Halal Gallah
Unsolicited Ejaculations & Deckchair Philosophy
Eaglelitarianism: Towards equal social status for all eagles, regardless of wingspan.


I have no metric for whether or not this is interesting. Usually I judge by making myself laugh, but tonight ain’t laff time. This isn’t a super serious sad post or anything, but it is a reaffirmation of some home truths, and it would have been too long (read: it’s already too long) if I went to the effort of putting in lots of jokes.

Warning: contains old news, abstract swearing and occasional feminism. 

It seems like the price of entry to the internet is tuning out the din of comment sections on websites. In its most basic conception, anonymity allows the user to express themselves without any connection to their real world identity. This often manifests in people being confessional, expressing that which may damage their reputation without consequence. The odd corollary is that opinions often surface that are in conflict with political correctness, or generally accepted standards of decency. This stuff is self evident. However, over the last few weeks I’ve heard the din like tinnitus, ringing in my ears long after walking away from the computer.

The jarring effect of internet commenters is perhaps caused by an online environment tailored to our opinions. Decenteralisation in media changes the landscape from a homogeneous product presentation to the audience, into something which is sought out. Sure, traditional news media still exists, but the landscape has moved towards individuals seeking the majority of their news from sources they have chosen, increasing the chance that what they see will be generally agreeable. Moving out of teenagehood, and onto the precipice of actually caring about current events, I’m subject to this trend more than most. My news comes to me from places like reddit, where the subforums I subscribe to literally filter what I already think is important - on facebook, where people I know post news items that I’m likely to agree with - same goes for twitter, tumblr, etc. A while ago it struck me that I was stuck in an echo chamber of my own opinions, and that had me concerned that I was being indoctrinated into an implicit ignorance. 

This hasn’t bothered me as much since I realised that social media is a reflection of offline social interactions. The small percentage of time that my opinions are confronted online is probably equivalent to any offline confrontations. As it happens, we’re only as insular as we allow ourselves to be - and it’s just that same old intuitive fallacy of blaming the behaviour on the first available stimulus.

The parallel of online interaction and offline interaction reveals the logic of appearances. This is where the comment section comes in. Under every piece of opinion online, there’s a counterpoint by whoever. The anonymity promotes brazen flaunting of accountability, but in essence it shows us the confronting desire in people to instantly and scathingly rebuke. Offline, this desire only comes out in safe spaces, where the scather assumes the present company to be already sympathetic. So what’s to be learned from the comments that got under my skin recently? Well, they have been, broadly speaking, misogynistic. 

Obviously I’m aware of misogyny in every day life. The thing is, when it’s malicious, it’s pretty straight forward. I’ve worked with plenty of men that embody the central paradox of sexism - men who show respect to individual women, and disrespect women writ large. For them, their girlfriends, wives daughters, are exceptions to the rule - the enabling logic of generalisation. Often they present as accepting, decent sorts of people. The cliche then comes into play: I get to hear what they say when the women leave the room.

This is, an unfortunate side effect of political correctness. Those few who have been conditioned to behave as though political correctness itself is the goal are able to cocoon their bias in ‘acceptable’ terms, as though words were the problem in the first place. As far as I see, the narrow problem is reflections of gender and racial constructions in terminology, and the wider problem is hate and the aforementioned logic of generalisation.

For precisely this reason, I have a kind of gut wrenching reaction when I hear people, often my friends, say words such as slut, bitch, pussy and so on. This happens way, way too frequently. I assume you can fill in the blanks, but to make sure we’re clear, it’s because:

The word slut is pejoratively applied only to diminish someone for their sexual behaviour, and almost exclusively to demean women’s sexual agency. The word bitch is used to refer to a person who has any range of negative qualities, and places that person in a group of other bitches that are defined, essentially, as ‘bad women’, illogically tying together notions of virtue and womanhood. The flip side is the word bitch, when applied to men, refers to a man who’s somehow bad because they have qualities of women in general. And pussy, well, pussy is a complicated one.

The use of the word pussy seems to be more varied and often more benign than the aforementioned two. A common use, is in reference to a man who is weak, cowardly and as with bitch, generally womanlike. I have female friends who use the word euphemistically, and I get that. The sense of the word that painfully turns my stomach most regularly, however, is the male inversion of that euphemism. There is the odd occasion in a conversation about sex where men use the term literally, but it’s often extended into referring to not only genitals, but women as genitals - I’ve heard plenty of smart, sophisticated people used the word to commodify women, turning pussy into something to get. It occurs in an odd middle ground, I think that this sense of the word has been around long enough for people (men) to use the word and have it be construed in this offensive sense, but not for long enough for those same men to realise how offensive it is. That is not to say that at some arbitrary point the word becomes offensive, but rather that people are testing the waters with an incidentally offensive term, and maybe haven’t realised that it’s terrible yet. Clearly, here I’m trying to provide the benefit of the doubt, but let it be clear that those users that do deserve a charitable interpretation are in the minority.

I’ve focused on intention in describing my issues with these words, and a common objection would say that I’ve mischaracterised this intention. When I say that it’s used in this way or that way, I mean that it has actually, to my face, or through media, been said with that meaning. The only caveat I have to offer is that of ignorance, simply using a word without actually thinking it through. It’s a caveat, not a justification. And if I didn’t mention it, I’d be a hypocrite. I have a dilemma. I use the word cunt. Not often, not maliciously. But, I do use it. So while I find bitch, slut and pussy offensive, I still say that? The worst possible interpretation and usage of the word is a combination of those senses of bitch, and pussy, in that it can be used to diminish someone through reference to female genitals. The question I have to ask is: why doesn’t it bother me? 

I think, simply put, the reduced frequency of the c-word means that there is just less opportunity for it to be used in that sense. I’ve never used it in that sense, I very, very rarely hear it used in that sense, so I’ve never actually heard anyone be offended by it for any reason other than its taboo nature. Australians reading will undoubtedly know of its liberal use, and meaninglessness over here. Because of its privileged status as the ‘worst’ swear word, it was entirely taboo - until it was revived, only because it was the worst. Not for some special, misogynistic purpose, simply because it was shocking. The inherent contradiction in my perception of its meaninglessness, however, is that I have never called a woman a cunt. I’ve called men cunts. Why? Because if I referred to a woman like that, it could be taken as that worst interpretation. But calling a man (or an inanimate object, or whatever you just stubbed your toe on) a cunt is simply to refer to him in the worst way language allows you to, in the least allowed and thus most shocking way possible. This is not a justification, it’s an explanation. It has etymological femininity, but it is so far from this meaning that in context, the worst case scenario is a distant glimmer. But even if it has morphed, and has little chance of offending someone, why use it? Ultimately, there might be reasons why you shouldn’t use a word, but what do you gain from using it? When you use taboo slurs, you’re valuing your right to expression. There’s an implicit valuation of your expression as being more important than the suffering of others. I don’t think that’s fair.

