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Getting a bit overwhelmed with the coronapocalypse.

First off, I'm sorry if this post is off-topic or inappropriate here, but I like the blog and enjoy lurking in this community.
I don't really want to start a conversation. At least, it's not my goal. Also, please know I'm not going to do anything rash. I just want to get these thoughts off my chest (more accurately, out of my head), and you guys here are the kind of people I'd want reading them. I don't need a response, or even an upvote. It's enough knowing someone will read it.
I'm not asking for help.
I'm not exactly sure what any of us, individually, can really do right now anyway. We aren't in control now, and that's sobering and terrifying.
If you want to help me, just try to influence things in your microcosm for good. Be kind and help your family, friends, and neighbors.
[Also, putting it out there ahead of time - feel free to look at my post history and decide that I'm not a good person. I'm fine with that, but know this is my troll/shitpost/inappropriate-use Reddit account. And it's my only Reddit account.]
I'm not a fan of social media. I like real people in the real world and avoid this sort of thing. Since that option been taken away, here I am.
That all being said, here is my rant:

This whole coronapocalypse/covidtastrophe/viriigeddon/end times is getting me down.

In "normal" times, I'd just drop some acid, and in the psychedelic state, I'd watch the news... see the squabbling of the US political parties (or any countries political parties), the other straight-up nonsense that passes as "news", shrieking hyperbolic hysterics, ridiculous posturing from talking heads, the stupid celebrities.... and I'd just laugh. The whole outside world would seem so disconnected with 'true reality' — all so 'alien' — and my only reasonable way to respond to it is with amusement and laughter. Such a great feeling, feeling being connected to something deeper.
At least, it was great, the news was always so ridiculous and FAKE, until now. Now it's serious, it's real, and there is no time for that kind of distraction.
Before I rant and ramble on, I need to say that I'm essentially the most grounded, most resilient, and most unfazed person out there, a goddamn rock no matter what supposed emergency is happening outside. A bit of a dick maybe, a bit of Floridaman, but not neurotic, and never one to panic.
I'm the stereotypical "prepper" dude, the macho asshole, proud redneck, and I've faced years of snide remarks, derision, maybe even simple eye rolling from my "liberal" "hippie" 'friends'. No offense to you guys.
I've got my "arsenal", the details of which I don't want to go public with. I've been training for our next civil war, like all the other paramilitary militia douchbags. I've got two years worth of MRE's in the pantry. I had my 250 rolls of toilet paper in the supply closet, from way before the current panic buying.
I've got my own private pharmacy (that that I regularly cycle expiring drugs out of) that practically meets the WHO definition of a functioning health system. I've got the majority of WHO Model List of Essential Medicines stocked, many acquired at great personal risk. Also, I don't know how to use a lot of it, but I've got surgical equipment, an external infusion pump, an oxygen generator, and even more stuff I'll probably never use.
I always joked that when the SHTF and it's TEOTWAWKI, the first thing I'd look to acquire would be a friendship with an actual doctor. The second would be a farmer friend - someone who doesn't kill off plants like I do.
Turns out that whole worldview was naive. None of my expected scenarios have come to fruition. I wasted my a lot of my time, and a decent amount of money.
So now, I'm just sad, and I'm scared.

I've been sick now - for a week.

I'm apparently one of 1,200 people still waiting for my test results (for more than four days now) after being roughly nose swabbed and throat scraped by a military medic. A very cute military medic girl, mind you, but still, a girl in a moonsuit, who seemed way more frightened than me.
I'm now under quarantine, at least through the 29th, regardless of what the test result turns out to be.
Turns out the test results won't even matter. COVID or no COVID, you get told to quarantine yourself, and call '911' if you stop breathing, informing them of your test status. It's like a bad joke.
We've got the National Guard deployed, literally right outside here. The military is building a field hospital at my local airport to handle "mass casualties". We've got 100 confirmed virus cases in my county alone and two days ago a poor man just died just a few miles east of me.

It's begun.

I'm not a young man, unlike most of you kids online today. Luckily though, I already work from home, for a startup, so there is not any change in routine work for me.
My biggest concern is for my elderly (and diabetic) mother. She is dependent on me for her care. I don't even know if I'm sick (Corona-sick, that is), and I sure don't want to get her sick. Hospitals here are on the verge of being overwhelmed. What if something happens? Even if I could get her to one, would it be any safer than treating her myself at home?
At this point, if the worst happens, it's looking like I'm going to have to bury her, by myself, in our backyard.
We can't even have a gathering of more than 10 people to have a proper funeral.
Oh, on top of all that, I'm apparently not getting a paycheck tomorrow. This is not the fault of anyone. I could hear my boss choking back tears. I'm going to keep working anyway, because what else can I do?
Now, with all this doom and gloom, I did what a lot of stressed out people with poor coping skills do: I called up my long-time reliable plug (drug dealer, for you normies), justifying my "final" relapse.
Of course, he doesn't have shit for me, but he is selling face masks. No deliveries either - he's shut up at home too. If I want his overpriced masks, he accepts Bitcoin now, and he'll push my purchase through his mail slot. I'd need to act fast, apparently, because he was taping plastic sheeting up over all the doors and windows. Seems the mail slot will soon be unavailable.
It's all like scenes from a bad movie outside.
I thought about going back to the Catholic Church, breaking down, confessing forty years of sins, but the Churches have all closed their doors. I waited too long, apparently. It's too late even for absolution.
My whole life has been peppered with threats of the apocalypse. We've been warned about the Reds and their atom bomb, then those commie's got the hydrogen bomb, and then we had Castro with his shitty little missiles - still tipped with nukes. I survived the Great Recycling of 1997 and the Hale-Bopp UFO. I think it was all supposed to end again, but in 1999. Then Y2K was it. Then 2012. Then killer asteroids - or are they actually meteors? Alien invaders maybe, with ray guns and particle beams. Jesus' Second Coming, the prophecies of Revelation. Maybe the Baptist's and Pentecostal's would get their Rapture? Or more likely Kurzweil and his Singularity - or should we call it Skynet? Perhaps genetic modifications gone wrong? Or some time travel mishap... paradoxes... a fatal causality trap. Supervolcano eruption: Yellowstone goes boom! Cobalt Thorium G doomsday devices. Global crop failures and subsequent mass starvation. Perhaps the boring Red v. Blue Civil War scenario I'd been running around in the woods "practicing" for?
Nope. All fucking bullshit.
Seems like we are all going to die looking out our windows, watching the sun shining, alone and quarantined, binge-watching the pandemic movie marathon on Netflix.
When I'm gone, my friendly neighbors will get to split up my stock of MRE's. I hope the nice old lady at the end of the block gets first dibs on my toilet paper stash.
This isn't the end times we were promised at all.
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but with a whimper.
I just want everything to be OK.
