On the Origins of Party “Rage”: A Non-Academic Argument for Why One Day Partying Will Replace Warfare

As university classes start up again, college students begrudgingly march to class in pursuit of various degrees. Each Friday, however, one finds the libraries deserted, the streets packed with blue blazers and florid summer dresses. These young scholars regularly shed their academic robes to gather in bars and houses, drinking from glasses and Red Solo cups. Perhaps one might imagine a gentle Symposium, the alcohol lubricating the minds of young students so that intellectually-stimulating conversation may more freely flow from their tongues. But venture to the bars, to the hand-me-down sofas and crammed kitchens and you will find not gentle discourse on Herman Melville and biological symbiosis, but instead conversations more suitable for the liquor-minded.

 images (12)               “I fucking LOVE Billy Murray. What’s your favorite Bill Murray movie?”

                “Ground Hog Day. No, no, Ghost Busters.”

                “Did you know he said his favorite film he’s ever done is Broken Flowers?”

                “I’ve never seen it, but I think there’s a nude scene.”

                What has happened to this college student, to transform him from articulate commenter on high culture to pop-culture-sycophant? The easy answer, of course, is alcohol. Though the truth is more complicated, for the customs of the college party are far more intricate and explicit than one might think. Particularly interesting to me is the verb “to rage,” which is slang for “to party very, very, very hard.” Of course, the practice of “Raging” may differ depending on the youthful person asked. Some may contend that drugs must be involved in “Raging” while others insist on the epileptic motion of dance being integral to a proper “Rage.” I’m curious about the origin of this slang phrase and its implications.

                According to Dictionary.com, “Rage” means:

                “angry fury; violent anger” (noun) or “to act or speak with fury”


                Rage is typically associated with violence, which makes it antithetical to the idea of partying. Generally, one “parties” to escape the negative aspects of life whether they be stress, boredom, or “bad vibes.” Violence, I believe many people can agree, certainly promotes the proliferation of “bad vibes.” Perhaps the impulse to violence intersects with the impulse to party, to be entertained. They may also be separate but powerful instincts. We must question, of course, the assumption that either enjoyment or violence are natural at all, though historically we have assumed exactly that.

images (14)                Let us go back to the Greeks, whom invented a lot of shit including but not limited to anal sex and blow jobs. We could argue (and I am going to despite the lack of academic evidence to back any of this up) that Greeks also invented partying. During festivals, Greeks would drink diluted wine and become uproariously drunk. Not all celebrations played out, however, like Plato’s Symposium. Many of these festivals were ridiculously awesome and the Greeks engaged in what the youth today would term as “raging.” Although culturally ignorant, we still honor the Greeks’ Bacchanalian contribution to society by wearing togas. Well-intentioned, misinformed honorarium of their commingling of intellect with spirit-inspired stupidity.

                We associate Rage with violence done by soldiers, particularly the mythical hero Achilles. images (13)Before heading into battle, Greek fighters the night before would drink boodles of wine, then wake the next day hung-over to fight. Some stories even mention Greek soldiers consuming psychedelic mushrooms before going into battle as a method of distilling fear. Regardless, the act of partying here can be directly correlated with acts of violence—hence, Rage.

                We see modern intersections as well. You remember that time your roommate brought back his fraternity brother to your dorm room, and he—sloshed on buckets of Jungle Juice—punched a hole in the wall? Here we see rage and enjoyment married in a single action, how the intention to have good-natured fun can become violent if unfulfilled or altered. Could we assume then, that “raging” is merely a non-violent release of youthful energy?

                Is the “party” as a social event the ultimate alternative to war?

                Rage is often associated too with madness and enthusiasm. Could it be that the madness exhibited in violent warfare could be otherwise siphoned into a new form of energy-dispersal. Could we solve our differences if only world leaders and war generals who  talk constantly about the size of their guns just got together in a room, drank copious amounts of rum and coke, then danced the night away? Imagine if only Mussolini had donned a glow-stick necklace, taken off his shirt, and head-banged to Skrillex? Would the world be a better place? Or if Stalin had embraced the infamous “bass-drop?”

images (15)

                However far-fetched the theory, I stand by it with hope and fervor. That one day we might replace this impulse to violence with the impulse to violence, to transform violent rage to enthusiastic rage and be better as a species for it.