Suffering sounds like a strong word, but I think that’s what it is. Being spoken about in slurs hurts. I’ve been called a faggot, and it fucking sucks. But at least people understand why it sucks. That’s the real point of this diversion into slur discussion. The most offensive words are those that are accepted. When we accept them we internalise the meaning, and once the word can mean something without the intention of the user, it can be used in a way that is unmalicious, but still offensive. It seems paradoxical, but there you go. It puts me in a weird situation, because as I said earlier, probably the most frequent users of bitch and slut are, on balance, my female friends. And there is usually little malice, but I am often a bit perturbed. But why would I say anything? I’m the white male archetypal oppressor. That’s clearly not reason alone for me to not say anything (it’s not like I’m the patriarchy), but I still don’t feel comfortable telling people not to do things when I’m not the one being oppressed. I’m offended, but not oppressed, and I don’t think the best way for me to go about supporting women is to tell women not to do things. This is a bit of an odd conclusion that I don’t think is necessarily logically consistent, but it’s almost a social mandate. There is no way around the fact that it would sound ridiculous for me to correct someone  who is a member of the group being marginalised not to marginalise themselves. They may or may not be given the context, but it’s probably not my place. To argue for civil rights issues, separate from terms in themselves - that’s my place.

And this is how it circles back around. Social complacency, political correctness, frictionless and ideology free interaction. Or the myth thereof. This is all dispelled by the zone of free hate established on the comment board. If I hadn’t seen peoples anonymous opinions for most of my life, I don’t think that I would describe myself as a feminist now. Basically because I wouldn’t have needed to. 

When I was younger, I would have described myself as an egalitarian. For equality. That’s it. Equality for everyone. Sounds good. The only issue was, after seeing socialisation occur throughout my teens, and seeing everyone become subjects of gender roles, and hearing men, and hearing women, and encountering all these slurs, after seeing porn (and holy fuck, if you think that comment sections on pieces about women’s rights issues are bad, go and read the comments under a porn video) it became really obvious that a big, big part of equality for everyone meant equality for women. After seeing the metaphorical comment board of the world (which is in turn the toilet wall of the internet), I think you’re sort of pressed into feministic action. Yes, feminism is under the banner of egalitarianism, but as an egalitarian, once you locate the inequality it’s your job to champion the cause of the oppressed.

After this turn, you wonder why you hesitated being a feminist at all. 

There are two central myths of feminism that discourage men from attaching themselves to the issue:

The first is that feminists advocate for the supremacy of the female sex. 

The second is that feminism is only for women.

I’m sure that there are some female supremacists out there, just as I’m sure there are some people that think that feminism is a cause to be championed by women. They’re wrong. I don’t have to be a feminist, but I can be, and I am. 

So, I do tend to notice misogyny. As with all that stuff about slurs, most of the straight forward stuff happens face to face. The stuff I see popping up more and more online isn’t so much anti-woman as it is anti-feminist. There’s a lot of stuff in online communities that I’m a part of (facebook, reddit, all that stuff again) that isn’t explicitly misogynistic. More in the vain of questioning bits and pieces here and there. Like a guy referring to it as ‘the myth of the pay gap’, or a guy posting ‘it’s not rape just because you regret it’… those are a few real examples, of the many, many things I have seen recently that are, to me, viscerally disturbing. I honestly don’t understand what motivates these guys. Yes, I get that you think that there are some women that have lied about being raped. Do you think that that is the majority of cases? Do you think that this is common place? Do you think that men are usually the victims of sexual assault? 85% of sexual assaults in Australia happen to women. You can call statistical bias in fifty different ways, yeah, but do you think 85% has a big margin of error?  

When you say that there is a problem with the intensity of the interpretation of the facts, you’re not working for truth, you’re working to diminish the issue. It is the exact same modus operandi as holocaust deniers. What is the actual point of trying to reduce the stats? Unless you’re flipping the metaphorical table on the whole debate, why try and encroach a little on the claims? You’re not encroaching on the conclusion in any meaningful way. Heterosexual men do not face the same oppression as heterosexual women. Just fucking deal with it.

A whole language has emerged in a kind of counter cultural right wing milieu. Yes I’m for male equality, but I don’t see suffering of men as so prevalent that I should include it as something I identify with. Yes, there are biological, innate differences between men and women, but there is no reason to champion the cause of a biological wedge between the sexes. In the same way, there might be differences between races of people, but there is no reason to champion race science in this cultural climate. Historically, there is a link between race science and malicious racism, but race science doesn’t necessitate a move towards eugenics or something similar. That’s fine. But we don’t allocate funding towards the furthering of racial science. We don’t need to. Maybe in some future where we live in a utopic society, we can actually get valuable information from that kind of work, but for now we may as well just leave it on the shelf until such a time that it doesn’t solicit malicious bias.

The new right language I’m referring to places emphasis on tradition, community and so on. But again, this seems like a post-political correctness effort to reintroduce a wedge based on ethnicity. Tradition functions to create meaning and solidarity. That might appear to be a valuable function. But in itself, it isn’t. Tradition needn’t be upheld on the basis that it is a tradition, but rather on the effects that it produces. You can create new traditions that espouse positive ideologies - longevity is not a virtue in itself. Take marriage. There is a large contingent in the right that thinks that allowing gay people to marry will corrupt society, because it breaks the tradition of union between man and woman. But, there is another contingent that has evaluated the effects of marriage, rather than its so called sanctity. Those effects, they argue, are essentially a promotion of social cohesion. Marriage creates stability in families, in turn creating economic stability writ large. They value these principles, and as such see no reason why gay people shouldn’t be married. In fact, they should be getting married - the tradition has no merit beyond its consequences, and they recognise that those consequences aren’t built on gender.

