Reflecting on my first year of Sobriety by Jordan Castro

                Sober is a great way to be. For plenty of people their lives might not start out this way. Maybe something goes wrong in their life. Maybe something doesn’t. Maybe it is simply boredom. Whatever the reason the days become cloudy. Whatever day, whatever month it is doesn’t matter. This is the scary part the disassociation from the normal daily routines where the body finds itself absorbed by things put into it for pleasure, now put into it for addiction. And the routine for addiction is never scheduled. It happens whenever it feels like happening taking control of a person’s life because it can because it is a chemical. 

                Things come to a head in different way. An overdose can happen. In other instances maybe the person looks too terrible to check into a nice hotel. However it happens there is the eventual intrusion of reality into the cloudy mind a moment of clarity. From there plenty of considerably better things can happen. During that precise instant a person has a choice where they can actually reflect upon their life and wonder what happened. Some people choose not to bother with it calling it a fleeting moment. Others try to do something different opting for a turn around. Those that turn around see what they did to people the lack of responsibility, of selfishness they were driven to because of a dependency. 

                Next comes the hard part: the letting go. Initially cleaning up hurts physically hurts. The sobering up after months and years perhaps of not being sober becomes wretched. At first it started out not as an addiction but as a way to simply be at parties morphed into something else. For a while the withdrawal symptoms are dreadful things hurting the mind. Insane schemes come up without any regard to their realistic nature. Upon reflection the mind realizes that sobriety is something that can be achieved. Such a realization is important for it realizes that the temporary pain is worth it to achieve a kind of balance in day to day life. 

                 After enough time being sober schedules start to form. The days become easier to manage. Work becomes infinitely more important. Everything becomes more important. Friends that helped individuals sober up become long term friends. Before this the only useful things involved meeting sketchy people in sketchy places. Gradually the highs of addiction are shown to be merely a subsistence lifestyle not something that could have been done long term. Having a sustainable life is of the utmost importance and that is one of the greatest things to gain after beating addiction.

Reflecting on my first year of Sobriety by Jordan Castro

                Sober is a great way to be. For plenty of people their lives might not start out this way. Maybe something goes wrong in their life. Maybe something doesn’t. Maybe it is simply boredom. Whatever the reason the days become cloudy. Whatever day, whatever month it is doesn’t matter. This is the scary part the disassociation from the normal daily routines where the body finds itself absorbed by things put into it for pleasure, now put into it for addiction. And the routine for addiction is never scheduled. It happens whenever it feels like happening taking control of a person’s life because it can because it is a chemical. 

                Things come to a head in different way. An overdose can happen. In other instances maybe the person looks too terrible to check into a nice hotel. However it happens there is the eventual intrusion of reality into the cloudy mind a moment of clarity. From there plenty of considerably better things can happen. During that precise instant a person has a choice where they can actually reflect upon their life and wonder what happened. Some people choose not to bother with it calling it a fleeting moment. Others try to do something different opting for a turn around. Those that turn around see what they did to people the lack of responsibility, of selfishness they were driven to because of a dependency. 

                Next comes the hard part: the letting go. Initially cleaning up hurts physically hurts. The sobering up after months and years perhaps of not being sober becomes wretched. At first it started out not as an addiction but as a way to simply be at parties morphed into something else. For a while the withdrawal symptoms are dreadful things hurting the mind. Insane schemes come up without any regard to their realistic nature. Upon reflection the mind realizes that sobriety is something that can be achieved. Such a realization is important for it realizes that the temporary pain is worth it to achieve a kind of balance in day to day life. 

                 After enough time being sober schedules start to form. The days become easier to manage. Work becomes infinitely more important. Everything becomes more important. Friends that helped individuals sober up become long term friends. Before this the only useful things involved meeting sketchy people in sketchy places. Gradually the highs of addiction are shown to be merely a subsistence lifestyle not something that could have been done long term. Having a sustainable life is of the utmost importance and that is one of the greatest things to gain after beating addiction.

YOUNG AMERICANS by Jordan Castro  


                ‘YOUNG AMERICANS’ is a deeply sad book. There’s a lot of ambiguity as shown in the use of ‘or something’. It is as if Jordan Castro has no idea what’s going on half the time. Confusion reigns over Castro’s life. Part of him wants to improve yet he remains even indecisive about self-improvement. He states as much in the poem WILLING: 

“i’m not sure how willing i am
to get better
to change”

What’s nice is how the last two lines lie on another page, divorced from the ambivalence of the first part, indicating that two separate desires exist outside of each other. Later on in ’10.10.11.5:30AM’ he states he needs to “get my stupid fucking life in order”. This is the part of the book that deals with the isolation of a dorm and of college in general. Despite being surrounded by plenty of people there’s the simultaneous sense of being completely alone. 

These poems are wretchedly beautiful. While one may not be able to fully sympathize with Castro’s plight one can have a sense of understanding. Isolation is a huge part of the book, something that finds everyone. Through Castro’s isolation or seeming distance from the world there’s a need to fill that gapping void with words. With these words Castro tries to reach out and find someone or something. Parts of the book read like an attempt at self-motivation, if not for Castro, then for the reader, to avoid the fuck-ups of life. 

