because i'm good enough, i'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me

.

so i'm talking to a friend the other day and he tells me his therapist has assigned him the task of doing affirmations between sessions--no doubt he expected me to laugh along with him about such touchy-feely, new age nonsense.


imagine his shock when instead i said, "don't scoff--affirmations work, and you should totally do them."


this stopped him for a minute, and then he slowly asked, in a voice dripping with sarcasm and disbelief, "and you, mr. cynical, would know this... how?"

 *     *     *     *     *

picture it:  silverlake, 2005

so i'm dating this guy and he's slim and hot and i'm not, and neither of us particularly cares until this happens, and then i'm all like, i gotta lose some weight.

understand:  i deal with food just like those overly made-up and perfectly-coiffed fat women who fill the audience on oprah:  i love sugar, i love salt, i crave carbs and fat, and i eat to fill the void.  i can generally handle a healthy regimen for about a week, and then i say fuck it and binge.

so knowing a diet's not gonna work, i'm forced to look for another way.  i find a website telling me affirmations would effortlessly make me thin; didn't believe it, but figure what can it hurt?  i find a pad of paper, grab a pen.


for an affirmation to take hold in your subconscious mind, the website tells me, it must be written in the present tense, as if the behavior change you're trying to effect has already happened.  i think for a minute, write

i am in total control of what i put in my mouth

and then laugh, because that statement couldn't be more completely and ridiculously untrue.  never fear, the website tells me--make it as out-there as you want; go for broke!

so i pick up my pen and add a couple dashes followed by another outrageous lie:

eating right comes easy to me

and then, just to make it completely surreal, i stick a big, fat exclamation point at the end.

now all you have to do, the website assures me, is write your affirmation 20 times each day, while repeating it to yourself with great enthusiasm.  and before you know it, you're on your way to a healthy new behavior!

yeah.

by about the third day, 20 times is too much for my lazy ass, so i cut it down to 10, and i'm barely mumbling the thing to myself as my pen moves across the paper, and between each repetition i pause and say, "this is such bullshit"--but in my own half-ass way, i persevere.

and even though i only spend about five minutes a day writing it, i find the phrase coming into my head at odd times throughout the day--i even make a dumb little song out of it when i run.

the thing about real-life change is, it's never like in movies or TV--there's no sudden, dramatic shift in music or lighting or camera angles to tell you something has happened. in my case, i just looked up one day a couple months after i started the affirmations and realized i'd gone through all the notches on my belt, and i'd need to grab an old one outta my drawer if i wanted to keep my pants up.

and then i thought back, tryin to recall the last time i'd had a coke or a donut or any of that other crap at work, and i honestly couldn't remember.  wow--eating right truly had come easy to me.

*     *     *     *     *

so how did this sweet story end?  well, (a) sam and i broke up (for the third or twelfth time, i don't remember which), and (b) around that time, i shitcanned the affirmations, figuring i had the eating problem licked once and for all.


within about a month, i'm guzzling coke and popping peanut m&m's again, and my "thin" belt is back in the drawer, too small once more.


which brings me to the other thing this experience taught me about real-life change: when the thing you couldn't believe would ever happen actually happens, how quickly you take it for granted.  the website told me i'd have to reinforce my new behavior with at least three months of daily affirmations--but once it was working, i couldn't be bothered anymore.


so, to my dubious friend, i say, "give it a shot--and when it starts to work, make sure you stick with it."


and to those dubious readers who still think i make this shit up,

i really don't.

a walk down memory lane

.



boy, this shot takes you back, doesn't it?  eight years of  "murderer!" and "nazi!" directed at the previous president, and nary a peep from the media or the leadership of the opposition as to how this sorta inflammatory, vitriolic hate-speech might, god forbid, incite violence against him.  guess since he was a nazi murderer and all, it was justified, right?