It’s odd writing about politically charged material. I don’t tend to. There’s some part of espousing political opinion that seems prosthelytizing. I don’t like telling people what to think. I do, however, really like having conversations about why we think things, and the sort of things we should think. Politics seems to corrupt this, as it is difficult to enter a political conversation without an ideology. Especially in modern partisan politics. Political ideology seems to be founded on the correlation of principles. That is, if I can determine some guiding principle to my thought, then I can extract political opinions from it. A reductive example would be perhaps an identification of suffering as unjust, and then extrapolating ways to avoid suffering. This could result in being pro-healthcare, and pro-legalization of euthanasia. I do hold those two opinions. I also value freedom of expression, so I might advocate for rights to free speech and to public protest. Those two principles might have some overlap, but they’re not fundamentally connected. Even though they might not have anything to do with one another, the products of stray principles tend to get lumped into one category.

I’m not comfortable identifying with the left wing, but I’m not comfortable with not identifying with it either. I’m clearly a product of my culture, because I hold a lot of the views in that left wing cluster… but should I say I’m left wing? That could equally mean that I’m a socialist, an anarchist, etc. I have some lefty opinions, but I have little idea of what beliefs I’m incidentally subscribing to, so I don’t. I like the idea of being an apolitical philosopher, but it’s really hard when your immune system gets attacked by misogyny and tries to fight it by typing.

Across The Threshold

So, this isn’t usually what I write here, but today called for a bit of seriousness. Fair warning.

Read More

My autocorrect turns transgressive into transvestism. Goddamn heteronormative cryptofacist programmers.

Future music festival is bullshit, they play all the songs in the present.

Thoroughflect

I’m stuck quite far inside my head. Specifically, I’m stuck somewhere under a pile of thoughts about art, work and the double choc fudge McFlurry. It’s 1960 kilojoules of regret. At least I did get something done. I found out that one of my eyes is shit.

Over the last few years I’ve noticed it getting harder to read and aim paper planes at vulnerable animals. I couldn’t figure out why my vision was intermittently fine or strained, but I was told that I had a stigmatism. For a short time I thought I was seminal prophet Jesus Christ, but then I realised that I would have noticed stigmata when I tried to drink soup without cutlery. She told me that it actually means that it’s a weird shape. My left eye is the coin the change machine rejects. 

Still, it’s good to know. Unfortunately I’ll have to wear glasses some of the time. I don’t actually mind wearing glasses, it’s more that I’ve been accused of pretentiousness and patronisation in the past, and don’t need to add to that self image. It’s an odd dilemma, because I don’t think I talk down to anyone. If it is the case that I am patronising, then I feel like that reflects poorly on my family- they taught me how to talk. The reflections I see in others at family gatherings are something I’m growing proud of, some more than others, of course - but by and large I think they’re pretty good people.

It’s a criticism that’s stuck in my craw over the years, which leads me to think that it’s probably a fair assessment. My brain’s full of smoke, with or without fire. The problem with accepting something like this is that once you’re aware of people perceiving you as patronising, then you never want to labor explanations of whatever you said, or just don’t want to say anything at all. And not explaining anything ever is just reverse patronising. So if you don’t say anything, then you’re just a guy, starting at another guy. 

Over the last few years I’ve done a bit of growing, and out of that has come an interest in “other peoples stories”. He said, as he wrote his blog about his eyes. So if people still see me this way then I’m being seen as insincere, which I don’t think is the case. There’s a gap between self-image and reputation as wide as a canyon, and it’s easy to fall in.

I spoke to my grandma today. She’s been having a nostalgia trip around a bunch of houses she lived in, including the house that she grew up in after she moved to the country. At age three her family moved to Australia to pursue a better life, once they realised that Canada sells milk in bags. I asked her bits and pieces about her parents, I really have no sense of who they were. She told me some things, but expressed the same lack. She wants me to know who they were, but can’t figure out where to start.

I felt like I was about to lose my family history a couple of years ago. She was getting pretty frail. It was around this time that she lost some of her sight and couldn’t drive anymore. Well, she uhh… she did still drive for a bit. It took some coaxing to get her stop. She did give up the wheel, and admitted later that she couldn’t see the traffic lights at the end of the street. So that could have gone badly. 

I got my licence around the same time, so I ended up driving her around to a lot of medical appointments. She often points to things like this as serendipitous. Serendipity is one of her favorite words. I’ve never been able to figure out whether that’s her way of enacting god in an increasingly secularised world. She has a bank of platitudes that are empty forms for positive inflection. It frustrates my mum quite a lot, as she tends to hand out phrases of false-knowing when someone else has a problem, but these insights are absent when she introspects. I suppose we all do. It’s odd having grown up with her in her last cycle of personality- I get the impression she’s been a lot of different people in her life. Maybe this isn’t odd to people that are close to more elderly people than I am. From the outside it seems like at some point the lock is turned on the self, and all the photos of your life capture dissipated light.

Long distance relationships are terrible. Especially when your partner doesn’t know that they’re part of the relationship. And you’ve never spoken to them. And the length of the distance is ‘slightly across the room’. I empathise with the longing art of the poets, or those people that write to the MX. ‘I saw you on a train, you were wearing a hat, I was the guy staring at you’ - Gerald “we found love in a hopeless place” Bates, 28/2/2013.

Poolside Pulpit

Back at uni for the year. I’m already having ideas again. Like, actual ideas. Today I was thinking about Hobbes’ state of nature, and social contract theory as an approach to happiness, a mode of eudaemonia. I also realised that the fantasy world and narrative of Harry Potter is the coping mechanism of an abused orphan who needed a fiction to deal with their abusive adoptive parents. You win some, you lose some.

I’m in a cinema lecture watching a George Melies short film from 1904. It’s really weird learning traditions in reverse. Because of this anachronism, the colourisation and composition techniques remind me of Wes Anderson, and the set building aesthetic reminds me of everything Noel Fielding has ever done. There’s like a hundred years of difference, but I’m pretty sure if this film was made and aired now it’d receive praise. I guess traditions are cyclical, running along side the generations that have to reinvent themselves. Like, we just saw a 50 second French film from the late 19th century, and three seconds in a guy does a trackstand on a fixie and the guy sitting next to me called him a hipster.

I don’t have any particular love of cinema above any other medium, but it is interesting to study as virtually the whole history of the medium is documented. Same thing applies to stand up. Watching artistic movements and paradigms of creative thought ebb and flow is interesting, especially when you’re able to compare them across mediums. I guess it’s why people appreciate comparative literature, except watching artistic movements tells you a lot about humans; watching stories tells you a lot about how humans tell stories, which tells you a lot about humans. The former is just heaps efficient. 