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melville charitable has been created

By Herman Melville I AND MY CHIMNEY (i.) I and my chimney, two grey-headed old smokers, reside in the country. We are, I may say, old settlers here; particularly my old chimney, which settles more and more every day. Though I always say, I and my chimney, as Cardinal Wol- sey used to say, I and my King, yet this egotistic way of speak- ing, wherein I take precedence of my chimney, is hardly borne out by the facts; in everything, except the above phrase, my chimney taking precedence of me. Within thirty feet of the turf-sided road, my chimney——a huge, corpulent old Harry VIII of a chimney——rises full in front of me and all my possessions. Standing well up a hill-side, my chimney, like Lord Rosse's monster telescope, swung verti- cal to hit the meridian moon, is the first object to greet the ap- proaching traveler's eye; nor is it the last which the sun salutes. My chimney, too, is before me in receiving the first-fruits of the seasons. The snow is on its head ere on my hat; and every spring, as in a hollow beech tree, the first swallows build their nests in it. But it is within doors that the pre-eminence of y chimney is most manifest. When in the rear room, set apart for that ob- ject, I stand to receive my guests (who, by the way, call more, I suspect, to see my chimney than me), I then stand, not so much before, as, strictly speaking, behind my chimney, which is, indeed, the true host. Not that I demur. In the presence of my betters, I hope I know my place. From this habitual precedence of my chimney over me, some even think that I have got into a sad rearward way altogether; in short, from standing behind my old-fashioned chimney so much, I have got to be quite behind the age too, as well as running behindhand in everything else. But to tell the truth, I never was a very forward old fellow, nor what my farming neighbors call and forehanded one. Indeed, those rumors about my behindhandedness are so far correct, that I have an odd sauntering way with me sometimes of going about with my hands behind my back. As for my belonging to the rear-guard in general, certain it is, I bring up the rear of my chimney—— which, by the way, is this moment before me——and that, too, both in fancy and fact. In brief, my chimney is my superior; my superior by I know not how many heads and shoulders; my superior, too, in that humbly bowing over with shovel and tongs, I must minister to it; yet never does it minister, or in- cline over to me; but, if anything, in its settlings, rather leans the other way. My chimney is grand seignior here——the one great dom- ineering object, not more of the landscape, than of the house; all the rest of which house, in each architectural arrangement, as may shortly appear, is, in the most marked manner, accom- modated, not to my wants, but to the chimney's, which, among other things, has the centre of the house to itself, leaving but the odd holes and corners to me. But I and my chimney must explain; and, as we are both rather obese, we may have to expatiate. In those houses which are strictly double houses——that is, where the hall is in the middle——the fireplaces usually are pon opposite sides; so that while one member of the household is warming himself at a fire built into a recess of the north wall, say another member, the former owner's brother, perhaps, may be holding his feet to the blaze before a hearth in the south wall——the two thus fairly sitting back to back. Is this well? Be it put to any man who has a proper fraternal feeling. Has it not a sort of sulky appearance? But very probably this style of chimney building originated with some architect afflicted with a quarrelsome family. Then again, almost every modern fireplace has its separate flue——separate throughout, from hearth to chimney-top. At least such an arrangement is deemed desirable. Does this not look egotistical, selfish? But still more, all these separate flues, instead of having independent masonry establishments of their own, or instead of being grouped together in one federal stock in the middle of the house——instead of this, I say, each flue is surreptitiously honey-combed into the walls; so that these last are here and there, or indeed almost anywhere, treacherously hollow, and, in consequence, more or less weak. Of course, the main reason of this style of chimney building is to economize room. In cities, where lots are sold by the inch, small space is to spare for a chimney constructed on magnani- mous principles; and, as with most thin men, who are generally tall, so with such houses, what is lacking in breadth must be made up in height. This remark holds true even with regard to many very stylish abodes, built by the most stylish of gentle- men. And yet, when that stylish gentleman, Louis le Grand of France, would build a palace for his lady friend, Madame de Maintenon, he built it but one story high——in fact, in the cot- tage style. But then, how uncommonly quadrangular, spacious, and broad——horizontal acres, not vertical one. Such is the pal- ace which, in all its one-storied magnificence of Languedoc marble, in the garden of Versailles, still remains to this day. Any man can buy a square foot of land and plant a liberty- pole upon it; but it takes a king to set apart whole acres for a Grand Trianon. But nowadays it is different; and furthermore, what origi- nated in a necessity has been mounted into a vaunt. In towns there is a large rivalry in building tall houses. If one gentleman builds his house four stories high, and another gentleman comes next door and builds five stories high, then the former, not to be looked down upon that way, immediately sends for his architect and claps a fifth and a sixth story on top of his pre- vious four. And, not til the gentleman has achieved his aspira- tion, not till he has stolen over the way by twilight and observed how the sixth story soars beyond his neighbor's fifth——not till then does he retire to rest with satisfaction. Such folks, it seems to me, need mountains for neighbors, to take this emulous conceit of soaring out of them. If, considering that mine is a very wide house, and by no means lofty, aught in the above may appear like interested pleading, as if I did but fold myself about in the cloak of a gen- eral proposition, cunningly to tickle my individual vanity be- neath it, such misconceptions must vanish upon my frankly conceding that land adjoining my alder swamp was sold last month for ten dollars an acre, and thought a rash purchase at that; so that for wide houses hereabouts there is plenty of room, and cheap. Indeed, so cheap——dirt cheap——is the soil, that our elms thrust out their roots in it, and hang their great boughs over it, in the most lavish and reckless way. Almost all our crops, too, are sown broadcast, even peas and turnips. A farmer among us, who should go about his twenty-acre field, poking his finger into it here and there, and dropping down a mustard seed, would be thought a penurious, narrow-minded husbandman. The dandelions in the river-meadows, and the forget-me-nots along the mountain roads, you see at once they are put to no economy in space. Some seasons, too, our rye comes up, here and there a spear sole and single like a church- spire. It doesn't care to crowd itself where it knows there is such a deal of room. The world is wide, the world is all before us, says the rye. Wees, too, it is amazing how they spread. No such thing as arresting them——some of out pastures being a sort of Alsatia for the weeds. As for the grass, every spring it is like Kossuth's rising of what he calls the peoples. Mountains, too, a regular camp-meeting of them. For the same reason, the same all-sufficiency of room, our shadows march and countermarch, going through their various drills and masterly evolutions, like the old imperial guard on the Champs de Mars. As for the hills, especially where the roads cross them, the supervisors of our various towns have given notice to all concerned, that they can come and dig them down and cart them off and never a cent to pay, no more than for the privilege of picking blackberries. The stranger who is buried here, what liberal-hearted landed proprietor among us grudges him his six feet of rocky pasture? Nevertheless, cheap, after all, as our land is, and much as it is trodden under foot, I, for one, am proud of it for what it bears; and chiefly for its three great lions——the Great Oak, Ogg Mountain, and my chimney. Most houses are are but one and a half stories high; few exceed two. That in which I and my chimney dwell, is in width nearly twice its height, from sill to eaves——which accounts for the magnitude of its main content——besides showing that in this house, as in this country at large, there is abundance of space, and to spare, for both of us. The frame of the old