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MONDAY, JULY 04, 2011
Jason W. Gersch
[email protected]
Memoirs of the Misanthrope
Volume One, Entry Two:
August 27, 2008
Nice to Meet You

Now that you have the who, here is the what. Maybe a bit of the why and how.
Blogging in itself is a dirty word, a contributor to the downfall of civilization, a 'stupidifier' as significant as television. Am i alone in feeling this way? No, wait, not television, you wish it was that important. Don't pretend you don't know what this is all about. It's old already. So forget it, i won’t do it. No Blogs. This is an editorial. A running column. But, after making this declaration last week to a friend, he explained to me that all blogging is an online column, editorial or article. My face turned red. He could be right, wouldn't know and certainly don't care. Last thing i want is my work intermingling with little Suzy's diatribe about her calico. Really never wanted to be a part of it. Why be here then? Why waste my, and your, time? Publish or perish, simple enough. And as an added bonus i don't ever have to leave my apartment again. Food delivery, mail, online ordering, the interweb... no more close contact with the people of this cesspool city. Blogging may be what is called for all of you, but for me, online column will be just fine.
Blogging, while i love to say the word mockingly, like when expelling an ex-girlfriend's name after having revenge sex, but come on, finally giving voice to the unsung masses one at a time? The salvation of civilization? A joke. An admirable claim and in theory a wonderful thought, one of course that is nowhere near the truth. Individuals have voices, but when one is allowed all are, and quickly meaning is lost in the chorus of banality that chimes. Connected through supposed individuality, but we aren't all supposed to be heard are we? i will include myself , why not? I hate myself even more than i dislike you. But just this once.
Masses have confusion, chaos, and clichés —the beautiful mob mentality that put an end to the original Homer Simpson, not that he didn't deserve it and no, not the cartoon. Yeah, open a new tab and hit up that Google toolbar, (up there on the top right hand side) now put in Homer Simpson and then sift through the cartoon references to finally get to Mr. West. Hopefully, i made you feel a bit of shame. You deserve it despite the fact that reference is the mantra of the unoriginal. Luckily, original i am not. Never claimed it. A show on Showtime stole the same bit i did. You know the one: Mulder as Hank as Chinaski as Bukowski as that anti-Semitic bastard Sartre as Lermontov as Pechorin as Pushkin as Onegin as Byron. A long line, it goes on and on—the apathetic, the nihilists, and the misanthropes—nothing new. And there i am at the end of it.
But i'm no fundamentalist. Pro-choice, but against the death penalty; a 'stepping over the homeless to give kittens some milk' kind of man—that's more my speed. Predictably paradoxical, or is that just what i am trying to be? Not liberal or conservative or a donkey or an elephant. A realist. Born in the late seventies, thirty-one, almost fully gray on top and a cushy little tire inflating around the middle. A middle-class suburban transplant helping to gentrify the good old NYC. Not supposed to drink because of stomach erosion. Can't get high because haven’t got the constitution anymore. All that's left is what i had before, thoughts and words, wishing that the thousands in line before me break down and get laryngitis. Won’t matter if they do anyway because i am eternally stuck traveling down on a two lane road behind a garbage truck trailing a steady stream of liquid stench along the pavement behind it. But this is what gives one perspective. Learn to love it, like the waft of a dirty perfumed whore or the stench of your own shit: enticingly repugnant.
And how infantile is not capitalizing the i's, right? And then meta-fiction, really? i mean, does anyone even care about post-modernism anymore? Snore! i am not important and if i can't be, then no one can be! Whining again. Waah, poor me. Lower case i's to represent a deeper yearning to be something more, anything, like a mailman or a cop or a congressman. Tired. It all is. And so am i.
Surrounded but in solitary, you are too, we're not as different as we pretend. Cracks not chasms. No wait, scratch that. A flash of sentiment and nothing more, cause i certainly ain't Laurence Sterne. Complaining is our right; our duty. And once you start you won’t stop. You see what i am is guilty, as guilty as the rest of you. Stop denying it and join in; acceptance. You know your money means nothing. You know the fashion flops are just fascists who happen to dress well. You know that all meanings are assigned, prescribed like gender roles under the guise of birthright. So take it like a man, i mean a woman, umm, anyway just admit it. We'll all be better for it.

“I’m thirty. I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honor.”
-- Fitzgerald, spoken by Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby

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