Last Friday, as I was finishing up an overpriced, waffle-ironed novelty (fuck you Bruxie’s) with my love, I decided that I was never to return to the Orange Circle. I may end up eating my words later, but I’m pretty much set on never going back. It’s the vibrant yet shudder-inducing watering hole of the well-groomed and I want no part of it. Everything about it makes me uncomfortable. The rudest people give you the snootiest looks and there’s no escaping the stench of everyone’s trust fund. You get a big whiff of it upon getting out of the car, it’s nauseating. Everywhere I looked there were these orange people in their shorts and sandals with their little Bobby and Sally Drapers running around. Not to mention it’s just down the street from Chapman University. Fuck that. I glanced from person to person and squeezed P.S.’s hand and thought, “Jesus, I hope we look completely out of place.” What’s so great about the Orange Circle anyway? Sure the antique shops are kind of cool … for about an hour. After meandering about looking at the same shit, a person starts to wonder why they don’t bulldoze the entire lot and erect something more useful.
Downtown Fullerton is the place for me, not just because it’s the home of our beloved Shmimprov, but because it’s rowdy, it’s dingy, and there are vagrants wandering around everywhere. Home isn’t home without the homeless. You take a stroll down the infamous Harbor Blvd. and you get a sense that what you’re seeing is a place in all its slightly dysfunctional glory … and it’s where we go see Shmimprov. Have I mentioned that already? I’d take that over any clean-cut sector any day.
I’ve been away from this old blue bitch for a while. At the moment I feel like I should being doing something more practical, but I don’t feel sleepy so I’m going to jot down some nonsense and move on to something else hopefully.
Lately I’ve been trying to avoid Facebook as much as possible. Everyone who knows me is well aware of my beef with it so I won’t go into too much detail. A few minutes ago, I logged on because I had something better to do and I didn’t want to do it (the usual), and while browsing, I read a post about someone’s amazing boyfriend and his desire to join the SWAT. I immediately navigated away from the page to spare myself from the oncoming nosebleed. The post reminded me of so many things, yet it zeroed in on an occurrence that happened during my sophomore year of high school. In the midst of not paying attention during a session of chemistry, I asked a guy what he wanted to do after he graduated. He made a steering wheel motion with his hands and said he wanted to join the Airforce. When I asked him why, he said he wanted to join because he thought it would be cool to shoot people down with planes and stuff. Let me just say, the future does not bode well if people continue to let themselves be influenced by hit TV shows, movies, and video games. The amount of teenagers I have met who have wanted to become forensic specialists is staggering. I think that’ll all go away once CSI and Bones are canned. But, returning to old vices, it seems the most aggravating people are the only ones left on Facebook. It figures though, that is where they belong. Some people may say I’m being nitpicking or intolerant, but some really stupid things do go up there and I can’t help but ask myself why? For example; why would a person routinely tag his or herself at different places and then post pictures of their feet. Is the person trying to be artistic? Is he or she trying to be hip? Is that the person’s motif, because if it is, that’s a pretty lame-ass motif.
And though I do all this complaining, I will probably never delete my account. It’s pretty much an STD; the forever herpes of the internet. It can’t be cured, so I’ll just have to take my doses. And I think the next dose is mass friend deletion. Woo.
The Dunbar chapter of Catch-22 has got to be the most tragic chapter I’ve ever read.
Videodrome (directed by David Cronenberg)
Death to Videodrome. Long live the New Flesh.
Long live the new flesh.
John Hughes and the 80s can suck a dick.
Why the fuck do I not suffer from this?
Stupidity is usually Confidence’s right-hand man. How unfortunate.
Page 1 of 710