Here’s the results of a related research project that I outsourced to a local graphic designer to illustrate my point: 

By graphic designer, I mean me. The wrong kind of arts student. 

I legit want to make a webcomic soon, and I will as soon as I learn to not use paint.

But yeah, I wasn’t joking about the Hobbes stuff. I don’t think that the philosophical stuff I write on here is particularly interesting, but I have to have this shit written out for later on, when it might be useful. Like if I ever need to compile a manifesto for a cult. So in the future you can look forward to droning deliveries on some weird (possibly trite) ideas. Usually I’d put this stuff behind a ‘read more’ tag, but the feature is broken at the moment. Or at least, I can’t make it work.

So yeah, READ MORE? (Then keep reading)

Hobbes’s social contract is interesting. I gained a bit of perspective on the text yesterday, I’ve got no idea why, I haven’t read Leviathan for about a year (so I might be hazy on some details, details are for chumps, though).

It seems to have some intuitive value. I think his characterisation of the state of nature is pretty close to an accurate view of pre-society. It’s essentially a conception of nature as a state of violence, encapsulated by his description of it being ‘nasty, brutish and short’. This may or may not be an accurate evaluation, I think the task of describing nature is marred by our removal from it - complete accuracy is a fruitless endeavor. However, I think the Hobbsian frame of the social contract can be repurposed to have some (quasi-) psychoanalytic insight if we look at how the contract functions today. (I reserve the right to make quasi- psychoanalytic statements if Freud stays on my philosophy shelves/syllabus).

In the original writing, Hobbes focuses on the prevention of violence as a primary motivator for the contract. I think an optimistic interpretation of the contract would place the act of prevention itself at the center of the contract, rather than the safety offered after the contract. The safety that is gained is supposed to give relief, and it might, but I don’t think it’s enough to prop up the contract. I think the act of collaborating and striking a deal can bring about a sense of fulfillment in the short term, fulfillment from consolidating a community of people that won’t kill you - provided enough flux in the state of nature, I can see how a social contract could be a dynamic model for happiness. That is, the constant change in nature requires the contract to be renewed and reevaluated regularly. This enables a renewed sense of satisfaction through collaboration. 

The social contract is a foundation that we have built on so far that we have removed ourselves from the natural flux (changing political, social, economic stimulus) that necessitates the contract. That is to say that the ironic aim of a dynamic contract is to establish a stagnant state of affairs, to have society function as a continuously productive mechanism - negating the original contract.

Homogenised, large society, breeds the rules of the contract into us. Without the sense of necessity there are few reasons that the contract has to give us pleasure. We might still have an abstract feeling of safety provided by the implicit protection of the law, but the majority of us have our contract participation outsourced - to police, community leaders, lawyers, volunteers etc. I’m sure they’d get the feeling of participation and fulfillment in the Sisyphean task of maintaining the contract that would come about more readily in the state of nature. 

The satisfaction in creating a contract in nature is maintenance of an existential project. This might be the reason that a common objection to the social contract is about being born into it - should one participate within the bounds of the contract if one has only implicitly ‘signed’ it? I think this objection holds less clout in the state of nature when one is able to flourish through the contract, the benefit is immediately apparent. This benefit creates a clear purpose for life that isn’t lost to those who are born into it, for as long as the contract is a reality in their mind. So once it is lost in a society dependent on, but too large to support contractual flourishing for every individual, what then does the contract offer? 

I think the original context of Hobbes didn’t offer this focus of the positive psychological effect of the contract. The concern with alleviation of the fear of life being ‘nasty, brutish and short’. In essence, the state of nature contains a violence that is the precursor to the fear of death - death isn’t feared in the moment of natural action. In that state it’s fight or flight, and the threat of death is viscerally feared, and because of that mode of fear, it can be overcome. When death is an obstacle, a guy clubbing you for food, overcoming the obstacle is overcoming death. I think this again relies on the flux of nature. It has programmed our brain to deal with life and death in a moment. 

When the contract prevails, it removes the moment to moment perception of fragility. I think we might actually have a life span that is imperceptible. Life stretches out so far in front of us that we are unable to compute it, and make decisions that actually parse the scale of life. I think that’s precisely why we get things like ennui, unfun, undirected, uninteresting malaise, and more importantly the diluted fear of death. We have no real emotional options in our current paradigm. Maybe we can use the fear of death to motivate us, but it doesn’t take it away. We can only ignore it, and have it boil to the surface every so often.

We might fear it less if we are progressing in the existential project. There’s some satisfaction in completing individual goals, whatever they might be, but at some point we crave social flourishing. In nature we have a social element fulfilled because we have the same interests being fulfilled in conjunction with others. Now, we need to seek out other people with similar desires. You could banish existential longing by building a community herb garden if you fucking love herbs. It’s odd. I don’t think it actually matters what the purpose is, if it involves social interaction, it parallels the contract. We create stimulus and change in smaller circles to mirror the nasty brutishness that our brains are equipped to handle. We agree with others so that we can electrocute elephants and build bridges, but we also agree to build huge paper planes. Once there’s loads of bridges and no more elephants, paper planes are really fucking important.

Mississippi Burnt

I just finished watching a documentary on the roots of blues music. There’s something magic about those early 20th century artists with wonky rhythm guitar and the 1-4-5 licks. The fire in the stories of oppression never lost their flicker as the structure allowed for so much instrumental improvisation. I wanted to post the lyrics to a delta blues classic here for posterity; so much folk music has already been lost.

Hessian Sack Morton - Hardwood Blues

Been down this road

Many times before

Well without my baby

I can’t do it any more

-

Chorus:

My baby don’t love me

She don’t love me no more

My baby don’t love me

She stapled me to the floor

-

I ain’t done nothing wrong

Maybe I left it to long

To write my baby 

A please-don’t-staple me song

-

And now I’m crying

Cause now I’m dying

No food or water

On the floor

(Chorus)

-

My wrists are pinned

My ankles bound

I shouldn’t of taken her to

The hardware store downtown

(Chorus)

-

I got home - she snapped

Mid stretch - I got trapped

Baby please come back

There’s an itch I can’t scratch

(Chorus)

-

Literally -

From my head to my knees

I got 99 problems -

and they’re all atrophies 

(Chorus)

-

So my last words

Before I cut loose

Don’t mix tools

and spousal abuse

(Chorus to fade)

struggelingartsstudent asked: your blog is perfection holy mother of jesus. everything, all your words and brain and just oh my lord.

Wow. Thank you, heaps.

