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I don’t think this is the kind of information one should share freely, but… Because I am remodeling my home from the top down… and because I have no idea how to do these things without doing 75% of it incorrectly and having to redo it again and again and again… I have been in Ikea every single day this week. Every. Single. Freakin’. DAY. Anyone who’s lived on this earth knows that Ikea is almost always unbearable. But the absolute worst day to go to Ikea is Saturday. Don’t ever do it. Don’t even think about it. Don’t even point. What are Saturdays at Ikea like? Well, imagine if you took the entire population of Disneyland and shoved it into a warehouse. Thousands of young parents, little kids, and their grandparents. No: millions. And every single one of them working hard to create a complete Catalusterfuck directly in your path, everywhere you go. That, my friend, is the essence of Ikea. That is its true purpose. Not to sell you upbeat, quirkily modern home furnishings at economic prices, but to provoke a violent and spectacular end to civilization. On Saturday I got trapped behind a Catalusterfuck somewhere around the living room exhibitions. Rabidly looking for a shortcut, I finally spotted a clear path directly to my right. I veered to that side, accidentally stepping on a small child. I kept going, not even pausing to look back to see if the kid was okay, nor to relish the gasps and comments of disapproval from the parents and nearby onlookers: “What nerve! That awful woman! Is the child okay?” I knew the kid was okay. After all, it didn’t scream. And if the kid didn’t cry, then I was well within the bounds of acceptable. That kid was so fucking fine that I could have gone back there and stepped on it again. That’s how much I did not hurt that fucking kid, okay? But I’m not the only one who experiences Ikea Rage. I see others succumbing to it all the time: The twenty-something girl doggedly looking for a short cut through the masses of somnambulists engrossed in “Billy” bookshelves. The rail-thin, hipper-than-thou gay couple trapped behind a woman with a enormous stroller, her husband and her joined-at-the-elbow-and-thus-even-wider-than usual elderly parents in “Closets”. The line of 15 people at the information counter in “Kitchens”, silently seething as they wait for the customer service professionals to wrap it up with the whiny, high-maintenance woman sucking up everyone’s time. As a fun way to while away the hours, they eye the box of short little pencils next to the stack of applications for the Ikea Family Card, and imagine sinking them into both her eyes. Watching others succumb to panic attacks, hyperventilation, depression and murderous rage is one of the few benefits of being trapped in Ikea. Nothing takes away the sting like seeing others suffer just as much or even more than you. I know one thing; Ikea employees excepted, no one has listened to the entire goddamn Ikea ambient music soundtrack, from start to finish, as many times as I have for these past five weeks. And when you’ve been unable to stop singing “Abacab”, “Baby I Love Your Way”,”Hitchin’ a Ride”, and that Simply Red song that sounds more like Carly Simon, for over a month, even on your non-Ikea time… …that’s when you know you’ve hit bottom, my friends.
Packed train, rush hour, standing-room only: Middle-aged man with Down’s syndrome, complaining to the train conductor through the emergency intercom system that he had to stop the train and force someone to give him their seat. “These are all bad people on this train,” he said. “I have special needs, and no one will give me their seat.” “But what do you want me to do?” the conductor’s voice said. “The intercom is for emergencies only.” “It IS an emergency,” said the man with Down’s. “I need a seat, and no one will give me one. People take advantage. They always take advantage of me on the metro.” “There’s nothing I can do about that, sir,” the conductor’s voice said. “Please don’t use the intercom again unless it’s really an emergency.” We were all looking at the man with Down’s Syndrome. He continued to argue with the conductor that it was an emergency. We were very bad people, and something should be done about it. One other detail: his pants had fallen down completely and lay about his ankles. His white underwear and bare legs gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights. No one gave him a seat, and no one pulled his pants up.
Seriously, I’d love to know who thinks this shit up. The local government’s apparent contempt for its citizens is perfectly represented by this desolate little “park” at the Europa-Fira metro station in L’Hospitalet, just outside of the Barcelona. In all my thousands of trips to Ikea, I have never once seen even one human soul actually enjoying this “park”… but no matter, for someone in the government decided it would be a great idea to pay some design firm a huge wad of cash to implant a mass of huge, metal HAIRS all over it. Gee, I wonder why no one hangs out in this park. Imagine meeting for a first date with someone you have a crush on: “Hey, do you want to hang out for a while?” “Sure! Where should we meet?” “Hmmm… How about that park covered with LONG, GROSS HAIRS?” Seriously: HAIRS. Stuff that the entire civilized world is trying desperately to get rid of, and they go and plant them in the middle of the park. Is there any better way to say “fuck you” towards the citizens of this town than to implant huge, metal HAIRS in their public spaces? I can only think of one way to top it. Instead of hairs, put big, metal replicas of dog shit. There are still some open spaces left to ruin. Come on, people! Don’t stand for this nonsense! Let’s all meet in that park… cover the entire area with hot wax… and quickly and brutally rip those hairs out.
