American Beauty

I just finished watching "American Beauty" with Ana. What a film. I feel like I'm going to cry now. Every night is as close as I'll ever get to praying. I may not believe in God, but I believe in some sort of guardian angel. Every night I pray for my angel to purify me. I have lead and other toxic heavy metals in my soul. I almost started crying. When Annette Bening hugs his suits. Her grief. Human grief. The first time I watched that movie I could not sleep. I tossed and turned the entire night. It bit. It stung. That movie was OUR lives - when there was still an OUR. What's most interesting though is how OLD that movie is and how much it has aged. I mean that in a good way. It's not only a culmination of, but it is a RECORD of the Clinton years. But what's really shocking to notice is that just ten years ago people were so much more ALIVE. Yes, even just back then people were still ALIVE. At least back then people knew there was something wrong. At the very least the words "ennui" or "malaise" were still in the dictionary. People were still human back then. Not now. Not anymore. The teenage drug dealer in that movie used a BEEPER. Not a CELLPHONE.

But what a haunting movie. I think of our proto-McMansion and our central air conditioning. I think of the sterility of the McMansions. I think of how we FELT RIGHT. A hot girl would have to live in a big McMansion with a glimmering pool in the backyard. The month of May in New Jersey - nothing like it. Too bad this May had to be so cold and rainy.

At the end of the movie I want to hug and love everyone I know and love because I think of how we all have to die all day and then I'm just emotionally overwhelmed. I'm not an emotional writer. At least most of the time. Not to sound cliche, but sometimes it does hurt too much to feel. But I want to feel. I don't want the people I love to die. We were all young once and now even I'm getting old - and somehow I never thought I would get old.

I'll hide behind the tongue in cheek again. What will I think about after some closeted homosexual blows my brains out?

I'll think of family happy hours with high balls, cheap Pennsylvania beer, and White House subs, the smell of the hot peppers and the white wrapping paper.

I'll think of a perfect morning on Brigantine Beach and how long it took to walk out to the jetty.

I'll think of watching "Ghostbusters" at my cousin's house and playing Barbies. 

I'll think of the first time Eric Hartz taught me the "F" word.

I'll think of how much I thought of death when I was 12  years old.

I'll think of all the wonderful moments I had with myself when I was 12 years old.

I'll think of the first time I had an orgasm. It was on my parents bed. I was grinding my hips on the bed while watching Spice.

I'll think of the Monster Truck Spectacular and what it was like hiding out in that air-conditioned trailer - and dreaming of a perfect girl - as rednecks swarmed the tee-shirt stand.

I'll think of when I used to be an usher at the Roundabout and how exciting and new our very first show ever - "The Man Who Came to Dinner" was.

I'll think of all the laughs I've had. I'll think of the friends who matter. I'll think of every moment when I felt just all right.

I'll even think of the times post-Prozac when I could not really feel as much, but I still felt. I could still appreciate the sterility of the central air-conditioning.

I'll think of that time - just about ten years ago, when I was just about to start my real life - when I sat up all night tossing and turning because I had just watched "American Beauty" in the movie theater.

Bertrand Russell: The Tom Hanks of Philosophy

I've applied for Social Security Disability. I do not want to contribute anything to society. Nothing. I have a very deep-rooted anger and hatred toward people and society in general. I've suffered too many traumas.

A good story: When I was in the 7th Grade I was trying to grow my hair long, like Axl Rose. One day, when I wasn't paying attention, a skinny little punk put a fist-sized wad of bubblegum in my hair. I had to go to the nurse's office so they could cut it out with scissors and pull out whatever was left with a comb. It took them at least a painful, humiliating hour to fully remove all of the gum. Knowing how humiliated I must have been they closed the door so the other children could not look in. The whole time the two nurses said to one another: "God, these kids are so terrible. God, these kids are so horrible." My hair was ruined. The little punk had violated my life to such an extent that I had to change my hairstyle for him.

