Monday, September 28, 2009

Facebook, take me back?


Facebook, what can I say? I’m sorry. I made a mistake. That’s what it comes down to. I don’t know why I thought I could ever leave you. You’re beautiful Facebook. You’re gorgeous. And we work so well together. I beg you, Facebook. Please take me back. Oh God Facebook, please. Take me back. I can’t live without you.

We’ve been talking every night since I left. Hell, it’s not like I ever left you. I’d log on at least once a day. After that first night I knew it was a mistake to break up with you. I knew from the way you graciously accepted my log in, allowed me to view whoever I pleased, let me creep on profiles, even after I said I was done. You could have ignored me. And you had every right to. But you were the bigger person Facebook. You graciously let into your world even after I wanted to break it off with you. You’re so giving Facebook. So loving.

I was just trying to get out on my own; to live without you. But I was wrong. It’s a bitter, lonely world without you. I don’t have any friends. I don’t get along with people in the real world. You want to know the cold hard truth Facebook? People are ugly in real life. Your photo albums show the great side of people, the bright and sunny side. With you everyone looks tan and sculpted. Some people say it’s deceiving, that people only put their best pictures up, but who cares? So what if Donna Noles is 25 pounds heavier in real life. Who cares if Dan Bryant hasn’t uploaded a photo in the 3 years because he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s balding? Reality is harsh and ugly Facebook. You are my reality. You are my lifeline Facebook.

You want to know what I did without you? I watched Frasier, ate ice cream and cried, Facebook. I had whole hours with nothing to do. I resorted to watching “Failed Marriage Proposals” on YouTube to pass the time. I was distraught. I missed our nights together. Your tender soft caress. The way you always know just what to say to cheer me up.

“Come in Brett,” you would say. “Stay as long as you want. Feeling blue? Don’t worry, I got just the thing. That’s right, 125 new pictures of Jenny Crowley. She’s in a bikini for most of the album. You know something else, Brett? Guess who from your highschool got fat and lost their job. Come take a look, it might surprise you. I know just the thing to raise your spirits Brett.”

I missed those nights Facebook. I missed you and I missed those nights.

I know things have changed. I’m cool with it. I understand that you are a networking tool. I understand that I will get less and less invitations to events like, “John’s Jammin Triple Kegger Bash,” and more invites to“Tina and Tony’s Baby Shower”. Life changes. Our relationship is progressing. It’s not sad, it’s life. I was scared to grow so I thought I had to break it off. I thought I could shelter myself from change. You’re right Facebook, I was selfish. I know you don’t have to take me back. But what would I do without you? Where would I be? Would I have 386 friends? I think not. I’d have 6 friends. Maybe. Take me back. I need you Facebook. I need you.

Friday, September 18, 2009

The Perfect Storm


Today, on a cool, breezy day late in the clean-clothes cycle, I face a dreaded perfect storm. Let me explain.

I have enough articles of clothing to last me two weeks without doing laundry. That means I have about 16 pairs of boxer shorts and about the same number of socks. Running out of boxers or socks is typically the only catalyst to for me to go to the laundry mat, since these are the only two critical elements of my wardrobe. I can wear the same pair of jeans until the cows come home, but god help me if I try to wear the same pair of boxers two days in a row.

As I am coming towards the end of my clean-clothes cycle, today I had to choose between the last two pairs of boxer shorts. It was a choice between the old pair, with the elastic worn and tattered, or the pair with the liberal fly opening. I chose the pair with the big opening. Now, boxers with a huge hole for peeing are all well and good, except for the fact that my member pops out of the fly on an average of five times a day. My penis comes out of my boxers and enters the land between boxers and jeans. Frankly, this occurrence is usually more exciting than anything. Nothing like a good ‘penis rubbing up against the cold inside of my zipper’ to put an extra kick in my step. No, I don’t walk around like this all day (I always remedy the situation in the bathroom post-haste), but hey, it’s fun, OK?

But not today. No my friends, not today. Because of a jeans mix up that happened earlier in the week, I’m also stuck wearing a pair of back up jeans. Jeans that are usually out of the rotation because of various technical problems. The jeans with a loose fly that always falls down. I have underwear with a huge opening and pants with a zipper that comes down on its own accord. My penis will breach the surface of both my boxers and my jeans. The perfect storm. I’m not talking about that movie with George Clooney. I’m talking about a potential situation in which my Johnson sees the light of day in a public setting.