                The blankness of the book reinforces this loneliness. Mixture between the all CAPS LOCK titles with the diminutive all lower case shows a conflict. While Castro would love to be certain of something that goal is unachievable. Rather he is constantly trying to fend off his isolation. Many of the poems remain highly observational. Anger is shown by his desire to tear off most of the limbs of everyone on Earth. Due to his internet addiction he wants them to comment on his blog to complement him and his work. Hence there’s this problem between wanting people, hating them, yet needing them. It is hard to find a balance between those options. 

                Drugs are a huge part of the book. By using drugs Castro is able to disassociate himself from his surroundings. Pooping in a public place becomes easier that way (and indeed there’s an unusually large amount of pooping going on in these poems). There’s a strong temptation to simply say “Jordan Castro is ‘the shit’ of Alt Lit”. The temptation is very strong. Once more though by simply sitting there going to the bathroom nothing is expected of him. The same explanation goes for the drugs. Avoiding interaction is possible through either one of these actions. Existing on drugs lets Castro observe the world without being expected to engage in any specific way. In fact he even feels more worthless when he calls everyone, trying to engage the world, and only has one person answer their phone: the drug dealer. 

                 How it ends is with a series of extreme levels of sadness. Castro states to be as specific as possible. Avoiding hurt is an important (perhaps the most important) part of life. By remaining completely clear and completely unambiguous about meaning, there’s less chance of being hurt. Whether or not anyone will ever do that remains unknown. That’s fine. That’s okay. It is hard to be clear sometimes. Being clear can hurt. And life can be full of hurt though it doesn’t always need to be that way. That’s the purpose of ‘YOUNG AMERICANS’: to realize the hurting parts and to minimize them for they will always be there. 

YOUNG AMERICANS by Jordan Castro 

                YOUNG AMERICANS’ is a deeply sad book. There’s a lot of ambiguity as shown in the use of ‘or something’. It is as if Jordan Castro has no idea what’s going on half the time. Confusion reigns over Castro’s life. Part of him wants to improve yet he remains even indecisive about self-improvement. He states as much in the poem WILLING: 

“i’m not sure how willing i am

to get better

to change”

What’s nice is how the last two lines lie on another page, divorced from the ambivalence of the first part, indicating that two separate desires exist outside of each other. Later on in ’10.10.11.5:30AM’ he states he needs to “get my stupid fucking life in order”. This is the part of the book that deals with the isolation of a dorm and of college in general. Despite being surrounded by plenty of people there’s the simultaneous sense of being completely alone. 

These poems are wretchedly beautiful. While one may not be able to fully sympathize with Castro’s plight one can have a sense of understanding. Isolation is a huge part of the book, something that finds everyone. Through Castro’s isolation or seeming distance from the world there’s a need to fill that gapping void with words. With these words Castro tries to reach out and find someone or something. Parts of the book read like an attempt at self-motivation, if not for Castro, then for the reader, to avoid the fuck-ups of life. 

                The blankness of the book reinforces this loneliness. Mixture between the all CAPS LOCK titles with the diminutive all lower case shows a conflict. While Castro would love to be certain of something that goal is unachievable. Rather he is constantly trying to fend off his isolation. Many of the poems remain highly observational. Anger is shown by his desire to tear off most of the limbs of everyone on Earth. Due to his internet addiction he wants them to comment on his blog to complement him and his work. Hence there’s this problem between wanting people, hating them, yet needing them. It is hard to find a balance between those options. 

                Drugs are a huge part of the book. By using drugs Castro is able to disassociate himself from his surroundings. Pooping in a public place becomes easier that way (and indeed there’s an unusually large amount of pooping going on in these poems). There’s a strong temptation to simply say “Jordan Castro is ‘the shit’ of Alt Lit”. The temptation is very strong. Once more though by simply sitting there going to the bathroom nothing is expected of him. The same explanation goes for the drugs. Avoiding interaction is possible through either one of these actions. Existing on drugs lets Castro observe the world without being expected to engage in any specific way. In fact he even feels more worthless when he calls everyone, trying to engage the world, and only has one person answer their phone: the drug dealer. 

                 How it ends is with a series of extreme levels of sadness. Castro states to be as specific as possible. Avoiding hurt is an important (perhaps the most important) part of life. By remaining completely clear and completely unambiguous about meaning, there’s less chance of being hurt. Whether or not anyone will ever do that remains unknown. That’s fine. That’s okay. It is hard to be clear sometimes. Being clear can hurt. And life can be full of hurt though it doesn’t always need to be that way. That’s the purpose of ‘YOUNG AMERICANS’: to realize the hurting parts and to minimize them for they will always be there. 

SELECTIONS FROM JORDAN CASTRO’S TWITTER

                Jordan Castro is having a trill year. Lately he’s been traveling across the country doing a reading tour with Megan Boyle, Sam Pink, Scott McClanahan, Mallory Whitten and the savory Salisbury Bushnell. ‘Shoplifting from American Apparel’ showed off Jordan Castro’s acting chops. In his spare time he runs his very own Ohio based band aptly named ‘The Ohioans’. Recently he busted out the big beautiful book of ‘Young Americans’ chronicling the life and times of a young, virile man growing up in America. Honestly Jordan is virile as fuck, despite his best efforts to rip off his own dick. 

