Banning books is about as cool as rape.

There are certain times of the year when we get to let down our guard and really live in that indignance that we feel all throughout the year. We are, after all, a group of people who wish that everyone can live by their own ethical and moral code as long as it does not attack anyone else or impede on their rights to live a life of their choosing. Obviously this puts me at ends with religion in all of its manifestations. I'm not one to claim that religion is technically a bad thing. I believe that there are many very righteous and good-hearted people in all religions, but there are also just total dickholes. Like this guy in Missouri. What a gigantic dickhole.

Perhaps I shouldn't even take this debate here. Maybe it would be much better to simply point out (as The Rejectionist does here) that this supposed man of higher learning and educational leader can barely string together a coherent thought. Perhaps it would be of greater coincidence and candor to point out the fact that he sees rape as pornographic (as Laurie Halse Anderson does here). Maybe I should just simply say "what a fucking lunatic. Sit down, you're embarassing the rest of Christianity with your inane mawing at book you probably beat off to on more than one occasion," and that's not really that bad of an idea. Because you know he probably did. That's kind of a thing for these gourmand religiofascists... what really makes them sick, really turns them on. I will not say it directly, but I know there are an awful lot of Republican senators getting caught with their junk sticking through glory holes.

-Ken

What Is This? (Or, Ken Flies off the Deep End)

To begin: This is SPARTA!!!!

Now, to the real post...

Recently, I've become a little fed up with a lot of blogs out there, claiming to purport the continuance and elevation of art, specifically within the realm of literature and writing. I have come to the conclusion that the majority of these blogs couldn't care less about that. All they really care about is growing some festering, gelatinous group of RSS followers to mindlessly accept whatever they eschew as canon. I'm not going to name names -- it doesn't really fix anything, it just turns into flame wars (which I would undoubtedly lose) -- but I would like to point out some of the irksome habits that the blogs, and its followers adhere to.

Why I Will Never Be 'Artsy'

If there's one thing I have learned from my explorations of the "indie"/"artsy" literary world, it is that the scene is predominantly an intransigent party that exists for the single purpose of inserting one's genitalia into another's mouth. That, and party has also reached capacity.  The sentences I have written thus far are not "edgy" enough, they're not incredibly short or incredibly long, and not every word has some obscure rule of Capitalizing Every Word.  My writing is to tell stories and to show a scene and to show dialogue and allow the reader to be transported to the world of my characters.  It is, first and foremost, to entertain.  When people will read my book, it won't change their perception of the world or themselves.  There may be an epiphany, but I hope it doesn't change who they are.  I'm not nearly conceited enough to think that my writing, nor my worldview, is the correct or most morally valid one.  I'm not writing out of some need to project myself onto others' consciousness.  People who do that are known as evangelicals here in the South, and it isn't something I strive for.  I love all sorts of people in their mannerisms and quirks; in their loves and their hates; in their passions and their lethargies.  The purpose that the majority of the world will pick up a book isn't to be told that they are right or wrong -- it is to be entertained.  I don't want to lose sight of that.

I am constantly told through the enternits that I am not good enough, smart enough, deep enough to be a writer.  Readers are, as the enternits inform me, much like Remora, preoccupied with latching onto the nipple or taint of any "indie" reader who is not white and/or has hellacious sideburns (man or woman) and that it would be much better for the Starbucks latte sippers and beanie-wearing hipsters if I just give up my attempt at "art."  It would in the end provide much less angst for everyone involved -- from myself, to the four or five lamentable sets of eyes that had to flit across my pages.*

To me, there is nothing worse in this world than being part of that "misunderstood" orgy of "indie" writers.  Do I say this because, secretly, I want in?  I don't think so.  I think I have a natural inclination towards fineries such as nice watches, polo shirts, and pressed pairs of khakis.  I like my hair short and clean, and only a sprinkle of facial hair every once and a while.  My room is clean (mostly) and I speak clearly and don't do drugs.  I'm not a practicing Christian, but I'm not an Atheist either.  My ideal situation is in a monogamous relationship with a woman and a dog and two kids and a white picket fence where I would write in the front bay window and leave only to go get food, pick my children up from sports, or to the nearest polling place to vote for my favorite Republican candidate.  I will never be a part of their world because I choose to be different from them.  I choose to live a life of sanitation and of sunlight, and not of dingy holes-in-the-wall, greasy fedoras, and bong resin. 

With that being said, there is something I do appreciate about indie meanderings masquerading as contemplative thought: their writings will, every once and a while produce a diamond.  "The Human Condition" is a favorite topic of theirs, for which a wide variety of definitions has been slapped onto it.  The Human Condition is about as nebulous a term as you can have, but intrinsically it has something to do with our innate need to destroy.  I don't think that we would have this endless well of psuedo-prophetic rambling without the original inquiry of what is human?  The question is immediately vague and worthless, but I love it so much because it helped me get through college.  There, see?  It's not all bad.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some selling out to do.

-Ken

*Maybe a truly unfortunate soul had already lost an eye in a barroom brawl, pepper shaker incident, or warring with pirates.  This would, of course, put the "eye-count" down to a mere 3 1/2 - 4 1/2 sets.  However, there is something inherently "indie" about an eye patch, so it would perhaps raise my overall viewership closer to six -- two of which may even be terry-cloth headbanded teenagers who write angsty poems in their Moleskines while smoking marijuana.