Project Blogject

Most Peculiar

2008-05-07T07:22:00.000-07:00

so, i was browsing through various webpages, when i noticed that my gmail tab had transformed into my blog tab. i don't know why. there was, as far as i can see, no reason it should have done that.

that was pretty much it.

this line popped in my head the other day: the revolution will not be televised. i feel like i've heard this line everywhere from the time i was little and such. i did a google search of it, and such is not the case. every reference to this line is something that i know nothing about. and yet, it's something i feel confident in saying we all know. apparently it was some poem/song by a guy in the 70s, who was probably a dirty hippy, and that was probably the only thing he said of any cleverness. it was also the name of a documentary about a revolt in bolivia or something. a movie made for hipsters and faux hippies to watch, and then feel good about themselves because they know something about world events, and now they can feel superior about it without actually doing anything. not that i'm any different, but let's be honest: documentaries suck. they're god awful boring (at least the ones that get put in theaters), and the only real reason to watch them is so that you can feel superior to those that choose to spend their money watching things that are actually fun to watch.

i can actually understand, however, why this guy would say this. it makes sense. TV is the grand addiction of americans. it's probably replaced God as the opiate of the people. it drives me nuts. not because i actually think TV is evil. at least not directly. but because people who watch it religiously won't shut the hell up about it. same with people who attend church religiously, or attack church religiously, or really, do anything religiously. i get it. monk, and baseball, and the news, and the cheerleader. fantastic.

anyways, i guess i just wanted to say that the revolution will not be blogged.

The End of Blogging?

2008-03-30T09:56:00.000-07:00

So, today is my wedding day. I kind of feel like I should say something about that, but at the same time, what would I say to both the people that check this blog who aren't spam? Chances are, they already know. I kind of feel like that dropping in here to let you know I'll be gone is like receiving a chain letter from someone you haven't talked to in awhile. Retarded.

At any rate, that's the score. In four hours, all my freedoms are belong to her.

A word on blogging: for awhile I did it, and I really enjoyed it, and I did it a lot. One of the big reasons is that I felt like I had things that I wanted to say. Really, it was conversations that I wanted to engage in, and had they been engaged in the real world, I wouldn't have turned to the virtual one. So, when people quit commenting and the conversation I sought dies away, I really don't want to keep doing. More importantly, I met my Shannon, and I'm engaging in all the conversations I wanted to engage in, plus a few that I hadn't thought of. That's one of the big reasons why I snatched her up so quickly. Girls are everywhere. Smart girls are rare. But a smart girl that you can have good conversations with (who aren't taken)? It's rare enough that you're a fool not to take it.

I certainly hope my wedding goes better than my bachelor party. Let me show you those stats:
15 people invited (excluding dad and brother, who were going to be there regardless)
6 people showed
1 person stayed after dinner
2 people actually contacted me and told me why they couldn't come. Also, that 15 was the number of invited who said they'd come.
In percents:
100% invited
40% showed
.0625% stayed after dinner
.125% had a good excuse

So, that's that. I don't know if I'll continue blogging anymore/ever. If I do, I'll probably start on a different blog.

Why Evolution Doesn't Make Sense

2008-02-24T10:13:00.000-08:00

So, I don't necessarily understand some things about evolution. Mostly, it seems as though “hardcore” evolutionists turn a blind eye to a lot of stuff that seem to be “go to jail” cards. Things that kind of deliver the proverbial baseball bat to the proverbial skater's knee. Not to say that Christians, or religious people in general for that matter don't also do this, but I'm not talking about them. And many of them actively struggle with the things they don't get.

My first problem is that we suck in small groups. In small groups, we'd be doomed. Which means that in order for men to have any hope of getting out of the wild, a whole damn bunch of us would have had to appear at once, which is unlikely because:

Male primates are known to eat their young. Eat them for any variety of reason. Because they're hungry and the kid's weak, because they suspect it's not theirs, because it looks foreign. How then do we anticipate that a larval human (or half human) sliding out of a woman monkey wouldn't get eaten? It seems unlikely that enough male primates would let a freak of nature like this freakish tale less-thing walk around for very long.

I had a boss defend evolution saying that the reason man had risen to the top was because of our intellect and technology. The problem with this is that those two things take lots of time to cultivate. Mostly, humankind is kind of characterized by a whole bunch of pigs eating in a slop tank, and once a generation, if we're lucky, one or two will happen to look up, and then receive a revelation of some kind. Unfortunately for us human folk, intellect and revelation are semi-sparse for us. So, in order for man to have conquered animals using his intellect, that means he would have had to have come furnished with an intellect, and enough other man animals to be able to use that intellect properly. Sure, one man could make a sling and a spear, but he uses it on a monkey, all he's done is piss that monkey off, which pisses other monkeys off, now he's monkey dinner.

Then there's the physical limitations. Humans suck donkey nuts in comparison to almost every other animal. Are claws are tiny and fragile, our fangs break easily, we can't run that fast, or swim, we can't see that well, or hear stuff, we're not that strong (at least practically), and our piss is weak. No animal would be afraid of our wee wee.

I had a friend say that the only reason I could claim we were so weak was because I'd never seen a person in the wild, where they could shine. I don't care. You can take our best fighter and place it against the most humdrum of baboons or laziest of gazelles, and we still lose in fisticuffs. Muhammad Ali vs. a tiger, Bruce Lee vs. a chimp. No matter what, we just lose. We suck. Our hardware is not up to par with the most average of predators.

Along the lines of hardware is the fact that we lost things that would have been wicked handy. Apart from the sense of smell, fangs, and claws, we also have tales, feet thumbs, and the longer forearms that allow us to lope if we want to. It makes no sense that our ancestors at any point would have quit using things like that. At no point do they cease becoming useful. You would make shoes to accommodate your feet, sheathes to keep your tail warm. Or better yet, fur has served every other mammal just fine for thousands of years, why would prehistoric man buck tradition like that? Why would we ever have lost our fur? It's a complete non sequitur.

And it's not like I feel like I have a complete image of what God is. I don't. I used to feel like I did, but the more I learn, the less I know, but the more I feel convinced that it has to be God (or whatever that ultimate reality is). Evolution just seems like such hope in folly.

A Few Movies I Done Saw

2008-02-03T09:23:00.000-08:00

So, mostly, I just wanted to talk about a few movies I'd seen as of late in lieu of real substantial material, of which I've the substantialest of materials planned. But not yet. First...

Oh. And as always, when I talk about movies, I'll assume you've seen it, so there may be spoilers. Sounds like a personal problem.

Charlotte's Web – The live action one. First, let me state that I've never read the book. I've had it read to me, but probably not for 13 years or more. Every year, the teacher would cry when Charlotte died, which left me thinking, “didn't you see this one coming? I did.” I watched the cartoon like a fiend when I was a kid, but I've not been exposed to others in some time. Having said that, the live action one wasn't too bad. Really, my complaints with it are few.

First, I thought they would try to make it all relevant, which blows. Relevant things suck ass. When you take something that's timeless and classic and memorable (Wizard of Oz, Chicken Little, all the Dr. Seuss books) and make them hip and relevant (The Tin Man, Chicken Little, all the Dr. Seuss abominations), you completely sterilize the source material making it lose not only its original charm, but making it uninteresting in general. That's what I thought would happen, through and through, but it only happened in small amounts. Too much focus on Templeton's antics (which were a very small part of the book and the cartoon) and his wisecracking responses. The geese are now wisecracking black stereotypes, and the sheep are now self aware of what a sheep is, and concepts of following, instead of just being a cranky old sheep like in the book. I don't understand why they put self aware self expounding characters in stuff that's targeted for kids. Kids certainly miss it, and adults might only enjoy it as a novelty.

Second, because it's so incredibly not cartoony (which is such a detriment to cartoons), Charlotte is actually a little bit scary in her bulbous eight legged glory. She's gross. Doesn't at all look whimsical like cartoon Charlotte. She was cute. I would like to have her back, k? Thx, bai.

I understand that it's a children's book and such, and a pig makes a much more attractive protagonist than some stupid fly, but the flagrant double standard has always always bugged me.

The last thing is really more a criticism of book, cartoon, and movie. It's something I've never liked and always kind of balked at (yes, even as a small tater Cuyler), and that's the fact that Fern, who is very much the initiating protagonist (she might not be the ultimate protagonist or the heroine, but she gets the whole ball rolling) protests the killing of Wilbur because it's wrong. It's wrong to kill him just because he's small. Then later, it's wrong to kill him and eat him for all of his sweet pork meats (pork is gross. No me gusta), but then later, when Wilbur freaks out because Charlotte eats the fly, he gets scolded saying, “That's just the way things are. You live, and then you die.” The double standard in the book's philosophy has always bugged me. In farm life, the farmer would have been doing the runt pig a mercy. Sure, it's not pretty, and it's not nice, but it's better than letting him slowly starve to death, and then later, of course the farmer will want to kill the pig. That's the whole purpose for having pigs: food. But it's wrong for Wilbur to die because, well, Fern likes him. But flies? Fuck flies. No one cares about them. Also, no one gives a damn about all the other pigs that we can assume got slaughtered, or sold and then slaughtered.

I Am Legend – I've never read the book. My lovely fiancé has, and from what I've heard, it sounds a. gay, b. ridiculous, and c. like they performed a better adaptation of the idea in the movie... mostly.

Let me start off by saying that I Am Legend was a good time. I feel like I got what I paid for. I feel like I saw what I was expecting to see.

Next, let me say that CG “vampires” (really, these things were much more like zombies) look dumb. Why do studios insist on using CG when it looks fake and cartoon like in comparison to real life, when makeup is so much cheaper, convincing, and unsettling to look at. The movie was genuinely scary when I just saw small snippets and hints of zombies. When the random zombie through itself at a speeding car, or you knew they were there because you could hear their breathing. As soon as I saw the actual zombies, the movie just quit being scary.

Second, I hate when people take mysterious things and try to completely explain them scientifically. It goes a long way in cutting short the fantastic, whether that fantastic be wonderful or terrifying. In this movie, the “vampires” (again, wouldn't have guessed they were vampires if someone hadn't told me. I would have said “zombies”) are the product of a cancer cure gone wrong, and they end up developing rabies gone wrong symptoms: fear of water, deadly reaction to sunlight, and of course, they want brains. Er, blood. I meant blood (brains). They are complete animals, just running around snorting, snarling, scratching, biting, want food eat now fire bad. This guy has completely killed all the wonder of vampires by making them this thing. Gone are the legends about virgins, and allowed entry, and garlic, and mirrors. No. They're just animals. Somehow this virus abrogates reason completely, and they just run around like naked wild children.

So, the movie opens up with Will Smith having lived in this dilly of a pickle for three years, which raises a lot of questions in my mind. Since these zombies are essentially just feral people, they show absolutely no recognition of things like conservation of food or storing or agriculture. They just hide during the day, and then eat during the night. They wouldn't last three years. They would have eaten all the brains that were available, human and otherwise, and then been left with the option of eat each other or just die. That doesn't happen. I suppose I should mention that when you become a zombie, you become the owner of superior strength, agility, and speed, despite the fact that you are undoubtedly under nourished.

Another thing is that they're metabolism runs at speeds that shoot through the roof. All the time. Will Smith heavily heavily heavily sedates one of the zombies, and she still breathes as if she just ran a 100 yard dash. If the body is essentially human, just modified by a crazy virus, they wouldn't be able to live like that. Their bodies would have crapped out either from stroke or heart attack, and the zombie problem would be gone.

I guess I just hate how we innately know, whether we believe in such things or not, that things like vampires are supposed to be these supernatural entities, and then when someone tries to curtail it like this author has, it bugs me. It bugs me even more when he doesn't complete the curtailing and take into account common sense things like food and over exertion.

Apparently, in the book, the virus evolves and the “vampires” become intelligent and try to strategically take down Willy. Well, rather, they send one girl to do it. That strikes me as gay on ice. The book sounds so stupid.

So that's pretty much it. I didn't care for the part when the girl showed up, because it became an entirely different movie. Instead of “ol' Willy tries to save humans from vampires,” it becomes (out of left field), “ol' Willy has to rediscover his faith in God, and then things will fix themselves.” Really jarring. Just as jarring as seeing cartoon zombies.

I read somewhere that in one of the initial drafts, Willy comes to the realization that the antidote he's looking for can only come from himself. Some homogenization of vampire blood and regular dude blood. But, he must inject himself with the cure and then allow himself to be ingested by the zombie folk, and then the anti virus spreads in reverse fashion of the initial virus. That sounds bitchin. That's creepy, visceral, and gross. The kind of stuff I would pay to see in a horror/thriller movie. But, wait, it's PG13. Weak.

So, before I move on to the substantialest material, I wanted to talk about The Transformers, finally (despite being 6 months late) and Sweeny Todd. But I'll do that next time. I need to do productive things now.

please leave a message

2007-12-31T20:55:00.001-08:00

at the sound of the beep. i will be away from my desk from the hours of 4 am tuesday, january 1st 2008 until january 5 2008 9 am. i will be in new york visiting the family of a certain fiancee, and all times are subject to change, but feel free to leave a message and i will gladly return your call.

until then, please enjoy some humor joke movies.

conversation with elvis

jesus video #1

jesus video #2

jesus video #3

jesus video #4

should auld acquaintance be forgot, keep your eye on that grand old flag (or, "have yourself a big old pig" would also be acceptable lyrics)!

Wall - E

2007-12-22T07:31:00.000-08:00

American cartoons have been plagued with the problem of pumping these lame “you can do it” and “small people can do big things too!” and “you're special messages,” and it's really obnoxious. I mean, honestly, who are these for? Are the kids who see these so afflicted with low self esteem that they need a disgruntled chicken and an effeminate pig to boost their spirits? I highly doubt it. When do you see kids play and see them mimic those self esteem affirming little morals? I haven't. Ever, really. In the movie with the hero who has a wise cracking effeminate marmot as a side kick, and they try to save the princess from the villain with the slow witted henchman, kids will mimic the characters and not the values put forth in the movie. That's what I observe. So, like I said, I'm always scratching my head wondering, “who, besides the movie execs, gets their rocks off on these messages?” Kids don't, and parents will if they're as much fun as going to church (not much fun).

Some cartoons do weave their message in subtly and cleverly. Spend any time around me and you'll learn that I'm a big ol' sucker for The Iron Giant. That 'toon rocks some serious balls. It doesn't take its moral and beat you in the face with it over and over. It's subtle and realistic. Mostly, it's just a buddy movie. A boy and his bot. It's Old Yeller, except the dog is 50 feet tall and a former military weapon. It's that formula right there.

