A Bowl of Stupid

On behalf of myself and our none-to-soon-to-be Commander In Chief, to those who actually celebrate (or just fake it, like everyone here in Asia), here’s wishing you a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukka, and/or Happy Kwanza. We here at the Bowl hope you all get whatever you’re looking for this holiday season.

And if you don’t, I suppose you could always just get really fucking high instead. Cheers!

That’s right … bros before hoes. Deal with it, sucka.

For obvious reasons (i.e., the entire election process is about as interesting — and just a likely to make me vomit — as naked pictures of Amy Winehouse), I haven’t been paying much (read: any) attenton to the American Presidential race for the past 2 years.

From what I’ve seen tho, apparently there’s finally a black guy running this time — which is pretty cool, I guess.

Anyhoo, thanks to Chez ove at Deus Ex Malcontent, I’ve become much more informed about the entire process. Thanks kid … I think.

I thought this YouTube clip (which Chez also wrote about on his site) was both hysterical AND informative. It’s about an apparent (ahem) ‘rift’ between John McCain and his wife:

As everyone knows, in ranking of importance with other major issues of the day — the 5 year anniversary of the U.S. invasion of Iraq, the U.S. Presidential race, and the Chinese crackdown on Nepalese protesters — right up there is the seemingly ceaseless debate as to whether or not women are funny. (Yeah, I know, apparently I’ve got this alternating feminist/misogynistic theme going this week, but I leave for Indonesia in 2 days and I’m trying to get in all my reading under the wire).

If you’re not aware, Christopher Hitchens wrote an article on the subject last year, in the January 2007 issue of Vanity Fair magazine (cleverly entitled “Why Women Aren’t Funny”). I’ll give you 2 guesses to figure out his stance on the issue.

I’m not going to waste my time rehashing Hitchens’ extraordinarily long-winded attempt to avoid having sex for the rest of his adult life. However, if you’re interested in sacrificing an hour of your life you’ll never get back, the original article, as well as a decent compilation of some of the more vocal ‘responses’ can be found HERE.

Now, more than a year after Hitchens wrote that staggering work of dribble, Vanity Fair has seen fit to resurrect the whole sordid affair by publishing in its latest (April 2008) issue a rebuttal by writer Allessandra Stanley.

Like the original, this new article — sporting the less-than-convincing title: “Who Says Women Aren’t Funny?”) — is yet another piece of inspired comedic genius:

Dissecting the nature of women’s humor, or supposed lack thereof, is a joyless and increasingly moot subject, but it boils down to the point Virginia Woolf argued in her essay about Shakespeare’s sister in A Room of One’s Own, and it’s analogous to the case Larry Summers made so clumsily with regard to women in the sciences that it cost him his job as president of Harvard: namely, that society has different expectations for women. Summers sealed his fate by also suggesting that women’s innate aptitude for science and math might be weaker. The nature-versus-nurture argument also extends to humor. It’s a shame that Margaret Mead never made it to that tribe in Papua New Guinea where women tell the jokes, and men pretend to find them funny.

Virginia Wolfe? Margaret Meade? Papua New-Fucking Guinea?

Good grief, what in the name of everything holy is this broad even talking about?

I thought that articles about humour — especially one written by a woman arguing that women are funny — should at least be mildly amusing. That would be the reasonable approach, doncha’ think?

Apparently not, since the only things to be learned from either of these two articles are that: (1) neither Hitchens nor Stanley will be headlining at the Improv any time soon; (2) Vanity Fair pays its contributors by the number of words used, not coherency; and (3) reading ANYTHING in Vanity Fair with the word ‘funny’ in the title will make your eyes bleed.

What the hell is going on over at Vanity Fair, anyway? I mean, if they’re trying to piss off their readers, then by all means, I’m pretty sure there’s a used ‘Mission Accomplished’ banner they can pick up on the cheap. But if, on the other hand, VF is trying to publish some funny and engaging articles about contemporary pop culture … yeah, not so much.

The latest edition (March 2008) of Atlantic Monthly contains an altogether disconcerting article entitled “Marry Him!”, which can essentially be boiled down to the following excerpt:

At their core, many single women pose one of the most complicated, painful, and pervasive dilemmas they are forced to grapple with nowadays: Is it better to be alone, or to settle?

My advice is this: Settle!

That’s right. Don’t worry about passion or intense connection. Don’t nix a guy based on his annoying habit of yelling “Bravo!” in movie theaters. Overlook his halitosis or abysmal sense of aesthetics. Because if you want to have the infrastructure in place to have a family, settling is the way to go. Based on my observations, in fact, settling will probably make you happier in the long run, since many of those who marry with great expectations become more disillusioned with each passing year.

