A-musings

History Lessons

What goes around, comes around, and goes back around.

” The manipulation by Hitler is textbook as he badgers and bullies the Diplomats into submission and then turns on the charm to get what he wants. Appeasement had blinded the diplomat’s governments to the larger picture. They gave away small chunks of concessions,and later even nations, in an attempt to avoid war.

By the time these governments had realized that war was inevitable it was too late. The occupation of France after the outbreak of war has its roots in the policy of appeasement. France was so afraid of war it fell with little resistance.

Appeasement will always be a failed policy. Hitler used this time of appeasement to re arm. He used this time to rebuild the German infrastructure. He used this time to eliminate enemies of the Third Reich. He used this time to forge alliances and beat into submission those governments that he intended to destroy.”

If this now, then what later? All Chamberlain accomplished, was to show the world how easily appeased he was. Though a sense of mercy is to be admired, a sense of proportionality is too. We tend to only consider things extreme when it’s our own welfare in mind, forgetting how perfectly willing we were to jump to conclusions about other people, kicking one person off the island for not pulling the weeds, while keeping the other on who planned to take over. And you, the conniving gossip, should know that if you think I’m a bitch, wait until you meet Karma.

Spare us the Jesus comparisons

I had a conversation with an old friend about over the top and delusional people. I’m not sure what qualifies a person as being either, but I will say that delusion, like all things, exists on a spectrum. I heard this quote about how half of the people in mental wards were there because they were truly crazy, and the other half were there because they needed to feel important.With that in mind, I’d say that criteria should be established for both categories of people. The former probably own lots of 8 by 12’s of Joan Crawford and make homemade altars to John Wilkes Booth in their spare time. The latter take bong rips and start calling people serfs. Different eggs, same cuckoo nest. But to be fair what seems like delusion, is often really not delusion at all, but poor attempts to seek some affirmation from the world for what we already knew, but are too afraid to admit. That if we had the chance to live life our way, we would probably hold off on picking out the cubicle decorations and give our dreams a chance. As would everyone else. So then we start looking for signs to validate our desire to live life differently, not realizing we’ve rendered ourselves completely passive in the process.

Speaking of seeing signs, I remember there being a day on which I saw my first rainbow in France, and couldn’t help but wondering if it was a sign that I should open my Chicken Noodle Soup Chinese restauraunt. But then I looked around, and saw all the asians from my French class and realized they probably had the same idea. That groupthink shit is dangerous.For the record, when they aren’t stealing other peoples, asian people generally have good ideas. Except for Maikiko from my French class, who was the default leader of the Asians, but never seemed to realize that her sequined sweaters could double as racoon traps.

And still when does sign seeking cease to remain a search for guidance and start verging on narcisstic neuroticism? I told myself that if I ever looked for a ‘sign’ in the caloric content of my cereal, it had to end. It never even got remotely that bad. And even if it did, and somehow I was able to glean some sort of sign that it would all be okay through a late night conversation with my bowl of Fruity Loops, it would essentially be begging the question. Anyway, I still wonder a lot about the future, but am trying to at least make plans. I wonder about a lot of shit. Like, will I ever have anything over a 6 month lease? I try to keep myself as free as possible, should I ever decide to act on instinct and just live the way I want for the next few years.Which, to be fair would be a little left field, and a whole lot on the wild side. And I mean that seriously. My favorite meals now include ramen & hot sauce, and my idea of responsibility is limited to the occassional watering of house plants. Please, no poinsettas for Christmas. Gotta go, gotta go (Dear god, I hope).

On some Mordor shit.

Here’s a recent photo of one of my favorite crackhoes at a recent event.

I don’t even know what the event was but by the looks of it, they were probably passing out foodstamps. Is it the 15th yet? Anyway doesn’t this bitch look like a cracked out Arwen Undomiel? You know, Arwen Evenstar, the elf from Lord of the Rings with the crushed velvet cloak and the Enyaesque intro music? Oh shit yeah that was all of them. Anyway here’s a photo for comparisons sake.

