You know you're wearing Tony The Tiger pajama pants just like me, too.

Thank you, and good night.

--Gloomchen

11.18.03

Aloha once more. I'm still Gloomchen, just like last week. And you're here to read this either because you love movies or you're just mindlessly following the directions of your lovely cult leader, Mr. Grutman.

Let's assume you love movies. It can also likely then be assumed that you have a favorite film, a favorite actor and/or actress, favorite lines, favorite scenes, ad infinitum. Conversely, one also then can assume that there are films, scenes, and personages of cinematic significance that really get under your skin.

This brings me to the topic du jour: Tom Hanks.

I've put up with craptastic Keanu Reeves, shitty Steven Seagal, and inept Arnold Schwarzenegger for years. This is not difficult for me to do, as a rather large chunk of the movie critiquing population will rip on these individuals at will and make me feel all warm and squishy inside. However, my hatred is not sated when it comes to critic-darling Tom Hanks, and for this he must pay.

You know, I only like two Tom Hanks movies: Philadelphia and Road To Perdition. Do you know why those movies are good? BECAUSE TOM HANKS DIES IN THE END. Nothing made me feel more warm and squishy inside than to see blood running from Tom Hanks' limp corpse, I tell you. The only thing that might have been better is if the dying would've happened in You've Got Mail instead, and Meg Ryan would've been gunned down at his side.

Oh! BUT HE WAS IN SAVING PRIVATE RYAN, you whine! WE LOVED THAT MOVIE! Well you know what I say to that? Screw you and your Spielbergian drivel! I would've burned that DVD years ago if the drawn-out dialogue wasn't so good for helping me fall asleep. Seriously. How can you forgive a guy who made a film out of talking to a goddamn volleyball? How can you love a man who thinks life is like a box of chocolates? LIFE IS LIKE A BUCKET OF VOMIT, TOM. FACE IT OR I WILL STAB YOU IN THE FACE WITH FORKS!

Okay... breathe in, breathe out. I'll be alright, just give me a few minutes here. Or, perhaps, sate my sanity with some visiting to a place of nirvana, my dearest 'zine, Anada. Read its words. Soothe your nerves. Write something, perhaps I shall give you a cookie.

Now, back to Captain Hanks and his Career of Crap. That Thing You Do! Sleepless In Seattle. Joe Versus The Volcano. Please, don't even try defending this mindless drivel. It will only kill your brain cells at ever-exponentially increasing speeds. You know what I have to say about Apollo 13? Look at the damn casting -- they should've just called it Forrest Gump Goes To The Moon. Oooh! Let's bore everyone with hours of floating in space and almost dying! THEY'LL CARE ABOUT ME BECAUSE I'M TOM HANKS! THEY WON'T STAB ME IN THE FACE WITH FORKS BECAUSE I'M TOM HANKS!

Watch your back, Tommy boy. I've got my forks ready.

--Gloomchen

12.02.03

Forget movies. No, wait, don't forget movies. I went and saw Bad Santa this past weekend with my father, brother, and boyfriend. I laughed my fool ass off. That Billy Bob, I don't know. He's not sexy and every time I see him I still think "french fried taters," but yet I'm still oddly attracted to watching him intently. He doesn't have a third arm or anything, so I don't think it's a freakshow-type aspect. Perhaps I'll wait to figure it out until after I start stalking him. Or at least after I get a souvenir chunk of skin.

See, now that I'm on the topic of movies, I just can't seem to stop myself. After declaring my hatred for Tom Hanks, I figure I might as well throw out a few of the things I actually like. Even us pessimists and realists of the world can let a little light shine into our hearts once in a while. Just for a second though, mind you. Wouldn't want any flowers to start growing.

With that: Edward Norton is my personal god. I don't care if he's covered in swastikas (sorry, Josh, but damn if that boy shirtless and tattooed doesn't make this little goyim all hot and bothered) or if he's a vegan kiddie show star. All is good in the world of Norton, ever since I first saw him on the big screen, delightfully surprised as I was, in Primal Fear. He's versatile, he has tremendous ability, and he's non-threatening. You get someone like the cliché Brad Pitt, you know, someone too hot too even think about, and that's no fun. I mean, say you run into Brad Pitt somewhere. If you're a loopy girly like myself, you start drooling and ask him for his autograph just as snot starts dripping out your nose and you pass out. Edward Norton, on the other hand, he's just all regular and shit. You could ask him if he'd bum you a smoke, you could chill and have conversation, maybe play some pool. Then maybe take off to the bathrooms for a bit of the ol' in-out, and call it a night. Yep, that's the breakfast of champions.

This is the area where I write about Johnny Depp. I can't do it, however. I'm too busy drooling all over myself while trying not to pass out at the mere thought of that boy. Ohhh, for it is too criminal for someone to be as sexy as he was in the first half of Blow. Sigh. I think he can act, but I've never really paid attention.

Also up there on the list of goodness is Woody Harrelson. There's no genius to be found there or anything, but damn if I haven't always thought the guy was pretty neat. He kicks complete and total ass in my very favorite movie of all time, Natural Born Killers. And who doesn't love Kingpin? Be it completely stupid or seriously insane, I like the guy. I even stooped to watching that awful "Will And Grace" crap back when he was on the show. It was painful, but I figure the drugs are going to get him soon enough so I'll take what I can get.

Now, what about the ladies? Well, it's pretty safe to say I never go out of my way to catch a Meg Ryan flick. And Sandra Bullock, Julia Roberts, Jennifer Lopez... you can keep all of those chickies and their stupid chickie movies, too. Actually, it seems every time I find an actress whose work I like in one or two movies, she has to go out and make a bunch of crap that makes me embarrassed to ever say I thought she was neat. See Penélope Cruz. See Jennifer Connelly. See Elizabeth Hurley. See Christina Ricci. See Helena Bonham Carter. Actually, none of those are really all that much to be embarrassed about, but... Bedazzled? Seriously, Liz hon, that's not cool. Didn't you know that Brendan Fraser is a talentless human fungus? Talk to me first next time.

At least some good films can still be made, even without my elite force of super-favorite actors. Almost Famous, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and Pulp Fiction don't contain any of them, but they're all in my list of favorite flicks. Add to that a dash of A Clockwork Orange, Requiem For A Dream, Fight Club, Go, and perhaps Niagara Niagara, and you've got a good spattering idea of what kind of things trip my trigger. Okay, so there's more than just a smidgen of variation there, but it can all be boiled down to one common denominator: if it's screwed up in the head, I like it. Bingo!

So, indeed, not all is bad in the world of cinema. Not all is good by a tremendously large stretch, but at least something can be found. I have to admit, though, it was really hard throughout this piece not to insert a snotty remark of hatred against more people than I already have. My fingers are still itching to throw out some kind of scathe towards Cameron Diaz. C'mon, bitch, OD on blow already. Something, anything.

Much better.

