Category Archives: Language

The English language, the German language, the Japanese language, the Hungarian language, books, grammar–the good stuff.

Ironic Shibboleth

Or The Irony Misuse Lexicon

“Shibboleth” is one of those words that keep popping up in my life. Each time I see it, I think, oh damn. Not you again. What did you mean?? I don’t like these words that make me feel stupid. Lately, J and I have been having these long creamy conversations and we were talking about shibboleth and that segued into other words and word usage in general, finally coming to a stop on….

Everyone sing along now… “It’s like ra—a–in on your wedDIN’ daaaay!”

More than a good decade has passed since the Alanis Morisette song that should’ve really been called ‘Song About Random Things that Are Rather Unfortuante’,  but have you moofs noticed too? Or am I just being paranoid?

Does anyone agree that the word ‘ironic’ has been completely hijacked of late?

I’ll agree that the word even in its original usage, is rather nuanced. Broadly, I would say that something ‘ironic’ is something that happens counter to expectation in a rather dramatic way.

So, Bob turning left when you thought he would turn right is NOT ironic–but Bob dying in a plane crash after he finally overcomes his fear of flying and gets on a plane for the first time in his life in his 50s–yeah, that, out of many of Alanis’  lyrics, was actually pretty ironic.

In that way, sarcasm can be ironic–

Girl: So how big was Pierre?
Girl2 *eye roll* Oh, he was hung like a baguette!
(Pierre was actually hung like a gerbil’s cornichon…)

Though much sarcasm is actually not.
And some purists would argue that Bob would have to die from a PLANE CRASH for it to be truly ironic, and not just say, en route to the airport.

So while we can quibble if getting trampled to death by an elephant on the tarmac instead of the plane he feared his whole life is ironic or not (actually, I think it would be pretty ironic that an elephant killed him at the airport after all that fear of planes, oh whatever), it seems that some fairly large counter-to-expectation element is necessary for irony to ensue. A dash of drama.

So what the floating dead manatee is all this other usage I’ve come across lately??

Behhold:

‘Hey, ‘moar’ is the IRONIC spelling of ‘more’ on the Internet, you idiot.’ (The WHAT spelling?)

‘I started using stupid slang to be ironic and now I legit can’t stop saying craycray.’

Person utters an offensive slur.
Person is called out and then claims he was being ‘ironic’. (?__?)

The strange link that has cropped up between the words ‘hipster’ and ‘ironic’ in general.

Since we’ve entered the 2010s, irony has been diluted thin enough to cover any number of concepts:

-being facetious.
doing/saying something stupid/silly with the full knowledge that it is stupid and silly.  Incidentally, 99% of times when someone is describing some hipster activity/action/saying with the term ‘ironic’, I believe they are really talking about the term ‘facetious’…. I take that back, I feel like 95% of the time people use ‘ironic’ in ANY context today, they are actually really talking about being facetious.

-being smug
Walking/dressing with an air of superiority and sense of knowing more than the peasants who surround you. Again, I think this stems from this mysterious link between the words ‘hipster’ and ‘ironic’.

-being obnoxious/offensive
People who say things they know to be blatantly offensive, only to pull the ‘can’t catch me, I was being ironic’ meatblanket over themselves when called out. No, actually. Ditto on people who think they are too enlightened to be politically correct. Using slurs, making rape jokes etc. with the full knowledge of how harmful they are is not being ‘ironic’, it is being an entitled ocean of come.]

[Side 1: Is 'cum' the official or ahaha 'ironic' spelling of the word 'come'??? Because like...I just cannot bring myself to write c-u-m. It looks so gross! So ocean of come these offensive people remain.]

[Sidebar 2: Irony-ception. We go one layer deeper. People who confuse being offensive with being satirical with being ironic. Satire being that intelligent humor that pokes fun at an institution or established system--making fun of those ALREADY disenfranchised or being unabashedly offensive is NOT satire!! Being politically incorrect is not satire!!]

-being sarcastic (though, as outlined above sometimes it can fall under irony, a lot of sarcasm is not).

-being fluffy (Hey, have you felt this puppy’s fur, omg, her fur is so ironic!) noooo, please stop. Puppies are not ironic, and neither are hats, shirts with snarky sayings on them–clothes are not ironic!!

-shibboleth (is a word people in a group use to identify secret members, kind of like a verbal secret handshake and has nothing to do with irony at all.)

-Tacos are tasty.

