Day 16-17: The Fat Lady

“I remember about the fifth time I ever went on ‘Wise Child.’ I subbed for Walt a few times when he was in a cast–remember when he was in that cast? Anyway, I started bitching one night before the broadcast. Seymour’d told me to shine my shoes just as I was going out the door with Waker. I was furious. The studio audience were all morons, the announcer was a moron, the sponsors were morons, and I just damn well wasn’t going to shine my shoes for them, I told Seymour. I said they couldn’t see them anyway, where we sat. He said to shine them anyway. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but he had a very Seymour look on his face, and so I did it. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air again—all the years you and I were on the program together, if you remember. I don’t think I missed more than just a couple of times. This terribly clear, clear picture of the Fat Lady formed in my mind. I had her sitting on this porch all day, swatting flies, with her radio going full-blast from morning till night. I figured the heat was terrible, and she probably had cancer, and—I don’t know. Anyway, it seemed goddam clear why Seymour wanted me to shine my shoes when I went on the air. It made sense.”

Franny was standing. She had taken her hand away from her face to hold the phone with two hands. “He told me, too,” she said into the phone. “He told me to be funny for the Fat Lady, once.” She released one hand from the phone and placed it, very briefly, on the crown of her head, then went back to holding the phone with both hands. “I didn’t ever picture her on a porch, but with very—you know—very thick legs, very veiny. I had her in an awful wicker chair. She had cancer, too, though, and she had the radio going full-blast all day! Mine did, too!”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. All right. Let me tell you something now, buddy . . . Are you listening?”

Franny, looking extremely tense, nodded.

“I don’t care where an actor acts. It can be in summer stock, it can be over a radio, it can be over television, it can be in a goddam Broadway theatre, complete with the most fashionable, most well-fed, most sunburned-looking audience you can imagine. But I’ll tell you a terrible secret—Are you listening to me? There isn’t anyone out there who isn’t Seymour’s Fat Lady. That includes your Professor Tupper, buddy. And all his goddam cousins by the dozens. There isn’t anyone anywhere that isn’t Seymour’s Fat Lady. Don’t you know that? Don’t you know that goddam secret yet? And don’t you know—listen to me, now—don’t you know who that Fat Lady really is? . . . Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It’s Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.”

For joy, apparently, it was all Franny could do to hold the phone, even with both hands.

- Franny & Zooey, JD Salinger 

Finished reading this for the second time today. Hated it the first. Realized how wrong I was.

Say what you will about his characters (too neurotic?) and his themes (too juvenile?) Make what you will of his vanishing act. A great writer does not work from some lofty perch of moral or intellectual authority. Great art comes not from above humanity but from within. And this is a guy who chronicles all that lies within a soul better than almost anyone else. Holden Caulfield was not at all like you - and yet you related to him, right?

You wonder how a recluse could portray such humanity. Maybe it makes sense. Maybe understanding what it is to be human requires one to also be alone. To be human is to be alone? To be alone is to be human?

It seems that's the struggle any creator faces. A successful public life is a war against self-consciousness; a successful creative life is a wallowing in self-consciousness.

It seems the two generally don't go together.

In that regard, Salinger doesn't give you hope. But let's ponder the nature of genius another day; let's celebrate it for now. So what his work wasn't sophisticated? So what he didn't take his own lessons to heart? The cranky old fuck just wanted to write. He did so pretty fucking well.

Day 15: Dear Niger

Whoever picked your name was really fucking stupid.

As an oddly-named person myself, I can commiserate. Alas, the only thing people consistently confuse Kalen for is Kaleb. This isn't that bad and is generally* correctable.

You, on the other hand, are generally only referenced whenever the KKK pamphlet has a typo. 

Your people will never gain acceptance or prosperity because whenever rich white people** ask where you're from, they won't stop laughing for 15 minutes after you answer them. Then they'll fire off another 15 minutes of nigger jokes. And while rich white people are Africa's only hope, their money isn't worth the humiliation. Fuck 'em.

You shouldn't change your name just for some unlikely chance at worldly acceptance. You should do it for the geography teachers, those brave souls that ask their students to memorize the shapes of West African nations before completely forgetting about them.*** You don't understand how awkward it gets when Mrs. Jones asks Danny what the answer to question number 12 is, and Danny puts his emphasis on the wrong syllable and answers "nigger," and Mrs. Jones has to explain that a nigger is a person of dark complexion who goes gorillas in Paris, while a Niger is a hopelessly bereft African nation whose citizens resemble those noted Parisians.