                The set begins with an emphasis on his age. Jordan Castro graduated high school. Many consider this a true accomplishment, a testament to getting through the worst part of life. In fact judging from the last tweet about the first day of college there is really solid framing effect for these tweets. Megan Boyle does a really good job of showing how Jordan Castro’s mind works during that time of ‘pure freedom’ from school, away from old friends and hoping to make new ones. 

                ‘just want to write a book so good that all of my behavior is excusable’ is the best tweet in the whole collection. If there’s one tweet that deserves to be re-tweeted out of the bunch it is this one. Writers typically refer to their own work as a justification for their actions. Sometimes shitty writers are also shitty people. Book quality has nothing to do with it often. Yet the idea is common enough that Jordan’s take is particularly funny. Besides he recently put out a book, so perhaps this tweet also has a ‘prophetic’ quality to it. Maybe Jordan knew, subconsciously that he would be out a book to extreme critical acclaim. 

                X-men get a lot of attention in this tweet series. Clearly Jordan Castro loves ‘the fuck’ out of that perennial all-American comic book series. One of the most notable aspects of American culture is the fear of a massive, all powerful government. Usually this government hates mutants for reasons that are convoluted, boring, and poorly explained. Yet the explanation doesn’t really matter as long as some cars transform into robots, some web is slung, and at least one awkward love scene is shown. Jordan explains how he lost control of his left leg due to the overwhelming power of the X-men movie. 

                The tweets about loneliness are great. Rummaging around people’s homes in broad daylight searching for happiness is commonly referred to as ‘hanging out’. Crying uncontrollably on the floor while looking really good is typical for anyone between the ages of 16 to 32. After 32 it gets easier, hopefully. If someone is worried about the terrible direction their life is going they should read these tweets since these tweets would make anyone feel less alone in loneliness.

SELECTIONS FROM JORDAN CASTRO’S TWITTER

                Jordan Castro is having a trill year. Lately he’s been traveling across the country doing a reading tour with Megan Boyle, Sam Pink, Scott McClanahan, Mallory Whitten and the savory Salisbury Bushnell. ‘Shoplifting from American Apparel’ showed off Jordan Castro’s acting chops. In his spare time he runs his very own Ohio based band aptly named ‘The Ohioans’. Recently he busted out the big beautiful book of ‘Young Americans’ chronicling the life and times of a young, virile man growing up in America. Honestly Jordan is virile as fuck, despite his best efforts to rip off his own dick. 

                The set begins with an emphasis on his age. Jordan Castro graduated high school. Many consider this a true accomplishment, a testament to getting through the worst part of life. In fact judging from the last tweet about the first day of college there is really solid framing effect for these tweets. Megan Boyle does a really good job of showing how Jordan Castro’s mind works during that time of ‘pure freedom’ from school, away from old friends and hoping to make new ones. 

                ‘just want to write a book so good that all of my behavior is excusable’ is the best tweet in the whole collection. If there’s one tweet that deserves to be re-tweeted out of the bunch it is this one. Writers typically refer to their own work as a justification for their actions. Sometimes shitty writers are also shitty people. Book quality has nothing to do with it often. Yet the idea is common enough that Jordan’s take is particularly funny. Besides he recently put out a book, so perhaps this tweet also has a ‘prophetic’ quality to it. Maybe Jordan knew, subconsciously that he would be out a book to extreme critical acclaim. 

                X-men get a lot of attention in this tweet series. Clearly Jordan Castro loves ‘the fuck’ out of that perennial all-American comic book series. One of the most notable aspects of American culture is the fear of a massive, all powerful government. Usually this government hates mutants for reasons that are convoluted, boring, and poorly explained. Yet the explanation doesn’t really matter as long as some cars transform into robots, some web is slung, and at least one awkward love scene is shown. Jordan explains how he lost control of his left leg due to the overwhelming power of the X-men movie. 

                The tweets about loneliness are great. Rummaging around people’s homes in broad daylight searching for happiness is commonly referred to as ‘hanging out’. Crying uncontrollably on the floor while looking really good is typical for anyone between the ages of 16 to 32. After 32 it gets easier, hopefully. If someone is worried about the terrible direction their life is going they should read these tweets since these tweets would make anyone feel less alone in loneliness.

raccoonsarenotafraidofpeople

raccoonsarenotafraidofpeople:

Raccoon Remix.  2012.

                Raccoons make amazing remixes. Few would guess a raccoon would be behind the greatest video remix of culture. Culture is all around up in this massively distorted video/audio project. At times completely incomprehensible it is a pulsing being of pure energy. More than a video the Raccoon Remix is the world viewer through the less of those smart enough to pull back and escape. Watching this video requires complete and full attention. Despite the amorphous nature of the video a few common themes appear again and again.

                Zachary German appears many times in this video. This is due to his blockbuster hit ‘Shitty Youth’ which came out fairly recently. Sure other alt lit writers appear: Tao Lin, Steve Roggenbuck, Megan Boyle and Jordan Castro make guest appearances. For some reason Zachary’s face interests the raccoon the most. Zachary’s face bleeds into and out of its surroundings. Does Zachary German’s face represent the end times? When the world ends will the final words be Zachary German’s infamous phrase of ‘Kill cops. Why not? Look at them. They’re horrible. I don’t know.’