No, I’m not being ironic, but this post kind of fell apart, maybe because I drifted away on an ocean of come, but if you’ve got any examples with which to enrich my irony misuse lexicon, feel free to leave it in a comment!

Happy weekend, people ^^

…And a Tappy New Year

My family is Hungarian all living around Budapest, but my parents live in Portland, OR.

J’s parents are Japanese, but his mother got remarried to a German–and they live in Italy now.

Our kid is a Nazgul and he comes from the fires of Mordor.
We’re entrusted with him, but any day, Sauron may call to claim his kin…

‘Your family is so international!’ people gush if we get into the complicated ‘where are you from?’ conversation, and maybe that’s true, but it does make the holiday times a bit of a bitch. Namely, because you can’t do the ‘Eve at my parents’ place, Day at your parents’ place’ thing. We do the ‘this year at your parents, next year at my parents’ thing–and this year was J’s parents’ turn :< which means no Hungarian carp (the Official Fish of the Holiday Seasons) and no family hilarity, as J’s parents are of a fairly sober nature.

Sure, they’ll eat food together, and they’ll decorate their home in a tasteful manner, and maybe get in some undertow-jabs across the dinner table–but would anyone announce, right after the presents had been torn open, and right before the fish had to be served, without a touch of facetiousness, and with more than a touch of bravado, that they were just as good of a dancer as the late Michael Jackson?

My sister did exactly that the Saint Eve of 2010 (or was it 2011)?

Nobody was foolish enough to vocally refute her claims of being on par with a dancer and entertainer proclaimed a genius in his own lifetime– still, my sister was determined to immediately put her feet where her mouth was. Perhaps there was something insincere or not quite credulous in our silence.

In the soft ambient glow of the flickering Christmas tree with the scent of Baby Jesus still clinging to the air, she popped in her MJ CD (always kept on hand for such emergencies). Back when Miley Cyrus’ twirling ass-cheeks weren’t even a twinkle yet in anyone’s eye, my flour-white and doughy-bodied sister started to shimmy, growl ‘shamona’ and occasionally grab her crotch to the fat beat of ‘They Don’t Care About Us’. Before we could entirely process this musical cry for help, the song came to an end, and my sister smoothly segued into the evening’s next entertainment, announcing with gravitas that she was a better drawer than I–not that that is so hard to be, then again, she had (to my knowledge) never attempted to draw anything beyond a stick dog.

‘I’ll prove it to you,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a Michael Jackson drawing contest. Right now.’

Had she been secretly practicing? Would she shame me now by going Michelangelo on my ass? I took up the challenge.

We pushed the festivities on the kitchen table aside and used a photo of MJ from her CD’s album art as a reference. Less than five minutes later, my sister called out that she was done, and she would have my mom come over and adjudicate. I had MJ’s mouth done at that point, and maybe his eyes.

Sister: Isn’t mine great? It looks just like him, right?
Never the type to lie, even to her progeny, my mom:
Uhhhhhh… so what happened to his face?
My sister (the shadow of self-defense creeping into her voice for the first time this holy night): Well, I didn’t get his hair entirely right, that’s all. It’s hard. He has curly hair.
My mom: You call that ‘not quite right’? It looks like a truckin’ WISTERIA TREE fell on his head!

I lost it at ‘Wisteria Tree’. I started to laughing uncontrollably and the laughter may not have stopped until the fish was finally on the table…..

And knowing that it would be exactly this brand of hilarity lacking from J’s parents festivities, I made my polite holiday exit at Christmas Day Three to run away to Hungary, close to the Romanian border, to the sleepy little town from which one of my best friends from here hails. By the fourth day of Christmas all civility was drained from them though and they were as thoroughly sick of each other as any group of people forced to make merry together for the past week.

At the dinner table:

Hungarian friend’s father: Can you pass the bread, honey?
Hungarian friend’s mother: I’m sick of your negative comments, go ski into a cunt!
Me: ~____~

Back home for New Years, which we spent with fireworks (even those big explode-y ones are not illegal here o_o). J and Nazgul and I got out to the street-corner smelling like WWIII. I thought the baby would love the fireworks (aren’t kids all pyromaniacs?) and he did appreciate them in a restrained way, but he seemed to be concerned about me catching on fire….

‘R,’ he kept saying. ‘Fire. Ouch. Come here.’ And he would direct me under a tree.

(He didn’t seem concerned about J catching on fire–J was welcome to stay in the middle of the street and keep lighting fireworks for us.)

