Who fuckin' said I can't manage my goddamn anger? Seriously, who the fuck said that? I'll cut him.
Monday, November 22, 2010
A Major Prize, I Won I Won I Won!
Today i received an email that changed my life. For your Friend Til the End Or At Least the End of the Bottle is one of 8 recipients of the highly esteemed Anger Management Award! No, seriously! Look!
Who fuckin' said I can't manage my goddamn anger? Seriously, who the fuck said that? I'll cut him.
Who fuckin' said I can't manage my goddamn anger? Seriously, who the fuck said that? I'll cut him.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
It Could Be Better
Spending one of many frustrated, disgruntled Saturdays stuck in a coffee shop working with my partner during a beautiful afternoon on a advertising brief we had questionable chance in selling, gave rise to considerable amount of complaining on my end. Finally my partner offered this tidbit of consolation.
“You know, once I watched this clip on Youtube. Horrible. This lion catches a guy and eats him alive.”
Figuring this was prelude to an idea, I begged her to go on.
“So when it gets bad, I always think, at least I’m not getting eaten by a lion.”
That's the alternative? Work weekends or spend the last moments of your life hearing the skin you so diligently SPFed every summer get shredded like a stack of junk mail? I think it could be better.
I blame lazy mothers. If a four year old refuses to eat dinner, mom shouts that there are starving children in China. Or in my case, my dad actually took regular trips to third world countries as a photographer and had pictorial proof that I had it better. But in my experience, Ethiopians eating tsetse flies in loincloths didn’t change the fact that mom’s cooking sucked.
And so from that malleable age we’re taught to settle for shitty because at least you’re still breathing. Yeah, it’s with the help of life support, but count your blessings. Maybe mom needs to go back to the drawing board and learn how to cook my fucking chicken. Maybe hearing another misfortune on top of my lament only makes me more depressed. You’re damn right it could be worse. You just turned a shitty meal into the hopelessness of mankind. I need a drink. And I'm only four.
Of course, I could get behind this ideology if I could use it for my benefit . For example, I get an assignment, only to turn in a couple crappy headlines and call it a day at 4pm. When my Creative Director shoots me a threatening, “WTF?” email, I could reply, “Well, at least it’s not a letter from your future self detailing your imminent death by carnivorous jaws.” I could lower his expectations *and* get home in time for 5pm high balls. What could be better?
“You know, once I watched this clip on Youtube. Horrible. This lion catches a guy and eats him alive.”
Figuring this was prelude to an idea, I begged her to go on.
“So when it gets bad, I always think, at least I’m not getting eaten by a lion.”
That's the alternative? Work weekends or spend the last moments of your life hearing the skin you so diligently SPFed every summer get shredded like a stack of junk mail? I think it could be better.
I blame lazy mothers. If a four year old refuses to eat dinner, mom shouts that there are starving children in China. Or in my case, my dad actually took regular trips to third world countries as a photographer and had pictorial proof that I had it better. But in my experience, Ethiopians eating tsetse flies in loincloths didn’t change the fact that mom’s cooking sucked.
And so from that malleable age we’re taught to settle for shitty because at least you’re still breathing. Yeah, it’s with the help of life support, but count your blessings. Maybe mom needs to go back to the drawing board and learn how to cook my fucking chicken. Maybe hearing another misfortune on top of my lament only makes me more depressed. You’re damn right it could be worse. You just turned a shitty meal into the hopelessness of mankind. I need a drink. And I'm only four.
Of course, I could get behind this ideology if I could use it for my benefit . For example, I get an assignment, only to turn in a couple crappy headlines and call it a day at 4pm. When my Creative Director shoots me a threatening, “WTF?” email, I could reply, “Well, at least it’s not a letter from your future self detailing your imminent death by carnivorous jaws.” I could lower his expectations *and* get home in time for 5pm high balls. What could be better?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Buelluer?
In a surprising turn of events, after posting this tweet earlier:
I was invited to a private screening of the very film. Perhaps I'm psychic. In which case Madame Concha will tell you your fortune for $5000 a pop. No refunds.
But I digress. Point is, I saw the doc. Tweet and you shall receive. Adverdouches abound. Now this isn't meant to be a film critique as I am not paid to do so. Nor am I about to provide a summary because Concha Libre headquarters is not a venue for book reports. I do however, have one observation. As we left, the pervasive reaction centered around one consensus. "Shit, ya'll. I wanna go make some art now. Anyone can do it." But just like adverdouches flocking to the film in hopes to augment their rank on the cool meter, to me it seems they're missing the point. Thousands of people waited outside for hours to see someone for whom artist is a questionable title. But the time they spent pales in comparison to the money; these "fans" made MBW a millionaire over night. Hype breeds fame. Fame breeds title. When our idea of artist is something we define, does that make MBW an artist, or are we just projecting, comfortable to live in a reality our perceptions have neatly defined?