“Look at the latest models, sir. We’ve got an underwear pee-hole moving from West to East at an alarming rate. Coincidentally, we have a jean zipper that is coming down from the North. Should these two intersect, well…”

“The perfect storm,” I say. “Utter catastrophe.”

I first noticed it on the train this morning. A shiver went down my back as a larger than normal draft came in through my zipper. Boom. There I sat, my zipper mere inches away from labeling me as a sex offender.

“NO OFFICER. NO. I swear it was the perfect storm. I didn’t mean to expose myself to an entire train car.”

“Tell it to the judge, freak.”

There are certain contingency plans set in place once the potential for a perfect storm has been realized. First, I un-tuck my shirt. This looks mangy in the workplace, but gives me just enough coverage. However, this defense is about as affective as a New Orleans’ levee wall. Second, I tug at my jeans zipper, making sure its up, about every 15 seconds. This action causes me to look weird, and draws attention to my crotch area. Both of these methods are stop gap measures, and there is no fool-proof way to prevent the perfect storm.

So I am in it people. The eye of the beast. Pray for me.
And should it come out, I promise you it won't make a good showing. It's frigid out.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009


Um, listen Facebook, we need to talk.

I’m sorry I haven’t been the same lately. It’s just… I don’t really know how to say this, but, well here goes: It’s over.

No no, it’s not you, it’s me. No, stop crying, it’s not you. That’s right, it’s me. We spend way too much time together, that’s all. I need some time alone. I need some time to think.

Like when? Calm down, stop crying. I will tell you when, Facebook.

Last night instead of reading or writing or listening to music or even hanging out with friends, I was with you. I was looking at picture number 344 of Jenny Crowly’s 1,234 pictures. Actually, I looked at picture numbers 1 through number 456. What’s wrong with that, Facebook? The problem with that is I don’t even know who the fuck Jenny Crowly is.

What do you mean I don’t know who Jenny Crowly is? I mean I literally don’t know who the fuck Jenny Crowly is. Yes, I deduced that too. She is the friend of some girl I made out with my freshman year of college.

Yeah, I remember. Yeah, I liked the girl; she was a good kisser. Yeah, she was way too hot for me. Yes Facebook, I know you’ve helped me stalk girls all these years. Hmm? The girl I made out with? Her name is Jenny McCowen. She loves Fleetwood Mac and likes F. Scott Fitzgerald. Is she religious? Well, that’s not listed. And frankly, judging by her pictures, I wasn’t the first guy she sucked face with at Brandon Cooper’s house. Yes Facebook, you helped me figure out all this stuff. No, I didn’t actually have to talk to her at all. BUT THAT’S THE POINT. I don’t want to know any of this shit. I’m a changed man, I have a girlfriend now. I’m tired of looking at hot friends-of-friends I will never meet. Tired of it, Facebook.

No Facebook, it’s not that. What else? Well for starters, you’re status updates are starting to depress me. They’ve changed; you’ve changed. I’m starting to get older now, and I don’t like change. Instead of people posting, “Helen Thompson is on the boat, getting her drank on! Hit me up,” they’re now posting things like, “Helen Thompson is due in six months,” or “Scott Peterson got his book deal!” This is all well and good, Facebook, but it scares me. Here I am, still getting my drank on, and you have to remind me on a daily basis of how I’m wasting my life. What am I supposed to post, huh? “Brett Cihon is killing cockroaches in his dungeon-like apartment.” How would that look to others? What would the cool kids think?

Wait, what am I talking about? What cool kids? Sometimes Facebook, I think I’m the only one that ever looks at my profile. What do you mean I get messages? That was from my grandma, Facebook. My fucking grandma. You know the last event invite I got, Facebook? It was for a Christian charity event. Some rager that would have been. Ohh wait, I guess my Uncle did invite me to his work’s Christmas party….


Yes, I know I should start using you to network. But frankly, Facebook, I don’t want to network with you. In fact, I don’t want to network at all. Just to be one more kid suckling at the tit of some publishing firm where I’m applying for a, “Competetive Internship (i.e. No Pay). No Facebook, I will never network again. I’m just going to get my drank on.