But yeah–that was Christmas–Christmas past, present–and may there be many fun ones in the future, full of Michael Jackson drawing contests– For all of you moofs too, I’d like to wish you a wonderful 2014 ^___^ full of sex and violence friends and food!

2nd Time Around – Chapter I.

The writing of a thousand pages starts with a single chicken nugget.
-Abraham Lincoln

soultext

‘Do people with blue eyes like…. even have a soul?’ Probably my favorite question ever asked me by a Japanese person. It’s like, heck should I know, I don’t have blue eyes? >___>

Warning: Mucho not orderly post.

Once a long time ago when I was still making sushi, I got really plastered at the restaurant Christmas party, so of course I blacked out and didn’t remember anything of shenanigans that ensued. According to J, on the tram-way home, I announced I was sick and forced him to get off with me and we walked the several remaining kilometers in subzero temperatures rivaling the winds of Satan’s Lair. At some point, I supposedly got so belligerent about the cold, I tried to walk up to any foreign door and open it. J had to dissuade me–don’t open that, he said, that’s not our house. But I’m so cold! I whined. (Supposedly. I’m not much of a whiner, so I question the reliability of the narrator here.) ‘If we can’t open those doors, just open something! I’m so cold, I don’t care what you open, just open it!! Just open anything!’ Poor hapless J, in the middle of the night, freezing his ass off and stuck with a wasted wanker, proceeded to take off my backpack and open it at me. ‘Look,’ he said with the patience of a thousand Ghandis. ‘I opened this. It’s open.’ Supposedly, that calmed me enough that I was able to walk the rest of the way drama free.

The next morning when he relayed all this to me I was like ‘Jesus Christ, sounds like I was drunk as fuck. How did we even make it home?!?’

J: One step at a time…

One step at a time…

You know, I always thought what was hard was simply doing something. You do the thing, the first time it’s hard, but then after that, since you know how to do it,  it’s okay. The realization slowly dawning in me of late though is that actually, what may be the hardest is not just doing something…

…but doing it AGAIN.

The first time, you don’t know any better. You bound into the experience bright eyed and ready for anything, like a Husky puppy plunging into a bank of snow.

Learn a language?
Write a book?
Have a kid?

Fuck it, why not? I’ll try anything once!

The second time, you’re like a cat on ice. Oh no. Oh no no no no NO, I DID this shit once and I waded through to the other side, and yes. Hooray and yippee—but could I do it again? Do I want to?

My mom: When are you going to have another kid?
My mom-in-law: When are you going to have another kid?
Me: When Santy Claus gives me a one hour private lap-dance, that’s when!

Honestly, when I see people on the train with more than one child, I’m like O_O. From what reservoir of Voldemort magic did you dredge the strength to do all that again, like….. DON’T YOU REMEMBER?! (Also what I think about anyone who has done more than one major project…..) But of course, it’s not that we don’t remember…

I have started my second graphic novel and while on the one hand, it is wonderful to have this whole body of past mistakes I do not have to make again…. let’s just say, I’ve been listening to a lot of Eminem to stay pumped.

Let me be clear, I hate misogyny and homophobia, but right now what I need most in the world after an unlimited supply of hugs and hotpockets and black coffiee and blacker ink is for someone to yell ‘get the fuck off your punk ass pussy bitch ass and grab a pencil’–to a catchy beat. Sometimes, I play good cop bad cop with Eminem and 2pac, and when Eminem gets too harsh, I put on something like ‘Changes’ or ‘Keep Ya Head Up’, which always makes me choke up (I swear, over the years, I have heard those two songs hundreds of times and my throat still closes when I hear them…) I think, Fuck… these people (and of course many many others) used their raps to change their own lives–and they made successful albums again and again and again. Not every song of theirs is great, and some albums are better than others, but they had the fortitude to go back at it when they could have rested on their laurels and I find that incredibly inspiring. They had their negative distractions (demons) and positive distractions (family) and they did it again.

Art and writing is my therapy, so what to do when you need therapy about your therapy? I go to J.

‘I don’t think I can do this again,’ I say to him as I lay face up on our bed with my eyeballs sweating.

You know those people who are disgustingly good at everything they do and there are all these careers you could envision them being really successful at (besides the career they already have and are successful at?) Meanwhile, you’re shining bright like a potato? J is one of those people, and not only could he be a smashing masseuse or male prostitute, he’d make a damn good therapist too (and if he combined them, oh my god, what a trifecta, therapy while you get a massage and then a happy ending?! He’d make a motherloving KILLING.)