Care to discuss this further? Feel free to send me an email. Just remember two things; one, I get 300 pieces of spam a day, so make your subject line stand out; and two, all of the above is my very dearest opinion and you'll never change my mind. NEVAHHH!

Love.

--Gloomchen

12.07.03

Sausages vs. Soy

There's a grand cliché in the world of Internet readership, at least, among those hard-core enough to be "geeks" of a type: they're either these nerdy, spindly things, or they're fat, slobby, Pizza Hut fiends. Either way, they're rumored to have never touched women other than the conceivable other computer geek girls. Even this is a rarity, as these stereotypes never really leave the house anyway.

I'm here to help.

I have been a computer geek chick for a LONG time, since 1995. I was the fat, slobby, Pizza Hut fiend type for a long time. Then I turned 25 and had a midlife crisis of sorts, and bango, I lost half my body weight. What I did not only made me healthier, but it also encouraged me to get the hell out of the house once and a while to socialize because I looked good and had the energy to LIVE.

Don't run away! Come back!

Seriously. I know, this isn't what you came here to hear, and no diet/exercise will give you a personality. But some of you out there, you've GOT personality. You're a winner on the internet but you're a loser in person. You really can have it both ways. It doesn't take much.

See, I know how the internet geek mind works. Watch Fight Club again, I know all you internet geeks like it. Listen to some of the shit coming out of Tyler Durden's mouth. You are not your possessions, and you are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. Likewise, you do not have to eat McDonalds cheeseburgers or Meat Lover's pizzas for your sole sustenance. You do not have to watch TV show after mindless TV show, crappy Farrelly Brothers flick after crappy Farrelly Brothers flick. You exist to exist. You do not need to be entertained to live, and you don't have to absolutely adore everything you eat. It's just eating. It's just moving around. It's not good and it's not bad. It's just something you have to do.

Cleanse your mind and eat some stir fry. No, not fucking three plates of General Tso's Chicken. Try something not doused in jugs of sauce and fried in buckets of lard. See that broccoli? It likes you. It likes your body. Don't cover it in cheese sauce. Who cares if it tastes better that way? It's ruining your life. Reject the french fries and try a baked potato -- with margarine, no butter or sour cream. Eat some soup. GOOD soup, read the labels. Eat cereal that looks like twigs and bark. Drink an ocean of water a day, no regular soda allowed. Got a sweet tooth? Have an apple. No, you stupid fuck, not a can of apple pie filling. Salty craving? Have some pretzels.

I'm doing this to help you.

Your exercise shouldn't be lifting the remote control or typing an 8 page diatribe on Vince McMahon, Microsoft, and the illuminati. Take a walk. That's right, just go six blocks. Then try ten blocks. Then fifteen. Then try some hills, some stairs, try the scenic routes. Invest in a good discman or mp3 player and make it worth your time. If you seriously can't get away from the boob tube, put an exercise bike in front of it. Get an elliptical trainer, a treadmill, anything to get your ass off the couch. Build some muscle, skinny. Burn some fat, tubby.

I'm not trying to insult you. I love you.

In other words, look at the above. How fucking hard is it? Seriously, analyze those words. It's NOT HARD to have a good life, the kind of physique and health you've always been jealous to see on other guys in bars, or believe it or not, a CHICK. In six months, you'll see a whole new person. In six months, you'll start feeling like a whole new person. In a year, you'll BE a whole new person. Guaranteed. You'll look in the mirror and your ego will soar, giving you that ability to talk to women. Your personality will come out, and being a NET GOD will turn you into a REAL LIFE GOD.

Will it work for everyone? Of course not, because some of you people just suck balls by nature. You'll never be able to put down the KFC or Mountain Dew because you have no personality anyway. If you lost weight or gained muscle, all you'd be is a decent looking guy who still has "child molestor" written all over his face. Don't worry, you can't help it, you were just born that way. Just stay in front of the computer and leave the little kids alone. Don't take my advice at all.

But some of you out there... I know you're worthy. I know you're ready to change your life. I certainly know I can't be the only one in the whole universe who was worthy of doing it.

Need some more motivation?

Me, in early 2002

Me, this past Halloween

And I'm dating an Internet geek.

Give me a ring, I'll be your Richard Simmons if you need one.

--Gloomchen

12.15.03

Quit deluding yourself.

Take a look at someone like Vanilla Ice. Of course you remember him, right? He was on top of the world once. His music was catchy and all the white folk loved him to bits. Girls had posters of him on their walls. Money was rolling into his bank account faster than lava down a volcano. He was impervious! But then, he made a song for Ninja Turtles, he starred in a terrible movie based on himself, and the magical spell he held over the public vanished. Reinventing himself as neither a ganja-smoking gangsta-rapper nor a rap-metal hardass could bring him back. The damage was long since done.

It all crumbles that quickly.

Are you watching yourself from afar? Maybe you should double-check your travel receipts. It gets pretty expensive buying hotel rooms for both you and for your ego.

Oh, sure, you were great -- once. And you probably still have the potential to be great today or again someday. Somewhere in the middle, however, your head has gotten muddled. Instead of being yourself and letting your creative ideas flourish, you've begun fishing for that lowest common denominator, anything that will suddenly kick-start your life back on track and the world will once again kiss your feet.

But you're getting to the point where you've almost tried everything, yet there is still no fanfare. In fact, you're seeing more fanfare for your friends and those you feel you've taught and raised in your shadow. They have no right growing above and beyond you, right? It's time to knock their pretty little castles back to the ground. They were nothing before you, and they'll be nothing when you're through with them.

If anyone's paying attention, that is. If anyone gives a shit about what you think anymore.

It's pretty rough falling down the mountain, isn't it? And I'll bet you thought it was bad climbing up the damn thing.

I'm only going to offer this advice once, because if you don't take it, you're not worthy of getting to hear it twice. Treasure your friends. Love what you have. Whether or not you are king of the mountain should not be an issue. Tell the tales of your past and move on, or take a moment to cleanse your mind of all the bullshit and start building a new cult from the ground up. Stop living in the past. Stop blaming others for your inadequacies. Don't hate others for doing "your" things better than you do them. Take pride in the legacy you've created.

Stop hoping for media coverage of you blowing out your 80th birthday candles. Try focusing on having someone there to light them for you.

--Gloomchen

12.22.03 In pretty much every western religion at this time of year, someone is celebrating something pretty special. Christians, pagans, jews, kwanzaa peoples, what not... it's a time for giving and families coming together and ham. Maybe no ham for the jews. And none of the above for Jehovah's Witnesses. Eh, generalizations are useless.

Religion has always been an oddball factor in my life. I was raised Catholic in a predominantly Catholic town. I attended Catholic school for a couple of years to avoid a particularly lice-infested public school. It's an odd story, but my mom attended a Catholic college from the time I was in fifth through eighth grade. By the time she graduated, she converted to Buddhism.