                Law enforcement is shown more frequently however. Putting the bad guys away is what law enforcement does. Every time somebody is smoking up (and there’s a lot of footage of that in the video) law enforcement arrives to save the day. Whatever raccoon created this remix is clearly a fan of America’s hard working police force. Dangerous drug fiends litter the streets of America. It is up to America’s law enforcement to pick up the trash. Besides this there is real Manson footage, various evil doers and other assorted pieces of trash. 

                Speaking of trash politicians take up a large chunk of the footage. This includes the recent footage from the 2012 election along with earlier politicians. Bill Clinton makes his way into the infinitely growing jam. George W. Bush, America’s beloved former leader, makes a rare post-presidential appearance. Even older presidents wedge their way into this mega-mix. In fact there is a surprisingly calm moment where a speaker discusses how to be an intellectual. It is simple: just realize everything is hopeless. People laughed at him. But he was probably right or hopelessly pessimistic. 

                By the end of the video the graphics change dramatically. From the macro level of world events, drug busts, and bursts of violence is the micro world of cell biology. Here the cells take over. There is no stopping it. The end of the world will be full of evil micro biology perpetuated by raccoon remixes. Consider this remix a basic sample of what’s to come.

Giving Up: DON’T



                People give up each and every day. Some writers have choice words for those who give up. One Steve Roggenbuck says ‘If you give up, fuck you’. Today a great plague has hit the alt lit nation. It is a brand new craze of bleak introspection: come on, do the dejection. Life can be hard. Sloths understand this as they crawl from one point to the other, never getting to where they need to go. Rather sloths hang upside down on trees condemned to achieve nothing. But while such a model has worked for millennia for the sloths, it is a poor strategy for humans to take. 


                Sam Pink appears to be giving up. Out of somewhere he states ‘life sucks dick’. Sam Pink went on a reading tour with other great writers across the beautiful, bountiful and buxom baby called America. From this place of sadness Sam talks about those uncouth youngsters throwing rocks at him. The pants he had split apart like a new pair of pants. Most of Sam’s sadness may be pants related. His heart gets torn out over and over again until there is nothing left. 


                But there is something left. The outpouring of support is amazing. People are right. When sadness falls it can be heavy indeed. No one can pick themselves up out of depression alone. Friends are necessary to pull that heaviness off, revealing the sunshine once again. HTMLGiant has a stub dedicated to this post, to encourage others to encourage Sam Pink. A few have been directly hurt from this announcement. Mallory Whitten is currently having her head ‘belly slammed’ by Jordan Castro and Megan Boyle. Save Mallory Whitten’s head. Buy Sam Pink’s books wherever un-reputable books are sold. Also buy Megan Boyle’s book. Megan Boyle is the coolest person on planet Earth. 


                My experience with Sam Pink has been uniformly positive. I have seen videos of his readings shown to me by Steve Roggenbuck. Everybody loves the guy. Shaun Gannon did a rare dedication to Sam Pink in one of his poems. Reading a Sam Pink piece is a unique, life-changing experience. How he filters reality is amazing. The outro he wrote for Scott McClanahan’s “The Collected Works of Scott McClanahan Volume 1” is fantastic. Check out Scott’s book too. It is really, really funny, downright bizarre yet oddly believable. Scott McClanahan’s work is like discovering West Virginia without the inconvenience of actually going there. 

                General theme of giving up: just don’t do it. Live. Breathe. It gets better. Depression hits the world each and every day. What can be the hardest thing is to embrace the good. Not everything is going to work out. Sam Pink has been doing this for a long time. Literature without Sam Pink would be an even sadder thing. Embrace Sam Pink. Give him a virtual hug right here.

Giving Up: DON’T

                People give up each and every day. Some writers have choice words for those who give up. One Steve Roggenbuck says ‘If you give up, fuck you’. Today a great plague has hit the alt lit nation. It is a brand new craze of bleak introspection: come on, do the dejection. Life can be hard. Sloths understand this as they crawl from one point to the other, never getting to where they need to go. Rather sloths hang upside down on trees condemned to achieve nothing. But while such a model has worked for millennia for the sloths, it is a poor strategy for humans to take. 

                Sam Pink appears to be giving up. Out of somewhere he states ‘life sucks dick’. Sam Pink went on a reading tour with other great writers across the beautiful, bountiful and buxom baby called America. From this place of sadness Sam talks about those uncouth youngsters throwing rocks at him. The pants he had split apart like a new pair of pants. Most of Sam’s sadness may be pants related. His heart gets torn out over and over again until there is nothing left. 

                But there is something left. The outpouring of support is amazing. People are right. When sadness falls it can be heavy indeed. No one can pick themselves up out of depression alone. Friends are necessary to pull that heaviness off, revealing the sunshine once again. HTMLGiant has a stub dedicated to this post, to encourage others to encourage Sam Pink. A few have been directly hurt from this announcement. Mallory Whitten is currently having her head ‘belly slammed’ by Jordan Castro and Megan Boyle. Save Mallory Whitten’s head. Buy Sam Pink’s books wherever un-reputable books are sold. Also buy Megan Boyle’s book. Megan Boyle is the coolest person on planet Earth. 