I'm bringing all this up because Pixar, for as lauded as they are, falls right into (and in many ways promotes) this cheese ball of crap way of making cartoons. Why not make cartoons that are simply an assload of fun to watch, funny as hell, and really bizarre? Why do we need to preached at through them? And why do we need to sneak our political agendas into them? Gay. Gay on ice at the retard fest.

Sorry about that. Pixar. It's true that I at one time would have said I loved them. If I honestly analyze myself, however, I discover 2 things. 1. I love their shorts (most of them. All of them except for that braindead alien abduction short they played before ratatouille). The shorts are funny, cartoony, and free from hamfisted movie exec morals. 2. I love The Incredibles, which isn't that shocking seeing as how it's the same director as The Iron Giant. The Incredibles sort of tainted my vision, however. It's a mostly complex movie that, in addition to messages (most of which are subtle), it's exciting, it's fun, and it has an impressive body count. SYNDROME GETS SUCKED INTO THE FUGGIN' JET ENGINE! You dont' see that in cartoons anymore. And that's weaksauce.

The Incredibles tainted my vision. It was complex (which is what a movie has to be if it's going to preach at you), and fun, and creative, and stylish. Complex except for the part where Mr. Incredible shouts the whole, “I can't do it!” monologue. That part was like putting the box on the table and saying, “here's your moral, folks, because right after this, they're going to learn to fight as a team!” Apart from that one little moment of retardation, it's good. The rest of their movies? Stereotypical cheesy kidpreach shlock ripped right from Disney (who graced us with this wonderful gift. Thanks, Walt). Everyone of their movies is “you can do big things too!” and “teamwork rocks, lol!” It's depressing. Makes me yearn for the days of yore, ye olde 1991 when I could flip to Nickelodeon and zone out to Rocko's Modern Life and Ren And Stimpy and never have a fear that they're going to try to convince me that God's a woman, and that I'll get to know her by letting my lisping crocodile friend make cookies with me and sharing them with the orphaned spongecakes down the street.

But Wall-E here. This looks cool. Although I doubt it's in Pixar's power to do, this looks like they might just simply tell a quirky and enjoyable sci-fi story. Probably not. They'll probably have Wall-E discover that trash robots can do clean things too! Or something equally lame that you'd learn on a felt board. But I hope not, because look at it!

http://www.apple.com/trailers/disney/walle/large2.html

The trailer is wow. I just hope that the story and the rest of the movie is also wow, and that they haven't just put the parts in here that will appeal to boys to sell tickets.

We'll see. If nothing else, it's a bitchin' trailer.

"Up From the Ashes" or "What It Is?"

2007-12-17T12:38:00.000-08:00

It feels weird being gone this long and coming back to blogging. It's not that I intentionally stayed away that long. It never is. Life just kind of catches up with you and can take you on some crazy roads you never really intended to go on. Not that I complain. Not at all. They can be some of the most fantastic roads.

Nevertheless I kind of feel like when you haven't seen a really good friend in a long time and the only thing you can really talk about is work even though neither of you have much interest in work, much less your work (mine is selling paper for the record).

Therefore, before I can try to get back to the meat of my personal existence, I kind of feel as though I have to warm up a forgotten but friendly and familiar car. I'll meet you half way. We won't talk about work because, really, who wants to talk about work? Not anyone. Not really. So, I will talk about what I've been reading, as I have been doing a lot of that lately and that's one of the things that have kept me away for so long.

“Real Books”

The Planets (Dava Sobel) – So, ever since I was a kid, I've been endlessly fascinated by the stars, which is probably pretty evident throughout the course of this blog. This book is about the planets in particular, and the role they play in human society. It's incredibly fascinating. She links each planet to some concept in human existence and how this concept has effected us. For example, she links Mercury to mythology explaining how a lot of our ancestor's understanding of the planets came from their stories about the characters from which the planets are named. Jupiter is explained via astrology, citing its own zodiac symbol, and how its zodiac is shared with the man who discovered Jupiter's moon and its spot, and how the characteristics of this planet's influence in the zodiac seemed to control exactly this man's life. Names escape me, which is lame. Mars is linked with sci-fi (of course). At any rate, this book was a damn fuggin' hoot, and I didn't want to quit reading it and thought about it compulsively when I wasn't reading it.

I Am America (And so Can You!) (Stephen Colbert) – Holy crap is Steve a funny guy. This book is so bizarre and out there. Essentially, Stephen kind of creates this really impossible straw man of the “typical American's” belief. No one could actually believe this, but he draws the stereotypes of how others perceive us and draws it all the way out to fifteen. He takes different “hot button” topics and explains them from his goofy “every man” point of view. Topics such as homosexuality, religion, and sexuality and just annihilates them. This book had me laughing out loud and reading parts to everyone I could. Every chapter starts with the heading of the chapter (homosexuality for example), and says it's the biggest threat facing America currently, besides two other ridiculous concepts. Example “Homosexuality is the greatest threat facing America today, next to hippies and tight pants.” (that one's not actually in the book, but the book is way downstairs, and no way am I walking that far). A hilarious read, plus it comes with stickers.

Opus vol. 1 (Barry Windsor-Smith) – In the 70s, Marvel Comics hired a young English illustrator (Barry Windsor) and this artist became known for illustrating the Conan book. To say that his artwork is inspiring is an understatement, at the very least. The guy is a true master of his craft and is able to breath a sort of artistic life and empathy into such nerdy concepts like Conan. Anyway, that's not exactly the point of this book. Barry, in the late 90s found himself with a lot of finished but unpublished artwork, and though it sounds narcissistic, I truly get the impression that he is genuinely interested in making a good product for his fans. Anyways, he wanted to get this art to his fans, but struggled with a way to do it. Originally, he took the art and tried to write stories around them, but he complained that they felt patronizing and trite. Instead, he just released the art in a book and explained it – how he made it, symbols with in it, what prompted him to make it both commercially, personally, and creatively. Which I love. I love hearing the process that goes on behind the art (whether it be music, movie, or paper based art). Not the “how to,” not the, “I used lemon yellow and mixed with canary yellow to get this color gold,” but the, “Gold has always represented eternal life for me, which is why the hero's sword is gold,” sort of stuff. You get that. You also get some trippy LSD sounding voyages through space. Barry Windsor, in an attempt to explain himself and his art to his fans has included mind boggling accounts of cosmic experiences he promises are, at the very least, profound personal truths. Things like watching millions of universes live and die in front of him, moments of precognition, and unidentified light phenomenon. It's so... abstract that the mind almost reels at it. He promises that he's never tried drugs or mind altering substances, but these are just things that have happened to him. It sounds so unbelievable, but having no reason to doubt his earnestness, I sort of have to accept that these are in fact things he's experienced (especially since things I have experienced seem to be but shadows of his own). It's hard to reconcile with your own worldview, but it's foolish to discount them because you can't explain it. Plus, it's compelling as hell.

“Fake Books”

I've also been reading a fair deal of graphic novels. These are mostly for pure enjoyment's sake, but some of them are kind of provoking and cause you to take pause while you digest its tale. These are the ones that I've enjoyed the most in past months.

The Eternals (Neil Gaiman (writer), Joe Quesada (art)) – The Eternals is really damn cool. Essentially, life was seeded on this planet however many thousands of years ago by beings called The Cellestials. These beings are miles tall, and infinitely powerful and incomprehensible. In addition to the animals and plants, they created humans, eternals, and the deviants (I think that's their name). Humans are humans, eternals are never dying humanesque people of impressive power and intellect charged with the duty of educating and protecting humanity. The deviants are genetic roulette tables, each generation drastically different from the one before it, and no 2 ever looking alike. In our remote past, the deviants multiplied at unfathomable rates, and the eternals (of which there are only 100) took war to their front door step (mostly because the deviants were enslaving/destroying humans). The eternals, while never in danger of truly losing, are overwhelmed by their numbers and have to have the cellestials step in for them. The deviants are brought to the edge of extinction, and humanity is allowed to thrive. Fast forward to modern times, and the eternals (through a nefarious plot of one of their own) have forgotten who they are, except for a few. Those few are trying to rise the eternals up to stop an evil plan of the deviants, who seek revenge for almost being destroyed however many thousands of years ago. It was so fun to read. Just like watching good sci-fi. It's good fantasy fuel for those that want it.

The other cool thing about this particular book is that it was an idea thought up almost 40 years ago by comic legend and icon Jack Kirby. Kirby was Marvel's top do artist (and for good reason, as he rocks balls), and thought up the idea of the eternals just after reading Chariot of the Gods? He created the original tale, but said that his was only one view in what he perceived to be a complex tapestry that he created, and invited others to rework his fiction in other compelling formats. Gaiman (who would have been a boy when Kirby was active) saw that invitation for action and grabbed at it. Thus, he weaved his own enthralling tale.

Lastly, Quesada (not that this means much to people) drew the book in the signature Kirby style. Rather, he hybridized it with his own art, but everything about the book is supposed to be a massive tribute to Kirby. So much fun and it holds so much nostalgia for anyone that's bought a Marvel mag off of the newsstand or off of a comic book shop shelf.

Civil War (Marvel... again) – This one, I don't know who wrote it or who drew it. The art's really damn good, as in, in every shot of Captain America, this artist draws each individual scale in Cap's armor.

At any rate, it's not historical Civil War. Rather, in this tale, the US government (after a rogue mutant attack) decides that they need to crack down on masked vigilantes. They make them either quit, or unmask themselves and work for the government. This divides the heroes, and some play along (like Iron Man and Spider Man. Tools), and some form a resistance (led by Captain America. Badass). This was pure popcorn fun, and nothing else. Again, if anyone here has ever been a fan of Marvel, this is a book that you need to be all over like a cheap suit. Unfortunately, the Civil War spin offs are dumb as hell. Most of them have terrible art work that make them seem completely unworthy of reading, and the two I did pick up (Wolverin and the X-Men) were really lame and shallow. While the core Civil War story is pure popcorn fun, it certainly isn't shallow. It really plays off of the personalities and characters that Marvel has spent the last 50 years forging. Damn fun.

So that's pretty much it. Kind of a nice ice breaker, yeah? No? Right now, I'm reading Until We Have Faces, and The History of God. Almost done with faces, and just started God this morning. Faces is good (real good), and it's surprising because all the other fiction of Lewis's that I'd been exposed to pretty well sucked (in my mind. I know there's plenty that disagree, but whatever). And then reading the beliefs of our ancient ancestor's always feels like a disembodying sort of thing. It's interesting, and I can't wait to get into it.

I will leave on this one note of substance: it's true. I am engaged to the knitting girl (catwings.blogspot.com). I'm excited, and happy, and mildly terrified all at once. It'll be good though. Real good. I think I'll come back to that later though. I need to shower.

I Just Got Your Call

2007-09-12T07:50:00.000-07:00

So, if you haven't noticed, I haven't blogged for awhile. So much has changed, it's difficult to know where to start. What kind of things have changed you might wonder.

Well, for instance, I just got a new 320 gig hard drive. An external one. I've needed one for several months to store duplicates of my legally (read: legally) gotten music, and my questionably legally gotten video wares, such as The Maxx, Clone High, various Rocko Modern Lifes, and music videos. Oh, I've also got two (legally) bootleg (which I guess disqualifies them for being bootlegs) concert DVDs. Colonel Claypool's Bucket of Bernie Brains, and a Buckethead concert. There's also Pirates of Dark Water. All in all, about 60 gigs worth of stuff. This external drive was a screaming deal too. 100 dollars. Now my physical hard drive has all kinds of space on it, which is pretty righteous.

So there's that. I also have a wireless network. That's pretty rad. No more stupid wires. It seems that it's a wire's job to interfere in the business of a man.

I also ditched my old crappy computer chair. That thing was seriously done for.

Yes sir. Lots of changes. What else?

Arthur of Pipes and Pints fame now wishes to be called Loretta for reasons that he'll fill you in on when he feels comfortable with his life's decisions. Do not envy that guy, no sirree.

I feel like I'm forgetting something. Oh wait, I remember. I discovered a new beer by Wisconsin brewery super heroes Leinenkugel. In particular, I'm a big fan of the Berry Weiss.

But I still feel like I'm forgetting something.

Oh, right. I got a condo with my buddy Robert. There's that. That's a pretty sweet deal right there, having to accommodate his ugly mug on a near daily basis. I've taken up eating Tums like candy just to get through my days.

And of course, how could I forget her. She knits, to quote a friend of mine, "Like a motherfucker. Which she's not, because that would be incest. And that would be incestulicious, which is bad." This is probably the coolest part of all these differences. Some beautiful girl looked upon me and took pity in my forlorn state. That or she has some sort of penchant for physical gags played on us by the natural world. Like looking at train wrecks or really ugly dogs.

And I've adopted this habit of giving these really long circuitous "Robert style" answers, in which I elude to many different things, but never actually say anything. So perhaps I should clarify: I met this girl (who shall be called Shannon, mostly because that's her name), and we kept remeeting, and haven't quit yet. You might call them dates.

At any rate, I haven't been around much because, well, I've been busy. Busy and internetless for a given period of time. But seriously, we should hang out sometime, and I'm not just saying that. I have your number, and you have mine. Seriously. Maybe we'll get some lunch or see a movie or something.

But Friday's no good for me.

If It's Any Constellation

2007-08-19T10:21:00.000-07:00

I've always had an extreme fascination with things cosmic. Before I was fascinated by anything else, I was fascinated by stars. All things cosmic: planets, stars, galaxies, black holes, event horizons, worm holes, and white holes, everything in space that exists or could possibly exist.

Well, this isn't entirely true. I was incredibly fascinated by dinosaurs, but when I learned they didn't exist anymore (in theory – at least in quantities accessible enough to study), it was difficult for me to keep my interest piqued. And then, when the evolutionists told me that birds used to be dinosaurs, the deal was sealed. It would be too hard for me to maintain an interest in something that isn't even observable in any way, and that people were trying to convince me became a bird.

The interest with dinosaurs never completely vanished. I still eat them up and think they're totally rad, but my interest in cosmic things is far more prevalent. This interest expresses itself in my thirst for sci-fi, space documentaries, wanting to know about the theoretical sciences, and simple stargazing. I even remember the very first time I stargazed. It was in Bailey, Colorado, a place way the hell up there in the mountains free from city lights. Perfect for stargazing. I lived with my mom, my quadriplegic grandpa, and my aunt. My aunt and I took a walk to the end of our dirt road street to the mailboxes so that something could be sent off for the next day. My aunt pointed up in the sky and said, “You can see the milky way,” and holy crap was she right. In all my attempts at stargazing, successful and otherwise, I have never seen such a clear picture of the milky way. It was a shock of white smeared through the center of the night sky, points of glitter sticking out. I was awestruck. In my (at this point) five years of life, I had never thought to simply look up. I looked up, and haven't quit.