Why “I Love It (I Don’t Care)” May Have Redeeming Cultural Value

Like English teachers who labor to drain the meaning out of every sentence in a novel, I want to try to deconstruct and explicate the simple, catchy pop tune “I Love It (I Don’t Care)” by Icona Pop. The song has been playing over and over on the radio, and often I must suffer through it because I don’t own an IPod and often forget to bring CD’s. But the tune itself is not exactly without merit—it provokes an interesting commentary on our generation. Do we really “not care?”

First off, if you haven’t heard the song, which is doubtful, or would like a reminder of its glitzy glamorizing of apathy:


icona-pop-iconic-EP-400x400            After listening to song too many times while driving down the road, I glean two possibilities about the tune’s overall plot. Most likely she’s describing a failed relationship with an older, more serious lover; the other possibility is that she’s actually describing her relationship with her parents. Because of the emphasis on party lifestyle and young hedonism in the music video, I am going to go with the second option.

The main refrain of course is “I don’t care,” which clearly manifests the feelings of youth today, the generation of Icona Pop and me (clearly 90’s children). My generation lacks anything to care about beyond their own petty lives, not because worthy things do not exist, but rather because we do not focus on those things (i.e. war, global climate change, human trafficking, etc.) We don’t care about anything but our own lives, and even those to us seem ethereal, inconsequential. We’re trapped in a system that marginalizes the efforts and desires of the youth, and so we figure, why bother?

I should clarify that when I say we, I mean our generation as a whole, and I am not writing this to defend the perversion of apathy, but rather critique it. In fact, I somehow wonder whether this song does exactly that—while glorifying “not caring,” is it also pointing out the lack of involvement youth have in politics, culture, and their own futures?

After each “I don’t care,” comes “I love it,” which is a disturbing idea. Not only do we not care that we are spiting our parents, but rather we enjoy it. We are proud of our own nihilism.

We reject the wisdom of other generations, instead relying on our innate instincts to carry us through life. See lines: “You’re so damn hard to please, we gotta kill this switch
You’re from the 70’s, but I’m a 90’s bitch.” This line convinces me that the song is talking about more than a failed relationship, but rather a series of failed relationship, the failure for one generation to transfer knowledge to the next; we constantly ignore the advice of the experienced.

Furthermore, we seek an illusion of perpetual twenty-something ecstasy, retaining the notion our lives can be a images (14)nonstop, adrenaline-fueled party, relying on drugs and dancing to keep us in the “Milky Way.” This part of the song reflects our desire to reject earthly principles such as class, money, and politics, embracing a more humanitarian philosophy “up in space.” Of course, the fact that “I don’t care” undermines the means to ever affect such a philosophy for this generation.

We are disappointed with our life has turned out and want something better than what our elders built, but rather than attempt something better, we caustically accept our lot. We do nothing to actually change our situation, simply referring to fact that we don’t even care.

Crashing the car and letting it burn serves as a symbolic act of revenge and rebellion for the singer, but she may fail to see the futility in the act. While angry, she may feel satisfied with her action, but the action is merely symbolic. Her frustration with the person she’s addressing may never be resolved, because she like most of my generation only symbolically rebel from our parents (or rather, from old traditions and old ways of thinking). This is not progress.

images (15)            Progress is changing the way we act and think, not just symbolically crashing cars or getting tattoos or doing drugs or dying our hair or having sex with strangers. Teenagers have been systematically programmed to react in ways that only harm themselves, not the system which has wronged them. Therefore, they become cynical much too young, usually resigned to a world system because “that’s the way it is.”

But I refuse to believe that all of us truly “don’t care,” or even that we “love it.” Maybe I am reading into the song too deeply, but each time I listen to the synth-heavy pop ballad, I think of the responsibility each of us holds for the future and the fact there is no room for apathy.