                My experience with Sam Pink has been uniformly positive. I have seen videos of his readings shown to me by Steve Roggenbuck. Everybody loves the guy. Shaun Gannon did a rare dedication to Sam Pink in one of his poems. Reading a Sam Pink piece is a unique, life-changing experience. How he filters reality is amazing. The outro he wrote for Scott McClanahan’s “The Collected Works of Scott McClanahan Volume 1” is fantastic. Check out Scott’s book too. It is really, really funny, downright bizarre yet oddly believable. Scott McClanahan’s work is like discovering West Virginia without the inconvenience of actually going there. 

                General theme of giving up: just don’t do it. Live. Breathe. It gets better. Depression hits the world each and every day. What can be the hardest thing is to embrace the good. Not everything is going to work out. Sam Pink has been doing this for a long time. Literature without Sam Pink would be an even sadder thing. Embrace Sam Pink. Give him a virtual hug right here.

Jordan Castro: The Man, The Myth, the Quicker Penis ripper-offer

               Jordan Castro is  the most accomplished member of the ‘twenty under twenty’ writer’s list  I’ve encountered. Certainly he’s been around for a while despite his  recent graduation from high school. His books include “think tank for  human beings in general”, “Assuming Size” and his most recent effort  “Cute”. “Assuming Size” appears to have been the biggest one as it took  on the size of a ‘sellout’. Besides his books he maintains a blog and writes articles, poems, and short stories for places such as HTML Giant and other assorted venues. 

                Due  to living in the crushingly boring place of Ohio, he has many  additional interests besides writing. Jordan appears on the DVD ‘Muumuu  House’ reading some of his poems. In the film you’re treated to another  one of his talents: specifically that of musician. Following in a proud  tradition of bored High School students, he has multiple bands and music  projects, the most recent of which offers its entire album free of charge on bandcamp. 

                None  of this would’ve come to my attention had Jordan not engaged in a  little shameless self-promotion. Authors are known to do this: Pynchon  appears in the Simpsons, Hemingway sold beer. Well we’re in a more  shock-and-awe kind of culture so bigger statements are needed. Jordan  decided he’d need to pull something big, something people would notice.  How about his own penis? To avoid a potential ‘penis picture’ problem he  threatened to earnestly try to pull it off. Now we were transcending  regular gimmicks and moving into Vincent Van Gogh territory. Vincent Van  Gogh, that terrible wimp and coward, only cut off his ear. I highly  doubt he would’ve had a tweet go viral about it. More likely Van Gogh  wouldn’t have had as many twitter followers as Jordan Castro due to poor  Wi-Fi access in late 19th century Europe.

                I’m  proud of everyone who made this possible: First for Jordan for having a  heart to heart talk with his girlfriend about their future relationship  (potentially penis-less) before he put it on twitter.  All those twitter followers of his who made this possible. Jordan  stated if 100 people retweeted it he’d do it. So either his followers  really love him or hate him, and in the end those are two remarkably  similar emotions. People rallied to the cause of seeing him attempt to  pull off his own dick. Honestly, I’m not too worried about him  succeeding: he said earnest try, he never stated will. Oh, the joys of  the English language how wonderful (and protective of the male genitals)  they truly are.

                Spoiler Alert: He did not succeed.

Jordan Castro: The Man, The Myth, the Quicker Penis ripper-offer

               Jordan Castro is the most accomplished member of the ‘twenty under twenty’ writer’s list I’ve encountered. Certainly he’s been around for a while despite his recent graduation from high school. His books include “think tank for human beings in general”, “Assuming Size” and his most recent effort “Cute”. “Assuming Size” appears to have been the biggest one as it took on the size of a ‘sellout’. Besides his books he maintains a blog and writes articles, poems, and short stories for places such as HTML Giant and other assorted venues. 

                Due to living in the crushingly boring place of Ohio, he has many additional interests besides writing. Jordan appears on the DVD ‘Muumuu House’ reading some of his poems. In the film you’re treated to another one of his talents: specifically that of musician. Following in a proud tradition of bored High School students, he has multiple bands and music projects, the most recent of which offers its entire album free of charge on bandcamp. 

                None of this would’ve come to my attention had Jordan not engaged in a little shameless self-promotion. Authors are known to do this: Pynchon appears in the Simpsons, Hemingway sold beer. Well we’re in a more shock-and-awe kind of culture so bigger statements are needed. Jordan decided he’d need to pull something big, something people would notice. How about his own penis? To avoid a potential ‘penis picture’ problem he threatened to earnestly try to pull it off. Now we were transcending regular gimmicks and moving into Vincent Van Gogh territory. Vincent Van Gogh, that terrible wimp and coward, only cut off his ear. I highly doubt he would’ve had a tweet go viral about it. More likely Van Gogh wouldn’t have had as many twitter followers as Jordan Castro due to poor Wi-Fi access in late 19th century Europe.