So, in sixth grade, I was so in love with astronomy that I was devouring any little bit about it I could. The best part of outdoor lab (a week long “wilderness survival” exercise for sixth grade kids for those not in the know) was the Mt. Evans Observatory, the mock Stonehenge, the small scale planetarium, the stargazing. I was dumbfounded by looking at the sun through a filtered lens on a telescope. I even got invited back in the summer (as this was a winter activity) to a special camp totally dedicated to just astronomy. That exists in my history as one of the best weeks of my life.

One memory in particular stands out. We hiked 2 or so miles behind the Mt. Evans facility to a large cabin in the middle of a giant meadow. Our goal was to watch Jupiter's satellites (Jupiter's always held a point of particular fascination. And Mars. They probably do for every true sci-fi fan) Europa and Callisto (I think) swing around the front side of the planet. Something that happened very rarely, given the disparate orbital patterns of the two bodies. As a bonus, they were swinging around in front of the Great Red Spot. Only four of us (including two of the instructors) got up at four in the morning to watch this, and as if two satellites and a red spot weren't enough, I happened to witness the brightest meteor I had ever seen in my life shoot over the mountains standing right behind me. It was a total stereotypical shooting star: it even had the generic star shape preceding the rainbow infused tail. It lit up the entire field.

I even thought about astronomy as a career once. That idea quickly faded to the background when I hit high school and I convinced myself that I wanted to be other things. Then I learned that I'm lame at physics, and I accepted (gladly) that, at most, astronomy would be a hobby.

So what does all of this have to do with anything? Well, occasionally, I get a strong jonesin' for some stargazing. In fact, if I ever attend a “worship service” or something equally God awful at night, when everyone else is singing whatever tripe they gotta sing, I head outside, find a nice patch of grass, and see something far more awe inspiring and deserving of attention than lame wad songs.

So, a couple of weeks ago, I tried to find Orion. I couldn't. I couldn't see him. I realized a vast reservoir of my astro-knowledge had been drained. I couldn't find Orion, and I couldn't remember if it's because he's not visible in this hemisphere at this time of year, or if I was looking in the wrong patch of sky. But he's always been visible, hasn't he? I could have sworn I'd always been able to look to the south and see him. And then I can't remember if that's Mars or Jupiter I'm looking at. That one's Venus... think. And maybe it's just all the light noise down here.

So the jones hit really hard, but gay on ice terrestrial matters prevented me from hitting the mountains to catch Orion, the Dippers, the Pleiades, Scorpio, Cassiopeia, Betelgeuse, Moon, The Twins, and as many other constellations as I could absorb. Last night, I wanted to go, kind of a lot. I didn't because I was with friends, and I feel uncomfortable with my celestial fascination around others. I could probably spend a couple of hours just... staring, and most people can't.

So, last night at two, or rather this morning, I thought I'd try to satisfy it. I went to an area that I thought was secluded enough, but there was still too much noise to be able to see clearly. It was so late that I decided I should just go home and try the next night, perhaps. So, I drove back, struggling to see constellations, and I was frustrated because I used to be able to look at the sky and just see these shapes that so fascinated all of our ancestors. I couldn't. So, I cranked the radio (Smashing Pumpkins – Zeitgeist) and just drove home.

As I crested the hill on 112^th and Wadsworth (ish) a saw a simple unassuming shooting star. A tiny white strike that sliced through some black for the briefest of instants. But it was enough. I couldn't find Orion, or Betelgeuse, and I couldn't remember if it was Mars or Jupiter I was seeing, but at least I saw some kind of heavenly action.

My jones wasn't fixed, and my thirst wasn't slaked, but at least last night at 2:14 in the morning wasn't a wash, and it might even be some sort of stretch, but it can't help but make me feel like possibly my search was paid off in the form of some small reward, as if someone was watching me, and gave me just enough to make me feel like what I did was worth it.

The Movies We Watch: Sunshine

2007-07-31T22:15:00.000-07:00

First, a trailer you must watch.

Then I must tell you what I've seen.

Sunshine is indescribable. I don't even know how I could tell you about this movie, recommend this movie, without telling you about it. Anything I tell you will ruin it.

It captures this amazing sense of profound solitude and loneliness. Almost the whole movie takes place aboard a ship that we get to see maybe 8 rooms of, none all that large. We see space, and we see Sol, and it feels empty. The sound is large and hollow, space is quiet. The music changes from sweet violins and trumpets to tribal drums, feedback, and static. You can feel the sanity skewing isolation that covers outer space. You truly feel alone watching it. There is only you and the 7 member crew.

The movie has one of the single most scary effects I've seen in a movie, ever. Every time it made my skin crawl just a little bit more, and I missed it the first two times. Parts of this movie had me squirming in my seat, pushing myself away from the screen and into the cushion.

The villain, the saboteur, is portrayed in a way that just breeds panic and confusion. Much like the old sci-fi of the low budget 50s, we never get to see him. The terror, and it's terror, is psychological. None of it visceral.

The story itself is lean. It's methodical. Every step it takes it takes for a reason, never taking more steps than it has to, but never skipping one. It's slow, it's methodical, it's packed, and it almost feels like too much. It steps right to that threshold then looks down before resting.

So, this is probably one of the more disjointed things I've ever written, especially when it comes to movie reviews. That's due in part to the fact that it's late and I'm tired, in part to the fact that the movie hasn't settled yet and I'm still excited over it, and partly due to my catharsis.

The Greeks said that in any good play, by the end, the audience should have experienced a catharsis. They themselves should have experienced the same roller coaster of emotions as the players, and at the end, have a feeling of emptiness and satisfaction. I felt both empty and satisfied.

[emo] Why Are You Being an Asshole To Me Right Now? [/emo]

2007-07-29T00:12:00.001-07:00

That was a question asked of me tonight by a friend.

How do you react to that? While I don't know how I should have reacted, I know how I did react. I'll be honest. It kind of hurt. Kind of a lot. Thing is, I didn't realize I was being an “asshole.” I still don't know if I was. I thought I was just joking around and being me.

Which raises the possibility that I'm just an asshole. Which sucks. A lot. I wish I could put words to what exactly it is I'm feeling, but I just feel really... shot. It's probably even one of those things that someone just says without thinking too, which makes it worse.

Then there's the possibility that I'm just being really emo about it because it's so early in the morning.

But I don't think it's that. It's sort of a concern I've always had, that I'd cross the line from... whatever I was (maybe sarcastic and gregarious in some way)... into some kind of asshole.

Fuck.

Another Reason Why I Hate TRUTH

2007-07-23T00:06:00.000-07:00

http://www.milk-off.com/

Because somehow, beating virtual scary "big tobacco man" in a virtual teat milking race, and then having his cow fart on him proves that second hand smoke is bad. I'm convinced. I quit smoking, effective immediately.

This One's for the Hippies

2007-07-12T07:26:00.000-07:00

This movie will succeed where that other sci-fi horror flick "An Inconvenient Truth" failed.

Why? Because it has a beloved celebrity, Leonardo DiCaprio. Seriously, that is the American's method of determining the truth, urgency, and validity of something: does it have someone famous in it? And is it because they're an actor or a singer? Then sumbuck, it's gotta be true.

So, I always hear this jibber jabber about global warming and how it's essentially this boogeyman in my closet waiting to sabotage my life: steal my children, rape my wife, and leave me inches from death in a ditch. It very well might be. I mean, they claim all of this is based on hard documented scientific evidence, who am I to doubt them?

But then on the other side, the "other side" being the bad guys should you subscribe to this global warming philosophy. Just keeping things straight for us. Y'know: accessible. But then on the other side, global warming is a big fat stupid stinking myth, which would sound ludicrous in light of the evidence provided by the good guys, except they also believe this because of all their crazy hard documented scientific evidence. Now, I'm no philosopher, but I play one on TV. I also took "Intro to Logic" my first year at Red Rocks. Granted, I kind of flirted with sleep in that class and didn't pay much attention, but one thing I do remember is that you can't have two mutually exclusive statements (such as stating A and NOT A) that are both true (in this case, global warming's gonna fuxxor you up big time, and global warming's a farce). FYI, there's a theory circulating that Antarctica just recently froze over because of this map and others like it. Like, recently as in the last 5-700 years. There's another map like this, only older, and viking I believe, but damn if it ain't harder to find.

Both sides stake their claim and hold their position while the rest of us, the everyday Joe, has to pick a side in this political jihad and hope to dear sweet baby Jesus (just born, 6 pounds, 9 ounces, his chubby little hand balled up into a fist holding his blanket) that we've picked the right side. If we were to be honest with ourselves, however, we would have to admit that we're just going on faith. We haven't conducted this science, very few of us have the resources to be able to, and even fewer ever will. We can recite the hidden mantras our various yogis, preachers, and imams (speaking pejoratively) have taught us, but ultimately, they're just little jingos we're taught when our side is under attack, but do nothing really, because for every jingo, there will be an anti-jingo.

My proposed solution?

Well, let me submit this before the panel and have them review it. Upon reviewing it, they can get back to me and let me know what they think. But I would submit that these two sides, the good side and the bad side, or the oppressor and the underdog, however you want to slice it. How about Truth and Big Tobacco? Because that's like reason and religion: natural enemies. I digress. I would submit that these two sides, the so called good guys and bad guys, democrats and republicans, get together TOGETHER, sit down, and figure this thing out. Compare the notes and come to a definitive answer. Then they, bearing this newly lighted truth of reason, can spread the flame and bring me, the average Joe, the fruitful forbearance of their long deliberation and reasoned consternation and tell me what it is I must do to stop this, or that I can stop worrying (not that I'm very prone to worrying). And then, and this is equally important, the two sides must apologize. Either the self proclaimed "good guys" (democrats) will apologize for being a bunch of nancies fidgeting nervously with their apron strings about the burglar in the house when really it's just their cat, or the dubbed (by the good guys) "bad guys" (republicans) will come out and say, "Look, we kept this from you because, well, honestly you average Joes are retarded, and we've seen the way you act, and honestly, we have a hard time telling if we're watching human beings engaged in commerce (the buying and selling of goods and services), romance, philosophy, religion, and politics... or if somehow we left the station tuned to animal planet and we've been watching a bunch of redass baboons fuxxor'in eachother up. Sorry for being douchebags."

If these two sides were to do this, I would loudly proclaim forth: "It's ok you nancies! You can't help that you've got that sand in your hoo hoo, but now that you've been forced to see your darker selves in the Mirror of Unmitigated Truth, fold up that apron, put away the ironing board, put on something fancy, and let's go to town! I'mma treat you to some McDonald's, for this night our worries are vanished!" To the other side I would proclaim: "I actually agree with you. Watching us from the ground level is a frustrating experience, and I often can't tell where the person ends and the computer begins (as I type my blog on the internet), or at what point we stop thinking with our wing wongs and vajayjays, and use our brains and our minds. That aside, you could have at least told me. You know I'm good for it."

And then perhaps America could stop being the land of idiots we've become, the people would regain their vision, and American society would experience a renaissance of startling brilliance. We'd see the truth of George Washington's words when he said that a two party system would destroy this country (shortly before registering as a Whig), and we would reach unprecedented heights, doing those things we wished and proclaiming boldly all the while.

I'm just kidding. Having two political parties that argue back and forth like bad parents rocks. Dad comes home smelling like beer, Mom disappears for a week at a time, they alternate blaming and claiming us. It's fun. I wouldn't trade it for anything. Especially a functional family metaphor.

I'm Tired of Feeling Alone

2007-07-08T21:40:00.000-07:00

Me too.

The Meaninglessness of Truth and Other Just Desserts

2007-07-06T00:26:00.000-07:00

So, this one’s probably just a quick one. There’s not too much in it. It’s a little thought I had while sitting around at work doing a whole lot of nothing.

I can’t even tell you what sparked this thought, only that I had it. If I were to guess, I think I was just merely imagining existence without God. I do this sometimes. Imagine that God never was, yet somehow we are, and then see if I can see ways in which our world would be different. Things that would be different. Or I’ll imagine that all of a sudden science (the natural enemy of God) disproves his existence (much to God’s dismay), and I think that’s what I was doing today. That sounds about right.

So I thought about science disproving God’s entirety and what this does to truth. This might be similar to other arguments given/heard, but hear me out, and then tell me what you think.

So I thought about science disproving God’s entirety and what this does to truth, and I came to the conclusion that it becomes completely extraneous. Not that it becomes relative, or that truth is an evolutionary construct. No. It just stops mattering.

Think on this. What is truth? Truth would be laws, statements, facts that God has put forth saying, “These are kind of like what I’m like.” So what happens when we memorize these little facts, statements, and laws? We become closer to what God is like. We move closer to how He is. If God puts down a statement like, “give to him that asks of you,” this statement would reflect something of who God is. If I, hearing this statement, then give to him who asks of me, then I’ve moved a little closer to what it’s like to be God.

If God says that he is the only God, and I quit believing in false Gods, then I see him more clearly, I can become like him more easily.

So, science has disproved God. That is our greatest truth. What is gained in doing that? Nothing really. Sure, I can feel good about myself and Lord it over some brain dead simpleton that still believes in ridiculous God myths. Why can’t all these human stink beasts be as highly elevated as me?

But much like the man that gives in the temple proclaiming his gift, I’ve received my reward. My reward is simply getting to feel superior to others at most. And what good is that when you die? The achievement disappears.

Being like God, however, comes with a massive post-mortem retirement package. A pretty shiny one.

What about things like beauty? If beauty is just simply some evolutionary knee-jerk reaction, does it matter? Is there any value in saying “this painting is beautiful” instead of “mass genocide is beautiful”? I would really begin to question it.

I guess what I’m ultimately trying to say here is if we define our parameters, how big are they really? And are they worth achieving? If the parameters expire the same time we do, why have them at all? But, if the parameters exist outside of ourselves, can you imagine what it would be like to achieve?

And I Forgot To Mention

2007-06-24T07:00:00.001-07:00

That I have a podcast now. A couple of my friends and I decided to try this podcast thing out.

Check it out here.

A Most Troubling Dream Indeed

2007-06-22T17:47:00.000-07:00

So this one's short, and somewhat shocking.

So, if you have a sensitive palate, exercise caution.

All through high school (and even a recurring dream as a child), there was a blond girl that I dreamed about constantly. No one I actually knew, but she was more symbolic. My guess is that she's my idealized version of love, acceptance and sexuality something. Though the dreams have all been really tame.