Adventure, Socialism, the Embargo, and Salsa: The Basics of My Recent Cuba Trip

A view of the Capitol building
A view of the Capitol building

To attempt to convey what I learned and experienced in the past few weeks would make my head explode, maybe yours as well, so I want to keep this post basic. I returned yesterday from Cuba, where I stayed for most of my days in La Habana, though I visited also Cienfeugos, Trinidad, and Santa Clara. Naturally, I must get the obvious out of way:

Yes, it was difficult to get there, and we needed special student visas.

Yes, Cuba is a very poor country, but the people and culture are immensely rich, and these people deserve a lot more of our attention. Most Americans, when thinking of Cuba, think only of Fidel Castro and the vague term of “Communism,” but Cuba might not be as foreign as we pretend, the people sharing some of the same intense passions as us (like baseball, rap music, and good beer).

Yes, the rum and cigars in Cuba were superb. If you go to Cuba and don’t try the rum and cigars, then what were the doing the entire time?

havana-city-2More importantly, however, are the questions that United Staters don’t ask when I tell them I just returned from Cuba. On its surface, its a land of bad gas mileage, a land of salsa, a land of making out in public. But the people transcend those stereotypes, like all people, expressing a deep love for each other. Most of Cuba’s population suffers from crippling poverty, and most don’t have cell phones or access to the internet because of this, but it brings people closer. They must build communities in a way most United Staters cannot.

Then comes other misinterpretations, like the inane idea that these people suffer because of the evils of “Communism.” Certainly not. They suffer because of the United States reaction to their socialist revolution, and they suffer because of their own government’s stubbornness to compromise their ideologies with neo-liberal policies. But when you see the track record for US corporations or IMF implementations in Latin American countries, who can blame Cuba for holding out from joining the system? (See: Bolivia, Venezuela, Chile)

The embargo certainly affects more than just Cuban-US relations which could be quite healthy if we did not cling to Cold War ideals and fears. We sanction other countries for even attempting to trade with our island neighbor, and this creates an isolated economy, struggling to reform but still adamant to resist joining the current world system. My opinion of this has change drastically.

What anyone must understand is that despite the poverty and the deteriorating buildings and smog choking Havana’s air, the people persevere. Each day, they find ways to survive, no matter how destitute or desperate the means. Some drive taxis, others sell rejected cigars to unknowing tourists; some go to university, but far more drop out of school to prostitute themselves in the streets, even kids as young as 13 or 14. And our self-made-man society, our American Dream culture, may scoff at that, call them lazy, call them whatever we like, but in the end, we’re the ones hurting them.

I will write more about Cuba in the following months, but I felt compelled to depict at least this much about it. What I’ve written in no way captures Cuban culture, and definitely, my experience could not capture the totality of Cuban culture. Even if I visited for a year, I doubt I could truly understand unless I had lived there, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to understand, from trying to understand. So, first, what must be said about Cuba is that our policies toward them are antiquated and, in the light of our relations with China, highly ridiculous.

I encourage anyone even slightly interested to study Cuban history and our relationship with them, and I challenge you to learn with an open mind and heart and to not emerge from this study disillusioned and indignant.

A view of the Melacon and of the Havana skyline in the distance.
A view of the Melacon and of the Havana skyline in the distance.

The trip include adventure, swimming in mountain pools under water falls, lunching with a German diplomat, studying museums, singing at the top of my lungs at the Melacon (Sea Wall), learning to salsa, going to concerts, meeting locals, and staying up till 6 am with philosophers discussing life. But despite the experience, I learned some practical things, things that will affect me and things I hope to fully believe six months from now. Though I learned hundreds of things, perhaps the most important lesson was the following idea, something simply conceived and so simply true I’m not sure why I had not considered it critically before.

The privileged of the world have the full power and ability to alleviate the suffering of the underprivileged, but only if they choose to surrender the comfort of privilege. Therefore, the only real choice anyone must make is whether to live for others or to live for oneself. Once that choice is made, the others come easy.



