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| I suppose it's time to stop. Everything comes to an end, and we all have to accept our fate and try to accomplish our goals and dreams and when that happens, when the sun goes down, when the light is fading, it's best to take it all in, breathe deeply, and give up on asking the question *"why?"... and succumb to the darkness.
*I'm always asking "why?", and it seems everyone is always asking the same thing... "why?". I think it's more appropriate to inquire as to "when?" did we start asking "why?", and when will we stop?
Is it that important? My only response to why? is ... because. Because that's the way it is.
So I've given up, cashed my chips in from the 1 dollar blackjack table, and decided it's time to move on. Maybe I'll go to California and complain about earthquakes and the shallowness of man ... I could go to the Midwest and complain about religious fundamentalism and obesity among mall-goers. Or I could go to France and live the life of the glamorous ex-pat drinking good coffee and smoking cigarettes while explaining ESPN to a small gathering of Marxists wearing beanies and stroking their pencil thin mustaches... the truth is that I don't know what to do, but I know that I must move on.
I'm scared out of my mind at this thought. This cocoon is so warm, so comfortable, and yet there is no "You're going to turn into a butterfly soon" guarantee. I'm not lost, I'm not wandering, this is what my life is. I just FEEL lost, I just FELT like I was wandering .... and these non-events piled up to make an Event -- my little life, the Non-Event. Why should I consider myself any different?
Don't answer that. I asked "why?". Damn. It always comes up, doesn't it? Why does "why?" do that? I need a ruling.
But here's The Truth: I need to shave. Stick to what's in front of me. Stop telling stories and get a real job ... become a Man or something. Learn to love Powerpoint presentations. Work. Keep working. Stay at work trying to be a working man. What else is there to do? The rest is all crossword puzzles and self-help books and fighting off the urge to believe in a Higher Power.
I'll try to remember Helen as The Pretty Girl on the Subway, and not the mistress of the CEO -- who I will remember as a cliche of a man, a man who's priorities are a quality club sandwich and hitting a sweet seven iron at Pebble Beach -- I'll try to remember myself as a struggler, a battler, someone who never gave up in the face of insurmountable odds ... even though I didn't follow my bliss or any of that other horse shit. I'll try to remember these years on the couch, in front of televisions, hammering away at a computer in vain, managing to remain unnoticed in an unoticeable company of unoticeable people, as the years of loss, the years of failure, the years that were prologue to a unexpectedly bright future that was laid out for me in the first burst of the cosmos ...
I'll try to remember that all my promise wasn't lost, it was just deferred ... as I popped prescription drugs, endured hours of therapy, and stared in the mirror for hours at a time wondering how the hell I got into this mess and how the hell I was going to get out of it. I'll try to remember that I wasn't alone, it wasn't just me, but it was all of us that were finding our way, staring in the mirror, adrift in a sea of awkward sexual encounters, cheap food, and unspeakable rents. I'll try to remember that all the times I wanted to fall off a tall building, with a clear conscience, and just float down, in peace, leisurely letting gravity pull me to the pavement, these times and urges led me to....
Nowhere. I'm back to the beginning. The end of the beginning of the beginning.
I have nothing else to say. Dried up, spit out, slowly going insane, precociously approaching senility and poor health and day care homes .... why am I different? I'm not.
Why?
Because that's the way it is.
zackfuller
| | |
| where have i been?
i can't get into it. i spent so much time so scared, cursing the day i ever met the Pretty Girl on the Subway, monitoring my vital signs with a bucket of fried chicken at my feet, i'm so pent up and weirded out, but not in good shape, not in good shape at all, dying every minute, and what for? this job i'm too afraid to leave, some chick who couldn't get out of my head, staring out the window, listening to the echoes of the sirens get louder and louder while i wait for i don't know what and.... why did i go to her house UNANNOUNCED, on THANKSGIVING, in an ice storm ... what was I thinking? I was thinking:
a) "sometimes you just have to go for it."
b) "this is the most romantic journey ever trod down"
c) "this shirt looks stupid"
d) "i'm really cold, hungry, and poor and should just be by myself again on thanksgiving."
after it was over (i'm getting there)...
a) "wow"
b) "her sister is pretty cute.
c) "how am i going to get back to the train station?"
d) "it's official:i did it."