Mostly, in these dreams, it's the two of us hanging out and doing general stuff. This dream was weird to the max, however.

The two of us were sitting there with a few other people. The other people looked a little out of it. They didn't seem to really acknowledge that we were there at any point.

The girl and I are sitting across from each other on the floor, and she takes out a really crazy sharp strand of steel, or something like it, and tells me, “I have to cut your face off.” This, understandably and expectedly, upsets me. She tries to console me with, “but it's ok, because I'll sauter it back on later.” I protested still. So then she says, and I quote, “You have to have your face cut off and reattached. You'll do it if you love me.” And I loved her.

So she takes the string, and starts to run it down my face. Actually, a straight line running up and down at my temples, and cuts off that whole section. She started at my jaw.

It didn't hurt, but I was very scared, and I watched pieces of my face fall on the floor until she got to my eyes, then I couldn't see anything.

I was very terrified, and I could hear what was going on around me, but I couldn't talk. This girl (who has never had a name) was trying to soothe me, and I heard a crackling noise and she assured me it was just the sautering iron firing up and everything would be over soon.

I felt her hands on my face, and I felt the heat of the gun, though again it didn't hurt, and I could finally see again (as she'd reattached my eyes), and I watched as she reattached my jaw and nose and lips and such. Then she showed me a mirror, warned me not to talk for a couple of hours until the sautering held fast, and said that I would have those scars forever now, that these scars were her scars.

And then I woke up.

Is there an interpreter in the house?

Since 4:30 This Morning

2007-06-20T06:15:00.000-07:00

Woke up at 4:30. Fretting about a house (condo) I'm looking to buy. Why would I fret you ask? Because I was worried that if my roommate friend who's moving in with me ever moved out, I'd be stuck paying on a mortgage that's way to high to pay on my current income. I laid in bed for about a half hour sort of just worrying about it. Then I got up and went to my computer to do some math on the topic.

And that's when I found the good news. I had been worrying about this condo thing (because it's a sweet condo, and a bargain price) since about 7 last night, nursing a little ball of worry in my stomach. Then I found that with my friend living there, buying this condo, with the monthly HOA fee, is only slightly more than apartment living. Sweet. Even better? If for some reason I was stranded for a few months with no roomie, I would be able to make it. It'd be tight, but I'd make it.

Such a relief.

So after I did the math, and sent an email on the topic, it was then 6. I figured I had better get to bed if I didn't want to die. I went to bed, about to drift off, then 6:30 hits and I had to pee really bad (thanks bladder for being a total douche). Get back to bed and lay there for about 20 minutes, not actually going to sleep or even really closing my eyes when I realized that I probably wasn't going back to sleep, and at this point, if I did fall asleep, I'd probably wake up feeling worse than if I hadn't.

So I've been up for 3 hours now, which is weird to say since it's only 7:30, and I went to bed at 12:15ish. I mostly hope that I can make it through work.

Since I've been up, I've been trying to catch up on my blogs on my rss reader. One of the things I did was take a “how texan are you?” test. The results are stupid. It says I'm 16% texan. I would submit that I am actually 0% texan.

Questions like, “you would never eat a cowpie.” I defy you to find one person, Texan or otherwise, that would say they would eat a cowpie.

And, “you leanred to shoot a gun before you learned to drive.” Chances are, unless your parents are some sort of commie hippies, you've learned to shoot a gun in your childhood. After all, hunting and range shooting, both things a father would do with his son, aren't locationally bound.

“You use the AC 12 months a year.” Would if I had that option because I like cold, but Colorado just isn't cold enough sometimes. Remember that winter 2 years ago when it snowed once for about a half hour? That was a freakin' ridiculously hot winter. I protest it.

The last one was, “you don't find anything wrong with tacos for breakfast.” Honestly, what person could ever find a good logical backing that you “should or shouldn't” have this or that food for breakfast?

A lot of the questions were uniquely and obnoxiously Texan, however. Like, “Dr. Pepper is your favorite kind of 'coke.'” and I've heard this before that in Texas all pop is just referred to as “coke.” That's pretty asinine.

There was another test I took, that I can't find now, labeled “how right or left brained are you?” The test itself wasn't too bad. I had some generic flaws that all those style tests have. For example, “when making a decision, I rely on: a. logic b. intuition.” What makes people assume they're opposites? Can't you use both? I sure do. With this house deal, in fact. I felt bad, just inexplicably, illogically bad, which caused me to seek out a practical logical solution. Or how about love? There's an institution absolutely riddled with intuition and logic.

Then it gave me the results. It said I'm 45% left and 55% right. Almost fitty-fitty, which I had mostly guessed anyways. But then it described the two halves. It said left brain people prefer dogs, and right brain people prefer sports. Right, because when I think of an award winning poet, I think of baseball, and when I think of Einstein, I think of pit bulls.

Weak.

So, to sum it up, it looks very likely that I'll be havin' a flibbidy flop of my very own. And I'll be tired later today.

The Movies We Watch: Doggy Poo

2007-06-11T22:38:00.000-07:00

So, before I say anything about the movie, you have to watch the trailer.

Now that you see what I'll be talking about, I can talk about it.

Doggy Poo. Korean made in 2003. Claymation.

First, it's pretty weird. Not that there's anything really weird in it (I mean, apart from anthropomorphic doodoo, something South Park fans should be well accustomed to), or that this movie's execution is particularly weird. It's pretty standard fair as far as message and execution goes. The plot boils down to "child doubts self worth, child encounters people that reassure him of self worth and God's plan, child experiences his potential, and every thing's better." But then you factor in that the child is a doggy poo, and some of the characters he encounters are a talking pile of fertilized soil, a chicken who planned on eating him ("he doesn't taste good anyways momma"), and then your standard fair of flowers and birds. That's where it's weird.

Second, it's very artistic. This is truly a beautiful movie to behold. Doggy Poo is old school style clay animation, the likes of which only Aardman studios (Wallace and Gromit) utilize in this day. The set they use is vibrant and full of natural color, textures that are gritty and realistic, and very convincing mouth synch. Each character's mouth (or rather type. I.e. dirt vs. animal vs. plant) possesses quirks specific to that character, and the lips wrap around the words.

Which are in English. The words that is. "But I thought this movie was Korean?" you might cry forth in confusion, to which I would answer, "Yes, my son. Yes. Such as I have said is such as I have thought." And then my proverbial son might cry forth in a voice of honest seeking, "But pappa! Why?" (or for our bilingual friends), "¡Porque!" I have only one possible answer to this honest agnostic style search for truth.

Have you heard of the Little Donnie Foundation? Now, before you get too clicky, let me let you know what you're getting yourself into.

In the show "The Upright Citizens Brigade," a trio of havoc-wreckers set to undermine society set out to pull a prank on a nation wide scale. The answer to their query? A 30 minute long penis joke in the guise of something serious. Ergo, Little Donnie who is afflicted with a fictional disease where his wing wong is really long, but he has no idea. As any responsible citizen would, the brigade sets up a show to raise awareness and funds for Donnie's disease.

I sort of felt like that's what Doggy Poo is. Picture that at the "Internation Counsel of Nations Against America," or ICNAA as we on the street call them, the French say, "I think the Americans are so dumb, we can sell them water in a bottle while it flows freely from their taps." The Mexicans stand up and say, "¡Ole! ¡The Americans are so dumb, we can sell them the same dish 15 times with different names, same ingredients!" But the brazen Koreans stand and say, "We think the Americans are so dumb that we can make them sit through a 30 minute doodoo joke." The other nations shirk. No man could be so dumb! But they have yet to meet the Americans. We are that dumb, and in fact, we've been enjoying (thanks to the like of South Park and Conker's Bad Fur Day) half hour doo doo jokes long before the Koreans came on the scene. So really, the jokes on them... I guess. Maybe no one wins. And yes, I do owe a nod to Jim Gaffigan for already providing me with the bulk of the joke in this paragraph.

But ultimately, that's what's best about this movie! All the jokes about crap that may or may not have been intended. One of my favorites was turning around to my roommates and exclaiming loudly, "Man! This sh*t's enthralling!"

So thank you Koreans. We have accepted your challenge, and raised your bar. Bring what you will.

In fact INCAA, why don't ya'll bring it?

Don't Hate Us

2007-06-06T23:09:00.000-07:00

So, this is something that I've been thinking about for several months now.

I read a book, Entertaining Ourselves To Death, which discussed how the American populace was becoming so engrossed in entertainment that we are making ourselves inane and obsolete. In this book is discussed the fact that America is the ONLY country in the history of the Earth founded by intellectuals. All smart men holding degrees and respectable jobs and the like. These guys were smart and kicked ass. This tradition bled into the people that came and conquered this continent (by the by, this isn't the place to discuss the ethicality of what happened) and America became the number one exporter and importer of the written word. Whether it was ancient philosophy, religious texts, fiction, technical manuals, essays, magazines, brochures and pamphlets, we were reading it. Consuming it.

It sounds so incredible! Can you imagine? The fact that you're reading this blog probably signifies that you read books. You know we're in the minority, right? Roughly 2% of Americans read for reasons other than work and education. Of that 2%, some 80% reads trashy romance novels. Can you imagine walking around where we're the majority? We could sit down with anyone and have a gripping, informed, complex conversation? In fact, even the most voracious of modern readers would have fallen behind the curve of the sort of thought the “ancient American” was capable of. Being immersed in a literary culture like that, your ability to process complex thought naturally rises. Your abilities to retain and retrieve information would have also risen to great degrees.

This book is one of those “thorns in the side” book. A book whose thoughts don't leave you alone. Something you have to chew and mull over. Something that you wish someone else would read so that you could talk about it. In fact, I recommend you read it, and soon, but such is not the aim of this post.

The aim of this post is what happened next. America became obsessed with being entertained. As that obsession increased, our capacity for complex understanding diminished. I mean, just talk to someone, anyone, that you meat in daily life, and they wouldn't be able to tell you why I used the wrong meet earlier in this sentence. Unless you're lucky enough to stumble on that rare 1.2% of the populace (not quite that bad, but you'd struggle to find someone that wouldn't cackle lack a jackass when I explained to them that meat is what you eat, and meet is what you greet).

So what happened?

When America was started, when she was forming herself, she had a vision. A great experimental vision that, if successful, meant something ineffable never before experienced by the world. Was that vision successful? In many ways, yes. Can you imagine a world without the influence of America? Science, technology, mathematics, art, social interactions are all indelibly and forever changed. So many ideals and values that we were afraid to embrace before are now standard vocabulary in the entire world, not just the west.

In many ways, the experiment was successful. But we, the American people, stopped. We stopped dreaming and inventing and pushing and prodding and asking, seeking, and finding. We thought we achieved and it was best to not rock the boat. Let things mellow.

And this is where I arrive at my point.

I don't know how many international readers (if any) I have. I have a request of you.

When I was in Ireland (a place of utter magic. My utmost and sincerest compliments and humblest thanks to the people of Ireland), some of my traveling companions were harassed by a group of men. These men accused them of being warmongers and voting for Bush and yadda yadda. Obviously these guys have never actually taken the time to find out what an American thinks otherwise they'd know that we're far more concerned if the Broncos beat the Raiders than if Iraqi Joe has a job or a gun to his head. Same diff. If these guys had also taken the time to find out what Americans think of our president, they'd know that they'd have to search far and wide to find the 3 people in the country that actually like president Bush. And in this case, his parents count. Most Americans act just like these Irish men: out of blind hatred for Americans and the (perverted) “American ideal.” If they would have taken the opportunity to get to know something about Americans, these guys would have found that they'd have good bitching session buddies. Especially since we're in college, and bucking authority is always the hip thing to do. And oh boy do we want to be hip AND cool.

So, people from other countries: don't just blindly hate Americans. If you have to blindly do anything for us, blindly prayer for us, and blindly pity us. We're a people that have lost our vision, and should we ever again see clearly, we can offer so much to the world.

And people of America, this next part's for you.

I finished watching a movie about the IRS and if their function is ethical or not. In short, it isn't, nor has it ever been, and worse: it's not legal. And even worse is the fact that the IRS is a privately owned entity. It's not even government.

This movie touched on RFID chips and identification cards. This is scary shit. Let me give you the short of it.

RFID stands for Radio Frequency IDentification. These cards are ID cards that the government is going to start issuing in the not too distant future (implementation begins may of '08 – whatever that actually means). What makes these cards scary is that there is a chip (the actual RFID) that emits radio waves. Your card passes by a transmitter, and your card number is logged at that location. Essentially “Cuyler boards a train at 10 am. Cuyler leaves train station at 11:20 am. Cuyler enters walmart at 11:30.” These cards also contain all your banking information, social security information, medical history, employment history, fingerprints and retinal scans. So then not only does the card tell the radio transmitter at what time I enter wal mart, but what I buy, at what times I buy them, how much it costs, and when I leave. “Big deal, they can see me in wal mart.” But it wouldn't be hard to put these in random spots. Uknown checkpoints. The obliteration of privacy. They could even weave RFIDs into money, thus making untrackable money trackable.

Of course all of this is done in the interest of our best safety and protection of the public. Protection from what? Just because the government knows where I am doesn't mean a crazy terrorist can't jump through my window or gun me down.

Or worse. Just because the government knows where I am it doesn't mean I won't get hit by a drunk driver and die on impact tomorrow when I go to the coffee shop.

Or worse. Just because the government knows all my dirty little secrets doesn't mean that I won't experience a freak heart attack or liver failure.

In this documentary, it interviewed a family in Florida who got locator RFID chips installed in THEMSELVES because, as the mother so eloquently put it, “we were so afraid after the attacks on 9/11.” Bitch, please. Grow a spine, then use it as a bludgeoning device.

At what point did we raise ourselves for such cowardice? At what point did we start to raise ourselves to be so mild and acquiescent? No! This is not the spirit nor the vision of America. Rock some fuckin' boats.

The person willing to sacrifice their freedom for safety deserves neither (that might be Thomas Jefferson, but I can't find it. So if you find it, I'm not plagiarizing, just unsuccessfully citing).

So, people of America: please knock off this bipartisan bullshit. That's all it is. I don't give a damn how much you hate Bush, or how much of a coward Kerry is, or how old Dole is, or how many people Clinton screwed, or how much of a movie star Reagan was. It doesn't matter. That's not the point. The point is the vision, and the vision can't be accomplished when we have two bulls, each dumber than the other, butting heads. If an American would take the time to get to know other Americans, they'd probably find out that if you can dig deeper than the superficial political nonsense we're trained to think matters so much that we're pretty alike, and together we could accomplish quite a bit. In fact, I believe a little well known guy by the name of George Washington (you might have heard of him) said that the “party system would be the death of the government.” I'm inclined to agree. We spend so much time arguing about who's right and bitching about Bush that squat gets accomplished.

