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Monday, 13 March
Return Of The Bing

I have a confession: for the past year and a half or so, I've been in kind of a funk. And despite what you might think, it hasn't been a Bootsy Collins kind of funk. (Though I did play bass on a Dee-Lite comeback track--which went NOWHERE--further leading to more bad funkiness.) No, there's been something . . . odd and distracting and absent from my life, and it has led me into a grayish kind of everyday existence.

It's hard to pin down, but at the same time, it is pervasive. For instance, I just now happened to see a TV spot for the upcoming feature film with Larry the Cable Guy, and . . . it seems perverse to even write it out . . . it did not make me happy. Which is weird, since the whole point of advertising is to make me happy and anticipatory and, ideally, excited. But Larry the Cable Guy left me dispirited and angry. What the hell is wrong with me? The man is on Comedy Central! He's not on Wretched Pull-Your-Brains-Out-Your-Ears-Angry Central! Something is obviously off with me.

It's been this way for a while. I have failed to find even a glimmer of entertainment in many of the past year and a half's movie offerings. It surely could not be Hollywood's fault: they know what they're doing. For nearly a hundred years now, they've been making movies! So I assume it is some deficiency of my own that rendered me incapable of enjoying such films as The Chronicles of Riddick or The Fantastic Four. Even a popcorn thriller like The Fog, which we rented this weekend, left me wanting. Really, I thought, what kind of asshole am I that I cannot be moved by the plight of disenfranchised seafaring leper zombie ghosts? NO KIND OF MAN AT ALL. Even highbrowerier films like I Heart Huckabees have failed to give me any pleasure in recent times. Even a bummed-out Philistine like myself should be able to appreciate an existential comedy featuring the hilariously embarrassing mugging of Dustin Hoffman and Lily Tomlin. Alas, I could not, and deemed the movie unwatchable after a mere twenty minutes. Clearly, again, more evidence that something was wrong with me.

It wasn't just movies. I tried to endure such unreadable horrors such as the widely sneered-at and exasperatingly smug Gilligan's Wake, for instance, but it was impossible. It remains embedded in my sheet rock. Surely this tepidly and falsely high-minded bit of sophistry would crack my glaciered heart? No. And even the most universally fellated books brought no comfort. Curtis Sittenfeld's incomprehensibly lauded and stunningly pointless Prep failed to move me to anything other than a stabbing kind of nausea; and Jonathan Safran Foer's unreadably precious Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close provoked feelings in me best described as Exuberantly Horrified and Incredulously Get This Fucking Book Away From Me.

Even music brought me no shelter. It wasn't even the music I've been bummed out about. It's the band names. Test Icicles? I hate it. Happily, they broke up. Wolf Parade? I think this is a new evil supergroup in the DC universe. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah? Eat My Dick Say Mmmph.

Clearly, I haven't been enjoying myself. It's taken so long to figure out what's gone wrong. What's missing.

Food, even! The other night, the wife prepared a lovely dinner of sausages and crap. I pushed aside the crap--I've just never liked it.

"What's with the sausages? It tastes like ashes. What did you put on these?"

"Rosemary," she replied. "Dip it in some mustard."

"It still tastes like ashes," I said.

"Maybe you shouldn't smoke while you eat," she said wearily.

"Maybe you shouldn't use rosemary!" I screamed as I lit another cigarette.

So it's been a pretty dreary fifteen months or so. I was really getting pretty low; at any number of times, I considered taking my own life--which of course I did not. I thought better of it, and took some other peoples' lives, which my attorneys have advised me not to get into too much, but I will say this: Gina in admin could not copy for shit, okay? I mean . . . look, Tom isn't going to miss her much is all I'm saying, unless he can break through solid concrete.

Man, I didn't mean for this to turn into such a downer. The fact is, I'm feeling so much better. Better than I have in ages. You see, on Sunday night, The Sopranos returned. After such a long absence. And I feel lighter. Happier. More content. I'm not having problems with my burning rectum any more.

It's been so long since I've felt such serenity. Such . . . calm. And if any of you fuckers try and interfere . . . I swear to God I'll gut you like a dead elk.


Note: Comments are closed on old entries.


Eat My Dick Say Mmmph.

Now see, that's the kind of thing that gets me in trouble at work. With the, you know, explosive laughter and shit.

Comment number: 006727   Posted by: liz on March 14, 2006 07:32 AM from IP:

It's so soothing when that burning rectum subsides. Ahhh...

Comment number: 006731   Posted by: Trance on March 16, 2006 12:09 PM from IP:

i know where you're coming from. my misanthropic tendancies have gotten a death grip on me at the moment and i cant figure out why. and i cant figure out if i want it to go away or not.

Comment number: 006733   Posted by: teena405 on March 16, 2006 02:30 PM from IP:

i know where you're coming from. my misanthropic tendancies have gotten a death grip on me at the moment and i cant figure out why. and i cant figure out if i want it to go away or not.

Comment number: 006734   Posted by: teena405 on March 16, 2006 02:31 PM from IP:

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