The Odd Function Of Podcasts

I haven’t properly written about podcasts before. This is a bit odd, considering I now listen to upwards of five hours of comedy podcasts a week. The majority of the podcasts I listen to are reasonably unstructured, with little attempt to trade the success of the podcast into commercial enterprise in other media. It’s because of this that podcasters are allowed to be so revealing, thinking aloud through the internet. The combination of personality and quantity allows the listeners to get to know the podcasters in a very specific way, which does wonders for creating a loyal fan base (something the Cuddlahs, T-Baggers and WhatTheFuckers are well aware of).

On a purely speculative level, I’m of the opinion that the dearth of meaning in an increasingly secular western world has lent itself to a shift in how people are able to define themselves - particular taste in media, and more broadly, pop culture, seems to be trying to fill a gap. In increasingly interpersonal, but impersonal times, it’s easy to see how pop culture might be able to fill a void. In light of this, the conversational, personal nature of comedy podcasts can be an intravenous hit of something people are lacking. It’s manna to the converted. 

This is a hugely aggrandising and sweeping claim with little factual basis - fittingly, as we might say, a TOFOP fact. The reason I’m trying to figure out why some dickheads talking in my ears is actually important, is that they’ve really, properly, influenced me. However reluctant I am to admit, I’m at a pretty malleable age. I’m nineteen, and I’m pretty aware that a lot of middle age guys can’t let go of the stuff that got under there skin around this period of their lives. It seems pretty important to recognise the stuff that I might be thinking about for the rest of my life.

Sometime in late 2010 I made a twitter account. Mainly to stalk celebrities, partly to share the contents of my mind and stomach. It was the last year of high school, and I had a lot of spare time. Not much has changed. I started following Wil Anderson, “…the rockstar of Australian comedy” (sic). I knew him originally from the Glasshouse, (Which is a bit weird, because I would have been primary school age for most of that, so I guess; good job mum?) and later from the Gruen transfer and his stand up. He tweeted about TOFOP, his podcast with a small-handed associate. I had no idea how to get a podcast, but shit did I figure that out quick. I only realised recently that this decision has changed the course of my development as a person. If I write this much about each of the initial podcasts, I’ll be here all day, and fuck, there are podcasts to listen to: so I’ll try and be brief.

  • From listening to TOFOP, I was introduced to Walking The Room and Smodcast.
  • From listening to Walking the Room, I discovered What The Fuck. 
  • From listening to Smodcast, I felt like a joint and watched some movies.

What The Fuck opened the floodgates. The amount of quality conversation with people I’d never heard of opened so many doors, and I blame it partially for the road of comedy nerd-dom that it sent me down. The next year I went to see Maron at the MICF, it was the first time I’d actually seen stand up face to face. I’d listened to this guy talking, explicitly and personally to me for literally hundreds of hours. The synthesis of all that information was pretty much incompatible with seeing an actual person, in the flesh. It was a really interesting experience. 

TOFOP was a stepping stone into the world of comedy. WTF is a continued exploration of creativity through a comic’s perspective. The impact of these podcasts has shaped a whole sphere of interests for me, which has resulted in me listening to podcasts as diverse as Something for the Drive Home and RHLSTP. Listening to Greg Proops got me into Thelonious Monk, who got me into piano, which I’ve been playing for the last year or so now. Listening to Herring got me into Stewart Lee, who is now, unabashedly, one of my idols (if you’re interested in stand up at all, read How I Escaped My Certain Fate). Somewhere in the mix I managed to follow Daniel Kitson’s breadcrumb trail, as much as he might try to cover his tracks. This year I saw him at MICF, and I almost imploded. He was even better than I expected. I’m not sure exactly what I think about his structural and poetic qualities, however I am sure that I find them endearing. While I understand those who don’t, they’re welcome to invent time travel, go back in time, kill an ancestor and delete themselves from existence. I can trace some of these really specific influences, but it goes way bigger than that.

It’s taken my down a road that has shaped my view of creativity, comedy, and its relevance to every day life. Why exactly all of this appeals to me personally is a subject for another time.

This is not usually the sort of thing I write about, because while it has influenced me, it’s not even in the minds of my peers. It’s the ultimate example of ‘on demand culture’; most people I know think that my Maron shirt is just some guy shouting at a cat. And that’s fine. I don’t need people to have listened religiously to every TOFOP and WTR, I’m perfectly happy to listen at a distance and have the odd conversation at the SuperPod. I don’t usually write about podcasts, and I actively try not to talk about them in conversation (it has the same quality as dreams: “so which one of your friends was saying this?” “No, it was on a podcast.” “Oh, so it didn’t happen?”) because my mates don’t have the same referents. But there is a great online community built around these podcasts. T-baggers everywhere have been revealing their sentiments like loved ones in a hospice. That is because, with the release of episode 83: ‘Weng Weng’, TOFOP is finished for the foreseeable future. While I’m saddened at the loss of this great part of my week, the end has got me (obviously) to reflect on the impact of TOFOP on the last few years of my life. TOFOP has fallen, but their presence in my mind and the community is “something elemental”, their departure “something terrifying”. They are a symbol.

Crying No, No, No, I have to acknowledge and thank TOFOP for starting a causal chain in my life. So thank you TOFOP, and the respective creators of the following list of things that exist (in no particular order, and by no means definitive):

  • Walking The Room
  • Something for the Drive Home
  • Justin Hamilton (Especially for writing a thoughtful reply to an email I sent him. 100% Gentleman.)
  • John Clarke
  • Laughter
  • Sam Simmons
  • Never Not Funny
  • I Love Green Guide Letters
  • Stewart Lee
  • Endorphins
  • Dan Harmon
  • Greg Fleet
  • Regie Watts
  • The Little Dum Dum Club
  • Woody Allen
  • Spare time
  • Daniel Kitson
  • Marc Maron
  • Simon Munnery
  • David Thorne
  • Technical difficulties
  • John Oliver
  • The concept of happiness
  • Richard Herring
  • @Bartlol brand Finties
  • Josh Thomas
  • Headphones
  • The Smartest Man In The World
  • Comedy Bang Bang
  • Community
  • Phones that can play sound files
  • Richard Ayoade
  • Simon Amstell
  • Amir Valerie Blumenfeld
  • Fan Fiction Comedy
  • Everyone who was at the SuperPod
  • Louie C.K
  • Matt Berry
  • Larry David
  • Podcasts
  • Donald Glover
  • Bruce Wayne
  • Boomer
  • Charlie & Wil, Greg & Dave (and their supportive (but ultimately uninterested) partners)
  • Everyone who has been plunged into nostalgia and mourning by NOFOP
  • Everyone 
Beef beef

It’s just shy of 3AM. I just got home from a service station. It’s not clear to you or me why I should have been sober, alone, and at a servo on a freezing Thursday night. If I could be sure about why exactly I was there, then I might be less confused about how my life actually relates to the universe. What is resoundingly clear is the ‘ready-to-eat beef snack’ entrails strewn across my couch. It says it’s 97% fat free, but in reality I suspect that it is 3% fat. I think that staving off hunger with salted, dried beef in the early hours is the closest I’ll ever be to the reality of a WW2 soldier. They probably wouldn’t appreciate it being teriyaki flavoured, but if I believe anything it’s that taste doesn’t see race.