So, and after all that, I'm still the same guy: worried out and .... a free falling mannequin off the Williamsburg Bridge, a lonely sap who's been zapped in the head by a family of aliens at birth, a manchild whose soul is aboriginal in nature and is persecuted by the masses each day, the way they look at me as I shuffle the sidewalks in second hand sneakers and .... I'm lonely, I'm alone, I'm forgotten before I was remembered, I'm....
wait. fuck this.
I'm ZACK. I'm irrational. I'm insane. I live on The Edge. I don't play by The Rules. I float through this world and stay just a step away from everyone else's reality, everyone else's priorities and hang ups and freak outs. I'm UNIQUE. There's no other person in the world, in the history of humankind, who remotely resembles me (except Carey Grant). My Moment is coming, I know it, and this is the Prologue, the First Act, chapter 2 of the eight volume biography and six hour PBS documentary about my life. The wringing of my hands and my flop sweat and head banging and panic attacks and the poor decisions of my personal life ... these are anecdotes. Funny stories that a future Morly Safer will do features on, calling on celebrities and historians to laugh and giggle about how silly that ol' Zack was, what a character he was, before he accomplished... I'm still working on that part. That's part of the fun.
I've made it this far, by myself, with no help, being the way I am and I'm never going to stop because
a) I'm still alive
b) I still have all my teeth.
The bar was set too high... my Cousin Joe lives in his parent's trailer home which he has never leaves and watches internet porn and eats Pringles and stares at walls geeked on cheap amphetamines and smokes oregano and is developing juvenile diabetes at age 23. We're, like, way different.
See, The Thing is: up until now, I have had nothing BUT a personal life. So I'm just Greatness in Waiting, in the Lazy Phase, Developing ... and no it doens't matter how old I am. "How old would you be if didn't know how old you are?"? I'm 5 years old.
Even after hearing about Thanksgiving: I'm the same person as I've always been. A beautiful mess. A Picasso sculpture of an existence. But on with Thanksgiving....
So I walk into Helen's family's colonial home. Teeth chattering clickity click click click ... full on shivering like a epileptic warming up for the Big One ... I did have the thought that I would be nervous and what would I do when I got there and what was I doing I'm insane and all that ... but as I was talking to her sister (who I totally want to bang now because she was so cute with her bangs in her face and her sassy jeans and vintage T-shirt and welcoming eyes ... she LIKED me), my only real thought was "I hope I don't die during dessert".
But she saved me, I showered, her mother poured me a brandy (!), my sticky cold awful damp smelling rainy ice clothes were replaced with her brother's khaki and polo shirt combination -- he was doing semester at sea or some damn stupid college bullshit like that --- I was awkwardly introduced, but everyone was so NICE -- all firm handshakes and smiles and concern -- Helen threw my clothes in the dryer, and as they tumbled and rattled, we talked, finally. and the gist of my conversation with Helen was:
her: so you didn't have anywhere to go for Thanksgiving?
me: no.
her: so you showed up here.
me: that's right.
her: we're friends. right?
me: are we?
kind of a trick question, but it just popped out like that.
her: no we're not friends, really. but we are "friends". okay?
me: got it.
her: so now that we got that out of the way ....
me: i have to say though... you're being very friend-like.
her: we do have history, i guess.
me: do we?
her: yes.
she smiles ... pitterpatter goes the tickertocker...
her: what the fuck are you doing?
me: i live like this. when you meet me, shit like this happens. just part of the deal.
her: just the way you "roll" right?
the more she "quoted" everything with her hands, the dorkier i thought she was, and not in a good way....
me: sorta. i mean, and i'll tell you this honestly, break it down for you right now -- i'm mad crazy for you...