When I found this boy I shoved him face-first into a brick wall. A female teacher ran up to me: "What are you doing?" I tried to explain the situation to her. "But you just can't go around shoving people. You can't put your hands on people!" She sent me to the principal's office and I was disciplined. That was just one of many equally traumatic events. After such a traumatic event it is easy to understand why I spent all of my time dreaming of a big city like New York or Los Angeles where I could be myself and both famous and anonymous. Like a gay kid I had to run away from a small-minded suburban environment. My only incentive against murdering one or more of my classmates was the hope of a better future. I, of course, would have been completely justified in torturing and killing gum-boy's entire family to the last living member.

But more than anything, such incidents permanently prejudiced me against average and ordinary people. THEY (not people like me or Nietzsche) are the CRUEL. Their mediocrity would be forgivable if they were not so cruel. But being that they are cruel and that they possess strength in numbers, all of their flaws are entirely unforgivable. If every mediocrity on earth had to die for me to experience the slightest touch of happiness, that would be perfectly acceptable and even desirable.

Which brings me to the Tom Hanks of Philosophy - Bertrand Russell - and his cowardly critique of Nietzsche. I presume Lord Russell did not know what it was like to have a fist-sized piece of bubblegum lodged in one's hair and perhaps that is why he is so quick to attack Nietzsche and defend the Herd. Russell writes of Nietzsche: "He admires certain qualities which he believes (perhaps rightly) to be only possible for an aristocratic minority; the majority, in his opinion, should be only means to the excellence of the few and should not be regarded as having any independent claim to happiness or well-being. He alludes habitually to ordinary human beings as the 'bungled and botched' and sees no objection to their suffering if it is necessary for the production of a great man." And? So? Your point is? And why should I care about the Herd? And is that not exactly what I have been saying since long before I had ever even heard of Nietzsche?
Not only that, but there is so much more to Nietzsche. Nietzsche's philosophy is more about self-overcoming and perpetual self-development (not to mention his metaphysics, his criticisms of history and philosophy, his doctrine of the Eternal Return, etc...) than it is about wielding power over the others. He continues to "explain" Nietzsche's philosophy to the uninitiated: "True virtue, as opposed to the conventional sort is not for all, but should remain the characteristic of an aristocratic minority. It is not profitable or prudent; it isolates its possessor from other men; it is hostile to order, and does harm to inferiors. It is necessary for higher men to make war upon the masses, and resist the democratic tendencies of the age, for in all directions mediocre people are joining hands to make themselves masters."

Okay Lord Hanks, his ethical stance is not "profitable"? What are you, a philosopher or a shopkeeper?

It is not prudent? Nietzsche's whole philosophy takes joy in laughing in the face of prudence, especially your kind of prudence. Did you skip his aphorisms on the Dionysian?

The possessor of this virtue is already isolated from other men - whether he likes it or not.

It is "hostile to order"? Of course it is to a boring logician such as yourself.

It does harm to inferiors? So what?

And, yes, I make war against the masses every day simply by not owning a cellphone.

The Obamas are always speaking in the plural - they love the words "we" and "us".

And, well, are not the mediocre masses already our rulers? Just flick on the t.v. (which I also don't have.)

At the end of his shallow critique of Nietzsche he throws in a quick cheap shot: "What are we to think of Nietzsche's doctrines? How are they true? Are they in any degree useful? Is there in them anything objective, or are they the mere power-phantasies of an invalid?"

Well, it must have escaped you Lord Hanks that you are practicing the same sort of "English" utilitarian thinking that Nietzsche so despised. He would have hated you even more than he hated J.S. Mill because at least J.S. Mill was original!

"How are they true?" Nietzsche was a PERSPECTIVIST. Your "true" would not have mattered to him. In this sense, again, he was a more sophisticated and daring thinker than you.

"Are they in any degree useful?" NIETZSCHE WAS NOT A UTILITARIAN!!!!!! He would not want his teachings to be "useful" to most. It would be better for them to be "useless" than to be used by people like you. Didn't you get that or were you too busy making small-dick jokes about a brilliant dead man?

"Is there in them anything objective?" See above. Perspectivism. I know that doesn't jibe well with your MATHEMATICALLY BORING logician mind.

