A Book Review, Supposed Big-Tittied Fans, and Moral Codes

The truth is, no matter how many times a writer comes up to the 'it's go time' line, moral crossroads, decision alarm, whatever the fuck you want to call it, he or she is always faced with the same question: Do I stay true to my ethical best (I like to call this good, old-fashioned Integrity, which yes does deserve to be capitalized, seeing as how it's the most important concept on the planet), or do I toss my dignity in with the dirty linens because I sense a future of mass-acknowledgment and mountains of shimmery, glimmery, may-it-make-me-a-god cash?

If you're me, you choose the former. If you're Tucker Max, author of 2006 published NY Times best-selling book, genre: humor, I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, you might recognize, without apology, that you'll take an amalgam of big-tittied fans in your face, loads of pub money and royalty checks, and a fat helping of the latter (be reminded: the latter just means the sell-out road) any day of the week, and twice on Masturbation Day (for me, most days are Masturbation Day, but you get the picture). 

Side note: I'm making assumptions here, let it be stated. Who knows how many big-tittied fans Max had or has, or how many of those big-tittied fans actually thrust them (the titties) into his face. I mean for fuck sake, the dude is a writer. Dumb girls don't read enough to recognize his wit. And in all honesty, I haven't a damn clue what his signing check looked like, or the caliber of his negotiated royalties for that matter. I'm assuming people, yes it's what us generalizing idiots do. Why the titty references? Read the book. 

But back to the case at hand. To bring you up to speed: This book is comprised of vignettes whereby Max accounts several years of his youth (early twenties), primarily during his stint as a law student at Duke, which were replete with (I'm in denial that it might be typical) outrageous young-man fare: casual sexathons involving degradation of women, drinking in excess until vomiting out the stomach lining that no longer exists, staying out all hours of evenings, heckling policemen, shouting out hurtful obscenities to innocent strangers, and the list goes on, but perhaps by now you feel me. 

So who cares right? This guy is just a writer (jesus, as a writer, writing 'just a writer' makes my stomach churn, but I'm trying to think in the eyes of the world) right? Whatever works to sell a book, hey? Sure. Who cares about integrity and dignity and all that horse shit? We want to sell a book! 

The answer is: I care. Don't get me wrong, I thought his book was fantastic. So much so that I sent him an email to tell him such; that I appreciated his willingness to put himself on the line. That I identified with his voice, that he reminded me that there were writers who were writing shit as crass and sexual as my mind tends to take me, and doing it well. Bravo, was the essential thrust. And then I signed off, telling him that because I have small breasts and I am intelligent, I'm probably not his type. Presumption Capital, that's where I live, baby. 

What did Max reply with? Send me your pic, I'll tell you if you're my type. Turns out I did, in one of which I was with a greasy, French ex-boyfriend. Max apparently finds everything within a thousand-mile radius of anything French horrifying and useless to say the least, and so his reply: You were right--not my type (though I'm sure my girl-next-door, every day 'look' didn't appeal to his 'where's the dumbest, most saline-breasted, sluttiest, commonly clueless-looking chick to fuck?' sensibilities). And there I go judging him again. Shit I don't even know the guy, he's probably a changed man. If it's true, good for you, Max. I hope you find intimate bliss with a woman whose sense of humor is as sharp as yours. 

I guess in actuality, I have no point. You read all of my bullshit for me to tell you that I have no point. I don't mean it. The point is, while reading Max's book, it was the voice that I identified with. The truth of history veritably dripping all over his words. The candid, witty dialogue. The honest telling of sheer cruelty, both to women and to people in general, and let's face it everyone: we love to see people being cruel as much as we love looking at car wrecks--that we're not involved in. 

I only say that Max is a sell-out because he has gained public recognition for exposing himself as a heartless individual; one who tells outrageous stories to be recognized by the media, one who lacks compassion, a strong sense of remorse or spiritual awareness. 

But on the other hand, I'm not too naive to think I even know what I'm talking about, enough to call his shit out. The truth is, it takes all types to make this world go 'round. When we come up to the decision line as artists, we don't think 'shit I am ratting out on my integrity by putting myself out there,' what we are thinking, even someone as wounded as Max, is, 'I have a story to tell, I'm willing to tell the unabashed truth...and the world deserves to hear it.' 

At least, that's what I'd like to think. I have about a sliver of idealism left in my jaded spirit; and I'll fight tooth and nail to hold onto it.

Check out this book. The voice is good...and it will make you laugh. 

Oh Yes Baby, That's the Spot

Before I set out to make any type of point, I must lay forth this disclaimer: I do not consider myself an intellectual. While in graduate school pursuing creative nonfiction at DePaul University here in Chicago, I engaged in all sorts of writing workshops, whereby handfuls of students sat around and dove into the process of tearing apart manuscripts; sometimes seemingly as if by way of machete. We tore, but did we then edit our own work? Or did we think of how we would talk and tear more, and put off personal writing and editing?

