Stranger in a Strange Land

I am a UT grad and I love UT football. Since I have no children, my love of UT football borders on the love I would have for a child that I know about. I also live in ground zero of SC country, West Hollywood. It is now almost four weeks since the Rose Bowl and the SC homers still can't come to grip with the fact that UT won. It is amazing. I was a buddy's b-day party the other night who happens to be a SC grad and being a little drunk the usual subject comes up, the Rose Bowl. I get regaled (sp?) with the reason that SC lost having to do more with SC mistakes than UT's effort. That was followed up with a trip to a computer where my friend pulled up the rivals rankings that shows SC's 5 five-star recruits to UT's 3. So according to my friend, the wheels are falling off the wagon at UT while SC is simply reloading. Being that is was his birthday and frankly there is nothing more stupid than fighting over whose future team is better than the other, I let it go.

Cut to this afternoon. I was at a friend's 30th b-day party. It's more of a production that I anticipated with a sit down meal, etc. So my plan to pop in say "hi" and "bye" was ruined. So I am seated at a table with yet another SC grad. Topic of conversation? You guessed it. The Rose Bowl. Again the guy is going on about how it is more a testament to SC's mistakes than UT's proficiency that UT won. I was also told how much better a player Bush is than Young and that Young was a one man band, and yes, the wheels are falling off the wagon at UT. But not SC where they are replacing three crucial starters on there team. Again SC is reloading and UT is wandering like in the desert like the jews in biblical stories. The kicker was when I said (frankly to be nice) that if the game was played ten times it would be an even split at five a piece. I was actually being nice because, in my opinion, Texas would win seven or eight of ten because I feel our D didn't play its best game. So when I throw this out there, the guy goes "I'm not so sure about that. We had an off day." I hate to say it, even taking into account that UT is a world class flagship state school, we really don't get any respect. Is it asking too much that the football gods deliver another championship just to shut these people up. Jeez o' Peeze were we watching the same game? Unreal.

Why We Fight

I am a big fan of documentaries. I am especially a big fan of historical documentaries. Or current event documentaries. Or sports documentaries. Ok. I pretty much like them all except the ones about people who overcome the odds to turn into painters. Paint cost not that much and I can't imagine that the canvas is all that expensive either. At least not to anyone who has access to a subway bathroom and a pair of lips. Trekking an egg 70 miles in the snow and then dying, now that's impressive.

Tonight I went to watch the documentary, "Why We Fight". Despite what my friends might think, it is not a character study on my family. I know why we fight. We're fucked up. What it is about is why America fights. Why do we find ourselves in seemingly endless minor conflicts around the globe. It trys to answer why we as a country, The United States of America for those of you too lazy to read your currency, find ourselves embroiled in so much conflict. And once everything is boiled down, it's a pretty depressing message. In a nutshell, we fight because we have whole industries devoted to war and warmaking and subsequently it is how they justify their existence. And in a capitalistic society that is one thing... money. We fight to make money.

That's a pretty depressing message, so as I walked back from the theater (people do walk in LA - especially when the theater is around the corner from your place) I instantly thought of sex. I would love to say that sex popped into my mind because there was a huge Joe Jeans billboard with a naked chick on it, but I would be lying. I thought of sex because I am guy and that is what I do. I think of sex. Then I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to talk myself out of the stupid shit I do in the pursuit of sex. In other words, why do I fuck?

I think we fuck because we are simply wired to be that way. That is the reason we make out with the person we shouldn't. Wind up naked with the person we shouldn't. Wind up in jail with the person we shouldn't. And kill the hooker that we shouldn't. It's all because underneath this we are hardwired to want sex. Prolong your gene pool. So it's why we go the gym. Or wear fancy clothes. Or drive a nice car. Frankly it's why we make money. Or try at least. So if you really want to get right down to it, we fight to make money so we can Fuck. We fight to Fuck. And if we are fucking to prolong our genes, then I am worried about the ol' US of A.