"The mere power-phantasies of an invalid?" Now you show your true colors, your true CRUEL colors you smarmy Tom Hanks hypocrite! Yes, I had power-phantasies too. I pretended to be Axl Rose, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Mike Tyson because that was the only way I could survive day to day.

He finishes his chapter on Nietzsche with a fictional dialogue between Nietzscha and Buddha that almost made me vomit: "If Buddha and Nietzsche were confronted, could either produce any argument that ought to appeal to the impartial listener? We can imagine them appearing before the Almighty, as in the first chapter of the Book of Job, and offering advice as to the sort of world He should create. What could either say?

Buddha would open the argument by speaking of the lepers, outcast and miserable; the poor, toiling with aching limbs and barely kept alive by scanty nourishment; the wounded in battle, dying in slow agony; the orphans, ill-treated by cruel guardians; and even the most successful haunted by the thought of failure and death. From all this load of sorrow, he would say, a way of salvation must be found, and salvation can only come through love.

Nietzsche, whom only Omnipotence could restrain from interrupting, would burst out when his turn came: 'Good heavens, man, you must learn to be of tougher fibre. Why go about snivelling because trivial people suffer? Or, for that matter, because great men suffer? Trivial people suffer trivially, great men suffer greatly, and great sufferings are not to be regretted, because they are noble. Your ideal is purely a negative one, absence of suffering, which can be completely secured by non-existence. I, on the other hand, have positive ideals: I admire Alcibiades, and the Emperor Frederick II, and Napolean. For the sake of such men, any misery is worthwhile. I appeal to you, Lord, as the greatest of creative artists, do not let Your artistic impulses be curbed by the degenerate fear-ridden maunderings of this wretched psychopath.'

Buddha, who in the courts of Heaven has learnt all history since his death, and has mastered science with delight in the knowledge and sorrow at the use to which men have put it, replies with calm urbanity: 'You are mistaken, Professor Nietzsche, in thinking my ideal a purely negative one. True, it includes a negative element, the absence of suffering; but it has in addition quite as much that is positive as is to be found in your doctrine. Though I have no special admiration for Alcibiades and Napolean, I, too, have my heroes: my successor Jesus, because he told men to love their enemies; the men who discovered how to master the forces of nature and secure food with less labour; the medical men who have shown how to diminish disease; the poets and artists and musicians who have caught glimpses of the Divine beatitude. Love and knowledge and delight in beauty are not negations; they are enough to fill the lives of the greatest men that have ever lived.'

'All the same,' Nietzsche replies, 'your world would be insipid. You should study Heraclitus, whose works survive in the celestial library. Your love is compassion, which is elicited by pain; your truth, if you are honest, is unpleasant, and only to be known through suffering; and, as to beauty, what is more beautiful than the tiger, who owes his splendour to his fierceness? No, if the Lord should decide for your world, I fear we should all die of boredom.'

'You might,' Buddha replies, 'because you love pain, and your love of life is a sham. But those who really love life would be happy as no on can be happy in the world as it is.'"

EXCUSE ME WHILE I GO VOMIT! BLECCCCCCCHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Not only does this dummy not understand Nietzsche, but he doesn't even understand Buddhism! Could you imagine if Lord Hanks had picked on Nietzsche while he was alive and sane. Verbally, Nietzsche would have ripped him a new one and made him look outrageously weak, stupid, ignorant, ridiculous, and hypocritical.

Why don't you go stick gum in someone's hair, Lord Russell? That's more YOUR speed you hypocrite!

A quick guide for knowing the Tom Hanks' of the world:

Axl Rose = Nietzsche
Slash = Lord Russell

Mike Tyson = Nietzsche
Evander Holyfield = Lord Russell

Me = Nietzsche
My Sister = Russell

In the end it's just a clash of personalities: Analytic Conformists and Mad Poets. Apollo vs. Dionysus. I'm still in the latter category.

But still, THEY are the cruel. Not us.

The Anxious Dreams of Kafkaesque Killy

I was never a big fan of Kafka, but he did pay attention to dreams.

Dream #1:

The Trial.