I can’t be the only one who sees the similarity, but if you’re having trouble just picture Lindsay with Arwen’s Avon necklace and less donut powder on her face. And yes, I’ll profess to the fact that I am not a fashion plate but I’m also not a celebrity either. Guess I’m not the only one who still needs their mom to choose their clothes in the morning. Anyway, thank you Lindsay. I loved you in Mean Girls but even more so now that you’re a bit feral.

We're not sluts, we're people persons

So in an attempt to follow the advice of my peers in how to increase my success in the world of overpriced drinks and one night stands, I did in fact go to a bar last night hell bent on achieving the allmighty and elusive, three night stand. That’s right, trois. Despite my prior success using the bend and snap technique, last night I decided to try the western woman’s yodeler technique, in which after a few shots, I stood up for love, in the middle of the bar, and yodeled sexual obscenities until my diaphragm near about collapsed. Considering the fact that my french is terrible when drunk, I’m not sure how effective the yodeling was. However, I did achieve the desired results of enchanting my audience as they could not, try as they might, take their eyes off me. Such is the nature of rapture. Boldened by the steadiness of their gaze, I continued to yodel until gripped by a sharp pain in my lower abdomen and the metallic, electric pulse of the security guard’s taser. After a few brief moments in the endless void of the unconscious I awoke, to the steady falsetto of a scanners beep and the dull hum of shuffling feet. Someone was guiding me towards the magnetic pull of a distant light. Sunlight… As I started to regain my sense of balance, I began to recollect the previous night’s events which all came back in a flooding torrent of consciousness; the yodeling, the free shots, the enchanted audience. In a cry of dismay, I cursed the heavens that not only could I no longer stand upright, my night’s goal of pulling off the three night stand remained unattained. Today, in an effort to retrace my steps and recollect my thoughts, I went to grab a kebab only to realize, that in true wild western fashion my face had been plastered all over the outside of the saloon, with a warning to cherchez la femme. I can’t step foot in Marche Plus.

FML!

I show you my dick!

-The legendary charm of French men when inebriated.

Dropping Napalm Bombs

For all you miscreants seeking to pepper your conversation with more pejorative terms for both people and their byproducts, I present you with three new terms:

Fortune Cookie:

A term used to describe a sexually attractive woman of Asian descent (redundant, I know). Like all women of worth and moral fortitude, fortune cookies can be often found near massage parlors, laundrymats, and any other institution of commerce with lax health standards and epileptic lighting. Nothing like finishing off a hearty serving of General Tso’s with the sweet, airy goodness of a fortune cookie the likes of Reon Kadena.

She foretells fun times in your future.

Next up:

Napalm Bomb:

The inevitable release that comes after consuming far too many Chimichangas, the Napalm Bomb, with all the sweet aroma of sulfur in summertime, has been known to obliterate septic systems, terminate leases, and further deplete the ozone layer. Mortal enemy; Alka Seltzer. Picture; Seek Help.

Last but not least:

Border Patrol

Ever had a girlfriend who could spot the inconsistencies in your story faster than you could? Enough to make you want to make a character chart for the next time you even considered cheating? We’ll me either, but in the hood we reward constant vigilance with the nickname border patrol; people you can’t get shit past. If growing up, you always picked the right item in the “which one of these things doesn’t belong here” games, then you might just be an agent. En guarde!

He smelt a rat.

