... down a hole.

 
SWPL 07/11/2009
 
Picture
We're sorry SWPL, even though post-modern stereotypes are enjoyed by many they also cause people of whiteness to feel existential loneliness, something they hate. 

No, the one thing white people still like the most, right next to ANYTHING that provides "closure," is the band Journey. 

For a white person, being drunk and hearing Journey come on is even better than being on cocaine. 

Also, when in public it is considered socially acceptable for a white person to say "WHAT!?!, you don't like journey?!," to a person of another race, especially Filipinos.  This is not the case with cocaine. 

Any time a white person can question someones tastes with impunity they are very pleased, this is especially true if that someone is in a position of authority or has a higher income.     

White people usually reserve sentimentality for the death of their pets and the Christmas season but make an exception for Journey.  Listening to Journey reminds white people of the 'good ole days,' and is one of the few times that 'dancing like a white person' does not make them feel self conscious.   

It is every white persons dream to be able to hire Journey for a theme party or their 2nd wedding.  If a white person is wealthy enough to hire journey for their party they will do so matter-of-factly, even though it is one of the most significant events of their life. 

This is because white people do not like to appear overly enthusiastic as they feel other white people will view them as desperate or needy, both deplorable traits in the white community. 

Even though white people loved Michael Jackson because he could sing and dance very well and didn't make them uneasy by mentioning "black issues," the despair that white people will feel at the eventual demise of Journey will be far greater, they will never bring this up however since it is not politically cogent.

Play this song at the end of the night and be assured that Whitey will be happier than an Oriental in a karaoke bar.  Believe it.
                                                                                                                -JPF
 
 
Picture
Cocaine is like a drug.  When a white man does cocaine he feels the world is his oyster once again and he can accomplish anything.  It is almost inevitable that this sensation conjures an extravagant interest in sex.

Even so, a white male's abilities to capitalize on sensations occurring while on cocaine are quite unpredictable.  As with all things, improvement is always possible with practice, however, a white man's preference is to be a master of all activities without preoccupation or perceptible effort. 

As a rule, white men don’t like to be known for preoccupation because it suggests dependency, and that's weakness.  Even so, there is a well established paradox that contradicts this rule.

If a white man happens to be a musician or artist, compulsively overdoing sex and drugs is considered acceptable, and in fact, the minimum requirement to establishing credibility as a full time "creative" person.  

To the white man, creativity is simply the lack of responsibility, and the perfect excuse for irresponsible addictions like sex and cocaine. 

White men like to brag about having "a real job," but this is usually to distract attention from their real ambition: consuming copious amounts of sex and drugs and staying trim well into their 60s, like Mic Jagger.  Most activities considered enjoyable by white males are designed to take their minds of such unfulfilled ambitions, or deny them completely. 

Just for fun, if you ever want to cause an internal crisis in a white man, simply suggest they "need" something or "couldn't live without it."  Be careful however, a white man in crisis will often take to confrontational behavior that has the potential to destroy a cocktail or office party in which someones image is at stake. 

White males love to feel independent and do not take easily to obligations that don't look good on their resume; this includes family, friends, children or the draft.  The only times a white man considers allegiance is when he's ignorant,  ‘on the record,' or promised a better parking space.  

When the white man invented God he generally decided not to “drink the Kool-Aid”, but since globalization and the black market have eroded Ghost Face's control he has become paranoid and high strung.  His solution to this has been the philosophy that ‘everything is OK in moderation,’ this includes sex, cocaine, and Asian leading men. 

With various inconveniences such as civil rights and affirmative action still popular, white men feel a certain historical uneasiness which prompts domesticated rebellion in modern, hallmark style: passive-aggression.  Doing cocaine or sex in the restroom of an expensive fusion restaurant or nightclub and saying something sarcastic is often viewed as the perfect solution.    

Planting or getting people hooked on drugs is one of the white mans favorite ways to circumvent competition.  Another one of Whitey's favorite past-times is to figure out how to exploit laws to his benefit. 

These are two additional highs that white men encounter when doing cocaine and planning elicit sex in semi-public places: figuring out whom to blame their actions on if they're caught or outsmarting a jury are both very exciting prospects to a white man.

If a white male feels comfortable around you he may mention the enjoyment associated with “snorting cocaine off a hookers ass," along with his favorite 1980s movies depicting such activities, usually starring Rob Lowe or James Spader.  This irritates white women, but they secretly wish they could be Darryl Hannah because she has long legs and is a natural blonde. 

White men are well aware of the complications between cocaine use and sexual performance. 

