunk.
Vulture: Kom, Erique! Now!
Eric is glued to one of 6 televisions in their condo.
Vulture: ERIQUE!
After a moment's glare...
The Comrade: She stays.
Josh backs me up.
The glare continues until the Vulture relents.
Vulture: (to me) I vasn't goingk to do anythink.
I make it a point to have my back facing television screens. They are bright, shiny objects that demand attention while distracting others from seeing predators trying to drag unsuspecting victims off to dens of perversion. I wrapped Fatty's sweater, the chosen wrap of the evening, around me tighter and breathed his recalled image in. Sanity Vision #1. I looked at the eyes which surrounded me and the only pair that weren't black vortexes were Josh's. Sanity Vision #2.
After putting Fiddy Cent into a cab, with a highly protective Killer...
The Comrade: I've got to go.
Josh: I'm sorry... I don't know what...
The Comrade: Don't be, dude.
I ride home on my bicycle and I know the only sight and sounds I'll hear is a gorgeous yelling cat saying, "You left me for that?
I sigh, because he's right.
And then we play tiddilywinks.
He's very good at that game.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
1:39 p.m.
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