her: but-
me: hang on there missy -- i know you aren't mad crazy for me, and that's no sweat. i'm fine. really. i thought if things could be different with you and CEO and Life in General, tonight would be a good night to do it. i don't need to be a hero. i don't want sympathy. i don't want any-athy. Now I know. It's totally cool. if you wanted me to leave right now, i would. if you wanted me to stay for dinner, i would do that also.
her: of course.
me: BUT.
i raised my finger -- the floor was mine, i was speaking clearly, coherently, and like a mature person... I TOLD you i was out of my mind...
me: i am a bit hungry.
her: of course you are, you weirdo...
me: let's be friends.
her: you are asking me?
me: i am. my mind is clear. i'm hopped up on the buzz of clarity.
her: let's go eat.
indeed, a weight was totally lifted from me -- i got lighter, my thoughts went on to other things, just like that. shit man, i was RELIEVED. can you fucking believe that? now when i go over it i'm baffled as to what i would have done if she would have fallen into my arms in a soap opera moment and started to be In Love. what a pain it would be... seriously. i would have to get tickets to the theater, the opera, take her to the movies, take her to interesting ethnic restaurants and secret getaways in the carribbean and surprise her with roses and a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes every three months ... I would have to take my career seriously and rise up the ladder .... I would have to swallow my pride each time she looked or interacted with another man because she's the type of girl men think about, obsess about, court, approach, run to her parent's house on Thanksgiving unannounced with no warning in the driving icy rain and do irrational things .... to be that beautiful, that much of a flower, possessed with such a vision of the Divine, the Infinite, The Reward .... The Trophy ... means to be cursed with romantic drama until your dying day. When you have it all, everyone wants a piece ... and if they get it, they satiate for you FOREVER .... she consumes days and nights of thought, controls a man's bodily functions -- they sweat, they shake, they twitch, they spaz out -- and are you telling me that if she would have said "I love you, too...I want to be with you and only you", that my life would have gotten better? Helen was so sweet that the best thing she ever could have done for me is to put my clothes in the dryer, cover my ass for crashing thanksgiving, and tell me it's never going to work out.
I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror -- I decided add a shave in order to complete a WASPY khaki and polo shirt combo -- and just shook my head. I'm such a loser ... and being a loser, by the way, is totally underrated.
A knock.
Her sister. Cute as all get out.
her: so are you in love with my sister or what? wow.
me: no. not anymore.
her: you liar.
she slapped my shoulder like an old friend.
her: are you still cold? how do you feel?
me: i'm fine.
her: you look like a total dweeb in those khakis. i answered the door and you looked so unshaven and manly and hip and sexy. now you look like my brother, who's totally different from you. i mean, i could never kiss you now. well at least in that outfit. if you changed back into your other clothes, the ones you showed up with to impress my sister and tell her you love her and marry her and live happily ever after and all that ... that guy, in those clothes, i would totally kiss.
me: i'm pretty cool huh?
her: don't you know that?
me: yes, yes i do, in fact.
her: no you don't. you wonder all the time if you are or not. it makes you crazy not knowing if you are or not. right?
me: no...
her: but you are. i think so, anyway. cute and cool. and in love with my sister. what a world.
she just kind of made a whimisical, accepting sigh ...
her: oh well ... won't stop me from saying hello.
me: i hope not.
she approached me -- she got closer and closer staring at me -- what was i thinking?
a) "holy shit, is she trying to make a move on me?"
b) "i hope she's trying to make a move on me"
she reached out her hand and dabbed her finger on my face.
her: you're bleeding.
me: i hate shaving. i always end up bleeding after a shave.
she backed out of the doorway.
her: i'm going downstairs. would you like a drink?
me: absolutely.
her: i think i'm going to get drunk tonight.
me: sounds like a plan.
she started to walk down the hall, and then she came rushing back...
her: hey!
me: yes?
her: happy thanksgiving.
I'm so cool. So fucking cool.
And then we started drinking rum cocktails at dinner ... and ... well, I have to go to work in ten minutes... not that it matters, but I have to cut it a little short here.
what happened next:
1) Their mother is a better cook than Martha Stewart -- Martha couldn't carry this womans's oven mitts. Best meal of my life.