This doesn’t matter to a white male, however.  White men hate to admit they can’t have whatever they want, and if they find themselves in such a situation they simply pop a pill, turn on some Rick Springfield--preferably Jessie's girl--and rationalize their way out of it.    
                                                                                                -JPF
 
 
Picture
Despite what they may say, women always get a kick out of a good line.  Whether cheesy or sophisticated, pick-up lines make the dating world go round. 

There's nothing like the pithy volley of sexually charged banter after serving a smooth line, it really gets the juices flowing. 

Once in a while you'll run into a fun gal that  plays along instantly, and you know you'll eventually be mounting her.  Here are two cases:
 
                                       location: a bar
                                      game analysis: ditzy/easy
                                      stratagem: sarcasm
                                      style: aggressive
               
Catching her off guard-               
 
"Can I buy you a drink?... The name's Adonis... Ladies call me Don."

Her expression: favorably confused-

"So what do guys call you?!"

"The Don."

"... OK, that's kinda funny."

She extends her hand,

 "I'm Pray."

"With an e or an a?"

"Um, an 'a'.  My mother is super spiritual,  she wanted it to be a constant reminder to seek the right direction and purpose in life.  So what do you do, Don?"

"I'll be damned, I specialize in direction and purpose."     

"Oh, really, doing what exactly?"

"I'm a space traveler."

"Ha ha, what, like an astronaut?"

"No, like a space traveler."

"Well, what do space travelers do exactly?"

"They move through space of course, seeking new and exciting places... like this..."

Before she knew what was going on, he'd moved in and kissed her, then leaned back on the bar with his elbow, leg kicked up on the foot rail... her eyes went "super spiritual."

"Mission accomplished,"  He says, mounting her that evening.

                                        location: the bank
                                        game analysis:  intelligent/loose
                                        stratagem: unknown
                                        style: aggressive

He notices the teller's name-tag and reads it aloud-

"Giselle...

You know, I nailed one of those on safari in Africa--graceful animal, long legs, took one hell of an accurate shot to bring her down, next thing you know I'm back at camp having her for dinner,

I'd love to have you for dinner."

"... You want to eat me?"

"More than anything.

Of course,  I'd feed you first--on the menu this evening is fillet of sole, served in a white wine and cream sauce."

"Sounds appetizing." 

She ponders for mere seconds then scribbles down her number,

"And the names pronounced 'Juh-zel', not 'Gi-zel,'"

 coy as she slides the note across the counter.

It took him two weeks and several thousand dollars to mount this one, and not on the wall.  She forced him to fall in love then left him for a  Parisian pastry chef.   His lines were filled with chocolate mousse and wrapped in a French accent. 
 
 
Picture
It's common knowledge that men think about sex, a lot.  That is, when we're not thinking about food, booze, money, power, respect, or engaging in random acts of kindness; all of which should attract more sex if done right. 

Alfred Kinsey, the famed biologist whom in the late 40's was spilling the beans about sexuality to a tight-ass puritanical society, found that the average man thinks about sex at least a few times a day. 

A FEW TIMES A DAY!?!  Ha.

You see, I like to think of myself as way above average, I'm extreme like that...hey, it keeps me going, SO BACK THE FUCK OFF! 

See what I mean?  Average people don't burst out like that *insert quip about my sanity here*, only great men do. 

The point is,  like all white children, I'm mostly gifted, If I ever fail to settle at the far right of the curve it probably has to do with the speed of my tennis serve, under-the-leg-behind-the-back slam dunks, pissing contests against horses, or not having a name that begins with a noun and ends in a roman numeral. 

But who gives a can of camel shit about that stuff anyway?

All I know is, when it comes to sexual thoughts, I ain't no regular Joe.  I probably think about sex and money as much as your average gangster rapper.  And being on the internet a large part of the day I'm constantly bombarded by images of women I'd like to bang, probably skewing my sex:thought ratio even further. 

Take Heidi Montag for example. 

She's an annoying, petty little koont schnauzer-- no doubt-- but that's precisely why I'd love to destroy her, sexually.  Besides, that tight little body beckons me with all the subtlety of heroin withdrawal. 

And no, 'getting some' won't lesson the craving. 

Was Alexander The Great satisfied after 'just one more territory?'  No.  He wanted the whole fucking thing.  And so do I!  I know, I know, in my dreams, shit. 

Let's get back to Montag. 

Since I doodled that damn limerick in the poem[z] section I can't stop thinking of filthy little rhymes every five  minutes either.  And since I pop a mind-boner every four an a half minutes, the rhymes are usually about 'places to put a boner.' 

So here she is, the latest place I'd like to put my mind-boner, complete with playground filth. 

