Tag Archives: R-Rated

“Where Dem Girls Talkin’ Trash?”

Mornin’, Haters!  Rough night?

I’ve been watching you, you inconveniences of the human race!  You interferences en route to the happiness of my own!  I’ve caught you sticking foreign objects into the spokes of my fellow dreamers’ rides, for reason you don’t even know yourself.  Around this town, you slither, dropping banana peels out of your back pockets as if they were horse shit.  I’ve heard you hiss and gloat at others’ defeat, chiming in your hateful sounds into the collective white noise that hangs above LA-LA like a toxic rainbow.

What?  You think life’s unfair?!  You think you deserve better?!  Perhaps.  Most likely, yes, actually; for life could always be a lil’ bit better, or easier, or more just.  But you’ll be getting bupkis, if you continue to reach for a piece of someone else’s happiness.  You gotta make your own, you see.  Play your own game.  Place your own bets.  Cast your risky ballots.  So, let me do you this favor and tell you what you look like; because no matter how pretty the wrapping, a hater — is always a nature’s disgrace.  Now, you don’t wanna be that, do ya?!

As for you, my magnificent dreamers:  Take notes!

—  A single hater — is easy to pick out; for whatever smoothness they may possess in a social setting, they are always accompanied by a slight stench of discomfort. It may be disguised behind a narrowing of their eyes or a hideous, strained smile.  Beauty always sets off a certain discomfort in their skin.  So, they start shooting the comparing looks and tagging on their own clothes.  That’s the moment in which their self-hatred becomes so unbearable — they better start looking to blame someone else for it.

—  When they speak — insincerity is their spiel. Some of them think they are so suave, with their forced compliments and eager nodding!  All you gotta do — is do The Fake Walkaway. Besides sex, it’s my favorite sport, my gorgeous comrades, and it goes like this:  You wrap up the chat, excuse yourself and swing your proud head in the direction of your fake destination.  Then, count to three and quickly look back.  The spiteful stare that you’ll witness will make your skin crawl, so brace yourself, my dreamers, and start groping for your own forgiveness and esteem.


—  A ballsier hater will address you with a pet name. See the following list:  “honey” or “hun”; “missy” or “Miss Thang”; “look atcha” or that annoying “aah” sound, as if they were looking at babies.

—  Female haters — a special category. To me, it’s the most fascinating and heartbreaking one.  They glare at beautiful girls from behind the rims of their martini glasses.  If confronting beauty face to face, they linger before smiling (if at all!); and even then, that smile is so painful, their faces appear pumped-up with Botox or novocaine.  It is beyond their ability to pay a compliment that’s not back-handed.  Here are some samples:

“Pretty dress,” — (sometimes, they start pecking with their hands at the mentioned frock) — “Whereja get it?  Forever 21?”

“I love your eyebrows!”  They squint and lean in.  “But they’re a bit crooked though.”  And then:  THEY TOUCH YOU!  Some haters are big on touching:  It’s their way of testing just much they can violate your boundary.

“Nice hair!”  “Nice” is a female hater’s favorite adjective; and they say it as if whining a bit.  Sometimes, a “nice” is accompanied by a raising of eyebrows, or a rolling of the eyeballs, or a chuckle.  Other times, they may even pat your shoulder blade.  But on the receiving end of it, these gestures always make you feel like a leper.

—  Some haters hang in packs, kinda like hungry hyenas, waiting for the scraps of a lion’s dinner.  You can always observe them congregate:  hissing at the same round table at Starbucks, or hugging the walls of a dance floor, or giving tiny blow jobs to their cigarettes while being quarantined from the healthier mortals.  In packs, they’re slightly braver and maybe even sadistic.  So, beware when passing them:  Hold your own and be prepared to retaliate!

—  Speaking of a comeback:  The only way to handle a single hater — or a pack of ‘em — is to call ‘em out. Here, the good news is you needn’t be mean or vindictive.  What freaks out a hater the most — is honesty.  So, you see, my glorious creatures, it’s not about defending yourself.  It’s about confronting atrocious human behavior with self-possession and truth. All you do — is call it like it is:

“You sound condescending,” or “Is that a back-handed compliment?” usually gets a hater to panic, for they’re weasely fuckers.

“Is there a problem?” or “Do you have something to say to me?” just might give ‘em a heart attack.