So, here's me: raised Catholic and led to believe, as most kids in religious families are led to believe, that their way is the right way and all others are heathens and they will not enjoy the accoutrements of heaven when they die. Right? Okay. Now my mom has decided that's all bullshit and she's got an altar with some fat half-naked dude and she's meditating and lighting candles. Of course this meant I would rebel against all of it and become a violent atheist as a teenager, blah blah blah. The script writes itself.

Nowadays, I'm a comfortable agnostic with atheist tendencies. Basically, what I'm saying is that I don't really believe in God and I'm certainly not religious whatsoever, but I'm not going to argue with you whether I'm right or wrong because I know there is no proof. This is my choice, and if you think it means I'm going to boil in hell, so be it. Save someone else, because I don't want the help. I'd rather just live by my own moral code than argue about something men have killed each other over for centuries.

Yet regardless, the holiday season is one of my favorite times of the year. It's one of the only times I get to see all of my extended family members. We get to catch up, we eat fabulous food, we drink or play pool or sing karaoke or whatever other hellacious winter festivities we can concoct each particular year. I get to find out which cousins are in jail, which other cousins are starting their MBA, which aunts and uncles had to get a ride as their licenses were suspended due to DUI, and which other relatives are winning it big at the local casinos and buying new guitars and computers and oh, will you help me set up a Paypal account?

Okay, so whatever, yee haw, this is Gloomchen's wonderful little personal diatribe. Who cares?

I'm 26 years old. I'm probably a little older than most of the people reading this, but definitely younger than others. I've had a unique experience growing up, yet it was still traditional enough that I am not some bizarre traveling circus outcast. Consider me Joe Average, well, Jody Average perhaps. Except the name Jody is pretty lame. Maybe Josephine. Gah, that's horrid... Jade? That's a pretty name. Jade Average. Where was I again?

I sit back and watch a lot of people my age and younger looking less and less upon their family unit. I don't know about anyone else, but it would kill me to not spend the holidays with my family. Sure, I have a lot of great friends and going out drinking with them for a night sure would rock, but it can be put off for a week until I get done catching up with relatives. This is their time. Friends come and go, but you're stuck with your DNA. Even if they chew with their mouths open at the dinner table, they're the ones that love you unconditionally.

Regardless of our differences and regardless of religion, it's all the same. I don't care if you don't believe in God and you have some huge issues with Santa Claus and commercialism and blah blah blah. You know, there are just some things that are a lot more important than your stupid crusade to end the materialism of society and the bastardization of a Christian holiday. In all of this, folks are forgetting what even non-religious people should be doing during this time of the year: celebrating life with those who gave them life and lineage. So put down the stick of anger against bright shiny decorations and stop whining about what Uncle Larry said about the color of your carpet this year.

You never know when your family will need you or when you will need your family. When you find out, it's usually not for something bright and smiley. This is life, and life always holds a tragedy in a minefield. At some point, a trigger will be tripped. Afterwards, you can't go back and replace the charge.

To live without regrets is to revel in your riches. Those closest to you are the richest things you will ever have. Remember this during your tedious holiday celebrations, and be glad that you are indeed celebrating at all.

Dedicated to Peggy Swift (1965-2003), her loving husband Jeff, and her children Nathan and Andrea.

-- Gloomchen

12.29.03

You wake up in the morning and you're not sure whether you can get out of bed or not. You've gotten out of bed every other day, but today it just doesn't seem possible. Within the next ten minutes, however, you figure out that it truly is your destiny and you rise from your slumber to face the day with open arms or closed fists. Or, at the very least, with ambivalence.

It wasn't always this way. You remember that most of your days had always begun with constant chaotic thought, a way of invigorating every last firing neuron in your body. Whether it was looking to be grand fun or excruciating pain, either way it was a feeling. You could be shaken to your very core by love or hatred. The details, the differences, they don't matter now.

For in your world, it's just another day staring at blah.

*****

People, here's a little insight, perhaps a little more information than you need to know about me or anyone else. The world is full of people who are all whacked out in the head. I know I'm pretty whacked out in the head. Chances are that if you aren't, that at least you know someone who's pretty whacked out in the head, too. We seem to be everywhere these days.

And chances are also pretty high that you or me or the other nutcase you know is on some kind of mood-altering medication. It's okay, it's not taboo. With the rate of which doctors are throwing around prescriptions to cure our neurotic tendencies, it's no wonder how any of us are left to feel any real emotions at all.

For me, well, I've always been an insanely vibrant person. I've been known to make a complete ass out of myself for pure entertainment value. I've been known to do things that people with any sort of common sense would balk at -- be it topless photos online, driving long distances for hook-ups, whatever. At the same time, my wild moments were met with screaming depression, high-powered anxiety, or anger that just couldn't dissolve. So, yes. I'm an emotional powderkeg. And I handled it all just fine until last year when attacks of random anxiety would cause me to have tunnel vision and body-sized migraines, and I went and got me some drugs.

The last nine months, I've been stable. It's nice to be stable. Rationality is a good thing. The ability to use my hidden common sense is incredible. But at the same time, tragedies have happened and I haven't felt them hit me at all. Moments that should have resulted in squealing and bouncing around were met on my end with little more than a big smile.

It's ludicrous; that's not me. And chances are, it's not you, either.

This is a call to arms. The world is not to be experienced by a neutral middle boring John Doe. We need color. We need vibrancy. We need stark contrast, raging psychopaths and fruity happy nutcases. We're losing ourselves to pharmaceuticals in the name of sanity. Well, I'm looking back at the last nine months and wondering what the hell is so wonderful about being sane, anyway.

I'll be fine. You'll be fine, and the guy you know who is a bit nutty will also be fine. We've used crutches long enough. It's time to get back out and ride the carnival rides of the world.

--Gloomchen

01.05.04

I've been issuing quite a many calls to arms lately. Add another to the list, will you, Jeeves?

I am Gloomchen. I am a writer and editor. It took me years to come out of the closet as such and defeat my "stage fright" of showing my works to others. I've come a long way since 1997. I expect others have as well. In fact, I demand others evolve. Hence, welcome to the editor's anger.

One of my greatest fears upon unleashing my prose into the public eye was less my creativity and more my mechanics. I didn't want my point to be missed thanks to a misspelled or misused word, a misplaced comma, or an overlooked sentence fragment. In the days when I was first posting my material, this truly was a threat. These were days when most teenagers still filed "internet" under "geek only." I wasn't among the idiots wandering around that comprises the majority of the Internet Nation today.

While this may seem to water down tensions in the modern web world for those who fear being viewed as moronic when accidentally changing verb tense mid-sentence, in my eyes, it's an excuse for sloppiness. Sure, there are plenty of websites which clearly cater to a more sophisticated audience and take pains to present the most professional product possible. However, I've most certainly noticed these places becoming fewer and farther between over time, most likely due to the need to be first and do things more quickly than the competition.

