Gil Gildner

I see how these things work. They give away one song, see, and you can spend a dollar and get another one. But what’s a dollar, really? These days it’s been diluted enough that you can’t get anything with a dollar. I was standing in the aisle at Walmart last week, noticing how very few things were under a dollar. You can get some very small candy bars, some very small cigarette lighters, and some very small keychain lights.

You can also get another song from Lana Del Rey, which I did, and which is now available for streaming pronto. I like how she sings, kind of like she doesn’t give jack whether she finishes the song or not. It’s wonderfully depressing.

Video Games – Lana Del Rey

I was watching Saturday Night Live two or three weekends ago, and caught Lana Del Rey performing the songs Blue Jeans and Video Games. I didn’t think she was all that bad; not brilliant live, but not bad either. I put my free Amazon mp3 credit to good use and downloaded Blue Jeans.

If you’ve heard Mad World by Gary Jules, you know, the really depressing song about how horrid folks are, you’ll notice they’re in the same melancholy key of F minor and pretty much sound the same. That’s fine by me, though. Everyone needs to listen to depressing songs every once in a while.

Blue Jeans – Lana Del Rey

A few hours this weekend was spent under the hood of my car adjusting valves, changing the oil, changing the fuel filters. This naturally led to getting air in the system, which naturally led to no cylinders firing. I need all five of the cylinders to fire in order for the car to, you know, drive around, so even more hours were spent under the hood. They finally all fired enabling me to, you know, drive around.

But still.

Old cars are like old people. Don’t get me wrong…old cars are great. Old people are great too, but to follow the analogy, you can’t use old people very hard or they break. They need a lot of upkeep. Their Depends need changed, you’ve got to be careful what you feed them, their bones are brittle, and they also can have a nasty attitude, and they also leak out stuff.

I’m pretty sure car years are about the same as dog years. If that’s the case, my car is 196 years old. My car is a former German supermodel. To put it one way, she used to be like Diane Kruger, you know, one of those girls who looks in the mirror when she wakes up in the morning and never wishes she could be really ridiculously good looking. But that was 196 years ago. She’s now protesting being dressed in cocktail attire. It makes my calves look bad, she says. I’m not as fit as I used to be. I’ve got cankles. I sag a bit around the knee joint.

Is that what you want, old German supermodel? Would you like to be treated with the proper respect due a 196-year-old? Let me swathe your derrière with Depends. Let me give you orthopedic footwear. Let me buy you wooden-bead seat covers and when I feed you let me squirt in some extra vitamins. Want me to smooth out those wrinkles? The little paste you buy in a can doesn’t work anymore. We’ll have to go the Botox route, and that costs more than you’re worth. You’ll have to sag. Bones brittle? I can buy replacement bones, easy. As long as a foot doesn’t fall off. While running. Why are you running? You need a walker. With tennis balls.

I am writing this in Midnight Oil. I am currently two tables down from the single most annoying and repulsive girl ever spawned on the face of this forsaken earth.

She’s become engaged very recently, and is loudly proclaiming the beauty of her left hand. I’m fine with girls flashing their rings. It’s normal. Guys show off things like cars, and guns, and guitars, and television sets. Girls show off rings. But this girl is taking it to the next level. Her fiancé is sitting next to her, and he’s being equally repugnant right now. He’s doing way too well in the I-support-my-new-fiancee role.

I was in here Friday night, see, and they were doing the exact same thing then, so I’m sensitive about it right now.

Think of Daffy Duck’s voice. Daffy must have stolen it, because it originally belonged to this girl. She’s complaining about both her mother and her future mother-in-law. “I don’t care! I just said NO. She is NOT making me have three receptions and desserts on the Arkansas Queen we are absolutely NOT driving down to Jonesboro or Little Rock or wherever it is and getting on some boat and having a dessert reception on the river, and we CAN’T have those two people on the same side of the wedding party because my mother absolutely hates Sam, that’s the way it is, exactly, and Vanessa is going to be mad because, you know, I don’t want to hear about it for the rest of my life, but I can’t be like I don’t want them to be a part, he’s just not invited, you know?”

I want to raise my cup of coffee to this fine young woman. And then sharply break it over her head.