But I must confess here:  It’s a little bit fun to watch them scramble for excuses and less than eloquent explanations of their original meanings.  It’s the only pleasure I get out of handling a hater, bare-handedly.

Besides that, my beautiful boys ‘n’ girls — you dreamers that make this fucking planet worth treading! — I treat dem haters like a herpes-infected piece of chewed-up and discarded gum:  Avoid touching ’em with my hands, scrape ‘em off the bottom of my fancy shoe and leave ’em on the side of the road!


Why the Fuck are You Bleeping the Shit Outta My Art?

The other day, my comrades, I had to register my blog’s profile for this thingy that would grant me a quicker access within the blogging community.  Yes, I said “thingy” because if you knew me at all you’d understand the tragic degree of technological retardation from which I suffer.  Still, it blew my mind to know there were millions of us out there — hard-working, fast-moving doers, courageous and dynamic writers, who’ve comprised their world via the screens of their laptops; and that way — create changes in it.  Instead of freaking out about the competition — my artistic penis got erect:

“How fantastic!” I thought.  “The opportunities to produce AND distribute your art are limitless via the mighty, and not so long ago ephemeral for me, WWW-dot!  And we can all do our thing!”

So, back to the “thingy” I had to create.  To present myself to the rest of my invisible but audible blogging comrades, I had to choose a rating category to which my writing would belong — a point I somehow didn’t foresee when taking my career into my own control just a few months ago.  However, there I sat:  rereading the ratings system.  Am I composing R- or X-rated material over here?  I am obviously nowhere near PG-13.  Right?

Very quickly, I remembered a recently viewed documentary on the hypocrisy — and if you ask me, idiocy — of the Motion Picture Association of America, This Film is not Yet Rated.

Now, my dear American comrades:  As someone who escaped the butt-rape by the unimaginable consequences of my home country’s former dictatorship, the very topic of censorship sends chills down my back.  But, as they say, “When in Rome — watch your language!”  (Or however that saying goes.  I’m a foreigner, you see:  Cliches, for us, are harder to learn than the new country’s hygienic rules.)  So, I’ll immediately agree that, as the mighty and anonymous (gulp!) members of MPAA preach, we all must look out for the safety of our children.  ‘Mkay, I can live with that.  So, in the name of the children, the other night I chose the R-Rated category for my site, despite my fear of soon getting spammed with porn and dating services ads after the process was complete.  I never aspired to attract a younger reader anyway, I shrugged — not with “sex” in the very title of my blog — even though the topics of birth control and self-esteem I myself could’ve used quite a bit at my own tender age of thirteen.

That’s all fine and dandy, but can someone please explain to me why are we much more concern with sex than the bloodless violence splattered all over our film screens and daytime television?  (By the way, it’s bloodless due to yet another MPAA regulation; which adds to the anesthetization of the American public — and children — about the look and the consequences of violence.  As if this country’s geographic isolation from other war-torn countries or the lapses in its educational curricula haven’t contributed to our children’s ignorance enough.)  As the above mentioned documentary quotes, according to the censoring apparatus’s admission, “Nearly four times as many films received an NC-17 for sex as opposed to violence.”  So, a stunning piece of art like Bernardo Bertolucci’s The Dreamers was tagged with the harshest label of NC-17 — which consequentially affected its distribution and exhibition, and therefore, its profitability — due to its menage a trois scenes (or was it the insinuated male homosexuality?)  Aha.  But then every other piece of action crap starring, shall we say, our state’s former Governor has earned a more tolerant rating of PG-13.  I’m just trying to figure this out, my American comrades, so I know what awaits me as I continue to pursue further publishing opportunities.

As an artist, I AM concerned with the way my new country’s system of censorship is going to affect my income.  Am I going to have to bleep out the meatiest portions of my writing in order to be heard — and to be paid — on a larger scale?  (Have you heard the censored version of Enrique Iglesias’s Tonight I’m F**ing You? Not as fun as the original:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sQziQCvu8CI&feature=related).)  And will I be urged to apologize to my publishers for the “rawness” and the “courage” of my material for which thus far I have been praised by my readers of both genders, every age or marital status alike?  On the one hand, it is a huge ego rub to think of my trials and tribulations similar to the ones of Bertolucci; but then, I better start meditating on the possibility of having to self-publish — if I ever want to earn my dough via my art.