Part II: Woman gives birth to an Octopus!

Last week, Nadya Suleman crapped out 8 babies in a questionable case of the absence of medical ethics. Already the "mother" of 6 other saplings, Suleman has been both described as "educated" and "addicted to having children," even though one would think that the former would would trump the later with common sense. One would think.

Look, this illustrates the biggest problem in this country--people having kids they cannot raise. Raising 14 children takes time and commitment...and that's factoring in a father. One person raising a baker's dozen is impossible and child abuse to boot. I might sound like an evil asshole, but I have the firm belief that there is a small corner of hell reserved for irresponsible trolls such as Suleman.

And now she has the gall to ask Oprah for 2 million. So troglodytes are eligible for bailouts? And who is the fertility specialist jerk off who "infected" this woman. Where is the grizzled chief of medicine in all this? Where is the check and balance in medicine. Are they above the law? Is this the wild west for a brave new world? Aldous Huxley's ghost is banging his head to his favorite Iron Maiden record.

The moral of the story: You need a license to drive a car--why don't we start issuing licenses to birth children, where one undergoes a psychological evaluation before conception. And while we're at it, make sure that the breeders are committed to being the hunter/gathers of our society. If you can't fulfill these requirements--sorry, get a dog to fill the void your parents left in you.

Bottom Line: Embryo fertilization is playing god--just like abortion supposedly is. We need to draw lines and make distinctions in this society. We need to face the fact that there are too many fucking people in this country and making decisions to stop bullshit like this, thins the herd a bit. That's a good thing.

Micros of the Macro: IV things that have transpired so far in 2009 that hold a mirror up to Ugly America

Part I: Would you kiss a Christian with that mouth?

Four things have happened so far in 2009 that make larger statements about the world at large…and none of them have anything to do with Obama directly.

Audio was released last week that illustrated the rancor that Christian Bale was capable of as he unloaded on the director of photography who was fucking with one of his lights during a pivotal scene in “Terminator Salvation.” At first listen, one thinks, “Jesus Christ, what a potty-mouthed prima donna.” But when more detail came out, we learned that cinematographer Shane Hurlbut was pretty much in the wrong in the situation.
Now, I don’t know either party personally—but I feel like I know Bale. Christian Bale is a rare actor. His first movie was the lead in a Spielberg film…at the pubescent age of 13. For those that haven’t seen that movie, a pox on your house. I remember seeing that "Empire of the Sun" at the Fox Theatre with my folks in 1988 and thinking at the time that kid was great. He was spoiled, humbled, starved, and traumatized. Most importantly, Bale was believable in the role, all before he sprouted pubes. Of course he would become one of the greatest actors of his generation.
I don’t really care that Bale yelled at this douche-nozzle Hurlburt—maybe he deserved it, I dunno. But it doesn’t demonize Bale in my mind, nor does it angelize him either. I saw a comment on a digg.com story and the user said something to the effect—“I’m going to boycott this movie. I will only see it 13 times instead of 15.” Bottom line, no one cares that Bale is a foul-mouthed rageaholic—because Bruce Wayne is supposed to this angry—his parents are dead. He gets a pass.
Naysayers will naysay, “But he isn’t Bruce Wayne, he was just playing a role for a movie.” Well naysayers, tell that the over 500 million dollars and one of the last actors in this class of method who take their job seriously enough to put out a good product.
The moral of the story: Maybe McG should have hired a real cinematographer and not the guy he worked with to make all those shitty Smashmouth videos back when Slick Willy was living up to his nicker in the Oval Office.

Bottom Line: Method acting and hack photo-directors whose resume includes “Drumline” and “Crazy/Beautiful” don’t mix. Was Jeff Cronenweth too expensive, McG?

Easy, Tiger!

So here we go again, 2009--the year it all goes down--when the old faces rot and make way for the trail blazing fresh faces that have been waiting in the dark wings of gargoyls blinks their reptilian wings at the full moon that get closer and closer each year...

Do you ever feel like you're playing a game you can never win? Do you ever feel like the game is fixed in such a way that the winner is always predetermined without your knowledge, thus making you the loser in the end?

...I used to think that way.

I woke up in 2009--fully aware of the scams and schemes set up but the primordial lizards that shift in the night, awaken in the morning to a power suit and a few lines of pure, stepped-on china white. These chemicals, they rise in us, boil our brains with popping acid and we are the puppets on parade.

I think that my brain has flipped poles, like the earth might in 2012. My brain controls the world, unconsciously. I see the cracks in the paintings, I see the designs of ancients tribes flashing in my eyes as I sleep and lucidly manipulate the world inside my brain. How is waking life any different?

I won't play the game anymore, bygod. I phoning in for a bail out. I'm heading for a new astral travel, to usurp the Prussian czar in charge of this wormhole. This only makes sense to me...

...and I like it!

Put a Coffee Can and a Candle in Your Car!

Klosterman puts on his novelist hat for the first time and doesn't nearly knock it out of the park as much as he hit one into the deepest part of left field and hustles around the diamond and slides into home, dirty and safe. "Downtown Owl," is a novel about nothing and something simultaneously.

Being a rural boy myself, I have always dug Klosterman's style, voice and penchant for the Heavy Metal gods of the 80's. There is a light dusting of music here and there, but Klosterman does a great job of focusing on the characters' quiet desperation. It reminded me of the Bret Ellis novel, "The Rules of Attraction," only the characters aren't as hallow--they're real Americans--simple on the outside, yet complex on the inside. The brilliant thing that Klosterman does is that he exposes the characters complexities at the exact moment that they discover them.

I won't give away the ending as much as I'll comment on it. It's a stab at local media and how they often get the story wrong--you'll see what I mean.

Way to bring the ink, Young Master Klosterman!

(x-posted in Amazon Review)

Point of Origin

To quote Staind, "It's been awhile." (Can you believe that the band still records and tours to this day, a band that Fred Durst discovered over 10 years ago. Sometimes you have to scratch your head at the longevity of some bands--I'm looking at you Bon Jovi).

So, okay--I moved back to the valley in August to teach at the Community College I attended 10 years ago (Porterville College). More to the point, I moved to Exeter, the rival town to Woodlake, the town which I grew up in. Exeter is a much cleaner, utopian town than my beloved Woody. Exeter is also the town that my dad and my brother partially grew up in. In fact, a lot of Stutsmans inhabit its city limits.

The picture in the house above is the one my parents and my brother lived in before I was born. The story goes, my parents moved into the ranch house in Woodlake a solid month before my fetus hatched. The significance of the house above (100 Albert St. Exeter, CA 93221) is one of origin, or conception for that matter--for I was verifiablly conceived in the house sometime in the early autumn of our country's bicentennial.

Have you ever pondered what album you were possibly conceived to? For those of us who didn't grow up under the tear of liberal new-agers for parents, we are positively frightened to ever ask our parents this question. So for the sake of making this blog post more interesting and poignant, I'll make it up.

Mine would be Boston's eponymous album, the one with the Space Invaders space ships on the cover that looked like an early generation model of the large cylindrical object that tries to communicate with Earth's extinct humpback whales in Star Trek 4: The Voyage Home.

I think Boston wax was spinning on the long play for two reasons:

1) The album came out roughly 9 months before my self-titled debut and 2) my parents had this album in their collection.

ANYHOW, I am not surprised that I have never pondered the when and the where the deed was done and isn't that funny? The single most significant event in our personal history will always play second fiddle to the most repugnant thought that we could muster. I think that says something about out society at large but I have to go and find the nearest trashcan to throw up in.

My Fam

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"I can see Russia from my house!"