Fuck me if I'm wrong, but I don't think the point was "anyone can make art." I think the crowd buys its own bullshit. Figuratively and literally. We thought we came to see a film about one artist, Banksy, who turned the camera on another, MBW. But is he an artist? Who's to say? If great art is supposed to hold a mirror to its audience, this film took it a step further by manipulating it. Quite Banksy-eque, if i'm even at liberty to draw such comparisons. Because here we are, busy looking for the face behind the silhouette. The point isn't "anyone can do it." Because how can anyone make "art," when we don't even know what it is in the first place?
Maybe there is a god. And it's Bansky. Laughing at anyone searching for meaning behind the goddamn hamster wheel.
Whatever. I've had a few beers. When there's no point to nothin', might as well.
I was invited to a private screening of the very film. Perhaps I'm psychic. In which case Madame Concha will tell you your fortune for $5000 a pop. No refunds.
But I digress. Point is, I saw the doc. Tweet and you shall receive. Adverdouches abound. Now this isn't meant to be a film critique as I am not paid to do so. Nor am I about to provide a summary because Concha Libre headquarters is not a venue for book reports. I do however, have one observation. As we left, the pervasive reaction centered around one consensus. "Shit, ya'll. I wanna go make some art now. Anyone can do it." But just like adverdouches flocking to the film in hopes to augment their rank on the cool meter, to me it seems they're missing the point. Thousands of people waited outside for hours to see someone for whom artist is a questionable title. But the time they spent pales in comparison to the money; these "fans" made MBW a millionaire over night. Hype breeds fame. Fame breeds title. When our idea of artist is something we define, does that make MBW an artist, or are we just projecting, comfortable to live in a reality our perceptions have neatly defined?
Fuck me if I'm wrong, but I don't think the point was "anyone can make art." I think the crowd buys its own bullshit. Figuratively and literally. We thought we came to see a film about one artist, Banksy, who turned the camera on another, MBW. But is he an artist? Who's to say? If great art is supposed to hold a mirror to its audience, this film took it a step further by manipulating it. Quite Banksy-eque, if i'm even at liberty to draw such comparisons. Because here we are, busy looking for the face behind the silhouette. The point isn't "anyone can do it." Because how can anyone make "art," when we don't even know what it is in the first place?
Maybe there is a god. And it's Bansky. Laughing at anyone searching for meaning behind the goddamn hamster wheel.
Whatever. I've had a few beers. When there's no point to nothin', might as well.
Friday, January 29, 2010
some cool shit
i'm tired of writing. thoughts in my cab ride to work this morning included those of retiring. or at least putting it away until it's fun again. fun like this piece i saw in a chelsea gallery last week.
silly putty transfers - photographed, framed, done. this is some seriously cool shit. that i want to steal.
silly putty transfers - photographed, framed, done. this is some seriously cool shit. that i want to steal.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
i was reading too much atheist literature and it was making me angry.
As much as I love a good blood boiling over the greatest lies of mankind, how many glasses can you drunkenly throw before you realize it's time to lighten the extracurricular entertainment a bit? Luckily the trusty bookstores of NYC and the near and dear to my heart Brooklyn offered up this gem in their storefronts, complete with glowing reviews and book-of-the-month discounts. But don't take their word for it, here's what I had to say in my Facebook virtual bookshelf review:
"This man has mastered language like a dominatrix driving a stiletto heel into the chest of Webster. Yes, Nick Harkaway, I will be slave to to your writing, wherever your career takes you."
So yeah. Read it. It rocks. And, as they said when naming my favorite Brooklyn bookstore, "Word."
"This man has mastered language like a dominatrix driving a stiletto heel into the chest of Webster. Yes, Nick Harkaway, I will be slave to to your writing, wherever your career takes you."
So yeah. Read it. It rocks. And, as they said when naming my favorite Brooklyn bookstore, "Word."
