I never cry. It’s been nearly 5 years since the last time I shed a tear: at my grandfather’s death bed. I didn’t cry at my wedding, I don’t cry when I’m in pain and I certainly don’t cry watching movies. 

I watched Waiting for Superman and teared up like precious moments doll. Everyone knows the system is broken, but it becomes too real and infuriating when the kids are no longer data points, but actual kids. Bright kids, with great parents doing everything they can for their children. It’s unfair. Education is the most important right of every child and great teachers should be treated like royalty. 

Go watch it. It’s a well-made film with a clear voice on an important topic. Certainly more deserving of a cry than this. 

There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live—did live, from habit that became instinct—in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.

George Orwell was onto something. We may not be living in a dystopian nightmare of thoughtcrimes and ministries of truth, but the idea of big brother has morphed into a paparazzi/tabloid culture of cellphone camera thought police. The John Galliano thing is nuts. People get drunk. They get drunk and say crazy shit. We now live in a world where people are more afraid of what they’ll say when they’re intoxicated than what they’ll actually do. Drunk ranting has become a harsher offense than drunk driving.

This is not a defense of what Galiano said, because obviously, it’s indefensible. But the notion that an artist would lose his job because someone was recording him while he was drunk feels wrong to me. It’s very 1984. You don’t think Valentino went on some crazy offensive rant when he was partying in the 70s? You think John Lennon was a treat to be around when he was pissed off and drinking? These people aren’t saints, they’re artists and that’s what we need them to be. Political correctness is so overrated. Leave your goddamn camera phone off and enjoy the party. 

there are no good words. there are no bad words. words are amoral. words can be correct or incorrect, grammatically and contextually. words can be well-said or well-put or poorly stated. words can be used as insult or praise, but that’s decided by syntax and word choice. 

words may be inappropriate or insensitive, but this is wholly dependent on context. words in and of themselves carry no moral value. there are words that grown ups use and words that children use. again, context. 

words are units of speech - sounds. that’s all they are. so there is inherently no difference in moral value between ‘shit’ and ‘ship,’ ‘ass’ and ‘asphalt,’ ‘fuck’ and ‘front door.’ this is why i love words. words are neutral grays. the world is not inherently black and white, black and white are meanings we subjectively assign to objects, ideas and behavior. words are the wrapper, the message is the candy. don’t be offended by the wrapper, it’s the candy that deserves the attention. also, candyass is an awesome word.   

my contribution for today

you know, it probably started with a scone or a dessert somewhere. gwyneth paltrow is sitting across from a harmless friend, maybe a publicist or something, in a crowded cafe on santa monica with black iron frame chairs and driftwood on the walls passing as art. she takes a sip of her coffee and eyes the publicist’s blueberry scone and casually mentions how good it looks. she returns to that empty gaze celebrities always seem to wear with or without the sunglasses. slightly open mouth, vapid stare. publicist offers a corner of her scone and gwyneth grabs the tip and inserts the entire scone in her fair trade, local, additive-free, organic bullshit coffee black and enjoys the hell out of it. a perfectly good scone, ruined.

what the hell kind of a person has a 7-letter name with a vowel on the bench ‘til the 5th letter? gwyneth. the scone is the gateway to slightly more annoying behavior involving larger plates of food: pancakes, cheeseburgers, 16oz ribeyes, all flourished with some magic gwyneth ingredient that supposedly makes it better. this habit bleeds over into her day job where she takes bit parts in movies and dips them in her proverbial gwyneth bullshit coffee and before long, she’s playing shakespeare’s muse. fucking william shakespeare’s muse!

somewhere between mr. ripley and dinner she starts singing along to a goddamn huey lewis song on the radio. it was probably something extra huey lewis-y like, ‘happy to be stuck with you’ or ‘if this is it.’ next thing you know some studio patsy is greenlighting ‘Duets.’ who plays the male lead in ‘Duets?’ huey effing lewis. it was the coronation of the most well-known undiscovered musical talent in the universe. and by ‘talent’ i really mean vulture.