[for a truly breathtaking display of the whole panoply of non-inflammatory, non-vitriolic and totally civil "kill bush" images and words, click here--i promise it'll be as eye-opening for you as it was for me, because the media and lefty blogs sure as hell didn't evince any alarm or outrage over this shit (much less give it any coverage) when it was happening]

more recently, there was the way the media covered the discovery channel guy

y'know, the guy who strapped bombs around his body and took hostages.  an act of domestic terrorism?  nah--inconveniently, the guy was a non-white tree-hugger, and god knows the media won't tar any minority or any movement even remotely associated with the left with the "t" word.  were his wacko fantasies inflamed by all the hysterical "climate change" rhetoric we've all been marinating in for the last ten years?  never even brought up--crazed gunman, isolated incident.  case closed.

and before him, there was the inconveniently-muslim US army major nidal hasan

you remember him--mowed down 13 people at fort hood whilst screaming allahu akbar!,  but we were hastily assured by the media and the obama justice department that, rather than an act of domestic terrorism, this was merely an isolated incident involving a disturbed individual who couldn't possibly have been moved to violence by the inflammatory, vitriolic, jihadist hate-speech spouted by the extremist factions of his religion.  case closed.

so, knowing all this, anybody wanna hazard a guess as to why--within 30 minutes of determining nothing more than that the tucson shooter was a young, white male--the democrats, the mainstream media and every idiot liberal blogger on the interwebs were shrieking to the world that this was clearly an act of domestic terrorism inspired by the inflammatory, vitriolic hate-speech spewed by the tea party and the anti-illegal immigrationistas?

actually, never mind--i'll tell you why:  they desperately need a new timothy mcveigh to kill the fledgling grassroots limited-government movement with guilt by association, and they won't rest until they have a square peg they can jam into their round hole.

thing that kills me is, even as the truth has emerged about jared lee loughner--that, like so many assassins, he was a twisted loner whose politics, if any, had little to do with his murderous fixation on a public figure--far as the media and the left are concerned, it's still all dumbass sarah palin's fault for putting crosshairs on a goddam map.

*     *     *     *     *

it wasn't 9/11 that hurt us as a nation [yeah, it was bad, but in the overall scheme of horrific things that happen to nations, it wasn't that bad].  no, it was our hysterical over-reaction to 9/11 that truly hurt us--cursed us with the PATRIOT act, homeland security,  the ruinous wars in iraq and afghanistan. 

i.e., because the right effectively exploited our fear, we willingly traded our freedoms and our treasure for the illusion of safety.

today? an isolated shooting in arizona is being exploited by the left in order to serve the same ends.  at issue: the ability to regulate what you can see, say and hear, and whether or not you can own a gun--all, of course, in order to keep you "safe".

me?  i'll keep what's left of my freedoms and take my chances with the jared lee loughners of the world--i can only hope the majority of americans still feel the same.

yeah, but would i want her as a mother?

.

i have always been awed by women like amy chua.  at 48, this ivy-league magna cum laude graduate has managed to become a full professor at the top law school in the country, write two critically-acclaimed books on geopolitics, maintain a home and husband and raise two "perfect" children--all while remaining thin and gorgeous.

the true magnitude of this accomplishment only became clear when the lengths to which she went to ensure the perfection of said children was revealed last week in a wall street journal excerpt from her new book--i mean, when you dedicate yourself to the full-time task of making your kids' lives a living hell, how could you possibly have time for all that other shit?

well, she pulls it off--the article, modestly titled why chinese mothers are superior, is a must-read for not only you, my four readers, but every half-assed parent in america whose precious high-school graduate can't find his own ass with both hands.
 
there are so many pull quotes i hardly know where to start, but here are my favorites:

Here are some things my daughters, Sophia and Louisa, were never allowed to do:

• attend a sleepover

• have a playdate

• be in a school play

• complain about not being in a school play

• watch TV or play computer games

• choose their own extracurricular activities

• get any grade less than an A

• not be the No. 1 student in every subject except gym and drama

• play any instrument other than the piano or violin

• not play the piano or violin.

sounds bleak, huh?  yeah, i thought so, too.  but wait, there's more:

If a Chinese child gets a B—which would never happen—there would first be a screaming, hair-tearing explosion. The devastated Chinese mother would then get dozens, maybe hundreds of practice tests and work through them with her child for as long as it takes to get the grade up to an A.

wow.  how much more antithetical to the ethos of today's typical american parent--whose fear of their childrens' wrath seemingly overrides any prediliction for strictness on their part--could that be?