So anyway, I was staring at the ceiling and he was being my personal pro bono therapist and he gave me some wonderful advice which was: Don’t think of it as a whole project. Treat each chapter as it’s own project. That way, when you are done with one chapter, you can consider yourself ‘done’ for a while and do something else, if you need to….

It’s too overwhelming to walk the whole six kilometers home drunk, so just walk it home one step at a time. One chapter at a time.

I broke it down further, I started to think of it in terms of pages. In terms of panels. In terms of single lines and drops of ink. One after another. After another.

It’s me
My honesty’s brutal
But it’s honestly futile if I don’t utilize
What I do though for good
At least once in a while so I wanna make sure
Somewhere in this chicken scratch I scribble and doodle
Enough rhymes to
Maybe try to help get some people through tough times
But I gotta keep a few punchlines
Just in case cause even you unsigned
Rappers are hungry looking at me like it’s lunchtime
- Rap God Eminem

The entirety of the song ‘Keep Ya Head Up’ by Tupac

Sandwiched between the wisdom of guardian angels J, Eminem and Tupac, how can anyone go wrong??

They can’t! And thanks to them, I have finished my first chapter…! ::dances::

You two, dear reader, if you’re out there struggling with something big, I encourage you to chunk it up, destroy the pieces, murder the verses one by one!

[So sorry though, mom, I am still not having another kid.... >___>]

His Name Was Writ In Water

Here lies a poor bastard who died never finishing David Foster Wallace’s book Infinite Jest, though this bastard tried, so hard. Ahh, rest in peace, sucker.

Was entirely prepared to have that etched onto my gravestone. Oho, but what’s this? Behold, do not call me ‘moof’ anymore; I now answer only to the title “Lord of the Universe, Eater of Worlds’ because….

I finished it. I finished it.
I motherfucking finished it.
::dance dance dance dance dance dance dance::

I have been reading IJ, on and off, for what seems like at least half a year. ‘The truth will set you free, but not before it’s done with you,’ an addict old-timer says on an AA podium–he was talking about addiction; hah, he was talking about this book. He was talking about everything, I suspect.

Warning: Coherent review will not follow.

‘What is that book about?’ Legitimate question, as I am always lugging this enormous brick around. I mutter lamely. I make gestures…

‘There’s this virtuoso junior tennis player… who also happens to be a sort of weekend-genius… there are two spies, an American, and a Canadian paraplegic, talking in the desert… there is a half-way house of drug/alcohol addicts, their handlers, caretakers and overseers and their mysterious ways… there is a horribly addicted girl who covers her face with a veil… and a movie (what they call in this strangely North-Ameriparallel but not QUITE North American modern world ‘an entertainment’ of such supremely sublime pleasure value that one glimpse of it will leave you drooling and foaming for more more more until you die.’

Let me start over.

Infinite Jest is about addiction. Addiction to highs, natural, synthetic, emotional, psychological–addiction to excellence, to top performance, to weed, to horse, to tennis, to killing animals, to DILAUDID, to love, to work, to sex, to fame–addiction to lows, and when Foster Wallace goes low, he goes really low, like rip out your eyeballs low, like can you please remove that last five pages from my memory banks low, because you write so VIVID, it’s like I’m having a false memory now. Like I was there.

This is a book about entertainment, like ‘entertainments’–what is entertaining, why do humans crave to be entertained, stimulated, sometimes, at any physical and emotional cost; why, just on this book, you will find many reviews of readers, perhaps rightfully complaining, that a book so long winded, so unorganized, so hard-to-finish has no right–to what? Exist? Be lauded as a genius masterpiece creation? Does an entertainment fail when too many people don’t ‘get it’? And speaking of those annoying fucking air-quotes to let you all know I am too hip to use a phrase as pedestrian as ‘get it’, are we as a society getting strangled by our insistence of always being more clever, more jaded, more issue-laden, more washed-out, more fact-oriented and more cliche-conscious than the next guy? Is David Foster Wallace asking that question, or is he demonstrating, by shanghaiing me into reading 1000+ pages of codswollop, that that is, in fact, what is happening here? I will plow through this because I don’t want anybody to think I did not quote unquote get it??

Sometimes, this book is just one big joke and you, as in I, are the personal hairy butt of it. Because (and addicts often have this mentality too) I am at the center of the universe, correct? Well, my universe, at least.

