Official Slacker Handbook Read online

  PHARMACEUTICAL COMPANIES THAT STICK IT TO AIDS SURVIVORS? THE GAP, WHO APPROPRIATED SLACK FLANNEL SHIRTS AND THEN SOLD THEM IN SUBURBAN SHOPPING MALLS FOR FORTY-FOUR BUCKS? ALAS, NO ONE IS IMMUNE.

  CULTIVATION OF THE INNER Landscape

  Even if at times he has little else, the slacker has a lively inner world. In its highest form, slacking is not unlike coasting through in a non-degree post-bac program of your own devising. Either way, the locus of activity takes place between the ears, for some in the highly developed cerebral cortex, for others in the more humble brain stem and cerebellum.

  REFUSAL TO BE CATEGORIZED

  The slacker hates to be categorized. In fact, he will go so far as to claim that he is impossible to categorize. Suggest to him that his chronic malaise and vague dissatisfaction with life is nothing more than part of a widespread generational impulse and you’ll quickly be shown the door. Needless to say, slackers are amazingly quick to lob flaming insults at anyone who dares to claim to speak about them, to them or—God forbid—for them.

  UNTAPPED RAGE

  SLACKERS DON’T WANT TO BE CATEGORIZED, LARGELY BECAUSE THEY’VE SPENT THEIR LIVES WITNESSING THE BABY BOOMERS’ UNDYING LOVE EOR THE CONCEPT OF GROUP IDENTITY AND THE UNDISGUISED GLEE THEY EXHIBIT WHEN ONE OF THEIR CONTEMPORARIES TRIES TO PIGEONHOLE THEM WITH A NEW DEFINING CHARACTERISTIC. THE BOOMERS LOVE TO INVENT MAGAZINES ABOUT THEMSELVES, MAGAZINES THAT TELL THEM HOW IMPORTANT AND NOBLE AND GOOD THEY ARE, MAGAZINES THAT ASSURE THEM THAT IT’S COOL TO BE CROTCHETY AND POSTMENOPAUSAL AND IMPOTENT, AND MAGAZINES THAT—THIRTY YEARS FROM NOW—WILL CONVINCE THEM THAT IT’S HIP TO BE DEAD.

  (SLACKERS, QUITE UNDERSTANDABLY, LOOK ON IN HORROR.)

  The Slack Pantheon

  The Lotus Eaters—9th century B.C.

  A WHOLE TRIBE OF SLACKERS FEATURED IN HOMER’S EPIC POEM THE ODYSSEY. LIVED ON AN ISLAND OFF THE NORTH AFRICAN COAST AND ATE ONLY FROM THE LOTUS TREE, THE EFFECT OF WHICH WAS TO MAKE THEM WASTOIDS AND LAYABOUTS (SORT OF LIKE KOALAS AND THEIR EUCALYPTUS LEAVES). HAVE COME TO SYMBOLIZE LIVING IN EASE AND LUXURY. ODYSSEUS AND HIS FELLOW SAILORS ENCOUNTERED THEM IN THE NINTH BOOK OF THE ODYSSEY: “I SENT AWAY SOME OF MY COMRADES TO FIND WHAT MANNER OF HUMAN BEINGS WERE THOSE WHO LIVED HERE. THEY WENT AT ONCE AND SOON WERE AMONG THE LOTUS EATERS, WHO HAD NO THOUGHTS OF MAKING AWAY WITH MY COMPANIONS, BUT GAVE THEM LOTUS TO TASTE INSTEAD. THOSE OF MY MEN WHO ATE THE HONEY-SWEET LOTUS FRUIT HAD NO DESIRE TO RETRACE THEIR STEPS AND COME BACK WITH NEWS: THEIR ONLY WISH WAS TO LINGER THERE WITH THE LOTUS EATERS, TO FEED ON THE FRUIT AND PUT ASIDE ALL THOUGHT OF A VOYAGE HOME. THESE MEN I THEN FORCED BACK TO THE SHIPS; THEY WERE SHEDDING TEARS BUT I MADE THEM GO.”

  Siddhartha Gautama 563-483 B.C. (approx.)