Friday, November 13, 2009
it's the network
last night i had a dream. and in that dream, i discovered AT&T was not only a terrible cell phone service provider but an eeeeevil corporation. you see, i dreamed their corporate heads were the main organizers behind Bilderberg, or as my fellow conspiracy fanatics might know it as (cue dramatic music) The New World Order. I dreamed AT&T's shitty service was actually a purposely corrupt network built to interrupt mass communication and create a world where they could more easily facilitate world domination. put *that* in your pipe and ask me what i'm smokin'.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
stoney, rainy sun(les)day
I've been pretty amused by a common comment I've been hearing from conversations about Iran: We should be ashamed. We just stood by and let W hijack the election (twice!) while these intrepid revolutionaries are inhaling more tear gas than we smoke marijuana. We've become pussies.
Become? Ha! (This is not meant to be taken as a criticism) liberals tend to favor things like education, art and sharing. You know, the kids who got beat up in high school. Yeah that's a little stereotypical but there's a general thread there. The pussies suffer through high school and get beat up by the thugs until graduation where they go to college and continue their ascent. Meanwhile the thugs stay home for community college, eventually dropping out and managing an Arby's. But the moment the "pussy" comes back in town from his relatively successful job to see his parents and decides he's hungry for a beef sandwich, who's the winner in that exchange? There are certainly a few people in high school I'd enjoy coming home to tell them to supersize my fuckin' chicken.
So pussies we may be, but so was the tortoise. And, as Mr. Lebowski enlightened us all "The bums will always lose!"
Become? Ha! (This is not meant to be taken as a criticism) liberals tend to favor things like education, art and sharing. You know, the kids who got beat up in high school. Yeah that's a little stereotypical but there's a general thread there. The pussies suffer through high school and get beat up by the thugs until graduation where they go to college and continue their ascent. Meanwhile the thugs stay home for community college, eventually dropping out and managing an Arby's. But the moment the "pussy" comes back in town from his relatively successful job to see his parents and decides he's hungry for a beef sandwich, who's the winner in that exchange? There are certainly a few people in high school I'd enjoy coming home to tell them to supersize my fuckin' chicken.
So pussies we may be, but so was the tortoise. And, as Mr. Lebowski enlightened us all "The bums will always lose!"
Saturday, June 20, 2009
stoney, rainy saturday
you know when you keep trying to hook up with someone, but the connections keep getting missed? that's called fuck-tag. like phone tag, only a fuck of a lot more frustratin'.
entirely unrelated, 'cept for the fact i fuckin' love it.
entirely unrelated, 'cept for the fact i fuckin' love it.
Monday, June 01, 2009
the fast and amphibious
Everybody's all like, "It's 2009, where's the flying cars?" And while all you jokers stumble around searching the sky for a Camero with wings, this dude rolls by and is like ya'll is stoopid.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
big birthday on the horizon
i've been a bad blogger lately. it's not that i'm lazy (entirely) but i've been blogging elsewhere for a brand. which is to say, i've been getting paid to do what i do here for you. i suppose that makes me, not only bad, but soulless. whoring myself out for consumerism what i'd normally do for free. but my soul is basically up there with every crappy gift the rican bought me. i'll sell it to the highest, or frankly, any bidder. good luck suing me, bc i'm rich, beotch! (well compared to the blog's early days.)
anyway, the contract's on my desk at work so i don't know if i'm legally permitted to claim authorship or what not. i wrote for them under a pen name. but i'm sure i can go as far to say it's for a brand i used to work on. the only relatively cool one i actually produced stuff for. and if you can solve that riddle and recognize my words there will be five essays for your reading pleasure. i am nothing if not industrious.
anyway, how've ya'll been? (if you're even still here.) i'm home drinking a beer on a saturday night bc the office beacons mañana. sucks. well that and i have no real interest in getting beyond a 1/4 mile radius from my apartment, and my friends are heading into deep brooklyn for a crazy party. if the approaching date weren't evidence enough, my stay at home ass is a pretty good indication i'm turning 30 in less than a fortnight. i can't say i'm amused. but then again, not as depressed as MTV thinks i should be. but fuck MTV. anybody who parades kelly clarkson isn't exactly an opinion i stick under a shrine. i got a specific finger with your name on it, if you don't agree.
but for the part of me that actually does morn for the death of my younger years, i've got a little dity that might just cheer me up: buy me somethin'. yes, your dear friend and blogger of all things concha loves her some presents. i'm an only child whose affection was purchased in frequent trinkets from her mom. And frankly, i feel a little off when my life isn't frequently wrapped in shiny gift wrap. bows are cool too, especially on larger ticket items like cars and hot boys.
so without further adieu, i present you my amazon wish list. it ain't the entire collection of what i most desire, but i'd take anything on it with all the glee of a gay parade. and if the beginning of my 4th decade isn't enough reason for you, then just think about all the hours of hilarity i've bestowed upon you all these years. i mean, don't i deserve just a little sumthin'? it's not like i do this shit for free.
by the way, you look great today.