No, I don’t think the author, Lori Gottlieb, is trying to be ‘ironical.’ And no, I don’t want to think too hard on the fact that much of her theory is based not on empirical data, but rather, an analysis of several American television shows — Friends, the Mary Tyler Moore Show, Will and Grace, and, of course, Sex And The City (‘SaTC’).

For purposes of this article, let’s just assume the premise that no in-depth discussion of the modern female condition would be complete without a critical analysis of SaTC. I wonder if the author is gonna have a conniption fit when she finds out that Carrie Bradshaw is getting married to “Mr. Perfect’ (i.e., ‘Mr. Big’) in the upcoming SaTC movie. (No, I haven’t seen the script or the trailer, but c’mon — it’s a movie about an unmarried 40-something 30-something horse woman geared towards attracting an audience of similarly situated women whom ALL look forward to their wedding day the same way most men look forward to a nice T-Bone steak — let’s just call it an educated guess.)

That said, based on these obviously well-reasoned theorems, the author claims that:

[Most women], like me, would rather feel alone in a marriage than actually be alone, because they, like me, realize that marriage ultimately isn’t about cosmic connection—it’s about how having a teammate, even if he’s not the love of your life, is better than not having one at all.

Good grief, I thought I was a disillusioned cynic, but this broad far surpasses me in that department. Truly, I don’t want to even think about the size and quantity of skeletons in this woman’s closet that would make her sink to this level of premeditated desperation. Really, I don’t.

I am, however, admittedly curious as to the general reaction by the female ranks to this article — one better suited to Marie Claire or Cosmopolitan magazines than to a purportedly respected journal such as the Atlantic.

Have things gotten so bad that the USA has devolved into nation full of desperate women willing to dismiss major character failings (oh, and lest we forget … halitosis) in favor of simply having a full-time companion about whom they can kvetch to their girlfriends? Because if the majority of American women feel, as the author of this article does, that it’s about time they too settled for something a little (or a lot) less than perfect … well, then I guess I should catch the next flight back to the States!

Is this really what ‘true love’ has been reduced to in the minds of contemporary success-oriented adult women:

So if you rarely see your husband — but he’s a decent guy who takes out the trash and sets up the baby gear, and he provides a second income that allows you to spend time with your child instead of working 60 hours a week to support a family on your own — how much does it matter whether the guy you marry is The One?

Aww honey, shush … you had me at ‘mundane.’

For anyone still playing — or interested, for that matter — I’m happy and healthy and back on the beach in Krabi (Railai Bay), Thailand.

Honestly, after India, I feel like a giant weight has been taken off of my shoulders (and out of my guts). I’m eating again (pad tai by the gallon) to regain my strength, I’m rock climbing again to regain my balance, and I’m partying again for the first time in months with all my really good friends from Singapore and Bangkok … to regain my cirrhosis of the liver, I suppose.

I am, in a word … happy. And that’s an understatement.

I head back to Bangkok on Friday — my friend is throwing an MTV Asia party at his hotel on Friday nite, with Thievery Corporation and several other really great DJ’s on scene. After next weekend, though, I’m not sure where I head to next. All I know is that I want to get back to some really nice surfing, but I’m not quite sure where.

Any suggestions?

Yes, of course we’re going to throw poo at them.

KB and I drove down to visit with my folks in Philly last weekend.

Being in Boston for the month, I would have been an even worse son than I already am had I neglected to visit the parentals after traveling half-way back around the world to a city only a couple hundred miles away without making a visit. Plus, at this point in my life, I’m pretty sure the whole ‘jewish-mom” guilt trip thingy gets more powerful the closer you get to it’s source.

My parents were never that thrilled in the first place with my decision to give up a fairly cushy legal existence in favor of residing in various chicken coops throughout Southeast Asia — that’s just a given. However, that disapproval was compounded by the fact that my folks are … hmm, how would you say it? …

well, … they’re old.

In particular, gven a superior intellect, my dad remained single until he was 41, and he is now well into his 80′s. But even now, he’s still as healthy as a horse (last April before I left the States, the battery on my Jeep went out while my folks were visiting, and in response to my statement that maybe we should attach jumper cables, my dad told me that he would push-start the Jeep and that I should ‘just get in the car, ya’ pansy’).

Regardless, given their age and locale, it was recently brought to my attention that my parents, in their retirement, now resemble — creepily so — Jerry Seinfeld’s parents from ‘The Seinfeld Show.”

One particular event last weekend — one of many, unfortunately — drove that point home.

