The Locker Room

The locker room at the gym smells like sweat, shit, and Right Guard. It doesn’t smell at all like the failing air freshener that’s plugged into the wall. Naked old men are walking about. The air is so humid that you can very nearly float in it. I’m thinking it’s a good time to jump on the scale, because I’ll probably be lighter because of that humidity. I do, but I’m not. When I get out to hit the weights, the air is so comparably clean that I feel like I’m about to do my chest workout on top of a mountain.

The Bouncer at the Tiki Lounge

I was on my way out the door after a few beers, my wife behind me. We were cutting through the crowd efficiently and with trained purpose. Some girls were trying to come in at the same time that we were trying to leave. The first one handed me her driver’s license, looked me in the eye, and smiled. She was very pretty. I’m always happy to have pretty young girls hand me things in bars and smile at me. I was, however, slightly confused by the gesture. A sad and pathetic part of me hoped that she wanted me to ravage her, and she was proving that she was of legal age before taking me back to her place. Perhaps just laying eyes on me from ten feet out was all she needed to see before giving herself to me? Then the rational portion of my mind took over, and my immediate confusion gave way to disappointed amusement, as I realized that I’d just been mistaken for the bouncer. I smiled, handed it back, nodded, and motioned for them all to come in. They smiled back and walk in. Then we continued out the door.

The End of Time

This morning was the end of time. It was majestically overcast and gray. The sky was huge, and not at all claustrophobic or crowded, as overcast skies tend to be. The air was cool, but not cold. The sun didn’t have the energy to fight the crushing nihilism of the clouds. It wasn’t in the mood to work hard, and none of the rest of us were, either.

Fake Hipster Artist-Wanna-Be Degenerate Fucks

Nobody’s fucking anybody tonight. This place is terrible. It’s full of terrible people smelling terrible. The art is terrible. The beer is terrible. Everything sucks. The gallery is full of young, pretentious hipster assholes. I am the only man in here who can bench press more than his body weight. I guarantee it. I’m also the only guy in here that has likely ever made art that meant anything. There is nothing for me to learn here. These men are not men. They’re all growing beards and ironic facial hair to convince themselves that they are. Then they’ve adorned themselves in strange haircuts and ridiculous glasses to temper all that projected illusory masculinity and create a visual tone of irony. They’re all admiring the crappy, neato, comic-book-sketch-looking, safe-quasi-graffitti cartoon art that isn’t even framed. It has just been drawn on illustration board and tacked to the wall. It must be a rough life having that little self-respect and motivation. How do they have sufficient energy to feed themselves? Too much weed, not enough red meat. I can understand that these kids were raised on cartoons and videogames, and that’s why it’s reflected in their art. Fair enough. However, in the larger creative dialogue, I think it’s absolutely horrifying that that’s all my generation has to say: “I like video games and comic books.” That appears to be about the size of it. I can’t understand how they can feel that passionately about inane, time-wasting childrens’ games and pulp illustration. It’s proof that humanity is in decline and we’ll never cure cancer or AIDS. It’s even more ridiculous when they try to pass it off as “street art.” Whenever I hear that excuse, I want so badly for Jean-Michel Basquiat and Keith Haring to come back from the dead and beat these corny, white, straight suburbanites within an inch of their safe, stylish lives and educate them. Furthermore, I’ll bet none of these people read anything worthwhile. Likely they don’t read anything at all, except maybe comic books. Of course! God-fucking-knows it’s important to have images and illustrations handy to remove any of the creative responsibility from reader. On top of all that, the women here are generally sexless and uninviting. Fuck these people and their scene. I can appreciate what they’ve created for themselves here. I’m sure they were all misfits and outsiders growing up. Now they’ve got a place to belong, and that’s great. The only problem with that is the fact that they’ve simply created their own exclusive group with a specific set of codes and criteria that you must meet to be accepted. Being an outsider by nature I can identify, though I have no desire to belong to anything. I tend to be an outsider among outsiders. When too many people agree with me, I get nervous and uncomfortable. I like to judge people by my own criteria, based upon their content. None of these confused fuckers have anything valuable to say or contribute. They have no enduring sense of identity beyond having all gone to the same shitty, over-priced art school that taught them nothing, but reinforced the juvenile notions of art that they carried into it from high school, and created an incestuous clique for them to hide inside. Never send your child to the Art Institute of Pittsburgh. A worse education isn’t available in the free world.

Too Cool to Care

It’s 2006 and all of American culture has been consumed by the postmodern cancer. Everybody is too hip to believe in anything. Even many religious people often won’t own up to their beliefs in conversation. I suspect they’re concerned about pissing off God(s), and just don’t want to pick a team officially. Nobody takes anything seriously, for fear of looking ridiculous or being wrong. Sincerity is a vulnerability and a liability, and we live in a culture of cowardice. Everything is rented, and ownership is seen as a form of insanity. We are a culture without permanence or honest conviction. Welcome to Wal-Mart. With no lasting interests, we’re all passively waiting for the next big thing to come by and blow our minds, tire of it, then move on. Recycle, then move on. Recycle, then move on. The strong-willed individual has died and given rise to shiftless disorganization and fashionable disinterest. Irony has consumed everything like rust. Art without conviction is a shameful and insincere thing. Good art should come from the gut and be inflexible. An artist must first be a fascist.