I'm in an office, standing before a judge.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"No, your honor."

"Do you know what you've done wrong?"

"No, your honor."

"Your case is one of the worst I have ever seen. You should be ashamed of yourself." He pulled out a thick file. "One of the worst I've ever seen."

"Yes, your honor."

"Do you know why you're here?"

"No, your honor."

"Good. Now go into my courtroom and sit down."

I sit down at a defense table with two other defendants. Everyone made me feel like a nuisance of an intruder, like I had no right to even take up space.

Dream #2:

I'm in an elevator bay of a Las Vegas casion (I've never been to Vegas). I'm crawling on the ground in front of the elevators. The right elevator, the one closest to me, cannot open or close all the way, something is blocking it. The middle elevator opens. A chubby, older blonde woman exits, sees me, recognizes me (apparently she knows me) and takes pity on me.

On the elevator ride back to her room she says: "I loved you back in the 60s (I was not yet a gleam in my father's eye in the 60s) but you're gross now."

Despite these words we went to her room and then she told me that I had to leave. But I couldn't leave because I couldn't find all of my clothes. I kept scrambling but as soon as I found one piece of clothing I lost track of another.

Dream #3:

A rabid animal bites me. I will have to seek immediate medical attention, but for some reason I kept moving in slow motion and other people kept sidetracking me, until we were on the cusp of being "too late".

The Black Tom Hanks

I used to work in a factory with this light-skinned black dude, Michael. Michael was 30 years old, married with two young children. He was a Hip-Hop head and a gregarious animal. He took pride in being pleasant and "laid-back".

One day I wore a red shirt to work.

"You down with the Bloods, Will?" Michael teased.

"Me? Down with the Bloods? Oh, no way. I'm not a coward. I'm not a conformist. I don't need to hide behind ignorance. I fight my own battles."

"Ooh! You better watch what you say!"

"Why? I don't live in South Central L.A. What? Are you afraid of those pussies? Yes, I see all the little 'Bloods' in my neighborhood. If they bother me I'll take off my leather belt and spank their little black asses raw. I'll beat them the way their fathers should be beating them. I'll be their father. I'll beat them the way my father used to beat me. I had it much rougher than any of them and I'm not pretending to be some kind of gangbanger. Bunch of pussies."

"Well, some of them might be faking it, but not all of them."

"Wrong! They're all cowards. They're all conformists. Even the real ones who actually kill people. All of them are cowards and conformists."

Sometimes Michael would alternately bore and amuse me with unconsciously and unintentionally comical tales of his anonymous, nowhere life. In addition to working at the factory, he did landscaping work and he was attempting to launch a clothing line called "Ghetto Threads". Thank goodness for unintentional comedians - a gift from nature.

"Yeah, so I do lawns and I run my clothing label and on weekends I do a lot of volunteer work for my church because I think it's very important to give back to the community."

"Oh, that's very nice," I said. But what I was really thinking was: Give back? But nigga, you ain't got shit and you ain't neva' gon' have shit! Give back? How the fuck you gon' give back when you ain't yet received nothin'? But I guess I'm just being a "hata".

I've never understood the concept of "giving back to the community" probably because I have never received anything from the community other than unending grief and heartache.

Michael turned out to be phony and smarmy, a black Tom Hanks. He told me he was on Myspace and I sent him both a message and a friend request. My reasons for doing this were simple: I wanted him to see my Myspace profile - with its erudite references and lists of difficult books - and be confronted with my obvious superiority. In turn he would be simultaneously reminded of his own very obvious inferiority. I, of course, hid my own vain intentions behind a polite and friendly message.

But he never responded to my message. He forwarded it - to Lord knows who - probably to make fun of me, of my "weirdness" or, rather, of what he would take to be my weirdness: my superiority.

What has the world come to when the superior are mocked by the inferior? Well, I suppose the world has always been the same.

What a phony Michael turned out to be. At least I don't pretend to be a Tom Hanks.

Goddamned black Tom Hanks.

