Someone told me this was offensive. I am unsure about that. I remember when “The Ringer” came out, staring Johnny Knoxville. I got in line with some others about what an “offensive” prospect this movie was. I later realized, through reading about the film and it’s support from the Special Olypmics, that just because someone who is developmentall disabled is making jokes, it doesn’t mean people are laughing “at” them. If done right, they are laughing “with” them.
Much like this gem I found on you tube.
Taken from the videos description on Youtube: Before you leave mean comments, just know that our friend Ponce (the Cop) is an awesome and talented young dude who loves performing and making light of his Down syndrome. He’s a smart and funny guy, and has complete awareness of his actions and decisions. And we all had an awesome time shooting “Retarded Policeman!”
I don’t normally blog about stuff like this, but I saw the news items and almost threw up on my computer (which is rare on Wednesdays).
Now I’m not the most reverent guy on the block, as a matter of fact I think I made some joke about my own mother’s vagina not 10 minutes ago. Seriously though, the merchandising of Kurt Cobain is getting almost ridiculous. The new Kurt Cobain Signature Converse are just spitting on the dead rocker’s “last wishes” (If you want to call them that). Not only are they using his name to sell their shit product, but they are also “honoring” him by printing some of his writings on it. Oh, the world is so wonderful. I understand the fact that he smoked a shotgun shell quite a while ago, but do you think you could just leave his music, art, and writings out of your “anniversary celebration” with this “signature” marketing attempt.
Try finding a LIVING musician who doesn’t mind whoring himself out. I’m all for good marketing, but this isn’t it. Especially when you’re going to use such a tired idea as “Signature” collection shoes. Or just try coming up with a better marketing campaign. Over-payed hacks….
Just back off the merchandising an inch. Unless, of course you want to go full-bore and just exhume him to “feature” for the next Nike BodyWorlds exhibit. I’m sure that psychotic “curator” who lacquers the bodies could even get him in a classic Kurt pose with a needle still in his arm. Blah blah blah.
I am glad to see that Converse/Nike has no problem turning a troubled man’s life and death into their gain.
Also, peek the next Nike signature collection I got a sneak preview of:
The Ghandi Signature Trainers Featuring some of his favorite things.
*Please note that Peggy Kirchoff is a wonderful mother and woman. Any jokes made about her reproductive organs are intended for humor purposes only. (And Mom I didn’t really make a joke about your vagina, I just needed to insure everyone that I’m normally pretty irreverent. I love you too. I’ll call you this weekend.)
My neighbors are having sex. Upstairs neighbors. They do it a lot, and I’m pretty sure directly over my desk. It doesn’t bother me though, it’s the city. Where would they do it? Quietly in the bathroom. I wouldn’t. At least not regularly. I envy them really. I miss the distraction of sex. Or maybe just physical affection in general. It’s not a sob story, so keep your tears from welling over me. I’m just saying I miss it. Like when I was a kid and I didn’t get to watch my Saturday morning cartoons; it’s nothing too important, just something one likes to do. Sex, that is, physical affection, kissing, tugging, groping, nuzzling: the whole lot. Of course, I’m sure there are people who miss it more, but like I said, this isn’t a pity party. I think they stopped upstairs. Probably laying next to each other. Maybe lighting a cigarette.
I’m trying too hard to write right now. I’ve deleted the following paragraphs four times. Maybe I should just go to sleep.
I was sopping wet. Assaulted by the wind and the water and the ride. My legs, burning, fighting the gusts; my eyes, twitching, stabbed with the freezing rain. I remember thinking, “What am I doing here? Why am I not just coasting along like everyone else?” Because I’m not a coaster. Not anymore. It’s not about fulfilling my immediacy anymore, it’s about fulfilling my heart. And my heart loves to pedal and pound and thrive.
Yea, cycling is cool here. But that’s not why we do it. We do it for the exhilaration, for the challenge, for that feeling you got when you were 5 and you rode your first bike. That feeling. Like the world just got smaller and bigger all at once. Like you became something new…and so did everything else.
I relive that moment briefly every morning when I leave my apartment. And every night when I cross Hawthorne bridge, watching the sun fade behind the western hills, striking the river’s water just right. The perfect panoramic speed, I can watch the whole thing unfold. And the world gets smaller and bigger at the same time.
Just like this evening, drenched from the rain, my body freezing and overheating all at once. But it was perfect, I wanted to be exactly where I was, riding the bridge, seeing beyond the falling water, the beauty of it all.
Life can be comfortable, so very comfortable. But sometimes, comfortable isn’t good enough. Sometimes life, real life is a very cold rainstorm.
But what do I know, I’m just a kid with a bicycle.