“I mean look at me,” she is saying right now, “can you believe that the wedding might happen like this? We’re going to cut the first layer into patterns like this, see. Isn’t that CUTE? I love it. It’s a wedding, that’s the point!”

Those who have been unfortunately trapped by her feminine wiles, including her fiancé and a largish girl wearing a green shirt with black horizontal stripes, are listening intently. They are agreeing with every blessed statement she makes.

“Look at my ring!” She thrusts her arm into the air and waves it around for the coffeeshop to see. Everyone averts their eyes except for me. It’s a little larger than the grain of rice I ate for lunch earlier (I ate more than one grain of rice…but you get the point).

“Have you seen the designs on the side of the band?” the guy asks the largish girl with the green shirt. They flash, for at least the sixth time so far, the fiancee’s ring finger. “They’re really beautiful.”

In my mind’s eye, I picture a scene in which I stand up, bellow out a horrific man scream, grab a Louisville Slugger, and smash this girl through the French windows like an whiny-voiced female baseball.

Get her out of here, I want to tell her fiancé. For the love of all things holy get her out of here before I lose it!

They’re leaving. Thank the heavens alive. The girl is dragging them out of the building. But wait. Let’s stop at this table and show the off-duty barista my ring finger. And let’s wave at these people. And him. Can’t forget Patrick.

And Daffy Duck exits the building. Thank the heavens alive.

So yesterday I buzzed into Little Rock for some various bits of business, and I ended up hitting up a few different coffeeshops in between meetings or meals. The first was disappointing, mostly because they didn’t offer the essential service of free Wi-Fi which every country in the entire world now offers as a staple, including Nigeria and the smaller Polynesian islands. The second was a Starbucks, which is generically disappointing. I was forced to crash there, mostly because I was waiting for sundown (lycanthropy…don’t ask).

Genericism disappoints me as a rule; that’s why anarchism doesn’t always seem like such an incredibly bad idea. But back to the topic (there was one?) the state of coffee in the southern United States is pretty disappointing. There wasn’t a single really great coffeeshop in Charlotte, and there isn’t a single really great coffeeshop in Little Rock. Seattle and New York are vying for first place right now, and I’m sure I just haven’t been to enough northern towns to know if it’s just far more widespread up there.

At one point in Little Rock, I stopped somewhere and asked a question. Talk about genericism, you say. Be a little more descriptive. Well, I won’t. I’m changing the names to protect the guilty. Anyway, this said person at this said place answered the said question with something along the lines of “let me validate that with my hierarchical command unit and I will issue a response to you post-haste.”

This isn’t the Pentagon, ma’am, I wanted to say. This is Some Other Place (name changed to protect the guilty).

Sort of like one of those people who like to describe something very simple in a very complicated manner, in order to make themselves seem like some sort of prodigious genius. The other day I was listening to a man describe his first job. He said something along the lines of “I analyzed the operation of various instrumentation devices and then performed reconstruction processes” which, turns out, simply means that he fixed engine gauges at some sort of factory. He sounded just like the retail worker who tells you they need to “process this return authorization number through their inventory system” when all they’re doing is scanning a barcode and giving you your cash back.

We’re not interested in your resume, dear sir. If we were, we’d ask for it.

But we are interested in results. I’m interested in getting the $28 cash back, and interested in getting a good response, and interested in a very nicely made macchiato.

In the circles I normally frequent, I’ve come to notice a special trend. Maybe trend is a poor word to use for it; the thing I’ve been noticing is much more than a trend.

Idealism. It continues to baffle me. I wrote about it in a post last June called, suitably enough, roadkill in our fantasy world. In it, I insensitively critiqued those who accept idealism as the preferable form of life. I also slammed idealism in about a dozen other posts, therefore proving I really have it out for this subject. Take a gander at mom & pop: homicide or suicide, pietism & knitting, and be good.

Idealism isn’t limited to any one sort of group. Idealism is just as prevalent in my liberal progressive hippie friends as it is in my conservative fundamentalist farmer friends. The way it’s displayed may differ, but it’s just as prevalent and just as important to the way they operate.

The liberal progressive (who is also probably infatuated with things like human rights, social justice, storytelling, journalism, tolerance and folk music) seems to become indignant about things…a lot. Things like newspapers shutting down, or unhealthy fast food, or their favorite underground documentaries not getting enough attention at Sundance, or on and on and on.