The petrol station milieu was bleak at best. At least I wasn’t the disappointing figure in there. While I may have been re-purposing a pair of old shoes as slippers, there was a gentlemen who was drunker than an alcoholic who just drank the blood of another alcoholic. He stumbled in, approached the pie warming oven and was confronted by its severe lack of pies. This of course reduces the appliance to a box of dimly lit tepid air: A fact that destroyed the man in question. There’s a chance I’m reading too far into his body language, but there’s also a chance that the couch I’m sitting on is sentient. If it is, I can only apologise and offer it the rest of my Gatorade.

It became clear to me that this man had gone to the effort of ordering a taxi to take him to the nearest specialty pie salesman, or failing that a confused petrol/snickers/Gatorade franchise. He was trying to secure his ticket to a place my boss would refer to as “gastronomic nirvana”, but he would, because he’s trying to sell you polenta. In a single empathetic glance, the crestfallen drunk communicated this reality. It was beautiful, in the kind of way where you’re simultaneously aware of all the plights of humanity, but you still hold your breath just to make sure he doesn’t stab you or call the warming oven a cunt.

This is kind of a preamble to some stuff I wrote earlier today, but didn’t get time to finish. It’s some stuff about why I do, but shouldn’t eat meat. In a round about way. The actual point of it, is to look at how we can have contradictory actions and beliefs as defining features of our personality. I occasionally write stuff like this, that is more philosophical in nature but still personal. That fact alone is a pretty good case in point. I’m perfectly aware that there are entire schools of academia and established discourses on decision making, ritual psychology and ethics, but I’m still willing to wax lyrical in a public forum. These competing interests of investigation and expression meet somewhere in my brain and spit out this stuff, but I’d much rather be writing this whole thing about some bloke I saw at the servo than actually be rigorous. That’s not to say that I am logically rigorous, just that it’s much more fun if you don’t start writing with discipline. I’ve kind of had the following arguments bouncing around in my head for a few years now, and I wanted to get them out so I’d be able to point to them and see whether I change my mind over time. Anyway, the teriyaki beef-type-food-based-implement wrapper is urging me to “feed my wild side”, so allow me to unleash my chaotic inner beast all over the page with an overly lengthy examination in the meta-perspective monologue style that has made me notorious for breaking all the rules:

Read More

French Press Jam

Finally finished failing to decipher the graphs of monsieur Levi-Strauss. It’s kind of odd picking up uni subjects under the assumption that I won’t go on to study them further. It feels the same as in high school in an Italian class when you’d learn how to ask the milkman whether or not he likes he likes Yacht Rock. It’s definitely knowledge, but you won’t ever apply it to anything again. All the graphs and academia do permeate your brain eventually, and I’m curious to find out what’s going to stick. Unfortunately, when I am actually older, I won’t be able to remember what I’ve forgotten. Because I forgot it. I actually really like having this blog here so I can look back and figure out what the fuck I was actually doing during the years I apparently had enough time to write about.

Animal Food : Life Destroyed

Some of these anthropology readings have stunk of the vaguery that lead academics to write for years about garden variety horseshit. I’m sure it’s a fine discipline, filled with upstanding, dapper gentlemen and handsome ladies, but coming from philosophy I’m pretty inculcated into the habit of asking a question, deconstructing it, piecing it back together, and finding a myriad of unsatisfactory answers: being unhappy with the whole process and then dying alone on the cold stone floor of a library. Anthropology seems far too down to earth to mesh with this game plan. Going and doing field research would let my armchair get cold. The philosophical perspective bleeds into stuff where it’s probably best left on the (3000 year old Graeco-Roman) shelf. Like last night at a party, I vaguely remember getting a bit too specific, a bit too loudly in an argument about formal logic. the argument wasn’t actually about formal logic, but I was trying to make it about formal logic, and that’s probably the issue. I honestly can’t deal with being misunderstood. I don’t know exactly why, but if something I say gets misconstrued I’ll talk my way out of it fervently. Everyone does that to some degree, I think. But it’s kind of worrying when social minutia get logged in your brain to be replayed over and over the next few weeks. The amount of time spent actively trying to deal with the awkward memory is inverse to the importance of the situation. The amount of conversations that are stored in my brain where I said something stupid or was slightly embarrassed is nigh on unending, but none of them are from work - saying something stupid there actually has consequences, and as such I clearly have no need for those memories.

Which reminds me, yesterday at work this gruff guy with a slow drawl, and some sort of spit based speech impediment told a ten minute story about his friend who was celibate for ten years and then went to a prostitute. The gentlemen in question may not have judged the situation correctly, I wasn’t quite ready to hear the string of visceral epithets for ejaculate. After he left I was told that he was responsible for a few great paintings I like. But I was also told that he probably has pedophilic tendencies. You win some, you loose some.

I got home, drunk, at about six in the morning today. Waking up this afternoon wasn’t particularly enjoyable, but I was particularly confronted by a puzzle. I got my keys out of my pocket, and the key to my room was bent. Really bent. Like, unusable-right angle bent. I have no idea how I managed to do that, considering I must have used the key to get inside. It reminds me of the time I woke up last year and found a guitar hero controller dripping. Somehow I got about a litre of nondescript liquid into it, with no possible explanation. Suffice to say that that controller is roughly as functional as a right angled house key. 

Niggas Sub Specie Aeterni

that shit cray

that shit cray

that shit kray

Neurovert Redux

I haven’t been getting out much lately. Running away with a hoarders episode worth of canned goods and learning to make wi-fi from native animals is less a fantasy now, and rather an impending reality I have to fight. Spending at least 130 hours a week alone, many of those in the company of others, can lead one to do some strange things.