But I understand times is tough, in which case the money of rich white persons may attain greater importance than preserving your cultural heritage. If that's the case, maybe the Geography Teachers Union can hire Jack Abramoff to come to you, Niger. Maybe Jack can convince you, through the use of shady promises and expensive gifts, to finally change your name. Make it something white people will like, something like "Liberty Hills" or "Fawn Creek," because white people love freedom and mountains and baby deer and streams. Your nation probably has none of these things, but this doesn't fucking matter. Do it anyway.

Peace and blessings, my Niger.

*Unless your name is Fred Ehlke.

**There is no such thing as a rich black person, of course. Noted bawse Rick Ross was the race's last best hope, but the recent arrival of Church's Chicken in LA means he's gone broke. 

***With one exception. LUV U 5EVR, MY LITTLE KONY!

Day 14: Dear Lecrae

First of all: most of your fame comes from the endorsement of that one Asian guy who played a few good games for the Knicks that one time. So congratulations on that?

That's not why I know you, though. You see, I have friends, believe it or not, and good friends with a sense of moralism and Christlikeness that totally eludes me. You are their favorite rapper. You're not my favorite rapper, but my iPod is composed solely of angsty, distortion-laden, hopelessly white alternative rock. People like me will never love you, and you don't want me to love you. You want them to love you, and they love you. So know you're doing something right.

You are best known for your religious convictions. I admire said convictions. (OK, JK LOL no I don't because we all know God doesn't exist, but still, to each man his own beliefs and all.) 

But what I don't admire is your rapping, because really, it's not very good. Yes, everything I know about rap comes from Outkast and Watch the Throne, but this is enough to understand that your songs are forgettable wastes of four minutes. 

I want to know why you started rapping. To troll the world? Because Jesus told you to? Maybe to fuck redheads at creepy Christian colleges in Seattle? 

Really hope it's the last one, dearest Lecrae. After your orgy at Seattle Pacific University, just make sure to tell me if the carpet really does match the drapes.

God bless.

Day 13: You Get Up

"I often wonder if the world has it all wrong. Is it really a good thing to work 40, 50, 60 hours a week for scraps of paper we exchange for goods - most of which are wholly unnecessary - and get caught up in a cycle of wanting and acquiring and becoming indebted and trapped, when really at our core we're just animals with higher thinking abilities? 

Then I remember that I really do like bad reality TV, and buying prepackaged foods, and having fast transportation, and keeping my home at a temperate 73 degrees, and heading off to Best Buy for Lost, Season 1. And then I go to work."

I think I want a job that challenges me. I think I want to get an English degree and write and go to grad school and write some more and eat ramen and somehow understand human suffering and along the way write The Great Azerbaijani Novel. I think I don't want to be like my dad. I think I want to do something different, more challenging, more fulfilling than everybody else.

Then I remember I can go get a PR degree and come home from a shitty day and eat and watch and do whatever the fuck I want. Actually sounds pretty awesome - and also horrifyingly mundane and fundamentally pathetic, of course - but not bad. Not bad at all.

Day 12: o0OoO0o

Is every song featuring ooooo's, ohhhh's, aaahhh's, and/or whistling awesome? (Probably - one of my favorite examples these days is above.)

Does the perfect song consist only of these elements? (Quite possibly - maybe MGMT can test this on their next album?)

Do I want to kill all the members of fun. and Gotye? (Two words: FUCK and YES. Take your fake hipster pop shit and go rot in a ditch. Long live true pop stars! Carly Rae Jepsen you know my life so much better than either of those shitty bands ever will!!! <3)

Day 11: Evacuate the Dancefloor

The weirdest thing about Highland is its obsession with dance. The obsession isn't the weird part because every small town is obsessed with something: something they're good at, something to form an identity around, something to make you proud of the otherwise you live, or more likely to temporarily forget the otherwise shitty place you live.

But dance. Fucking dance. Dance in all its dark and pathetic forms. Pom dance, jazz dance, hip-hop dance, and worst of all lyrical dance, which basically involves looking really emotional while rolling around on a dirty floor. Apparently we excel at all of these. 

