Tempus Fugit

Contrary to what you believe, this blog has readers. One in Champaign, one in St. Louis, and (according to Google Analytics) one in Omaha. So you, Omaha reader, just know: you are not alone! (Also: I'm stalking you! This is the chief purpose fulfilled by modern technology.)

You readers demand high quality content, which (of course) I always deliver. The problem, though, is the eternity between deliveries. Sixteen days is way too long to make my bros wait, but alas, 200-page cross-cultural journalism projects intervene sometimes.

This place serves no purpose. None of its content matters. It makes no immediate impact. Yet in this void of uselessness a purpose does appear. 

The more I read, the more I realize I can't write worth jack shit. Though writers may appear fully formed upon their emergence into public consciousness, they weren't born that way. They first have to read and write and read and write and maybe type out every word of The Great Gatsby and probably do some actual work for actual money on the side and come home every night and read and write some more. 

I try to remember this whenever I promise to blog more frequently but always end up forgetting. Doing that econ homework or researching for that project matters much more in the now than any silly post here. But you only learn how to write more good through a helluva lotta practice. That time you spend staying useless is what makes you the most useful writer you can be. And if you wanna make a hobby and, God forbid, a career out of filling blank computer screens with words, you sure as fuck better practice.

I don't. I need to. I will.

See y'all sooner than two weeks from now. (Maybe).

Fear and Loathing in Chambana: May the Odds Be Ever In Your Favor

Last weekend, yours truly fearlessly drove a 1998 Mercury Sable without a working gas gauge thousands of miles from Highland to The Eighth Wonder of the World, the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign (UIUC).

Needless to say, while there we killed people, burned shit, and fucked school.

There were a lot of things I wanted to do that I didn't. I wanted to pass a level 11 song on Dance Dance Revolution. I wanted to protest the introductory press conference of new basketball coach John Groce (more on him at a later date). I wanted to ask every Asian I passed "Hu's your professor?" because apparently that question can get quite complicated. I wanted to drink some wine and snort copious amounts of cocaine.

Sadly, none of these happened. I have not played DDR in years and thus miserably failed at even the easiest songs. My mother forced me to stay in Highland to support my badass little bro at his first track meet, so I could not infiltrate the press corps at Groce's introduction. I was too busy raffing at all the Asians studying on the weekend to ask them such politically incorrect questions. And as for the imbibing, we did that vicariously through The Boys and Girls Guide to Getting Down, my favorite independent film of 2006.

But the best part of this trip was obviously our time spent fapping to the love story of breadmaker Peeta Mellark and archeress Katniss Everdeen during The Hunger Games*. I would have preferred Kristen Stewart appeared somewhere in the movie (nothing sexier than a monotone voice and face made of stone), but drunk Woody Harrelson and creepy Lenny Kravitz more than made up for the story, you know, not being  nearly as enthralling and beautiful as Twilight.

UIUC is the weirdest place you could ever hope to be. You have about 20,000 forever-arone Asians**, another 20,000 whitebread fratstars and sorostitutes, and all ten people from Highland somewhere in between. That bizarre mix and the massssssssive campus (though the place has a real, functional bus system, something we at Mizzou are too good for) turned me off from going there, I do not mean to dismiss UIUC. 

No - the world needs UIUC. We need its thousands of engineering graduates to repair our nation's crumbling buildings during President McCubbins' Second New Deal. We need its weekend library dwellers to make us feel better about our own pathetic lives. We need its shitty TV channel to entertain us at 3 AM. We need the denizens of its Rec Room to film the next hit weight loss infomercial. We need its athletic programs to make the rest of the B1G look good, and we need the B1G to make the SEC look like the greatest collection of schools ever assembled in the history of mankind***. We need its women to wear yoga pants 24/7/365 and to remove them while in the close company of one Ricky Newcomb.

We need it to keep living up to that status - The Eighth Wonder of the World.

*Later, we found a group of Beanie Babies have already shot a far superior remake.

**Of course, many whites fit the forever-arone description, and a few Asians are in the Greek system. We just seek to reinforce racial stereotypes and make easy generalizations through our in-text depiction. This is all we're good at. Don't take it away from us.