What Chinese parents understand is that nothing is fun until you're good at it. To get good at anything you have to work, and children on their own never want to work, which is why it is crucial to override their preferences.

but what about damage to the child's precious self-esteem?

Western parents are concerned about their children's psyches. Chinese parents aren't. They assume strength, not fragility, and as a result they behave very differently.

and finally, the money quote (for me, anyway):

[M]any Chinese secretly believe that they care more about their children and are willing to sacrifice much more for them than Westerners, who seem perfectly content to let their children turn out badly.

and that really is the bottom line.

the stereotype has always been that the asians produce scholastically-excellent conformists, whereas the american educational system produces the sort of creative individualists who made this country great.

yeah, keep telling yourselves that, america--maybe if you repeat it often enough, it'll still be true.

if ms. chua's (and, by extension, her culture's) child-rearing methods seem extreme to you (and even to me)?  well, they probably are.  but i bet your grandparents wouldn't have thought so.

seriously, read the article--it is a tour de force of irony, self-awareness and hard truth.

gerry rafferty, 1947-2011

.
i'll let everybody else in the blogosphere and elsewhere posthumously pee down both legs over stuck in the middle and baker street.

me?  i'll focus instead on a couple far more obscure songs which first made me suspect (a) how talented this guy really was





and (b) how he probably idealized his childhood just like me [steamboat row, in the following clip]





[which second point would only be confirmed when i read this obit earlier today]

RIP, you talented, tortured, drunken soul.

because this is what made me laugh today

According to Dr David Viner, a senior research scientist at the climatic research unit of the University of East Anglia, within a few years winter snowfall [in northern europe] will become "a very rare and exciting event".

"Children just aren't going to know what snow is," he said.

from a march 30, 2000 independent article entitled
"snowfalls are now just a thing of the past"

 as you consider the above quote, from an article similar in its alarmist tone to thousands of others written during the golden age of global-warming hysteria, i invite you to peruse the following images which beautifully capture the weather conditions which are presently paralyzing northern europe:

and then i want all you true believers--you know, those of you who didn't wake up when they had to change the spin from global "warming" to global "climate change"

i.e., those of you who are not laughing along with me

to ask yourselves the following simple question:  if climate scientists can't even accurately predict what the climate's gonna be like in a mere ten years, how could you possibly believe they can tell us where we're gonna be in a hundred?

and then get back to me--i'm waiting.

ghost story

all i have to say about the following story is what i said back then, and what i will maintain unto my grave:  (a) andrew was a singularly supple piece of ass; and (b) that motherfucker moved without any goddam help from me.

*     *     *     *     *

weho, 1992 (or thereabouts)

i still remember how it all started: i was fuckingdating this hot, snarky little blond south african number, to whom my roommate-at-the-time paul took a particular shine. one day when he was over at the house, paul roped him into a discussion of one of his favorite subjects: the paranormal.

having heard it all before, i tried to head him off, but was too late--turns out andrew was into all that shit, and before i knew it, my other roommate royce was involved and the three of 'em had a pre-party seance planned for the following saturday night.

after andrew left, i remember asking 'em what the fuck, and they told me not to worry--it'd be fun.

when i inquired as to how exactly we would be communicating with the spirit world and paul whipped out his ouija board, i couldn't help it--i burst out laughing, even though i knew that was a mistake.

see, it was always two-against-one in that house.  as the guy who was there only because they needed a third, i had met paul exactly once before the three of us moved into 841 north crescent heights boulevard, and royce only on the day of.

they, on the other hand, had known each other for years, were several years younger and had been out forever--and took every opportunity to remind me of same.

oh, and the other thing they had in common?  paul and royce were both poz back when that was still a death sentence--which perilous status, they explained to me on that particular day, had conferred upon them them an extrasensory sensitivity unknown to the rest of us mere mortals.