house is of wood——which but the more sets forth the solidity of the chimney, which is of brick. And as the great wrought nails, binding the clapboards, are unknown in these degenerate days, so are the huge bricks in the chimney walls. The architect of the chimney must have had the pyramid of Cheops before him; for after that famous structure it seems modeled, only its rate of decrease towards the summit is con- siderably less, and it is truncated. From the exact middle of the mansion it soars from the cellar, right up through each suc- cessive floor, till, four feet square, it breaks water from the ridge-pole of the roof, like an anvil-headed whale, through the crest of a billow. Most people, though, liken it, in that part, to a razeed observatory, masoned up. The reason for its peculiar appearance above the roof touches upon rather delicate ground. How shall I reveal that, foras- much as many years ago the original gable roof of the old house had become very leaky, a temporary proprietor hired a band of woodmen, with their huge, crosscut saws, and went to saw- ing the old gable roof clean off. Off it went, with all its birds' nests, and dormer windows. It was replaced with a modern roof, more fit for a railway wood-house than an old country gentleman's abode. This operation——razeeing the structure some fifteen feet——was, in effect upon the chimney, something like the falling of the great spring tides. It left uncommon low water all about the chimney——to abate which appearance, the same person now proceeds to slice fifteen feet off the chimney itself, actualyl beheading my royal old chimney——a regicidal act which, were it not for the palliating fact that he was a poulterer by trade, and, therefore, hardened to such neck- wringings, should send that former proprietor down to pos- terity in the same cart with Cromwell. Owing to its pyramidal shape, the reduction of the chimney inordinately widened its razeed summit. Inordinately, I say, but only in the estimation of such as have no eye to the pic- turesque. What care I, if, unaware that my chimney, as a free citizen of this free land, stands upon an independent basis of its own, people passing it wondering how such a brick-kiln, as they call it, is supported upon mere joists and rafters? What care I? I will give a traveler a cup of switchel, if he ants it; but am I bound to supply him with a sweet taste? Men of cultivated minds see, in my old house and chimney, a goodly old elephant- and-castle. All feeling hearts will sympathize with me in what I am now about to add. The surgical operation, above referred to, nec- essarily brought into the open air a part of the chimney previously under cover, and intended to remain so and, there- fore, not built of what are called weather-bricks. In con- sequence, the chimney, though of a vigorous constitution, suffered not a little from so naked an exposure; and, unable to acclimate itself, ere long began to fail——showing blotchy symp- toms akin to those in the measles. Whereupon travelers, passing my way, would wag their heads, laughing: "See that wax nose ——how it melts off!" But what cared I? The same travelers would travel across the sea to view Kenilworth peeling away, and for a very good reason: that of all artists of the picturesque, decay wears the palm——I would say, the ivy. In fact, I've often thought that the proper place for my old chimney is ivied old England. In vain my wife——with what probable ulterior intent will, ere long, appear——solemnly warned me, that unless something were done, and speedily, we should be burnt to the ground, owing to the holes crumbling through the aforesaid blotchy parts, where the chimney joined the roof. "Wife," said I, "far better that my house should burn down, than my chimney should be pulled down, though but a few feet. They call it a wax nose; very good; not for me to tweak the nose of my superior." But at last the man who has a mortgage on the house dropped me a note, reminding me that, if my chimney was allowed to stand in that invalid condition, my policy of insurance would be void. This was a sort of hint not to be neglected. All the world over, the picturesque yields to the pocketesque. The mort- gagor cared not, but the mortgagee did. So another operation was performed. The wax nose was taken off, and a new one fitted on. Unfortunately for the expression ——being put up buy a squint-eyed mason who, at the time, had a bad stitch in the same side——the new nose stands a little awry, in the same direction. Of one thing, however, I am proud. The horizontal dimen- sions of the new part are unreduced. Large as the chimney appears upon the roof, that is nothing to its spaciousness below. At its base in the cellar, it is precisely twelve feet square; and hence covers precisely one hundred and fourty-four superficial feet. What an appropriation of terra firma for a chimney, and what a huge load for this earth! In fact, it was only because I and my chimney formed no part of his an- cient burden, that that stout peddler, Atlas of old, was enabled to stand up so bravely under his pack. The dimensions given may, perhaps, seem fabulous. But, like those stones at Gilgal, which Joshua set up for a memorial of having passed over Jor- dan, does not my chimney remain, even unto this day? Very often I go down into my cellar, and attentively survey the vast square of masonry. I stand long, and ponder over, and wonder at it. It has a druidical look, away down in the umbrageous cellar there, whose numerous vaulted passages, and far glens of gloom, resemble he dark, damp depths of primeval woods. So strongly did this conceit steal over me, so deeply was I penetrated with wonder at the chimney, that one day——when I was a little out of my mind, I now think——get- ting a spade from the garden, I set to work, digging round the foundation, especially at the corners thereof, obscurely prompted by dreams of striking upon some old, earthen-worn memorial of that bygone day when, into all this gloom, the light of heaven entered, as the masons laid the foundation-stones, peradventure sweltering under the August sun, or pelted by a March storm. Plying my blunted spade, how vexed was I by that ungracious interruption of a neighbor, who, calling to see me upon some business, and being informed that I was below, said I need not be troubled to come up, but he would go down to me; and so, without ceremony, and without my having been forewarned, suddenly discovered me, digging in my cellar. "Gold-digging, sir?" "Nay, sir," answered I, starting, "I was merely——ahem! merely ——I say merely digging——round my chimney." "Ah, loosening the soil, to make it grow. Your chimney, sir, you regard as too small, I suppose; needing further develop- ment, especially at the top?" "Sir!" said I, throwing down the spade, "do not be personal. I and my chimney——" "Personal?" "Sir, I look upon this chimney less as a pile of masonry than as a personage. It is the king of the house. I am but a suffered and inferior subject." In fact, I would permit no gibes to be cast at either myself or my chimney; and never did my visitor refer to it in my hearing, without coupling some compliment with the mention. It deserves a respectful consideration. There it stands, solitary and alone——not a council -of-ten flues, but, like his sa- cred majesty of Russia, a unit of an autocrat. Even to me, its dimensions, at times, seem incredible. It does not look so big——no, not even in the cellar. By the mere eye, its magnitude can be but imperfectly comprehended, because only one side can be received at one time; and said side can only present twelve feet, linear measure. But then, each other side also is twelve feet long; and the whole obviously forms a square; and twelve times twelve is one hundred and forty-four. And so, and adequate conception of the magnitude of this chim- ney is only to be got at by a sort of process in the higher math- ematics, by a method somewhat akin to those whereby the surprising distances of fixed stars are computed. It need hardly be said that the walls of my house are entirely free from fireplaces. These all congregate in the middle——in the one grand central chimney, upon all four sides of which are hearths——two tiers of hearths——so that when, in the various chambers, my family and guests are warming themselves of a cold winter's night, just before retiring, then, though at the time they may not be thinking so, all their faces mutually look towards each other, yea, all their feet point to one centre; and, when they go to sleep in their beds, they all sleep round one warm chimney, like so many Iroquois Indians, in the woods, round their one heap of embers. And just as the Indians' fire serves, not only to keep them comfortable, but also to keep off wolves, and other savage monsters, so my chimney, by its ob- vious smoke at he top, keeps off prowling burglars from the towns ——for