And…oddly?

The conservative fundamentalist (who is probably infatuated with things like classical literature, homeschooling, mission fields, and folk music) also becomes indignant about things…a lot. Things like mom & pop stores shutting down, or unhealthy fast food, or their favorite conservative films not getting any attention at Sundance. Or on and on and on.

It seems like the art of being indignant is an even more universal thread between these two viewpoints than idealism itself is.

I’m all for the art of being stubborn, or the art of being opinionated, but the art of being indignant is something different. I think it reflects more on the insecurities of the indignant rather than the principles they hold. That’s what blind dogmatism is, after all; the art of being so insecure in a belief that the only defense is being completely, totally, absolutely indignant about anything even slightly different.

This makes the second time that someone’s come into a coffeeshop and asked if they could buy my car. The first time, granted, it was a pimply faced kid who probably babysat for a living, so I’m not quite sure if that counts. The second time, it was legitimate, and the guy left his phone number, and I mentioned several times that I wasn’t really selling it at the moment. But in moments of rapturous love, men such as these don’t listen to naysaying. One of these days I’ll probably visit some other coffeeshop and dash in the door, and ask: who drives the Civic and would they like to sell it? No, really. Would you like to sell it? Man I love that car, here’s my number if you’re ever going to sell it, you rarely see Civics these days, especially white ones. What? You also drive a minivan? What kind? Can I buy it? Does it work? Give me a call! 5-0-1, I’m a local. Thank you.

I’ve made a unique observation about the Asians who’ve begun frequenting Midnight Oil. The Japanese close the door after they walk in. The Chinese leave it hanging wide open. Every. Single. Time. What is up with this? This is Arkansas in winter, complete with sub-freezing breezes and waves of cold rain. Doors keep these things out. Doors open, doors close.

This observation isn’t necessarily relegated to Asians, of course. Caucasians are just as flaky about leaving doors hanging wide open…they’re just not as predictable. I’m not sure how many times I’ve been peacefully sitting down drinking a latte when some bulging American bursts through the door in a mad dash for their extra-large granita. I’m left with a blistering stab of cold down my collar, and eventually I will get up and shut the door for the oversized thirty-year-old toddler.

I might be unreasonable in my pet peeve, but I’d much rather be unreasonable and dry before being reasonable and wet.

Think About It – Herb Alpert

Postmodernism is already out of style. It’s evolved into something even further, which I’ll call postpostmodernism. I’ve figured most of it out. For the most part, those who strive for this ambiguous, feel-good morality aren’t doing so out of some insidious pagan urge, but they’re definitely aware of the benefits of such a position.

This postpostmodernism is fulfilled in evangelical circles in things like the emergent church, or universalism, or even seemingly harmless trains of thought like cultural acceptance or tolerance. These are the sorts of people who attend house churches called things like Waterfall or Ethos or Sprinkle or RiseUpWayHigh or something else that sounds good on Twitter or in a TED Talk.

Postpostmodernism’s also got a really ambiguous morality, and this is why people like it. See, if you’re all about accepting crackheads and queers and Hindus as they are, it’s a lot easier living with yourself and your normal little sins.

Of course, this is a polar opposite from the hyper-conservative fundamentalists, and I’d argue that both positions are in a pretty sick state. On the other side, see, people will gladly condemn you to hellfire for wearing a sleeveless dress or smoking a cigar or piercing your ear or reading the New King James.

Once I heard a diehard Calvinist state that they “considered it a sin to marry an Arminian.” To me this seems slightly ludicrous, mostly because of the horrific long-term effects that such a policy would have on, you know, stuff like inbreeding and the gene pool. If it was truly sinful to marry outside one’s position on predestination, I can’t help but imagine all of the third-generation Calvinists with three pinky toes and no chin.

Ambiguous morality faces off against legalistic self-righteousness.

Very few moderate themselves. They like to cluster, and that makes some move off to the wilds of South Dakota and drink raw goat milk. Others move off to the wilds of Manhattan and drink absinthe. The first start sewing gingham dresses and overalls. The others pull out the tattoo gun and the Botox injector.