"let's just say we're both on speaking terms with the other side, mike," paul told me, "but royce is closer."  royce confirmed this with a solemn nod.

when i snorted again, paul asked, "you ever play with a ouija board when you were a kid?"

"of course i did--that's why i find this shit so ridiculous."

"c'mere--sit across from me."

to humor him, i pulled up a chair, did as he asked.  he balanced the board on our knees, we rested our fingertips on the planchette and, working together, spent a few minutes spelling out words royce called out.

it was every bit as slow and jerky a process as i remembered--even a simple word like "cat" required concentration and the coordination of two people's movements in searching out each letter on the board.

"see how hard it is when you consciously try to do it?"

when i nodded, he smiled, replaced the board in its box and said, "remember that when saturday night rolls around, ok?"

i had no idea what he meant, but i'd find out soon enough.

*     *     *     *     *

by the time saturday night did roll around, word had gotten out--we had a full house.  the lights were dimmed, candles lit, margaritas flowing and chattering fags jammed into every available nook and cranny.  not exactly an atmosphere conducive to conjuring up spirits, i thought to myself, but whatever.

the stage was set:  the furniture in the living room had been pushed to the periphery, and two opposing dining-room chairs set up at its center, with a third off to the side for the guy who'd be recording the spirit's every utterance on a legal pad [me, as it turned out].

when the time came, paul called for quiet, and he and royce took their places.

they sat across from each other so close that their feet were almost touching, and balanced the board on their knees.  upon this shaky foundation was laid the planchette, upon which the tips of their fingers came to rest.

as the room fell silent, paul called out, "is there anybody out there?  i'm sure this old house has some stories to tell."

nothing.

paul repeated the question, and waited--again, nothing.

this went on for several minutes, as the crowd grew increasingly raucous--when all of a sudden, the pointer jerked violently across the board to 'yes,' and royce said, "ah, we've got a live one."

the laughter stopped, and the room got very quiet.

our spirit's name, as it turned out, was jackrabbit, and he "answered" questions--from royce and paul, and from the audience at large--for almost an hour.

and boy, was he a chatterbox--i was writing down each letter the pointer stopped at, and i swear to god it was moving so fast i could barely keep up. i further swear that royce and paul's eyes were closed--hell, they weren't even looking down; there was no way they were doing this on their own, and the answers to each person's question were too weirdly on-point to be made up.

paul tired pretty quickly, so several of us took turns at the board, sitting across from royce, with varying degrees of success. some couldn't get the thing to move at all, and others could barely keep it on the board.

me?  i'll never forget the feeling that came over me when i took my place across from royce, placed my fingers on the planchette, someone called out a question--i don't remember what--and that goddam thing flew across the board, completely independent of any conscious effort on my part.  but once it happened, and i accepted that it was happening, it was almost like good sex--i just let go, and let the spirit take me where it would.

please remember--up to this point i had been about as sensitive to the "spirit world" as a pile of rocks, and this was my first tangible inkling that maybe there was something out there after all, even if it was nothing more than a collective consciousness we were tapping into.

anyway, as the alcohol flowed and the crowd's awe faded, the questions became silly, and the session ended when jackrabbit's answers began to take on a childish, petulant tone that quickly degenerated into dark, violent threats against a couple of the biggest wise-asses.  royce, who had warned us earlier to be respectful, said the spirit wasn't happy about not being taken seriously.

whatever--bottom line, what had started out as lighthearted fun turned ugly and scary just as fast, and we quit, headed out for the bars, and those of us who weren't already got shitfaced as quickly as possible.

*     *     *     *     *

we talked about doing it again, but somehow never got around to it--life, as it has a tendency to do, intervened.

andrew and i parted ways shortly thereafter.

royce, turns out, was closer to the other side than any of us knew.  his undoing--paul and i both tried to talk him out of it--would prove to be a late-term circumcision gone awry

a white-faced paul after viewing the damage: "lemme put it this way--if he ever wants a blowjob again, he'll have to drive to silverlake"

the resulting infection from which ultimately killed him.

i'd move out a few months after that, leaving paul with two new roommates--the legendary dougs--to fill the void royce and i left in our wake.

ultimately, paul himself would abandon 841 and move in with his friends rod and tim--who, while they welcomed him with open arms, wouldn't allow the ouija board under their roof.

which is how it ended up in my possession, forgotten until today.

my only regret is that i didn't clean out this corner of the garage a little earlier--this woulda been a perfect halloween post.

sandwich, anyone?