I was offended by this book. So deeply. Multiple times, I said fuck it. I can only be jerked off for soooo long. Thank you David Foster Wallace for making my wiener bloody, thank you.

Sometimes, ‘Infinite Jest’ and I were on hiatus. But a book and our interface with one is a metaphor for many things, a relationship amongst others, book to reader, and then author to book to reader, and if I think of it that way, that David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest and I were engaged in an on-and-off metaphysical threeway for the last six months… well then I’d say it was totally worth it. ~_~

My advice is hang in there. Getting frustrated by the SAT vocab bombs? You were not alone… You’re starting to chaff after a 20+ page description of a tennis match? Grab lube, keep on. Getting queasy after the tenth page intimately describing a father nightly raping (or was she enjoying it?) his severely physically disabled daughter and her present adoptive sister’s reaction to it? Skip it. But try to hang in there. Haha, like at an AA meeting.

One day of sobriety at a time. Sometimes, I crawled along, eye-balls pulsing, one measly page at a time.

Absurd, uplifting, stinky, drug-ridden, ambitious, truthful, synthetic, flowing, nonsensical, earnest, disgustingly smart and often hilariously funny. You know, like life. Adored it and despised it and will remember it forever.

PS: bricolage, cachinnate, febrile, fuliginous, inutile, scopophilia, and tear-assing down a hill.

WWJD?

No, not Jesus. What would John do?

As in John Steinbeck.

This isn’t John Steinbeck. This is one of my other writing spirit guides, Arthur Rimbaud. With mushrooms, inspired by this lovely blog.

Writing is a little  stressful. I’m trying to wrap up my second novel (3rd, if a graphic novel counts) and it’s stressin’ me a bit out.  Because I think too much. Here’s my advice as one wannabe writer to other aspiring writers:

Don’t fucking THINK. Just write. Thinking is the little mind-killer.

However, in times of over-thinking I sometimes wish I could call some people up. Like John Steinbeck. Man, would I love to ring him up, but he’s dead. Yeah, thanks a lot Death, you  fuck up everything. Good thing there is the internet. All these worries I have in my head, John Steinbeck has addressed them in the past,  aware already that future generations would need to draw on his extreme amazingness, so I pass this along to you, dear readers who may also be writers. Next time you’re penning something and you get stuck and think, What Would John Do?, maybe these tips will come in handy.
And remember, start by abandoning all hope ye who enter here ^^

Worry One: Fucking a, I’ve been writing this for months, nay, years. Am I EVER going to finish? John says:

1. Abandon the idea that you are ever going to finish. Lose track of the 400 pages and write just one page for each day, it helps. Then when it gets finished, you are always surprised.

Worry Two: Mmm, I’m kind of stuck on this passage/plot development area thingie. Oh I know, I’ll go back and fine-tune this shoddy language. I’m totally not doing this to procrastinate and not continue. I promise. John says:

2. Write freely and as rapidly as possible and throw the whole thing on paper. Never correct or rewrite until the whole thing is down. Rewrite in process is usually found to be an excuse for not going on. It also interferes with flow and rhythm which can only come from a kind of unconscious association with the material.

Worry Three: Will anybody ever give two screws for this book/story? I feel like I’m writing this for that one friend I still really like from way back when… John says:

3. Forget your generalized audience. In the first place, the nameless, faceless audience will scare you to death and in the second place, unlike the theater, it doesn’t exist. In writing, your audience is one single reader. I have found that sometimes it helps to pick out one person—a real person you know, or an imagined person and write to that one.

Worry Four: Ughhhh, this scene is KILLING me! I can’t, I can’t get past it… I… John says:

4. If a scene or a section gets the better of you and you still think you want it—bypass it and go on. When you have finished the whole you can come back to it and then you may find that the reason it gave trouble is because it didn’t belong there.

Worry Five: I love this scene. It’s so wonderful, I want to make sweet love to it, slip a diamond ring on its finger and marry it. Too bad it doesn’t really fit in the grand scheme of things. Oh I know, I’ll just rewrite the entire fucking book to make it fit. John says:

5. Beware of a scene that becomes too dear to you, dearer than the rest. It will usually be found that it is out of drawing.

Worry Six: Okay, this is actually something I don’t worry about. I am very much in the habit of reading what I’ve written out loud to make sure it sounds okay and I do recommend it heartily.

