Chocodile Nation
I give you... the motherland.
Perhaps not the most complete roster I could have hoped for, but I don't suppose I ever held out much hope to begin with.
...
This past weekend I decided to forego my no account practices (inconsistent and unreliable as they are) and agreed to work an outreach event for the center, namely the San Clemente Ocean Festival, two days of fun in the sun and tons of young buns (as my brother would probably not say... but would most likely think).
The sibling is now working at the Center with me, which is interesting enough, and to add convenience to culpability, our manager decided to send the both of us, and only us, to the Festival to man our booth. Alone. With no supervision.
SCORE.
It was a great two days. We had a great time out there, taking 'er easy and slicin' it fine. We were making little craft necklaces for the kids, which was fun for everyone concerned (save for the occasional little shit that only initially showed interest because they want all the free stuff and soon became spurned when they found out they'd have to do something. Idiots).
The interesting thing I noticed was the some kids were really good at making the necklaces, and I found myself thinking that maybe, if I could pay enough attention, I could find the kid there at the festival that could make necklaces the fastest and the best, and I could somehow spin that into a lucrative cottage industry involving kid-made necklaces and an exhorbitant price fueled by pity and preciousness.
I'm not sure at what exact point I realized my one creative business outline had become The Last Starfighter meets Oliver Twist but I quickly abandoned my plans for rapid wealth.
...
I really need to work on getting registered. I feel like I might just forget to do it.
I mean, of course, as a sex offender. I would hope you'd realize that.
...
Recently, I took a trip to Six Flags with the Mrs. because... I suppose... I enjoy the possibility of dying.
Say what you will about thanatos and the love of danger, but in the end I'm the one who can spend most of a given ride pondering the many ways that I could easily die, how little would have to take place for one of those ways to unfold, and how likely it would be that I, pitiful human that I am, would be able to do anything about it once these events were set in motion.
FOR EXAMPLE:
At the OC Fair, which I recently attended (awesome awesome I petted a straight-up zebra) there is a ride called "Tango," which is, I can assure you, no... forbidden... dance. I guess.
Basically, the thing whips you into the air then, like a kitten on the end of a rope, swings you about while simultaneously spinning you around. Afterward, it steals your wallet and makes fun of your performance in bed. Needless to say I rode it. I rode it like crazy. I rode it as if I were crazy.
I rode the fucking thing because I must be fucking crazy.
Why did I do this? Why did I like it so much? It shouldn't be this much fun to be in a state in which it would be extremely easy to die.
Yet, there I was, Six Flags, in beautiful Valencia California. Much like its sister city, Riverside, Valencia has all the cultural and botanical splendor of post-war Afghanistan, with its glorious dirt fields and population of largely unemployable mental cases. Folks: no matter how bad your life is, no matter how little money you make or how far you need to get away from whatever life you're leaving behind, it is preferable to live in Whalecock, Alaska than to ever set foot one step north of Los Angeles. Northwest? Well... if you stay on the 1. Beautiful coastline, wonderful places to visit, a gorgeous testament to our state pride. Northeast? Well... you'll eventually end up in Nevada, and there's nothing wrong with that. But North?
When the devil was finished corrupting Adam and Eve, he set up permanent residence here on earth that he might keep a close eye on his immoral investment. Be able to put his hand in should the need arise (which I'm sure it has on more than one occasion), and be able to do so in a quick and timely manner. He came to earth and chose a spot to call his home here on this planet.
That spot is Modesto California, and once you move north out of the culture of Los Angeles, you are on the slow boat to the Devil's House. La Casa del Diablo. And the places you pass and the people you meet are obviously tainted by the dark magics that eminate from his stronghold, in some meth lab's basement in some filthy, forgotten central california suburb. Like people living too close to Chernobyl who are losing hair or missing teeth, the places closer and closer to central California show a blasted, hateful taint from their evil epicenter.
Valencia is no exception.
As soon as we got out of the car, like a punch in the gut we were hit with the unrelenting heat of the place. Regardless of any relative position to the equator, it seemed that the Dark Lord liked his climate a little on the balmy side, with not so much as a breeze to cool us. Being the sheet that I am, I expected to be mesquite roasted within the hour.
Six Flags was a lot of fun, but with just enough problems to warrant us complaining and recieving free passes to come back whenever we'd like, which is pretty awesome considering we only needed one admission and a Coke can to get in. When you do the math, we actually made a profit on our trip to the amusement park. The problems we faced were pretty much anything that wasn't an active ride on one of the roller coasters.
Now, Six Flags is a slightly different animal than, say, your Disneyland or you Knott's Berry Farm. They are not concerned with any of the frilly niceties those places have come to be known for (customer service, edible food, acceptable locations, etc.). Instead, Six Flags seems chiefly concerned with putting your ass in the seat of an extremely fast moving machine, and allowing you to be moved fast by it for about a minute or so. Awesome, but the time in between these brief flurries of awesome is surprisingly barren.