My folks still live in the small West-Philly row home where I grew up. And after living in the same place for so long, with a drop-off in the number of long-term house guests (to about none), my parents have let the house fall into a level of repair suitable to them.

The house is not in disrepair by any stretch, but there are certain things my parents have grown accustomed to living with that I (and perhaps other people) would change or fix.

One of these items is the lock on the door to the main bathroom (immediately adjacent to the 3 upstairs bedrooms). It’s not that the door doesn’t lock, it’s just that it doesn’t lock as well as it maybe should. As such, given the proper motivation — oh, like pulling on the door handle, for instance — the lock will disengage and the door will open.

This isn’t that big of an issue as my parents have been married for 45 years and I’m guessing there are no more sacred places (or scents) left to shock either of them. So … no issue.

But now you’ve got your (prodigal) son visiting from Southeast Asia with his new girl, and it would probably be a good idea to at least try to maintain an illusion of bathroom privacy. So, house rules: if the door is closed, it’s pretty much in your best interest to leave it closed.

To this end, when I went to use to bathroom early the first morning after we arrived, I saw the bathroom door shut. Not a problem, I would wait a few minutes until the current occupant was finished. However, for the first time in my life, I saw a new, hand-printed sign tacked onto the bathroom door, reading (and I shit you not – no pun intended):

I was, for a change, rendered relatively speechless as I went back into the bedroom to tell KB that her urinary options had been surreptitiously reduced in half whilst we had slept.

Given the fact said ‘downstairs bathroom’ is without a shower, we decided to expand our bladders through rhythmic breathing and meditation, and wait for 15-20 minutes until said ‘bowel movement’ was no longer ‘in progress.’

As we sat there talking, we lost track of time for a bit. But about an hour later, I decided to make another check on the status of my dad’s (or my mom’s) ‘movement.’

I found the door still shut, with the ‘sign’ still firmly tacked onto the bathroom door. Apparently, there had yet to be any ‘progress.’ We decided to keep waiting a bit longer rather than brave the cold depths of my parents basement bathroom,

KB: “No worries. Let’s give your dad 5-10 more minutes.”
Me: “Okay.”

And then, 10 minutes later,

KB: Umm … do you think your dad’s okay? Maybe you should check on him.”
Me: Uhh, okay.

After going back outside and seeing the bathroom door still adorned with my mom’s (at that point, apparently woefully optimistic) signage, I finally broke down and called out to my mom downstairs,

Me: Hey, MOM! Are you downstairs?
Mom: Yes, honey? What do you need?
Me: Uh mom, do you know when dad is gonna be done in the bathroom?
Mom: What do you mean, sweetie? Your father’s down here with me reading the newspaper.
Me: (Silent reflection)
Me: Uh, well there’s that new sign on the bathroom door that says … uh, well it says … it says the bathroom is busy.
Mom: I know, but didn’t you try the door?
Me: (Additional moment of silent reflection)
Me: Well, no mom, given the condition of the lock, I didn’t think it a prudent course of action at this juncture.
Mom: Don’t be a wise-ass. You could have just knocked on the door.
Me: (Slipping into meditative trance to contemplate situation)
Me: Well, yeah sure, but why is the sign up in the first …; uh, why would I have to knock if there’s a … what I mean to say is ‘why was the door …’
Mom: Yes, sweetheart?
Me: Uh, never mind, we’re gonna use the bathroom now.
Mom: Okay, we’re not going anywhere.
Me (halfway under breath): Of course you’re not, you’re old.
Mom: I heard that – don’t be a smart-ass.
Me: Okay, okay … I gotta go (running to bathroom in classic ‘gotta pee’ posture)

And while that whole episode — and the remainder of the weekend, for that matter — reminded me of just why I sorely needed to move halfway around the world to avoid my parents debilitating ‘quasi-jewlogic’, the whole thing just reeked of ‘Seinfeldian cuteness’ to KB.

Indeed, when we finally made it downstairs and I ignored my parents reminding me – over and over – that I ‘could have just knocked,’ KB was grinning like a little school girl, whist I sat there in silence, trying not to listen to the coffee-stirrer from Starbucks that was loudly urging me to ram it into my eye-socket.

I used to think Seinfeld was so funny. But now? I saw a commercial for an episode earlier this week, and I could literally hear my mom berating me for not knocking on the bathroom door.

Ugh, Where the fuck is the nearest Starbucks?

Sic transit gloria mundi. (All glory is fleeting.)
-Ancient Roman Proverb

In checking out the U.S. morning news this evening, I found this utterly unsurprising story to be at the top of the headlines. Hmm, so it appears that Lindsay Lohan has been arrested yet again for cocaine and drunk driving.

