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Notes Of A Tourist On Planet Earth: Being a Collection of Hilarious Essays, poems and Ponderings About the Human Species
Notes Of A Tourist On Planet Earth: Being a Collection of Hilarious Essays, poems and Ponderings About the Human Species
Notes Of A Tourist On Planet Earth: Being a Collection of Hilarious Essays, poems and Ponderings About the Human Species
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Notes Of A Tourist On Planet Earth: Being a Collection of Hilarious Essays, poems and Ponderings About the Human Species

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Notes of a Tourist on Planet Earth Some questions haunt humanity on a daily basis, or at the very least make it scratch its collective head. Why shouldn’t one wear black? Who is the emitting the most greenhouse gases? What hybrids could result from genetic engineering, and what kind of secret life does ethanol have? How can one sound halfway intelligent at an art gallery or survive a poetry open mic? Most importantly of all, who do you have to please to get a table at that restaurant everybody’s talking it? In NOTES OF A TOURIST ON PLANET EARTH, seasoned traveler and award-winning writer J.D. Smith answers these questions and more, many more, in stories, lists, poems and essays, along with pieces that no category could hope to contain without undergoing elective surgery. Based on research in world capitals, the bars of eight time zones and a distressing number of degree programs, this collection combines wit and erudition in ways that will make Woody Allen and Roy Blount, Jr. hear footsteps-and have Rachael Ray taking a long, hard look at herself.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateMar 4, 2015
ISBN9780984964444
Notes Of A Tourist On Planet Earth: Being a Collection of Hilarious Essays, poems and Ponderings About the Human Species

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    Notes Of A Tourist On Planet Earth - J.D. Smith

    Author

    INTRODUCTION

    As one song goes, we’re all just passing through or, as the beer commercial of my childhood said, you only go around once. Unless reincarnation is somehow proven (I’m betting against it, and have receipts on the wager) or you are circling the globe in a desperate attempt to rack up frequent flyer miles. In the latter case, please stop—it’s bad for your home life. I say this because I care. It’s also no longer original.

    What this means is that we are all tourists on planet Earth, seeing what we can with the time we have. You don’t have to wear Bermuda shorts, since most of us don’t have the legs for them, and you don’t need to put on a Hawaiian shirt, although it can be awfully comfortable. If you insist on wearing one of those waist-pouches, at least have the sense to keep it on your front instead of your back, lest you look like even more of a mark. This tourist chooses not to sport a pith helmet, but your panache may vary.

    My journeys to date have extended from the bars of New York to those of Los Angeles, Chicago, Athens and Buenos Aires, as well as Warrensburg, Missouri. My destinations have included taqueria in both the United States and Mexico, and a pizzeria in Guatemala City (a youthful indiscretion). I have not traveled much in the realms of gold, since I can only afford to fly economy class, but passage on a private jet could not have brought me to any greater number of souvenir shops or hawkers for mediocre and even tawdry entertainments.

    On the basis of what I have seen and heard so far I can offer the following crude guide to the people, places and customs of this planet, including historical and scientific background. There are short observations as well as first-person accounts heard along the way, and even a section devoted to the Earth’s strange and wondrous animals, who are plotting our overthrow.

    I hope you can join me on this tour with an open mind, as well a valid passport, up-to-date vaccinations and enough money to pay for this book rather than read it all in the bookstore cafe and leave a shopworn copy by the sugar packets. (If you’re reading the e-book, please disregard.)

    Onward, if you dare!

    Washington, DC, November 2012

    MANNERS AND MORES

    INTRODUCTION

    As is often said, People make the place. This is often followed by Damn it.

    Still, making the most of one’s stay in any place requires an understanding of how things work and what makes people tick, even when a fuse is not attached. It helps to remember that no matter where you go, and no matter how strange things seem, we are all the same inside, give or take those born with one kidney—or three. We all have the same motivations, such as survival, lust and revenge. Beyond that point things get a little more complicated, as we attempt to carve out our identities and show what makes each of us unique, and better than everyone else.

    These short selections illustrate how those principles apply in specific situations.

    REASONS FOR NOT WEARING BLACK

    In the interests of determining the causes of a recent increase in nonconformity among hipsters, bohemians and poseurs, we wish to take a few moments of your time.

    If you have decided not to be different, like everyone else in your circle, please indicate your reasons for declining to wear black. Please check all that apply.

    Too cool.

    Not cool enough.

    Cool, but have low self-esteem.

