I went on vacation for a week with my family, and the day we came back was my second cousin’s christening and I know what you’re thinking: “Who cares?”

I’ll tell who doesn’t. The kid.

My cousin Trisha is the first in my generation of the family to have a kid, and since I’m twenty years older then little Abby, I’m “uncle Carl,” even though we’re really second cousins, but I think everyone has fake uncles, and in fact, studies show fake uncles are important in the development of a child. (Fake studies).

For my secular friends, the act of christening a child is like this: everybody gets into a church, you put the kid in a white dress (the root of cross dressing for men), and a stranger in robe wipes water on the kid’s head while my mother and aunt cry a little.

They’re cryers, and I swear it’s genetic. I’ve got a rough, tear-filled road ahead.

Now, if you’ve read my blog before, or met me, or stood within hearing distance of me; you’re well aware of the fact that I’m a snide, foul-mouthed, sarcastic bastard with a history of intellectual elitism. But put me in twenty yards of a baby and I’m just a big ol’ softy. Kryptonite comes to mind.

I mentioned this to one of my cousins, and said that my dad was pretty much the same way (not the mean things, just the fascinated with babies part). She responded that a lot of intellectual men are that way. Which I think is true. I mean, it’s a little person. They’re not done yet. They have a little brain and they don’t know how to use it and there’s nothing in it yet. It’s sort of like looking at a construction site. But prettier.

I brought this up with my girlfriend (is it weird that I’m talking about you on my blog, honey? Babycakes? Eskimo Pie?), she said that she thinks it’s really weird to think about babies as little people, and that parents are therefore, factories for making little people. Not that we’re looking to start production or anything, but it is strange to think about.

She described bringing a baby home for the first time as: “OK, now don’t kill it.”

Back to the christening, even as a moderately religious individual, I don’t really put a lot of stock in this particular ritual, but there is a certain meaning to it. Because a big part of the service is the affirmation of the congregation (flooded with my family) that we’re all sort of a little responsible for the kid in that “it-takes-a-village” kind of way. It’s a collective, “We better not fuck this kid up.”

Of course, I’m probably not the best example for little Abby. But I’m planning on introducing her to punk rock when she’s 13.

George Carlin died (which I am disappointed in the coverage of). I remember being nine years old and downloading all of Jammin’ in New York with my friends and memorizing every word of it. George taught us how to swear, (and by the way, my grandmother stopped reading my blog because I’m such a potty mouth) and he also taught us what funny was and how to find it.

“I think it’s the duty of the comedian to find out where the line is drawn and cross it deliberately.”

When it comes to someone like George Carlin, there is no such thing as hyperbole. Allow me to expound.

Here’s how important George Carlin is: Before Carlin, people thought Bob Hope was the funniest guy ever.

Repeat: Before George Carlin, people thought Bob Hope was funny.

Then they saw George and realized he was the funniest fucking guy ever (and there would be no “fucking” in that sentence if it weren’t for George Carlin).

If you could express humor in terms of geography, and The Funniest Place In The Universe is home plate at Yankee Stadium, then Richard Pryor is at bat, Carlin is the catcher, and Lenny Bruce is the umpire. Eddie Izzard is in a skybox, and I am (generously) in the west end.

Of Cleveland, Ohio.

Carlin changed what comedy was. It became, under his leadership with a few others, the most important form of social criticism today. Carlin’s humor had one basic premise:

People are completely full of shit, and I can prove it.

Carlin forced people to examine nonsense that they put up with because it is easier to swallow the bullshit of life than it is to question, and life’s hard enough without having to worry about the self-important language of airline announcements. Not that anything Carlin ever talked about seemed like “light” subject matter.

Of course, I still think I haven’t heard a legitimate defense of war since Carlin described the first Gulf War as a bunch of men in the desert, waving their pricks at one another to see who’s was bigger. And pacifism gets a reputation for being a bunch of softies like John Lennon and the Dali Lama anyway, so warhawks have a tendency to characterize them as a pack of pussies. And we were lucky to have George change the image of pacifism from “Give Peace A Chance” to “Hey, Dick Cheney! Go Fuck Yourself!”

Carlin was one of the greatest skeptics of the twentieth century, and having made it only eight years into this century, is yet to have a true peer in skepticism or comedy in the twenty-first. Further, anyone who does rival him will be one of his own disciples in comedy. And that’s a legacy he can be proud of, although if I suggested that to his face he would say,

“Hey blog-man, you limp-dick cocksucker. Why don’t you let me decide what, if anything, my life means. You can go back to writing about burritos, you no-talent, self-righteous, condescending shithead.”

