Yes, my minions, I've been away for a while again. Sue me, I got a new job and although it's great, it's making me very tired. And when I'm tired, more typing is the last thing on my mind.
At any rate, let it never be said that I don't love you.
To prove it, I'm going to introduce you to one of my favorite things in the whole galaxy: the comic mind of Patton Oswalt. This man is wonderful. He can make me laugh at so many different things, in so many ways, I'm continually astounded at his talent. Whether he's ranting about the various ineptitudes of the Bush administration, or about how pouring water on a midget turns them into Sleepy-Time tea, he really is a delight. So, I've borrowed the below post from his own blog, just to help spread the gospel.
You can check out more about Patton HERE (if he ever gets his site up and running again).
Or HERE, you can be his Myspace friend.
Without any further ado, Enjoy!
UN-EDITED GIANT MAGAZINE RANT
I wrote this for -- what issue was it? Well, I wrote it for GIANT Magazine last year. Or maybe late in 2005. Now I can't remember.They made me re-write it and, in the processm, de-fanged it.
Here's what I originally turned in:
Nothing Like That First Cup of Coffee at 2:17 p.m.
Why the Republicans Are Winning
I know it's cultural suicide for me to admit I can't stand the noise anymore. I have friends within kissing distance of their mid-40's who've decided, out of personal desperation and a childish fear of death, that they're 22 years old FOREVER. They want the music loud. They want the conversation shouted. And they want the silent moments, when they're alone with their thoughts, kept at bay.
Idiots. I can't wait to be an old man. I am an old man. Forty years ahead of my time. I'm in revolt against my own youth, because I don't want to hear it.
I don't want to hear the inane half-conversations on people's cell phones. I don't want to hear the inane full conversations when the dimwits get together. Strung-together catch phrases and punchlines from TV shows and movies. God bless the iPod. It'd be fine if people knew how to talk on cell phones at a conversational level. Or if people knew how to have conversations anymore. People scream when they talk. They bray and whine and bark as if there's a boom mike recording their every word, and a hidden camera capturing the amazing Indie Film That Is Their Lives.
And no, you smug dumbass, I'm not anti-cell phone, or anti-Starbucks or anti-anything you're "anti" about 'cuz you heard Cameron Diaz bitching about it on MTV. I like technology, progress and convenience. And so do you. Please get over the Myth of Yourselves, hipsters, 'cause no one's writing your biography.
I can't tell you how many friends I have who "apologize" for having a cell phone or "over-explain" all of the internet time they log in. Guess what? No one cares. You're not that interesting or unique. You're not the cultural touchstone for anything. Stop over-thinking every vintage concert T-shirt you wear, or wondering what kind of "statement" you make if you wear Nike ACG's or Chuck Taylors. We're a generation of narcissists, and no one's paying any attention to you." I know what you're thinking. Yeah. Heh. Me – with a cell phone!" Yeah, dude, we're really through the looking glass now.
Or how about this gem: "Oh yeah, I mean, I only saw it to remind me how crappy Hollywood movies are. I mean, I went with a bunch of friends, and we were all on e." Thank God! I thought the sun my universe orbited around had sold out, maaaaaaaaaan. "Well, I watch the O.C. 'cause it's…" Everyone, all together now: "…so bad it's good!' William S. Burroughs on a biscuit, you're blowing my mind with the paradoxes!
Stop defending your integrity. You didn't have it to begin with. Selling out is the new street cred, anyway.
How did the Republicans pull it off? Oh wait, they didn't. We fumbled it.
In the early 90's, the non-chain coffeeshop was a den of revolutionaries. Or, at least, people with revolution on their mind. People would sit, fueling themselves on paint thinner java – writing, reading, getting informed, getting active, getting focused to get rid of George I.
Okay, maybe I'm looking back through rose-colored glasses. Come to think of it, I literally am, since I'm writing this in my Dame Edna costume.
I had the misfortune, last month, to kill a Sunday in the Abbott's Habit coffeeshop in Venice, California. Never again. The counterculture's in permanent red shift. Double-chinned ex-heroin addicts, balding hipsters and saggy-armed ex-rave chicks ("flappers", now that I think of it) sitting around, scowling at the "Calendar" section of the L.A. Times. Sneering at how bad TV and movies and music and President Hilton are. Checking their e-mail and seeing if anything's been updated on salon.com. Doing the Big Disdain.
Know what the Enemy's been doing? They've been awake since 8am, pumping away on the treadmill and taking Krav Maga classes and not being hungover and getting ready to carve up the world for themselves.
The Republicans stole rock 'n' roll and outsider status. Now they've seized the entire goddamn day right out from under us, The Too Cool to Care. We're doomed.
Here's a scene from a screenplay I'm finishing up right before I blow my brains out:
– HI-TECH PENTHOUSE - IRVINE, CA
– MORNING A sweaty, toned REPUBLICAN DOUCHE-NOZZLE is on his cell phone.
We split screen, and he's talking to a BLOND CONSERVATIVE TWAT.
REPUBLICAN DOUCHE-NOZZLE: Hey Cindy, it's 6:30 a.m. Just hopped off the elliptical trainer. Let's get some egg white omelets and buckwheat pancakes before we continue ruining everything for everyone!
CONSERVATIVE TWAT: I hate fags!
INT. – SHITHOLE APARTMENT
– SILVERLAKE, CA
A 41 year-old pretending he's still a 23 year-old skateboarder is sprawled on a second-hand couch, talking on a cell phone which he almost never uses 'cuz people who own cell phones are assholes. Old copies of the L.A. Weekly are piled on a T.V., which he watches constantly to remind himself what a lame-o wasteland TV is, especially shows like Jerry Springer, The O'Reilly Factor, According to Jim and The Simple Life, which he and his friends can't believe get such huge ratings.
PATHETIC 41 YEAR-OLD: Hey man, you up?
SPLIT SCREEN with an EVEN MORE PATHETIC 39 YEAR-OLD, in his equally crappy Los Feliz apartment. The 39 Year-Old is currently finishing up a lengthy myspace.com blog entry (his 11th) about how lame Paris Hilton is. He wears, in a really cool ironic way, a faded Journey concert T-shirt which cost $85.
39 YEAR-OLD: Uh, yeah.
41 YEAR-OLD: Same shit, different day, huh?
39 YEAR-OLD: (with brilliant, self-mocking cynicism) That's hot.
41 YEAR-OLD: Gotta make this quick before my piece-of-crap cell phone gives me brain cancer.
39 YEAR-OLD: Did you read that thing in The Baffler about how Cheney and Halliburton own a huge stake in the MRI industry, which gives them a direct incentive to keep cell phones on the market and give people brain cancer?
41 YEAR-OLD: A friend of my brother read it and told him about it and he told me.
39 YEAR-OLD: Fuckin' idiots out there.
41 YEAR-OLD: Fuckin' sheeple.
39 YEAR-OLD: You know what we should do? Let's do the mall, check out some of the sheeple, and then go see Monster-in-Law, to reinforce how lame and hollow Hollywood is.
41 YEAR-OLD: Sounds like a plan. Did you Tivo that re-run of Saturday Night Lame last night?
39 YEAR-OLD: Ashlee Simpson's a moron.
Mel Gibson being elected Pope.
UPDATE: Here is an amazing picture of Patton and Ms. Florence Henderson, aka Mrs. Brady. This picture is pretty sunny, as in sexy and funny. Look at Patton in his cardy!? Look at Mrs. B in her silver pants!? This is outstanding work on behalf of both artists.