::I refrained from the popular 'Speidi' reference; although phonetically appropriate, figuratively it would've been extremely homosexual, or at least bi, in a menage a trois sort-a-way; far too sophisticated for me at this stage of my tender development...         
                               
                             Ritzy Ditzy Heidi climbed on my waterspout.
                             On her mind was brain, so she took me in her mouth.
                             Out came her bum and it cried to have the same. 
                      So Ritzy Ditzy Heidi climbed on my spout again.
                                                                                -JPF
Picture
 
Change the world 06/28/2009
 
Picture
Everyone at some point has an ideological impulse to 'change the world,' some lasting longer than others.  This post represents my best and only effort.  If it disappoints, change the way you read it. 

The phrase 'change the world' gets a lot of play.  It's used in a plethora of moral and political propaganda as well as self-help expose.  WTF does it mean? 

Well, the intention behind the cliché seems tied to concepts of control and future-fashioning, something I touched on in the last post, and as noted, such concepts can be misleading. 

So what's wrong with trying to change the world, to 'fashion the future,' as we see fit? 

For one thing, change is a constant; the universe is in a perpetual state of flux, in spite of the actions of men, so ‘changing the world’ is a non sequitur.  My inner nerd had to point that out.

But then there's the notion that intentional, dare I say 'meaningful' change, requires an elaborate choreography of behaviors based on reasoning, dedicated actions and moral superiority, as is often professed by entrepreneurs, 'productivity' gurus, and ‘leaders’ both political and religious. 

The problem with changing the world is that change doesn't occur in a vacuum.  When we change one thing we are often trading one set of problems for another, or 'improving' one situation to the detriment of another.  This is the nature of the universe in which we live, that our situation is simply "in bondage to decay" (Romans 8:21).

There's a great sequence in the movie "Benjamin Button" that does a bang-up job of illustrating the phenomena of fate, where the smallest action begins a chain of events that culminates in a reality that is less than pleasing for those affected.  

It's the butterfly flapping its wings in California that causes the tsunami in Thailand, an impulse toward industrial production that leads to global warming and pollution, that one night of drunken debauchery that ends in a hangover and chlamydia, or the curing of malaria that sees a more devastating virus rise in its place.  Thanks Bill Gates...first Vista, NOW THIS!

I know this paints a bleak picture, that we can't do anything right.  But we can.  It requires changing ourselves, not the things around us. 

It may seem I'm advocating a state of primitivism, but I'm not.  I'm just suggesting an orientation inward as the first impulse toward change.  It's the simple wisdom that Michael Jackson professed in his song  'Man in the Mirror.'      

Before you clothe the naked, feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, educate the ignorant and love the wretched, try changing the human nature within yourself that ultimately contributes to these realities.  Easier said than done?  You bet.  That's why I usually just flip-a-bum-a-fiver on my way home from the pub.

One of my favorite quotes by Confucius Say:
"Give a man a fish, you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime."

I like to think of it as this:
"Give a man a thought, you'll amuse him for a moment.  Teach a man to think and he'll stop asking stupid fucking questions."

Keep the change.  It's evolution, baby!
                                                                              -JPF

 
Ubermunchies? 06/27/2009
 
Picture
In one of the 'comments' Ben stated,
"if one defines and understands "power" purely in terms of control (when one says x has power over y, one means that x controls y), then is it not the  case that power begins from being able to control one's own self? if one cannot control one's own self, then how can one ever hope to control anything beyond one's self? so it's this "self-control" thing that must precede all else. a king cannot control his empire without first controlling himself."

A further distinction occurred to me.

 Power is no doubt equated with control, but control is often confused with influence.  A king or president may influence change, and may feel powerful doing so, but that does not mean they're in control. 

The same may be said of "self-control."  Influence often results in myriad changes beyond the scope of humanities ability to model or project, an inevitable lack of control. 

Immediate consequences of influence may seem within our grasp, but the ripple effects are usually far beyond it. 

 So when it comes to power, we are again regressing toward subjective definitions and satisfactions. 

As Neitzsche has stated, subjectivity is all we have, things are simply indefinable without the presence of other things, and in the presence of other things, everything is relative.
 
 
Picture
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
 
Picture
We were having cocktails at our apartment one evening, my wife the picture of elegance as usual; a charming black gown accompanied by a tasteful necklace. 

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 was 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--with an HBS here, an MIT there, here a Louboutin, there a Galliano, etc., etc. 

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 his chosen expression in which 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 second, 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’ on 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...

 
 
Picture
'Gene Simmons is my bitch'
Its shoulders hunkered down as it languidly looks for a place to poop, this beast of noble pedigree, elegant in the foible of its servility, its spirit forever at sea, the primeval sins of man providing its only 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, this was Conrad's settlement; his table manners were better than most, but cups, and the shot of dignity they floated, were 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 from 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.