what burglar or murderer would dare break into an abode from whose chimney issues such a continual smoke_— betokening that if the inmates are not stirring, at least fires are, and in case of an alarm, candles may be lighted, to say nothing of muskets. But stately as is the chimney——yea, grand high altar as it is, right worthy for the celebration of High Mass before the Pope of Rome, and all his cardinals——yet what is there perfect in this world? Caius Julius Caesar, had he not been so inordinately great, they say that Brutus, Cassius, Antony, and the rest, had been greater. My chimney, were it not so mighty in its magni- tude, my chambers had been larger. How often has my wife ruefully told me, that my chimney, like all English aristocracy, casts a contracting shade all round it. She avers that endless domestic inconveniences arise——more particularly from the chimney's stubborn central locality. The grand objection with her is that it stands midway in the place where a fine entrance- hall ought to be. In truth, there is no hall whatever to the house ——nothing but a sort of square landing-place, as you enter from the wide front door. A roomy enough landing-place, I admit, but not attaining to the dignity of a hall. Now, as the front door is precisely in the middle of the front of the house, inwards it faces the chimney. In fact, the opposite wall of the landing- place is formed solely by the chimney; and hence——owing to the gradual tapering of the chimney——is a little less than twelve feet in width. Climbing the chimney in this part, is the princi- pal staircase——which, by three abrupt turns, and three minor landing-places, mounts to the second floor, where, over the front door, runs a sort of narrow gallery, something less than twelve feet long, leading to chambers on either hand. This gallery, of course, is railed; and so, looking down upon the stairs, and all those landing-places together, with the main one at bottom, resembles not a little a balcony for musicians, in some jolly old abode, in times Elizabethan. Shall I tell a weak- ness? I cherish the cobwebs there, and many a time arrest Biddy in the act of brushing them with her broom, and have many a quarrel with my wife and daughters about it. Now the ceiling, so to speak, of the place where you enter the house, that ceiling is, in fact, the ceiling of the second floor, not the first. The two floors are made one here, so that ascend- ing this turning stairs, you seem to go up into a kind of soar- ing tower, or light-house. At the second landing, midway up the chimney, is a mysterious door, entering to a mysterious closet; and here I keep mysterious cordials, of a choice, mys- terious flavor, made so by the constant nurturing and subtle ripening of the chimney's gentle heat, distilled through that warm mass of masonry. Better for wines is it than voyages to the Indies; my chimney itself a tropic. A chair by my chimney in a November day is as good for an invalid as a long season spent in Cuba. Often I think how grapes might ripen against my chimney. How my wife's geraniums bud there! Bud in December. Her eggs, too——can't keep them near the chimney, on account of hatching. Ah, a warm heart has my chimney. How often my wife was at me about that projected grand entrance-hall of hers, which was to be knocked clean through the chimney, from one end of the house to the other, and as- tonish all guests by its generous amplitude. "But, wife," said I, "the chimney——consider the chimney: if you demolish the foundation, what is to support the superstructure?" "Oh, that will rest on the second floor." The truth is, women know next to nothing about the realities of architecture. However, my wife still talked of running her entries and partitions. She spent many long nights elaborating her plans; in imagination build- ing her boasted hall through the chimney, as though its high mightiness were a mere spear of sorrel-top. At last, I gently reminded her that, little as she might fancy it, the chimney was a fact——a sober, substantial fact, which, in all her plannings, it would be well to take into full consideration. But this was not of much avail. And here, specially craving her permission, I must say a few words about this enterprising wife of mine. Though in years nearly as old as myself, in spirit she is young as my little sorrel mare, Trigger, that threw me last fall. What is extraordi- nary, though she comes of a rheumatic family, she is straight as a pine, never has any aches; while for me with the sciatica, I am sometimes as crippled up as any old apple tree. But she has not so much as a toothache. As for her hearing——let me en- ter the house in my dusty boots, and she away up in the attic. And for her sight——Biddy, the housemaid, tells other people's housemaids, that her mistress will spy a spot on the dresser straight through the pewter platter, put up on purpose to hide it. Her faculties are alert as her limbs and her senses. No danger of my spouse dying of torpor. The longest night in the year I've known her to lie awake, planning her campaign for the mor- row. She is a natural projector. The maxim, "Whatever is, is right," is not hers. Her maxim is, Whatever is, is wrong; and what is more, must be altered; and what is still more, must be altered right away. Dreadful maxim for the wife of a dozy old dreamer like me, who dotes on seventh days as days of rest, and, out of sabbatical horror of industry, will, on a week-day, go out of my road a quarter of a mile, to avoid the sight of a man at work. That matches are made in heaven, may be, but my wife would have been just the wife for Peter the Great, or Peter the Piper. How she would have set in order that huge littered em- pire of the one, and with indefatigable painstaking picked the peck of pickled peppers for the other. But the most wonderful thing is, my wife never thinks of her end. Her youthful incredulity, as to the plain theory, and still plainer fact of death, hardly seems Christian. Advanced in years, as she knows she must be, my wife seems to think that she is to teem on, and be inexhaustible forever. She doesn't believe in old age. At that strange promise in the plain of Mamre, my old wife, unlike old Abraham's, would not have jeeringly laughed within herself. Judge how to me, who, sitting in the comfortable shadow of my chimney, smoking my comfortable pipe, with ashes not unwelcome at my feet, and ashes not unwelcome all but in my mouth; and who am thus in a comfortable sort of not unwel- come, though, indeed, ashy enough way, reminded of the ul- timate exhaustion even of the most fiery life; judge how to me this unwarrantable vitality in my wife must come, sometimes, it is true, with a moral and a calm, but oftener with a breeze and a ruffle. If the doctrine be true, that in wedlock contraries attract, but how cogent a fatality must I have been drawn to my wife! While spicily impatient of present and past, like a glass of gin- ger-beer she overflows with her schemes; and, with like energy as she puts down her foot, puts down her preserves and her pickles, and lives with them in a continual future; or ever full of expectations both from time and space, is ever restless for newspapers, and ravenous for letters. Content with the years that are gone, taking no thought for the morrow, and looking for no new thing from any person or quarter whatever, I have not a single scheme or expectation on earth, save in unequal resistance of the undue encroachment of hers. Old myself, I take to oldness in things; for that cause mainly loving old Montaigne, and old cheese, and old wine; and eschewing young people, hot rolls, new book, and early potatoes, and very fond of my old claw-footed chair, and old club-footed Deacon White, my neighbor, and that still nigher old neighbor, my betwisted grape-vine, that of a summer evening leans in his elbow for cosy company at my window- sill, while I, within doors, lean over mine to meet his; and above all, high above all, am fond of my highmanteled old chimney. But she, out of that infatuate juvenility of hers, takes to nothing but newness; for that cause mainly, loving new cider in autumn, and in spring, as if she were own daughter of Nebuchadnezzar, fairly raving after all sorts of salads and spin- aches, and more particularly green cucumbers (though all the time nature rebukes such unsuitable young hankerings in so elderly a person, by never permitting such things to agree with her), and has an itch after recently-discovered fine pros- pects (so no grave-yard be in the background), and also after Swedenborgianism, and the Spirit Rapping philosophy, with other new views, alike in things natural and unnatural; and immortally hopeful, is forever making new flower-beds even on the north side of the house, where the bleak mountain wind would scarce allow the wiry weed called hard-hack to gain a thorough footing; and on the