The Rumors are True

French women really do live up to their reputations as being chic, impeccably groomed beacons of style. For someone used to walking around campus barefoot and showing up to class in my pajamas, it really makes me want to buy a lint roller and make sure my jeans aren’t double cuffed. It almost makes me want to, dare I say it, retire my vans and make an effort to look like a girl. Haha, not yet. Like an elderly couple who still try and look good for each other there is something to be admired about people who respect each other enough to give them their best. Still I sometimes wonder if it’s anything like the rat race in America that everyone secretly loathes but feels obligated to play along with. Why are we obligated to meet the standards of a society we didn’t set ourselves? Do our parents know that from the moment they sign our birth certificates they entrap us in a social contract that may or may not be in our best interests. Is it possible for the collective to truly know what is right for the individual? We all have our own paths in life and all it takes to question the effectiveness of society in motivating people to achieve their potential is a quick look at a population of people disconnected from each other, gorged on reality television, and deeply unhappy.  There’s a Modest Mouse lyric that goes : “you’re either coming or you’ve just left but you’re always on the way”.When I first got here, the most obvious sign that I was American was how fast I walked. New Yorker style, I’ve got somewhere to go and want to do so quickly. Looking back at my experiences in life, I keep wondering why they weren’t as fulfilling as I’d like them to be. Now it’s become obvious that it’s the “means to an end” attitude that keeps me feeling trapped. This idea of “well I wasn’t happy there, so I’ll go here and hope I’ll be happier” only to realize you’re doing the same thing, but in a different place, wondering why you’re getting the same results. Change is the only option for me right now, and perhaps the first step would be to take a cue from the French and walk a little slower, take the time to enjoy life because just because someone is moving quickly, doesn’t mean they know where they’re going.

Blog Watch

So in the spirit of reciprocity I’m spotlighting a blog that passes my funny filters.
Not only did he risk the health of his future children in a quest for the elusive honey butter chicken biscuit,  he also blogs about crazy college adventures spent trying to bury a blowup doll named Kathleen.

Ha, read it for yourself here: http://muden-word.blogspot.com/2009/07/striper-skank-and-kathleen.html

Word!

Dear Summer.

This summer I:

1. Applied as a door to door knife salesman.

2. Called McDonalds to ask in my syrupiest voice if they had, you know, “looked at a nigga’s application yet”.

3. Attempted to conquer my fear of committment by rekindling things with an ex only to find out that said ex had a long standing crush on my brother. Fail.

4. Met a football player/accounting major from a prestigious university whom I attempted, in a moment of passive-agressive inadequacy, to convince that he should explore his “artsy side” and maybe explore more “well-rounded” activities like puppetry and smoking pot. He ended up wanting to hang out more than I did.

5. Attempted (noticing a pattern here?) to make a fresh start with an old friend from high school only to have her give thinly veiled-suggestions that I pluck my eyebrows and not carry my overnight clothes in a gym bag. After trying to get me drunk she then tried to get me to admit that I was either A) a sexually abused lesbian B) a practicioner of voodoo

Her: “Does anything remind you of a certain memory, like maybe a smell or a certain color?

Me: Wait, what? No! What the fuck are you talking about?

Her: Nothing! just asking. ::Smiles::

Some moments of silence of later.

Her: What do you think about the supernatural?

6. If that wasn’t crazy enough, she was texting the answers and receiving the questions from my brother who swiped her phone number from my contact list. On orders from my dad. Black sheep is an understatement.

7. Realized that my family is divided into ‘yellowbones’ and ‘dark butts’. Apparently, forgetting to jump for joy when asked to clean the bathroom makes one a ‘house nigger’. Ironic, much?

8. Received a phone call that my brother had ran into a crackhead who decided to throw herself in front of the truck in the hopes of trying to get paid. In full. 2 months laters a State Farm agent showed up saying she had somehow filed a claim against my brother. Which brings me back to my question: How can crackheads file claims?

9. Entertained myself with grandiose but childish dreams of somehow escaping the pregnancy then death trap that seems to have ensnared the rest of my hometown’s youth. The best one was probably the one where I fake my own death Makaveli style only to emerge years later as a dope ass mc/boss dj. I decided that if that one fell through then digging a hole to China would suffice.

10. Came to the conclusion that

1.  Truth really is stranger than fiction.
2. There a few things so terrible in life that we cannot find humor in them.