Warning: I was given one of those Coca Cola Blak coffee-Coke drinks for
free by some promotion person right before I wrote this. Point being:
Don't drink Coa-Cola Blak.
took one of those online IQ tests that popped when I was trying to buy
a used Fine Young Cannibals CDs online. It wasn't hard. I got around a
180, which ties me with Charles Darwin, according to Wikipedia, as the
second smartest person ever recorded. Of course, I'd have to pay to
find out my actual specific score, but honestly, why bother? That
sounds about right.
But now I have a new problem. You know that phrase that
George Washington or Spiderman said, something about "with great power
comes great responsibility"? That's sort of my life now. Before, when I
didn't realize that I was a genius, I was content to revel in the sort
of carefree semi-bohemian lifestyle that comes with growing a beard,
especially here in Bratislava, Slovakia, where I just got a mineral
water, hot chocolate, and a sesame seed bagel with mozzarella, tomato
and pesto at the Slovak equivalent of Starbucks for about two bucks (No
joke). But now I can feel the intellectual burden weighing down on my
well defined shoulders. For example, I was just reading about global
warming in the International Herald Tribune
and I started to feel guilty, like, "Should I just take the weekend and
solve the problem?" But I'm all conflicted because I wanted to go out
this weekend and I can never do anything hungover. Nevertheless, the
point remains: Am I under utilizing my genius-ocity? And where the f**k
in Bratislava can I get a haircut?
Just in case you're thinking, "This has nothing to do with
writing or really anything. Why did i subscribe to this blog when I
could be reading PerezHilton.com?", I'll have you know that this same
issue affects my reading and writing as well. I used to think that the
reason I felt like I wanted to die every time I'd read something old,
dense and ultra-literary was because I couldn't pronounce most of the
words and--it sounds silly to even say this now--didn't understand the
deeper meaning, context and symbolism within the texts. But, obviously,
since it's been established that i'm, like, a genius, maybe the reason
I was so bored was because I understood the work too fast and already
knew exactly where the story was going. Don't believe me? A little
suspicious? Fine. Take James Fenimore Cooper's snooze cruise Last of
the Mohicans. I knew Natty Bummppo would eventually get revenge on
Magua for killing Chingachgook and then eventually tongue kiss with
Alice before I even finished the second chapter, and that wasn't only because I'd already seen the film starring Daniel Day Lewis.
i know this might seem like a stretch, but maybe my writing is also a
lot deeper and intellectually grounded than i first thought. Sure, on
the surface, my ne'er be finished novel-in-progress/master's thesis
might seem like its just a story about a sexual assault at a school
that is a thinly veiled replica of where i went to undergrad, but
that's just a surface read by someone I like to call a non-genius, or,
in layman's terms, Ramsey. On a closer reading, it's quite obvious that
my book is really a commentary on the effects of global warming on the
rockhopper penguin; a scathing critique of Sherman's "scorched earth
policy" during the Civil War and an objective review of the second
Matchbox 20 album 'If You're Gone'.
Ok. I would attempt to further analyze my new found burden
but my time in the Internet Cafe has been cut short by Bratislava's
policy of closing stores before the sun goes down in an effort to avoid
vampires during the commute.
I'm going to use my nascent intelligence to find a Mexican restaurant in Slovakia.
Rhythm is a Dancer,
As incentive to actually leave your actual email when you post a
comment: Besides the likely possibility that you could receive a
message from me 3 weeks down the line asking you to wire me money, I am
putting together an exclusive group contact list so that those of you
who actually might be interested will be the first to know when I
release the first single off my inevitable R&B/Pop album, get an
inappropriate forwarded email from my grandfather or God forbid,
publish something, like, you know, a book. So if you want in, drop your
email. I'm almost 70% positive I'll be able to read it.