It's Amazing What You Can Learn on the Internet

Your Birthdate: December 21

You're a restless rebel with an unpredictable nature. Bright but unbridled, you tend to seek out wild experiences over new ideas. People are frustrated by your great potential, but you love your unconventional life. You're a heartbreaker. People get attached to you, and then you're gone. Your strength: Your thirst for adventure Your weakness: Not taking time for slow pleasures Your power color: Hot pink Your power symbol: Figure eight Your power month: March

The internet provides so many resources for inner journey. I don't think that even HG Wells could have anticipated what the marriage of ones, zeros and silicon would have in store for the human sole. Well at least not nearly with the command he had of the intermingling of alien death rays and human flesh. But computers are not just great for a rolodex (rolodexxx for those over the hill from me) but they are able to shine a piercing light to your psyche. Take the above example (see diagram... you know... above). This personality profile was compiled using a website that takes your birthdate and using a very complex and totally opaque algorythm, cranks out a pretty specific profile. I was anstonished by the results. What an erie and precise evaluation of my character. I mean really.

Myspace. No, our space.

I love myspace. For the less than one percent of the population that hasn't heard of it, Myspace is a networking site where people post their profiles and accrue friends. Granted, these friends have never met and most likely never will, but there is a shared bond in the ether of cyberspace. Like herpes amongst strangers. But like any good thing, it is only a matter of time before the usual suspects show up: dumb services, get-rich quick schemes and porn. Oh yeah, and bands. Lots of bands. Seeing that I was starting to get more and more of this stuff, I posted the following on my profile:

I am not interested in loans, mortgage products or tax services. Also, I would like to make a lot of money in little time, but your proven method is only proven to line your pockets and not the dolts dumb enough to think that the system is designed to enrich the buyer of the system and not the seller of the system.

Even though I think I am a pretty cool guy, dashing, charming... those things... I am pretty certain that if you liked my profile and would like to get to know me better you would just send me a message. If you were smart enough to send me the first message then you know all you need to know to get to know me and I don't need to subscribe to your webcam or contact you on Yahoo Messenger so I can get to info about your webcam. In fact, if I wanted to see you use a cucumber on your cooter in a clever manner, I can probably see that for free on the many sites that let guys who want to see cooters and cucumbers do that for free. Like cootersandcucumbers.com... or something like that.

If you are a band, I actually listen to your music. If I like what I hear I'll approve you. If I don't then I will I won't. I don't approve bands with umlauts in the name. Unless your lead singer is Vince Neil. And he's dead and has been replaced by the tiger woman with all that surgery on her face.

I know it's not much, but as they say little, bitty bricks build big, big houses and although one man can't stop a deluge, he can use an umbrella and shunt the rain into the neighbor's yard.

Apparently I do Some Bad Stuff in the Near Future

According to a random Quiz generator I am to be offed by the mafia. I disagree as concrete is not my color.

Fond Memories or Stand Be Proud of Elsik High School

I grew up playing football in Texas, the epicenter of coach worship. I even went to UT, where the mere mention of Darrell Royal is enough to bring a tear to the eye of the most hardened cowboy. But unlike a lot of people, the head coach of my high school team was someone who I neither admired nor respected. I found him to be a dense, petty tyrant who played political games with the kids on his teams. He also had a tendency to choke in the big game and frankly, played scared. He was the master of the mixed-metaphor and an expert at the malapropism. And he loved to chew us out. Loved it. Like a pedophile loves a school zone. So there was one day when he gathered the team into the weight room for some perceived transgression. This being Texas, the weight room was big and well-stocked and made a great meeting room for the whole squad. So we made our way in and took our places amongst the workout equipment. He then went into some harangue about what we were doing wrong... and how we were setting the program back... and how we were responsible for stagflation... and the boycott of the 1980 summer Olympics... You get the idea. So the culmination of this tirade was that we as a team did not have sufficient pride. In the pantheon of winning ingredients, pride is like the Formula 409 of intangible elements. It can cure anything. So in his words:

"You know what you men are missing?"