As I gaze upon this tangled mess that my beloved haven of information has become, I wonder: where have all the editors gone? Or, worse, since when can someone be defined a "writer" when they have no basic concepts of grammar, punctuation, or spelling?

There's truly no excuse for anything more than the occasional gaffe. Nearly all software these days come bundled with spell checkers, not to mention the increasing instances of grammar checkers as well. On top of this, the world has dictionary.com and thesaurus.com at its disposal. One doesn't need to have the old Strunk and White handy to have style, but it wouldn't hurt to spend the eight dollars on Amazon in an attempt to discover the definition of such.

Still, the world is lucky. The average reader is so used to seeing 31337speak barfed all over their screens that anyone who doesn't type "teh" is a veritable Shakespeare. Still, one question remains, one of the most important in the world of writing: who is your audience? Are you writing to the lowest common denominator or are you writing for those with more than just a saltine floating around in their craniums?

And hey, audience -- you're not excused, either. Why support drivel? Do you enjoy reading twelve pages where "its" and "it's" are used more interchangeably than Legos? Is this making you feel more intelligent? Are you supporting a moron simply because you have nowhere else to go?

This leads me to my favorite excuse for all lazy internet writers:

"It's just the Internet."

I hate to break this to you, Christopher Pike, but I don't care if you're writing for third graders or Harvard grad students. What you write is a reflection of your intellect. If you don't care about your grammar, spelling, or punctuation, you're telling the world that you have no problems displaying that you are a moron. You're telling them that you don't respect their intelligence. Most of all, you're indistinguishable from any other moron on the entire Internet. You've just made yourself as unspecial as possible. You're another generic pseudo-writer to be overlooked.

While one may say true genius transcends the constraints of English structure, to those blasphemers, I call shenanigans. Creativity is not an excuse. Internet, get your shit together. In the event that you realize you truly don't understand what you might be doing wrong, find yourself a good editor. They're not hard to find -- hell, I'm not doing anything tonight and I could use a few bucks.

--Gloomchen

Postscript: And as a note to those who would care to dissect this blather for errors, don't bother. I know where my mistakes lie, and most of them are so buried in debatable style that it's not worth arguing. I don't claim to be perfect, but I will claim to be readable. No further discussion is necessary. Thank you for your time, and have some celery.

01.12.04

I hope you enjoy this week's episode of Nihilism and Cupcakes. Just as I was preparing to write this evening, I had installed an extra 512 megs of RAM into my system that apparently the system did not appreciate. Luckily, the errors started small and I was able to back up nearly everything before it hit the big super kaboom. Anyone ever have experience with an isass.exe failure on startup and care to explain to me why this meant I couldn't even do a Last Known Good recovery? Such are the joys of DIY systems and cheap RAM.

Before I get to the goodness, I'm looking to get myself a new domain. I've owned and operated Anada.net for the last four years. I'm looking for another new place all my own, uncorrupted by the 'zine's influence. Here are the poll choices. Yes, it's on LiveJournal, where I've had a humble home for about two and a half years now, if memory serves. Feel free to stop by and call me a super cooch when you have a spare moment.

Now then. Let's get down to business, I ain't got no time to play around, what is this. Well, I'll get as businessy as I can without anything installed on this system yet -- I'm completely crippled without my Google toolbar as it is.

Dearest Mr. Grutman's column here on Black is meant to generally address all ongoing news in the universe in a playfully poignant and somewhat sarcastic manner. At least, that's what I've gathered thus far. My own blurb within generally has never dealt with such things. This is because the only times I ever witness the news are when someone posts something bizarrely newsworthy into their LiveJournal or I accidentally walk past a newspaper. I can't even converse about hip television programming like this 24 I keep hearing so much about because, although we have 200 channels, the only times I watch television are when I remember that WWE is on or I happen to walk past when my younger brother is watching Adult Swim. After spending my youth trying to be cool and hip, I have obviously failed miserably.

Except in the world of music. Okay, so I admit I don't know what's going on in the world of that really pale kid from American Idol (who, by the way, I've only heard anything about because I still subscribe to Rolling Stone), I don't know Ashanti from Beyonce, and I haven't the remotest clue who Chingy is. However, if you have an argument regarding the differences between black, death, doom, stoner, power, or goth metal, I can attempt to set you straight. If you want to know the hilarious history of the approximately 14 people who made over 40 albums from 1968-1972 under various cartoon names under the guise of bubblegum music, I'll talk your ear off. Hell, even if you're just game to help me figure out how in the hell Chris Cornell lost all ability to enunciate once he joined Audioslave, it's a mystery that has puzzled me for the last year.

I know all of the capitals of all fifty states. I can spell pretty much anything, or at least make a really close guess. I can make Microsoft Excel do anything short of my laundry. Everything else has been removed from my brain to make room for more stupid music knowledge. I truly enjoyed history in college, really, I did; at one point, I was so fascinated by Rome that I almost thought about majoring in history of that era. Once I chose something else, however, within a year I couldn't even tell you what Julius Caesar did. But would you like to know the lyrics to "Crazy About Her" by Rod Stewart? Would you? It's a completely shitty song, but I heard it a lot when I was about 11 and I still remember every single word.

So really, it should be no surprise that I have over 6200 albums. It should also be no surprise that in order to remember where I put an important piece of paper, I have to make up a little song about it. I sing along to everything in the car. I turn on the radio for background noise and never bother changing the station even though I really have no desire to hear "Lick It Up" at 11 am. If there is silence, I fill it with humming or singing. And I will fight you to the death if you want to debate with me whether The Cars were more popular in the '70s or the '80s.

This week, I will begin reading my third music-related encyclopedia. I have no idea why I do this or why it captivates me so much. Let me append my previous statement about television and add in every VH1 special known to man -- I am not only in love with the music itself, but everything involved with its creation. Perhaps it's because my family was too poor to keep up piano lessons for me for more than one year. Maybe it's because I have a voice but am scared to pieces to let anyone else hear it. There's some wiring upstairs that revolves only around half notes and power chords. Everything else gets smashed and thrown in a corner.

I've reviewed music in the past, but to be honest, I don't feel qualified to tell people what is good and what isn't good. Okay, we'll take an exception and I'll flat-out say that Korn has made the same album four times in a row over the last few years and Christina Aguilera needs to go listen to Mariah Carey's "Vision of Love" to learn a halfway decent way to emote instead of just attempting to hit every note in existence randomly and in rapid succession. Perhaps I'm lying and I really do have a lot to say. However, does anyone really want to read a 25-page dissertation on music genres? Who cares about the changes in production values following Phil Spector, or the abuse of digital software used today for "correcting" music? While it's all fascinating stuff in my own mind, everyone else seems a lot more concerned about Britney Spears being a stupid fucking blonde and marrying her little pal buddy.