So I went to Waffle House this morning because it’s the thing to do, and I was the first one there so I waited about a quarter hour before I ordered. During the time that passed, I took a booth in the back corner and slid into the seat with the best view of Waffle House humanity. During school, this was literally the only hangout in Searcy to be at anytime past midnight, when the Oil closes. The food is suitably greasy, the waitresses are suitably friendly and totally scandalous, and the atmosphere is in general homey & down-to-earth, in a singlewide nightmare sort of way.

Management was doing a routine regional checkup this morning, so they walked around and made sure no one was unconscious and there were no drugs in the back. There were five waitresses this morning. All of them looked scary except for Caroline, who didn’t quite fit, because she’d actually done her hair. A man going for a Michael Jordan look (and failing) walked in and sat at the counter.

“Hey, Caroline,” he said. “What yo doin?”

“Shut yer mouth,” Caroline replied. “I ain’t talkin to you.”

“What I’d do?” the man replied.

“You was tellin lies out of yer mouth that I was trippin yesterday,” Caroline said.

“Whaaaaaaat?” said the man.

Caroline turned, flipped the waffles, and ignored the guy. He sat there for about thirty seconds, then walked out of the restaurant.

I turned back to my iPhone, to which I’d been paying false attention the whole while. I played a really good word in Words With Friends, then I looked back up at the room. A dude walked past me towards the bathrooms. He was wearing a pair of clear sunglasses, Bono-style, and wore a shiny faux leather jacket. Next in, some sort of motorcycle rider going for the Leonard Smalls, Lone Biker of the Apocalypse look. He was doing pretty good at it except I could see a hefty amount of buttcrack.

Then the rest of them showed up and we ate. After the last of the hash browns were gone, and after the rest of the guys left to buy Jed an ’87 Corolla, I went to the Oil where I spent the remainder of the midday looking at spreadsheets.

There, I ate tomato feta soup and listened to hippie music.

Midnight City – M83

It’s the first of January, so let’s wrap up last year’s blog content.

Let’s start with some statistics. To put it one way, gilgildner.com hasn’t quite had the cultural impact that cnn.com has, but it hasn’t been a shoddy effort. I’ve averaged an unsteady average of ten to forty visitors a day, spiking on the days I post something disturbing or unsettling (like newsflash! mom jeans out of style! or like newsflash! people suck!) and dropping whenever my posts veer towards the generic. I’ve only had a little over 2,400 visits all totaled, so make from that what you will. Since I’ve got a return visit rate of over 70%, I suppose I haven’t offended too many people.

Darn it. Will try better this year.

Last year, since I started in May, I only wrote a total of 77 posts. That works out to around a post every two and a half days. Must do better on this one. Must find some sensitive nerve to irritate. I need more angry anonymous comments to snicker at (especially because most anonymous commenters don’t seem to realize I can see where they post from).

Let’s do some rudimentary housekeeping.

• Though I’ve already hit my alma mater’s lovely online bulletin board with the ad, I thought I’d let my readership know of an amazing opportunity to purchase my custom made electric bass. Cherry sunburst finish. Tortoise pattern pickguard. Chrome tuners & knobs. Rosewood fretboard. Why am I selling it? I don’t know. As I sit on my bed typing away, I look up and I see four guitars leaning against the wall. There’s three or four more around here somewhere. $650. Negotiate with me.
• Please take this opportunity (this one doesn’t cost you) to visit www.onemindcreative.net. One Mind Creative is a new venture that I’ve been starting up with my friend, John Packer. We provide graphic design, branding, visual identity, commercial art, marketing, and web design services. I have high hopes for One Mind, especially since he has both better hair and a nicer demeanor than I do (two major deficiencies in my makeup).
• If you don’t follow me on Twitter, you really should. Twitter is sort of an elitist version of Facebook, except without the annoying people who try to friend you even though you can’t stand them.

Since the whole blog thing is supposed to be an interactive art piece thing, let’s make it work better in that regard. To start, some basic questions.

1. Does anyone give a hot fudge sundae what obscure band I’m listening to at the moment?
2. If I slam more liberals will you get pumped up and post excited comments?
3. If I slam more conservatives will you get pumped up and post excited comments?
4. How about I just slam everybody and everything?
5. Do I need more pictures? Of beer? Of concerts? Or just of the cultural toilet bowl that is the South in general?

Answer me these!