Original salute to the Pledge of Allegiance
I just learned that this salute originally accompanied the recitation of my country’s Pledge of Allegiance(!) The Pledge of Allegiance is an oath of loyalty to the U.S.A., written in 1892 by Francis Bellamy. According to Bellamy’s indications, the pledge also included a salute that consisted of an extended arm with the palm facing upward. Over time — probably because hard-working Americans were tired from working so damn hard — the palm position changed to face downward. Around 1942, when the U.S. was in deep shit fighting Nazi Germany, President Franklin D. Roosevelt officially changed the salute to a simple gesture of covering the heart with one hand. Like most American children, I grew up having to recite the Pledge of Allegiance in school, and it always made me feel icky. I’ve always disliked being forced to participate in the monotonous recitation, in unison, of supposedly important or sacred ideas, whether they be prayers or the Pledge of Allegiance. The mechanical, perfunctory manner of reciting these mantras always seemed to strip them of their importance while making me feel like a sheep, another brick in the wall. Another thing about the Pledge that always made me uncomfortable was the mention of God. As a kid reasonably educated about my country, I was aware of the separation of Church and State, and so the explicit mention of God in the Pledge definitely seemed uncool. Why the hell were we talking about God in public school? (The reference to God didn’t exist in the original Pledge of Allegiance; it was added in the 1950s, after a Presbyterian minister convinced President Dwight D. Eisenhower to change the Pledge to mention God.) I can’t remember ever studying in school what the Pledge means. I never understood what it defends exactly, except adherence to a nation as represented by the American flag. These things always aroused my suspicions and made me distrustful of the conformist, authoritarian educational system under which I was brought up. The Pledge of Allegiance, as it exists today, goes like this: I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. The blog The Legal Satyricon criticizes the use of the word “flag” over “Constitution”, arguing, “We should not fetishize a piece of cloth.” To better reflect the values of America, The Legal Satyricon suggests changing the Pledge of Allegiance to go like this: I pledge allegiance to the Republic of the United States of America, and to the Constitution on which it stands.
I can’t figure out which would be more bizarre: to live in a society where marriage is prohibited to only you and others like you, or to have a child as brilliant, mature and conscientious as this kid. Hats off to the brave 10-year-old Will Phillips and his father Jay for risking their comfort, reputations and personal safety so that everyone can share equally in the American Dream. Across the pond in Spain, where same-sex marriage has been legal for several years, there are plenty of people cheering for you. If you’re so inclined, please leave Will and his parents a little encouragement in the form of a comment. Since he took his stand for gay rights, Will has been under tremendous pressure from bullying classmates at school, and his parents have said that they show Will positive feedback from blogs as a way to keep up his spirits.
Here’s the latest video from OK Go. No one rocks with available materials better than they do. I’ve always loved their way of going completely against the grain with their labor-extensive, craftsmanlike pieces of art. Let’s start with their first video, “A Million Ways“. How could 4 normal guys — all non-dancers — take the time to learn all that choreography, and do it all in one take? How many rehearsals did it take? And then, once the camera was set up: how many takes? Imagine the sheer labor that must have gone into making that video, between rehearsals and takes. When I first saw the “Million Ways” video, I thought, “That was a great video. But what will they do after that?” That video was so great, it reeked of One-Hit Wonder syndrome. There was no way to top a video like that… I thought. Then they came out with “Here It Goes Again“. I’m not crazy about the song, but the video is what sells it. And now this latest one: though it’s their most complex, big-production video to date, it’s still true to their signature, artesanal ethic; a technical triumph using ordinary, unscientific household objects to create beautifully useless machines. Stunning… and absolutely entrañable.
Parker is married to the coolest woman in the world. His wife, Holly, lets him film her while she’s crying during movies… which is, basically, all the time. I can relate. I’m a crier too, though not as extreme as her. For example, sometimes I end up crying when I watch commercials for dog food or baby products. But I would never let someone film me while I was having one of my attacks! I’m not as secure as Holly is. And in case you were wondering (and I did, initially), NO, she is not mentally unbalanced. She just “really gets into the characters and the relationships”, her husband explains. They’ve started a whole website around the schtick, called cryingwife.com, where she cries while watching everything from Star Wars to Back to the Future… even Elf! You can even request movies for her to watch/cry at! Check it out.
Okay, today I’ve got a million things to do and I really can’t spend all day talking or arguing about anything important, and I’m gonna prove it with the topic I’ve chosen for today: I don’t understand the manía (hatred) that some people in this country (Spain) have towards Penelope Cruz. I’m not a huge fan myself, but she’s a good actress, she’s sexy, and she has incredible hair and a culo to die for. (As well as wonderful ta-tas. Are they fake? I haven’t been able to tell; therefore, who cares?) What’s the big deal? She’s just a movie star. What should she be doing differently? Why do people get so angry when she comes on screen? Their excuse is usually, “Oh, I’m so sick of seeing her,” but I think it goes beyond that. What’s the real reason? Are they mad it isn’t them up there? Or are they angry that it’s not their faces buried in her ta-tas and culo? Please, let me know. I’ll go first: every time I see Penelope Cruz in a movie, I start to feel horrible about my hair. But that’s as far as it goes. I don’t hate her for it, fer Chrissakes. I just hate my hair. –Okay, and usually the script too, but that’s not her fault. So I guess this is my plea for sanity: Stop hating Penelope, and start hating yourself. It’s a healthier way to be.
Show de comedia este jueves en el Café-Teatro Llantiol. Sólo quedan una cuantas veladas más, porque después del verano volveré con nuevo show entero. Más info y opción de reservar en la página web del show. Be there or be square, M*thaf*uckers.
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