There's a lot of walking at Six Flags. Yes, there's a lot of walking at any park, but at Six Flags there's nothing between one stop and the next, which is a good hundred yard away. Nothing. There are sections with food and a section with carnival games, but for the most part the majority of the day is spent in travel from one attraction to the line for the next. Waiting to see the next glimpse of accelerating steel over the horizon.
During the gold rush, someone would find some glimmer of wealth and that small mining prospect woud cause a boom town to erupt. People flooding the spot, not caring about the luxuries of life or, indeed, if anything other than food and water were present, concerned only with the idea that, perhaps, if they gather around this spot, they, too, could strike it rich. You'd therefore have these ramshackle towns, not well-thought-out, not flushed out with all the necessaries of modern life, but just enough to live on. Enough to survive out there, close to the gold, close to the motherlode.
Six Flags feels a lot like that to me. It feels like they found a roller-coaster quarry and built up an amusement park around it as fast as they could, so they could corner the market on them thangs and get people a-comin' out to 'em. Out in the middle of nowhere, poorly-planned-out and with almost nothing to speak of in the way of operations beside the running and riding of these mechanical monstrosities, the boom town of Six Flags thunders away, drawing more dreamers each and every day, none of them ever striking a single kiddie-coaster to their names, but surviving in that harsh civilization just the same.
Somehow. Because inedible turkey legs cost five bucks.
For fuck's sake.
But it was still a great time. Those rides are insanely fun and I went on Batman: The Ride three times. I liked to think that the ride was Batman, a manifestation of his very being, and that by riding it I was becoming one with him. I would look up into his huge metal beams and say, "Hello, Batman. Where are we going? Flying around like crazy, are we?" And he would fling me out into space, catching me, spinning me so fast tears run from my eyes yet holding me securely like a kitten, like a forbidden lover.
And then I totally got my picture taken with a Batman suit and the picture looks as if I were talking to it which, on some level, I was.
Batman's not the tallest ride. It's not the fastest ride. It's simply the ride operating at the peak of its potential performance. The ride is Batman, and Batman is the ride. Sure, it's not the tallest or the fastest. It doesn't need to be.
He is Batman. He is better than you or I or any of us.
He doesn't need to be.
I used the word forbidden twice in this post and have never been prouder.
Perhaps not the most complete roster I could have hoped for, but I don't suppose I ever held out much hope to begin with.
...
This past weekend I decided to forego my no account practices (inconsistent and unreliable as they are) and agreed to work an outreach event for the center, namely the San Clemente Ocean Festival, two days of fun in the sun and tons of young buns (as my brother would probably not say... but would most likely think).
The sibling is now working at the Center with me, which is interesting enough, and to add convenience to culpability, our manager decided to send the both of us, and only us, to the Festival to man our booth. Alone. With no supervision.
SCORE.
It was a great two days. We had a great time out there, taking 'er easy and slicin' it fine. We were making little craft necklaces for the kids, which was fun for everyone concerned (save for the occasional little shit that only initially showed interest because they want all the free stuff and soon became spurned when they found out they'd have to do something. Idiots).
The interesting thing I noticed was the some kids were really good at making the necklaces, and I found myself thinking that maybe, if I could pay enough attention, I could find the kid there at the festival that could make necklaces the fastest and the best, and I could somehow spin that into a lucrative cottage industry involving kid-made necklaces and an exhorbitant price fueled by pity and preciousness.
I'm not sure at what exact point I realized my one creative business outline had become The Last Starfighter meets Oliver Twist but I quickly abandoned my plans for rapid wealth.
...
I really need to work on getting registered. I feel like I might just forget to do it.
I mean, of course, as a sex offender. I would hope you'd realize that.
...
Recently, I took a trip to Six Flags with the Mrs. because... I suppose... I enjoy the possibility of dying.
Say what you will about thanatos and the love of danger, but in the end I'm the one who can spend most of a given ride pondering the many ways that I could easily die, how little would have to take place for one of those ways to unfold, and how likely it would be that I, pitiful human that I am, would be able to do anything about it once these events were set in motion.
FOR EXAMPLE:
At the OC Fair, which I recently attended (awesome awesome I petted a straight-up zebra) there is a ride called "Tango," which is, I can assure you, no... forbidden... dance. I guess.
Basically, the thing whips you into the air then, like a kitten on the end of a rope, swings you about while simultaneously spinning you around. Afterward, it steals your wallet and makes fun of your performance in bed. Needless to say I rode it. I rode it like crazy. I rode it as if I were crazy.
I rode the fucking thing because I must be fucking crazy.
Why did I do this? Why did I like it so much? It shouldn't be this much fun to be in a state in which it would be extremely easy to die.