Yes, that's what this whole piece has boiled down to, and I know it's making you groan to see me saying it. I'll sit over here patiently in the corner being an obsessive eccentric while everyone else manages to avoid this lunacy of sorts and devotes their minds to more reasonable things. Knowing the names of all the Van Halen and Rush albums won't get you an extra $30k a year, that's for sure. Honestly, if I could do it all over again, I'd find some way to force out the lyrics to Three Count's theme to make room for a Microsoft certification or two so that I wouldn't have to do a factory restore. Anything is than curling up in a fetal position grinding your teeth whenever you hear Scott Stapp's over-pronounciation of the letter "r" or screaming bloody murder any time Lars Ulrich picks up a drum stick.

--Gloomchen

01.18.04

I received an instant message this past week from a friend of mine. It said:

"Looks like Dean is going against Bush."

My reply was, huh?

This is nearly ironic, folks, as I used to be very much into politics in my college days. I followed most goings-on and had at the very least a basic idea of everything the candidates debated. I knew about issues, family backgrounds, past fiascos and other whirlwinds of fury. I knew these things because I was a fervent Libertarian. This isn't to say I'm no longer a fervent Libertarian, but back then, I liked to argue about it.

Nowadays, I really, really don't care.

I was very liberal/Democrat minded in my youth, primarily because I grew up poor. However, we weren't poor and on welfare for long -- my mother went back to college and got a job, raising us three kids by herself by working her ass off. Although it enabled us to live and not be homeless or starve, I grew to despise welfare because of its social connotations due to those who abuse it. I didn't enjoy the dirty looks that we got at West Locust Mart when my mom gave us our reward of one food stamp to go buy candy.

For people like us, welfare was the greatest government program that could have ever existed. We worked to get OFF the system. People like us comprise, what, maybe .5% of all welfare recipients? But that didn't make society look upon us any differently. We were an aberration of the norm. Needless to say, I started to absolutely HATE the norm.

So it was my days after growing older that led me to change my beliefs. I stumbled upon libertarianism quite randomly as it offered what was, to me, an ideal: we don't need no stinking government to protect us from ourselves. Why create bureaucracy for bureaucracy's sake? If someone is polluting your water, sue them. If Tiffany next door wants to stand on the corner of 3rd and Main trying to earn some cash with that pierced tongue of hers, what business is that of the government? Oh, sure, there are arguments that easily rebut these things. That's not the point of this discussion, however.

In other words, I decided that I wanted for my country what I wanted for myself and my life: complete freedom to do the things that I wanted, so long as they did not hurt anyone else. In the end, it's just the Golden Rule on a nationwide scale. You earn your keep and you get what you give. And I couldn't stop myself from trying to spread the word of its greatness to others.

Things change, however. The world keeps revolving, and my cynical nature realizes quickly that all of my preaching is for naught. Clinton entertained me well for eight years and I was perfectly happy with the status quo. Then came the election from hell where I don't think I could've chosen two worse candidates for President if I'd gone fishing for willing folks in Afghanistan. Gore might have killed me with boredom and self-righteousness (and I might have hired someone to kill his PMRC wife from hell), but I don't think he could possibly have done worse than Li'l Bush. To say that the last four years have drained all hope that I live in a decent country filled with intelligent citizens headed up by a respectable government is a dramatic understatement.

I'll go to the pollbooths and I'll vote Libertarian for life. If I'm the only person voting Lib until the day I die, that's fine with me. If I never make one iota of difference in the world, at least I can say that I stuck with my beliefs. I'm not throwing my vote to the Democrats just to get Bush out of office. I'm not going to support Bush just to keep the next moronic Democrat out, either. I'll let the rest of the morons in this country decide who is the lesser of two evils. Someday I'll wake up from this nightmare and those of us with two brain cells to rub together will have torn down all of this bullshit and made a decent government that lets people profit on their strengths and abilities and be recognized as such. Until then, I don't give a shit who y'all elect.

So, until the Presidential election finally arrives, obey my bumper sticker:

"MORE ORGASMS LESS KIDS"

Wait, not that one. Good advice, but not on topic. The one above that:

"WORK HARDER, MILLIONS ON WELFARE DEPEND ON YOU."

The third option on the ballot: just stop caring about the rest of the world and do what's best for yourself. Indeed. Ain't no welfare moms gettin' any cash dollaz for THAT.

-- Gloomchen

01.25.04

It's a huge time in American politics right now as we gear up to choose who will be our next President. Likewise, it's a huge time in the entertainment world as J-Lo and Ben are no more, a guy from Jethro Tull is getting a sex change, and a Judas Priest drummer seems to have chosen the Michael Jackson path to infamy. But regardless, none of this seems to be as big and exciting as my personal life. So, for this installment of Nihilism and Cupcakes, escape the rest of the universe and read what truly should be national news.

ITEM: I used to write for a neat metal music review website. It was destroyed by behind-the-scenes politics, and that's the kind of thing that makes a girl like me cry. The destruction was partially due to this girl on the forums, a cute little red-head who flirted mercilessly and led on several guys to the point where they turned on each other. She was always bitchy to me, likely because I have a vagina. The crux of the story is that this last week, the girl went to meet one of these guys who is apparently madly in love with her. Quite apparently, not only was the girl posting fake photos of herself, but she's the size of a Cadillac. I found this out by pure accident and have been spending the majority of my week lending karma a hand by informing all of the former male friends of the old site that they need not lustfully masturbate any longer.

Moral of the story: why lie on the internet? Do I care that Scott Keith is big and round? I used to be big and round, for crying out loud. Really though, do YOU care what I, Randle, or Grutman look like? Would it make us instantly uncool if we didn't look like hot bitches? Not that I'm saying Randle isn't a hot bitch. I don't know about Grutman, but in Canada, sexy just drips from pine trees.

Well, I guess some of you care. At least this guy does, anyway:

From: JiggyFlyWegro@aol.com Sent: Monday, January 19, 2004 7:40 PM To: gloomchen@anada.net Subject: NIHILISM AND CUPCAKES

are you hot?

Yes, that's my fan mail of last week. It's good to know my political discourse affected this generation so deeply.

Anyway. Next.

ITEM: My six year old cat, Mia, had to have two teeth pulled this last week. The vet bill was $200. TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS FOR MY CAT'S TEETH.

Bear this in mind when reading the next item.

ITEM: I recently started selling my CDs on eBay. I've been amazed that I've actually been pulling in a decent little chunk of change -- I'm honest when I say I just want them sold and gone. So, in that vein, I had no idea I'd bring in $30 in my first outing, selling a lot of oddball hair band stuff. So, of course, I listed even more this week. This means you must buy them... you must buy them... you... must... buyyyyyyyy...

*MEOW* I HAVE NO TEETH AND MY OWNER IS BROKE

And I have to take my kitten, Anneke, to get spayed this week. Allow me to keep that pity train rollin' on through. Open your wallets, bid high and bid often.

Ahem.