***Which, of course, is totally true. #RollTide #WarEagle #WooPigSooey #GoStephenGarcia #GatorFansWearJortz

Life, The Living of

You always want to go home.

When home is Highland, Illinois, you just make sure not to stay too long.

I guess there are things to do. There are friends to see, the few I have still in the area. There are endless video games to play. There is Sports Center, and the repeat of Sports Center, and the repeat of the repeat. There are DVR-ed episodes of Dance Moms. There are blog posts to type out at 3 AM while watching P90 X infomercials. 

There is a Wal Mart. It is a SUPER Wal Mart. If you've lived here long enough, you've gone there needing to buy nothing. If you're under the age of 18, you've hung out there, because hell, there's nowhere else. You may have even practiced an interpretive dance to Total Eclipse of the Heart in the motor oil aisle. It's something to do.

So because there isn't much to be done, you consume yourself with the things that happen. They rarely matter, as you will see.

Neighbor's car has a new bumper sticker. Reads "my son fights for your honor student's freedom." Good they make that sticker, because the son in question sure as hell never made honor roll.

Same neighbor was out mowing the lawn today, shirtless per usual. He's about 5'10" and pushing three bills. And that large gut is covered in hair. Gray, curly, sweaty hair. There are kids in the neighborhood. Guess he doesn't realize. 

Found out my dad listens to conservative talk radio. Lost a little respect. Maybe a lot. He's looking forward to the repeal of Obamacare. I think he's a little racist, but he did vote for Alan Keyes over Barack Obama, and Keyes is black. Keyes is also certifiably insane, but never mind.

Dad works in the healthcare industry. They're doing pretty well, so why change it? He does bring home the bacon. Guess you can't blame him.

Driving around town, saw a lot of campaign signs. It is an election year. Every single one supported a Republican candidate. The county still occasionally elects Democrats, but that's only because of the liberal scum in Edwardsville.

Our Madison County treasurer is one of those Republicans. Apparently he's a sharp dude. Has a bachelors from Illinois and an MBA from Wharton. He also lost his kid while handing out flyers at the county fair. Shocking, considering the fluorescent orange color of the silly campaign polo he and his father wore. Hardly surprising when you consider the extent of his father's dipshittedness.

You feel so sorry for some of the people here. There are the ones who have lived here forever and will continue to live here forever. This place does that to people. It is Norman Rockwell's America, in demography if not in spirit. Other towns have tattoo parlors and black people. It's best to avoid them and stay here.

Then there are the outsiders. The racially diverse. The queers. The actors. The mathletes. The artists. The fake photographers. 

Some fake it well. Some, like this writer, get by. The writer is white and tall and masculine and succeeded in school and played a varsity sport. He has nothing offensive he has to say out loud. Those that don't look the part, that are different in more significant ways beyond some pithy mindset, aren't so lucky.

Oh well. At least there's Columbia to go back to. More things there, though fewer friends to do anything with. You feel awful when you're alone on a campus of 30,000 students supposedly so similar to yourself. Then you realize how many others feel that same way, even those that have the most friends and the best grades and the craziest weekends, and you wonder how to reach out to them, but communicating is really fucking hard so nothing changes.

It all looks so depressing on the page, but it isn't really. Though this place is an insular bubble, there's something to be said for the comfort that provides. Though you can't really relate to most people, at least they all look good and similar and won't steal anything from you, save your soul maybe. Though things could be better, they will never change, and humans, especially older ones, love knowing what to expect. 

The trick is to expect something more than what Highland gives.

It's a good thing I won't be here much longer.

The House That Heaven Built

A new Japandroids album you say? Ohhhhhhhh boy. Yes. Shit yes. Fuck yeah. If the rest is anything like this little teaser, I'll listen to nothing else this summer.

One spot on HLA's Top 12 Songs of 2012 has been taken, plus there's (hopefully) a new MGMT album out later this year. Gonna have to raise your game to get yer ass on this list, rest of the music industry.