Rest In Comedic Rage, George.

I entered into Stuff White People Like’s recent contest of writing your own SWPL entry, but I didn’t win. The bastards. (White people like to be exclusionary). If you don’t know the site, go check it out. But if you don’t what’s wrong with you? It’s the number one blog on the internet ever. Anyways, here is my losing entry for your pleasure.

Stuff White People Like:

Whining About The Treatment of Native Americans
(But only the stuff that happened more than a century ago).

If there’s one thing white people love, it’s whining about how terrible colonial Americans treated the Indians, who white people would never allow you to call “Indians.” They prefer the term “Native Americans.” “They” meaning the white people, they have ever actually spoken to, much less asked the preferences of a genuine Indian/Native American.

When white people whine about the systemic destruction of the Indians, they really only harp on the massacres and the whole small-pox-blanket thing. They never complain about the millions of Indians who died because of exposure to European diseases that their immune systems lacked the antibodies to combat.
Because those Indians were killed by the mere presence of white people, and white people refuse to believe they are walking chemical warfare.

A white person’s favorite whipping boy in this area is Mr. 20 dollar bill, Andrew Jackson, because it was during his administration that the Trail of Tears took place. If you hear a white person denouncing Andrew Jackson, they will certainly mention the Trail of Tears in the next breath. Not because they know anything
about either, but because “the Trail of Tears” is the best marketed tragedy in American history, and white people love nothing more than a catchy moniker. If you need said white person’s favor it is important that you DO NOT ASK THEM ANYTHING ABOUT THE TRAIL OF TEARS. They will not know where it started or ended, what tribes it affected, or what year it took place in (an adept white person might be able to guess “the 1800s”). It is imperative that when a white person is getting offended you do not test their knowledge.

The gaping chasm in their Sitting Bullshit is that white people love to attribute the collegiate career of any Native American to nothing except casino money and affirmative action. This is really just a manifestation of the white person’s natural pastime, hypocrisy.

I met yesterday with one of the associate directors of Illinois Business Consulting, a not-for-profit, student-run management consulting organization. As a BA:Entrepreneurship major, management consulting is my most likely “fresh-out-of-the-ivory-tower” career option.

Here’s why that’s hilarious. When I graduate in May, I’ll be a month shy of 21 years old, and I’ll be hired to tell people with 20 years of industry experience how to do their jobs.

Consulting is really (ahem) the application of algorithmic research patterns by an objective party to identify and implement best practices and strategies. So the final deliverable (fancy word for “what they pay you for”) could just be a powerpoint with a slide that says:

“The increase in Cost Of Goods Sold is symptomatic of increased bargaining power of suppliers caused by consolidation. I recommend a two-pronged response of product diversification and vertical integration of production and marketing processes.”

And what’s truly ridiculous is this: did that sound like bullshit to you?

That was all completely fucking legitimate management consulting advice.

What do you need for this lucrative field? An entrepreneurial focus…exposure to various corporate structures, environments, and industries…some formal business education…strong communication and research skills…a particularly strong ability for creative problem solving and abstract concepts, etc.

And what occurred to me as I read that description researching for this IBC thing, was this: “Holy Shit. That’s me.”

When I was seven I wanted to be a paleontologist. Because I thought dinosaurs were badass (I was a pretty perceptive seven year old). But it’s not like I really knew what it would be like to do that for a living. It’s a childhood fantasy because, as a child, you don’t have to think about the reality of the profession.

The truth is, it wasn’t until the last few months that I ever thought about any career without it being some variation of that childhood fantasy. Now I’ve identified a real career option that I’m being prepared for, I’m qualified to do it, and most importantly, even knowing the day-to-day reality of what the job will be like and having had real work experience in it, I actually want to do it.

And they’re going to PAY me for it. How cool is that?

I got to watch the Godfather last night with someone who had never seen it before, which is a lot like watching someone’s first kiss, but way less fucking creepy.

The Godfather Part I and II (which are basically one six hour movie in my head) is the greatest film ever made, ever. I refuse to debate this topic when I am so clearly right.(Which is as close as I come to the Republican party).

What were you going to say was the best movie ever, Citizen Kane? It’s a fucking sled. Waaah, I’m rich and never satisfied by anything. Boo hoo for you Charles Fuckface Kane. Gone With The Wind? “Gosh, it’s so hard being rich, white, and beautiful in the south.” God as my witness.

