Sunday, July 30, 2006
 
Big Bang Theory
I decided to start thinking about it in the ten free minutes I had between my family all going to bed and before Deadwood starts and I think I've cracked it: I know what Life Is All About.

There are entire schools of philosophy dedicated to the question. Some are actual philosophies (existentialism, metaphysics, etc.). Others I would categorize as A Bunch of Mumbly-Jumbly Justifications for Hippies to Continue to Live in Ashrams and Not Get Jobs Which They Thought of While High. The former involves the whole history of human thought and language employed to wrestle with the thorny, tangled basics of existence (Heidegger's "Why are there beings instead of nothing at all?"). The latter is basically the same, except with a thirty-minute tangent about dragons, a recipe for "really bitchin' vegetarian chili", infinitely more instances of the word "man" and ends with two or more people doin' it in a field. Which is fine with me as there are no fields left near my house.

Although I admire the former the most, it sort of pisses me off. It really should be a source of joy and relief as it led me directly to the answer to what Life Is All About, but once I tell you what Life Is All About, you'll be annoyed too.

Life Is All About unanswerable questions. Why are we here, what are we meant to do, is there a God, what happens after we die, did I really just eat a whole cheesecake, etc. OK, the last one is kind of answerable, but don't underestimate the human potential for self-deception. All we really know for sure is that there is no more cheesecake.

It's a cruel irony that we are destined to spend so much time stuck contemplating these questions (either in thougtful abstraction in the academic sense or subconsciously as we make the decisions that shape the narratives of our lives) that can never be answered to anyone's complete satisfaction.

In the meantime we distract ourselves from the weighty burden of the existential fusion that fires our ultimately too tragically exhaustible engines by thinking about things that are stupid.

Like famous people.

How much money do they make, what do they drive, who are they banging, are they gay, what do their media/game rooms look like ("MTV Cribs" only), are they Scientologists, etc.

Which would you rather consider while magazining from the brief comfort of your own toilet: what happens to me when I die? or oh my God, is Oprah really gay?!

I don't know about you, but the first question is a little weighty for the middle of an afternoon. Plus it doesn't do me any favors in the colon-exercising department, if you follow. Oprah, on the other hand, has the laxative power a half pound of dried apricots. I can't explain it only to note (obviously) that Oprah is magic.

And not gay.

Today, the Bucket offers you a small trifle to get you through the next few moments, relieving the slowly tightening pressure of your ever-more impending doom if only for a second.

Today I ask you the age-old question: ┬┐Quien es mas loco?

Today's contestants:

Mr. Mel Gibson vs. Ms. Lindsay Lohan

Who is crazier? The best way to not think about death is to spend some time thinking about things that make you kind of want to kill yourself! Why do you think entertainment reporters are always so goddamned happy?

Let's get right down to the Crazy-Off by looking at the evidence.

1) Lindsay Lohan: Daughter of crazy-ass showbiz parents. Is sort of hot. Has been trying to convince me of said hotness since she was roughly aged 12. Periodic bouts of anorexia, linked with her magical powers of self-breast-expansion. Is only 20 but is somehow always drunk. Thanks to the pioneering work of our friends over at The Superficial, we know she will no longer appear in public in anything but a two-piece swimsuit. Collapses from being "overheated" and is the next day publicly excoriated personally by the head of a studio for whom she is currently working for being a classless hoor. Everyone knows studio heads like their hoors classy.

2) Mel Gibson: Son of a crazy-ass professional Holocaust denier. Hates the modern Catholic Church for not being strict enough. Self-financed The Passion of the Christ after studios told him he was (you guessed it!) crazy. Won crazy-points for himself by adopting a decidedly more Manson-y personal grooming regimen. Got arrested for drunk driving and blamed it all on the Jews.

Old-school Bucketeers among you might think I would be persuaded to cut Mr. Gibson some slack here considering some of the things I've said about Jews in this space before, but I must say categorically that I don't hate the Jews. True, I'd never turn my back on one, but I don't hate them. That's just common sense. You never know when they're going to break out with the demon fire breath or the spiked tail. It's just prudent to be on your guard.

After almost no deliberation, I have to say this turned out to be less of a contest than I'd hoped. Sure, Lohan's constant-bikini thing is weird and the non-stop partying is probably not smart, but then, she is only 20 and has what accountants call "a mother fuckload" of money. She's supposed to be stupid. Anything other would be a charming surprise.

Mel, on the other hand, is like 50-something. Men his age with beards like that yelling at people about how the Jews are out to get him generally make their homes beneath bridges, freeway overpasses, or any other kind of transportation-related overcrossings unencumbered by food or climate control or any Jewy, Jewy walls.

Since he's loaded, we can chalk it up to a raffish eccentricity, but still, it's stronger than anything we can say for poor Ms. Lohan.

Our winner: Mel Gibson.

Congratulations, Mel. Thanks for the distraction.

I now send you back to your regularly scheduled despair.


This post on the Narcissus Scale: 4.4


Pops

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