Readers, I truly do apologize here for this televangelesque appeal for your money and sympathy. Really, I'm happy as a clam. Sorry to bother you with all of my garbage. There are children starving, babies dying, and pimps slapping hos out there. The world is full of news, and instead, I waste your time with my personal tripe.

Still, it was a little fun, wasn't it? Girl talk is the best.

Until next week... Jackie, you stupid lying bitch who destroyed one of my favorite websites: I'm thinking people at this point would like to see us in a mud wrestling match. Better keep your clothes on though, you wouldn't want to lose one of the Krispy Kremes you have stored under your fatrolls to fall out and get all muddy. BWAH HA, THE CHALLENGE HAS BEEN ISSUED! IT'S ON!

Until you see me soaked in mud, I remain,

--Gloomchen

02.01.04

I will admit it now: I can be a total ripping bitch. Sometimes, I'm even proud of my ability to be a bitch. I hold a lot of respect for other people who are able to stand up for themselves and be heard rather than settle for the status quo and whine about it to others.

I also pride myself on the ability to know what is worth getting bitchy about and what is better left alone. And this is where my respect for those mentioned above can turn black.

Example one is a single mother who gave birth to a child with a lot of medical issues. She herself has a lot of medical issues. She is fighting for child support from the father and fighting with her insurance company and her treating facilities to ensure that her child is getting top-notch care. She refuses to back down when she knows she's right and won't take any slack for being a single parent.

Problem is, this woman has carried her tenacity into other aspects of her life. In her workplace, she looks at everyone in accusation that they might be using or abusing her. In her personal life, she is the boss and nobody else's say matters. In a nutshell, her child is important and she is important, but nobody else is important and everyone is out to screw up her life for herself and her child.

Example two is a hard-working guy, out of prison from charges that could be called coincidental rather than actual guilt. He doesn't have much but his dog and his love for The Simpsons. He's doing what he can as a blue-collar worker who enjoys The Marijuana while living with his mother (not just to save himself money, but to take some financial burden off of her via rent towards the house payment).

Yet, all is not rosy. This man could itemize what he's bought and what others have consumed in the household. He refuses to give any more than anyone else has contributed, regardless of extenuating circumstances. When something in the house happens that he doesn't agree with, he turns drama queen, takes his ball and goes home. Meanwhile, he could care less if this inconveniences anyone else. Others must walk on eggshells at times to make sure a wrench will not be thrown into plans due to his mood.

I have many more examples, but how many more are necessary?

I truly feel for folks who have to face struggles and need to take a head-first run into difficult situations simply for the chance to live as equally as possible. But there's little tidbit that those above, and many more, seem to forget...

Life isn't fair.

Feel free to get upset and fight for things worth fighting to win. Tackle your oppressors head-on when you're clearly getting the short end of the stick. But don't forget that for every short stick you're dealt, someone else has likely been dealt it in the past. Is it worth your battle when everyone else has felt this at one time or another? Are you being oppressed, or are you simply experiencing a momentary slump like most others around you? As one fine philosopher once noted, shit happens.

Fight the good fight and fight it until the end. Aside from that, be mellow. Live life. Seize what you can, but let the small potatoes roll on by. It's not worth making the lives of everyone around you miserable because you can't seem to grasp that the universe is not one giant scale on perpetual balance.

And with that, I remain,

--Gloomchen

02.08.04

By this time next week, Valentine's Day will have come and gone. Another year with another day filled with sweet amour for those in loving bliss, another year with another day filled with silent hatred and anger for those supposedly in loving bliss but instead scorned, and another year with another day filled with bitterness and contempt by those who have no one with whom to celebrate. It's a day filled with the possibilities of random acts of love, contrasted with also being a day that can inspire anything but.

Still, there are more purposes for Valentine's Day. It can be a day where one person who treats his partner like a piece of meat 364 days of the year can suddenly erase all of this by purchasing a simple box of candy and, perhaps, a flower or twelve. It's a day when those who have grown old together can simply look at each other and nod at another year gone past, grateful that neither one of them have kicked off yet. And it's also a day where many secret admirers will muster up their courage to tell someone that, yes, they would like to be their Valentine.

Others may decide that they are fed up with societal constraints and, in a backlash set to rock the immediate universe, will do something shocking to protest what they perceive to be the evils of Valentine's Day. Children in elementary classrooms across the United States will open their little paper notes of love only to tear up those from the ugly kid who can't figure out how to properly use a tissue. Many companies will relax their dress codes, allowing a red or pink shirt to be worn instead of the required uniform. Hallmark, Brach's, and FTD will rake in a wonderful cash spike.

So, celebrate. While your mail will still be delivered and you won't get a vacation day from work, there are still many ways to interpret and enjoy Valentine's Day. Whether you're having marathon sex, glaring at someone for not having marathon sex with you, or spitting on people who you think might get to have marathon sex while you wither away, empty, desparate, alone -- you'll still be in the spirit.

--gloomchen

02.22.04

I'm in debt. I'm more than in debt, in fact. I've created an entirely useless quantity of negative dollar amounts attributed solely to my inability to control myself. I know I'm not the only one, but I don't have a complete college education or a job that pays well enough to repay all of this. Much worse, half the time I don't repay it at all. This leads to lawsuits against me and my eternal joys of sending checks off to lawyers rather than credit card companies, and years after the worst of the accrued amount, I've still got more than half outstanding.

I've read online before about crazy people who build websites begging for money -- in many cases, they've worked. I'm internet-savvy, you know, eleven years toying in and around the web have made me primely set to start my own version of that type of venture. Hell, at one point, my bank account was truly sad and I literally begged my online friends for just a small donation to prevent things from bouncing. I was both elated and humiliated to receive $55 -- elated that it was enough to prevent tragedy, but humiliated for having to beg... for lowering myself... and most of all, because all I needed to have in my pocketbook to keep away from NSF fees was that $55. Nothing huge, just what many folks consider to be meager. But I needed it desperately to live.

While it's always tempting to just ask for free money, that's never been my intention, nor has it been my style. My new way of bailing myself out of trouble is through everyone's favorite moneymaker, eBay. As one can tell, I'm not selling things to make a huge profit. I'm selling just to get this stuff out of my house and to bring in enough of a trickle to keep myself able to make necessary bill payments. That is, you know, when I actually pay them. I just want the bill collectors to go away, so I just block them out of my mind, my answering machine, and my mailbox. I know I need to call a debt consolidation company, whether or not they can even help me at this point. The more likely scenario where I'm heading is bankruptcy, because everywhere that takes my money now are law offices and collection bureaus, not nice little card companies that are willing to negotiate your interest rate.