Knock it off. Let's stop being stereotypes and get some stuff accomplished. Let's not allow ourselves to be so tracked. Let's not let the IRS get away with thievery. Let's not let the rest of the world believe a bunch of shallow lies about us.

Please, Americans, let's get our vision back.

Toomai of the Elephants

2007-05-29T17:08:00.000-07:00

I will remember what I was. I am sick of rope and chain.
I will remember my old strength and all my forest affairs.
I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugar-cane.
I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs.

I will go out until the day, until the morning break,
out to the winds' untainted kiss, the waters' clean caress:
I will forget my ankle-ring, and snap my picket-stake.
I will revisit my lost loves, and playmates masterless!

--Toomai of the Elephants from "The Jungle Book"
Rudyard Kipling

Irish Lessons

2007-05-26T13:06:00.000-07:00

The things you want to do are possible.
The people who do things you want to do are no different than you are. They are, or were, every bit as common and every day, and there was nothing outstanding our terribly different by simply looking at them. They were simply people who had ideas and a willingness to do number three.
You have to dedicate yourself to the thing you want. It won't just happen. This means working, searching, sacrificing.
It's possible to take your friends with you, provided they participate along side you in number three.

These thoughts came to me yesterday while I was working thinking about Trinity College. Trinity is a large and old college in Dublin. I talked briefly about the library with the 200,000 books and the marble busts. Trinity has an amazing history and list of people that have gone through it. Samuel Beckett taught there, James Joyce couldn't go there because he was protestant in a catholic's world, Oscar Wilde went there before coming to Colorado. Three in less than ten years.

This thought isn't entirely new to me either. Look at good friends C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. And if we want to stretch way back, there's a whole line that goes Socrates>Plato>Aristotle>Alexander the Great.

I suppose standing in the hall, or the Long Room as the library's called, I was struck to awe by how not only can you achieve something, but you can bring others with you.

To miss a place like a person.

2007-05-25T06:33:00.000-07:00

Ireland.

It's impossible to capture in a single post or essay the way this place feels. I think it would be impossible to present to you, in a way that is palatable and that will make you understand, the way I felt in a hundred essays or posts.

To put it simply: I fell in love with the land. Ireland sang a song to me, one that touched me at my foundation. And I miss it.

The first few days, there was apprehension. I spent most of the trip seeking what I had labeled “The Communion” in my journal. I couldn't find it in our first destination. A mixture of not knowing what I was looking for, but having the feeling I wasn't getting it, I was a little disappointed. Don't get me wrong, even in my “disappointment” I saw ineffable beauty, whether that beauty be rolling hills, sheep grazing in pastures, cattle lowing, abandoned structures older than Ireland's memory, or seals playing. Even inside of the massive cliff-fort of Dun Aengus, I had a sense that whatever it was, I was missing it.

My disappointment was light. Have you ever met someone, and felt, intrinsically, like there was much you shared, or much you could share? Did it feel sort of awkward at first while you tried to discover what that was? That was my first few days in Ireland. I knew that this country had so much to offer, things to tell me, things to show. Like any patient friend, I waited until Ireland and I found commonality. I waited for “The Communion.”

There were instances in which I almost felt like I'd found whatever that commonality was. Whether it was the stone fort on the cliff side or the island in the middle of a lake, there were instances where I felt close to metaphorical nirvana. And as one would defend the honor of a lady, I found myself almost lying for Ireland. “Oh yes, it's beautiful,” I said. “Oh, it's touching!” I might say. Granted, it was beautiful, and I would be touched, but initially, I was telling stories to protect Lady Ireland's reputation.

And then the ocean. Ancient Jews regarded the ocean as a place of deep mystery and terror. A place so vast and terrible, that you couldn't know it. If you tried to know it, you would be destroyed. The ocean. We have oceans here in America. I've been to them in three separate locations. I've been to our oceans in California and Florida. These are calm and domesticated oceans. They shine with emerald and lapis lazuli, they lazily come and go. They purr. The ocean in Ireland was a fierce ocean. It roared and shouted. It was black, gray: covered in a cloak of mist. It threatened you, and made you feel small. This was a wild ocean. It screamed towards the beach, and recoiled to strike again, the whole time the roar surrounds you. I watched the ocean until it could be watched no more, and then I listened. When sight failed, you could taste the salty seaspray on your lips: a gentle reminder that the ocean is still churning. And when the ocean spoke, I had to listen.

It was at the ocean that I found the start of what Ireland had to tell me. Ireland had many things to say, and I don't know if I heard them all. It's impossible to describe the way the ocean made me feel. Small, helpless, insignificant. Loved, peaceful, awestruck.

The door had opened, and we could be friends now, sharing secrets as only friends share them. Now I saw the beauty of this place wherever we went, and I could defend her beauty and be honest about it. Now there was magic even in her dirt and her trash.

Ireland wooed me with her rivers and her forests, her ancient buildings, and even her fairies.

But what's a relationship built on looks alone? If anything, strictly superficial. Empty. Ireland also showed me her art and her intellect. I spent hours staring into the eyes of the statues of her poets and the teachers and storytellers that preceded her. I sat in front of these statues, and I drew them, hoping to capture some semblance of what I felt in that moment.

Have you ever fallen in love? Most of us probably have. Have you ever had that love become unrequited or, for one reason or another, cut short? That's what it was like to leave Ireland. The day before we left, I spent time by myself, time in prayer. I was going to miss this place, and it would be hard to leave.

The day we left, I could muster little joy inside me. I felt that dull ache that accompanies loss. I could feel a ball in my throat, and heat in my eyes. I spent the flight home fighting tears. I was going to miss the people I came with as much as the country herself. We all hugged and said our goodbyes in front of the baggage claim, then some of us went outside to wait for cars. I could feel the tears coming on stronger now. I watched as one left, then two, then another, and another, and another, until it was just me.

Finally, my ride came. My family was pressing me for details, and I couldn't hold it back anymore.

I cried for want of Ireland.

I felt better, emotions released. I slept early and I slept long that first night back. I woke up early, and Ireland was still fresh on my mind, and the empty feeling in my chest still strong. I felt a stillness inside of me. I was not me, but I felt more like myself than I had. I was quiet, and though I was at work, I was in Ireland. I was thinking and contemplating. Much like how I spent my day, I spent my night.

Again, this morning Ireland woke me early, beckoning, “write.” I still miss her, and with such things as parting ways and missing a loved one, it feels as though it will never leave. Even now I listen to music I heard over there as one might reread letters sent to them by someone from far away.

I keep trying to figure out if the way I feel is rational or not. If it's warranted, or if I'm over-emotionalizing this event. I can't find an answer that is conclusively “no,” which leads me to believe that it's real. And that's when you know it's love, right? When it's strong and doesn't make any sense. And if there are two things I lack, it's strength and sense.

This Is Serious. Help Find Maddie McCann

2007-05-09T23:59:00.000-07:00

The following is taken word for from the blog of Princesse Frecossaise. I can't even describe how terrible of a crime this is. This poor girl and her family, and the pure mal-intent of the people that have done this.

Okay folks it is time to join together and do as much as we can for a good cause.

6 days ago, 3 year old Madeleine McCann disappeared from her bed in an apartment on holiday in the Algarve, Portugal. Just yards away her parents were eating dinner, checking on Maddie and her younger twin brother and sister in their beds every half hour.

Tragically, when her mother checked in on the children at 10pm, only half an hour after their father had, the window was slightly open and Maddie had disappeared.

Since then the Portuguese police have been searching for her, a witness has come forward to say on the night in question he saw what looked like a bald man and a woman walking briskly with a blonde young girl in their arms, heading for the coast. If this was Maddie, she may not even be in Portugal anymore.

The fear and worry of Maddie’s parents and family must be indescribable. I can not even begin to imagine what they must be going through. Their beautiful 3 year old daughter, taken away from them. Are you a parent? Do you have a small child in your life? Imagine they disappeared, imagine not knowing if they were safe.

Police have now suggested Maddie may have been taken for the purposes of a paedophile ring.

Anyone will understand how tragic this is, how inhumane, a child taken from their loving family. You may think there is not a lot we can do. But we can do a little. And every little helps.

If you are religious, pray for the safe return of little Maddie.

If you are in Portugal, help with the search, look out for any evidence, even the smallest piece of information may be of importance. You can do your bit by clicking here and downloading a poster to help find Madeleine. And if YOU know something, or have seen something that may be crucial evidence, The Sun Newspaper are offering a £10,000 reward for any information that may lead to the child being found.

If you have a blog, spread the word, even a few sentences may inform others, or just show that you care. A blog can be accessed by anyone in the world, and you can do your bit by posting a picture, writing a short post giving some information. I have found that the blogging community is full of wonderful, caring people, no matter where you are, (yes, even America!) you’re blog is read by people from Portugal, Britain, Europe…The blogosphere is a powerful place. Have your say. Show you care. Spread the word.

This is a 3 year old child we are talking about. 3 years old. Taken from her family in the middle of the night. Every parent’s and child’s worst nightmare.

Madeleine turns four on Saturday…

My heart goes out to her family.

The Nanny State: The Case for McDonald's

2007-05-06T21:13:00.000-07:00

so, a visitor hit my blog. in particular the "nanny state" one and left a comment. my response to the comment was so massive that i decided to make it a whole other blog, and hopfully "jillibean" will come back and respond to my response. so, first, her comment:

Hi - I stumbled across your blog this afternoon - I just wanted to make a quick comment regarding the McDonalds lawsuit. If you actually read the opinion (as I have) and know the facts of the case without jumping to conclusions based on what you have heard on the radio station or from friends (or however else this story passes from one individual to another), you'd know that 1. the woman's claim DID actually have merit, and 2. she did not end up actually getting more than a paltry amount of recovery from the fast food chain (rather than the millions Americans assume she 'won'). I dont mean to come across as rude or bitchy, but as a lawyer myself, I have a problem with people assuming things such as this, and going so far as to joke that an elderly woman with 2nd degree burns should be kicked by a giant shoe.
Thank you.

and then my word for word response:

thanks for the comment, and assuming everything you said is true, i apologize for not having done my due diligence. and again, my shoe comment is a sarcastic joke, and isn't meant, moreover, if i knew it was an old woman, i wouldn't have said it.

thanks for stopping by. i apologize that you don't see me at my "true form," if you will. i rarely venture into political matters because i'm as deft at politics as an elephant is at shuttle weaving.

i just went and read about the case, and i didn't know she was so old and that the damage done to her was so extensive. nevertheless, there are a couple of things that make you sort of stare into dead air like the proverbial deer and headlights.

first, her lawyer sued because of defective merchandise. no. again, coffee's meant to be hot, and when you try to pry open a lid by placing it between your legs, that's an error of extremely poor judgment, and in no way the company's fault.

second, out of simple human compassion, when mcdonald's learned what happened, they should have said, "hey, we're a huge company, and this lady's old. let's do the gentlemanly thing and foot the doctor's bill." did they? no. should they have? yes.

third. instead they offer her 800 bucks as if that will put a dent in her 11,000 dollar skin graft job. don't be a dick mcdonalds. don't even insult a person like that. if you know a person's need, and you know you can meet a need, meet it.

next, she takes it to court. again, i don't think she has a legal reason to sue, especially since the lawyer's reason is imaginary. nevertheless, the lawyer seeks an out of court settlement, which mcdonald's doesn't take. even from the mouth of Jesus, if someone seeks to settle out of court, DO IT.

lastly, her initial lawsuit was for 11k, the cost of the operations. that's fair. the amount settled on by the court was some 640k, almost 66 times that of the initial claim. however, the two parties settled on an undisclosed amount less than 600k. so, we can assume it was the initial amount, or something in between. if it was anything more than twice the initial amount (to cover legal fees etc.), i think we've crossed the border into "ridiculous" territory.

all this isn't to say that, now that i know the truth, i don't empathize with the woman. i just don't think that the whole lawsuit route was the best one. mostly, when mcdonalds as a whole (whoever that includes, whatever that means), they just shouldn't have been such douche bags. man was that a long response.

The World Of Tomorrow: The Nanny State

2007-04-26T19:24:00.000-07:00

Having read Gabe and Todd's visions of the future, I am not quite as optimistic as the two of them. Gabe's view seemed the more optimistic of the two, and Todd's did allow for a window of optimism before returning to the same douche bag planet that we mostly are.

Without further adieu, I present to you the nanny state. Webster defines the nanny state as a government that is too controlling or interfering. In the things I've read and observed about the nanny state, it seems to be a people or a government prone to extremes and afraid of tension.

Tension is a state of moderation. It's the center of the spinning top. It's the point in which the most forces are tugging and pushing on you, and requires the most effort on your part to stay where you are. It's not the easy position to maintain, but it is ideal. A nanny state would occur in the extremities, where everything is fully one way, and there is no room for contradiction. Because in this state of existence everything is fully one way, the nanny state is forced to push everything in that direction so that they don't compromise their position. Often, the nanny state position or attitude is adopted in interest of “protection,” and like all protection, it's stemming from a source of fear. Though in the nanny state, it's more fear than interest of protection.

So that all sounds very negative and browbeating. But let me produce my evidence.