Wow. Ya’ really got to give it to those U.S. network news guys for sniffing out the issues that are most important to the global community. Bravo, kind sirs. Bravo.

In contrast, their foreign counterparts have much to learn from their American brethren. Indeed, check out these obviously less important items that are in the major headlines in the international news this evening (morning in U.S.):

• Taliban spokesman thinks S. Korean hostage crisis ‘will be solved peacefully’

• Suicide car bomber kills at least 22 in Hilla; roadside bomb kills 1; 24 bodies found

• Spain nabs suspected double agent who sold names, secrets to Russia

• Earthquake damage at nuclear plant raises questions in Japan

• Bush to defend focus on Iraq in S.C. speech Tuesday

Uhh … yah. And you wonder why I’m returning next week back to where they don’t have any electricity (or U.S. network news)? Just wake me up for the next O.J. trial.

(Mawi, Lombok, Indonesia — that’s me on the far right)

Halo to all both of my loyal readers (yes, that includes you too, TK, ya’ miserable fuckin’ bastard).

I’m back in Singapore.

I’ve had a nice hot shower, I’m having my clothes properly cleaned and sandblasted, and I’m about to go out for a proper breakfast.

And but for the month-old beard, the 10 pounds I’ve lost, a possible broken rib, the last of the remaining reef scars on my feet, and the new tattoo on my chest (number 4 — sorry mom), I’m starting to feel like a real fucking person again.

I’ll say this much … anyone who claims they can deal with any potential breakdown in modern infrastructure and live with no running water, no electricity, no phones, no lights, no internet, no etc. is either full of shit or just kidding themselves.

Yes, it obviously can be done. I did it for a couple weeks, at least.

But coming from where I do — the States — it’s not something we’re born and bred into. And it gets really old, really fast.

This coming from me, one of the biggest assholes who looks down very much on the overindulgence that typifies us Westerners and modern society.

As a result, despite my feelings in that regard, there is a certain perverse joy I have in returning to all the comforts of modern society.

God, I missed the internet. Good thing they have Clove Cigarettes and Coca-Cola over there — without them, I woulda gone nuts.

Anyhoo, I’m back in Sing. I’ll have more pics and posts up in the next day or so. I plan on “time-releasing” them over the course of the weekend while I’m in Malaysia, and then more through next week before I head back up to Krabi, Thailand again next weekend.

Thanks all for checking in on me, thanks to everyone I traveled with in Indo the past month, thanks to the Indonesian government for letting me leave despite the ever-popular “international terrorist” look I’m now sporting, and thanks mostly to my friend Mike G., through whose help I was able to restore my at least some of my surfing “state-of-mind” and salvage the last several days of my trip by having a couple good days surfing during the last 2-3 meter high swell that hit while I was at Kuta Beach, Dreamland, and Bingin Reef on Bali.

Note: I had a couple “restorative” days surfing at Kuta and Dreamland (and Bingin, too, surprisingly). Kuta and Dreamland both have right-facing breaks, which — as a “regular footer” — I had a much easier time handling on the shortboard (I was also wearing my new reef booties, so my feet didn’t hurt every time I went to stand up).

I’m well aware that I’m still a pretty shitty surfer. But it was one of the few times on the trip where I felt a little like myself again. For this reason, my next trip after Malaysia and Thailand will be to the Mentawais (off of the Sumatran mainland), where I plan on heading directly to “HT’s” … better known as “Lances Right” — said to be the absolute best right-facing wave in the world. Even better, it’s about a full days trip via plane, ferry, and dugout canoe and promises to be far less crowded than the rest of Indo. Let’s hope I’m ready for it.

I guess I’ll find out.

P.S. Here’s a funny story that will echo the themes presented in later posts — the incredible crowding of Indo surf spots. Lances Right was discovered by this guy named, well … Lance. Apparently, he spent considerable time, money and effort traveling overland, via fishing boats and dugout canoes, into previously untapped and potentially hostile areas, in order to find this truly amazing break at HT’s.

Well, Lance was there for a total of FOUR fuckin’ days before some yacht full of rich asshole surfers searching for waves pulled up at the break and stole his thunder.

Yep, welcome to the wonderful world of Indo surf travel.

Oh how I hate those fuckers.

As I mentioned a few days ago, I haven’t watched cable television for the last couple years.

As such, I’m a couple months behind on this thing, but this Starburst ad I saw this morning is quite possibly the funniest disturbing commercial I’ve ever seen.