I don't mean to sound like I'm looking for the pity train here. I'm the one who bought everything in sight which got myself into this mess. Not only that, I'm the one who bought shoddy products with this line of credit, so nothing that I bought is even useful to me at this point. I have nothing but my new computer which I bought on money I saved up for an entire year, no credit involved. My car is 14 years old. I buy most of my clothes on eBay, at Goodwill, or on clearance racks. I grew up poor so it's not like I'm suddenly feeling thrust into the ghetto, but at the same time, this also means I have no relatives that could help me out. These days, most of my money goes to groceries, bills, and whatnot, with the occasional fun stuff like every person in the USA tends to splurge upon. But I'm earning it back, slowly.

I'm 26 years old and I live at home because I can't afford not to. I've lived elsewhere -- that's where my problems began, nothing says "live on credit" like two roommates who ditch your lease -- but I'm not so concerned about that right now. I'm doing okay, even though it's miles below the poverty line. For the most part, even when things are pretty bleak, I'm still generally happy. Things won't be better for a long time, but they're well enough.

I helped my best friend apply for her first credit card. So far, she's managed to be pretty smart with it. It also helps that she was raised to be a complete tightwad, and she panics if she has less than $5,000 in her savings account. She has a newer car with payments she can easily afford, which honestly she wouldn't have even thought to buy without me talking her into it. My boyfriend, his credit is far better than mine, but he's had his share of problems as well, and neither one of us are going to be financially secure anytime soon. My mother essentially uses one of her two monthly paychecks to pay a lawyer for a settlement she had with one of her cards. In other words, there's no end to the empty wallets in sight. I feel like a walking financial disaster who poisons all within her reach. But, hey, we all serve some kind of purpose in this world. I guess this is mine.

Take a look at your checkbook, your wallet, your online bank statement, your credit card bills. Read this again if you have to. No CD, no electronic trinket, no sale ad, no new toy is worth getting yourself into my situation. Sure, you might have a better background than I do and someone might be able to save your butt if you screw up royally. Then again, maybe they won't. Never mind that at any time, something could happen that could stick you far beneath the red: a motor vehicle accident, a surprise health problem, natural disasters, the mafia. Whatever... cover your ass.

For that, kiddies, is the moral to this story. And maybe it's the answer to my own problems. See, although I probably have about $15k to go before I'm free and clear, I'm making a dent by selling all my stuff. I'd sell a lung if I could, since I assume someone out there with emphysema would pay a good chunk of cash for it. If only I didn't once weigh as much as a small cow, I'd have a body decent enough to flaunt online for even more bucks. Believe me, I've been considering every way legally to give myself an extra boost up and out of harm's way. Maybe you have better ideas; I'd sure love to hear them. In the meantime: bid high. If you don't like this chunk, wait a week. There will be more.

Definitely let me know if you need a lung.

-- gloomchen

03.01.04

Update on last week's debt fun fiasco: I finally got my turquoise star, I'm so cool. In the meantime, the sheriff showed up at my door with small claims court papers on Friday. This particular card debt which I will need to clear immediately isn't too awful, but every little bit helps. Plus, you're helping me clean my house.

Update in general: I can also be found reviewing things over on 411 Music. I'd link to myself, but my ego is very, very small.

Now then, onto more important things:

Hair.

It's well known that I've been a metalhead since my wee years of worshipping Jon Bon Jovi (hey, all metalheads have to start somewhere) and therefore my years of puberty were marred with fantastical delusions of future intercourse with boys who looked a little too much like girls. Gunnar Nelson. Nuno Bettencourt. Sebastian Bach. No pretty boy got past me without a good once-over.

Hell, I even remember smashing Little Debbies cakes into the posters on my best friend's wall of these gorgeous boy toys. This was, of course, followed by licking them off. Ahhh, sweet youth.

Naturally, although my music taste has since swung away from being solely based upon the looks of the band members and more into the actual sound, I've still got a taste for the long hair. It's worse than beer goggles, really; even stone sober, the ugliest man is somehow a mad-style hottie if he has long hair. This has led me to some embarrassing crushes in the past on boys who were certainly not worthy of my transfixion, yet I only discovered this post-shearing.

I never put much thought into my odd little fetish over the years. I've never actually dated anyone with long hair, so it was more of an aesthetic chunk of my fantasies without ever seeming attainable. No harm done. That is, of course, until I started dating my current boyfriend, Matt. His hair wasn't all that long when we started seeing each other, but over a year later, it's nearly shoulder-length. He usually wears it pulled back anyway and although it's cool as hell, it's always just kind of been there and I've taken it for granted. I didn't realize, however, just how much this one small feature meant to me until this past week.

Matt just got a job where he's required to cut his hair.

My first instinct was REBELLION! Hide it under a hat! Deftly ignore orders! BE THE BAD DUDE WHO DOES NOT FOLLOW RULES!

But, the job pays really, really well. Of course, I'd like him to have a lot of money because I'm a typical materialistic female who wants presents. Honestly though, it doesn't come down to rocket science: it's only hair. Hair grows. Summertime is coming, it might even be more practical to cut it now anyway. Over and over again I tell myself these things, but I cannot help but weep for the mop top. I have frequent urges to run up behind him and scalp him; then, with the chunk of hair hanging from my mouth and my eyes bulging, I get down on all fours and race to my cave where the hair will be safe.

Of course, the irony in all of this comes in one hilarious shape. Last weekend, I cut about 4-5 inches off my own hair without even so much as warning Matt. He, like many men, likes women with long hair. My answer to his whining was, "it's only hair. Who cares?"

-- gloomchen

03.07.04

So you're having a baby.

Or, maybe you're not having a baby. Maybe someone close to you is having a baby; maybe a relative, maybe a friend, maybe your 14 year old neighbor. Either way around it, someone is always having a baby. The world just keeps growing, as insane numbers from around the globe will often remind us.

I see this every day and wonder, why does everyone have to breed?

Many religions put a high value on procreation -- hell, for some of them, that seems to be the only thing they truly care about. Pop out eight, they say, that way our religion will grow in numbers! Don't throw that Saran Wrap over your dick, that's blasphemy of the highest order! YOU MUST CREATE MINIONS FOR THE LORD!

Many families, simply through tradition, teach their children that all they want in life is to create more life. These children might not even stop and think, later on, whether or not they actually want progeny. All they know is that step one is to go to school, step two is to get married, and step three is to spawn. That's just what you do.

Other people are simply enamored by and in love with children that all they can think about is having one or twelve of their own. I guess I can relate -- even at a young age, I started listening to Pink Floyd and before I knew it, I'd bought every single one of their albums. Who cares if I was old enough to understand what I was doing? I wanted some Pink Floyd of my very own! Luckily, I was responsible enough to take care of all of those CDs. But the children, on the other hand...

The community in which I live isn't overwhelmingly working-class or below. We're in Iowa, so what is poor for you folks on the east coast is more than enough here. You could live here and raise a small family on a two-income full-time fast-food wage if you needed to. So, although we're far from cultured around these parts, we certainly don't have ghettos, either. There are drug addicts and whatnot just like anywhere else, but even most of them seem to be able to sustain a decent living.