Should You Give Birth to a Writer…

Source: https://www.talkingfingers.com/educational-reading-software/
Source: https://www.talkingfingers.com/educational-reading-software/

So you think your son or daughter or older brother is a writer? Is he or she exhibiting signs of seclusion, spending an inordinate amount of time reading literature, or making hieroglyphic and mysterious marks in a notepad of any kind? It is possible that a writer might have been born into your family, which can sound quite shocking at first.

Either, you’re not sure if you’ve been gifted a genius or should you rush the little scribe off to the orphanage immediately.

After all, writers’ lives are spotted with calamity, and rather he/she be a supposed orphan than you soon die of cholera and he/she become a true orphan. That’s what happens to writers’ families right? They’re always being murdered or killed in storms or dying of some Victorian-era disease.

Don’t fear. There are simple steps you can take to usher the scribbler onto glory without being inflicted by biblical plagues or suffering sudden and coincidental depression. Remember, you’re dealing with a crazy person. As in, someone who hears voice in his/her head, someone who maps out entire separate lives “for the fun of it.”

Certainly, do not take this task lightly. Writers are given to madness, bouts of emotions only word-minced poems in middle school will fix, and terrible vices ranging from alcoholism to drug abuse to Wikipedia surfing. It ain’t no easy path to hear the incessant scribbling of pen to paper, like the hand is making a bad dash for life or limb. The pendulum swings ever closer down, slicing at the knuckles as the modern-day quill moves.

Simply, allow them their crazy.

Let them scream through the house, sobbing because a character died (in the most epic way, but still).

If the door is closed and fingers whizz at the speed of antelopes, do not interrupt with trivial stories or requests to clean the

Source: http://iamacuriousorange.blogspot.com/2012/06/penang-georgetown.html
Source: http://iamacuriousorange.blogspot.com/2012/06/penang-georgetown.html

dishes. The writer is a violent creature, prone to creative paroxysms of rage when wrenched from the writing process. They may attack when called upon, caught up in the carnal need to tell stories. Seriously, blood could be spilled.

And indulge them their rants, their vast explanations. Before writers can ever make a story make sense to an audience, we must make it make sense to ourselves. Ignore us if need be, but pretend to listen like an overpaid therapist. Allow the writer to think aloud all his craziness, he’ll eventually shut up and begin writing again.

He will ask for your advice. Probably best to lie to him and tell him you don’t know diddly squat about writing or books, though your opinion might be good or bad. Writers are brash, foreign people who won’t really take your advice or criticism seriously. And if you scrutinize a character, remember that for the writer, the character is a real person and– “how dare you? She has feelings!”

But most of all, let him fail and fail again, and let him climb the grueling ladder of learning to tell stories, from the mechanics to the finer methods of sustaining suspense in a story about stationary sea crabs. Every writer fails at writing, but those that give up there don’t become writers. They become people who wish they had become writers. So encourage them no matter what drivel they produce, because eventually they’ll churn out something decent and then later on something incredible. Only with time can a person understand life and death, the only two things a book can be about.

Seriously, don’t freak out. They’ll write weird stuff, but they’ll probably end up fine unless, you know, they don’t. But a lot of people don’t end up fine, and that’s most people, so maybe they’re doing better than we thought. If you have any inclination to help them, give them your favorite book and leave it at that. The universe, generally a fan in my opinion of human success, will do the rest.

What Is So Innocent About Childhood?

Source: http://www.arocha.org/za-en/8524-DSY/version/default/part/ImageData/data/children_playing_grass.jpg

I read a poem today in which two boys played in the backyard, a deceptively simple poem. The more I pondered the two stanzas, the more concretely I realized how little the poem was about—childhood innocence, friendship, etc. Should poetry be so hushed, so calm, so unobtrusive?

Having grown used to brass, dramatic poetry, this caught me unawares. Why be so calm and cool and collected? Two boys running and throwing balls and pushing toy trucks around in the grass, all things I’ve rarely seen. Because childhood is rarely as innocent as we assume.