                I’m proud of everyone who made this possible: First for Jordan for having a heart to heart talk with his girlfriend about their future relationship (potentially penis-less) before he put it on twitter. All those twitter followers of his who made this possible. Jordan stated if 100 people retweeted it he’d do it. So either his followers really love him or hate him, and in the end those are two remarkably similar emotions. People rallied to the cause of seeing him attempt to pull off his own dick. Honestly, I’m not too worried about him succeeding: he said earnest try, he never stated will. Oh, the joys of the English language how wonderful (and protective of the male genitals) they truly are.

                Spoiler Alert: He did not succeed.

Origin Story Number Three:
Growing up in Fidel Castro’s Cuba was hard.  Because of the strict rules against being cool, I understood that my  love of culture was forbidden. Upon the release of Radiohead’s seminal  album “Ok Computer” I stated to my friend how cool I thought they were.  He stated that Fuck’s “Pardon My French” was the better album, and that I  was an ‘entry-level’ kid. The SDE (Cuban Secret Police) later took him  away and asked him to identify all the cool kids. Many young children  were thrown into prison, but I was spared. Perhaps he decided not to  reveal my coolness, or that I hadn’t reached a level considered  ‘troublesome’ enough.Upon seeing the movie “Rushmore” in  an illegal underground cinema, I knew the authorities would be after me.  Max’s mannerisms fit mine so perfectly, I could relate to the character  so well. Yet I had to keep this cool knowledge to myself, for fear of  exposing myself and others to danger. A plan began to appear in my head,  of escaping this retro country to the Promised Land, America, which had  bountiful amounts of independent music and cinema, a place where I  might become an “authentic” consumer of haute culture. Each  night I played a flute for various stingrays. Training them to carry  large objects, I earned their trust by taking good care of them.  Stingrays are well-known in Cuba for being faithful servants, but few  had tried what I wanted to do. My goal was to float away from the island  not on a raft, but in a 57 Chevy so I could be protected from the  elements and sharks.I talked to my family about leaving.  They agreed it would be for the best. Late at night, after the  electricity got turned off to save gas, I scurried out at night with my  Chevy. Starting to play my flute, I heard a car fast approaching.  Apparently I had become indie enough for the authorities to capture me.  Finally, I thought happily to myself, all that talk about music and  movies wasn’t for naught. People really understood that I was cool  enough to present a threat to the government. As they approached, I drove my car  into the water and sailed on top of the mighty stingrays. What I didn’t  realize was how slowly stingrays move. Though I escaped from Cuba, I  suffered another fate. Floating on these creatures might be safe, but  you need enough supplies of water and food to survive. The day I ran out of water ended up  being a turning point in my life. Realizing that I was nowhere near the  Florida coast, I felt defeated. Maybe I should’ve stayed in Cuba, with  the malevolent dictatorship. Perhaps listening to the Macarena wasn’t  that bad, and I should just become a mainstreamer. Delusion started to  set in. No, I screamed to myself, I was too attractive and likable to  become that.Heading towards the edge of the car, I  looked at the vast sea surrounding me. All this water, and not a drop  to drink, I thought bitterly to myself. Suddenly I felt an urge to  urinate as I munched on my Shredded Wheat, ready to become fully  dehydrated. But an idea, a brilliant idea, popped into my head and  helped me to survive.Quickly I pulled down my pants and  urinated into the bowl of cereal. Thinking that this was the lowest I’d  ever go, I began to eat the urinate-soaked cereal. Drinking my own  urinate saved my life. Plus, it tasted pretty good. Mixing it with  shredded wheat gave it a nice edge it otherwise wouldn’t have had. Finally, I saw land. Thankful to my  stingray companions, I promised to send those alternative CDs once I had  gotten myself settled into the new country. Driving my car across a  beach, blasting my Rushmore soundtrack, I got yelled at. That behavior, a  well-tanned person explained to me, earned me the insult ‘entry-level’.  I screamed back “Sorry, I just left a brutal communist regime. I’ll  read a couple of blogs and get back to you asshole.”Lacking any marketable skills, I  feared I would fail in this new and strange land. Slowly I learned that I  could sell myself to people in exchange for money. I could earn a  living this way, a scantily clad woman informed me. Thanking her  tremendously and almost hugging her (but then thinking twice about it) I  set forth on my new business adventure.Whoring myself out to retired Jewish  Grandmothers, I learned that Florida was not the cultural center of the  United States. Asking them politely after they were done smoking, they  informed me that all cool people lived in New York and then moved down  to Florida when they were ready to die. I earned enough money to move up  to the big city, but could only afford a small place in Brooklyn, a  neighborhood called Williamsburg. I wondered whether or not Williamsburg  would attract the cool kids, or perhaps I should move to Queens. Asking  around Manhattan (which appeared to be filled with rich people) they  told me Queens was where people settled down, and Brooklyn was for  pretentious indie dicks.I enjoyed living in Brooklyn. Never  before had I seen so many relevant record stores. Hoping my family was  still alive in Cuba, I sent them a Doobie Brothers album, since they  were apparently all the rage around that time. People listened to the  Doobie Brothers in Brooklyn, I learned, but only ‘ironically’. For a while, I tried selling myself,  like I did in Florida, but the grandparents in New York already had male  prostitutes. Worrying about my future, I began writing blurbs in papers  for various bands I enjoyed; along with pictures of people I thought  looked cool or lame. The column ended up being a smash hit at Northsix,  and someone told me to write for Vice Magazine.Hoping to impress my future boss, I  wore a suit and tie. Eating my morning breakfast of urine and shredded  wheat, I looked forward to meeting the kind-hearted soul named Gavin  McInnes. Those I asked about Gavin stated he was a soft-spoken and  caring man who yearned to give back to the community which had done so  much for him.Entering his office, I saw him having  intercourse with a woman painted like a Cat while she made a smoothie  using a half-dead squirrel and Wintergreen Altoids. Seeing my face, he  welcomed me into his office. First he asked me if I liked Pat Buchanan,  and I said yes, since that guy hated communism, a force I had only  recently escaped. Liking this answer, he smiled and nodded. He said my  breath reeked of urine. I said that made sense, since I drank my urine  on a regular basis, now believing it to help boost my immune system.  Curious, he asked what I ate with my urine. Unsure of where this was  going, I said shredded wheat. Angrily he told me to get the fuck out of  his face. Dejected, I walked out of the office.  Standing on the street, Gavin came toward me. Almost out of breath, he  said I got the job. Explaining he needed to weed out the fake urine  drinkers, I became a member of the Vice Magazine staff. Over the next several years, I  learned how to mock others with wit and grace. My accent became more  distinctly “New York” in feel. Even when my mentor Gavin left Vice  Magazine in 2007, I continued to partake in writing many album reviews. I  remained in close contact with Gavin, and he ate a bowl of cereal  soaked in his own urine as a tribute to my greatness.2010 ruined everything. I met a girl.  Her name was Bethany Cosentino. After falling madly in love with her, I  wrote a glowing review in Vice Magazine about her band Best Coast. But  the love ended up being only a ruse. Nathan Williams, some pothead,  ended up being her actual boyfriend. To add further embarrassment, she  wrote about it on her blog. My career in snarky commentary was over.  Vice Magazine tolerated many things, but genuine emotion wasn’t one of  them.At my favorite bar, a kid named  Jordan Castro came up to me to try and interview me about it. Since I  was on heavy psychedelics, I thought he was a spy from Cuba here to take  away my freedom. Viciously I attacked him, and three people twitted  about it. In his Tumblr, he called me a “worthless asshole”. That didn’t  hurt so much, since nobody knew who he was.Depression bit me hard. Worried about  losing the last shreds of credibility, I tried to get in touch with the  Jewish Grandmothers in Florida, to restart my life down there again. I  learned most of them had died, but one was still sort of alive. The sort  of alive grandmother told me I was the coolest person she could  remember and when she passed away, she left me a pair of used underwear  and $650,000.The money gave me a second chance.  Speaking to my mentor Gavin, he suggested rebuilding my street cred with  a blog. A blog from the heart dedicated to those stingrays whose  sloth-like movement inched me towards my current freedom. That is why so  many of these posts reveal my inner most thoughts. I’m trying to mend  my heart. Thanks for the hugs.