Anyone remember a particular lady in a particular McDonald's that spilled hot coffee on herself and sued McDonald's (and won) when it's no surprise that coffee is a hot drink. What you should do there, as judge, is laugh at her, in court. Like literally point and laugh at her, and then ask her, “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND! GET OUT OF HERE AND STOP WASTING MY TIME!” and then the judge should personally kick her out of court with a giant novelty sized shoe that reads “court stompin' shoe.”
When I worked at Gamestop, a little game I like to call Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas was removed from the shelves because someone found a hack to make the people naked. You might think, “hell yes! Remove that naked filth from our shelves!” but you're probably unaware of how this hack works. First, you have to buy the hard drive for the PS2, which is a paltry 100 dollar accessory, then you'd have to have the knowledge to make your PS2 a, essentially, mini PC so that it can browse the Internet. After you've done that, then you can locate the correct site with the correct hack. This was done in interest of “protecting kids” which is pure crap. Mostly, if your kid is playing GTA in the first place you've either failed as a parent, or your kid is an adult. Either way, they have cheaper and more realistic ways of finding real naked people. Meanwhile, Sony releases a game in which you have interactive sex with goddesses (I mean, just one part of the game, not the whole thing), but these same watchdog groups do nothing. Now, here's what you should do: probably nothing. The GTA hack is ridiculous to achieve as it requires an expensive accessory that most PS2 owners don't even have, and it requires a technological expertise that most people can't even muster together to use against their VCR's conspired clock blinking.
American's are fat. It's like a national past time for us. And yet, so people would consume less, we address the symptom instead of the issue and make the fast food joints stop serving their larger sizes, when (mmmder), it just means that people will order more food. How about you address the actual issue which is this: America's lost her mind and her self control. How about you work on getting those back, eh?
Smoking. OH HOLY FUCK THERE'S CANCER OUT THERE! SON OF A BITCH! Excuse my expletives (but I like that line). Essentially, this is the one issue in which the liberal and conservative views have coalesced in one unholy union. Smoking kills. Once again, we're addressing the symptom and not the issue. And how about those jackass Truth adds? Few things make me want to go on a brick-throwing-flipping-cars-over-and-lighting-them-on-fire rampage quite like a couple of asinine commercials that portray the tobacco companies as somehow having the arcane talent of bending the very will of the populace, completely negating the fact that every smoker chose to smoke. Additionally, there's the smoking ban. Doesn't that seem a little, oh, I don't know, freedom abridging? How about you let the establishments decide? How does that sound? Probably marvelous, as it should. Each establish decides, and then those Truth assholes should put their energy to good use. Tell people if they want to smoke, because you can smoke and die of old age before you die of cancer, to pick up pipes and cigars, or to stop inhaling, or tell the tobacco companies to stop putting so much crap in the tobacco. Seriously. American tobacco should be the best (a good portion of our olde timey economy was founded on it), but it has the greatest number of pollutants in it. Ridiculous.
Offense. Tolerance. Holy crap is that a pain bigger than it's worth. Listen, if something offends you, evaluate the statement and confront the individual. It's possible that the thing they just said is true, and therefore, there should be some action of change on your behalf. SO CHANGE! If it was an asshat remark, then tell them to stop being an asshat like civilized people should. Instead, we have to go tell mom.
Seatbelts
Helmets
Now those two are simple and lifesaving, but ridiculous. I mean, come on: helmets look ridiculous. Or the whole safety pad nonsense. That's just negating risk on an asinine level.
There are also discussion of laws to prohibit you from eating, drinking, talking on cell phones, and even listening to the radio.

And this list is partial at best, and I'm certain every person who reads this will be able to add on to it, but I do feel it shows a trend that should inspire concern at the very least. Part of this nanny state is a lowering of standards. In 1950, the average high school graduate had a vocabulary of 50k+ words. Now the average graduate, if he can even pronounce graduation correctly, has a vocabulary of 14k+ words. As standards lower and responsibility is diverted from the people ACTUALLY responsible, systems have to be put into place to, mostly, protect us from our retarded selves.

Life should be about risk management, not risk avoidance, and the nanny state takes away that choice.

“Now class, take out your circles of paper and your safety pencils.” - The Simpsons

On The Topic of the Virtues of Smoking a Pipe

2007-04-22T00:05:00.000-07:00

Today was, essentially, a wash. One of my best friends in the world was having his bachelor party, and I would have loved to go... except I had to work. Further, I couldn't take the day off because I need to take next Saturday off to attend his wedding. The plan then was that they would take off for the day to Glenwood to swim, as that seems to be the sort of thing one plans their day around when attending a hot springs. Later that evening when they got back, we would catch up at Leela's or Paris downtown, share a couple of pints and maybe a pipe or two.

Unfortunately, and I can't blame this on any of them (though there's an irrational part of me that would like to), they encountered automotive problems, and what should have been a three hour drive turned into a 4 and a half hour drive, and add on blizzard conditions. So, that's a no go for pints and pipes: they had to cancel. Bummer. So, I got all bummed out and depressed and trekked home.

It's 10 now, and I'm trying to think of some way to salvage my Saturday night, but nothing's coming to mind. Earlier in the day, my pal Arthur had made an offer to hang out, but I had to turn that down because I did not foresee my previous plans being canceled.

So, you know what I did? I sat outside, in the rain, and had a pipe, and what a glorious pipe it was.

I have what's called a "sport pipe." It's mostly just an apprentice made pipe with a shallow bowl that's supposed to last no longer than 15 minutes, but through some forces that are largely mysterious to me, this pipe lasted for 30. Truly a Hanukkah miracle, though not on par with a day's oil lasting eight.

At any rate, I sat outside, listening to the rain, the trains, puffing, and thinking. I thought about my friend David's birthday I missed and made the determination to buy for him his very first pipe and tobacco. He deserves it.

I thought about the Daily Dime and how I'd missed two days this week and really didn't want to miss a third, but didn't know what I was going to write about.

I thought about the day and what a bummer it was overall.

I thought about pipes, and what a curious tradition it is, but what a powerful one. I don't smoke mine too often, perhaps once a week, and that's usually in the company of others. I might smoke it by myself once every 5 or 6 weeks, and it's usually only at times, like tonight, where I feel an irrational depression, and I really want to pull out of it. And it's a panacea. It works, and I'm not sure which part of this causes the even feeling or the mellowing. I don't know if it's perhaps the scent, or the series of long breaths (which are smoke free, every one of them) i must take to stoke the pipe and keep it stoked, the fact that I'm forced to stop and be slow, to take time and think, or if it's something beyond that. Not to attribute mystical attributes to an object, but it's been my experience that it has a power to mold and steer conversation in a way that other smokes do not.

At any rate, I smoked my magic pipe (insert pot joke here. HA HA HA! YOU SO FUNNY!), and felt contented and happy. I came inside, sat down, and whipped out a true to real life story.

Let us seal these meetings
With the raising of a pint,
And the stoking of a pipe.

"You Realy Saved My Ass Back There.

2007-04-12T08:17:00.000-07:00

Holy fuggin' crap. Last night, I looked at my review sheet for my history exam and wondered, "When are we taking this stupid thing? We have a paper due tomorrow, but what about the test?" So I wracked my brain trying to remember if we'd had a paper due last test day or not. There are only 3, maybe 4 tests given in the semester, so they're weighted pretty heavily. At any rate, I couldn't remember, and this morning when I got to class (I arrived 10 minutes late because the highway was determined to go no faster than 50 mph), my good friend Nicole turns to me and says, "there's no test today. She forgot to give us the whole study guide."

o rly.

ya rly.

So, apparently, God heard my question last night and decided to give me the most (apart from not having it altogether) satisfying answer. "That'll do pig, that'll do."

In other news, I met a fascinating young woman yesterday. We talked for a good twenty or thirty minutes about writing endeavors. She's short fiction turned poetry and I'm mostly short fiction. But we talked, and she was really cool. She said she'd bring a flyer to me for her "poetry feature" (not entirely sure what that is) next week and I gave her my blogger address.

Blogger address? What kind of stupid way of getting to know people is that?

I know.

Hanging at the Gym

2007-04-05T08:18:00.000-07:00

So, one of my new year's goals, the one I've been the least successful at (though its unsuccess competes with my writing goal) was to run a few times a week. This goal had a two fold purpose: the more long term purpose of "getting in shape," which is a revatively nebulous goal but includes, though is not limited to, being in better physical shape. Pretty complex, huh? That's the more long term "overarching" goal, with a much more immediate one of being able to walk all over Ireland (since our time there will be mostly spent walking) without chaffing like a mugger fugger and without geting all winded and pouting like a wee school lass.

So today after school I'm going to the rec center to run for a minimum of 45 minutes, but as long as I feel is necessary. I even borrowed 10 bucks from my mom to do it.

In thinking on why this goal has been such a collosal failure for me, I've come to the conclusion that at this juncture I'm too timid to do my running outside and in gyms where the everyday joe and the stereotypical shallow gym butterfly (because that's all that are there, right?) can see me, and of course, ridicule me. Especialy the last two people I mentioned. At least at the rec center, the beautiful people aren't present, at least in their overwhelming numbers, and I can also swim if I want. Something I haven't done in years.

The ironic part is that since I've made activity my goal, my activity dropped from 2-3 times a week to roughly 3 times every 2 weeks, when my goal became five. I used to go to tae kwon do 3 times a week, and I've since stopped. A part of that is the available number of times I can go to tae kwon do, and the available number of chances I have to go since I've been more active in being church.

So, what I'm asking for is accountability. If you see me or talk to me, and if you otherwise give a damn, ask me if I've run or been to "fight club."

Why thank you.

But Not Your Friendly Syphilis

2007-03-31T01:16:00.000-07:00

I hate my upstairs neighbors. They are chuweros in the purest sense of the word, as defined by definition 1.

it is now 2:17 in the A fuckin' M! i have no clue what these people do, but i can guarantee one thing they don't do: corral their little shit goblin children on the weekends. it sounds like kid fight club upstairs, and this is not a rare occasion. i went to bed about an hour and a half ago, and this nonsense was going on then, and it's still going on. i'll be almost asleep, i can feel my sleep cycle 2 spinning up, and my conscious mind spinning down, then WHAM, it sounds like a someone has dropped cinder on a wood floor, but our floors are CARPETED! WHAT MAKES THAT NOISE! IF THE KIDS ARE BEATING THE HELL OUT OF EACHOTHER, THEY NEED TO BEAT HARDER!

i want them all to get terrible debilitating syphilis. the kind people used to get in the 1800s, not that friendly glamour syphilis we have now.

The Photograph As Time Machine

2007-03-28T23:15:00.001-07:00

The clarifier: I love my family to death and thank God for them daily. I also enjoy my extended family, some more than others, but I think that's fairly unavoidable.

I was at the house a couple of nights ago looking through old photographs with my mom, and it was uncanny: I felt nostalgia. I usually don't feel this concerning things that are actually sentimental. I feel nostalgia when I watch old cartoons, read an old book, but never over things that are inherently sentimental. But there I was.

I could see my mom as a girl no older than seven (looking exactly like my sister at that age), a teenager, a young woman. I could see my grandpa as a young man, before his accident that left him a quadriplegic, a young father, the cripple. Time stretched back into 40s, 50s, now my grandpa is an infant, now he's no more and I'm staring at great grandparents. People I've never met. Great great grandparents, aunts and uncles that have all left this world before I arrived.

Staring at these pictures, I felt disembodied, as though I flowed forward through time, and ebbed backwards through it. People I'd never seen, but now wished I did. My dad as a baby, his bald watermelon head, his parents as teenagers, grandpa with his first car at sixteen, back when the people knew that good habits started with responsibility. I almost felt as though I could reach out and join my grandpa hitchhiking on those Arizona roads, ride with my mom from Iowa, or sleep in the crib next to my infant dad.

I left my parent's house thinking about the photographs, thinking about people I haven't met but am deeply connected to.

These photographs solidified a decision: I want to write a book that will never get published. The only person to see it will be my kids, and their kids, and so on. The book will be entitled "The Last Thing I Ever Remember," it'll be a book simply of my memories and nothing more. Anything and everything I can remember recorded for my kids. They will record what they remember, and so on.

Imagine: your grandfather hands you a book and says, "my grandfather started writing in this book, and we want you to keep on writing."

Sleep, You Elusive Bastard

2007-03-24T03:43:00.000-07:00

So, I haven't been sleeping the greatest for the past couple of weeks. Roughly since I saw 300. Mostly, that was a stretch of about two weeks where I didn't get a lot of sleep, and slept hard when I did sleep. This week, I've just not been sleeping well at all. I'll go to bed at my regularly scheduled times, or what feels right to me, and then toss and turn and wake up a whole bunch and wake up feeling like I just got done running. Well, tonight I go to bed at 12, and then wake up with a burning sensation in my left eye and left nostril. I tossed and turned when I went to bed and feel like I've been asleep for maybe a half hour. I toss and turn for what feels like about fifteen minutes, and then look at my clock. I was really asleep for four hours, but now I feel pretty awake and not going back to sleep any time soon.

But it's not as if I need any less sleep. Quite the contrary. Tuesday, I stayed home from school due to a forming migraine and slept an additional 4 hours to my already existing 7. Thursday, I took a nap after school, and while my body usually limits itself to 30 minute naps, an entire hour went by and felt like mere minutes. And I could have slept more, but made myself get up. I just wish I knew why this nonsense was going on. Y'know what? I don't even care why it's happening. I just wish I'd go back to regular sleep.

Everything Here Sounds Disgusting

2007-03-22T19:52:00.000-07:00

That's going to be the name of my new restaurant. Here's a few of our key dishes:

Gastritis Fries
DeEsophagizer
Pungent Patties
Soylent Burger

What respectable joint is complete without a signature drink? Which is why I present:

The Runs.
What is it? I sure as hell don't know, but damn if it ain't delicious.

And like all respectable sit down family places, there's always the ever present threat of some food monstrosity bound and determined to reek havoc on your fine dining experience, unless of course you can defeat it in an act of unparalleled bestial wrath, and consume it in a furious bout of timed gorging. So, to satisfy the eXtreme glutton in us all, Everything Here Sounds Disgusting proudly, and humbly, presents

THE COLOSTOMIZER!

My only regret is that I don't have a font large enough to bring the powerful and immense grandeur of this proud beast to your screens. The exact size and weight of this "terror of the modern age" cannot be determined, but I can tell you this: it will not be bound by our petty 18" plates. It's massive bulk hangs over the edge, gracefully. The buns have sealed themselves to the top of this bulk with the concrete grip of hot molten grease, rivers of boiling cheese cascade, playfully, down the sides. It truly is a creature deserving of our greatest respect.

Now, you'd think we'd be done there. Not so. Not so. Last night, as I go to lay down on my head, three simple words are uttered into my head. Three simple words which jostle me from my rest, and impel me to write them down. Three. Simple. Words.

I present to you the crown prince of Everything Here Sounds Disgusting:

Irritable
Bowel
Burger

Everything Here Sounds Disgusting. "Yeah. It's that good."

Developing a Messiah for what now? OR My dream blog no more.

2007-03-20T10:27:00.000-07:00

So, I've decided to quit my dream blog. Mostly because of all my various blogs, it's the one I use a bunch that gets used the most. Instead, I'm going to start posting my dreams here. And this one's a wild'n'.

This whole dream takes place through the lens of a camera. I watch all the action, though the boy is me, and sometimes, the camera takes on dramatic views, first person views, or will sometimes point things out to me.

So, in this dream, I'm a kid. Maybe 11 or 12 at the most. I live in a foster home with parents that I feel are abusive, though they do live on a very idyllic picturesque plot of land.