Why not write about two boys playing video games (we often played videogames), about how they shout at each other as each wins? Write about throwing the controllers at each others’ faces, knocking out teeth, bloodying their noses. Childhood is rarely flowers and sunshine and playtime before supper. It’s a constant war.

Children, in fact, are sufficient evidence that we as the human race descended from savages. They are cruel, selfish, and conniving.

And no one is as guilty as a child is. When a child steals, they spend the next few hours fretting over their sin, their black crime. When they lie, they burst with the need to say the truth. Adults do not share this tendency: we do not feel guilty about much past infidelity or murder.

I closed the book of poetry and put it away, thinking about times I might have played in the grass. Surely not as many times as I argued with friends over Pokémon cards or whether or not a certain Mario Kart race victory was considered fair. Do poems need to shout, to demand change, to radicalize, or can they fall light as clouds on your brain, invoking nothing serious, only the fabled innocence of children.

Modern Mating: A Fable

Indian Summer, the sun shining like an IPad 2, the birds tweeting: “Can’t wait to head back down South. #winteriscoming”.

                Jane sat on a bench alone eyeing the boy who sat facing away from her with a laptop propped on his knees. She spied on his Facebook profile, wishing she could log on to quench her lonliness. Out here in the real world, she felt only sorrow and awkward failure, never able to properly communicate with those with whom she wished she could.

                Jane craned her neck, hoping it would signal to the boy she wanted to talk to him. For some reason (maybe because he wore Dr. Dre Beats headphones, which block out sound like a plane door being wrenched open mid-flight, the sound-machines designed to optimize the boy’s listening experience as if he were in the studio with the artist which through his open Spotify playlist she could tell was Smash Mouth which she herself had not even heard since she was seven), he did not notice her initiation of the conversation.

                She then tried something more drastic, something that may have come across as so forward and attention-seeking, the wild prey could be scared away. She muttered to herself, “Bored, hmu.”*

                *H.M.U.: Acronym for “Hit Me Up”

                He did not, however, hit him up, and she felt cheated as he liked “Scarlett Johansson” who surely he only followed on Twitter because of her breasts, but in no way her acting abilities. Such a cursory glance offered all of this information to Jane, who could sense things about people. She called this naked intuition.

                She began to resort to less lady-like measures, which included blurting out in repetition “I’m single,” “I’m in a relationship,” “I’m single,” “I’m in a relationship” and whipping out her phone to snap pictures of her cleavage. But with no Instagram to which to upload these pictures, she soon felt her efforts defeated.

                Then she was struck with the most awful idea, a notion so radical that if she were French, they would slice off her head with a guillotine. And the guillotine would be branded with an Apple logo and cost three times as much as normal guillotines. She decided, in a fit of hysteria, lunacy, or brilliance, that she would attempt to evoke vocal contact with the boy.

                He was super cute, wearing his hair like Justine Bieber, with the complexion of Edward Cullen, the combined eyes of every band member in One Direction rolled into one. She strut over to him, trying to only reveal certain angles of her face to appear most attractive because he would have to buy her a few movie tickets and they would have to sit through a few boring Adam Sandler or Madea movies before she could show him “her true self.”*

                *Her true self was a pimple on her neck, inconveniently right blow her left cheek. She also considered it a great secret that she clandestinely loved Dashboard Confessional, but who doesn’t? Also, sometimes she possessed the horrible habit of wearing a dream catcher in her hair as an accessory.

                Jane: Hi, whats up? J

                Boy: Heyy, do I know u? Ur not on my contact list

                Jane: No im jane

                Boy: Cool, wanna go out? 😛

                Jane: Sur! :O

                Boy: Were do u wanna go? O.o

                Jane: A new movie this wk end. Billy Madison 2

                Boy: Pick u up at ate

                Jane: XoX 😀


                Twenty years later, Jane married this boy over Skype via her IPhone.