Origin Story Number Three:

Growing up in Fidel Castro’s Cuba was hard. Because of the strict rules against being cool, I understood that my love of culture was forbidden. Upon the release of Radiohead’s seminal album “Ok Computer” I stated to my friend how cool I thought they were. He stated that Fuck’s “Pardon My French” was the better album, and that I was an ‘entry-level’ kid. The SDE (Cuban Secret Police) later took him away and asked him to identify all the cool kids. Many young children were thrown into prison, but I was spared. Perhaps he decided not to reveal my coolness, or that I hadn’t reached a level considered ‘troublesome’ enough.

Upon seeing the movie “Rushmore” in an illegal underground cinema, I knew the authorities would be after me. Max’s mannerisms fit mine so perfectly, I could relate to the character so well. Yet I had to keep this cool knowledge to myself, for fear of exposing myself and others to danger. A plan began to appear in my head, of escaping this retro country to the Promised Land, America, which had bountiful amounts of independent music and cinema, a place where I might become an “authentic” consumer of haute culture.

Each night I played a flute for various stingrays. Training them to carry large objects, I earned their trust by taking good care of them. Stingrays are well-known in Cuba for being faithful servants, but few had tried what I wanted to do. My goal was to float away from the island not on a raft, but in a 57 Chevy so I could be protected from the elements and sharks.

I talked to my family about leaving. They agreed it would be for the best. Late at night, after the electricity got turned off to save gas, I scurried out at night with my Chevy. Starting to play my flute, I heard a car fast approaching. Apparently I had become indie enough for the authorities to capture me. Finally, I thought happily to myself, all that talk about music and movies wasn’t for naught. People really understood that I was cool enough to present a threat to the government. 

As they approached, I drove my car into the water and sailed on top of the mighty stingrays. What I didn’t realize was how slowly stingrays move. Though I escaped from Cuba, I suffered another fate. Floating on these creatures might be safe, but you need enough supplies of water and food to survive. 

The day I ran out of water ended up being a turning point in my life. Realizing that I was nowhere near the Florida coast, I felt defeated. Maybe I should’ve stayed in Cuba, with the malevolent dictatorship. Perhaps listening to the Macarena wasn’t that bad, and I should just become a mainstreamer. Delusion started to set in. No, I screamed to myself, I was too attractive and likable to become that.

