fake vs. real,
glam vs. suck
It's a funny thing, really, knowing what the differences between opposites are. What's the difference between an elephant and a mouse? They both have tails, ears, four legs, and make noise. They have all of the normal characteristics of life. Our difference is size.
Or the difference between driving someplace and walking? Both are getting you somewhere, both are expending energy, both need to be refilled, whether it be with gas or with food. Both can be refreshing - the calmness of sitting down and getting a million miles away or the warmth of the sun as it beats on your back. Our difference could be speed, wheels, paint job, or method. No one knows.
What about the difference between Bush and a good band? Both have instruments, both have music, and (possibly) vocals... both could go on tour and both could have millions of fans. Our difference in this case is the lack of good taste.
Or the difference between Fake Radio and Real Audio? Both use sound and computers, both are good in their own private ways. Both are worked hard at by a group of dedicated individuals and both have people who like them. One uses the other to make money, the other uses the one to make entertainment. Our difference could be motivation, wealth, or any number of personality driven characteristics.
The difference between differences, between opposites, between situations? Interpretation, perspectiveness, and motivation could be some answers. On the other hand, I could simply be babbling for the sake of entertaining a plea.
A difference in people might be if they like beating around the bush or not. Those in favor will waste time to say they cut down the cherry tree; those who have better things to do will say it with a smile.
The thing about beating around the bush is that when we're waiting for the explanation, we're always against it. We want it now, Now, NOW, we have things to do and they're late already! I don't care about how you met Ms. Witherspoon on the way to the "Expensive Chandelier" store, just gimme your wallet and we'll discuss this over some tea.
That's one of the chief contributors to why there is no real or fake, no glam or suck. In my mind, the "Expensive Chandelier" store is real: I can see the outside, the inside, and the crotchety old man that watches me like a hawk as I open its door. I could point it out to you on a map of my hometown. The only difference between what other people see it as and what I see it as is its representation. One is "The Lighting Place", the other is the "Expensive Chandelier" store.
We don't take the time to listen, to understand, or to interpret correctly. Are you laughing at my idiocy? "Interpret correctly"? How the hell can someone do that? We don't have the same minds, nor the same experiences.
It'd be nice if I could stand up and shout out "THERE IS NO RIGHT AND WRONG! NO REAL OR FAKE! NO GLAM OR SUCK! THERE IS ONLY INTERPRETATION!" The problem being, of course, that someone out there will say "No, I'm sorry, Morbus. I think Bush is a REAL good band. They DON'T suck, so you can go burn in Hell."
Now, will ya look at that. I don't believe in Hell.
On the other hand (the third one), you could forgive the incomprehension and listen to Fake Radio. It's neither real nor fake, yet IS Real and Fake. Just another jumbled thought for you to put into order.
a devil called grim
Back when I lived in New Orleans, I used to spend many an evening at a local diner, swilling coffee, sucking down my favorite brand of cancer, and swapping lies with the other flotsam cast up from the sewers of that stinking whore of a town. One of the regulars there was this fellow I'll call Grim. He was one of the few people I've ever met who made me seem chirpy. I was never sure when I'd run into him, but it seems in retrospect that he was always lurking in the shadows, lounging on a corner, or sitting in a back-booth chainsmoking and drawing dirty pictures. Though he never dressed all in black, there was always a shadow around him, and a chill. When he took notice of someone - say, a drunk staggering in after the bars closed, or Tulane students yapping in their puppyish way - you'd swear you felt the temperature in the joint plummet. A strange man, not really gloomy, but pathological, gleefully morbid, optimistically bitter. Like he not only expected life to suck, but enjoyed it. Grim... He was almost always formally polite...not what you'd call warm or anything, but amiable enough after his own fashion. He seldom invited it, but never objected to company, except when bible-thumpers tried to prosletyze over him - then he got really mean. Never bothered with names, either. Always called me "doc." And he usually had some kind of fucked up illustration of his point of view, a story - true, he'd always maintain, real life - which somehow punctuated his often repeated view that when life isn't pain, it's strange.
One night after I got fired from Kinko's - yes, Kinko's, don't pick, you've done worse - I went to the diner to get on a solid caffeine-death-buzz, and there he was, like he was expecting me. Or someone in the same boat, somehow I don't really think it mattered who I was as long as I was primed for the ugly. He flashed that razor thin grin at me and said, "Got yer teeth knocked back, I see."
Yeah, I nodded, and he waved me over.
"Wanna kill someone?"
"Had to clean up a dead guy today."
"What he left behind, at least."
"Yeah, Doc. He was a mess. Burned to a cinder, Boo. We came inta tha site on Barronne, y'know, that big brick shithouse we're renovating? Yah, well, when we got there, it was like nothin' but bacon, Doc. Me an' Greg just kinda looked at each other, an' then it was 'Nah, man, after you!' all over. You know, Greg Redman, my foreman?"
"Tough dude, but he saw his breakfast twice... See, we finished wiring the junction box to the street drop yesterday, and it SEEMS some desperate crackhead motherfucker decided the box looked like a good piece to nab an' hock. Pity the damn thing was live... sumbitch was fuckin' charcoal, doc. All but his left foot, that was all in one piece. After the cops and meatwagon swept him up, me an' the crew had to repaint the floor where he charred it. What a way to start the day, huh? Y'know, I can't say what bugs me more, the bacon smell or that perfect foot? Why didn't it BURN, Doc?"
How the FUCK should I know?
"You was a college-boy, I thought you'd know."
And he shrugged and went back to drawing his impossibly flexible women. And, dismissed, I sat back and began to wonder about that perfect foot... and realized I didn't give a fuck about having been fired anymore. I paid the man's bill, walked home, and slept like a saint.
Thanks to a devil called Grim.
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Real and fake, right and wrong... They exist, but only because of interpretation. This piece of paper sitting in front of me, whatever it REALLY is, could be either good or bad. Good, because it conveys information important for me to do my job (a possible interpretation of my boss), or bad because a poor innocent tree had to be chopped down to make it (tree-hugging hippie interpretation ;-)... real, fake, right, wrong, good, bad, sexy, etc. are products of perception and interpretation.
Obviously, things that people classify as one opposite or another aren't the same for everybody. But I think the idea of "opposite" remains the same for most - something cannot be both sides of the opposite, unless you want to consider relativity, and I don't feel like I know enough about it to talk about my considerations, so I won't. So nya.
My point is, of course, that Bush DOES suck. At least as interpreted by me (and Morbus, it seems)... I think that's enough from me for now. I really should be doing what I get paid to do...
Disclaimer: This is my partial interpretation of the subject at hand. Don't email me telling me I am wrong. However, if you want to email me telling me YOU THINK I'm wrong, that's fine, just as long as there's more to it than that. Baaaaa.
So why didn't the foot burn. . .maybe cause that was the only part that was "grounded", in the literal, metaphysical, psychological, humanistic and patheticly y2K ether he / she / it breathed, that inspired trying to cop a live junction box. Talk about wired. . .
I don't know why you are sending these pieces of mail to me. I don't suscribe to this mail and I have no idea what it's about. Please stop sending it to me.