The home is a simple single level ranch style house that sits on a small hill, and it's got a creek right behind it near the base of the hill, and the entire hill and house area are surrounded by a stereotypical white picket fence. There are all kinds of crazy insects and little animals that I play with, and they seem to be my only friends. The whole scene looks like something out of a Tim Burton movie, namely Big Fish or Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

At the moment, I'm home alone, playing with my insect and amphibian friends in the creek. I have a brother and sister, but they are with my foster parents, wherever they are right now. Even the insects fear my foster parents. When my foster parents come home, even my friends are scared and will run to hide. And that's just what they did when we heard the front gate open. I watch my frog jump into the creek, and I watch my beetles dig into the ground, my walking sticks climb into the inside of giant toadstools, my praying mantises run into tall grass, and various flying creatures fly away. I myself run inside through the back door knowing that I'll only have a little time, and I'm still dirty.

I run into the kitchen when I meet my fosters.

"Time to meet your mother!" they say to me. I get excited on the inside thinking she'll take me away from them. My friends can take care of themselves.

My fosters don't even bother cleaning me up, they just load me into the car and we drive away. My brother and sister (perhaps 5 or 6 each) are in the backseat with me. We live in a place that looks exactly like New York harbor, though New York it ain't. As we get far enough out that I should be able to see the entirety of the harbor, I fall asleep.

Next, I wake up just as we're docking at another island. There is a gigantic gray metal object that's incredibly shiny sitting on this island. Eveything is incredibly dark, and there's a lightning storm up above. My camera took a wide angle so that I could see everything.

We walk up to this building, and my fosters stay outside, and they actually look somewhat concerned. I'm taken inside through pristine and very sterilized corridors. They're all silver, and there are many lights, and it all seems to lead to a giant observation room. It's a small rectangular room with a giant viewing window. There is a metal cylinder, that's part of the wall, off to the left of the window. Outside of the window is a gigantic red sphere with a small rectangular frame on it's most front facing part.

The cylinder opens and Christopher Lloyd... the guy from Back To the Future... greets me. He tells me to get in the cylinder with him, and he'll explain the cuss words, or things not to say in front of my mom. He gives me a list of five, but the only one I can remember is abuse. The cylinder rotates, and opens up onto a platform facing the platform with the ball on top of it. He tells me to go forward to the edge of the platform, and disappears back into the cylinder. I rush forward to the edge, and in the gap between the two platforms is a pool of incredibly bright shimmering liquid. It's predominantly yellow and orange. The little rectangular frame on the sphere lights up and I can see it's a TV of some sort. A gender neutral face clouded by lots of static appears. She introduces herself as my mother and asks how I am.

Before I answer, the camera sees a monitor on the left wall, so I look to see what it is, and I see a wireframe 3D representation of a man with a gasmask and bizarre suit on floating around. I ask what that is and she says that it's the garb of her soldiers. Those that will remake the world in her image. Then she repeats her initial question, and I say that the fosters are abusive.

She laughs, and the sphere undulates, and forms various 3D geometric shapes: a pyramid, a square, dodecahedrons, and others. Then she says something about the light in my right knee. I look down at my right knee. I see a large silver disk with a green luminescent center and a black outline fly out of the light between the platforms and attach itself to the side of my right knee. Then I watch as these little silver streaks headed by points of blue and green light all fly from the light into the disk on my right knee. Then the disk absorbs into my knee. When I look back up, the sphere is gone, but it's replaced by five women who escort me out. They take me out on top of the large gray metallic structure where my fosters are waiting. I watch as one of the five women talks to my foster dad, but in a very hushed tone.

The five women all look the same: bright red hair, dark eyes with no iris, just a large pupil, incredibly pale skin, all dressed in the same red cloak with hoods pulled back. They each have different hairstyles. One has a mullet, one has a humongous mohawk, the one talking to my "dad" has the sides of her head shaved, with a long streak of hair running down the center, and braids lining that streak. As we start to walk away, I fall asleep again.

As we pull back into the harbor, I wake up, and I can see two realities super imposed over eachother. One is the regular reality, the one I left, and the other is a reality where things are destroyed and burning. The reality of destruction starts to slowly fade leaving me with current reality.

We pull into the driveway and start to walk up to the house. I'm still in that hazy dream state, but I watch my insect friends running to hide, and it's all in slow motion. There's a flashlight that highlights each friend as they run to hide, and each time i see the light I'm afraid they'll get caught. We're lead into the kitchen where dinner's waiting. I sit down, and I'm still really hazy, and the camera shows me what I look like: hell. I'm still dirty, I'm sweaty, I have large bags under my eyes, and it looks like I'm about to fight.

My brother and sister turn to me and say, "did you see the city? We can barely remember it, but it looked like it was on fire!" They keep talking to me, but I can hear really faint whispering, but it seems to dominate my brother and sister's talking, and my foster's talking. I can barely make out what the whispering says (and the camera's zoomed in on my ear), but I do make out the words "almost ready" and "kill him." I jump up from the table, shout, and slap my right knee, and I get coated in this silver substance, with lights running down my sides, and I see two people dressed similarly with knives standing behind my parents. My camera takes a wide shot to let me see everything that's happening, and then my roommate walks in the damn door, waking me up. And now I'm awake. Crap.

REM cycle one: engage! OR "a first time for everything."

2007-03-16T11:32:00.000-07:00

So, in my psycho-loggy class, we were discussing the cycles of sleep. I won't get too far into the gritty details, but know that there are 4 cycles of sleep, and they run in 90 minute cycles. After the first cycle, you wake up long enough to readjust (less than 5 seconds, usually) and then go back to sleep. The first REM (rapid eye movement) cycle occurs when you fall back asleep. So, last night, I wake up, roll over to my left side, and on the process of falling back asleep, my internal voice says, real excitedly, "holy crap! This is the beginning of your next sleep cycle! Sweet! And there's the REM!" and I could quite literally feel my eyeballs darting around inside of my skull, and then I could feel myself lose my body and descend back into sleep before I went numb and "shut off" again. It was incredibly vivid and surreal.

And then this morning, right before I woke up, I had a dream that someone brought home a whole bunch of demon possessed toys, and though they were blatantly possessed, they claimed that they had no idea. Right. You're just lazy is what it is.

"How do you know they're possessed?" the person asked. Right then a toy tank shoots me in the shin.

"That's how," I say. So, my dad and I are then busying ourselves with the construction of a fire with which to burn up these little bastards. We're huckin' toys into the fire to burn them up, and one of the toys is a miniature Christina Ricci doll, and man does she not want to get thrown into the fire. She tried to stab me, so I chucked her ass in. Then my alarm went off.

I don't know what Christina Ricci did to my subconscious, but man is it pissed at her.

Just Checking In

2007-03-15T07:32:00.000-07:00

It's been sort of awhile since I blogged. There's not really a whole lot of anything new to report I suppose. What, for some reasons that I find unidentifiable, seems to have been a hectic and disorganized few months seem to be normalizing somewhat and slowing down back to normal, though nothing ever really felt "not normal," just "hectic."

Right now, it's my absolute favorite weather. Overcast, rainy, cold. It's gray outside and I love it. I think when people see the gray outside, that's all their able to focus on. I even remember in high school my dad criticizing me once for liking the rain and clouds. Something to the effect of, "why can't you like sunshine like everyone else?" or something. My response was that everyone focuses so hard on the gray skies that they don't see how rich the earth looks. The greens are so dark and rich. The gray creates illusions (or brings out what the blue hides?) of blues and purple in the trees. Everything looks so much cleaner. What would appear to be a dirty city scape is made infinitely cleaner by the presence of rain, especially in post winter/not quite spring mode. The rain also seems to justify the buildings, turning giant steel and mortar eye sores into items inside of a painting. Most people, I think and I've been told, feel depressed by this weather. Quite the opposite for me. This weather makes me feel alive. My appetite's best (if it's too hot, I hate food), I feel most awake even if I didn't get sufficient sleep (like last night) I feel myself come to life more quickly than if that damn oppressive fire orb were hovering over me. This is the best sleeping weather, and the best action weather. You can run, do manual labor, sit at home, or do nothing in this weather, and it all feels good. Try running in August. It sucks. A lot.

The Love Blog

2007-02-25T00:39:00.000-08:00

I caved and decided to write a “love blog” like I've seen several of my friends write. I'm sort of a tool, but not entirely. This blog is, I think, written from the “other side of the fence,” if such a euphemism is permissible.

I don't have a “love,” nor have I ever. I've come close several times. At least three. One time the girl went, quite literally, crazy and joined a cult. That was five years ago and counting that she disappeared into complete anonymity. Again, I loved the “bad girl” and she loved me back, or so she said. It turns out that by “I love you too,” what she really meant is, “I'm going to date you once, string you along for several months, and then date a meth head waste case before I spiral downwards into my own self destructive hell.” That's only a rough approximation of what I believe to be her true intent behind her obfuscated verbiage. The third was of my own volition. The opportunity was there, but I screwed it up. It might have been for the better, but so many variables have occurred since then and now, that I might have made a mistake. Either way, one cannot dwell in the past.

My goal wasn't to come here and bemoan my own shortcomings, or damn the entire nature of love, or garner sympathy. This blog is for future love.

Future love is something I've been giving a lot of thought to recently. One of the big questions in my head is why? Why should I be loved? Is there any justification in me having happiness in the form of love from another? Realistically, isn't the only being that has guaranteed His love for me is God, my creator? Why do I deserve to love?

The other night, when I was writing, it came to me that I would really love to see the way love affects my writing. I've seen other events shape my writing, and love would definitely be another step in my evolution. I've seen the effect loneliness has on my writing, I've seen anger's effect, depression, happiness, euphoria, reflection, and theoretical love, but not that deep running romantic love one experiences in that “dedicated relationship,” or whatever the devil it is you kids call it these days.

Sometimes, like right now and mostly all of today, and probably this whole week with the exception of Wednesday, I feel entirely self sufficient. I sometimes feel as if I don't need another person. In fact, I feel that way more often than not. It's mostly in times of extreme loneliness, boredom, or depression that I wish for someone beside me. There are also those rare instances that watching other couples can cause some sense of longing. Those instances are fairly rare, however. Most of the time I feel pretty well balanced and happy, though that doesn't answer those “why” questions I asked earlier.

One piece of advice offered up to me as a frustrated high schooler was that “God has someone special planned for me.” Oh yeah? Really. That means a lot coming from the girl who walked all the way across the gym to tell the guy (me) who's sitting on the bleachers not doing a damn thing that, “I would never date you, but you're a good guy, and the guy I date would definitely have to have something of you in him.” That's a nice backhanded comment. Is that some sort of weak gay reference? If not, there's no better place than the source, right? No?

This answer, in the quest for a “yes” to a “why” is a weak gazelle. It somehow presupposes that God provides happiness of this level. It's the type of empty promise that completely ignores the fact that right at this very moment, someone is starving, someone is dying, someone is probably being shot. There's a good probability that they serve the same God I do, and there's also good probability that their death will passed unnoticed. This is the result of that special kind of Americanized Christianity that assumes that God wants me to be healthy and happy. It's also that schizophrenic type of Christianity that says that God orchestrates events, yet I'm still free to choose. But somehow God's going to have me work here or there, or have me marry this or that girl, as if I'm a marble in one of those tricky rolling mazes, in which one has to avoid holes: the results are the product of blind chance + forces outside of my control, which = I did it.

This definitely did nothing to answer the why, but it did help cut off a lot ends that would have become dead ends; bunny trails.

A lot of modern psychology talks about being happy within yourself, and not depending on others for your happiness. You create your happiness. What a load of self serving shit, if ever I heard it. Why would we think that somehow we can create a perpetual motion machine within the human mind and emotions? We can't. You cannot create for yourself. I wanna say that's a law of physics, or some other equally absurd system. Unicorns are probably involved somewhere, or at the very least, a California Condor. Rather, it seems like the human emotion system is a cyclical system. You choose how to react to your atmosphere, and act on that for others. Somehow, creating that emotion in others creates it in yourself, possibly because they've acted upon this back towards you. In all honesty, however, there is something in the process that's somewhat mysterious: somehow the act itself is what generates these genuine good feelings. You see this concept demonstrated all throughout different cultures and religions, but because modern man is so much smarter than our combined ancestry, we've come to realize that happiness is in yourself, which seems to be a total farce. This blog is not the place to debate this, but a life that is characterized by doing things for yourself is often found to be a very depressing and unfulfilled life. Perhaps a good example of this would be someone like Mother Teresa, or possibly even Ghandi (that pansy) vs. someone like Judas (you could argue his death was the product of extreme remorse, and I would agree, but the events leading up to it were characterized by extreme greed) or the shooters at Columbine, who were just all around douches.

To clarify what I think might be an otherwise muddy paragraph, what I mean to say is that I cannot “make happiness for myself.” I cannot make myself happy by granting my heart whatever it desires, or pleasing my eyes with all the things that are pleasing to look on. I cannot conjure happiness out of myself by doing things for myself. Rather, I can “make myself be happy.” I have to choose to be happy in whatever circumstance I am in. People do this all the time, and these people have lives that suck far worse than yours, so shut up. It's sort of a fine line, but the difference is this: I'm sad, so I buy a new car, which gives me “new car euphoria,” a temporary form of happiness at best (and car is interchangeable with any self centered act, purchase, or endeavor). If, however, I feel sad, but choose to do for others, happiness is created. Does this make sense? It's the act of doing good. This isn't to say that you should ignore yourself. Far from it. Recognize limits and needs. For example, I need time to be alone and away from others, almost daily, or I am a colossal pain in the ass. I mean, more so. Contrariwise, there have been several times, and the following just one example, where doing good for someone else while feeling “blue” has served to create happiness in myself: one night I felt depressed and unwanted, but chose to go downtown to help the homeless with my church anyways – give them warm food, blankets, warm drinks. I ended up meeting some people down there that not only caused me to reflect, but then caused me to feel immense satisfaction and contentment. Satisfaction I'm still able to draw on almost a year later. Contrast that with the waning (almost gone) happiness afforded me by that new CD I just “had to have.” Clear? Let's hope so, because here comes the conclusion... y'bastard.

Thinking on all of this, I realized that a lot of the talk I hear concerning relationships is talk that sounds a lot like “what can I get out of this relationship,” or “how does this person make me feel,” or “what can this person do for me?” It was here I realized that this is not what I want. I don't want to just sit around and be an absorbent emotional sponge, accepting whatever treacle the other has to poor into me. This is also the point in which I think I discovered why I often feel as if I don't need a significant other. I often feel sufficient as is because I feel as though all my needs are “met,” which they “are.” I have good friends, loving family, good food, a place to sleep, books to read, a job, things to write, I'm currently learning, and I have some sense of where I'm going to be. At least in the near future. Every once in awhile, however, I get that feeling, like I need someone. In high school I interpreted that as the “I feel unloved” syndrome, which cold hard Logic, with his brother Facts, knocked flat on his back. I now recognize this feeling as the need to love. I feel the need to find someone whom I can love and invest in. The investment should be returned, or you end up with loonies cited way up there in paragraph one.