Sorry, I need to shake that off for a second.

Like I said, greatest movie ever. I warned Alyssa before we sat down for three hours to watch it that the one bad thing about the Godfather is that it’s fundamentally a guy’s movie. And she gave me that “You’re such a cinematic chauvanist” glare (women. Am I right, fellas?), to which I replied, “Not because you’re somehow in capable of appreciating it. It’s just that the movie has a lot to say about being a son.”

Alyssa loved the movie, so I was totally wrong on her not being able to appreciate it. On the other hand, she might have just been lying after hearing me rant about how wonderful the film is.

The reason that the Godfather is so perfect is because it is the owner’s manual for manhood. The instructions for how to and how not to behave. Women have Jane Austen, the Brontes, and Gilmore Girls. We have Deniro, Brando, Caan, Pacino, and Duvall. It’s just that simple.

First, you got Brando’s two simple lines to Johnny “I’m based on Frank Sinatra” Fontane.

JF: (weeping)What can I do Godfather? What can I do?

Marlon “I Am All That Is Man” Brando: You can act like a man!

and later in the scene…

Brando: Good. Because a man that doesn’t spend time with his family can never be a real man.

These are the two basic rules for being a man. It’s honestly that simple.

Then in the Part II, the third rule, which I identify with as a sell out, is given by Hyman Roth:

“This. Is the business. We’ve. Chosen.”

Three rules. That’s it. 1) Don’t be a pussy. 2) Take care of your family. 3)Take responsibility for your life.

It’s that easy (in theory). But life is the gap between the way you live your life, and the way you think you’re supposed to live. So about once every three months I watch the Godfather. And I go, “OOOOOOHHHHHHH, Like THAAAAAAAAAAT.”

Anyways. Feel free to read Clemmo and Marebear’s posts about weddings right now for balance.

I spent a good portion of this weekend researching and writing 3rd grade level history questions as a part of my internship. It was kind of awesome in the, taking-home-work-is-so-adult kind of way. It also sucked because writing 3rd grade history questions for three hours can make you feel like an idiot and hate America and children all at once.

See, third grade kids don’t know that much about history. So when they only know like, thirty things, but you have to write 300 different questions, it becomes very difficult. Also, since the questions are for an electronic trivia game, I had character restrictions on how long the questions and answers had to be. For the matching type of question, where the kid pairs things from two lists (like “America at the turn of the 20th century” with “Imperialist fuckfaces”), everything on the left hand list must be seven characters or less, and the right hand side must be nine characters or less. Pop quiz: How many history questions can you write for 8 year olds if none of the questions can reference George “Ten Letters In His Last Name” Washington?

There were also some serious content restrictions, because they’re 3rd graders. So it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask a question like: “How many dipshits does it take to think Indian reservations make sense?” (Answer: I’m looking at you, Andrew Jackson). You can’t ask questions about casualties of war, because God forbid 8 year olds start to grasp that world history is often really a timeline of body counts.

I was actually drafted to edit and rewrite existing questions, mostly because they didn’t fit the appropriate format, but every now and then there were questions with wrong answers. Or just questions that made me lose my God damn liberal educational-elitist mind, which I replaced with questions that didn’t make me want to gouge out my eyes.

Here’s what I mean:

Fill in the blank: ______ was the cause of the civil war. (Answer: Slavery)

NOOOOOO!!!!!!!!

I hate that simplification for many reasons, not the least of which being that it’s wrong. I hate it mostly because it teaches children that the south, being morally inferior to the north, started it, as though the most destructive war fought on U.S. soil was all their fault and the educated, industrialized north was some sort of knight of the fucking round table. That shit drives me nuts, and every time a child is taught it, Robert E. Lee rolls over in his grave. Lee, who, though misguided, was one of the greatest Americans that ever lived, and who honored and loved his troops more than perhaps any American general ever has or ever will. Lee, who became the model for how American leaders ought to behave when after the Battle of Gettysburg he said, “This is all my fault,” referring not to defeat, but rather the mass of death that his decisions had caused. All that is swept away when we teach the simplified version of history that lacks the nuances of reality. So I had to delete the question and replace it with something about Franklin Pierce.

Wait, do you know who Franklin Pierce is? I sure as shit didn’t remember.

