People used to tell me to trust my instincts. I got sick of that. They’d treat it like one’s gut feelings are something that one carries around in their back pocket or something, that can be pulled out and consulted at will. I really thought that I might be able to fix my computer by installing a new operating system, but if I can’t even get that working, what’s the use? Money is tight enough as it is, what with my impending move to Brooklyn, a trip back to California (hopefully) in the planning stages, my debts to pay off, and only a low-wage, part-time, temporary job to help make ends meet in the meantime. Of course, my parents will help me out if I ask them. But I’m not Mitt Romney, so the $20K I need to really get me started is probably not forthcoming.
I feel that I should talk about comedy. You see, the old expression is that comedy equals tragedy plus time. That’s true, but it’s easy to misinterpret. The amount of time is not set. It’s not as if a 9/11 joke made ten years after the tragedy is fine, but a 9/11 joke made nine years and eleven months after the tragedy is not. The amount of time is as long or as short as it takes us to process the catastrophe. Comedy is a very serious thing. It’s everything else that’s funny. A good 9/11 joke should be less about the people who died than about how we are supposed to live in a world in which shit like this can happen. Louis CK joked that you can tell how bad of a person someone is by how soon after 9/11 they masturbated. (“For me, it was between the buildings going down…Otherwise, they win.”) Because everyone has a moment after losing something they care about in which they realize that they still have to make dinner, go to work, and come on their spouse’s face.
One of the best deadpan comics I’ve ever seen is Tig Notaro. You might have heard of her. She had a rough year in 2012. In the space of about six months, she got pneumonia followed by a bacterial infection that ate away at her digestive tract, her mother died in a freak accident, her girlfriend broke up with her, and she was diagnosed with breast cancer in both breasts. Her album “Live” is available through iTunes, and if you’ve got six bucks to spare, you simply must download it. It’s some of the best dark comedy I’ve ever heard. (My favorite line: “Guys, it’s gonna be okay. It might not be okay, I’m just saying…”)
I think what I hate about people telling me to trust my instincts is that it usually leads to me felling confident about something, and whenever I’m confident about something, I’m wrong. I can’t think of any exceptions. A few days ago, I was confident that I could get this new operating system up and running. Now, I’m looking on CNET.com for reasonably priced laptops. I could ask the I.T. guys for more help, but what’s the use? They’ve done all they can, and the new operating system was a last resort anyway. Maybe they just didn’t want to have to be the ones to tell me to get a new computer. It’s going to sound like a lot of whining, but I don’t give a shit: I don’t fucking deserve this. I am very fucking tired, and I have enough shit on my plate already. There are people out there who are way more careless than I am, but don’t have to deal with shit like this. Fuck them. I deserve better.
I don’t do this for anyone else, in case you’re wondering. I do it for me. So if you’re thinking of responding to something I’ve written (and really, I invite you to), just bear that in mind. See, it’s been my experience that if you’ve made someone angry, the best thing to do is either leave them alone or apologize. If you feel sorry, say so. If you don’t, don’t. It’s that simple. There’s nothing I can’t stand more than somebody who insists they haven’t done anything wrong, but won’t leave you alone even though you’re clearly angry at them. That’s called abuse, and it’s the worst thing you can do to someone. For the time being, let us say no more about this.
Random: The new guy (well, a dude returning from a year abroad) at my job looks a little bit like Joffrey from Game of Thrones. Listening to the commentary tracks, I am amused by how far out of their way the other people on the show go to specify that actor Jack Gleeson is a really great guy. It’s almost as if they’re scared that people will recognize him and start throwing rocks at him. They’re much more likely to say, “OMG, it’s Joffrey! I love you on Game of Thrones!”
I didn’t go to Pride. I went a couple years ago, and by now, it’s starting to bore me.
If anyone is wondering if these posts will grow less esoteric, rambling, and self-aggrandizing anytime soon, don’t count on it. Some dbag in middle school told me that I’d be more popular if I didn’t wasn’t “so smart all the time”. This assumes that I would want to even share a planet with a tool like that, let alone be well-liked. Sometimes, it’s nice to be liked. But I find that my misanthropy gets more manageable the more I double down on my weirdness. That, by the way, is the meaning of life.