2) It was a family. No craziness. Just smiles, basic interaction. No agendas. Everyone trusts each other -- the weirdest fucking family I've ever been around, and it's not even close.
And I looked around, swiveling in the starchy khaki and polo combo, smelling the butter and fresh roast turkey, cranberry on my tongue ... the lighting was right, the candles were lit, it was warm, it was inviting, there was MIles Davis playing in the background fer crissakes ---
I felt for the first time in my life that I had come home.
See, I have no family, really. My mom and little sister were killed in a car accident when I was forteen years old. I had to go identify the bodies because my dad was on a business trip in Switzerland and couldn't be reached for three days. For three days I was by myself in the world. Utterly, totally, completely alone an forteen years old on top of that. My dad re-married six months later to a woman he had been having an affair with for three years. She had a bunch of kids I had to call sisters and brothers ... and family. It was a sucky way to grow up, if you ask me, which no one ever really has. And this meal...best of my life, I think, and how often do you say that?
I said this out loud at the dinner table.
Oops.
And then I started to well up with tears, and I swear to you, I couldn't stop it. I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't do anything. Here I was, barging in on a happy family's thanksgiving, out of nowhere, and telling them that and then crying my eyes out at the dinner table. I'm telling you, I'm a fucking lunatic weirdo psychopath.
I kept saying "I'm sorry" but it didn't come out right. And through the blur and sting of the tears I saw them looking at me with sympathy and empathy and everything-athy. It was alright.
I was finally able to blubber out:
me: Thank you.
the father said: my wife's cooking brings out all of our secrets.
And that was that.
zackfuller
| | |
| a cold rain. dark. 4 pm in winter dark.
a house. colonial. on property. in connecticut. forest. a stray deer in the driveway, staring at me, and then bouncing away.
knocking on the door. what the fuck am i doing?
a light. the faint sound of a lovely group conversation from inside.
gulp.
a face, the prettiest face, not the pretty girl on the subway. another. a related face in the cherub family tree. angels, apparently, spawn.
door opens.
hello?
hi. my name is zack. i'm a friend of helen's?
really?
really.
are you sure? it's not often she has friends i don't know about.
i'm cold.
she ususally tells me about all her friends. we're sisters. we tell each other everything.
you should stop doing that. uh...i'm really cold. it's raining.
it's not raining. that's ice falling from the sky. are you sure you are friends with helen?
YES. i'm sorry. i'm cold, i came this far beause i have something to tell her.
what are you going to tell her?
can i please come in?
we're about to eat, you know. are you hungry?
yes, but look at me. i'm wet and cold and hungry...
are you homeless? one of those well-dressed homeless people who you don't really believe has all the problems they have because they have such good penmanship?
no. i have a home.
where?
please can i come inside?
where?
in new york.
where?
the fucking lower east side.
oh. you're one of those.
i am. can i come in now?
freezing. chitterchattering. shaking with wet chills and a flu preview.
are your teeth actually making that noise?
i don't know.
yeah. they are making that noise.
because i'm cold!
and wet.
well, you know, i've always wanted to say this.
what?
LOOK WHO CAME IN OUT OF THE RAIN!!!!!
the voices inside -- who's here?
what's your name again?
zack. my name is zack.
she smiles. delicious.
HIS NAME IS ZACK.
you look like a zack. i like that name.
thanks.
footsteps ... a light upbeat trot.
yes. it's her.
Zack? what... you look like you're going to freeze to death.
i've been trying to tell your sister this since we've met.
he doesnt' look like someone you would know.
i know him.
but...
please... get in.
