... down a hole.

 
 
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Ten minutes ago Michael Jackson died.  I feel a genuine sadness.  It's the end of an era, and another stark reminder of the impermanence of life. 

What's now upon us is The Dark Age of Entertainment; a wasteland of clones, hacks and shock-mongers ruled by King Remix and Queen Whore-4A-Laugh. 

I have nothing else to say except R.I.P. Mike, and if you see David Carradine, ask him how many Thai lady-boys it takes to hang someone from the ceiling, like a light bulb, then watch out for a karate kick to the face.  I doubt your nose could handle that. 

You're one of the greats, have fun in The Real Neverland.
 
Fake 06/21/2009
 
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We were having cocktails at our apartment one evening, my wife the picture of elegance as usual; the woman has a way of making even the most conservative cocktail gown look thoroughly charming. 

The champagne flowed freely, as did the hard-boiled eggs and caviar; roe, not sturgeon--our present company was incapable of distinguishing, and besides, the market had been punishing of late, black pearls before swine seemed a needless expense. 

The conversations centered on the superficial.  My wife’s friend, Deborah, has a terrific pair of legs, it being all I could do to keep from literal salivation. 

Our company’s eyes darted around, fascinating in all things inanimate.  I was the only one reveling in flesh.

The group was young, spawn of middle class intellectuals with skin to shed, inexperienced at pretension, but eager to flex their chops--diplomas and designers--an HBS here, an MIT there, here a Louboutin, there a Galliano. 

Chide me aristocratic, but flaunting material tastes and hard-won achievements always struck me a tad peasant.  What do I know?   

This chap Richard, a queer--‘Richard The Lionfart’ I called him to my wife-- began talking watches and flipping intermittent glances at my wife’s Rolex.  It was a fake. 

I’d bought it for her as a gag on our first trip to the Orient.  She wore it often, as a matter of sentiment.  Richard had obviously mistaken it for an error in fashionable judgment.  And apparently he’d rather seem comically over-interested than tell us what he really thought. 

I could see Richard was titillated by the thought that not only was someone trying to play off a designer forgery, but also that my wife had mismatched the watch to her attire. 

After dropping Breguet and Girard-Perregaux, Lionfart had worked up some courage and asked to see my wife’s piece. 

His initial reaction was it's own forgery of acceptance and admiration, then a quick shift betrayed impatience, as surprise and concern was the chosen expression to tender his query-- imploring my wife’s attention as if he were a doctor with the duty of reporting an unsuspected cancer-- “did you know this was a fake?”

Richard's face was pure syrup made from artificial sweetener, I thought it was going to melt off and onto our 15th century Persian.

“Of course!” My wife happily retorted. 

Richard was stunned for a moment, so I moved in for the kill. 

“Richard” I say, “whatever made you think that?”

...“Well,” he coos in the signature effeminate, “the second hand fails to sweep, and it doesn’t say ‘Swiss made’ at the bottom.”

 I bustled up to the edge of my chair with a furrowed brow--"give me that"-- sweepingly and authoritatively extracting the watch from Richard’s hand and exclaiming in self-confident, but subdued bravado,

“Of course it does, sport. You see?" 
                                                                    -JPF
 
 

In a flash of drunken neural kinetics, I 'invented' a phrase tonight...so I thought.  Like Charles Darwin and Jean Lamarck, parallel evolution of a mental spark, under the impression I'd lit the first fuse, but it's already blown up, through another mans use...Big ups to KRS-One, The MC...

 
 
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'Gene Simmons is my bitch'
Its shoulders hunker down as it languidly looks for a place to poop, this beast of noble pedigree, elegant in the foible of its servility, a spirit forever at sea--the primeval sins of man proving inadequate solid ground. 

A symbol of modern human loneliness and illusion is a natural foot wedged sorely into a svelte designer shoe.  It’s NYC. 

Conrad was a German Shepard, equally capable of ripping the throat from a Rottweiler as coaxing a loving cackle from a baby by tender licks to plump cheeks. 

He lived in a studio on the Upper East Side, transplanted from a boundless estate in the south of England. 

Cappuccino poured on the ground that he may lap up along with street soot, that was Conrad's settlement; his table manners were better than most, but cups, and the shot of dignity they floated, seemed methodically withheld. 

It wasn’t the lack of utensils that bothered him as much as the atrophy of his muscles. 

He used to be a truly fine specimen.  He had become as meager as the concessions that sustained him. 

The city was a container.  Things were forced to fit, even big dogs.  A chain of conformity chokes even the occasional erection here, the scent of a horny bitch, wasted, a side effect of civil obedience. 

One could fight for space; Conrad was never much for throwing elbows, he never had to.  Besides, fighting was for young dogs, and he wasn’t as big as he used to be, now just an old dog in a small apartment.   
 
 
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In a fledgling attempt to shuffle its way into the annals of the English Language, brain-booger has achieved a seemingly insignificant first step on it's way to  credulity.  It's not Oxford, or even Webster, but we suppose it will have to do...
 