    [Insert color here] is the new black.

    Pacific Islander is the new black.

    Don’t look good in black.

    Fear of a black wardrobe.

    Trying to stand out.

    No longer a ninja.

    Prefer not to flaunt Satanism.

    Like random patterns of soot and grit to show up on clothing.

    Closet Goth.

    Too conspicuous for lying passed-out drunk on snow.

    Am all about nuance.

    Rejecting patriarchal hierarchy of domination implicit in selecting one of two binary positions.

    Afraid to commit.

    Insufficient contrast with my tats.

    Clashes with red Kabbalah bracelet.

    Am Tom Wolfe.

    HOPE FOR THE SHY

    Max had to break out of his shell.

    His plans were laid. Then Max, as well.

    FOR A BOOKSTORE CLERK

    I commend you, my black-clad

    and multiply-pierced amigo,

    for your ability to say,

    in five languages,

    Would you like a bag?

    And I applaud you for

    the diffident slouch

    with which you signify

    you’re only marking time

    until your shift is over,

    at which point you’ll embark upon

    bacchanalian revels

    and furies of creation,

    maybe both at once.

    Rimbaud, and Lou Reed, would be proud.

    I congratulate you, likewise,

    for the near-perfect rectilinearity

    of your sneer—unsurpassed even by

    Billy Idol’s facial hommage to Elvis—

    that you apply with great liberality

    to patrons who, not having

    memorized the store’s layout

    or this year’s Books in Print,

    disrupt your reveries

    by asking for assistance—

    in short, people who have other jobs,

    full-time at that,

    such as the mother you don’t mention

    without rolling your eyes

    who goes to Mass twice a week

    and nearly as often sends you a check

    that lets you stay in this leisurely

    if barely above minimum-wage gig

    and take a course or two

    while you decide on the medium

    most worthy of your vision.

    I am impressed.

    But not half as much as you are.

    Whatever your oeuvre turns out to be,

    it’s not getting done

    in the cafe down the street

    where you smoke Gauloises

    or nothing

    and try, it seems

    with varying success,

    to get laid

    rather than go home alone

    to your garret

    (one-bedroom, air-conditioned)

    and stare down

    a blank canvas or a page,

    making something, anything, of it

    or yourself.

    Whether your genius—real or feigned—pans out

    won’t turn the tides,

    affect the fate of men and nations

    or, for that matter, concern me much.

    There’s already enough genius to go around,

    and fair things that it doesn’t create,

    like a thick steak, or Scotch

    that’s older than you,

    and far more wise.

    In any case, the sun

    will still rise in the east,

    men will put their pants on

    one leg at a time,

    and by the time you’ve shuffled

    off this mortal coil

    and your name become

    less than memory

    California won’t have moved

    enough to notice.

    In the meantime, buddy,

    give me my goddamn change.

    FAILED WOMENS PERFUMES

    Concubine

    Kept

    Trophy

    Durian!

    Tristesse de chien

    Available

    Cubic zirconium (also available as body wash and eau de toilette)

    Stock in Trade

    FAILED MENS FRAGRANCES

    Eau de chevre

    Paternity

    Monastic

    Last Call

    White Belt

    Sneaker

    On Parole

    Flop Sweat

    Cold Cut

    Nacho

    Drone

    Hatchet

    Mid-management

    Dacron

    Steroid

    Backne

    Guido . . .

    Engineer

    IT Guy

    FONTS THAT MAY SERVE AS INSULTS

    Antique Olive

    Baskerville Old Face

    Elephant

    Feymo10

    Goudy Stout

    Viner Hand

    CHANGE OF SIGNALS

    The bike courier

    runs a red light and spills—hard.

    Four corners applaud.

    IN A WASHROOM STALL

    Don’t wonder what I think of you

    Or how you’ll try to answer.

    There’s something else you have to do—

    Beware the limbo dancer.

    AN OPEN LETTER

    Dear Persons Using of the Forums on the Internets, peculiarly the Craig List,

    I am non-native English foreigner wishing informations.

    Always I see messages with word or abbreviation STFU and I am very confusing about this.

    I know ST is common abbreviation to word saint, but FU is mysterious to me. Who is this St. Fu? He getting more reference than your Jesus.

    This makes me to be frustrated much when I no find anything about St. Fu from the search of Google.

    So—who St. Fu? Where he born and what he did? What was making him such big deal?

    Big deal he must be, too. Many times excitement point come after his name like this: STFU!

    Also his

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