Yet, there I was, Six Flags, in beautiful Valencia California. Much like its sister city, Riverside, Valencia has all the cultural and botanical splendor of post-war Afghanistan, with its glorious dirt fields and population of largely unemployable mental cases. Folks: no matter how bad your life is, no matter how little money you make or how far you need to get away from whatever life you're leaving behind, it is preferable to live in Whalecock, Alaska than to ever set foot one step north of Los Angeles. Northwest? Well... if you stay on the 1. Beautiful coastline, wonderful places to visit, a gorgeous testament to our state pride. Northeast? Well... you'll eventually end up in Nevada, and there's nothing wrong with that. But North?
When the devil was finished corrupting Adam and Eve, he set up permanent residence here on earth that he might keep a close eye on his immoral investment. Be able to put his hand in should the need arise (which I'm sure it has on more than one occasion), and be able to do so in a quick and timely manner. He came to earth and chose a spot to call his home here on this planet.
That spot is Modesto California, and once you move north out of the culture of Los Angeles, you are on the slow boat to the Devil's House. La Casa del Diablo. And the places you pass and the people you meet are obviously tainted by the dark magics that eminate from his stronghold, in some meth lab's basement in some filthy, forgotten central california suburb. Like people living too close to Chernobyl who are losing hair or missing teeth, the places closer and closer to central California show a blasted, hateful taint from their evil epicenter.
Valencia is no exception.
As soon as we got out of the car, like a punch in the gut we were hit with the unrelenting heat of the place. Regardless of any relative position to the equator, it seemed that the Dark Lord liked his climate a little on the balmy side, with not so much as a breeze to cool us. Being the sheet that I am, I expected to be mesquite roasted within the hour.
Six Flags was a lot of fun, but with just enough problems to warrant us complaining and recieving free passes to come back whenever we'd like, which is pretty awesome considering we only needed one admission and a Coke can to get in. When you do the math, we actually made a profit on our trip to the amusement park. The problems we faced were pretty much anything that wasn't an active ride on one of the roller coasters.
Now, Six Flags is a slightly different animal than, say, your Disneyland or you Knott's Berry Farm. They are not concerned with any of the frilly niceties those places have come to be known for (customer service, edible food, acceptable locations, etc.). Instead, Six Flags seems chiefly concerned with putting your ass in the seat of an extremely fast moving machine, and allowing you to be moved fast by it for about a minute or so. Awesome, but the time in between these brief flurries of awesome is surprisingly barren.
There's a lot of walking at Six Flags. Yes, there's a lot of walking at any park, but at Six Flags there's nothing between one stop and the next, which is a good hundred yard away. Nothing. There are sections with food and a section with carnival games, but for the most part the majority of the day is spent in travel from one attraction to the line for the next. Waiting to see the next glimpse of accelerating steel over the horizon.
During the gold rush, someone would find some glimmer of wealth and that small mining prospect woud cause a boom town to erupt. People flooding the spot, not caring about the luxuries of life or, indeed, if anything other than food and water were present, concerned only with the idea that, perhaps, if they gather around this spot, they, too, could strike it rich. You'd therefore have these ramshackle towns, not well-thought-out, not flushed out with all the necessaries of modern life, but just enough to live on. Enough to survive out there, close to the gold, close to the motherlode.
Six Flags feels a lot like that to me. It feels like they found a roller-coaster quarry and built up an amusement park around it as fast as they could, so they could corner the market on them thangs and get people a-comin' out to 'em. Out in the middle of nowhere, poorly-planned-out and with almost nothing to speak of in the way of operations beside the running and riding of these mechanical monstrosities, the boom town of Six Flags thunders away, drawing more dreamers each and every day, none of them ever striking a single kiddie-coaster to their names, but surviving in that harsh civilization just the same.
Somehow. Because inedible turkey legs cost five bucks.
For fuck's sake.
But it was still a great time. Those rides are insanely fun and I went on Batman: The Ride three times. I liked to think that the ride was Batman, a manifestation of his very being, and that by riding it I was becoming one with him. I would look up into his huge metal beams and say, "Hello, Batman. Where are we going? Flying around like crazy, are we?" And he would fling me out into space, catching me, spinning me so fast tears run from my eyes yet holding me securely like a kitten, like a forbidden lover.
And then I totally got my picture taken with a Batman suit and the picture looks as if I were talking to it which, on some level, I was.
Batman's not the tallest ride. It's not the fastest ride. It's simply the ride operating at the peak of its potential performance. The ride is Batman, and Batman is the ride. Sure, it's not the tallest or the fastest. It doesn't need to be.
He is Batman. He is better than you or I or any of us.
He doesn't need to be.
I used the word forbidden twice in this post and have never been prouder.
posted by DeadLanguage at 5:47 PM
1 Comments:
Max... Good news...
Much like the hunter peppers quail with buck shot... I called your "cell phone voice mail" like 5 times today just to make sure you didnt forget to GET A NEW FUCKING CELL PHONE!!!
Come to think of it, my tactics were nothing like shooting quail... it was more like... calling someone.
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