Much like The Exorcist, I’ve watched it about 100 times now, and it keeps getting funnier every time I see it.

From the twisted mind of Seth Rogan, the man behind to 40 Year Old Virgin, comes this new movie Superbad.

What the plot of the movie? I’ve watched the trailer about 5 times now and I still have no freaking clue.

But what I do know is that if the film is as funny as the trailer — I may have a new favorite movie (just edging out Super Troopers).

The whole “sport hooligan” thing escapes me.

To be honest, the whole thing with obsessively rooting for professional sports, in general, escapes me.

As I’ve mentioned before, in my opinion, except for pure and abject boredom, there is absolutely no valid reason to root for a professional sports team.

The players on those teams don’t know you, they don’t like you, and most of them would just as likely have you killed to make a set of curtains out of your skin for their summer home in the Bahamas rather than spend a minute of time with you.

It is a ridiculous endeavor.

And that’s what makes the whole idea of “sports hooliganism” all the more absurd (but ultimately, also all the more fascinating from an anthropological standpoint).

Not only do these mouth-breathers become so obsessed with the goings on of players on their favorite teams, they actually get so worked up that they are willing to kill, and be killed, all in the name of a sports team — typically consisting of a bunch of oversized megalomaniacal hop-heads, looking for nothing more than to make enough money to buy another luxury car to wreck, or to pay off the massive gambling debts incurred by their entourage.

However, out of Greece this week comes word of sports hooliganism I can almost understand.

Yes, they are rabid sports-fans, irrationally willing to defend the honour of their team to the death.

Yes, they got completely out of hand at a sporting event involving their favorite team.

Yes, they caused mayhem, destruction and death during an awe-inspiring brawl with their rivals.

But this time, at least it wasn’t involving something as silly as soccer or American football.

This time, it was volleyball.

Womens volleyball.

Brawl Halts Team Sports In Greece
Greek authorities have canceled all team sports matches for two weeks after a mass brawl between rival women’s volleyball fans left one man dead.

The 25-year-old man who died had head injuries and stab wounds, doctors said. Several other people were injured in the brawl in the Peania area outside Athens.

“They were jumping on our car for five minutes, they were asking for our mobile phones and stabbed our driver,” one witness said.

“We had warned that this game was dangerous,” the head of Greece’s volleyball federation, Thanassis Beligratis, was quoted by the AFP news agency as saying.

What. The. Fuck?

All kidding aside, these are the peoples who birthed a nation that has lasted for over 3,000 years and is generally considered to be the seminal culture that provided the foundation for all of Western Civilization.

And now they’re stabbing people at a womens volleyball tournament. For cell-phones.

Words escape me.

(Via With Leather)

Despite appearances to the contrary, I really do try to remain as non-judgmental as possible about other people – about their looks, their talent (or lack thereof), their background, their fashion choices – whatever.

Moreover, I generally loathe discussing celerities in general, as I view that as being akin to trying to stop a fire by dousing it with propane. Instead, much like one would deal with a debilitating brain tumor, I typically find the best thing to do is ignore the problem until it goes away.

However, every once in a while something from the celebrity world touches a nerve that sends me off the deep end.

In this case – it’s the beast we call the Desolate One, otherwise known in the music industry as “Fergie.” I can’t put my finger on it, but for some reason, I simply cannot stand that woman.

Maybe it’s her demonstrated inability to control her bodily functions; perhaps it’s the fact that her hairline extends farther down the front of her face than Wolfman Jack’s; maybe it’s because she is consistently overrated both in terms of her musical talents and her importance in the grand scheme of things; or maybe it’s the fact that she’s a roaring drunk.

All those factors aside, however, I think the thing that is truly disturbing is the fact that Fergie has an incredible body that is really only made for one thing.

In that regard, maybe what bothers me is simply that she refuses to show off the only assets that may otherwise offset my utter contempt.

I just don’t know.

I do know, however, the woman just bothers the fuck out of me. She may be a fine human being, but she just bothers me. I know I may be repeating myself, having written on this particular subject before. And while I apologize for the redundancy, it’s a matter that’s on my mind right now.

What set me off this time was something a friend of mine wrote on his blog questioning just what does the face of evil look like. While his conclusions differ from mine in this regard, the question was still ringing in my head when I visited another favorite site of mine, which was running the latest paparazzi shots of this horror show.

I apologize for the somewhat self-indulgent rant. Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I have to go rinse my mouth out with some Liquid Drano. It’s what Leatherface would want.

(Fergie photo via I Don’t Like You In That Way – although I won’t hold it against Jenny & Todd)