  Also known as Buddha, or “the enlightened one.” Born a prince and raised in luxury. AT AGE OF TWENTY-NINE DID THAT DOWN WARDLY MOBILE THING AND FOR SOOK ALL HIS FINERIES TO WANDER AROUND AND FIND THE END TO THE INNATE CONDITION OF HUMAN SUFFERING. Sat under a tree for quite some time and yet still managed to reach enlightenment (sort of, and yet not, like Newton). Hung out with the guys for the next forty-five years, living off the donations of wealthy lay devotees. His third Noble Truth, that suffering has a cessation, was the inspiration for the name of the band that fathered all ye holy grunge (Nirvana).

  Socrates 469-399 B.C. (approx.)

  GREEK PHILOSOPHER. NEGLECTED HIS OWN AFFAIRS. DIDN’T EVEN BOTHER TO GO INTO PUBLIC SERVICE (AN EXPECTED THINC BACK IN THOISE DAYS IN ATHENS). WANDERED AROUND FOR THE MAJORITY OF HIS LIFE AVOIDING HIS WIFE AND HANGING OUT WITH THE GUYS DISCUSSING. VIRTUE, JUSTICE, AND ETHICS WHEREVER FELLOW CITIZENS CONGREGATED. LIKED TO WAX PHILOSOPHIC ABOUT HOW HE SHOULD RUN THE CITY, I.E., HE CONSTANTLY FANTASIZED ABOUT A CITY WHERE PHILOSOPHERS (WORTHLESS LAYABOUTS) WOULD BE KINGS (SORT OF LIKE THE TYPICAL FANTASY ALL TWENTIETH CENTURY SLACKERS HAVE OF STARRING IN THEIR OWN NETWORK LATE-NIGHT TV TALK SHOW).

  Diogenes 412-323 B.C. (approx.)

  Greek Cynic philosopher. Believed in the simple life; hence, lived in a barrel. Dispensed with his only kitchen utensil, a cup (probably a coffee mug), When he saw some impoverished peasant drink with his hands. Really into tanning, apparent because when Alexander the Great asked what he could do for him, Diogenes answered, *“Only step out of my sunlight.” Had (surprise) great contempt for his own generation and wandered around with a lit lantern in broad daylight looking for an honest man (ha!).

  Conon and His Triballi 370s B.C.

  Essentially a band of well-to-do young street toughs in Athens. Took their name from a tribe of brigand Thracian people (Thrace is now pretty much Turkey) who ravaged the coast in 376. Rich and having nothing better to do, they went on drinking rampages, crashed parties, committed unspecified acts of hooliganism, and stole the sacrificed pigs (these were sacrificed to Hecate at the beginning of every month) off of people’s doorsteps to eat like the poor people did, only they weren’t poor, just spoiled brats, blatantly thumbing their noses at established religion. Immortalized in one of Demosthenes’ private orations (he is the most famous classical orator—he basically wrote speeches for people to give in court, sort of like a lawyer) where a proper young man named Ariston brought Conon and his son to court for allegedly unprovokedly attacking him and his slaves in a drunken brawl and stealing his cape, etc. Conon tried to pass it off as just harmless Triballi antics; polite society in Athens saw these kids merely as unruly idlers and wastrels.

  Jesus 4 B.C.-30

  ALSO KNOWN AS “THE MESSIAH” OR “CHRIST.” THE MOST AGGRESSIVELY DOWNWARDLY MOBILE OF THE BUNCH, AS HE WAS, AFTER ALL, THE SON OF GOD. BASICALLY, HIS REAL FATHER WAS CEO OF THE WORLD, AND JESUS SETTLED FOR THE LIFE OF AN ITINERANT PREACHER. HIS STEPDAD, JOSEPH, HAD A JOB AS A CARPENTER IN HIS COMPANY ALL LINED UP FOR JESUS, BUT HE DECLINED AND INSTEAD CHOSE A LIFE OF HANGING OUT WITH THE GUYS. HE HAD COOL ACQUAINTANCES LIKE PROSTITUTES AND ASYLUM ESCAPEES. PEOPLE HUNG OUT WITH HIM BECAUSE HE HAD CHARIS MA.