The “Why the Fuck Not?” President

Pierce was the 14th president of the United States, and currently places second in the “Worst President” race after Warren G. Harding (although G. W. is about to make Harding look like the next Big Brown). So maybe we shouldn’t remember him. Here’s what I learned about him: He should never have been president. He was elected as the party nominee on the 49th fucking ballot. This is why both the electoral college and the party system are ri-god-damn-diculous. He wasn’t even considered until the 35th ballot. That’s right. They voted 34 times, deadlocked, and then said, “Fuck it, let’s put a private attorney from New Hampshire with no real accomplishments on the ballot, even though he hasn’t held an elected office in ten years.” And then he became president. Franklin Pierce became president because people got bored with re-votes.

Actually, much as I complain, the whole experience of writing all these questions was fascinating because I forgot how much fun learning was (it’s easy to forget learning is fun when you spend too much time in school). And as much as I hate the over-simplification, there is one charming thing about the G-rated, 3rd grade version of history. As much as I hate how they gloss over the truly horrible parts of the past (a.k.a. “history”), I do love the way history is presented as the study of individuals and not events. Kids don’t so much learn about the Battle of Camden as they do about George Washington, the man. And I like thinking of history that way, as a collection of dead people who did stuff, and now I’m here looking back and judging them. Because I can’t really imagine what winter must have been like in Valley Forge, but I can imagine what it must have been like for a man to watch his troops get sick, starved, and disconsolate.

Also, I learned that “Caligula” means “Little Boots.” That was pretty funny.

Well, reader. We got robbed. Tuesday morning, my roommate, Steve Plock, woke up at five in the morning to what he first (it was 5 AM, mind you) thought was Randy. And then Steve, sans contacts or glasses and groggy as hell thought, “No, wait. Randy isn’t black.”

Steve responded in the absolute smartest way possible, he rolled around in bed but didn’t get up, the intruder left the house, the three of us got up and called the Champaign police (why bother, right?).

The intruder, or “Thiefy,” as I call him, had entered in through a downstairs window while the three of us were in the house asleep, had walked past my ipod, laptop, cd player, dvd player, PS2, Xbox, ipod dock, a checkbook, sleeping bag (maybe not that valuable, but could’ve been useful to this guy); and he went upstairs into Steve’s room. Rather than just taking Steve’s wallet from his desk, he stood there and pulled out 18 dollars in cash, leaving behind all the plastic, steve’s laptop, ipod, xbox 360, etc. And then he left out the front door.

Obviously, it could’ve been a lot worse, the screen on the back window was cut, not ripped out.

Plus, given the circumstances, it couldn’t have gone much better for us. If you’re going to have a guy break into your house while you’re home, it can’t go much better than having a measly 18 dollars stolen. Unless Steve had only had 17 dollars in his wallet. But we’re not that greedy.

We were pretty shook up for a little while, and then by seven o’clock I started referring to Thiefy as “Reverse Santa Claus.”

I was a little upset for about six hours. There was someone in my home. It was a violation of our home, and I had a hard time with that. There’s something about the experience that really throws your mind off balance.

But then I thought, “So that happened.” Which is a great line from a David Mamet movie that I love. Alec “The Talented Baldwin” Baldwin says it right after he gets into a car accident. It’s sort of in the vein of “that which doesn’t kill me…” but less dark. I say it to myself almost daily over some inconvenience or other. This is just a little more unsettling.

But you’ve got two choices when you get robbed: Lose sleep over it, or don’t.

That first reaction is:

“In my HOME! In my bedroom, where my wife sleeps! Where my children come and play with their toys.”

(Side note, in the above allusion Steve is my wife. If only).

And human beings do so desperately need to be in control of their lives, and that’s the real reason that we were upset. Obviously it wasn’t the 18 dollars that bothered us. It was the petty desire to own our home and feel like it belongs to us and we don’t like anything that crosses our wires. And it might feel real nice for a minute or two to buy a can of mace and floodlights and put one of my knives between my mattress and the wall.

I chose against it. So Steve and I hung up a sign on our back (now, screenless) window that reads: “Please stop robbing us. Thank You.” Actually, I made the sign. Steve just added a frowny face to it.

This morning I requested Steve play “2+2=5″ off Hail to the Thief. Get it? He dedicated it to Thiefy.

So I’m locking the windows at night. And we’re getting a new screen.

So that happened.

I turned 20 yesterday, and that’s about as interesting as moving up half a shoe size. Less interesting actually, I didn’t even get new shoes.