Fear and Loathing in CoMo: Damn Africa, That's So Fetch!

Last weekend, the lovely lady known on the internets as "aRoseMcCubbins" visited yours truly in scenic Columbia, MO. We were the lamest people in town that Saturday; I mean, it was her spring break, St. Patrick's Day, and we only had enough alcohol to get Amanda's tiny little self "slightly tipsy" during a Mean Girls drinking game. (Yes . . . I celebrated my Irish heritage like a real man. DON'T HATE. TINA FEY IS A COMIC GENIUS AND PRE-CRACK LINDSAY LOHAN WAS OK I GUESS.)

BUDDHA BROS!
(and my awkward smile)

In spite of this, it was a lovely time. Yes, much of it was spent in an emergency room. Yes, we watched lots of Bridal Wars and Rob Dyrdek's Ridiculousness. Yes, the only souvenirs were fat Buddhas and finger puppets of historical figures. And yes, it was fucking awesome.

Saturday night we let the party get the best of us*. Due to the jacked sleep schedule we were on, there was no sleep to be had, so we just talked and talked and talked about the shit people who think too much think about. Politics, genius and the nature of success, the impossibility of maintaining mental health in our modern age, our love lives, the words of Truman Capote and the songs of R Kelly, the principles of misogynistic feminism, the possibility that the creationists are right, the massive right-wing conspiracies behind 9/11 and the moon landing . . . basically, all the normal shit people already address in everyday conversation.

We concluded that the world is fucked. It's the truth, and it's kinda ugly, but it's not bad. Life on Earth isn't easy. You gotta deal with a never-ending stream of assholes and bitches and dumbfucks and bullshit heading your way. So what? There are still laughs to be had and tears to be cried. There are awesome people to meet and talk to and possible fuck and marry and divorce. There are MGMT albums and Rams Super Bowl victories. It's OK to get down as long as you remember all the reasons there are to get back up again.

Here's to a future full of more great weekends with great people. Hopefully there's more booze and weed to accompany the journey next time.

*I claim to be cultured, yet I just linked to a Wiz Khalifa song. LOLOLOL. /hides in shame

Grief

The Missouri Tigers are a basketball team.

They won a lot of games this year.

Not this one though.

It made me feel sad.

At least there's a cure. A cheap, glorious, esophagus-burning cure.

Habits

I get into these moods, especially when writing, where I listen to just one song on repeat until I can't stand the thought of it anymore. Don't ask why, because I don't know. Get lost in music, get lost in words. It helps. You may understand. You probably don't.

It was easy getting lost in this tonight. A Bob Dylan soundalike that writes creepy love songs. Shit that's at once beautiful and dark and eery and romantic and ridiculously good. Got damn.

Only way The Tallest Man On Earth could be more impressive is if he were actually the tallest man on earth. 

Hello There

IT'S BEEN WAY TOO LONG, loyal readers, so here's some happy thoughts for your day.

• The Rams- they made a trade over the weekend! It was a great fucking trade! Rams GM Les Snead basically buttfucked the talentless corpse that is the Redskins roster before dousing it in gasoline and accidentally lighting a match nearby. Two additional first rounders and one additional second rounder just to move up four spots. Just to put the mind-boggling RGIII in Mike Shanahan's bland offense. Just to offset all the points opponents put up on Jim Haslett's sieve of a defense. Yeah, I think I'd take that deal- and the Rams' front office did brilliant work suckering the 'Skins into this haul. Maybe there's hope in St. Louis after all.
• Sleigh Bells- they're coming to the District of Chillumbia! The best metal/cheerleader duo of all time! My mom was like, you hate Christmas music, why are you going to see this? And why is this show in April? (And then I told her to listen to this, which horrified her, but finally made her understand.) It may be hard, but I will convince some sorry and hopeless hipster to go see this shit with me. Can't wait.
• The University of Illinois- as we predicted, they need a new basketball coach! Will it be Brad Stevens? Will it be Shaka Smart? Will it be the electric tandem of Todd Strong and Kalen Wagoner? We hope for any of the above, but believe in the end the man will be Wichita State coach Gregg Marshall. It's too bad, in my opinion, because there's nothing special about the guy. He has the sort of good-but-not-too-good-to-demand-an-actual-salary resume favored by the cash-strapped Illinois athletic department, in addition to the gruff-but-largely-inoffensive persona of most Big Ten coaches. Marshall is a safe choice; I don't think he's the best choice. (He also spells Gregg with two G's at the end, and those guys are usually assholes.)
• Saint Louis University- they made the NCAA Tournament! I would tell some "Rick Majerus is so fat..." jokes, but SLU will get drilled by Memphis anyway, so I will refrain from piling on. Maybe I will finish off this post with some Your Mom jokes for some LOLZ instead.
• In the meantime, I have other things I really should be doing. NEWS! CROSS-CULTURAL JOURNALISM! GLAMOROUS WORK! I shall return soon, and hopefully with more frequency.