On the Subject of Cats and Poets

I have heard poets tend to like cats as if for a wordsmith, keeping a feline companion has become a glaring cliche.

I read this perplexing article, which prompted me to respond.

I do not particularly like cats, despite the fact one has made a home out of my room. It is not so much that I own the cat, but rather, we co-inhabit the same area, a fact she too is not at all fond of. She forces her way in each night and perches on the windowsill, unblinkingly watching me sleep. Whenever I wake up in the dead of night, she stares at me intently as if daring me to close my eyes again, to let my guard down. Most nights, I suspect she is plotting her revenge for times when I have locked her outside in a rain storm. I try to exclude her, to leave her in some other, empty room, but she has claimed my bed as hers, my desk as hers, my clothes as her personal, extra-comfy throne.

However “cat people” came into being is still a mystery to me. I understand why someone might love a dog, who shows owners endless, unwarranted affection. Cats, however, disdain their owners. They are lazy and as tedious as taxes. They live to spite your efforts with a critical, demon eye. There can’t be much dignity in owning a pet who, in her eyes, owns you.

But there has been talk from Petrarch to modern day spinners that poets prefer the company of cats, as if we share their prickly self-obsession, their self-preening, egotistical ways. They do not demand respect either, but they expect it. I would certainly not allow Blake’s Tyger to lounge in my windowsill nor would I tolerate any of Poe’s black cats worming their way across my path. If one crossed the road, I would speed up to kill it before its bad luck infected me. And if I were Alice, utterly loss in the fantastical dreamland of my own adolescence, I would never act so kindly to the Cheshire Cat who seems to take great delight in confusion and disappearance.

Cats are not muses, cannot properly inspire anything but mutual distrust, especially when they swat your feet with sharp claws or when you kick them sharply in the gut. So I simply do not see why writing and cats should mix. I do not keep company with Crookshanks or Fritz or even Garfield. Jerry the Mouse might as well drop anvils on all their heads as well.

There is not much left to say on the subject, and I’m quite unsure why I brought it up in the first place. There is a common phrase, “There is more than one way to skin a cat.” And if you don’t know why someone would want to skin a cat, you obviously have never owned one.



In Defense of “Fat-Bottomed Girls”: The Tricky Balance of Body Image

There is a thin– literally– line between healthy and dangerously skinny. Also between obesity and healthiness. There are two ends of an ever-expanding spectrum of the idea of “normal” body weight and image, but I am not– not today– going to address the issue of obesity. Instead, I’d like to discuss anorexia, body image, and modeling.

Modeling? Derek, you know nothing about that other than that conversation you had once with an Abercrombie model over Frosted Mini Wheats once and the fact that your girlfriend watches Project Runway. Well, sure, I don’t know much about modeling, but I do know what I find attractive. And the truth is, I don’t find many professional models attractive. Not so much in a sexual way: I’m sure most guys could be sexually attracted to a bag of rocks. But as far as character goes, modeling and the stigmas surrounding it make me a little sick.

Yes, I am also not a psychological expert on the teenage body image. I am not a sociologist or doctor. But I did spend four years in a public high school, so that seems like qualification enough.

There has been much conversation recently about modeling in general, the expectations for model, and how this translates for the psyches of adolescent girls. The most recent attack on a model was Kate Upton.

Let me introduce you to one of the foremost “thinspiration” blogs skinnygossip.com. While masquerading as a blog that helps girls lose weight, it really shames celebrities and young girls about their bodies. It promotoes ultimate skinniness, and when I say skinniness, I mean starving-having-eaten-in-days skinny.

What’s so unhealthy about aspiring to be skinny, though? There comes a point where being skinny becomes an addiction. I completely understand the desire to look good, be attractive, but when girls strive for “the xylophone look” with their full rib cage on display, I feel like that might be a tad ridiculous. What we try to write off as crazy, however, has become a normal notion for many girls, especially adolescents.

Now, I get annoyed just as much as others by the down-your-throat preaching of love-yourself gurus. It is a natural human instinct to try to improve yourself. If a girl or guy tries to became fit, that’s absolutely admirable. But we must understand that there just because you’re thin, that doesn’t inherently make you beautiful nor healthy.