6. If you are using dialogue—say it aloud as you write it. Only then will it have the sound of speech.

And the best, right here–

“If there is a magic in story writing, and I am convinced there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another. The formula seems to lie solely in the aching urge of the writer to convey something he feels important to the reader. If the writer has that urge, he may sometimes, but by no means always, find the way to do it. You must perceive the excellence that makes a good story good or the errors that makes a bad story. For a bad story is only an ineffective story.”

John Steinbeck, how are you so wise??? ::sobs::

Read the full article and more on John Steinbeck here.

Real vs. Not

I’m supposed to be working. When I hit a rough patch, that’s generally the cue to open another browser and look through tumblr. This is a bad idea, no productivity has ever come from browsing tumblr, but it’s irresistible when you’re supposed to be making progress. What’s there not to like, an endless stream of pretty boys, porn, pretty girls, more porn, art, puppies, kittens, unicorns and for whatever reason, the following image. It has come up several times the last few days, and the fourth or so time it came up, I thought. Okay. This is god telling you something moof. Don’t fight the inner dolphin. Let him swim free.

According to Dove’s mid 2000′s campaign, this is what real women look like.

This rant will take a while to unfold, but just roll with me–I am hoping that like Brie cheese, if I let this fester at room temperature for a bit, it will get creamy soon.

Please complete the following sentence.

Every woman has a _____.

I don’t know about you dear reader, but I cannot complete that sentence. There is no word I can find that goes in there that is true for all women, all the time. (Not even every woman has two x chromosomes, because there are chromosomal abnormalities and the such… I know not every woman has a vagina either… ) That is to say, I cannot think of one physical characteristic that everyone who calls herself a woman shares.

Now, I understand that the fashion industry’s current standard of beauty, insofar as an average woman is concerned, is fucked up.  Still, stuff like the Dove campaign above annoys me so much, I could puke. Excuse me, Dove, but can you please stop pooping all over my intelligence?! Yes, those women are all real.

In fact, EVERY woman is real. A 500 pound woman is real. A woman with a beard is real. A woman without breasts because she had them removed is real. A woman who has given birth to 20 kids is real. A woman who has had her tubes tied and never intends to give birth is also real. No matter how unusual or how commonplace, they occupy a place in space–they have a mass and girth.

A stripper with triple G breasts is not a fake woman. She is a real woman who has fake breasts.

A Victoria Secret supermodel is not a fake woman. She is a real woman who is most likely  underweight and has to exercise/starve like hell to look like that. Whatever. Dancers are also underweight. Gymansts are also underweight. Other women are possibly extremely overweight.

And they are all real.

Yes, on one level, I am sick of all these pale, wraith-thin, doll-faced, doll haired chicks being the only marketable form of beauty right now. Don’t get me wrong, I’m part of the wicked and I believe they are beautiful. But I also find many other types beautiful  and if a  fashion label/beauty product wants to try to turn the tides by featuring women who deviate from that standard, wonderful. I will applaud them for their courage and support their product.

But please don’t act like the words ‘real’ and ‘ordinary’ mean the same thing. They don’t.

If Victoria’s Secret launched a similar ad, with a gaggle of supermodels and called it a campaign for ‘real women’, they would be lynched. People would scream ‘You can pray on our fantasies and our insecurities, but you DO NOT get to appropriate what constitutes a real woman!’ But because Dove uses ordinary women who can be found in your office or your class room, they can?

News flash: Every person who says I am a woman, I feel like a woman, I identify as a woman, whether or not she dyes her hair, is severely overweight, shaves her armpits, has fake breasts, has a dick, or still has her uterus in her body is a woman and she is fucking real.

‘k Dove? ^^ Ok, rant over. Whoo, I feel better…

Illu Frito- Suspend

This way, please.

One day, I’m going to draw hair so amazing, it’s going to knock everyone’ on their ass. Today isn’t the day, but I practiced at least. Channeled the inner Durer (according to W, at least ~_~). I drew this pic with the Illu Friday prompt ‘suspend’ and the Cocteau Beauty and Beast movie in mind. If I remember, I was forced to watch that in my junior high French class, only to have it come back….waaaaaay later. (The beauty is walking in the castle and there is blackness, nobody to guide her… only white hands suspended, gently guiding….)