road-side sets out mere pipestems of young elms; though there is no hope of any shade from them, except over the ruins of her great granddaughters' grave-stones; and won't wear caps, but plaits her gray hair; and takes the Ladies' Magazine for the fashions; and always buys her new almanac a month before the new year; and rises at dawn; and to the warmest sunset turns a cold shoulder; and still goes on at odd hours with her new course of history, and her French, and her music; and likes young company; and offers to ride young colts; and sets out young suckers in the orchard; and has a spite against my elbowed old grape-vine, and my club-footed old neighbor, and my claw-footed old chair, and above all, high above all, would fain persecute, unto death, my high- manteled old chimney. By what perverse magic, I a thousand times think, does such a very autumnal old lady have such a very vernal young soul? When I would remonstrate at times, she spins round on me with, "Oh, don't you grumble, old man (she always calls me old man), it's I, young I, that keep you from stagnating." Well, I suppose it is so. Yea, after all, these things are well ordered. My wife, as one of her poor relations, good soul, intimates, is the salt of the earth, and none the less the salt of my sea, which otherwise were unwholesome. She is its monsoon, too blowing a brisk gale over it, in the one steady direction of my chimney. Not insensible of her superior energies, my wife has fre- quently made me propositions to take upon herself all the responsibilities of my affairs. She is desirous that, domestically, I should abdicate; that, renouncing further rule, like the vener- able Charles V, I should retire into some sort of monastery. But indeed, the chimney excepted, I have little authority to lay down. My wife's ingenious application of the principle that certain things belong to right to female jurisdiction, I find myself, through my easy compliances, insensibly stripped by de- grees of one masculine prerogative after another. In a dream I go about my fields, a sort of lazy, happy-go-lucky, good-for- nothing, loafing old Lear. Only by some sudden revelation am I reminded who is over me; as year before last, one day seeing in one corner of the premises fresh deposits of mysterious boards and timbers, the oddity of the incident at length begat serious meditation. "Wife," said I, "whose boards and timbers are those I see near the orchard there? Do you know anything about them, wife? Who put them there? You know I do not like the neighbors to use my land that way; they should ask per- mission first." She regarded me with a pitying smile. "Why, old man, don't you know I am building a new barn? Didn't you know that, old man?" This is the poor old lady that was accusing me of tyrannizing over her. To return now to the chimney. Upon being assured of the futility of her proposed hall, so long as the obstacle remained, for a time my wife was for a modified project. But I could never exactly comprehend it. As far as I could see through it, it seemed to involve the general idea of a sort of irregular arch- way, or elbowed tunnel, which was to penetrate the chimney at some convenient point under the stair-case, and carefully avoiding dangerous contact with fireplaces, and particu- larly steering clear of the great interior flue, was to conduct the enterprising traveler from the front door all the way into the dining-room in the remote rear of the mansion. Doubtless it was a bold stroke of genius, that plan of hers, and so was Nero's when he schemed his grand canal through the Isthmus of Corinth. Nor will I take oath, that, had her project been ac- complished, then, by help of lights hung at judicious intervals through the tunnel, some Belzoni or other might have suc- ceeded in future ages to penetrate through the masonry, and actually emerging into the dining-room, and once there, it would have been inhospitable treatment of such a traveler to have denied him a recruiting meal. But my bustling wife did not restrict her objections, nor in the end confine her proposed alterations to the first floor. Her ambition was of the mounting order. She ascended with her schemes to the second floor, and so to the attic. Perhaps there was some small ground for her discontent with things as they were. The truth is, there was no regular passage-way up stairs or down, unless we again except that little orchestra-gallery before mentioned. And all this was owing to the chimney, which my gamesome spouse seemed despitefully to regard as the bully of the house. On all its four sides, nearly all the cham- bers sidled up to the chimney for the benefit of a fireplace. The chimney would not go to them; they must needs go to it. The consequence was, almost every room, like a philosophical sys- tem, was in itself an entry, or passage-way to other rooms, and systems of rooms——a whole suite of entries, in fact. Going through the house, you seem to be forever going somewhere, and getting nowhere. It is like losing one's self in the woods; round and round the chimney you go, and if you arrive at all, it is just where you started, and so you begin again, and again get nowhere. Indeed——though I say it not in the way of fault- finding at all——never was there so labyrinthine an abode. Guests will tarry with me several weeks and every now and then, be anew astonished at some unforeseen apartment. 
from Herman Melville : Selected Tales and Poems Edited, with an introduction by Richard Chase Rinehart Edition paperback, seventh printing, 1959; pp. 159 —173.
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[Table] IAmA: I am Gavin McInnes. I put the bomp in the bomp bah bomp bah bomp. Ask me anything!

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Date: 2014-03-17
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Questions Answers
Gavin, thank you from the bottom of my heart for this. I think it was Iowa Hawk who said his problem with House of Cards is it portrays politicians as Machiavellian geniuses but they're really just ruthless assholes with low IQs.
My buddy and I love your opinion on the state of things, whether it is the word "bossy" or just people being assholes in general, especially politicians. Your harsh commentary is refreshing. Do you find it liberating to be the voice of reason when so many pundits are clearly bought and paid for? It's a good time to be a writer. People are scared to fucking criticize the president for crying out loud. It's like high school spirit pussies with shirts of their principal.
I agree with everything you say about men..but what advice do you have to be a cool lady? Don't get more tattoos than the square footage of your fist. You can spread out a bunch of little ones or get a big one but stop covering your entire leg in a squid. Also, don't give it out to every Tom, Dick, and Harry. Don't fuck a dude until the 3rd date unless you're POSITIVE this is the one. Know your ovaries don't last forever. At 30 the hourglass turns upside down and by 35 it's real tough to have a baby (before giving me some anecdotal evidence about your aunt who had a baby at 40, talk to your doctor about what happens the most often). If you're with a loser at 29, cut him loose because you are running out of time. Don't get all caught up in a career if you're not feeling it. Being a housewife is not selling out. It's the most noble profession there is. You're shaping lives. also, wear high heels as much as possible and don't cut your hair short. When we fuck you from behind we see a little boy. Same with when we're making out and we hold your short-cropped hair. It feels like a dude. That's rape.
Seriously, why are you such a fucking asshole? Scottish genes. After 800 years of getting invaded by the English we developed a tendency to enjoy conflict. The ones who didn't like trouble are extinct. I'm not happy unless I'm galloping on a horse and screaming FREEEDOM with my face painted blue. Seriously though, there are scientists who believe the Scots have some kind of genetic need to be in a bad situation. That's why they drink so much.
Fair enough. I figured someone was just always pissing in your cornflakes. Yeah. Tried it. It doesn't make you grumpy but piss BURNS your mouth like a motherfucker. What does make you grumpy is having something up your ass. That saying is accurate. On the way to this shoot, I was in a horrible mood. Link to youtu.be
I heard you on Adam Carolla's podcast last night! Truly awesome! What was it like shooting the shit with Carolla? Awesome but I thought we'd be best friends after. I went up to him and said, "Oh shit, we didn't talk about Windy City Heat" and he goes, "I never talk about that movie" then he thanked me for being on the show and left. I thought doing someone's show was like getting friend-married. It's almost like rich, successful people have their own lives or something.