HONEY? WHO IS IT?
that's definitely her dad. booming voice. a Man.
i shouldn't have even done this.
zack, come in.
thanks.
i'll get you some clothes. and then you better come up with a good story to get yourself out of this.
maybe i'll die first.
a story.
okay -- i'll come up with a story.
i'll get changed and make up a story about why i'm here.
zackfuller
| | |
| i found this list in the back of some jeans i hadn't washed since thanksgiving.
i think it's fair to say some things have changed for me. i tried to stay away from writing about any of this craziness, about what the hell happened, what keeps happening, and how lame having an exciting, real life can be. i'm not freaking out anymore, or hitting my head with my hands, or breaking cell phones, or lying on the floor in fits of anxiety and despair...i'm actually calm right now, after all that. a paradigm shift has occurred. i'm different. sort of. whatever. i'm not different actually, just kinda...involved.
it's the beginning of the end of my story, which has already ended, for me, anyway. make sense?
that's the last time i will ask that question. if you thought "yes", then enjoy your moment of things making sense.
"
To Do List on Nov. 29th 2005
"1. show no fear. there's nothing to fear. what are you worrying about? it's going to be fine.
2. make sure you have no aftershave on. no cologne, only the natural fumes of passion and irrationality.
3. pay cable bill. if this doesn't work out, i'm going to watch a deadly amount of television, making those three day benders on gin and bourbon look like a commercial for a spa in the Adirondacks.
4. you know, just be yourself. wait, how can i not be myself? it's so obvious...and when i see her i'm going to be myself, my silly stupid bumbling self who watches tv by himself every day of the year, rarely talking to actual people in social situations in person except in random city situations involving bodega transactions, boozy blurry nights in dark bars, and defending myself from the one-eyed newspaper saleslady by the 6 train.
or will it be the opposite. yes. i am not merely charming, i'm a charisma machine, oozing attractability and positive vibes. i will know what to say, say it smooth, and kick back as they world pats me on the back. it will be because i made her smile with delight, and she will consider that it's Right to be with me, to let me take care of her and hold her hand on Sunday afternoons and impress her with who i am.
wait. who am i? shit, i better get on this....
5. pack your xanax. and the little bottles of Jim Beam i stole from that mini-bar in Peoria that one time. god, Peoria was awful. why was i in Peoria and SAVING the booze for later?
6. think of excuse to tell work i'm not going to be there because this will all work out. should i:
- gloat, give the CEO the finger and blackmail him with all manner of dirt and the pack of lies and bad tee shots i have witnessed with him, then turn it into a tell-all best selling book about the seamy underworld of the tv watching business? i want to do this, yet do not know how. seems like A LOT of Effort.
- use the dead mother excuse again? how 'bout something like an accidental overdose, and i can pretend i'm calling them from the ICU because i'm so devoted? again, too much effort.
- i'll tell them i'm at a job interview, which will set off shock waves among the Organization, and a bidding war will ensue that will leave me with a 7 figure job at various locations across the globe at my discretion. i will have no official boss... i will be paid for my mind, creativity, intellect, and insight into All Things and do it Whatever Way I See Fit. i like this.
- why am i worrying about this? i'm distracting myself.
7. bring a gift and flowers. something tasteful. tasteful? since when did i know anything about taste? i'm throwing darts behind my back here. it's time to Grow Up, and part of being a Grown Up is knowing what's tasteful, what a lovely young woman who, when you show up her parents' house in Westchester with no warning, would want that could ease all the zany energy and pented up anxiety i will be bringing to their doorstep. Adults and Grown Ups know how to do these things?
how do they learn how to do these things? i don't like being a Grown Up AT ALL.
8. get train ticket. have cab fare.
9. bring deodorant. and toothpaste.
10. don't be afraid when you knock on their door and freak the Holy Hell out of them. i need a STORY here, a big fat Lie to loosen up the atmosphere and explain myself. it'll be weird to them, but i'll say it in a way that makes it WAY MORE WEIRD for me. yep, that's the ticket. i was beaten up...no...i was running from a mob of... no.... okay, i'll improvise.
11. what's her address??? okay, where did you put it? you got it out of the CEO's book in the limo ride to Teterboro as he went with his wife and kids to Sun Valley for the next six weeks. that's funny... he actually said i waved goodbye that "he felt close" to me, this while buying five cases of Cuban cigars from a Canadian oil executive (yes, Canadians are kinda evil, too). CEO could have a breakdown soon...but probably not. People like him don't really break down -- they just cease to give a shit what anyone else thinks in any way shape or form and are relentless about it.