In other news: I was on tumblr when I read a random post about a woman who had more or less accidentally attended a Danny Tosh show (if you don’t know who he is, he’s a comedian who eerily looks like Hillary Swank in his younger clips…) anywhoo, so she attended this Danny Tosh show with a friend, and in true DT style, he started off with a litany of offensive jokes (in this case, rape jokes) to the point where the woman finally yelled out ‘Rape is never funny!’

At which point he said something to the effect of “Wouldn’t it be so funny if that woman [who just yelled that] got raped by five guys, like, right now? Wouldn’t it be so funny?’

To make a long story short, the woman blogged about the experience–it sort of exploded online, I mean, hell, even I read about it, and Danny Tosh ended up writing a sort-of apology on Twitter (followed by a flurry of comments by fellow comedians more or less unanimously denouncing the stupidity of this poor woman.)

And I had to wonder–where do I stand on the issue? I mean, in this individual issue, it’s clear. Tosh could’ve defused the ‘rape is never funny’ shout-out in a handful of other more appropriate ways than suggesting the woman get gang-banged for the audience’s further amusement. It pissed me off that he would say such a thing and I almost wished a bunch of women (or sympathetic males as well) had stormed the stage and taught him a lesson.

Then again, I had watched D. Tosh clips in the past and laughed at any other number of inappropriate jokes he’d made–making me wonder… are there things that should never, ever be used as a joke? In any circumstance?

I can understand why the other comedians rallied to his defense [as fucking pathetic as some of their arguments were, one guy; ‘Oh, so an actor can play a rapist on screen, but Tosh can’t joke about rape?’ was one of the denser ones…so anyway, I can understand why they would defend him–pretty much every comedian is putting food on the table by offending somebody–women, men, homosexuals, heterosexuals, people of religion, people of color, victims of X, Y, Z. Their defense is that laughter is our only defense and if we can’t laugh about something, we are letting it have undue power over us.

And for the most part, I buy that. I like to laugh–I like to laugh at sick shit–I don’t like making things sacred and I laugh equally at what I am and what I am not. Sure, part of it is a mask. If you can laugh at something, I figure, it can’t control you. Religion, stereotypical behavior, slurs. Let’s make them funny and thus bleed their potency a bit.

Or does that just make us callous? Sometimes, these days people seem so scared of taking anything at all seriously. Even the most beautiful and horrible things in life!

Does the ghost of Oscar Wilde have to write and release ‘The Importance of Being Earnest II’?

Too Hot to Do Jack

Okay, so I have a lot of crazy theories.

Crazy, as in not based in science, but in my own conjecture, observations and knee-jerk reactions–still, I figure, observation can be a powerful thing. A few of my favorite crack-pot theories (the list is by no means exhaustive):

Japanese men ever only pass on the XY chromosome and can thus only father male children. (Ask me about this theory sometime. It sounds crazy, but I’ve SEEN it!)

Despite there being a higher level of precipitation in Munich than in any other German city, there is a Germany-wide accepted fallacy that Munich has a wonderful, warm and long summer. I believe this rumor was propagated specifically by Big Beer Garden, whose tendrils are all over the Bavarian countryside.

And last but not least:

Maybe it’s the weather–it’s nice out, so people develop a fuck-it attitude, but warm countries can never seem to get their shit together. On average, they seem to be doing worse than cold/cooler countries.

Now, before anyone calls me a racist, I’ll point out that 1. My observation is applicable to geographical locations and not specific races/nationalities. 2. It is not iron-cast: Singapore is very successful and a tropical country. Russia has frozen testicles littering her streets and there is much poverty. Mongolia (north) is doing worse than China (more South). But there is a definite trend. Look here in Europe, currently: Greece, Italy, Croatia–great weather and economic poop. In contrast, Germany, Norway, Sweden? Weather sucks ass and the economy and infrastructure is purring smoothly.

The US south has always been more economically dodgy than the US North (and then there’s extra dodgy Mexico and extra got-it-together Canada. I mean, they don’t even look their doors, eh??) Africa… the whole continent is warm, the whole continent is not doing so great in economic terms. Asia too–the more tropical countries seem to be struggling.

Anyway, so I’ve had this theory for a while and I thought today I’d  try to find if there was any scientific basis for it at all, and it turns out I’ve been trying to reinvent the wheel ~_~ and this trend is one that has been being pondered for hundreds of years. Montesquieu was one of the first to describe the phenomenon in the 18th century and since then, there have been a couple explanations for it, including:

-Temperate/colder countries had a much more favorable area in which to evolve from a hunting/gathering society to a farming society. Temperate areas also offer a much wider range of cultivatable plants and animals.

