Why is it so important to guys to make that disgusting throat/nose clearing sound? It's like this tribal assertion of masculinity to them. You can tell that they think they're being impressive and that they want it to be noticed.
Despite my love of nearly all things Christmas--and I'll sit through some pretty dreckish Christmas fare--I have to admit that I find National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation bordering on the unwatchable. I also don't know how people watch that Jim Carrey version of The Grinch, save that I do, because I know how low the people-bar is, or anything with Jim Carrey in it. I've never been able to make it through Home Alone either. I've never come close.
I have yet to watch the 2021 movie that adds on to 1983's A Christmas Story but will do so soon, though I am not sanguine and am expecting to see some sugary, pointless, attempted exercise in nostalgia for nostalgia's sake, and no man alive has ever hated nostalgia like this one does. Move the fuck forward. Of course, there are all kinds of ways to do that, and all sorts of tools one might use.
When I run stairs I think about future Christmases, of course. I think, "You need to be healthy, you need to be here, you need to be here for a long time. The last thing this is is an ordinary situation or an ordinary life. You are just going to have to have what you want later and the order of everything needs be different, but it can't be without health."
I see these people on Facebook--they tend to be unemployed women with money--who list the seventeen things they are. Dancer, writer, poet, essayist, producer, director, life coach, health coach, writing coach, actress, entrepreneur, editor, publisher. So then I think, "Oh, you mean none of those things."
Life is a fantasy world for just about everyone in it right now. Truth is the ultimate enemy. And here I am, attempting to create a revolution based at least in part largely on truth. Why do I believe in this? But I do.
There is something deeply wrong with you that will never be fixed--or at least not fixed this way--if you have paid one of these people to be your life coach, your writing coach, whatever it may be. Your problems, if this is a course you're taking, are elsewhere, and they go deeper down.
Today on Facebook--it's early, about four in the morning, so it was probably left over from yesterday--I saw where one of these so-called life coaches--a mindless, narcissistic ditz with 3000 photos of herself--shared how one of her clients--I swear, you could tell someone that a fecal log could talk and sing, and they'd pay money to own that log--came to her recently asking for help in securing a better relationship with her phone, a problem which only this talented, understanding, sagacious life coach could solve, and was now here to tell you all about how she did that.
This fucking world. Can you imagine me writing on here about the ongoing evolution of my relationship with my phone?
"Another entry here in the Many Moments More journal, and I'm pleased to be able to say that me and my phone are progressing in our relationship, which is on surer footing than what I had detailed in these pages last week."
I was reminded of when John Coltrane, who was working Miles Davis's last nerve up there on the bandstand, said to Davis that he never knew how to stop playing, and Davis was like, "You could take the fucking horn out of your mouth." (Recordings pertaining to which I wrote about for JazzTimes, which is no longer online now, because the magazine was bought by racists for the purpose of destroying said magazine, who intentionally trashed a brand--because there were white people working there--that was fifty plus years in the making, took down the entirety of the online archives, this outstanding record of jazz knowledge, and skipped out on paying contributors what they were owed. Stole money. I was--and am--owed thousands of dollars. So all of that will get its own post on here. Straight-up evil and robbery. I can't afford to have someone steal that kind of money from me right now.)
This woman needs to hire me. I'll fix you right up. "Stop being crazy, get off your ass, stop staring at your fucking phone, and actually do something productive with a portion of your day for a change."
See? Problem solved. PayPal works for me.