Because during this process, a big part of what we were missing out on was this: With any artistic pursuit, the key to focus must be directed at listening to what happens inside of the soul. I've heard about--and seen--all sorts of manuscripts involving writers who tried to cram into stylistic boxes that were simply the wrong size. In a recent conversation I had with a dear, filmmaker friend, I told him, regarding forcing my work to be something that it wasn't meant to be, 'It's like trying to shove a dick inside of me that just isn't gonna fit!' Ouch.

But the references I make to boxes, including those of the vaginal variety, however, are somewhat poor--forgive the bad pun here--'fits' for this little chat we're having. Because writing, or producing anything of creative merit, isn't about trying to fit into a box at all, or any space that contains boundaries. What we must establish for ourselves, is the ability to live without limits; to exercise our personal liberties and authentic senses of self potential.

The unfortunate truth is that many writers want to be recognized by the world. As a result, they scour the markets for what's 'working' these days, they 'mimic' stylistic devices set forth by renown authors, they consume politics, hoping that if others will understand references to popular culture, these writers will in turn be accepted into popular society, and--with the goal in mind, the big time, the lottery ticket--ultimately become rich, loved, and famous. But what's horribly wrong with this picture?

The problem is that to try to get yourself into a market where you just don't belong could become analogous to marrying a man or woman who you wouldn't fuck with your best friend's equipment. It will not bring about self-fulfillment. For instance, earlier in this piece, I made references to dicks and vaginas. But for some of you, this may have been shocking, since I began the article by talking about the intellectualism of many, pardon my french, 'fucking haughty' intellectuals who think there is one way to go about pursuing art and one way only: to talk about it and then never produce!

But I've found, after over twenty years of personal writing, that it fits for me to do this; to not only talk, but to write about dicks, pussies, sex, and sweaty passion. That's what gets me going. That's what will get my ass into the chair to make shit happen. It's not about wondering if anyone will even read this, or trying to consider what market it will fit into. To be honest, if we could imagine ourselves fitting perfectly into one market, might we be doing something wrong? Because to say that we belong perfectly somewhere, is also to say that others might be exactly like us. And sorry to burst your bubble, but that's simply not possible. If you haven't explored your magnificent uniqueness, then you probably have some excavating to do. You are unique, you just might not yet know it. But get out there and realize it!

I guess what it all comes down to is a question: Are you interested in finding your c-for-creative c-spot? If you're okay with jumping on the train of 'they say' and 'this has to work because I saw it work for Betty or Joe,' then I support you. I do. I hope you find glimmer and glitz and fame and superficial, insignificant prosperity. Was that my inside voice? I personally will stay on track with my own racket: Doing whatever it is I do; cooking up sexual metaphors, daydreaming about sex, putting off for one more day researching the publishing industry, and writing as much as my hands and brain will allow each day, praying that eventually, I'll find the way to break my voice into the world, and go to bed each night with a nice purrrr...not because my sexual partner is going down on me, but because I know that after searching and talking and masturbating and crying, I finally found a spot that fits for my work...the spot where people realize that I am not an intellectual, and nobody else is like me...and I like it like that.

Happy c-spot hunting...

The Girl's Frozen Lover

There once was a girl who fell deeply in love with a man. Trouble was, this man's heart was partially frozen over. Now after the girl and the man met, they were in love with each other for a short time. Fireworks, oral sex, nights on the town, whatever you imagine. But eventually, the ice in the man's chest began to spread; misunderstandings commenced, emotions ran rampant, and the girl found herself plummeting into a pit for people who had lost their self control.

In this pit, a decrepit old lady approached the girl and asked, How did you fall down here, little miss? The girl, bleary eyed from heartbreak, said, My lover's heart froze over... And then the girl's words trailed off, as she surveyed the dimensions of the pit, craning her neck in each direction. As her gaze landed on the pit's rocky floor, the girl continued...I couldn't love him enough.

Oh no, little miss. I'm sure that's a trailer park full of horsewash, the old lady said. Everyone knows that up there, love melts ice anywhere on a man. But the girl shook her head feverishly and said, Nuh uh, not true. I served him love every chance I found. Here, here's some love. Tell me how I can help you, I would say. Or, Do you want me to go down on you? Here's more love. How is your sick grandfather, Ernie  doing? Do you want to go see that new Batman movie that's coming out? Can we hang out? I'd like to know how you're doing.

The girl's eyes glistened, but she would not give into her tears. After all, her integrity had taken a big hit by falling into this dirty pit in the first place. But he wasn't having it, the girl continued. Go away! He would storm. No! I'm busy with work, and I don't care to be tempted by you! Just...let me be, he would say to me. Time and time again, he said the same thing: Let me be.

The old lady furled her brow and asked, So was your boyfriend's sick pops a looker? No, sorry what I meant was, twisted sister, why wouldn't you leave the poor fella alone? I did, the girl replied. But my love for him continued to grow, despite his freezing heart. And so I would go back and try again, thinking love would have to win. He would have to care eventually. Love wins every race, right? I mean, you're an old ba--the girl started, and then stopped herself. You've lived for a long time, the girl said. Maybe you know what I'm doing wrong?