Last week I contemplated writing a manifesto in sharpie on my walls, but I decided that it might not clean off when I need to change my mind, and that sharipes are an unsupportable luxury for a Liberal Arts student . I’m fairly confident that this apprehension and uncertainty in belief should prevent me from even becoming a terrorist, or at least any sort of accomplished one. There’s also some hipster segment of my brain that makes me want to be original. Which makes it hard to ever be inspired, uncynical or convinced of something new. There’s a certain pretension here; we’re happy to go along with something on our own terms, and denounce a realisation until we have it ourselves - at which point anyone without such knowledge is inept. I get the feeling that being less self involved relies on spending more time with others, and forcing ones self on others to be less self centered is the most self centered thing one could do.

But being concerned with the judgements of others is fundamentally unhelpful. Especially when you get the sort of cabin fever that encourages you to dig a series of tunnels under your house, pickle obscure vegetables, attempt world records,  and make effigies to television personalities. Television personalities that regularly appear in the self insert Fan Fiction you write. Even if you were on a ship with Jack Sparrow, how likely is is that his seafaring madness would make him insatiably attracted to you? And even if he got the disease you’re writing about, isn’t it a bit rapey to take advantage of temporary insanity? If you ever find yourself writing six thousand words of prose written with someone else’s characters, change the settings and character names. Viola! You just made the transition from Fan Fiction writer to Fiction writer. Or hey - writing about characters from a TV show/Film? Find a Wikihow on script writing and reformat it. You just wrote yourself a spec script! Now send it off to Hollywood and you’ll be a hotshot script writer in no time.

While these are some of the worst pieces of advice I’ve ever written, they are also the most tangential, unsolicited and unfounded I’ve written, which makes them improbably terrible, and therefore noteworthy. I feel safe writing about Fan Fiction, because I don’t think many people I know write it, and an even smaller number would care to admit it. Though, I commend anyone who does.

I was raised by pop culture, and empathise with anyone writing superfluous stories about it. I’m pretty sure that in the nuclear family model, television is my father. I think that makes video games my cat, or something. The amount of time I clocked on MMO’s and various Gameboys is pretty ridiculous. I have few regrets about it, though. Playing an MMO at a young age taught me that meaningless repetition can create an entirely new reality to inhabit, which is likely more insight than I might have gained by spending the same amount of time out doors. If I had enjoyed any of the sports I played as a child I could have continued with them, and learnt that aptitude is relative to those around you, and shutting yourself in will create a false sense of worth. So I’m glad I didn’t learn that. And I wouldn’t have been able to play Pokemon nearly as often. Speaking of, I might even write a Pokemon Fan Fic. I should Probably read some first. Brb.

Back. Turns out reading poorly written Fan Fiction grates as harshly on your love for a franchise as a terrible spin off or a shit new season. I read the first half of a Pokemon/Survivor cross over, one about the rivalry of Red/Blue and some others who’s meaning was not as explicit. There are some great Fan Theory/Fictions ones out there that have circulated, like the Theory that Ash’s dad is the greeter at gyms, keeping his distance as he is too ashamed to confront his abandoned son. Or the one about all Pokemon being a deluded invention of the coma Ash entered after being struck by lightning at the beginning of the anime. Or this:

I don’t think that I should write one, because it’d probably be about a young trainer listening to Professor Oak deliver a lecture on the ethical implications of Pokemon collection and cataloging methodology, which would be as unbearable as the lecture I’m currently sitting in.

It’s this semesters last logic lecture, which has slowly undergone a transformation from plug and play formulas into indecipherable semantic decision making. And now the two hours is up, leaving us with one barely solved argument.

In the meantime I’ve  moved from the lecture theatre into an empty class room. My University is particularly conducive to writing things that are better left unwritten. It’s past the hour, and there should be other people in here. Any break in the pattern of routine never bodes well, and as such I’m probably in the wrong place, or the wrong timeline. I probably should have hit the snooze button twice instead of three times, got to uni in time to get a coffee, got in line and bumped into my professor who would then inform me of a tutorial cancellation later that afternoon, and to avoid the prawn and avocado sushi. That would have been a much better timeline, and my current breath would be less suspect. Free will can be remarkably inconvenient.

It’s supposed to be a Cinema Tutorial on Horror. Yesterday we watched the 1946 French Beauty and the Beast, which had some creative set construction and beautiful shots interspersed with cringe worthy ‘46 costume design.

It can jar the fantasy a tad when your antagonist looks like a retired member of the cast of Cats. But on the whole it’s a pretty good retelling of the classic French story, and is worth watching if you have absolutely nothing else to do.

It doesn’t look like this tutorial is happening, which is quite annoying, as now I’m an odd student sitting alone in a room pregnant with negative space. Contributing to this oddness is the terrible job I did shaving this morning. I look like a poorly maintained Zen Garden. Once I complete this degree I may have to undertake a study of game theory, decision theory, futurology and theoretical physics to better understand my own decisions in relation to multiple realities. It couldn’t do much harm, and I might avoid exactly these types of situations. Of course, mapping potential realities created by my choices would require a certain amount of self absorption and time spent indoors, which really wouldn’t help me fend off the introverted ‘drive off into the lonely sunset’ mentality I previously mentioned. For now it’s probably best if I go to the next tutorial, which should contain a detailed explanation of the reasons why that aforementioned barely solved argument is barely solvable. It will be precisely as fun as it sounds.

Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy.

But here’s my number, so call me in the case of medical emergencies.

I’m not a doctor or anything but I did a first aid course once.

My phone’s usually on.

I heard that they changed the CPR thing?

Apparently you’re not supposed to breathe in their mouth or whatever anymore.

But yeah chuck us a call or whatever if you want to do something.

I’ve got a ute if you want to do, like, a DIY project.

I’m thinking about putting in a herb garden.

MICF

I’m feeling weird. It’s all fine, but yesterday I did think I was going to die. No idea why, and so I was a bit surprised when I woke up this morning. Not in an anxious, hypochondriacal way, I just felt like it was the end. So now it’s not the end, and I’ve overcome existential terror through an abrbitrarily precise act of not-dying.

So, comedy.

“It’s like ripping up a bird and feeding it to a loaf of bread.”