Living in Champaign is great on your 19th birthday, because you become bar legal. And that’s cool. Because otherwise 19 is a meaningless birthday. However, this extra attention on your nineteenth in Champaign only throws into drastic relief how incredibly unimportant your 20th birthday is.

My twentieth felt an awful lot like making a reservation for a kick ass birthday one year from now.

So what actually makes the twentieth birthday unique? Many people said to me, “You’re not a teenager any more!” To which I thought, “…and?” Your 20th is the first real, adult birthday. What do I mean? I mean it’s your birthday, and no one gives a shit. Not even you.

Your 21st is a step back in this regard. Everyone is excited for your 21st. Your twentieth? Don’t care.

Also, today is my parent’s 35th anniversary. Much more impressive. Especially considering that when my parents got married my dad was, oh that’s right, 20.

It might not have felt like a birthday anyway, since none of my friends from home were around (see previous posts for a ride on the waah-mbulance).

Plus, it’s the 21st century. So your birthday means that people who you forgot existed write on your wall in the blandest happy birthday terms possible. There’s nothing wrong with this practice, but it is a little strange to get a “happy birthday, Carl” from a girl who moved away from my home town when we were twelve.

But what was truly surprising to me about the event was how little I cared that it was my birthday. It wasn’t exactly a sad-panda style event. People called me and said, “Happy birthday, Carl!” and I said, “yeah thanks.” And that was it.

Ho-hum, growing up is hard to do.

“Since when did you turn fucking recluse?” - Deadwood

I don’t think I was ever cool. Not in the classic, James Dean American teenager way. The young Deniro, Resevoir Dogs, Bruce Springsteen in a jean jacket kind of cool. I just never got there, and I never will.

But I used to be cooler, Damn it.

I was, I promise. I could probably even produce testimonials, and character witnesses, and photographic evidence that I was once kind of cool.

Those days are, apparently and depressingly, over now.

I haven’t really gone out in almost a full month. I’ve only been drunk once in the last three weeks. My summer in Champaign has quickly turned into a summer of Sham-Lame. The worst part? I’m totally complacent about it.

I legitimately like my internship, and I think that’s the root of the problem. I go to work and think, “hey, this is cool.” Those words, when thought in the workplace, are the death knell of all things cool. I come home from work and I watch movies and tv on dvd that I get at the library. Occasionally, one of my friends pokes me with a stick to see if I’m alive (I am). I’m all tuckered out from work so I honestly don’t feel like going out.

A month ago, if I didn’t feel like going out, I would just throw a massive party in my own home. Now I watch the West Wing. (Which rocks, and by saying so, I merely emphasize the lameness of me).

Part of the problem is my birthday is soon. My birthday always fucks with me (look forward to my next post “My Birthday Fucks With Me, or The Warrior Poet Loses His Money At The Track”). I get strangely nostalgic and depressed around my birthday. And this one is shaping up to be a doozy. (Is there a correct way to spell “doozy?” These are the kind of thoughts passing through my lame mind).

I have no witty conclusion. I’m too lame.

My check engine light has been on for a couple days, so I went in to get the car fixed. I’ve had it for three weeks, it was a gift from my parents. Not including fuel, it has cost me two hundred dollars today.

I’ve only ever had need for one mechanic, his shop is two blocks from my house in Barrington. My grandfather went to the same shop when the father of the current owner ran it. Two generations of business. So we’re pretty sure he’s not fucking us.

That’s a joke. Tom’s awesome.

But finding a mechanic you can trust is a lot like finding a nun wearing an “Oral Is Moral” t-shirt.

Also, I know dick about cars.

I went to Meineke and they explained why the little yellow light was on.

What they said was that one of my downstream oxygen sensors failed, and that it’s recommended the pair be replaced at once. I told them to just replace the faulty downstream sensor, and not the whole pair. They replaced it so that the automatic adjustments of my onboard diagnostic system wouldn’t be inhibited. The oxygen sensor, now functioning, will automatically examine my exhaust and adjust my engine.

This is what it sounded like to me:

You see, Carl. There are little elves that live in your tailpipe. And they sniff the exhaust. And one of them passed out. And you need to wake him up so that he can keep sniffing. Because if he doesn’t, everything will get fucked up. You need that elf. Even if he has been sucking on a tailpipe his whole life.

Steinbeck once said there was an entire generation who knew the workings of the Model T inside out and knew nothing of the clitoris.

Well, I don’t know anything about the model T.