Don't forget to answer my question! Haha. WHERE EXACTLY DO YOU PUT THE BOMP? Listen up 1 2 listen up 1 2 3 go. In the butt.
A while ago I finished your book, Death of Cool. As a youngster, it helped put to bed a lot of the fear I have about becoming older, in the sense that you proved that life can be made your bitch at any given moment, depending on your passion. So I'd like to thank you for that. Having kids makes you a real adult. Don't do it too soon but how long does it take you to sow your wild oats? I started drinking at 14 so by 34 I was like, "Okay, I get it." I also knew I was done fucking random chicks when I caught myself pumping her to the tune of a ska song. I got married soon after that.
I'd also like to ask: is there any specific point that you feel you turned into a real adult? How did that feel? If you could re-do your youth, what would you do differently, if anything? The goal of "Death of Cool" was to say to all the Still Alive Dash Snows out there: Don't quit. The party years are awesome years but that's just one stage of your life. You have a whole other life starting when you become a dad.
Any advise on getting back an ex? Or do I just need to man the f*ck up and move on!? The SECOND, she says, "I just feel like maybe you and I are…" storm out of the room and cut off all contact. If she's ever going to fuck you again it will because you did that and she sees you at a party a year later. DO NOT CALL HER. Delete her number. If you call her while you're wasted and cry, kill yourself immediately after.
Bonus Question: Have you ever heard of the Joe Rogan Podcast? Any interest on being on it? I have heard Joe Rogan's show. I love what he did to Carlos Mencia for stealing jokes. We need more guys like that in the world. Stop acquiescing that's not what we're here for. We're here to call bullshit on liars.
Hi! What advice would you give other people who would like to start an acting career? Theater-acting education or film-acting education? Go to an acting school at all? Move to LA? Don't go to school. Don't move to LA. Just make YouTube videos. If you're good, you'll get discovered. Or maybe don't choose such a stupid fucking vocation. What else do you want to be a rock star? Grow up. We don't need more actors. Hollywood recycles the same 7 guys. Learn a trade.
What's an old guy supposed to do if he has no urge to procreate? Keep partying? At what point does this become pathetic? You become pathetic if you're not married at 40. Grow the fuck up you pussy and stop playing video games. 40,000 years ago your ancestors ran from saber toothed tigers so you could be sitting at your desk typing. You're going to throw that all away because you smoked a bowl? Fuck you.
Is Greg Gutfeld really a prick in real life? Also I read you were a practicing Catholic, is that true? Greg is awesome in real life and a good drinker. Most successful people are. He's also really stimulating to talk to because he has a 1,000 theories about stuff. The guy has a well-thought-out opinion on everything. Yes I believe in God now. Grew up atheist with atheist parents and atheist grandparents on all side. I'm bringing' it back. I'm 3rd Degree Knights of Columbus too.
I used to be a bartender at a Knights of Columbus bar. Most of the patrons didn't remind me of you. I know. It's all blue collar guys over 70. That's what I like about it.
Shane Smith recently said in an interview that the old VICE office was extorted by a crackhead who would shit on your stoop unless you gave him a dollar every day. Did you know this wonderful man? This is a lie as is most of what he says. There was a very kind crackhead who would shadowbox outside our office and say good morning. He was a nice guy. I smoked crack with him once. There were also crack whores who would write graffiti on our stairway to their kids. It would say things like, "Mami misses you my angel. I'm coming for you soon." Pathetic.
Hi Gavin, love your work, especially your columns at Takimag. How'd you get involved with Taki? On a related note, when did newspaper opinion pages become so boring? I remember them being much more interesting-- both in the diversity of thought and in the talent of the writers-- back in the 90s. Any thoughts? I used to write for the American Conservative which Taki owned. When he started up the site I got an offer I couldn't refuse and have been there since. Kyle Smith from the NY Post had a good article recently about how comedians only make fun of poop now and won't say anything truly dangerous. Where'd everyone's balls go? It's not even that they're going to get fired. It's that they think they MIGHT get fired.
Loved the book...had to stop reading it in public because I was laughing out loud like an asshole. My question is this: Do you have any bitcoin yet? Bitcoin is like a new iPhone. You need to let them iron out the kinks for a couple years. Few more suicides and I'll jump in.
Hey Gavin, just wanted to say I listened to the HuffPo feminist debacle and was 95% on your side (I can say this without guilt, as Im a woman).The pendulum has swung way too far on the other side. Do you think it will ever be possible to get it were it should be? Well, if it doesn't, we're facing extinction. The French call it "La fin du race." Women don't want to fuck these pussy men in cardigans and flip flops. Who is going to continue the human race when balls aren't generating sperm and women are not wet?
Every time I say something like "most women would be happier at home" I get armies of male feminists telling me to go fuck myself and ten times as many women saying, "Thanks for that." I think the feminists of NYC and LA have successfully ostracized every other woman in the country.
Also, I called that woman a fucking idiot because she did the same to me. As far as I'm concerned calling someone's argument a "fantasy" and morphing your point into a straw men where they pretend you think NO WOMEN can EVER be in the workforce is the same as saying "Fucking idiot." I'm sick of letting these snarky fuckers get away with their little stabs. If they roll their eyes, you say, "Fuck you."
When do you think Perry Karamelly will stop being such a piece of shit and either return the money he stole from you, or fight you with honor? We will fight soon. He is surprisingly strong. When he kicked me down those stairs I was in the air going, "That was a good fucking kick."
When will William Randolph Hearst fight Perry Caramello? He needs to be knocked down a peg. It'll happen. WRH will get his $50. I tried to steal $50 of shit when I was at his apartment. I just grabbed a whole pile of documents from his filing cabinet. They're all totally useless crap like credit card offers.
Pretty much every gay guy I know has you on their short list of hot famous dudes. I guess this isn't a question? But good job. If the right wants to move forward and not get eaten alive by the stupid idiot left, they need to get over the gay thing.
Why is Vice so unfunny did you win humor in the divorce? I will never complain about Vice because I got a TON of cash. I'm not bananas about how they acted after and that may have been because of said amount but funny is rare. I'd say 10% of North Americans are funny (8% male and 2% female). Outside of the West, the numbers go way down. I'd say there are 37 funny people in all of China. I think they have one stand-up comedian and he's a white Canadian.
You were great on Adam Carolla's podcast this morning. Would you do your own podcast? Yes. I've recorded a bunch of episodes already and it combines celebrities with average Joes. There is no pattern with who is more interesting. So far the winners are some random lady from Harlem and Justin Theroux. I'll be ready to launch it soon.
"Are you serious?!" That's the title of this question. I have such a hard time deciphering your sarcasm from your serious comments. What's your tell? I don't believe in "trolling" or saying shit just to get a rise. It implies I give a flying fuck how you react to what I say. I may be hyperbolic and say "Women shouldn't have the vote" when what I mean is, "They tend to vote based on likeability more than policy." Basically, even my most outrageous jokes are based on truth. Tell me one where you don't think I was serious and I bet I can provide a pile of hard evidence to prove it was a totally rational thing to say.