Hey Facebook, don’t start to yell. OK, fine. I’m sorry I’m being mean, I’m just telling you how I feel. Yeah, I know we’ve had some good times. That time Linda Sampson from Psych 101 messaged me out of the blue. Yeah, we sat next to each other for weeks after that. Or the time someone tagged a picture of my balls and I used it as my profile picture. Great times.

But I’m sorry to tell you this: those times are gone. And they’re never coming back. We’ve just grown apart, that’s all.

Oh no Facebook, don’t be like this. No, I will not have one last romp through Jenny McCowen’s pictures. Those times are dead. Don’t worry, you still have plenty of other users.

Ok well, I think I should get going. Thanks for everything, Facebook. Stop crying, or else I’m going to start. I just… I just have to go. Bye bye, Facebook.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

The Ghost Crapper


I was on the pot thinking about yesterday’s post, and it hit me. “Damn Brett,” I thought, “you might have jumped the gun.” No, I didn’t start to wipe before the last fallen comrade was shot out to sea (isn’t that what they do in the navy, or StarTrek?). I made an assumption about Philip Roth’s novel, The Ghost Writer, based purely on the book’s title.

I guessed that the elder novelist in Roth’s book will get called out for plagiarizing his work. I deduced this solely from the title. Sitting there on my ivory thrown, I speculated how a prediction based solely on the title has a strong probability of turning out wrong.

A title can have everything, or nothing, to do with the book’s happenings. Take, for instance, Sophie’s Choice. This complex and dark National Book Award Winner has a plot so packed with interaction and story, one could hardly imagine being able to summarize the plot with two ‘choice’ words. But the title does just that. People who haven’t read the book (or seen the movie) are still able to pinpoint the pinnacle of the story. This is in part due to the iconic nature of the novel and film, but also because of the book’s title. Sophie has to make a choice. In fact, she has to make perhaps the ultimate choice: deciding which one of her kids lives. The tile has helped us remember the crux of the story, and vis-versa. The simple title goes even beyond her hard choice; it tells about the depressing, realistic, overpowering nature of the book as a whole. If Sophie’s Choice was named Krakow 1944, would the book be so memorable?

Then you have a book like Revolutionary Road. The book focuses on the dysfunctional Wheeler family, who unsuccessfully make their way through the anxious decade that was the 1950’s. Totally a ‘rip your heart out and feed it to the dogs after you watch me have sex with somebody else’ kind of story. But the title Revolutionary Road does little to hint at the heartbreak that lies within. In fact, Revolutionary Road is just the street that Frank and April Wheeler live on. Barely used, hardly mentioned. Thus, the title has a more ambiguous, metaphorical meaning. I, the reader, concluded that Richard Yates named the book Revolutionary Road because it represented the antithesis of what Frank and April where capable of. As much as they liked to envision themselves as revolutionaries, tossing away the shackles of the work-a-day world, they were nothing more than conformists. But if I was a betting man, I would have been wrong. In an interview with the author, Yates claimed he named the book Revolutionary Road because the Wheelers represented the end of revolution in America. 1950’s America, with its highballs and cul-de-sacs, meant the death of America’s progression to Yates. The title has little to do with the Wheelers or even the book, but this certainly doesn’t make the title any less meaningful.

Then you have titles that have nothing to do with a book on a literal level, and their metaphorical meaning is so convoluted, one wonders if the title has anything to do with the book at all. Take Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49 and Gravity’s Rainbow. These titles are mentioned within each novel and ostensibly have something to do with the book; nothing more than a very simple plot advancement or character characteristic. As the book progresses and the title becomes less and less meaningful, you begin to wonder if the title really has anything substantial to do with the book at all. It feels like Thomas is pulling a fast one over you, trying to get you to read more into the title than you should. Then even later, as you start to grasp the ingenuity in Pynchon’s novels, you wonder if he hasn’t named the book to trick the reader on purpose. Getting them to read meaning in things devoid of meaning. This trick lends itself to his obscure and satirical writing and conversely has everything to do with the book. If Pynchon’s book cleverly manipulates the reader, doesn’t it only make sense that the title would too?

There may be a few book titles out there that have absolutely nothing to do with the book, but I can’t think of any off the top of my head. The important fact that I forgot though is this: one isn’t able to predict plot advancements based on the title alone. For all I know, a ghost could come into Roth’s story at any moment, turning the title into a truthful, literal prediction of the plot. Or, the novel will never mention a “ghost writer”, and I will be left to hypothesis about the title’s meaning. I jumped the gun in guessing conclusions from Roth’s book yesterday, and for that, I am sorry.