contrary to popular opinion, the chris martin thing did nothing for gwyneth’s music career. you can’t stop a light from shining, no matter how british and borderline tone deaf the other light. it was taylor swift that changed the game: the rise of a blonde country-pop girl with a body that could only be compared to a pair of chopsticks. gwyneth completes the musician morph in ‘Country Strong’ and nobody watches. but you know what people do watch? glee. and you know what people love? a song called ‘Fuck You’ by Cee-Lo that’s lobotomized with the word ‘forget’ in place of ‘fuck.’ it was edgy, and safe (read: stupid), right in gwyneth’s wheelhouse. fast forward a few weeks and an SNL sketch later: Gwyneth is now laying flaccid on Cee-Lo’s piano at the grammys, wearing catwoman’s pants and pink feather earrings (edgy and safe). Cee-Lo is out there wearing a full-on double rainbow hash pipe dream peacock suit surrounded by neon muppets and gwyneth shows up wearing black. she takes a verse and a few ‘whhhyyys?!’ in the bridge and sings it in that same soul-less tone huey lewis taught her. she offers nothing. it’s all bullshit. it’s a privileged blond expatriate poser dumbly writhing on the song of legitimate artist. she’s effectively shat on every coffee house songbird and blues bar band in the struggle. she doesnt create. she’s not a musician. she’s a spotlight vulture treating the career of others as a hollywood hobby. she’s the worst kind of celebrity - a leech who believes in talent-by-association. 

and i’m not overreacting. this is not a cute little actress jumping on stage with the band for an encore at the troubador. it’s the grammys. the superbowl of bedroom musicians round the world and she’s up there prancing around like it’s karaoke night in brentwood. forget you, gwyneth paltrow.

i’m pretty certain i’ll be a fountain of wisdom and focus as soon as i figure out what to do with my life. these last several years, while trying to figure out my place in the race, i’ve learned that nobody really knows what they’re doing regardless of a/s/l. we all get one shot at this and then it’s onto the next world or lifecycle or carbon-based matter or whatever you believe in. i don’t have a master plan and i don’t need a ‘career path;’ for me, fulfillment comes from impact. it’s important to matter.  

the singular pursuit is an amazing gift. singularity of talent is even better, but i covet the former. to know what one wants, to approach it with such clarity of vision and pragmatism - that is where genius lives. i have a mind to rhyme and two hyped feet, i just need to pick a damn dance floor.  

You may be an ambassador to England or France
You may like to gamble, you might like to dance
You may be the heavyweight champion of the world
You may be a socialite with a long string of pearls

But you’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You’re gonna have to serve somebody

- Dylan

What now, cruel world? What now?

by Ricky Gervais for the WSJ Blog

Why don’t you believe in God? I get that question all the time. I always try to give a sensitive, reasoned answer. This is usually awkward, time consuming and pointless. People who believe in God don’t need proof of his existence, and they certainly don’t want evidence to the contrary. They are happy with their belief. They even say things like “it’s true to me” and “it’s faith.” I still give my logical answer because I feel that not being honest would be patronizing and impolite. It is ironic therefore that “I don’t believe in God because there is absolutely no scientific evidence for his existence and from what I’ve heard the very definition is a logical impossibility in this known universe,” comes across as both patronizing and impolite.

Arrogance is another accusation. Which seems particularly unfair. Science seeks the truth. And it does not discriminate. For better or worse it finds things out. Science is humble. It knows what it knows and it knows what it doesn’t know. It bases its conclusions and beliefs on hard evidence -­- evidence that is constantly updated and upgraded. It doesn’t get offended when new facts come along. It embraces the body of knowledge. It doesn’t hold on to medieval practices because they are tradition. If it did, you wouldn’t get a shot of penicillin, you’d pop a leach down your trousers and pray. Whatever you “believe,” this is not as effective as medicine. Again you can say, “It works for me,” but so do placebos. My point being, I’m saying God doesn’t exist. I’m not saying faith doesn’t exist. I know faith exists. I see it all the time. But believing in something doesn’t make it true. Hoping that something is true doesn’t make it true. The existence of God is not subjective. He either exists or he doesn’t. It’s not a matter of opinion. You can have your own opinions. But you can’t have your own facts.