A blind society 06/06/2009
 
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...Alright, I'm back, everything's cool, the cops are gone.  Now, where was I? Oh yes, I just rented the movie "Blind" with Julianne Moore.  I enjoyed it.  Then I did some searches and found that the National Federation for The Blind had issue with the film.  I sent them an email.  It was a stinger:

To: Whom It May Concern, or not,

The NFB's response to the movie "Blind" is obviously a naive, emotionally charged and shortsighted (pun unintended) view.  It is a glaring example of the knee-jerk, defensive, reactionary judgments that plague individuals and groups of all types, and, ironically enough, is EXACTLY the kind of flawed human nature the movie is illuminating.

The NFB claims that the movie portrays "the blind" poorly.  Is it not obvious that the movie is not portraying “the blind" at all?  The movie IS portraying a hard-hitting pandemic that decimates human moral en masse, uncovering the vulgarities of human nature when it is tested in the extreme.  If you do not see this, you are sorely missing the point.  The movie is NOT an attempt to characterize an integrated subgroup of society that happens to suffer from a disability.

This is BLATANLTY addressed in the movie itself when the newly blind optometrist is shocked to find out that one of the “immoral” extortionists within the quarantine has been blind since birth.  He professes, "you are supposed to have empathy," to which another "bad guy" shoots back, "the man’s blind, that doesn't make him good or bad, just blind."  In essence, this quote upholds the stance of the NFB exactly.  “The blind” are in fact like everyone else, they may be good OR bad, they simply go about it without sight.

Nevertheless, suggesting a devastating and shockingly immediate pandemic of blindness among the sighted populace--and the widespread panic and moral degradation that may likely follow--is intended as a commentary on "the blind" as a social group is just stupidity.  It is the equivalent of saying that showing the immediate behavior of millions of people whom all at once have their legs eaten off by flesh-eating bacteria is intended as a characterization of "the paraplegic."

It would be prudent for the civil rights activists at the NFB to ensure objections are backed by s, so as not to alienate themselves from other human intellects around the would that may otherwise empathize with aspects of their cause. 

I feel your public reaction is either a deceptive attempt at manipulating naive public sentiment or evidence of mental confusion; condemnation and guilt propaganda are 'traps for fools' and will ultimately fail to result in anything but confusion and irrelevance in the long run.  Honesty and illumination should be the intent of righteousness and concern.  I hope you can at least see that.

Regards,
            J.P.F.
 
RGB 06/05/2009
 
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After a flurry of pop 'culture' posts the last few days, it's time for Brainbooger.com to get back to basics...shit! fuck! piss!...the cops are at my front door!!!... WTF do they want?!?  can my neighbors smell that already??  it's only been a week!... sorry, to be continued...
 
Once upon a time 06/04/2009
 
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In a seedy Bangkok hotel room, strung from the ceiling, used condoms and needles spattering the floor beneath the yellow and un-clipped toenails of two limp, lifeless feet that once kicked some serious ass, there hung the kung fu James Dean, the one and only, David Carradine.  R.I.P.
 
 
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Too me, the new and young Andy Sandberg bites the old and old Weird Al Yankovic.  'Two Jews in a pod' one might say. 

The recent MTV Awards was the first time I’d seen Andy in action; I usually avoid T.V. because it raises my testosterone to unmanageable levels where all I wanna do is kick people in their overexposed dicks. 

New style can’t cover up old concepts.  We Americans pander to youth and love gorging on 'up-to-date' slang even if they're empty calories.  Oxford unabrizzled.  Besides, one isn't hip if they can’t muster up some ebonics or maintain the interest of a 15 year old for more than 10 seconds. 

But watching teenagers reminds me of things that should've stayed yesterday, and not in a good way, like day-old French pastries--rather like the morning blow-ass after a night of hard drinking capped by a carne asada burrito and too much hot sauce. 

The beauty of youth is that everything is fresh and surprises do exist.  When one gets older, and the novelties dry up, we pretend to have forgotten the punch lines so we can still enjoy the jokes.  That is until we’re really old and blessed with senility. 

MTV is the voice of America’s youth and it reminds me of a thrift store where I dropped off a pile of old shit 10 years ago.  Pretty soon Emimen will be forced to salvage that neon pink Alf shirt from the box in his mom’s garage because its $100 remix is sold out in every self-respecting boutique on Rodeo Dr and his daughter simply 'must' have one. 

Things come back around: bell bottoms, aviators, punk.  I get that.  But if life's made up of things we can’t do yet and things we can’t do anymore, I can no longer pretend I haven’t noticed.  My life experiences are becoming a vintage shop. 

Maybe that’s the ticket for generation X.  It’s our turn to start dumping old shit on the newbies.  Anyway, a youthful colleague suggested I watch “I’m on a boat.”  What can I say?  Andy’s the mutha' fuckin' captain... I'm on this boat, bitchaaaays!

 
 
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But sex appeal, evidently, is like a rock-hard popsicle. 

Now, I say the following without the slightest hint of exaggeration and in a tone of the utmost sincerity: if there has ever been, in the history of the world, such a thoroughly satisfying monument to a man's ego as what you see here, I will lick one, s-l-o-w-l-y. 

To merely conceive of 1 million women simultaneously and lustfully, licking my likeness is more awesomeness than there are adequate words.  Unfortunately, for most men this is but a dream, but as you can see for James Bond, aka Daniel "the man" Craig, it's total fucking reality...