That was obviously a rhetorical question and we were "proud" enough not to answer.

"Pride! P - R - I - D. Pride!"

I turned to my buddy, "Prid? (think short i) We're missing Prid."

Whatever point he was making was lost on us as either his emotion or, my personal theory, his lack of education gave me and my teammates a good chuckle. That years team went on to disappoint in so many ways (That team was what you might generously refer to as "underachievers") but I could never get over the fact that our coach was an idiot.

Gig 'Em

Out on the left coast I run into quite a few Longhorns and Texans in general. I don't, however, run into many Aggies. Considering that both schools are pretty big, I always wonder why that is. My theory is that their cartography department doesn't produce maps that chart anything outside of a 150 mile radius from the Collie breeder reactor that is College Station. I have a mental image of a medieval type map with everything outside of that radius simply shrouded in mist with a vague outline of a man and "There be Giants There" written in Old English. And of course the map legend that has a dragon, a sword and a compass with North pointing down. Remember we're talking Aggies here.

Anywho, I was at a friend's barbeque to watch the Steelers/Bengals game (I have a lot of friends from Ohio) and I am wearing my burnt orange Texas hoodie. As the day progresses and the USC alums get over the fact their team lost (btw SC fans, that game wasn't a tree falling in the woods, everyone saw it) a guy comes up to me and says, "Hey! I went to A&M and I was saying Hook 'Em. In fact I was a scholarship tennis player there. But it was good to see a Big 12 team win. So Hook 'Em!"

The first thought that came to my mind was, "A&M has a tennis team?"

My second thought was to look for the hidden camera, because I could not believe an Aggie was complementing the Longhorns. Needless to say, I wasn't on "Punk'd".

So I thought to myself that I must have found the one sophisticated, levelheaded Aggie in all of creation. So I ask him, "What do you think of Coach Fran?"

He answers, "Fran is gone. He has turned this team into a mess. There are times the team quit and, I mean, what was he doing in the Clemson game?"

I nodded my head. It seemed like a pretty reasonable stance.

"I mean," he continued, "before the season it was Reggie, Vince one and two as QB's in the Big 12..."

I don't know what hit the ground first, my jaw or his credibility. I could not believe my ears. After all the empirical evidence to the contrary, the gomers still think that Reggie was a better talent and somehow Fran had taken A&M's vast and glittering resources and run them into the ground. Unbelievable. No matter how reasonable an Aggie may seem, there is a blind spot the size of sun when it comes to a fair evaluation of things pertaining to Aggiedom. But I guess it is the willful disregard for the obvious that makes an Aggie an Aggie. It is also a willful disregard for the obvious that puts kids into the classes that require you to go to school on a little short bus. Which I guess is what going to school in Aggieland really is in the broader perspective. So I walked away and got another beer and hoped whatever those Aggies have isn't contagious.

Ikea and the Re-emergence of Western Europe

If you don't know what Grranimals are you are not a child born in the late 60's - early 70's... Although technically speaking you might have been born before this period and know what I am talking about, but since this would make you a selfish boomer I am simply disempowering you from being a part of this dialougue while you go out and cut down the tree you were hugging... In the late 60's... When we were born... Are you seeing the circle of life? But I digress.

Grranimals were a clothing line for kids in the late 70's - early 80's where the shirts and shorts and pants and hats and whatever it may be had a cute little cartoon animal on them. They corresponded with the same animal on another piece of clothing. So let's say you bought a shirt and it had a cute, yet wiley spotted salamander on the tag, all you had to do was find a bottom, let's say pants, with a cute, yet wiley spotted salamander on it and - BAM! - instant match. You were guaranteed to be color coordinated. It took the guesswork out of sending your kids to public school so they could be beat up by chicks in Gloria Vanderbilt jeans for wearing stupid clothes with animals. Granted, they were cute anthropomorphic animals, but for those proto-mean girls in tight jeans it didn't matter. They also didn't appreciate the irony of beating up kids while wearing jeans with embroidered swans on them. But you could rest assured that your kid would appreciate this irony as they nursed their wounds both physical and emotional because they would grow up to be ironic and probably sport grranimals in a hip, yet ironic, fashion someday.