12. don't be afraid. don't be afraid. what's there to be afraid of, really?
13. just found the address ... underneath a used condom after bumping into barbara last night. i can still smell her on me. i can also smell me on me, the me that was sweaty and nervous and laughing and tucked under her arms this morning. good thing she left early. she works, like, hard. but not too hard. am i kind of in love with barbara? is that possible? no no no no no no. i'm not. it just FELT that way for a while.
i have to get to Westchester before it's too late and i somehow fall in love with some chick like barbara instead of Helen of the 6 Train, The Pretty Girl on the Subway. I'm going to blow it if I'm not careful.
this is your fucking to do list? will they ever go away?
14. stop writing these lists. no more. fuck this, you are just going to have to wing it from here on out.
15. bring your medication.
Let's do it. "
so i wrote that list.... | | |
| MOST OF YOU WILL HATE THIS POST.
It's a little bit of downer, and gets kinda serious, and there's no story or nothing, it's just me talking, and it's about TV and Sports, which I have a feeling anyone who reads this doesn't pay much attention to, but it's basically about what I've been doing since before Thanksgiving. I said I was going to do SOMETHING, and here is that something happening. and that something? IT'S A WORK IN PROGRESS.
i've watched a lot of tv the last few weeks, and i have some observations. it's time i shared said observations with someone else -- possibly to warn them, possibly to stoke their curiosity for delight and absurdity -- said observations are specific, reflect a minute demographic, and are not subject to debate.
sports....
ESPN'S Sean Salisbury is possesed...he's part football anouncer, part born again preacher...he is some moto--
wait. WAIT. i said before you were going to probably hate this post. but let's open our minds and run with this.
do i really want to talk about Sean Salisbury? well, i'm going in anyway. he's an intense former backup NFL quarterback whose aggressive posturing, ability to communicate football acumen, and the palpable feeling that by watching him talk with such confidence and informed opinion about football games and players and coaches and talks like "You wanna know why the Cleveland Browns aren't going anywhere? Do you? They have no scheme, no players, look at this..(plays highlight clip of a well paid, beaten up overworked black dude running his head into soil at, literally, breakneck speed) He MISSES the tackle. Bad play. Bad player. Poorly coached. They're not getting it done there in Cleveland. The lights are on...but guess what? Nobody's home. Gonna be rough off-season. Lots of jobs being lost. Long time before they see the light of the day there, and management has to look in the mirror and ask themselves some serious questions about the future of this franchise".
The guy could definitely be a politician. No question. Take that off ESPN and put it on CNN, leave out the football part, and he's a more macho, beer drinking John Edwards. Or rougher, more bloated mini-Ronald Reagan.
Reason: He's RIGHT. All the time. With gravitas and testosterone and hair gel, he's ALWAYS right. And, even more interestingly, he actually is right. The Browns ARE poorly coached, bad play, bad players, not getting it done, light on, nobody's home, gonna be a rough off-season, lost jobs, and if you don't believe, then run the tape, go on, run it! You tell me who or who not missed the coverage.....you kidding me?
If he actually was a political leader, he would scare the shit out of the whole world, which is what the best politicians are supposed to be doing. It's true: Sean Salisbury, ESPN analyst, could make a good President someday.
Which brings me to:
A fresh wave of Army ads is making the rounds on ESPN and late night sports shows...heavy, consistent rotation on the air. The government is making a huge effort to find dis-affected Eagles fans and junior varsity inner city basketball players to say "fuck this" and go get crazy where it's a REQUIREMENT to operate firearms in a harmful manner.
The best part is that they are selling these ads like "I'm in the army, working with computers, doing something grander and more historic and exciting than sitting there like a dis-affected Eagles fan or junior varsity basketball player on the couch watching SportsCenter. I MATTER." way. It's a message of serious, god-like high self esteem. That's one of their selling points, and they knock it out of the park.
