I have not posted in a week, so I will spam this entry with a few random thoughts I had jotted down over the past few days.
I was driving the other day and noticed a vinyl window sticker. Now I know that many people are pee’d off at the “Calvin pissing on [insert logo here]” stickers on everyone’s windows. Calvin pissing on Ford, Chevy, Jesus, mean people that suck, and all that. So the sticker I saw the other day were some words below a silhouette picture. The picture was the same shape as the standard black on yellow signs you see a south of here, near the Mexican border. Basically, mother, father, and child running–presumably across the street or border or whatever. It is usually accompanied with something like “watch for migrants.” Well, this vinyl silhouette had beneath it “Got papers?” That was even worse than the Calvin stickers.
This leads me to another sticker I saw the other day. It was also white vinyl and was also on a big-ass truck. This one, though was an American flag. The red stripes and blue field were printed upon the vinyl–but were cheaply printed, presumably in September. The present state of that sticker only vaguely resembled our nation’s emblem. It was more of a white rectangle with some vague pink horizontal bars and a washed out blue corner. If you are a patriotic enough to display a flag on your vehicle, you should be patriotic enough to know when it is time to retire that flag.
Last night, I threw away a little carton of milk. I was planning on picking it up, dumping it down the sink, and flushing it down with a bunch of water–until I realized the waxed cardboard was kind of disfigured, had a bloaty texture, and was turning a dark color. I peeled it from the shelf and realized it had congealed into a solid brick of elemental dairy matter. As I threw it in the garbage (outside, of course), I noticed the date–you are supposed to throw milk out after a year, right?
Is there a connection between the bag sort of thing you can hold wine in when you are a pioneer (a wine skin) and the skin that forms on red wine when you leave it in a glass for a night or two? They are both called “wine skin” and they are both pretty durable. Coincidence? I THINK NOT!
Who else thinks the Man In The Moon always looks sad and in pain? It is not like I am projecting my inner feelings onto the face up there in the sky–I am in a happy and jovial mood. I think that every single person I have asked about this has agreed with me–now I do not know if that says something about the moon and the human condition, or if it just says something about the people I associate with… Anyway, what do you think of the man in the moon?
The great cult movies always have narrators. No modern movies feature narration. What gives? More contemporary movies need to feature narration, dammit! Mid-sixties sexism and sexploitation would be good, too. Oh wait, no. Did I just say that? At any rate, between the qwality of the writing and the wacked-out views that were apparently quite normal at the time, but really off the wall nowadays, we have all the attributes of a good cult classic:
“Narrator: Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to violence–the word and the act. While violence disguises itself in a plethora of disguises, it’s favorite mantle still remains sex. Violence devours all that it touches, its veracious appetite never fulfilled. Yet, violence does not only destroy. It creates and it molds, as well. Let’s examine closely, then, this dangerous creation, this new breed, encased and contained within the supple skin of woman. The softness is there, the unmistakable smell female, the surface shiny and silken, the body yielding yet wanton–but a word of caution; handle with care and don’t drop your guard. This rapacious new breed prowls both alone and in packs, operating at any level, at any time, anywhere and with anybody. Who are they? One might be your secretary, your doctor’s receptionist, or a dancer at a go-go club!”
“They let ’em vote, smoke, and drive–even put ’em in pants! So what do ya’ get? A Democrat for president. A lot of smoke up your chimney, Russian Roulette on the highway. You can’t even tell brother from sister–unless you meet ’em head on.”
“You trying to say something?” “I never try anything, I just do it. Like, I don’t beat clocks, I beat people. Wanna try me?”
“I dunno what your point is, but–” “–the point is of no return, and you’ve reached it!”
So my secretary is violence personified? Evil, yeah…he does look exactly like Finch from American Pie. But violence? I am not so sure…