¡viva la amazon! and ¡viva la concha!
ps, don't be afraid to write me a check.
DO IT
anyway, the contract's on my desk at work so i don't know if i'm legally permitted to claim authorship or what not. i wrote for them under a pen name. but i'm sure i can go as far to say it's for a brand i used to work on. the only relatively cool one i actually produced stuff for. and if you can solve that riddle and recognize my words there will be five essays for your reading pleasure. i am nothing if not industrious.
anyway, how've ya'll been? (if you're even still here.) i'm home drinking a beer on a saturday night bc the office beacons mañana. sucks. well that and i have no real interest in getting beyond a 1/4 mile radius from my apartment, and my friends are heading into deep brooklyn for a crazy party. if the approaching date weren't evidence enough, my stay at home ass is a pretty good indication i'm turning 30 in less than a fortnight. i can't say i'm amused. but then again, not as depressed as MTV thinks i should be. but fuck MTV. anybody who parades kelly clarkson isn't exactly an opinion i stick under a shrine. i got a specific finger with your name on it, if you don't agree.
but for the part of me that actually does morn for the death of my younger years, i've got a little dity that might just cheer me up: buy me somethin'. yes, your dear friend and blogger of all things concha loves her some presents. i'm an only child whose affection was purchased in frequent trinkets from her mom. And frankly, i feel a little off when my life isn't frequently wrapped in shiny gift wrap. bows are cool too, especially on larger ticket items like cars and hot boys.
so without further adieu, i present you my amazon wish list. it ain't the entire collection of what i most desire, but i'd take anything on it with all the glee of a gay parade. and if the beginning of my 4th decade isn't enough reason for you, then just think about all the hours of hilarity i've bestowed upon you all these years. i mean, don't i deserve just a little sumthin'? it's not like i do this shit for free.
by the way, you look great today.
¡viva la amazon! and ¡viva la concha!
ps, don't be afraid to write me a check.
DO IT
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
today's assignment
go download "born under punches" by the talking heads. and dance.
(how the fuck did i forget about this song?)
(how the fuck did i forget about this song?)
Saturday, February 14, 2009
the miracle of life
if you have any kind of moral code, you will support equal rights, donate twenty bucks to this guy and do your part in despising this day halmark hath wrought upon us.
in this despisal...you may also want to join my friend's new site, where you can enjoy a true story
courtesy of moi.
if you do endeavor to take this journey with all of us, it helps if you listen to the song "once in a lifetime" (talking heads...duh) while reading. it takes about the same time to read, as the song is long.
retardedest day ever. mhmm.
also irrelevant oldie, but slightly relevant post
!viva la david byrne!
your amiga al fin,
¡concha!
in this despisal...you may also want to join my friend's new site, where you can enjoy a true story
courtesy of moi.
if you do endeavor to take this journey with all of us, it helps if you listen to the song "once in a lifetime" (talking heads...duh) while reading. it takes about the same time to read, as the song is long.
retardedest day ever. mhmm.
also irrelevant oldie, but slightly relevant post
!viva la david byrne!
your amiga al fin,
¡concha!
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Concha Libre’s hope in the spirit of humanity is also dead.
Yo, Death, get your bony skeleto-hands off my favorite writers!
First Vonnegut.
Then Wallace.
Now this?
What about a Wall street exec? Maybe you want to impale Paris Hilton? Or stick a big fat cancer rod up Tupegolvich’s ass. There are so many more deserving of the bony little tap of your index finger. How ‘bout Augusten Burroughs and his douchey little audience that funds him.
Do you think your little essay speculating on Updike’s death is funny now, douchey, douche?
I guess what I’m trying to say is, Updike is forever immortal, and Burroughs can die already.
First Vonnegut.
Then Wallace.
Now this?
What about a Wall street exec? Maybe you want to impale Paris Hilton? Or stick a big fat cancer rod up Tupegolvich’s ass. There are so many more deserving of the bony little tap of your index finger. How ‘bout Augusten Burroughs and his douchey little audience that funds him.
Do you think your little essay speculating on Updike’s death is funny now, douchey, douche?
I guess what I’m trying to say is, Updike is forever immortal, and Burroughs can die already.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
¡viva la 'bama!
We, at Concha Libre® and company, would like to congratulate Mr. Obama and his family. We'd also like to note, this will probably be the only time we are happy about anything the entire year. So, let's savor the moment. hooray.
Until tomorrow,
Concha
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