But this is America, home to rugged individualism. The idea of a proleteriat class matching endagered species is not something a red-blooded, Jesus-promoting, old growth forest chopping, imperialist would cotton to. Which makes you wonder... Who would have foisted this upon our society? Our mostly perfect society.

I'm sure I thought about this in the moment. In the seventies. When I was a child and I was worried about these things. Or even in the eighties, when I was in high school and we were all so noble and high-minded. Because I most certainly was not obsessing over the fact that I was fat and girlfriend-less and looking like I was cruising to an institutionalized virginity like a priest but without the training. And I am sure, that this haunted my sub-conscience through the nineties as communism fell, Bill Clinton took office, the dot com bubble began its inflation and the european union started to take shape... Anyways, you get the idea. It might have bugged me had I had the time to focus on it and not other, more pressing concerns.

Which leads to Ikea. I've been to Ikea no less than 800 times. I have even been to it's anticedent Stor. Yes Stor. This is not a misspelling. There is no "e" in store and "o" had a slash through it. A nordic slash. Maybe not a swedish slash, but definitely something that adorned a viking longboat at some point. In fact, I am certain that boats festened with o's with slashes on them would send the peaceful residents of ancient Sweden... subsistence farmers really, fishing with organic nets and living a self-substanable existence... screaming to their thatched villages. "The boats with o's with slashes!" they would scream, "we must hide our unfinished pine armoirs and our women."

I think Stor originated in Denmark and was soon gobbled by it's big brother to the north, Ikea. Again another irony.

There are little known facts about Ikea. I am sure that you have heard about Ikea being started by a group of swedish expatriate swingers as a way of streamlining the interior design of their houses for their "lifestyle" parties. They figured clean lines meant clean girl-on-girl action. That story is true and a little known fact. Another little known fact is that Ikea has a mascot. That right. A mascot. A moose to be exact. I didn't know this either until I was called upon to don the colors, so to speak, of the Ikea juggernaut. One hot August day in Houston, Texas was spent dressed in a moose suit using my then ninja like reflexes to ward off pre-pubescent punches to my pelvic region as I watched the ice packs that were supposed to keep me cool instantly vaporize in the mid-day sun. Luckily I survived and that episode was lost to the haze of time.

Until last weekend. As I was wandering Ikea with a friend I was drawn to the pre-fab kitchen area. I looked at the cabinets, aptly named Kabinett or some other euro-utilitarian notion, and it all came together. It really was a moment of clarity. Like a flash. Like the realization that that's a man baby. Very profound. I am not sure why it never occured to me that a company, founded in Sweden... A country known for it's embracing of socialist values and bright, yet airy design notions... Who has a moose, which we all recognize to be an animal, as a mascot... Had mostly likely started out as a company that probably manufactured clothing only to switch to furniture.

There it was. Plain as day. Ikea, aka Grranimals, had started on a course of world domination by indoctrinating us to the idea of easily matched furniture by starting us on easily matched clothing... And that my friends is socialism. And as Europe congeals into a superstate to rival the power of the United States, we may not be wearing clothes with little cute critters on them, but our living rooms do have a lot of items with names that have Umlauts, and that does not include your Motley Crue albums. And that is how it starts, like the Soviets using commercial flights to invade the US in the ABC mini-series Amerika, the socialist Swedes had used our propensity to consume against us and now we are suddenly primed to accept central planning and socialized medicine. And as I thought about this with my arms loaded with cool picture frames, I realized that maybe I should think a little less about me and a little more about America. So I took one of those frames back and with money in hand, I went home to squirrel it away for my promised health care savings account... So that we could save out health care system and offer care to everyone... Like those dastardly Euros.

And that Irony was not lost on me... and that is what I learned today.