Little sister, why in the hell do you think I'm in here? I married a snowman! The girl was aghast. She began to panic. But then she looked around at all of the zombies that surrounded her in the pit. If she did flip out, at least she'd be among good, sympathetic company. Does love really not beat out an iced-over heart? Is there no way to reign if love is on your side? And then, the girl lost her cool entirely. She shook the old lady's arms and said, WILL I EVER BE LOVED THE WAY I DESERVE TO BE LOVED!!??

The old lady calmly freed herself from the girl's white-knuckled grip, stroked the girl's long, dark locks, offered a soothing, shhhh, and said in the girl's ear, flatly and quietly: Probably not during your pit-dwelling lifetime, little miss. But don't despair; there's a helluva bar down here, and most of the time, the drink specials are good enough to knock your ice-man's balls off!

Isn't it Funny...

It's baffling how diversified this world is. With all the creative choices we have in the way of living our lives, it's a surprise we can understand each other at all; what with each individual's personality as unique as an about-to-orgasm expression.

But there's another hand, which is that we live in a cooperating and collaborative democratic society. So there are several truths in life; codes for operating that we've come to accept. One of the most commonly encountered looks something like this...

Imagine you're trying to get a creative (part time) job. You submit some piece of a portfolio to represent your style, e.g. photos, graphics, writing, design blueprints, whatever you like. You spend all day trying to polish this shit. By the way, two things: 1) They say this assignment shouldn't take you more than two hours, but fuck it. You want this gig, you spend seven on it. 2) You're confident when you send it in that you have a 98% chance of landing this thing.

For three days, you check your email like you're a god damn hawk. Where could they be? One day delay could be good. Three is just looking bad. Finally the email comes. 'Sorry, we went with another artist. Thanks for your time.' But here's where the 'isn't if funny...' comes in. We accept, if we are to act like sane people, that we can't write a follow-up email that looks like:

'Shit man, that's too bad. I was really gonna show some things to that company. I was gonna wow you, man. You wouldn't have been sorry. But now, now it looks like you just blew it. Well you know what? I hope your fucking grandmother finally falls flat from that smoking addiction. I hope your wife fucks your brother. I hope you fall down a dry well!'

That's just not professional. It will not help you achieve your dreams, I assure you. Instead, what we accept, if we have a good handle on things, is that we nod our heads when we read the rejection email/letter, and say to ourselves, this means something else out there is coming. And this is true, this shit is definitely true.

So as I mentioned, there are all sorts of ways to react to things like rejection (and I mean all sorts of rejection). But there's really only one way to do it that will put you on the path to the next big step: walk away...and say nothing.

Get thee to Chicago Underground Comedy...

Tuesdays: 9pm

Beat Kitchen: 2100 W. Belmont

Check this scene out. Chicago Underground Comedy is one of best comedy gigs in town; and I've been to several. Great eclectic mix of acts including singing, skits, and traditional stand-up. You won't be sorry you rolled by! I went last night as a virgin to the event and I laughed out loud (I have a loud laugh) the entire time. 

The Key(s) to Life

Figure out a way to not give a shit what others think about you. How this can be achieved: by realizing everything (yes every little thing) that happens is about perspective. 

The Power of 'One Day'

Do you ever get to the point during your days when you want to toss in the towel because you feel so overwhelmed with life? Maybe your significant is demanding too much of your time, or you've fallen behind at work. Perhaps you hate yourself because you seem to drink every night, or as much as you try, you can't evade buying a pack of cigarettes once a day. I have a simple strategy to allay these feelings of anxiety: exercise the power of 'one day.'

It needn't be about developing a plan to reconstruct your entire life. You don't have to break up with your girlfriend or boyfriend or profess to your mother, who won't get off your tail to come and visit, that you no longer want to have anything to do with her. All you must do is make a conscious effort to 'get shit done for one solitary day.' 

I'm a huge fan of lists. In the morning, or the eve of the 'one day,' jot down a few things you'd like to attack. Maybe this line-up looks something like: 1) No text messaging 2) Finish laundry, or at least ten of the twenty loads that have stacked up 3) No beers or cigarettes all day, if I want to return to one or both the second day, then so be it 4) Complete x portion of a work project I am working on 5) Devise a list of possible things I could make of my (in this moment seems to be) hopeless life. EDITORIAL NOTE: You are not hopeless, and try to remember that what you tell yourself puts you in a better stead to manifest it, whether it be positive or negative. I suggest you focus on the positive. 

Get lots of sleep before your big day. That way, you won't fight your commitment while battling a hangover, or struggle additionally to ward off the chemical reaction that typically comes about after long nights of drinking, resulting in feelings of self-defeat. Make your one day count. After all: you wouldn't pound the town before a big race would you? What if you were an olympic athlete? Pretend, just for this day, that you're a champion. You fucking rock.

Make sure your list is REALISTIC. If you set forth too many goals, you could become frustrated at the end of the day when you don't get through the lot. Don't pain if this happens; simply schedule another 'one day' as soon as you can. I guarantee that you will feel like more of a person after a mere day of productivity. If you feel you don't have time to schedule one tiny little day for yourself, then you might consider seeing a therapist. Your problems could be bigger than you; it's possible that you're--at the moment--tightly wound, and simply need a bit of objective perspective. Perhaps this here excerpt will be the first step toward that. Best wishes!