What do you think of Toronto? Sub question: ever wish you were raising your kids in Canada? Never fuck a woman from Toronto. They are the worst lays on earth. Toronto went from being Kingston to being NYC overnight because the Separatists scared all the English there. The men regressed into hoser stereotypes but the women said, "Ok, we're URBAN now" and started dressing like teen ravers. They are phony sophisticated and wear tiny backpacks with Princess Leia buns at the age of 40. They also think anything dirty is somehow sexist so intercourse with them is egalitarian AKA boring. They don't even like it. Anyone who's read The Death of Cool will remember the chapter where the Toronto girl about to give me a hand job asks "Circles or strokes?"
Dealing with healthcare in America makes me wish I lived in Canada again. My kids are always banging something and we spend half the week in the hospital. The paperwork is a nightmare. I had to hire someone to deal with it. America needs Canada's single payer option like they have in Massachusetts (?). It's a fucking mess here.
Why do you think young folks today need to learn how to be a man? Don't listen to women. They pretend they want a beta male or someone who's "funny" but they just say that because it makes them sound empowered and sophisticated. They want a driven man who is going to protect them and make them feel safe. You don't have to be successful or handsome or rich, you just have to be ambitious. So, stop worrying about pussy and just work hard on your shit. The pussy will come from that. Like they say in Scotland, "Take care of the pennies and the pounds will take care of themselves."
What's the best book you've ever read? "Confederacy of Dunces" John Kennedy Toole "Death of the West" Pat Buchanan "Redneck Manifesto" Jim Goad I love all of Ann Coulter's books. David Sedaris. I'm reading a great book now by Paul Bloom called "Just Babies." I like Mark Steyn but Jesus that guy is depressing. Greg Gutfeld's "Not Cool" is his best book so far by far. I also love graphic novels especially anything by Peter Bagge. Check out "Other Stuff" and "Everyone is Stupid Except for Me."
Two years ago you mentioned maybe doing WTF at some point. Any news on that? Thanks for the laughs. I'm doing WTF at 3PM today. I can't wait. I have a feeling it will go like Adam Carolla. We'll have a great conversation and I'll take off my shoes like I'm moving in and he'll go, "Er, what are you doing? We're done."
Are you aware of the vice is hip twitter account and if so do you approve? I saw it after Patton Oswalt reTweeted it. I thought it was funny but I got the joke after a few and didn't feel the need to follow.
What happened after the abrupt ending of the Race Wars podcast? Sherrod was pissed. He put on his backpack and left right after she stormed out. I begged them not to ban her. I thought it was funny and it's not like she connected. It made for good radio.
Were you friends with Kenny Hotz before you judged the "Who Is Cooler" episode? Also, thanks for the public urination tips. Yeah. I've known him forever. I think we met through Derrick Beckles. We talk a few times a week. He's trying to get K VS. S on Netflix. Give him some support.
Favorite neoreactionary thinkeblogger? Steve Sailer.
Gavin fellow Canadian here, loved the book How To Piss In Public. One question...do you still party and get fucked up anymore? Yes but in the day with clients. Working in advertising at this level is just getting wasted all day and trying to discuss business while you're seeing double. By the time i get home, I've sobered up a bit. I don't do drugs anymore though. Not because I don't want to but because my old ass can't handle it. God I miss cocaine. Do it while you're young kids.
Do you still take showers in less than a minute? Fuckin right. What am I going to do condition my hair? That shit makes you go bald guys. I haven't washed my hair with anything but water in about 20 years and I have the hair of Samson.
Any plans to be on the Opie & Anthony show to promote "How to Be A Man"? It would be cool to hear you on that show. I got drunk with Anthony Cumia and pulled a Carolla after where I wanted to be friends too bad after. I even said, "Let's be friends. Is that gay?" I haven't heard from him since.
In you column about Western culture the other week you said that Russia is not good at all. Can you elaborate? Have you been there? What was it like? Never been. Never will. It's cold as balls and they think death is funny. Check out the Carolla podcast where we talk about the movie Splice. It's not far after the 50:20 mark.
Link to adamcarolla.com
How do you feel about Vice's current direction? I feel like since the focus shifted from print to basically all online content - the quality has gone to shit. I live in Detroit we used to stalk down the places that had the actual print copies of Vice come in. I haven't checked anything Vice since leaving. It's like checking in on your ex-wife. As far as them being the new CNN goes, I hope they pull it off. CNN sucks as does most mainstream news. Personally, I could give two shits about the non-Western world. I'm sure most people feel the same way. Link to dailycaller.com
I heard you say somewhere that a million hits on youtube is $34,000 in ad revenue? Is that accurate? Someone told me I could have made $43k from "How to Fight a Baby" but I don't have the monetize button clicked.
Do you have a full beard right now or the longer moustache? How do you "groom" your beard in that style? Clippers on the side and leave goatee and moustache longer? Thanks to Britain, I don't have a chin. That means I have to grow a fake one out of hair. Once you start with that, you can't not have a mustache or your fucking Primus bass playing funky SoCal West Coast Custom dude.
Was there anything from your own life experiences as a "dude" that you used in your new movie "How to be a man"? Just curious.. Of course. It's 100% real. Even the dude at the gay bar insisting you flash your dick before buying the coke. It would be easier for me to list the parts of the film that AREN'T based on actual events. I think there are maybe 3. Like, my wife never threw my shoes out the window. She did hit me so hard with a roll of pictures that I occasionally see lights in my peripheral vision.
Who is one actor you've always wanted to work with? Justin Theroux. As an actor my goal is to go full retard and I'm not kidding one bit.
What was your favorite thing you grabbed from that filthy javaho's apartment? Cards that had joke ideas a la Joan Rivers but they are all TERRIBLE. I'll put them up on Street Carnage at some point. His spelling is so bad, it's like learning a new language.
What is the best advice ever given to you? Wow, that's a tough one. Lemme think.
I mean, there are so many. I try to give them back as I get them. PUSSY From "The Vice Guide to Eating Pussy": You need to take it slow. Don't just ram your cock in a bitch (unless she's wasted and gagging for it). Save all the action for the 3rd act.
CAREER Don't think. Just do. It's like stocks. You don't check in every day. Just knuckle down and poke your head up every year or so and say, "How's this working?"
FIGHTING Go for the nose.
PICKING UP CHICKS Learn bass or get a bag of coke. You don't need to do it. Just have it.
LIFE Say yes to everything. If it turns out to be really shitty, you can leave then but at least you'd have tried it out. I think I've done every job in the world.
With all of your worldly experiences, what are some of the coolest jobs you've seen/had (gold stars if they include: traveling for work and photography) ? I think writing is the funnest job there is because English is like carpentry. It's a utilitarian tool that's very practical and has infinite possibilities. Dan Harmon wrote the funniest line ever which is, "As a cop, I've seen things that would make you crap a book, on how to puke." Trying to beat that is like a fun video game. Twitter is a mini version of this challenge. Traveling and photography are probably fun for the right person but it's not my bag. As the Butthole Surfers song "22 going on 23" says, "I did all my traveling in the army."
The short answer however is "Terry Richardson."
What are your thoughts on Montreal? Is it a good idea for a young anglo guy to GTFO? How's your French? Because if you can't speak it without an accent, you're not bilingual and you'll never make enough money to raise a family.