You wish parents could steer their kids to more worthwhile pursuits, like chess maybe, or Model UN. But no. I guess dance provides the greatest vicarious thrill.

Women are sad to start out with. You live in Highland, or you watch Dance Moms (or the new spinoff Dance Moms: Miami!) and you see that age only makes things worse. I do all three of these things. (This is why misogyny is one of my major problems.)

But now we're making our young males dance. Out of the 100 or so dancers at my sister's recital on Saturday, 12 were male. We have a male dance team at the high school. We also have a winless football team. They really fucking suck. A fucking 0-9 football team and 10 potential future star quarterbacks are thrusting their groins and tap-dancing to Luke Bryan dance remixes*. But he has a dick! And he's dancing! What bravery and courage! And all for art!, if that's what you call aimless movement to Lil Jon's "Get Low."

I don't mind dance, besides feeling like a pedophile while watching it and worrying about the actual pedophiles that certainly lurk in the audience. I cringe at the mustachioed fathers in the crowd yelling "Do your thang girls!" And simultaneously I realize this is my future, a lifetime of yelling at my progeny, wanting them to do all I never could, wanting to relive my own athletic glory days**, wanting to escape the hopelessness and desperation that seem to come once you reach a certain age. 

Let us all hope I live this out on football fields instead of packed auditoriums.

*Really. They souped up the beat to "Rain is a Good Thing" and had this 10-year-old guy do a tap routine to it. When I was 10 I spent most of my time unleashing predatory dinosaurs on my guests in Zoo Tycoon. Any objective psychoanalyst will tell you my childhood was better and, as a consequence, my adulthood will be way more awesome.

**If you consider golf a sport, which you shouldn't. Pussy shit, but I could actually play pretty good and all. My kid will be much more manly and athletically talented. I will not let him take the easy way out. IT. WILL. BE. FOOTBALL. (Or chess. Or Model UN. Or theater. Or anything besides dance or golf, because really, golfers are douchebags, and dance is just fucking awful. Do anything other than those things and I'll luv u 4evr, unborn son!)

Day 8-10: Random Bullshit

If I weren't lazy and surrounded for hours and hours with a TV, an Xbox, and abso-fucking-lutely nothing else, this blogging every day thing would work out. Alas, FIFA 11 (because I'm too cheap to get the new one and will be too cheap to get the next one too) has been calling, along with reading a book on North Korea that I must discuss with little freshmen next fall. Moral - Mizzou is oppressed hellhole like DPRK, right down to the alcoholic tendencies of respective Glorious Leaders Kim Jong-Il* and Gary Pinkel.

* * *

Twitter tells me the Rams released Justin King. That Justin King was ever paid to play cornerback will forever boggle my mind and forever give me hope that I can land a job for which I'm way underqualified. Maybe a newspaper will pay me to write words for them! Maybe they'll let me write for free, just for the shits and giggles and resume building! (So far, no dice - but not for lack of trying.)

In other Rams-related news, Jeff Fisher has set a goal for his defense: break the all-time single-season sacks record. Your response, Dwight Schrute? 

* * *

"Life happens too fast for you ever to think about it. If you could just persuade people of this, but they insist on amassing information."**

Thought this was a ballin' quote. Too bad I found it in one of my 77 daily checks of Twitter.

Is it hypocritical to call oneself a hypocrite?


*Before you ask - of course I know The Glorious Leader Kim Jong Il has passed on. I also know that I do not pass up chances to reference his outrageous Hennessy consumption. Just one of the many reasons I hope to be just like him when I grow up.
** Because of course Kurt Vonnegut is tweeting from beyond the grave.

Day 7: Mila Kunis

Mila Kunis. She looks fucking fantastic. She has talent and, just as importantly for an artist, good taste (evidenced by her roles in everything from That 70s Show to Family Guy to Friends With Benefits to Black Swan). Did I also mention that she's rather hot?

She is the perfect woman. Yet that kid from Home Alone got to fuck her for eight years. Undeniable proof, if we needed any more, that life isn't fair.

So there's hope. If Mila Kunis is into former child stars, I bet she could really get into bloggers. Maybe she enjoys discussing matters of sport and government and culture. Maybe she really wants to liberate Highland, IL, and convert our dead-behind-the-eyes citizens into tried-and-true communists. She could probably make it happen if she really wanted to. I would not protest.

