Ban This, Lousy Bastards

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and all that David Blaine crap. But that stuff bores me. So instead I’ll tell about last month when I went to Philadelphia.

I had a morning flight out of O’Hare. But not too early. That would kill me. People think that because I run I get up really early. But I don’t. I really don’t. Anyway, I got to the airport with plenty of time, and the security line was a breeze. If you really wanna know the truth, I kind of like the airport and security lines. I mean it. I really do. You get to see all types of jerks—unless you’re one of those bastards who have their own jet. God I hope you’re not one of those bastards.

I spent most of the flight eating my bananas and reading some corny book. The guy who sat next to me kept mumbling something to himself about leaving the foils on the subway. Crazy sunuvabitch. You would have liked him though. You really would. He wasn’t one of those goddamn jobbers who yaps your goddamn ear off the entire goddamn flight. I can’t stand those bastards, I really can’t. I think they should have non-talking flights. I mean, if nobody can smoke on the goddamn plane, nobody should be able to talk on the goddamn plane. All that yapping could interfere with the plane’s communication signals or something.

The first thing I did when I got to Philadelphia, I rented a goddamn car. They gave me a Dodge something. What a lousy car. The only good thing about it was the goddamn satellite radio.

I didn’t have anything special to do, so I decided to drive to Camden, New Jersey. I saw 40 guys in the middle of this one street, wearing their caps with the peaks to the back and to the side, horsing around, shooting the crap and drinking eightballs. I thought about asking them if they know where all the ducks go in the winter, but they seemed like the type of guys that might get sore about it—so I didn’t.

After driving for 300 goddamn years, I checked into my hotel back in old Philadelphia. Boy, what a room. It had a kitchenette and two flat-screened televisions and a bed with 800 pillows and everything. You could even order Super Nintendo games and play them through your goddman television if you wanted. I thought about ordering Super Punch—Out!!, but you have to be in the mood for that type of thing. Instead, I had a drink and watched Teach: Tony Danza on two goddman TVs.

The next day I went to the wedding that I came out to Philadelphia for. For Chrissake, you really didn’t think I was one of those phony bastards who just goes to Philadelphia because they goddamn feel like it, did ya?

At the reception, I had a couple of cocktails and chewed the rag with this guy at my table. We talked about old Schopenhauer and his goddamn suffering. Just for the hell of it, I asked the guy if he knew where the goddamn ducks go in the winter. He said the ducks didn’t need to go nowhere because it was always sunny in Philadelphia. What a prince.

The last day of my trip, I didn’t have anything real special to do, so I decided to do some pull ups. People never do pull ups. I swear to God they don’t. They’re always too busy raving about life or trying to imitate characters from coming-of-age novels they read in high school.

My flight back to Chicago was freakin' grand. I finished that corny book. And when I got home, I almost gave Ol’ Dirty Bastard a buzz. But he’s dead. That’s all I’m going to tell you about.

Of Books for Women

The other night a friend was scanning the bookcase in my shared office.

“Are these books yours?” she asked.
“No, those are my mom’s. She’s really into Zizek, KRS-One, and cyborgs.”

Of course, I was kidding—my mom hates cyborgs. But is it that farfetched to believe that she’d be into Lacanian psychoanalysis and boom bap philosophy? Not when she (giver of birth) is currently reading the autobiography of an Olympic snowboarder, and I (finisher of marathon) am reading a book on the female brain.

Some might think this opposite book thing is cool—and it is cool to hear your mom’s take on 50 Cent’s new self-help title—but when company is over and spots a copy of Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough or The Go-Girl Guide: Surviving your 20s with Savvy, Soul, and Style, and they find out it’s mine, it can get weird.

“Wait, you’re reading that?”
“Actually, I just finished it.”
“You read the whole thing?”
“Yeah, I read the whole thing.”
“Why?”

At this point, I usually walk into trouble. I try to explain that I’m curious about how I, post-postmodern man, am being represented in this literature, something that is not targeted toward me, but which, in a way, is very much about me. Though it never comes out that way.

“I’m really into things that are not for me.”
“Like?”
“Like things that are for women.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, especially younger women and girls.”
“You’re into younger girls?”
“No…you…damn it...that came out wrong.”

Awkward justifications aside, I find these books very insightful. For example, in Marry Him, Lori Gottlieb writes that marriage is not about metaphysics. How true! Marriage should not be about some dairy guy who works out at the playground.

Throughout my savvy, soulful studies, I’ve also discovered three universal truths.

1. Males and females have different parts.
2. Only females can give birth.
3. Females tend to write more about the differences between males and females than males do.

Someday, if Mr. Barely Enough ever decides to show up, I plan to turn these truths into a book of my very own. And if the genre has anything to say about it, you can bet the cover will be painted with pinks and reds and that the title will not match the content inside. After all, according to Gottlieb and friends, I exhibit many of the characteristics of a stylish, independent woman—and stylish, independent women write books. Yay! And rawr.

"Butterfly in the Sky (A Memorial Rap for Reading Rainbow)"

I'm sure you've heard the devastating news. Reading Rainbow has been canceled after a 26-year run. If you're anything like me, this show helped learn you not hate books as much. Anyway, I just got off the iPhone with Jay and, over our tears, we co-wrote "Butterfly in the Sky (A Memorial Rap for Reading Rainbow)." Check it out.


La da da da, hey hey hey, goodbye

Only author to rewrite history with a robot dolphin pen
Time for the greatest story of all stories to begin
Howard Zinn, Howard Zinn

This is anti-colorful stuff, death of the Rainbo
This ain’t for libraries, this ain’t for the book sto
This is Seal at the Garden, scarred for-ev-oh
This morning I’m in mourning
I know it sounds corny but
All I wanna do is take a look in a book
Those who canceled the show be straight crooked crooks
I know we facing a forward recession
But the loss of this homie just make me depressed, maaaan
The downfall of lit apprecia-shaaan
How much will these kidz hafta face, maaaan?
This writer gets reminiscent
The death of double R, I already miss it
The rainbow gone, who done killed it?
The love for books suffers, now let’s rebuild it
We all need hugz, that’s what the deal iz
So put the book down and take time to feel it
My heart is the beat of this beating
Damn it feels good to rap about reading
I’ll return to the book one day again
But I guess I’ll have to watch Nick Jr. 'til then

La da da da, hey hey hey, goodbye