  HAMLET PRINCE OF DENMARK B. 1601 (APPROX.)

  Prince of Indecision. Perpetually miserable, a layabout still living at home even at the age of thirty-five. Given to philosophical rhapsodies on the nature of humanity rather than actually getting anything accomplished (like killing his stepdad).

  Too lazy to go out and get himself a real girlfriend, he kept it in the family. Hung out with colorful folk such as wandering actors and grave diggers. Suicidal.

  Samuel T. Coleridge 1172-1834

  English poet and arguably the most influential figure of the English Romantic Movement. Notorious for never finishing anything and having failed literacy pursuits. Authored the aborted kubla Kahn and ode to Dejection. A precocious and dreamy child; he said of himself, “I became very vain, and despised most of the boys that were at all near my own age, and before I was eight years old I was a character. Sensibility, imagination, vanity, sloth and feelings of deep and bitter contempt for all who traversed the orbit of my understanding, were even then prominent and manifest.” Dropped out of Jesus College, Cambridge, in 1793, then was forced to return by his family; however, in 1794 he was kicked out for hanging out with Robert Southey, a young radical. Had several big schemes that never came to fruition, among them to establish a pantioscratic community in Pennsylvania, and publication, of a literacy magazine, Watchman, which failed after ten issues, as did another publication, Friend. Much of his work, such as Opus Maximum, was left unfinished. Opium addict and (attegedly) quite a plagiarizer.

  Gioacchino Rossini 1792-1868

  Italian composer. Also a notorious self-plagiarizer, Rossini had a habit of using arias from his former operas in his new ones. Hence, his most famous opera, The Barber of Seville, was written in thirteen days

  Rossini himself wrote about his method or work. “WAIT UNTIL THE EVENING BEFORE THE OPENING NIGHT

  NOTHING PRIMES INSPIRATION MORE THAN NECESSITY, WHETHER IT BE THE PRESENCE OF A COPYIST WAITING FOR YOUR WORK, OR THE PRODDING OF AN IMPRESARIO TEARING HIS HAIR….

  I WROTE THE OVERTURE TOLA GAZZATHE DAY OF ITS OPENING IN THE THEATER ITSELF, WH
ERE I WAS IMPRISONED BY THE DIRECTOR AND UNDER THE SURVEILLANCE OF THE STAGEHANDS WHO WERE INSTRUCTED TO THROW MY ORIGINAL TEXT THROUGH THE WINDOW, PAGE BY PAGE, TO THE COPYISTS WAITING BELOW TO TRANSCRIBE IT.” He was charismatic, had wit and sparkle, and was very gifted. Said, “Bring me the laundry list and I will set it to music” Got really fat and rich. Stopped composing in 1829 and didn’t write another note for publication (that’s for thirty-nine years).

  Rip Van Winkle 1819

  Hero of a folktale by Washington Irving. Rip and his dog, Wolf, escape his nagging wife by heading up to the Catskills before the Revolutionary War. He meets a bunch of dwarfs, with whom he proceeds to bowl and get drunk. Rip passes out like a frat boy. He wakes up twenty years later and his wife is dead. So it worked.

  Bartleby the Scrivener 1853

  Hero of the short story by Herman Melville. The narrator of the story runs a law firm on Wall Street and hires Bartleby to copy and proofread legal documents (like a pre-slack paralegal). Soon enough Bartleby will only stare at a wall and answers all requests for work with the statement “I would prefer not to.” The narrator can’t get Bartleby to even leave the office, much less to work, so he moves. Bartleby dies of starvation.

  Oblomov 1859

  HERO OF THE SAME-NAMED NOVEL BY IVAN GONCHAROV. ILYA ILYICH OBLOMOV IS AN UTTERLY INACTIVE RUSSIAN LANDOWNER IN ST. PETERSBURG. HE IS THE EMBODIMENT OF PHYSICAL AND MENTAL LAZINESS, LIES ON HIS COUCH ALL DAY, ONLY WEARS HIS ROBE AND SLIPPERS, AND INDULGES IN REVERIES AND QUARRELS WITH HIS SERVANT. HE DIES IN FINANCIAL RUIN BECAUSE HE WON’T GET OFF THE COUCH TO MANAGE HIS ESTATE.