In Grammar School they called me "Will the Still" because I was so quiet and calm. Then, as now, I could not understand the constant need for meaningless activity. Athletics are the perfect example of meaningless activity. Especially team sports. At least I could attach my hopes and dreams - as well as the injustices committed against me - to a heroic underdog like Mike Tyson.

Then, as now, I knew there were only three subjects worth thinking about: sex, love, and philosophy - and that's it!

But now I understand the importance of keeping both the mind and the muscles constantly moving. Today I shoveled stone. I worked so hard that by the time I was done my entire face was caked with a white chalk. The "white chalk" was salt - that's how much I'd been sweating. My sweat smells worse than it ever has before because now when I sweat I am sweating out sickness.

I want my heart to be ready for those who deserve it.

Wikipedia Willy

"See, Will, I'm trying to get a grasp on your OCD. I had a female patient, very bright girl, went to Georgetown University and she had to figure out as many ways to walk to class as possible and then pick the right one. Before she had even gotten to class she had come up with 94 permutations. Now that's esoteric, but your OCDs are uber-esoteric. I mean, if you were just washing your hands I could treat the handwashing with exposure therapy. But your OCDs have to do with more esoteric subject matter, such as the nature of enjoyment, for instance."

"Enjoyment, yes. But not just the nature of sensation and emotion itself. I have felt detached from sensation and emotions thanks to anhedonia, but in addition to that I have also had severe issues with time and duration. The fact that everything is transient, including orgasms and good times with friends. I suppose I could try to treat the best of the past as if it were a part of the present and therefore eternally with me. How else am I going to get a grip on the problem of time and ephemerality. I can't freeze time and this bothers me!"

Dr. E was a fit, handsome older man. His office was decorated with fishign trophies and statues of fierce, lean bodhisattvas. I had taken a wrong turn somewhere and now I was trying to find my way back. I had forgotten how to feel anything. And if I felt anything I'd be too obsessed with the moment passing to really enjoy the moment.

"Well, what is one of your specific OCDs related to this?"

"Well, for example, I cannot read Schopenhauer until I've had more sex."

"And you cannot read Schopenhauer until you've had more sex because...?" I could tell by the way he phrased the question that he was not at all familiar with Schopenhauer's work. How could a psychologist pass through so many educational institutions and not be at all familiar with Schopenhauer? I mean, good ol' Arthur is necessary even for a full understanding of Freud's work.

"Well, Schopenhauer, of course, was the pessimist. He saw life as a wheel of desire-satiety-boredom. The only answer to misery was to transcend this wheel through the negation of the Will. Schopenhauer was, of course, heavily influenced by Buddhism, which, no offense - I see the statues here - is a terrible religion. It's both better and worse than Christianity if only because it actually works. And I should know."

"You've practiced Buddhism?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"When? Recently?"

"Well, when I was in my four year relationship. It seemed as if I was going to be married to the girl who took my virginity. I wanted to be with her forever, but I was in the middle of the orgy known as New York City. I was caught between having the girl I had always wanted and having the sexual opportunities I had always wanted. My girl was poor and she had no family or friends. I had to make a sacrifice for her. Very existential Christian of me. Very Kierkegaardian of me. But what is the point of being a Christian or a saint in this time? Things are very grim nowadays and sex has become just another consumerism, but the sort of 'free love' I was looking for was certainly out there for me. I had to deny myself what I wanted on hundreds of occasions. If that wasn't bad enough I was practicing Buddhism and other mysticisms in an attempt to sedate, stymie, control, and kill my out of control sexual urges."

"What if you succeeded?"

My OCDs kicked into overdrive.

"Oh my God! Don't even say that! That's exactly what I'm afraid of - that I may have permanently damaged the apparatus, that I may have permanently alienated myself from my senses, my instincts, even my emotions. That has become one of my worst fears. I mean, an ascetic is not what I am. For me of all people to be a holy man! All I've ever wanted is to be Satanic. All I've ever wanted was to be a rake and engage in licentious orgies."

"'Rake' and 'licentious'. Who uses words like that in the 21st century?"

"Well, I suppose that's my schizotypy. But that's the 21st century's problem - not mine. Perhaps I'm trying too hard to be Byron, but even he was too much of a pessimist."