The commercial: a young, extremely fit and handsome and young, and bright, and strong and disciplined and young man comes home for after being in Iraq. He's in uniform, looking sharp, and being asked by some other normal looking dudes from a suburban neighborhood what he's up to in the Army. The soldier says "computers", and the guys look at him like dopes (but, very important, COLLEGE EDUCATED DOPES, which made me immediately sympathetic with soldier's point of view) and say "but we have those here." Tight shot on Solider's face, a sly and knowing grin, and then BOOM!
It cuts to an active forward military operation during a night battle in Iraq: advanced techonology computers with bomb proof casing, satellite coordinates, missile systems, combat communication programs -- highly motivated officers and soldiers engaged in focused, skillful, successful battle stations, talking with authority, clarity, poise, and care -- high pitched sounds mix with the low bass rumble of combat, a well executed sound design -- highly dramatic, highly cinematic lighting, with bright colorful lines of technology have a high contrast with the intense shadows, it kind of looks like the best episode of CSI ever. The fifteen second clip is all about Being High, and Adrenaline, and Focus, and Being Capable. It also says: We're fucking kicking some motherfucking ass over there. ON OUR COMPUTERS.
And then it cuts back to this peaceful, boring neighborhood, and young handsome soldier says "no you don't", which is probably the biggest insult a computer geek can throw on another computer geek -- i have the cool toys, I'M in the ARMY. And not having the cool toys, and being awesome at playing with them, NOT being a soldier, judging the actors' reactions, sucks. At the beginning of the commercial they seem happy and normal--by the end, thirty seconds later, they look restless, lost, and filled with self-doubt.
Then the army logo goes up -- and it doesn't look remotely like a government logo or even something corporate or military or anything -- it obviously suggests the graphic design of a video game company. And there it is. That's the war. That's the solution the Defense Department came up with. Join the military and you will be the baddest super hero in the coolest video game of all time...call now before this next set of highlights from a pre-season NBA game. The ad is manipulative, arresting (both visually and spiritually), kinetic, slickly produced government propoganda (although propaganda always suggest some Cultural Studies class taught by an under-sexed female professor with photos of Che Guevara, Karl Marx, and Homer Simpson on her dusty walls...propaganda is just the government advertising and promoting and marketing their services, one of which is get citizens to kill and get killed JUST LIKE ANY OTHER COMPANY, my grandma used to say) And, in this commercial, to kill and get killed looks fucking AWESOME.
It's a great ad. Brilliant work.
It's pretty obvious to sell the war to high school kids like a video game, and that is pretty transparent throughout (to me, anyway), and i'm sure many people roll their eyes about the actual sinister (or not) motives behind it, so most are prepared to dismiss it...but...damn them, they did a good job of it.
If there was an Oscar for best new government propaganda, short feature category, this gets it. The talent behind the whole campaign is pretty impressive. Who the fuck makes this things? Can't we get them to make a good Star Wars pre-quel or Halle Berry romantic comedy?
So THAT'S what happened when I payed 1.34 dollars tax on my turkey sandwich, jumbo cheez ball cannister, and Miller High Life.
I also watched 30 minute meals with Rachael Ray on the Food Network. How this woman became a celebrity chef or cooking expert I have no idea. Her meals by any standard look absolutely disgusting. Homemade salad dressings with yellow mustard, burger relish and tabasco? A family meal salad with salami, prosciutto and bologna? A soup recipe where she suddenly says "you can just kinda throw anything you want to in there"? She does have the raspy voice, Talbot's wardrobe, and mommafat of the junior neighborhood MLF, however -- the mother who you thought you caught staring at you provacatively, entertaining a fantasy of her own before returning to her burger relish dressing making misery, leaving you only a curious erection and the immediate, urgent need to rid yourself of it.
So, I guess there are positive things to say about her, after all.
Clearly, I have more to offer the world about what's happening out there in the marketplace from television, but I'm going to re-focus as I sleep and do I can wake up and leap over tall buildings in the morning. Check you local news for updates...
zackfuller
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