Heading towards the edge of the car, I looked at the vast sea surrounding me. All this water, and not a drop to drink, I thought bitterly to myself. Suddenly I felt an urge to urinate as I munched on my Shredded Wheat, ready to become fully dehydrated. But an idea, a brilliant idea, popped into my head and helped me to survive.

Quickly I pulled down my pants and urinated into the bowl of cereal. Thinking that this was the lowest I’d ever go, I began to eat the urinate-soaked cereal. Drinking my own urinate saved my life. Plus, it tasted pretty good. Mixing it with shredded wheat gave it a nice edge it otherwise wouldn’t have had. 

Finally, I saw land. Thankful to my stingray companions, I promised to send those alternative CDs once I had gotten myself settled into the new country. Driving my car across a beach, blasting my Rushmore soundtrack, I got yelled at. That behavior, a well-tanned person explained to me, earned me the insult ‘entry-level’. I screamed back “Sorry, I just left a brutal communist regime. I’ll read a couple of blogs and get back to you asshole.”

Lacking any marketable skills, I feared I would fail in this new and strange land. Slowly I learned that I could sell myself to people in exchange for money. I could earn a living this way, a scantily clad woman informed me. Thanking her tremendously and almost hugging her (but then thinking twice about it) I set forth on my new business adventure.

Whoring myself out to retired Jewish Grandmothers, I learned that Florida was not the cultural center of the United States. Asking them politely after they were done smoking, they informed me that all cool people lived in New York and then moved down to Florida when they were ready to die. I earned enough money to move up to the big city, but could only afford a small place in Brooklyn, a neighborhood called Williamsburg. I wondered whether or not Williamsburg would attract the cool kids, or perhaps I should move to Queens. Asking around Manhattan (which appeared to be filled with rich people) they told me Queens was where people settled down, and Brooklyn was for pretentious indie dicks.

I enjoyed living in Brooklyn. Never before had I seen so many relevant record stores. Hoping my family was still alive in Cuba, I sent them a Doobie Brothers album, since they were apparently all the rage around that time. People listened to the Doobie Brothers in Brooklyn, I learned, but only ‘ironically’. 

For a while, I tried selling myself, like I did in Florida, but the grandparents in New York already had male prostitutes. Worrying about my future, I began writing blurbs in papers for various bands I enjoyed; along with pictures of people I thought looked cool or lame. The column ended up being a smash hit at Northsix, and someone told me to write for Vice Magazine.

Hoping to impress my future boss, I wore a suit and tie. Eating my morning breakfast of urine and shredded wheat, I looked forward to meeting the kind-hearted soul named Gavin McInnes. Those I asked about Gavin stated he was a soft-spoken and caring man who yearned to give back to the community which had done so much for him.

Entering his office, I saw him having intercourse with a woman painted like a Cat while she made a smoothie using a half-dead squirrel and Wintergreen Altoids. Seeing my face, he welcomed me into his office. First he asked me if I liked Pat Buchanan, and I said yes, since that guy hated communism, a force I had only recently escaped. Liking this answer, he smiled and nodded. He said my breath reeked of urine. I said that made sense, since I drank my urine on a regular basis, now believing it to help boost my immune system. Curious, he asked what I ate with my urine. Unsure of where this was going, I said shredded wheat. Angrily he told me to get the fuck out of his face. 

Dejected, I walked out of the office. Standing on the street, Gavin came toward me. Almost out of breath, he said I got the job. Explaining he needed to weed out the fake urine drinkers, I became a member of the Vice Magazine staff. 
Over the next several years, I learned how to mock others with wit and grace. My accent became more distinctly “New York” in feel. Even when my mentor Gavin left Vice Magazine in 2007, I continued to partake in writing many album reviews. I remained in close contact with Gavin, and he ate a bowl of cereal soaked in his own urine as a tribute to my greatness.

2010 ruined everything. I met a girl. Her name was Bethany Cosentino. After falling madly in love with her, I wrote a glowing review in Vice Magazine about her band Best Coast. But the love ended up being only a ruse. Nathan Williams, some pothead, ended up being her actual boyfriend. To add further embarrassment, she wrote about it on her blog. My career in snarky commentary was over. Vice Magazine tolerated many things, but genuine emotion wasn’t one of them.

At my favorite bar, a kid named Jordan Castro came up to me to try and interview me about it. Since I was on heavy psychedelics, I thought he was a spy from Cuba here to take away my freedom. Viciously I attacked him, and three people twitted about it. In his Tumblr, he called me a “worthless asshole”. That didn’t hurt so much, since nobody knew who he was.

Depression bit me hard. Worried about losing the last shreds of credibility, I tried to get in touch with the Jewish Grandmothers in Florida, to restart my life down there again. I learned most of them had died, but one was still sort of alive. The sort of alive grandmother told me I was the coolest person she could remember and when she passed away, she left me a pair of used underwear and $650,000.

The money gave me a second chance. Speaking to my mentor Gavin, he suggested rebuilding my street cred with a blog. A blog from the heart dedicated to those stingrays whose sloth-like movement inched me towards my current freedom. That is why so many of these posts reveal my inner most thoughts. I’m trying to mend my heart. Thanks for the hugs.