I also am not just some guy with a fetish for big girls; I also think obesity has overwhelmed us, but shame, ridicule, and bullying is not the way to reconcile these problems. Instead, we need to approach building a healthier future with positive thoughts and energy toward exercise and good diet, not starvation and bulimia.

There is simply a misunderstanding involved, and the shaming creeps into our common vocabulary with phrases like “she eats like a man.” Sure, biologically men have higher metabolisms, but that’s not a hard-and-fast rule. I know many athletic girls who are very attractive but not exactly skinny– no, they have muscle and toned bodies that reflect a healthier way of living.

Magazines and modeling agencies glamorize only the skeletons, only those who live in misery because of their habits. I’m not saying girls can’t be naturally skinny; I think that too is attractive. But if a girl must starve herself into thinness, then that lack of confidence, that lack of self-esteem translates as unattractive. What we should really emphasize is pride in our bodies and their amazing feats, not an empty worship of the rib cage.

Because I work in a photography studio, I know plenty of tricks with Photoshop. I could warp anyone into a fig tree figure, but it would of course not reflect their natural look. It would instead be a pale shadow of their beauty and personality, an emaciated cardboard fake. So whenever you see these too-thin models on magazine covers, remember how easy it is to alter appearances. As far as airbrushing’s contribution to girls’ self-esteem, that’s a topic for another day, but still one that needs much discussion.

I just wanted to state my own opinion on this. What I find attractive isn’t particularly “thick” or “thin” girls, but instead the confidence to accept who you are and not try to the point of death to be what you may never be able to be. Instead, if you don’t like your body, attempt to keep healthy, not simply starve yourself; this twisted idea of beauty is simply unflattering, and the sooner teen girls see that those attacking their bodies are doing so only to make themselves feel prettier, the better.








Share your thoughts in the comment section!

Dog Days of South Carolina

For those who not live here in South Carolina or in the South, we experience a lot of heat in the summer. So hot a cannibal needs not to cook you when he approaches you on the street, since all of your organs have been fried, your meat browned to perfection. So hot you cannot use body spray lest you become combustive outside. So hot– well, you get the idea.

When the heat index spikes well over a hundred degrees for several days in a row, we finally feel summer arrive. Before, we enjoyed the cool upper nineties, a brief respite of solid heat for those of us like me who do not have air conditioning in our cars. On such days when I don’t go to work, we try to avoid driving. With the windows down, the wind blasting me. Every stop light is a fresh Hell to suffer through, the heat a pressing claw on your neck, drawing sweat like blood from your body.

It is not so much that there is high humidity but instead a wall of heat that passes through the atmosphere. An army of heatwave-fisted boxers punching you in the jaw again and again.

What we do on these days, we try to stay at home. Turn on fans to sit in front of with a book. We drink water, or at least in the South, sweet tea which is considered more nutritionally valuable by merit of having magical Southern powers. Yesterday, a Saturday, the movie theatres were so packed out, lines formed well onto the street, around the block. Inside waited cool salvation for the masses who are willing to shell out twelve dollars for the air conditioning– and some Pixar movie or a film about a potty-mouthed stuffed bear.

I made the mistake of going swimming at noon on Friday and suffered for it, dipping my body into a body of water that the sun had already rose to boiling temperatures. It’s so hot, Facebook friends from Maine or California complain, the temperatures there rising into the eighties. And here, the sun is a cruel fixation of summer, the indelible monument of the South, forever hovering above our heads. Wielding life and death, light and darkness, heat and exhaustion and cloudless sky.

Heat is a Southern tradition we cannot escape any more than slavery or the tendency to stretch our vowels. During deer hunting season, first time hunters smear their faces with blood; in the summer, the sun replaces blood with sweat and drenches not just our faces but our bodies. The discomfort of sweat is something you get used to, though. Even the rivulets of liquid sloshing in your armpits, perpetually streaming down our back, glistening on your chest. Sweat becomes a new skin that leaves us sticky, wet, and rancid.