.

my mother was alive, although a mere tot, when the last american double eagle was minted.  just shy of a full ounce of gold, it was a thing of beauty:

and it was worth twenty american dollars--i.e., this damn thing was spending money.

of course, if you didn't wanna walk around with a bunch o' huge, clunky gold coins in your pockets, you could, like most people, use the infinitely-more convenient greenback instead



secure in the knowledge that, anytime you wanted, you could freely switch between the two.  because, as it had been since its inception, every american paper dollar in circulation--as it said right there on its face--was fully redeemable in an immutably-fixed amount of gold.

by the time my mother was eating solid food, that was no longer true--americans had by then been forced by their government to surrender their gold, given $20 and change for each ounce they possessed, and then left to watch in helpless dismay as that same government then hiked the exchange rate to $35 an ounce, thus (a) granting itself the ability to print tons of new dollars, which had the effect of (b) instantly diminishing its own citizens' wealth by almost half.

nice, huh?  all done in the name of patriotism, of course--and thus, dollar inflation was born.

we kept it in check for awhile, but only because our international trading partners weren't as easily cowed as our citizens--having gold-backed currencies themselves, they demanded the same from us.  and thus, gold remained internationally redeemable at $35 per ounce for almost 40 more years.

what changed?  simple:  the french, shrewdly realizing by the late 60's that we were running huge trade deficits and couldn't possibly be paying for the vietnam debacle without printing far more dollars than could be redeemed at a mere $35/oz, started demanding gold instead of greenbacks in settlement of trade.  this drain on fort knox went on until 1971, when nixon finally said "fuck it" and closed the gold window.

and thus, freed from the shackles of the gold standard, america fired up the printing presses and never looked back.

*     *     *     *     *

silver?  now, silver was different--a relatively cheap, unappreciated metal, silver remained the american coin of the realm well into my childhood.  quarters, dimes, half-dollars--they were all 90% silver until 1965.



until, that is, the money-sucking military-industrial complex swung into full gear, and that quickly changed.  i still remember how they sold our money's sudden new debasement to the american people:




see?  we were "saving" silver with these new coins.  they even had a cute name--they were called "sandwich" coins, for the fact that, instead of the solid silver of the originals, they consisted of a thick copper core, with a thin coating of cheap nickel on each side (i.e., not a speck of silver to be found).

i remember when they came into circulation, all the kids at school couldn't wait to trade their stodgy old silver coins for the neat new sandwich versions because they were so shiny and cool.  but we were just dumb kids--what did we know?

in retrospect, it's the reaction of the adults of america to the new coins that's so goddam disheartening.  most of 'em were old enough to remember when their gold had been taken away a mere 30 years before, but even with that memory fresh in their minds, they let their silver be stolen with nary a whimper.

*     *     *     *     *

today?

it would take seventy-one $20 bills to buy that same ounce of gold a single twenty woulda bought you in 1933.

the silver ratio's not as extreme--you can still pick up a pre-1965 silver quarter for only twenty-two of today's copper/nickel quarters--a bargain, you ask me.

why did i write this post?  because i'm tired of being called glenn beck, and because i'm tired of hearing all this bullshit from the government and the economists and the pseudo-intelligentsia about how gold and silver are barbarous relics which have no place in today's "modern" monetary system.

but mainly, because i'm tired of americans looking at "inflation" as just a commonplace occurrence, like the weather or something.  because it's not--it's a systematic, carefully calculated theft of your wealth.

eighty years ago, folks, gold was money in america--and forty-five years ago, silver was, too.

and you know what?  regardless of how much these assholes try to convince you otherwise, they still ARE money--in fact, the only money that matters.

a fact that's gonna become only more apparent in the coming months--trust me.