  Franz Kafka 1883-1924

  PRAGUE AUTHOR. PUBLISHED BARELY ANYTHING, PRESUMABLY BECAUSE HE WAS TOO BUSY WRITING IN HIS JOURNALS OR TO HIS FRIENDS. MOST OF HIS STUFF WAS LEFT UNFINISHED. DIDN’T MOVE OUT OF HIS PARENTS’ HOUSE UNTIL HE WAS THIRTY-FIVE. KEPT GETTING ENGAGED AND BREAKING IT OFF. SUICIDAL.

  WORKED AS A CLERK IN AN INSURANCE AGENCY FROM 8 A.M. TO 3 P.M. WITH NO BREAK SO HE COULD FREE UP HIS TIME FOR WRITING. MOST OF WHICH HE NEVER PUBLISHED.

  Marcel Duchamp 1887-1968

  French-American painter. Produced a small body of work, mostly before 1925, when he retired to play chess. Began by painting—among his works were the notorious Sex Machine series—then did the Ready-Made thing, such as Bicycle Wheel and Fountain (a urinal). Drew a mustache on the Mona Lisa. One of the founders of Dada.

  Maynard G. Krebs 1959

  Slack sidekick to Dobie Gillis on the popular TV show The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis, played by Bob Denver. His most oft-remarked remark was the exclamation “Work??!!” whenever anyone suggested that he get a job. Was nearly written out of the show after the first few episodes, and was represented by Dobie when court-martialed for refusing to shave off his trademark goatee.

  slackers don’t jog

  JIM FIXX’S UNTIMELY DEATH IN 1984. IS LODGED IN THE SLACK BRAIN, JUST TO THE LEFT OF JOHN BELUSHI’S OVERDOSE AND DIRECTLY BENEATH THE LATE-BREAKING DETAILS OF BOB CRANE’S GRISLY S&M SLAYING. JIM FIXX’S DEATH WAS THE BEGINNING OF THE END FOR A GENERATION THAT WOULD GO ON TO MAKE. A HABIT OK LOSING ITS INNOCENCE, AND PROOF POSITIVE THAT MOST OF WHAT YOU WERE TOLD WHILE GROWING UP IN THE ’7OS WERE NOTHING BUT BOLDFACE LIES.

  Here’s a smattering of what you’ve learned since:

  Air: bad

  Tap water: toxic

  Sunshine: carcinogenic

  Sex: lethal

  College degree: worthless

  The Four Food Groups: Unsound self-promotional fiction manufactured by powerful meat and dairy lobbies

  The zoo: animal prison

  Jody and Buffy: drug addicts

  Daisy Duke: infamous short-shorts butt shots actually the handiwork of stunt woman stand-in

  The Brady Household: scene of twisted Oedipal liaison

  Dr. Doolittle: culturally insensitive racist imperialist

  The Jackson Five: cadre of freaks terrorized by abusive father and enabling mother

  Barbie: nipple-less, de-sexed root of teenage eating disorders, materialism, and countless sexual hang-ups

  A Day in the Life of a Slacker

  10:52 A.M.: Glorious sleep

  10:53 A.M.: Awaken when you are disturbed by the wheezy breathing of your housemate as he shuffles around in the hallway outside your bedroom.

  10:57 A.M.: Fall back to sleep.

  11:34 A.M.: Wake up again. Elect to lay in bed awhile longer so you can stare at the ceiling and think.

  12:45 P.M.: Plan the world tour you would take if any of your relatives happened to die and handed you a pile of money.

  1:33 P.M.: Sit down with a cup of coffee and read the new paper.

  1:48 P.M.: Realize that you write much better than any of the nationally syndicated editorial columnists that appear in your local paper. Wonder how much money they make.

  |l:52 P.M.: Peruse an op-ed article stating that your generation represents “the final exhaustion of civilization.” Resolve to fire off a scathing yet piquant rebuttal.