Red Eye question: Is it me, or is Bill Shultz's replacement being similarly pigeonhole cast? I recently heard she has fictitious children and she seems to be the brunt of "'Kick Me' sign" type jokes. I'd love to grab some whisky with your brother. She's being herself. You can't do a character every night for a career.
Gavin, if you could go back in time, what advice would you give to yourself at the age of 20? Get everything in writing BEFORE you do the job.
Hi gavin, i already have how to piss in public and i love it,should i buy your book ''death of cool'' ? NO. Death of Cool is just the paperback. If you really loved it, you may want to check out the Audiobook. THere are actors playing roles for New Wave Hookers and the Cuba chapter and in the Punk chapter I used the actual song I'm writing about from that actual show. Also, I started crying in the 9-11 chapter while talking about Derrick's mom. Link to www.audible.com
I'm living in Scotland, in the Highlands. Right now either I look for another job in a big city or go travel the world a bit. Which is more valuable at 20 years old? Cheers! Are you up by Skelmorlie? I fucking LOVE that area by the way. Why not stay there and try to make a go of it? Make it a better place. Why does everyone have to leave? Enough with the fucking refugees. Make your hometown better!
Where is the best place to get a burger in Williamsburg? Probably DuMont but you need to try the fish sandwich at Continental. It's so spicy it burns your pee the next day. Fuck I'm craving one right now.
I've enjoyed reading your writing over the years especially the recent stuff over at Takimag. I do wonder though if you didn't live in New York, where would you want to live and why? Thanks. Tons of places. I fucking love the South and would move there tomorrow if it wasn't a microwave 6 months of the year. I love Charlotte and Austin. I like the way San Francisco is laid out. YOu never feel claustrophobic there. I like rural Scotland North West of Glasgow (fucking hate Glasgow). Utrecht, Barcelona. Victoria BC. All of China can fuck off including TaiPei. Russia can suck it. So can all of Africa. I have a place in Montezuma which is fun to visit if you don't have kids but I haven't been in 7 years because I don't want my baby to get a scorpion bite (I've had many and they fuck you up for DAYS). I love all of France especially Montmarte in Paris. German can lick my balls. I love Italy and that language is like giving your ears a blow job but the South is so fucking boring it's insane. The mafia is the only thing remotely interesting about Sicily. What else? Uh...
Come on, do Red Eye fans a favor and let us know what happened with Bill Schulz? Not my place to say.
I respect that. But what about your brother Miles McInnes? I miss his progressive point of views. Did he have a falling out with Fox News or is he coming back soon? I think Greg is sick of the characters. I love doing Miles and Jimmy. I also would like to do a really smart crusty punk and a reformed soccer hooligan.
Any advice for starting a publication in 2014? If it's print, give up.
I'm the guy who invented hipsters. Few could say this honestly. Maybe Dov Charney? Nah.
Does your ad agency need an illustrator for anything? Dunno anymore. We got bought so I'm kind of sitting there with golden handcuffs waiting to hear what we're doing tomorrow.
Where is the best place to take a poop in Williamsburg? That's a tough one. Who walks around town without their shit game already handled? Take care of it at home for chrissakes.
What are your thoughts on HBO Vice? Haven't seen it. I hear it's pretty good.
How is the relationship between you and Shane? I always got the impression you fucking hated each other. The sales guy and the content guy are supposed to have an acrimonious relationship. That's how you have good content but still pay the bills.
Did you take this photo of this wolf spider? What a neat photo. I hear those fuckers can run like 2 ft/sec. That's pretty fucking terrifying. Yes I took that. They are all show. They never bite. They have fully taken over the catskills though.
How would you describe your fashion style? As weird as it may sound I'm not ashamed to admit I try get tips of your style! My latest look is the Specials second album. Not the first where everything was perfect. The second when they were bored and just doing covers and going on vacation and shit. I call it "Grumpy casual." Like early Shane McGowan. Fitted pants (not skinny jeans), desert boots, a cardigan, with a beat up Fred Perry or something. Check out "More Specials" in Google Image or "80s Specials"
Loved How To Piss In Public. Had me in tears several times. Other than that time when you swallowed your own cum, what was the worst thing you've ever tasted? I hate Chinese food in China. Here it's wonderful because it's been Westernized but not being a vegetarian over there is like french kissing your dad. Their motto is "If it moves, it's food" and they amount of insects and turtles and dogs on their menu is enough to make you dry heave. When I was last there I didn't eat for so long my shit was just black tar.
Serious Question: Dude...I have to ask: Do you think Dana Perino is secretly a power lesbian, especially after meeting her husband? Nope. She is straight as can be. I wish she had kids though. As is often the case with these people, the one who don't do it are the ones who would have been best at it.
Did you really give yourself Gonorrhea? Yep.
Did the readership of streetboners/carnage online go down after google reader went out of business? I used to religiously check on the feed everyday, until reader went out of business... and then i found reddit, and never looked back. Interesting. I think SC readership went down when I got a real job. Right now it's a hobby. I'm just happy to be doing anything with Jim Goad.
Right on, my favorite posts by far were of BN... that shit was golden. Half the fun of the street boners site was talkin shit on the message boards, but once i found reddit, i didn't have time for your website. Although i do follow you on youtube and i bought your book. Keep on rockin!:) Ps: what'd you do w/david choe when he visited last week? Ate.
Hi Gavin, watched your movie 3 times already! Incredibly funny! What brand is the blue shirt you wear in it? Keep up the good work! Thomas Pink.
OK, just want to say, I'm a big fan. My son and I love you on Red Eye, especially when doing your Scottish character. Anywhere we can get more of that character? YouTube.
Gavin, love your book and your columns, but am genuinely creeped out by how racist many of the reader comments are on Takimag. How do you feel about your column being surrounded by readers talking about Jewish conspiracies and white supremacy? I don't see much "white supremacy" in the comments but the anti-Semitism is amusing at best and annoying at worst. We call it "people who see Jews in their sandwich." When I wrote that a big part of being successful is making sure Jews run the money, they had a conniption.
The funny thing about that state of mind is they say blacks are not culpable and always blaming other people. Then they say Jews are responsible for everything bad in the world. I thought you said you're responsible for your own lot in life. You can't have it both ways.
So yeah, the comments there can be a bummer but the comments on Thought Catalog are a bummer in the exact opposite way. They're so PC, they sound like infants.
Do you see the Big 3 becoming a reality show? If it does would you have any part in it? $50 dollars means a lot.. I would love to be involved in The Perry Project in any way possible. I don't want to discourage the fans from their campaign for a reality show but to be totally honest, I see "Windy City Heat" as way too esoteric to EVER appeal to a large audience. It's our little freak baby and only we can love it.
Gavin what happened to Bill Schulz and is Greg a real dick off screen? Both of these have already been asked.
Recommend anything to help one establish a relationship with Rooster? I had a mutual friend trying to help me but all I have had time to do has been settling in since the move to NYC from the desert. I only moved here to grow as a human/"artist" and surround myself with people better at their craft than myself. Any help or advice for the noob here to the city? Work.
Any plans on doing more standup comedy or specifically a standup special in the future? Not really.
Last updated: 2014-03-21 15:02 UTC
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