-Because of these advantages, temperate countries were then in a position to grow faster, exchange ideas better and then exploit and colonize areas such as Africa and parts of Asia. Once a country is ahead, it tends to stay ahead. Once a country is behind, it is hard to push ahead again…

-Temperate areas have less instances of debilitating diseases, such as malaria, which make certain livestock more or less impossible to keep.

and even

-Regular, yearly frost apparently has a rejuvenating effect on soil and makes it more fertile.

According to a recent study done by MIT, a one degree increase in temperature corresponded to a 1.1% decrease in GDP (a 3% decrease is already considered recession, so 1.1% is rather significant.) Countries were AC is not in widespread use suffer the most when the temperature rises…

Just some strange food for thought.

Funky Zeit! Mit Words!

Image

‘Life doesn’t make sense, so how can I draw pictures that make sense?’ ~_~

Speaking of things that don’t make sense:

“This book is like a spaceship with no recognizable components, no rivets or bolts, no entry points, no way to take it apart. It is very shiny, and it has no discernible flaws. If you could somehow smash it into smaller pieces, there would certainly be no way to put it back together again. It simply is.”

Dave Eggers, in the foreword to ‘Infinite Jest’

Lady and Gentlemen Moofs, I am no longer just thinking about reading ‘Infinite Jest‘, I am no longer just having ‘Infinite Jest’ watch me pee (like Satan does) from the highest shelf of my bathroom random-shelf-thingie–I have picked the book up, all 1000-ish frightening, nonsensical pages of it, and I have finally dived in.

First 100 hundred pages:

1. I don’t know wtf is going on. (Oh well, not really addicted to ‘clarity’ as it were….)

What concerned me more is that

2. All these words keep coming up that I don’t know. 0_0

Quick! How many of these words do you know?

lapidary
fantods
thoracic
atavistic (I word I feel I SHOULD know, but alas, don’t)
ideation
hypocapnia
dipsomania

[Answers:

lapidary: A cutter, polisher and engraver of precious stones.

fantods: A state of irritability or tension. Syn: fidgets

thoracic: Chest (as in thoracic or chest cavity)

atavistic: Recurrence in an organism of a trait or character typical of an ancestral form and usually due to genetic recombination. Syn: throwback

ideation: The capacity for or the act of forming or entertaining ideas, exp. suicidal ideation

hypocapnia: A deficiency of carbon dioxide in the blood.

dipsomania: An uncontrollable craving for alcoholic liquors.

Definitions taken from Merriam-Webster Online ^^]

And I’ll keep y’all posted on ‘Jest’… my goal is to have this brick under my belt by the end of the month…

A Nazgul Is Born

She might be a Nazgul. She might also just be a normal baby. To check, J and (–) and me are off to Berlin for the weekend. Oh, and here is a random picture for you in the meantime. Whoo, why not? Pretty pastel blue, for Easter.

This is Stav S., he is a beautiful Russian boy with very sad eyes. Bird skull in hair inspired by this lady's beautiful photography ^^

So I will be spending my weekend oohing and aaahing over a baby that may or may not have a conehead. (I hope she doesn’t. Paintblotch has basically taught me to distrust coneheaded peoples and I do have a pretty bad prejudice about them now.) Mingling with the inlaws. Keep me in your thoughts.

Sadly, (–) is too little yet to do anything kind of fun like egg dyeing or Easter egg finding, though he did get some nice Easter presents from my mom including (another!) talking animal.

Talking toys rant: You know, I have a love and hate relationship with those creepy talking toys. The kids love them, and they probably do help teach kids some vocab blah blah blah, but… they are so damn creepy. The newest addition to our talking toy menagerie is a dog. All its parts are labeled, and once you turn it on, the kid is encouraged to touch different parts of the dog’s body by this high-pitched sexless voice. [You see exactly where this is going??]

My kid likes this toy a lot, and I’ll be at my computer while he’s on the ground. I can hear the toy:

-Red heart!
-Touch my red heart!
-Touch my ear! Touch my foot!
-I love you!
-You’re my best friend!
-Don’t tell anyone…
-This is our secret!
-Touch my…

Me turning around. Wtf? My kid is smiling. Dog is staring at me with it’s creepy painted on smile, like ‘What? What did I say? I’m just teaching your kid the different parts of the body. Heh heh.’

God, I need to get more sleep.

Happy Easter, moofs. ^^