Oh Mila. Ohhhh Mila. I forgive you for fucking that. Even though that thing you fucked obviously had gonnorhea, I'd still fuck you. I don't even care. You're worth all of the gonnorhea in the world, and all the syphilis as well, and maybe all the HIV too.

Oh Mila. I just love you that much.

Day 5-6: Teeth Like God's Shoeshine

Our generation has had the most comfortable upbringing of any group anywhere at anytime in the past 10,000 or so years* the Earth has existed. Chances are you're part of this generation, which means you have enough of everything you need - food, water, security, sleep, porn. You probably have too much of these things.

* * *

To do something great, you have to aim to do something great. Jordan wasn't born with that jump shot. Steinbeck didn't stumble upon East of Eden. You make the choice to put the work in for the chance at a delayed reward.

You think ambition is ugly, and yeah, it often is, but you have to realize how beautiful it is too. After all, you are a human being. You always aim higher. You have to. You should. 

* * *

You think the American Dream is a sham. You think you can't make it in this country as easily as you used to. Maybe you're right. Maybe opportunity is disappearing in quantity and declining in quantity. Or maybe you're spoiled. Maybe wealth and status and prestige are finite qualities that are all used up. Maybe  this is where ambition meets economics.

You think the United States is in decline. You think jobs should be plentiful and unions should be strong and our boys should be landing on the moon and constructing new interstates and Dick Clark should be on TV. You want to take home a decent day's wages for a decent day's work.

But what is a decent day's work? Fixing sewers? Picking up roadkill? Microwaving McChickens? Writing press releases? Wasting away in middle management? 

* * *

The good news is that you can still have half the American Dream. You can bring home the bacon or you can bring home your soul, but your upbringing dictates that you can't have both. Because as much as you want to meet those higher needs of love and esteem and self-actualization, you have to survive first. And to survive you need money, and to get money you must help run the magnificent capitalistic machine. 

Your dad wasn't as comfortable as you were. He grew up with nothing, but he made it, through some hard work and some good bullshitting. He doesn't love what he does. That never mattered. What mattered was that he still got somewhere. That he gave you that awesome childhood full of chicken nuggets and cable TV he could never have. That he fulfilled his ambition of getting comfortable. That, as a consequence, you were quite comfortable too.

* * *

You won't be satisfied that easily. You need more than you really need. Something more than money (though, of course, you need that too). 

You realize your dad had all of your big hopes and dreams. You realize he wanted to enjoy his work. And when you grow up, you realize that having a job is more important than having a career. That self-esteem is impossible without shelter, that you can't care about morality if you don't have any money. 

You know the job pool is shrinking. What you didn't realize was how much further your expectations shrink it, the dreams the cogs of the capitalism give up, the fantasies you'll have to give up too. 

Maybe it's just part of growing up. Maybe selling out is necessary for survival. Maybe just because things are doesn't mean they should be.

* * *

So: what to do? 

Maybe you should lower your expectations. Maybe you should get used to manual labor. Maybe the 75-year-old woman scanning your Wal-Mart purchases shouldn't make you sad. Maybe that will be you in all those years. 

You should probably get used to the new economics of America. You should probably worry that your goddamned ambitions might well go unfulfilled.

Day 4: In Which I Rename Myself

Being a Fearless Leader is pretty damn difficult. Lots of peasants to take care of, bureaucrats to appease, hoes to slap. All the pressure was too much. It was time for a change.

So, following the lead of my idol Metta World Peace (and, depending on how much stock you put into conspiracy theories, Tupac Shakur as well), I decided to start fresh, wipe the slate clean, revert to tabula rasa, by taking the radical step of changing my name on the Internet.

In choosing my new name, I considered only one criterion: the name had to feature the word "bro." This leaves you tremendous possibilities. Broseidon, Lord of the Brocean. Bromo Sapiens. Bromeo. Bro Chi Minh. Brohan Cruyff. Broseph Goebbels (as an aspiring PR hack, my personal favorite). All tremendous choices, but one stood out above all others in the end.

I thought about soliciting a poll of all three of my readers. Then I remembered how dumb my readers are. (It takes mental problems to care about any of this shit.) And so, in my last act as Fearless Leader, I have unilaterally changed my name to Fyodor Brostoevsky.

In honor of my namesake, I plan to use this summer to write classic literature and seduce a fuckload of Russian bitches. It's gonna be the best, you guys.