UNTIL THEN, peace, love, and basketball, motherfuckers.

Should You ♥ You?

"The importance of Liking Yourself is a notion that fell heavily out of favor during the coptic, anti-ego frenzy of the Acid Era- but nobody guessed, back then, that the experiment might churn up this kind of hangover: a whole subculture of frightened illiterates with no faith in anything."

--Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72

We're a long way from the Acid Era, but that hangover hurts worse than ever. Except today the frightened illiterates aren't a subculture- they are the culture. They are all of us.

Not that Liking Yourself is bad or that self-loathing is somehow noble. Of course not. Of course not. But now it seems like everyone doesn't just suspect himself of the cardinal virtues; we're also sure that nobody else possesses them. The Self must always be Right and Righteous. The man that disagrees is a European socialist intent on destroying the meager scraps left of the American Dream. The haters just can't handle your phenomenal swag.

But this is total and utter horseshit. Sometimes we are Wrong about things. And sometimes we are also unhappy or unenthused or (gasp) alone. That's fine. If there's anything wrong with being Wrong or Sad or Alone, then a) there's something wrong with being Human; and b) there's something wrong with Truth. That's terrifying.

(And then there's the more complicated issue of wanting Other People to Like Us so we can confirm that we are worthy of being Liked by Ourselves. It's the goal of every advertiser pimping consumerism as the Way to Happiness, of every passive-aggressive bitch posting man-hating Facebook statuses in search of self-affirming comments, of every no-good two-bit snake-oil salesman that wants your son to play basketball at the University of Kentucky. It's very complicated, very paranoid, very Nixonian- and damn dangerous. Paradoxically, it also seems to make ourselves less likely to Like Ourselves.)

The takeaway- it's OK to be wrong. Being pissed-off, not knowing what to do or where to go or whether to laugh or cry or both, is totally natural. Liking Yourself is natural too. What isn't OK is cheating yourself. Don't dismiss other people and points of view just because they're different. Don't think your shit smells that much rosier than the other humans you share 99% of your genome with. Take others and their strengths and faults and quirks as they are and find ways to like them, and then do the same with yourself.

Have faith, not fear. And most of all, be real.

(I don't even fully get what I'm saying, so now I will shamelessly ask for y'all to comment and argue with me below. This would affirm that this post was Worth Something, and by extension that I, the writer of this post, am Worth Something, so that in turn I may Like Myself. Plus, I'm always up for a good circlejerk!)

Let Us Now Praise Mormon Men

You have to admire Mitt Romney. That a man with absolutely no ability to connect with fellow human beings can succeed in modern American politics gives all of us socially awkward individuals hope. Of course, most of us don't have Super PACs to shell out millions of dollars of ads to convince people we're not really that bad or (more frequently) that at least we're better than Newt Gingrich. Most of us reading this blog are also shooting to win friends and influence people from a decidedly more sophisticated crowd than Glenn Beck's 9/12 marchers. Nonetheless, in his own uniquely perverse way, the man gives us hope through succeeding in his hopelessness.