See all the thinking I get done on the pot? I was so totally engrossed in my thoughts that I forgot to wipe and had to throw out a perfectly fine pair of underwear.

Just kidding.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Shalom


I’ve started to read a novel by Philip Roth. The Ghost Writer focuses on a budding young writer who meets his hero- one of the premiere novelists of the 20th century. Very good stuff here, people.

I should alert you to the fact that this is a fictional tale, but it’s obvious the two characters represent phases in Roth’s life. The rosy-cheeked young’n, fantasizing about spending life in Thoroeauvian solitude, and the older, curmudgeoned writer who argues against waisting life immersed in a fictional world. These characters are likely the personification of feelings Roth holds towards writing. A prolific writer such as Roth must love and hate writing at the same time. The book is a window into the mind of a career writer, and all the successes and failures that come with this sought after title.

What I’m saying is this: this book is essentially metaphorical masturbatory materiel for my non-sexual fantasies. I think of myself as the young writer, struggling to make it. I imagine a future me as the accomplished older writer, distraught with my years of slaving away behind a keyboard. Ohhhhh yeah, baby. Ohhhhh, how many book awards have I won? Six? Ohhh yeah, right there.

There are two problems with the book. First, the title implies that the older writer has plagiarized his work or stolen the bulk of his material from someone else. This isn’t too troubling, just a nice twist in a fun novel.

The second issue: I’m not a Jew. Roth’s writing is riddled with Jewish history and important Jewish names. He uses Yiddish words. Both main characters emphasize their Jewish heritage in their writing. All of this leaves me in the dark. No, I don’t know the name of most early 20th century Zionists. No, I don’t really understand what the word 'Goyish' means. For such a good book, I’m frustrated with my lack of knowledge on Judaism.

God knows I’m almost a Jew. I date a Jewish girl. I enjoy the company of self-effacing individuals. I am circumcised. Certain philistines claim I look like Jerry Seinfeld (younger and sexier, of course). So, I have decided to pretend I’m Jewish for awhile.

That is all, I guess. Mazal tov.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Malware


My computer is crapping out. Finished. Donzo. It was on the fritz for a long time, but now it's near worthless. Like The Dude says about his flame soaked car in the parking lot of the bowling alley, "Well, they finally did it, man. They finally killed my fucking car." It wasn't nihilists burning my 1973 Ford Torino , complete with my Creedence, but viruses reeking havoc on my software. Viruses and Malware.

Am I the only person of my generation never to hear of malware? My technological knowledge is antiquated. I thought I was cutting edge when I could describe the function of spyware, or adware. "I think it just gets into your computer, fucks things up," I would say. Boom. Definition dolled out. But malware? Hottopic and Mr. Rags clothing? Like those post-gothic/rave pants with chains connecting the pant legs, alluding to masochism and reeking of daddy issues? I thought that was malware. Not something that slows down your computer and steals credit card information. Who has time to keep up with all this stuff? Malware, spyware, adware; everything and the kitchen sink.

I tell you what, as technologically unsavvy as I am for a member of my generation, I fixed my computer. Well, only sort of. But at least I can once again access the internet. You know, check my Facebook and watch illegally streamed episodes of The Simpsons. All the things the internet is good for. Without going into the gritty, curse-heavy details of how many hours and the amount of blood, sweat, and tears I pored into fixing my computer, it came down to this: I downloaded a program. I used software to fix my software problem. I found the solution to my computer's internet inability on the internet. The problem and the answer came from the very same place. I mindlessly infected my computer with malware, and I mindlessly downloaded a program that got rid of it. No brain power necessary.

So, I'm back. At least for a little while, until my computer is too crowded with stripjointware to work properly.

In other news:
1. I miss Louis G.
2. I miss my house/cat/family in Olympia.
3. I hate NYC when I'm away from it, but I like it when I'm here.

EDIT: Malware might be pronounced mal, as in malicious software. But who cares? I pronounce it mall, as in "I got to second base with my girlfriend at the mall."

Hopefully more updates soon. Message me if you want to read any of my stories. As per usual, here is the first bit to a new story I'm writing. Rough draft. Click this link.