Why don’t I believe in God? No, no no, why do YOU believe in God? Surely the burden of proof is on the believer. You started all this. If I came up to you and said, “Why don’t you believe I can fly?” You’d say, “Why would I?” I’d reply, “Because it’s a matter of faith.” If I then said, “Prove I can’t fly. Prove I can’t fly see, see, you can’t prove it can you?” You’d probably either walk away, call security or throw me out of the window and shout, ‘’F—ing fly then you lunatic.”

This, is of course a spirituality issue, religion is a different matter. As an atheist, I see nothing “wrong” in believing in a god. I don’t think there is a god, but belief in him does no harm. If it helps you in any way, then that’s fine with me. It’s when belief starts infringing on other people’s rights when it worries me. I would never deny your right to believe in a god. I would just rather you didn’t kill people who believe in a different god, say. Or stone someone to death because your rulebook says their sexuality is immoral. It’s strange that anyone who believes that an all-powerful all-knowing, omniscient power responsible for everything that happens, would also want to judge and punish people for what they are. From what I can gather, pretty much the worst type of person you can be is an atheist. The first four commandments hammer this point home. There is a god, I’m him, no one else is, you’re not as good and don’t forget it. (Don’t murder anyone, doesn’t get a mention till number 6.)

When confronted with anyone who holds my lack of religious faith in such contempt, I say, “It’s the way God made me.”

But what are atheists really being accused of?

The dictionary definition of God is “a supernatural creator and overseer of the universe.” Included in this definition are all deities, goddesses and supernatural beings. Since the beginning of recorded history, which is defined by the invention of writing by the Sumerians around 6,000 years ago, historians have cataloged over 3700 supernatural beings, of which 2870 can be considered deities.

So next time someone tells me they believe in God, I’ll say “Oh which one? Zeus? Hades? Jupiter? Mars? Odin? Thor? Krishna? Vishnu? Ra?…” If they say “Just God. I only believe in the one God,” I’ll point out that they are nearly as atheistic as me. I don’t believe in 2,870 gods, and they don’t believe in 2,869.

I used to believe in God. The Christian one that is.

I loved Jesus. He was my hero. More than pop stars. More than footballers. More than God. God was by definition omnipotent and perfect. Jesus was a man. He had to work at it. He had temptation but defeated sin. He had integrity and courage. But He was my hero because He was kind. And He was kind to everyone. He didn’t bow to peer pressure or tyranny or cruelty. He didn’t care who you were. He loved you. What a guy. I wanted to be just like Him.

One day when I was about 8 years old, I was drawing the crucifixion as part of my Bible studies homework. I loved art too. And nature. I loved how God made all the animals. They were also perfect. Unconditionally beautiful. It was an amazing world.

I lived in a very poor, working-class estate in an urban sprawl called Reading, about 40 miles west of London. My father was a laborer and my mother was a housewife. I was never ashamed of poverty. It was almost noble. Also, everyone I knew was in the same situation, and I had everything I needed. School was free. My clothes were cheap and always clean and ironed. And mum was always cooking. She was cooking the day I was drawing on the cross.

I was sitting at the kitchen table when my brother came home. He was 11 years older than me, so he would have been 19. He was as smart as anyone I knew, but he was too cheeky. He would answer back and get into trouble. I was a good boy. I went to church and believed in God -– what a relief for a working-class mother. You see, growing up where I did, mums didn’t hope as high as their kids growing up to be doctors; they just hoped their kids didn’t go to jail. So bring them up believing in God and they’ll be good and law abiding. It’s a perfect system. Well, nearly. 75 percent of Americans are God-­‐fearing Christians; 75 percent of prisoners are God-­‐fearing Christians. 10 percent of Americans are atheists; 0.2 percent of prisoners are atheists.