Anyway, my problem isn't with the poor folk. My issue is when I go to Olive Garden and children are shrieking, throwing food all over the place, and their parents sit there with television commercial grins on their faces, either ignoring the problem entirely or saying, "THAT'S OKAY!" These aren't the gutter children. These are the middle-class progeny. And better yet, I'll see them all again at Applebee's next weekend, behaving the exact same way.

I have bigger issues than just this. Yes, kids will be kids, and that's fine. But I can't remember at any time in my childhood when I was every doing anything so far outside of an adult's grasp that I could get away with it. I was far from an angel, but for the most part, my demonic actions never really affected anyone outside of my own household. In public, I had friggin' wings. And if I didn't, my ass got a paddle and it was a good chunk of time before I got to venture out in public again.

Meanwhile, kids are running up and down the block of my old neighborhood lighting firecrackers and throwing them at each other. They're vandalizing street signs. They're pulling flowers out of the neighbor's garden, they're pushing around the smaller kids, they're running out in the middle of traffic to watch the cars squeal their tires trying not to hit them. Oh, their parents are all home, as their shitty cars in the driveway will attest. But dammit, Survivor is on! You don't screw with Survivor!

As a female who has sworn since age nine to never, ever, ever, EVER have children, it's entirely possible that these types of scenes irritate me more than the average person, particularly one who has raised children and knows the pain and anguish of hogtying the little munchkins whenever they misbehave. Maybe they can excuse children running around grocery stores, playing tag and bouncing balls from the other side of the store all over the meat department. Perhaps they can explain to me the pressures of stopping your children from playing in construction zones while they sit and watch television. Someone better get on that, honestly, because I really don't understand it.

Maybe I was just spoiled as a kid. You know, I had parents (rephrase -- a mother, really just one parent for most of my childhood) who cared about me enough to spank me when I did things that were really bad, or at least made me stand in the corner if I hit another kid. I had a mother who taught me table manners and only took me out to eat in public places if I was on my best behavior. I had a mother who made me come inside when the streetlights came on, made me ask permission to leave the yard or lose outside privileges, or otherwise sat outside and WATCHED me when I was to young to understand those things. Yeah, looking out my car window when I drive home everyday and have to swerve to miss the rails and ramps that the skateboarding children have put up in the middle of the avenue, all I can think to myself is that I sure was spoiled rotten.

I'm finding fewer examples of good parenting every day and am growing increasingly unable to stifle my mutterings of "BEAT YOUR CHILDREN" every time I encounter a child screaming bloody murder in the middle of Wal-Mart. Yet everyone keeps popping the damned things out. From ages 12 to 42, more girls/women are filling the world with these demon spawn that grow up without discipline. Were they around when I was a kid? Oh, hell yes. Was it in my face every single day that I walked outside my door back then? If the answer was yes, you think I'd be used to it by now.

Dammit already. Breeders of the world, I cry to you know: if you can't care about anyone other than yourself, stick a cork in it. Stop subjecting your hellraising crotchdroppings on poor innocent folks like myself. Darwin thanks you in advance.

-- gloomchen

03.14.04

This week, I've decided to be somewhat on a newsworthy topic. It's been covered (in various forms) in other columns around 411 in the last week, but I feel the need to expound.

Puritanism. Apparently, it's what's for dinner.

I've always lived in Iowa. As for what coastal types may think about the midwest, please, separate us in your mind from the south. We love our raunchy morning radio shows. I never heard a peep from anyone about their "outrage" over Janet's titty. And in fact, the other night while consuming far too much beer, I got into a conversation with several parents who found it completely outrageous that other parents were planning to sue drivers who happened to be watching porn on their SUV televisions, thereby exposing their stuck-in-traffic children to the perils of the human anatomy. "I could understand if they had a big screen hanging in their back window and the bass blaring moans out of the windows, but how corrupted is a child going to get from a couple of seconds?" were the words I specifically heard.

Growing up, I was raised in neither a filthy nor a puritanical environment. I loved Prince when I was a wee one, so my mom decided I could watch Purple Rain on Showtime. Apparently she neglected to notice that it was rated R and she later regretted her decision, but I definitely don't remember being scarred by seeing Apollonia's boobs. In fact, I covered my eyes and waited for the boobs to go away. I was raised that bodies were private, so I likely did my best to respect the cheap whore even though she wasn't respecting herself.

Even that young -- I was probably six or seven years old at the time -- I'd already been exposed to things that so many parents are now shrieking about. Guess what, people? I have boobs. Most girls do have boobs, unless they've been either afflicted with cancer or cheated genetically. We've all got things either dangling or stuffed up between our legs, too. Although I remember a time in my life when I didn't quite understand the differences (I'm told that at age 3, on a potty break, seeing my dad bent over in the shower: I exclaimed, "Mom, daddy pooped his pants!"), it didn't take a world of explanation or embarrassment to set me straight.

Perhaps some folks would rather their children remain innocent to these types of things for as long as possible. But I know that I was a curious child, and that I was definitely not the only curious child ever bred. When I was in first grade and some girl in school said it took both a mommy and a daddy to make a baby, I thought she was crazy. I told my parents about the crazy girl in school, the one who thinks you need a daddy to make a baby, when I knew it was the MOMMY who makes the babies. By the next day, I learned that babies do not come out of belly buttons and that, oh boy, you need a daddy to put one in there in the first place. I remember being irritated that I looked like an ass the day before because I called the girl crazy.

I remember that smidgen of anger and look at these kids raised today without any knowledge of their bodies, the bodies of others, sex, relationships, the world in general. I could just imagine being a 12 year old girl and being taught nothing consequential other than that premarital sex is a sin. Then, along comes a cute boy, and he puts his hand in nice places that feel really good, and before you know it, you realize that there's a whole world that you were never told about and it feels damn good. Suddenly, the world is one big sexual candy store, even though you're not told about how it can rot your teeth. Next thing you know, you're 13 with herpes and popping out twins, all because Ma and Pa thought you'd be better off knowing nothing.

Think I'm going overboard? Look at the D.A.R.E. program in schools. I remember learning that if you smoke pot, your brain turns into mush and you become a jobless loser. Then I remember trying pot and waking up fine the next morning without addiction or side effect. Okay, I think to myself, if this is all pot does, how many OTHER things are they lying about in drug education? Thankfully, I never went much further than trying this and that back in my younger years, but I have an entire horde of friends with whom I spent that era who became D.A.R.E.'s greatest nightmare. Funny thing is, a couple of them were more straightedge than straightedge when I first started hanging out with them. Then they learned they'd been lied to.

So how far do we need to go to curtail the "corruption" of our society? Is making Janet Jackson cough up a bunch of money going to change the way men lust after women? Will Americans be magically wholesome by fining folks watching porno in their Escalades? Or is it easier just to make these random hedons pay a nominal sum for our own piece of mind rather than educate?

I was taught to protect myself and to respect others. I covered my eyes.

Yeah.

--gloomchen