On Sunsets and Cynicism

For fuck's sake, how can one be expected to maintain one's fantastically foul mood when there are gorgeous coastal panoramas like this to behold?

It's hard enough to remain unflappingly peeved when friends insist on plying me with obscene amounts of sushi and tomodachi. Sheesh.

So I've been getting shit from friends and non-friends alike for my persistent tendency toward the cynical (as demonstrated in several recent entries [memo to Tyler: the post about Dubya narrowly escaping a grenade was intended to be ironical and shit]). I'll admit, cynicism is firmly ensconced in my personal characteristics inventory, a quality that (when coupled with my inherent introvertedness) has frequently lended itself to false perceptions of me as snobbish. Only a select few have been privileged enough to gain entry beyond my shy facade and into the realm of my imagination, where it's only a matter of time before they encounter my unrestrained inner cynic. Some have run screaming. Others have made the valiant decision to stick around and have earned a GOLD STAR! in my heart for their patience and devotion.

As for the origin of my cynicism, I sure as shit couldn't say where it came from, though I'm proudly mindful of the fact that cynicism can't survive without intelligence. How to channel the inner cynic into more fruitful creative pursuits, however, is a skill yet untapped. Any suggestions?

Laughing to Keep From Crying

"A hypocrite is in himself both the archer and the mark, in all actions shooting at his own praise or profit." ~Thomas Fuller

From Vidiot:
"It's interesting that the White House is attacking a news organization for getting something wrong and admitting it. Especially when that White House took the country to war (1,624 US troops have died, as of this writing) on discredited "evidence" that was manufactured or altered to suit policy goals."

And, from August Pollak (via Vidiot):
"1,700 dead, for the very reason the Bush White House used today to attack a perceived 'enemy:'

McClellan complained that the story was "based on a single anonymous source who could not personally substantiate the allegation that was made."

"The report has had serious consequences," he said. "People have lost their lives. The image of the United States abroad has been damaged."

There is absolutely no way Scott McClellan doesn't know what he's saying. A faulty report. Unreliable sources. People have died. And who do they want to resign? The editors of Newsweek."

(Thanks, August, for putting into words the frustration of those of us Americans who haven't been suckered into believing our government has our best interests in mind when they put American lives at risk by invading other countries for no good reason.)

Don't even get me started on Senator Frist's unjust little crusade. I remember being interested in learning about the significance of filibusters in my high school History class. But never did my adolescent brain imagine a group of cheating scumbags (a.k.a. the majority of our current government) would try to kill it for their own gain without any reverence for the U.S. Constitution the pantheon of righteousness so proudly touts as law. The unmitigated audacity of people like Frist is nothing short of appalling, yet most Americans are too busy donning Darth Vader costumes and lining George Lucas' bulging pockets to notice major shit going down in their capital. Sad, really.

No Cigar

So close, but yet (to the disappointment of millions) so far. Thankfully, most people know the vital (never moreso) second part of that well-worn adage, "If at first you don't succeed..."

Gotta Find My Corner of the Sky

Shit. Two weeks since my last entry. However well-intentioned I am when it comes to writing, it seems life just can't resist interfering with my plans. These days I'm busier than the lone straight man at a cheerleading convention.

Many of you (particularly my friends and family in New York) may have read news reports a few weeks back regarding this brave fellow:

(Read accompanying article here.)

What the majority of you, I'm sure, don't know (and may be amused to learn) is that Mr. Half-Naked Astor Place Traffic Light Fixutre is also (drumroll, please...) the same bombastic young man who escorted me so many decades ago to our high school's senior prom.

Behold:

Eric moved to New York several years before I did and insisted I call him when I arrived in town, which I did. Despite having a crapload of mutual friends (one of whom tipped me off to his identity as unclothed protestor after hearing that his mother not only posted bail but applauded his actions), Eric and I have rarely talked over the past few years. In fact, one of my last encounters with him was an exercise in tolerance: I was having dinner with a group of friends at an East Village Mexican restaurant. Sometime into our second round of margaritas, we became aware of obnoxious chattering coming from the next table. Because of the high-walled booths, we could not see the party causing such ruckus. That is, until they got up to leave. It was Eric, our high school's Pippin, older brother in tow. We said our hellos (mine: warm, his: loud) and he departed, returning the grateful restaurant to a more civilized hush the instant he stepped out the door. I turned to my friends, blushing and apologetic that I'd be associated with someone so beyond the pale.

Later that evening, I ran into Eric and Ben standing on a side street, where Eric's animated dialogue bounced between brick buildings and could be heard hundreds of feet away. I empathized with the block's residents, who--though accustomed to sirens, barking dogs and delivery trucks--had likely never been exposed to the unbridled enthusiasm that is Eric.