But anyway, there I was happily drawing my hero when my big brother Bob asked, “Why do you believe in God?” Just a simple question. But my mum panicked. “Bob,” she said in a tone that I knew meant, “Shut up.” Why was that a bad thing to ask? If there was a God and my faith was strong it didn’t matter what people said.

Oh…hang on. There is no God. He knows it, and she knows it deep down. It was as simple as that. I started thinking about it and asking more questions, and within an hour, I was an atheist.

Wow. No God. If mum had lied to me about God, had she also lied to me about Santa? Yes, of course, but who cares? The gifts kept coming. And so did the gifts of my new found atheism. The gifts of truth, science, nature. The real beauty of this world. I learned of evolution -– a theory so simple that only England’s greatest genius could have come up with it. Evolution of plants, animals and us –- with imagination, free will, love, humor. I no longer needed a reason for my existence, just a reason to live. And imagination, free will, love, humor, fun, music, sports, beer and pizza are all good enough reasons for living.

But living an honest life -– for that you need the truth. That’s the other thing I learned that day, that the truth, however shocking or uncomfortable, in the end leads to liberation and dignity.

So what does the question “Why don’t you believe in God?” really mean. I think when someone asks that they are really questioning their own belief. In a way they are asking “what makes you so special? “How come you weren’t brainwashed with the rest of us?” “How dare you say I’m a fool and I’m not going to heaven, f— you!” Let’s be honest, if one person believed in God he would be considered pretty strange. But because it’s a very popular view it’s accepted. And why is it such a popular view? That’s obvious. It’s an attractive proposition. Believe in me and live forever. Again if it was just a case of spirituality this would be fine.

“Do unto others…” is a good rule of thumb. I live by that. Forgiveness is probably the greatest virtue there is. But that’s exactly what it is -­‐ a virtue. Not just a Christian virtue. No one owns being good. I’m good. I just don’t believe I’ll be rewarded for it in heaven. My reward is here and now. It’s knowing that I try to do the right thing. That I lived a good life. And that’s where spirituality really lost its way. When it became a stick to beat people with. “Do this or you’ll burn in hell.”

You won’t burn in hell. But be nice anyway.

Churches are nothing more than clubs with varying degrees of written and unwritten rules for membership. 

That’s it and that’s all, man. 

you are how you treat others. there is nothing else. 

christiannightmares:

Pat Robertson advises a Christian man not to be friends with gay people, and then moves on to the topic of male erectile dysfunction

listen until the end of his answer on ED - it all comes full circle. 

We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep. I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavor. It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts. Every man is tasked to make his life, even in its details, worthy of the contemplation of his most elevated and critical hour. If we refused, or rather used up, such paltry information as we get, the oracles would distinctly inform us how this might be done. 

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary, I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. For most men, it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is of the devil or of God, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man here to ‘glorify God and enjoy him forever.’

Still we live meanly, like ants… Our life is frittered away by detail. An honest man has hardly need to count more than his ten fingers, or in extreme cases he may add his ten toes, and lump the rest. Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity!

From the 2nd chapter of Walden by Henry David Thoreau 

Are cover letters really necessary any more? Who is reading these things? They all sound the same, look the same and are filled with the exact same meaningless drivel regardless of the industry. It says a lot about the quality of our workforce when applicants for a variety of jobs, in completely unrelated fields, are still evaluated the same way: Cover Letter and Resume. 

It’s a shame how many talented people with off-the-charts soft skills go unnoticed next to some d-bag with an MBA from Wharton. I’m not complaining for me - I have a great job. But seeing complex and passionate people toil through the process of synthesizing their identity to fit a standard cover letter format breaks my heart. Hopefully, recruitment through social media and recommendations becomes standard practice. I may have just given away a new business idea. oops.