"So, you've said it before - you're afraid of transcending your desires before you've had a chance to enjoy them?"

"Yes, but then I think of someone like Aleister Crowley."

"Who was Aleister Crowley?"

How could he not know who Aleister Crowley was? So many of our present New Age threads can be traced back to Crowley. Much of what was happening while he was in Harvard in the late 60s can be traced back to Crowley and he has never even heard of him?

"Aleister Crowley was a British occultist. For a time he was meditating up to 16 hours a day, but toward the end of his life he was still enthusiastically engaging in sex and sexual magick orgies with his followers."

"So see? There's hope for you."

Overall I think Dr. E is a nice man with a sense of humor. It still baffles me that his knowledge base is so limited.

"Yes, that's good!" I laughed.

"Have you ever experimented with occultism?"

"Yes, most recently - more than a year ago - I did it for the sake of psychonautics."

"What are psychonautics?"

Oh my Goodness! He has not heard of psychonautics either? And he went to Harvard in the 60s?

"Psychonautics is the use of dance, trance, shamanism, magick, mysticism, and especially psychedelic drugs for the purpose of exploring other dimensions of mind. In all fairness I've always been interested in the mystical, the magickal, the occult, the human brain, the human mind, and the unknown. So perhaps my asceticism was just an accident waiting to happen."

I suppose I was being "high-falutin" with Dr. E, but these were - at one time - existential concerns (they still are) and I really am smart. I just suppose I sound like Wikipedia because I'm trying to prove to him that I am not a total failure just because I do not have a job, a college degree, or a cellphone.

Max's Famous Hot Dogs, the Dangers of Philosophical Pessimism, and the Paradigm Shift

Night and Day is my favorite magazine. Night and Day is a Jersey Shore beachcomber rag, mostly made up of ads and very poorly written - though always positive and enthusiastic - reviews of sponsor bars and restaurants. Forget The New Yorker with their boring stories on neuroscientists, Guggenheim retrospectives, and the early work of Frank Lloyd Wright. I'd rather masturbate to Miller Lite and Yuengling ad spreads featuring pictures of local Jersey girls - their caucasian skin artificially tanned the color of a fresh carrot - quaffing said brews while farting in their tight, slutty pants. These were the sort of girls I could never get in High School because there is quite obviously something wrong with me.

Night and Day is the best toilet-reading material I have ever known. Yesterday I defecated while reading a review of Max's Famous Hot Dogs. This is what I read as I expelled waste from my bowels:

"A Long Branch tradition since 1928, Max's Hot Dogs is said to be a favorite of local celebrities, including Bruce.
Max's uses quarter pound Schickhaus hot dogs, slow cooked to make them extra juicy and delicious. Max's isn't just called famous because they felt it was good marketing, they really are extremely popular around New Jersey.
As former governor Christine Whitman once said, 'We can all concur that Max's in Long Branch serves the most outstanding hot dogs in New Jersey'."

I cannot read of Max's without thinking of my High School crush, Samantha Epstein. Samantha worked at Max's the year after High School. I think that was her first step toward becoming an ugly old yenta hag. Do her arms now feel like a hard palm stroke against a wet, half-deflated rubber balloon?

When I watch the dreams of others (not to mention my own) die so hard it is hard not to fall head first into philosophical pessimism. Kierkegaard is a great komfort when the world seems so dreary and depressing. There are so many traps and a person as openminded as me is liable to fall into all of them.

This is, after all, a world where people like my mediocre sister succeed. My sister is an adult now while I remain in some kind of state of arrested development.

But see, now that it appears as if a major paradigm shift is taking a place (or about to take place) I will be most fit to reap the rewards of the New Age. The future will, indeed, favor those who - like me - have learned to become physically, mentally, and spiritually strong. Most importantly, the future will be kind to those of us who have learned to ADAPT. Those of us who have learned to live the same with one million dollars or one cent.

In the future we will have to be strong, flexible, fast, agile, nimble, lightfooted, and adaptable. Cell phones are too heavy. They do nothing but weigh me down and slow my step.