It has not rained for more than three weeks, despite a tropical storm blowing near our coasts. The storms shuffled around our city, flooding Florida, sprinkling Georgia. But here, the land is dryer than Gizmo the Gremlin before he belonged to an irresponsible teenager. And each day, he hope for a downpour. Something so torrential, the pine limbs snap. Something so powerful, the buildings shake in the wind. Even if we fail to venture into the storm, we pray for the end of the heat.

Already it is hot, and it must only get hotter.

Incoherent Madness: Writing about and within Insanity

Not that kind of madness

There’s something alluring about reading or writing about a character going insane or under the influence of drugs. Someone so lost inside their own minds that hippos prance across their dreams, leaves of fall graceful as ballerina marsupials in the stream of never going home.

Wait, what?

I honestly have been considering the adventures of protagonists who are less with us mentally than physically. Sometimes, because the POV characters are snorting some serious stuff or injecting bee venom into their veins, their sentences come out uneven with the universe like gut-flavored Jell-O. Stories written in stream-of-conscious style are difficult enough to read without the character being so overwhelmingly addled.

Take for example Brett Easton Ellis’ American Psycho (spoilers ahead). When not describing what shampoo he uses and criticizing business card fonts, Patrick Bateman likes to violently murder people. Mostly hobos and prostitutes, though, so it’s okay. Toward the end of the novel, Patrick discovers he may not have killed anyone, simply having hallucinated the murders. Of course in the film this is hinted at far more heavily. In the book, reality is up in the air. Do you believe Bateman has murdered people or simply suffering gory delusions?

This is what happens when you shake the ketchup bottle too fiercely.

The unreliable narrator lends a beautiful obscurity to events in a story. Once you realize he is a liar, you question everything you’ve told him up to this point. A lot of writers use this vagueness– this unreliable because of insanity as a plot device that can either seem awesome or like a joke. A good example of how the unreliable narrator can completely change the outcome of the novel is in Fight Club, but I won’t talk about that because I’m not supposed to.

When the character is not insane, he may simply be on drugs while writing it. Imagine Alan Ginsberg’s poetry in prose form. Imagine Naked Lunch. If not the character himself, then perhaps the author is on drugs or drowning in alcohol. And while many writers swear by their personal “muses,” I find much of this incoherent and pointless.

Sometimes, an author can be utterly sober and make no sense. I’m not a huge fan of Joyce and find him overrated, so I’m not afraid to say I quickly gave up on Ulysses.

I’m not saying this cannot be enjoyable, only that by writing it, an author is taking a huge risk. How Anthony Burgess ever published A Clockwork Orange I will never know. On a first reading, this thin book brimming with made-up language, drooges, and psychosis makes very little sense. You need a lot of patience to dismantle and understand such books.

There are good and there are bad, but the question: Are they worth writing? Are they worth reading?

Can we learn anything from writing straight from the mind of a drug-addled lunatic? Perhaps. Though written in harsh grammar and strange language, Requiem for a Dream proved quite readable and interesting, dealing in how addiction takes over

lives. Then again, I would contest that the film does almost just as good a job, so there may not be a purpose in reading the book. Yeah, I said it: sometimes movies are better than the books they’re based on. *Cough, cough, Jurassic Park*

One such book I read nearly a year ago was published by a dark, edgy, experimental publisher Two Dollar Radio. The book was The Orange Eats Creeps by Grace Krilanovich. Reading it is like being doped up while tied to the roof of a train car as it races down the track at a hundred miles an hour. The plot is a mix of local lore, mythic teenagers, hedonistic helplessness, and strange hallucinations. Despite the fact that I still don’t know what happened, the book affected me. I enjoyed at leas the experience of delving into the protagonist’s mind to see things through her warped eyes.

What do you think about reading novels that sometimes don’t make sense or with such unreliable narrators that you question their sanity?

Also, check out this comprehensive list on Litreactor of books about addicts.