Nobody thinks saying the shit Mitt says is a good idea. There aren't many words, besides total douchebag, to describe a man that ingratiates himself to the good people of Michigan by discussing his wife's car-buying habits (she drives Cadillacs, plural) and praising the trees there because "they're the right height." You gotta question the taste, as well as the potentially racist motives, of a man that starts quoting Baha Men before taking a picture with a group of black people. Do you really want a leader who claims, without provocation, that ExxonMobil is a person? That he isn't concerned about the very poor? That he's against his wife wearing hot pants, for Brigham Young's sake?

(And that's just the tip of the iceberg. The sin that really disqualifies him from the presidency is his love of the Twilight series.)

Basically, Mitt Romney is fake as fuck. We can ponder this certainty with further questions- is he actually inauthentically authentic? Authentically inauthentic? Maybe even inauthentically inauthentic? (Is that even possible?)

The Hollywood Jews can pointlessly ponder what particular definition of authenticity fits Willard, because we at Highland Liberation Army are solutions-oriented strategic communicators. We got one goal- gettin' that funny-lookin' foreign fucker out of the White House. To do that, we need to solve Mitt's problem- and we have the perfect idea.

Mitt Romney, you see, has a plan. It's the greatest plan, not just of the current candidates but of all-time, to solve the illegal immigration issue- self-deportation. This strategy basically calls for the U.S. government to make the lives of illegal immigrants so shitty they willingly return to Mexico. It's pretty ambitious policy- after all, Mexico is a pretty shitty place, the only reason any of them came to god-forsaken America in the first place- but The Robotic Mr. Romney should be just inhuman enough to git 'er done.

Sadly, some people don't see the brilliance of this plan; after all, it's never been done before. The Romney campaign must not be afraid, though. The PR specialists here at HLA have created a brilliant strategy to kill two birds with one stone*, proving his authenticity beyond doubt while quelling objections to self-deportation amongst America-hating liberals, ultimately assuring Romney even more than just the presidency of our United States of America.

It's obvious, really.

Mitt Romney should self-deport to Kolob.

Disbelieving douchebags got you down? Finding earthly campaigning too taxing? Tired of shaking hands and kissing babies from the crowds of smelly 99-percenters? KOLOB IS THE PLACE FOR YOU! This vacation destination boasts amenities and attractions only dreamed of on Earth, including florid fjords, verdant gardens with trees exactly 27.3 feet tall, seven convenient locations of Fred's Cheapo Depot**, and nightly under-the-stars concerts from Grammy winner Shaggy. Located two exits north of the Center of the Galaxy, Kolob is to planets what Joseph Smith is to prophets: stunningly beautiful, perfectly peerless, and, like, totally AWESOME.

Why would Mitt Romney not self-deport? Kolob is to the United States what the United States is to Mexico. A trip to this beautiful star at the center of our existence would not only show those Latinos how a self-deportation is done; it also shows people that this Mormon shit is fo' shizz. Nobody will trifle Mitt once they realize he's just the earthly surrogate channeling the will of All-Powerful Crazy-Ass Mormon God. And really- what's more authentic than going to fucking heaven, just because you want to? 

Today, Mitt Romney may be the out-of-touch symbol of the 1%. Tomorrow, he won't just be in the 1%; he will be The One. He will be bigger than Jesus, so big they'll re-title the musical Mitt Romney, Superstar. Nativity scenes won't feature Joseph and Mary, but Mitt and Ann and five creepy sons in the den of their New Hampshire lake house. People will even start answering the door when the missionaries knock- because you don't fuck with God, and you don't fuck with Mitt.

America has already met its Mormon Maker. Soon, they'll finally realize his identity- and our lives will never be so wretched again.***

*Considering the man we're dealing with, the more apt idiom might be "murder the two annoying wives with one bloody axe" or "baptize two million dead Holocaust victims with one perverted priestly order." We seek not to offend Mormons, though, and put this as a footnote because we all know cult members are too dumb to know what footnotes are.
**All your vices at cheaper prices!
***Of course, there's only one problem with this whole plan- Mormonism is a batshit-cray cult and Kolob does not exist. Woops! Mitt can still pull this shit off, though- even more incredible events have been faked before.