Sexy Times

I went down to Nebraska to see my friend Ross this last weekend. We spent Saturday on his farm/compound on the outskirts of Lincoln. Ross has been running some uncontrolled experiments with his chickens, llamas, and goats–he consumes psilocybic chocolate and hangs around his animals. He swears psilocybin will help us survive the inevitable biological attack (together with miso, and black strap molasses). We spent an hour in a psycho-fungal haze, ignoring the cold drizzle, observing the end of a love affair between Lloyd the llama and Wilson the sheep.

Ross has three sheep and three llamas, and this summer, after Lloyd and Wilson impregnated their respective significant others, they consummated a cross-specie homosexual relationship. According to Ross, things cooled off this fall, with Lloyd tiring of Wilson’s Whitmanesque appetites. Evidently, Wilson has a hard time taking a hint, because Saturday found him in an amorous mood, repeatedly sidling up to a clearly indifferent Lloyd. I don’t mean to anthropomorphize too much, but the entire mise-en-scene reminded me of a Joe Orton play. Here was Lloyd, the patriarch of a nuclear llama family, with a young wife, Louise, and an adolescent daughter, Lucy. And here was Lloyd’s young, virile, irresponsible ram of a lover, Wilson, who has two sheep bitches that he bullies and chases around with a seemingly unfocused masculine cruelty. As Wilson kept trying to seduce Lloyd, Lloyd’s daughter, Lucy, looked on, transfixed, but not-quite-comprehending the full subtext of her father’s relationship with this low-slung, arrogant interloper. While Lucy’s regal mother–Louise reminds me of the posh, reserved English actress Helen Mirren–stood 30 feet away, looking out into the garden, willfully ignoring the woolly scandal.

But in fact, on the farm, nothing could be more natural. When we returned to the house, Ross told me he had a video that would finally “explain everything.” The video he screened for me, of former desperate military housewife kay griggs, (parts one and two), where she explains, in detail, the perverse sexual mind-control programs at the highest levels of our government, proved to be exponentially more shocking than a goat fucking a llama.


Dog Eat Dog Consumerism

Last Sunday, my cousin Chelsea threw a puppy shower. I have never heard of a puppy shower, but in our brave new world, dogs are the new babies, right? Children are eaten in Washington; dogs are showered with gifts in Minneapolis. This makes sense amidst the mindless, amphetamine-fueled consumer culture of 2006.

But for some of us, it doesn’t. For some of us, a puppy shower is where we draw the line. And this puppy shower would wind up a howling mess of salty tears and broken glass.

At 3 pm, my sister called and asked, “Hey, are you coming over here?”

I said, “Yeah, I think so. On my way.”

“Well, don’t bother. I got into a fight.”

“At a puppy shower? Really?”

“I’m coming over. I’ll tell you about it.”

The version I was able to piece together goes like this: my sister and my dad were sitting in the living room with my cousin April and her husband and all these other people that work as public school teachers. My dad thought it was a good opportunity to wonder aloud why school teachers have a union because aren’t they government employees anyway? So this militant 40-year-old government geography instructor becomes very agitated by this line of reasoning. She’s been drinking (and who knows how many anti psychotics she’s on) and she steps to my dad and starts calling him names–“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about…you don’t know anything about teachers!” My dad was holding my 14 month-old nephew so my sister gets up and asks everybody to chill out. It’s just a conversation.

Then the woman made a terrible mistake. She slapped Megan. A little background: My sister isn’t a biker chick. She’s 5’8”, with an athletic build, but she’s always been a very girly-girl. She has hair extensions. And her nails are done. And she was wearing a pink tracksuit. But when it comes to her US Weekly-christened child, Megan is Tyler Durden. Megan is The Bride.

She went postal. She grabbed the woman by the head and used some Jean Claude Van Damme move that my brother taught her and broke this poor woman’s nose. How beautiful, a mother’s protective instinct. Jeez.

Chelsea took the drunk teacher’s side and kicked my sister out (this woman was a) Chelsea’s fiancé’s sister and b) still bleeding, so Chelsea didn’t have much of a choice really). Megan, my dad, my mom and Ashton were forced to flee to my apartment.

After my sister recounted the entire story, my mom was sitting on my couch, kind of anxiously, with her hands in her lap. She sighed one of those small Catholic sighs of hers and said, “Well, I don’t know what this is going to mean for Thanksgiving and

The Egg Mobile

I’ve written about my friend Ross Brockley before. He’s a very important thinker. Ross is much braver than I am–he actually tuned in, turned on, and dropped out before the reptiles could force him into taking erection pills and buying a new flat screen television every other year. (It’s only a matter of time for me.) He bought a llama farm in Nebraska. (Well, actually, he bought the farm to shoot an awful independent film there, and now, as he says, he’s “stuck on the set.”) He is always coming up with new and inventive ways to subvert the corn-spiracy. (You know that corn is an alien plant, engineered to drain the water table and spread disease and pestilence. It has almost zero nutritional value, well other than sucrose, a known mind control agent. You knew all that, didn’t you?) Anyways, here are a couple youtube videos in which our man on the ground in Lincoln spreads the good guerrilla farming word.

Egg Mobile

The Pond

18 Months

I’ve been going out too much lately. Some of it for work, most of it for the usual mildly-self-destructive personal reasons. Most notably, made my first visit to the new Chambers hotel. Very cool. It’s filled with the same vacuous, well-powdered 25-45 year old demographic that frequents Bellanotte, but this place has enough game to accommodate their nouveau riche pretension. (Bellanotte always seemed like it was trying to ape a Midtown, NYC place like Marquee, and except for the middle class/middle aged people in plain view, it did a reasonably good job. This, of course, is not meant as kudos.) I enjoyed the Chambers’ “Red White and Fucking Blue Bar”–although boneheaded Midtown policies like “no sneakers” will ultimately belie the strained edginess of the place. (Note to owner Ralph Burnet: it takes more than a few million dollars worth of post-modern English art to compensate for a meathead bouncer who doesn’t understand the concept of designer sneakers. Time to have your Notting Hill art dealer Netflix Just for Kicks, bro.)

Anyway, I was halfway through the $110 order of caviar that I was sharing with my heavily made-up dinner companion, when I came up with my latest theory about women and relationships: it’s called the 18-month theory. I’ve had four major girlfriends in my life, ranging in longevity from four years to a year and a half. But to be honest, looking back, 18 months was the actual duration of all of them. After 18 months, it was always a slow fade to autumn. In some cases, the leaves stayed on the tree a little longer is all. My theory, and this could undoubtedly be proven empirically if I had the time and the money (to spend on google), is that pheromones or feelings or whatever psycho-biological combination of underneath-the-skin phenomena add up to what we all romanticize as “love” last, on average, 18 months. Sometimes a little shorter and sometimes a little longer, but usually 18 months. This is from a man’s perspective, of course, and I’m sure there are all kinds of instinctual reasons for this, but that’s the timeframe in which your body will allow you to really feel like wanting to be with somebody.

I’m not saying you can’t take “breaks” and then go back and start this process over with the same person, and eventually Big Farm will probably come up with a designer drug that can prolong this chemical reaction. Why haven’t they already? Well, right now, Big Farm is interested in perpetuating consumer society. They’re not making drugs that will help us to evolve (and men need help, trust me–the Y chromosome is weakening into obsolescence as you read this blog). Of course designer drugs are our future, but they can’t be controlled by the military-industrial complex anymore. We don’t need adderall and hard on pills and all these go, go, go mind control agents. We need pills that will push love past 18 months. Don’t you think?