  2:00 P.M.: Watch Hogan’s Heroes.

  2:30 P.M.: Watch second installment of Hogan’s Heroes.

  2:42 P.M.: Commercial break. Decide to go to work on your newest major project -a flow chart in which you are attempting to categorize and classify every philosopher throughout time according to your very own top secret rating system -just as soon as you find out how this episode ends.

  3:14 P.M.: Leave the house and wander around aimlessly.

  3:45 P.M.: Find yourself at a cafe. Get a cup of coffee and set to work on The Chart.

  3:48 P.M.: Get momentarily stumped by Schopenhauer. Skip him for the time being and forge ahead to Herbert Spencer.

  4:30 P.M.: Show your groundbreaking flowchart to a fellow cafe-goer. Attempt to impress upon him the sheer magnitude of the task you have set yourself.

  4:31 P.M.: Shrink back in horror when he blows smoke in your face and says, “Dude, it’s just a list of names.”

  4:35 P.M.: Figure maybe you would like to work with your hands. To learn how to make something.

  4:37 P.M.: Realize you will be in direct competition with thousands of fleet-fingered peasants from Bangladesh. Your only career options seem to be fifteen minutes of fame or years of manning the frothing machine at Orange Julius.

  5:20 P.M.: Return home.

  5:27 P.M.: Take a nap.

  7:32 P.M.: Get out of bed. “Borrow” a box of your housemate’s Kraft Macaroni and Cheese for dinner.

  7:56 P.M.: Resolve to build your own log cabin out in the woods and live off the fat of the land. Begin drawing up some preliminary floor plans inside your crisp new notebook.

  8:48 P.M.: Hunker down with Schopenhauer.

  9:05 P.M.: Partake in shouting match with your housemate over the mysterious disappearance of a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

  9:33 P.M.: Storm out of the house, saying, “Geez, man, I’m not sure I can live with this sort of distrust. Not in my own home.”

  9:45 P.M.: Elect to embark on a drinking binge.

  9:46 P.M.: Root through your pockets. Come up with seventy three cents and a prodigious clump of lint.

  9:48 P.M.: Take a long, reflective walk.

  10:13 P.M.: Decide that life’s increasing randomness does not let you believe the lies that could make you more normal. Wish you had a pencil so you could write this down.

  11:05 P.M.: Return home.

  11:15 P.M.: Actively ignore the rumblings of your housemate.

  11:30 P.M.: Putter around your room.

  11:48 P.M.: Rake the sand in your Zen rock garden.

  12:15 A.M.: Alphabetize your cassettes.

  12:33 A.M.: Practice your dart game.

  1:00 A.M.: Assume the fetal position for late night infomercial viewing.

  1:26 A.M.: Stare near-crippling bout of existential angst in the face.

  1:57 A.M.: Once again, glorious sleep.

  Mastering Sleep

  If there is one common bond, one shared experience that draws slackers together, it is one th
at takes place between the sheets—shades pulled down against the blazing sun, housemates plodding noisily down the hall, jackhammers pounding the asphalt outside—alone. The connoisseurship of sleep is the essence of slack. Cheaper than a forty, more soothing than a twelve-hour Family Affair marathon on cable, unlikely to cause vital clumps of neurons to misfire in later life, sleep transcends mere biological imperative and quickly becomes a way of life. As the first line of attack against the tyranny of reality, a three-hour-long nap rarely fails.

  If you find sleep to be anything less than a pleasure bordering on the sublime, the life of a slacker is probably not for you. For sleep—hours of it stretching into days, days into months—is slack’s most tangible perk. And it’s the perk of a career whose perks, quite often, are few and far between.

  (Relaxed contemplation, not to be confused with sleep, consists of thinking while in a horizontal position. Ideally this takes place on the couch, in the afternoon, sometime after Chico and the Man. For the artist, the line between meaningful contemplation and actual creation is so fine that it is, for all intents and purposes, nonexistent. Thus an afternoon of lounging on the couch, eyelids at half-mast, acid-free notepad splayed open on one’s chest, is easily as good as a few hours of sketching old people while sitting on a park bench.)