Last night I was out at Sam Simmons’ last show of the comedy festival. I don’t think Sam has that huge a profile, so to that end: Sam is an Australian postmodern absurdist comedian. He’s worked for Tripple J for years producing comedy segments for the station. You can listen to some of them in his fantastic podcast “Sounds of Sam”. I first heard his stuff on drivetime radio with Linda & Dools when I was in highschool. At the time he was producing a regular segment called Shitty Trivia:

http://www.youtube.com/embed/q0KHLcCua6M

In his 2010 show ‘Fail’ and this year’s ‘About The Weather’ he rehashes some of his radio work. The narration he employs usually provides sets up for jokes, or surreally describes scenarios, real or imagined. Obviously, I’m a fan.

In the post modern comedy landscape, act’s like Sam or the Boosh are often chalked up to being ‘random’. Sam brought up a similar point on ‘The Little Dum Dum Club’, a Melbourne comedy podcast that’s worth a listen. Before the
word random entered the collective vernacular, it would have been chalked up to Sam being a “Tripper”. Drugs have in formed a lot of great art, but it really gets to me when creativity itself is assumed to be contained in pills. When someone calls someone a tripper, it’s implicitly a statement of misunderstanding. If you can’t tell where something is coming from, or what something means, it doesn’t mean that its creator was on drugs. Writing bits that use language and imagery creatively rely on a complex series of cultural connotations and implicit absurdism to be funny. Regardless of whether a joke is written as an absurd piece, the precise meaning of a word provides flavor to a line that isn’t given by other words, and this style of comedy epitomises that idea. 

http://www.youtube.com/embed/CWmNTtJ-OPI

This video kind of makes that point. Sure, it’s a really specific gripe to have, but I’ve made absurd off the cuff comments where I’ve assumed people understand me as such. Then later found out that I was interpreted of as a stoner who says weird shit. I’m not stoned, I have stuff to do.

Actually, if I had stuff to do I probably wouldn’t be writing an unsolicited opinion piece about stand up.

Last night’s show was the first time I’ve seen Sam live. ‘Fail’ is on youtube as a part of the Warehouse comedy series, and it was the first cohesive work I’ve seen of his. After I saw that I couldn’t wait to see him live. It exceeded my expectations. Sam had the audience on edge as some members were pulled into the post modern narrative, and at one point got into a fight with a 17 year old kid that wouldn’t give back one of the shoes he threw into the crowd. It ended with the two of them rolling around on the floor. At one point he brought an audience member on stage to sit on him and spin around in a chair while cradling his head and smelling his hair. It was, as usual, a mixed audience, some of whom had no clue what Sam was doing. Sam made the comment on “Dum Dum’ that he felt that he’s going to polish the show for the Edinburgh fringe, and at times it was a bit disjointed. But, it was fantastic. At the end Sam started handing around props from his show to the audience, and I got given a shoe:

100% Profit.

Sam’s physicality has bypassed my prejudices on physical comedy. I’ve never really been a fan of slapstick, but now I think that was because I’d never really seen modern physical comics. Bill Hicks had a lot of really physically expressive stuff that I just hadn’t noticed when I was younger, and it’s really all on the same spectrum. It just adds to the information present in a joke, so I am a bit ashamed of my bias in the past. I think we all have stuff we regret thinking. It’s usually a causal attribution error, like when I was little I thought that if you chewed mint gum you were a yoga instructor, but then was confused when met a weirdo (read: pedo) that wasn’t a yoga instructor that chewed mint gum. On remembering this years later I realise it’s ridiculous, and it’s entirely possible, or even likely, to be both a yogi and a pedo. 

During the comedy festival I saw Simmons, Steve Huges, Simon Amstel, Greg Behrendt, Daniel Kitson, David O’Doherty, FanFiction comedy and two live podcast recordings.

Steve Huges benefits a lot from television editing. He was good, and jet lagged. It felt a bit like talking to a guy in the pub that used to play music. He was rambling, and had some good ideas. He has an interesting perspective, that often seemed contradictory to me. He put forward definitive statements about the entire nature of reality, and then proceeded to judge people for being arrogant. He railed against health and safety legislation, his main argument being that he doesn’t need it.

I know stand up isn’t a dissertation, but I get a bit annoyed when stand ups attempt to apply logic to the real world and don’t finish the job. I see it a lot when some comics talk about religion in a really reductive way, using phrases such as ‘bearded man in the sky’ and such. It just stinks of the strawman thinking that they’re criticising. I’m a staunch atheist, but I really can’t stand people trashing religion in its entirety with regard to its benefits, cultural context or causes. Steve Huges didn’t do that, he pointed out the arrogance of those atheists, in a similarly reductive way.

He also had a bit about the implicit corporate control and capitalism of Starbucks coffee and the people who drink it. Again, that’s fine, but he went about it by insulting the masculinity and credibility of the drink with a series of gay epithets. Calling a mocha-chino a faggoty drink isn’t fine if the only point of it is to describe that drink as bad. It was the only part of the show I couldn’t get on board with at all. It was more insensitive than homophobic. He does some good pro-gay material, so whatever. I’m not going to picket his shows. But I guess I’m a faggot.

Daniel Kitson has done fantastic material using some of the same terms. You can get a few recordings of his off his website, and they’re well worth a listen. I only discovered him by reading on of Stewart Lee’s books about half way through the festival. After hearing some of his stuff he was instantly one of my favorite comics, and his live show “Where Once Was Wonder” is the best live show I’ve ever seen. Here, the comedic logic I talked about before was applied consistently, and referenced the subjectivity and pitfalls of worldviews in a smart, funny way. I can see some people thinking Kitson’s work as smug, but what do they know.

Simon Amstell (hosting Never Mind the Buzzcocks opposite Noel earlier) was pretty great as well. I saw his first show in the country, a preview for the show proper. His material was unpolished, but had some great lines like “When you live alone, you open the blinds when you wake up. And then it just gets darker.”

Fan Fiction comedy was a show by a bunch of young NZ comics, produced by Wil Anderson. I went on a whim, and it was really, really good. They write fanfics for each show with a different guest, so each show is different. They had a bunch of people on stage, my favorite being Stephen Boyce. He operated as a kind of bizarre offsider, a Paul Schafer to the host Rose Matafeo’s Letterman. If you ever get the chance to see these guys while they are in the country, do it because otherwise you’ll be dead and forgotten and won’t have ever seen intellectual property infringing fringe comedy and that’d suck because you’ll be dead and we’ll all remember the time we saw fan fiction comedy and they said the thing about Titanic.

-

Anyway, as I was saying, I’m pretty stoked that I woke up alive. So here’s to not being dead everyone.