Years of not knowing and asking why have lead me to this conclusion. I do not need love to be loved, but rather to love.

So, I raise my glass – and raise yours with me – to future love. Cheers.

This might get me nailed to a tree, but...

2007-02-11T23:04:00.000-08:00

I don't like The Fray, and I'm glad they didn't win best rock album of the year. If that happened, I would have had to have quit being a rocker because whatever they do, rock it ain't. Chili Peppers won, which is alright. It probably was the best of the year, though it's still a bit mild for my tastes (I guess that what happens when you fall in love - makes you all soft and whatnot). Slayer beat out Tool for best metal album, which is weak, because slayer is the generic storebrand weaksauce. Their sauce is so weak, that it doesn't even have a graphic on the label. Just a white can with the black and white words, "weak sauce" painted on it. Every other award I genuinely do not care about. Essentially, as long as Fallout Boy, and their clone denizens, and The Fray don't win.

I sort of feel bad about not liking The Fray, but that's mostly only because they came out of the church I go to and I've met a few of them. But if it were any other band like, say, those delightful (sarcasm) scamps from N*Sync, everyone would be understanding, but given the climate surrounding The Fray, I've always been apprehensive in stating my opinion of their music, but this thing's been eating at me. Perhaps they should create a genre called "wuss rock" and you can stick them and Coldplay (gag) and that one gay Irish band that's everywhere. Snow something I think. Snowpatrol? I think that's them. Aren't they Irish? I can see why they play in America. Ireland probably kicked 'em out for being a bunch of nancy boys.

So that was essentially it. I've heard several times over the past week from different sources about how "The Fray better win the award for best rock album." Nix to that. They don't deserve to rub shoulders with The Red Hot Chili Peppers, and this goes beyond my personal style. This extends to the very music they make. They may make music, but rock it ain't.

It feels kind of good to get that out in the open... until I, inevitably, meet them and when asked why I didn't like their album I respond with, "because it's incredibly wussy (among other things) you girls."

And on a peculiarly related note: apparently they used to be called Fancy Showbox and possessed more of a punk edge. I didn't know that, but I remember going to one of their shows in high school. I stayed home sick. It was more I stayed home lazy, but my parent's permitted it. They made me go to youth group that night, however, as they were having a clash with the youth group leader and didn't want him to think that my absence was due to them. He took us to Faith Christian High School where we watched the band Fancy Showbox play. A kid broke his arm or got a concussion because they were crowd surfing, and the people that were supposed to provide him with the surfing support dropped him. And then something like eight years later they're all super popular. How bizarre is that?

Terror

2007-02-09T11:38:00.000-08:00

This week has been a good week. Apart from work, which is eternally a source of varying degrees of uncomfortability. rather, thursday, friday, saturday will be/were good'n's. thursday, after school and after applying for my passport, i got together with my friend dane for a couple of hours. we enjoyed food, funny movies, and each other's company. It was pretty sweet, basically.

I went home, messed around on the internet for a few minutes, and then went to take a nap before tae kwon do. I wasn't laying down for more than three minutes when my roommate Drew shouts, "Cuyler, you need to wake up now!" "Son of a bitch," read my thoughts, "is something on fire? I don't wanna be running and stuff." "Dan Simmons is at the tattered cover!" he shouts. As soon as he hit the S in Simmons, I was falling out of bed struggling to put on my pants. I emerged from my room, pants mostly on, shirt half on, shouting to Drew, "come on! what's taking so long?" We were off to Dan Simmons.

Dan Simmons is my favorite modern author. Author above authors. He writes cross genre fiction. Everything from horror, to adventure, sci-fi (mostly speculative), detective, as well as romance i do believe, though i haven't read his romance. My two favorite book (series) by him is one called Hyperion (the strange epic struggle between the god of the humans and the god of the machines), and another called Ilium (the trojan war... in space. Sounds lame, I know, but it ain't. It rocks balls.).

I love listening to Dan Simmons speak. I've only gotten to do it one other time, but I loved it then, and I loved it this time. He always talks about the process of creating his novels and the sources that go into it, and a thousand other details. He spent most of the time discussing 1840's British naval exploration this time, as his novel is the fictional, and monstrous, account of a real voyage that got lost in Antarctica, and the clues they've found are simultaneously terrifying and maddening. For example: they found a long boat stuck in the ice with several men aboard. Three of them completely clothed, frozen to the boat. A third, a complete skeleton, with tooth marks and knife marks marring the skeleton. "They turned cannibal" one expert is quoted as saying. That's possible, but apparently this skeleton was of a fourteen year old boy when the youngest person that left port would have been 18, and at the time of their disappearance, 23. there are several similar occurrences. Another longboat with another skeleton, this one full grown, another fully clothed man at the back of the boat, gripping the side of the boat in, what is assumed, fear. No visible signs of aggression between the clothed man and the naked skeleton.

The last time he came to the Tattered Cover, Dan said, "I am here, with my people, in my church." He was referring to the book store. He went on to elaborate that with such small numbers (readers as a whole), surely we accounted for something that could be considered religious. He then gave us facts: "Roughly 2 per cent of Americans read for pleasure. 50% of that number read trashy romance novels. I speculate that 95% of those left read those damned Left Behind novels." We all laughed. I felt a little bad that the only piece of prevalent Christian literature has got to be some of its worst, and the only Dan would have been exposed to. I mean, not that Christians have done anything really worth while since this country was founded, but nevertheless, why couldn't he have discovered Donald Miller, or Rob Bell?

I bought 3 books: 1 to read, 1 to never touch (which he drew a picture in of a terrified crewman. awesome.), and 1 to give to my absent friend. I talked to him briefly about how I learned of the mistake of only buying one signed copy, but mostly, I would just like to listen to him talk. The guy in front of me criticized Dan for his description of a polar bear: "you said that the creature had a triangle-head. now, when i picture a polar bear, I don't see a triangle for a head. I see a head that might be described as triangular, but not a triangle-head."
"That's because it's not a polar bear. It's my monster," Dan responded. I chuckled. What kind of douchebag criticizes the author signing his own book? Especially when you, the signee, are more than likely completely incapable of producing an equivalent.

After that, Drew's mom and grandpa took us to get some dinner. I like drew's grandpa. He's a friendly type who reads way more than I do, and way more than I ever have.

Tonight, I have dinner with a friend, tomorrow a day with friends, and dinner with friends as well. Sunday is church, and quite possibly dinner with friends.

And while work is always a source of discomfiture, there were 2 awesome spots. In chronological order: an older guy said, "I couldn't help but overhearing, you're a bass player?" So we got to talking, and it turns out he's the frontman of a local act in denver. He says he wants to give me a call and have me try out for playing with them. That would be pure awesome, and a pseudo fulfillment of a minor dream: to play local music.

2. This full on awesome kid. He was maybe a year and a half. Couldn't really speak yet, but he was really charismatic, and him and I had a good time talking gibberish back and forth. Then he started yelling: AAAAAAHHH!!! AAAAAAHHH!!! AAAAHHHH!!! So i turned to him and went, "hey, shhhh!" so then he put his hand over his mouth and in a hushed whisper yelled: aaaahhhh! aaahhh! that kid was awesome and, quite frankly, positively impacted the rest of my week.

Where the Rubber Meets the Road

2007-02-03T23:55:00.000-08:00

I went to a little place I like to call Paris on the Platte here in Denver. Let me first say that the images I had of it are incredibly wrong. I imagined a place that was much larger, and looked less like it might be a surrogate crack house. Having said that, I actually liked the place... minus the fact that the words “friendly” and “service” are about as central to their vocabulary as “wit” and “charm” are to mine, which is to say that are entirely alien concepts. I still liked it. It's a sort of beatnik style coffee shop/restaurant/bar that is also one of the few bastions of indoor smoking, without getting federally arrested and thrown into debtor's prison, which is why it's so popular. Being a smoking bar, we took advantage of that.

By we, I mean Mike Davenport, on again off again best friend, and major catalyst for all of my theology for the last year, his fiance Kelly, who is an english major as I am, and a writer as well. Next to her was her friend Micah, who is also an english major and a writer. She was new to me. She seemed smart and friendly, though quiet, and had a near perfect smile. The bit I did get to talk with her I enjoyed. Next to her was Ryan, whom I'd met before. Ryan's really cool in that borderline nerd kind of way. He's going for aeronautics, so talking sci fi with him is always enjoyable. I haven't talked with him much, but he seems like the kind of guy I could truly get along with if we could just sit down and talk. Then his wife Lynnette. I mostly know nothing about her and, due to the cramped table geography, was entirely unable to talk to her. Then was Zack, Mike's little brother. Zack's a hoot. That guy rocks and I love seeing him. He's funny, laughs a lot, but then can get down with a real serious heady conversation. Then his wife Hannah. She's really pretty, and very nice. I haven't ever talked with her to great length, though I would like to some day. Next to her (and me, thus forming a circle) was Cody. Cody was cool. Had a big fat bowled pipe. We talked a lot of theology and general life. I enjoyed his company and wish that I get to enjoy it again in the future.

So, the company was good, the malt was good, and the pipes were good. We all (us guys) lit up our pipes, sharing tobaccos and what have you, talking about life, God, whatever topic should arise. It was a very good night, and while I don't have any kind of earth shattering revelation to bring out of this, I was proud of myself. I made an effort to talk to everyone there, that was feasible to talk with, and make good conversation. Slowly, I make progress with my resolution.

A Few Quick Hits

2007-01-30T22:14:00.000-08:00

Just a few quick points, and then I'm going to bed.

I've been giving it a lot of thought lately, well, as much thought as I am capable of, and it is my firm opinion that people innately have six senses. Yes, six. Of course we have the five we're taught: sight, smell, touch, taste, hear. Some people would say that the "sixth sense" would be psychic... stuff. I call those people nuts. The sixth sense I'm referring to is time. I believe that people have a sense of time, but it has to be refined and worked at. It's probably the laziest of our six senses. It's the one that people can ignore easiest, and the one that actually requires work to make it stronger, more accurate, but I believe it's there.

I woke up at 6:30 last Wednesday. My alarm wasn't set to go off until 8, but I am supposed to wake up at 6:30 on school days. I woke up and wondered, "do I have school today?" and thought for a moment before I decided I didn't. But I woke up at the time that I thought I had to. I routinely wake up moments, sometimes seconds, before my alarm goes off. Something inside knows. I know we have this internal clock, but what else can it be but a sense of time? Everyone has this experience and others similar to it.

Throughout my day I routinely, and fairly accurately, often to within 10 minutes, feel how much time has passed. This idea isn't exactly being presented eloquently, but I feel we have a sense of time because it's more nebulous than an "internal clock," as if we truly had internal clocks, there wouldn't be room for error as there are with senses. Things feel rough and hard, but they don't feel "rock" or "wood." It may smell like almonds, but turns out it's gangrene. It feels like it's 1:30, but turns out it's about 1:10.

Time is also something unquantifiable by our other senses. In the same way we can't smell colors or taste textures (unless your a synasthetic... lucky bastard) you can't feel time, hear it, smell it, see it or taste it, but it's something that we're definitely aware of and can track, internally.

Whew. Spent way too much time on that.
I find it difficult, sometimes, being a man when I despise certain aspects of the language of men. In this particular instance I'm referring to such things as "she's a hottie." Few things make me want to plant a rolled up hand of five into some guys teeth than the words hot and hottie. I'm not entirely certain what it is about them that drives me nuts. Naughty is also up there on that list, as a sidenote. I'm not entirely certain what it is about this vernacular that drives me nuts. In fact, for many years (all of highschool and everything before that), I wouldn't even comment on a girl's beauty because of it. I don't have a problem with appreciating beauty in whatever form it may take, but something about those words is nails on a chalkboard to me. Perhaps it's because those words represent a type of shallowness that I find equally repulsive. Perhaps it's labeling that I don't like (though that's unlikely. I label everything. Even labels). But whatever it is, it turns my stomach sour. Pretty, cute, adorable, beautiful; these are words I can live with, associate with, appreciate. Hot and hottie? Um, I'm not even sure what a Webster's definition of hottie would be, and hot is usually something that has to do with temperature. Whatever. This will probably be something that will slightly increase my blood pressure every time I hear it until the end of my days.

This isn't to say that girls are off the hook. I hear the same nonsense coming from the very mouths of girls who complain about this ridiculosity. "I wish guys would grow up. I'm not a piece of meat... that guy is so yummy." That's one that I hear from girls that makes me feel a little sickish. Yummy? Isn't that a word we use to describe the quality of something that we devour? With our mouths? Something that will get utterly annihilated and destroyed by stomach acids? Is that what you want to do? Annihilate this guy with acid? I don't get it. Again, something that will cause me to anyuerism on my bathroom floor when I'm 30. Or have a seizure. With my brain.
I'm certain there was a third. And just so you know, the italics would not come off for the first part of that last sentence. I should know. I retyped it about 9 times. So, I'm certain there was a third thing I wanted to talk about, but these are the kind of things that happen when you're Cuyler. You forget stuff... a lot. Well, goodnight.

uninviolable trust

2007-01-25T20:33:00.000-08:00

So, there's this cat that hangs around our apartment complex. Big, sleek, beautiful black cat. This cat is no slouch. It's a very muscular cat. Very little fat on his bones. He's a very cool cat. He plays it cool. Often, he will come into our apartment and look around. He does nothing but look around. He investigates, perhaps he'll want to be petted (that word sounds stupid) a little, not too much, but mostly he wants to look around and leave. But he really likes our apartment. He will sit at the front door and meow and scratch, not entirely unlike a dog. This cat has been doing this since I moved in back in May, and has made this a habit for the more than a year prior to me moving in. He just comes in, looks around, makes friendly chitchat, then leaves. A friend that doesn't overstay his welcome.

This was all a setup. A long, elaborate setup for a dark, twisted joke. I can still hear the cat's dark laughter. I hear it with my ears.

The cat comes in today, and it's the usual stuff, "Oh hey kitty! Good to see you kitty!" and the cat takes a special shining to me because animals really dig me, which is kind of neat in a beastmaster kind of way. The cat comes in, my roommate and his friend leave, cat's looking around, and walks underneath the desk on the wall behind me. He starts sniffing at... something. I don't know what. Cat's can smell way better than I can, so I trust the importance of whatever he's smelling. Then I hear him clawing. I turn around and ask, "what delightful kitty thing are you engaged in over there cat?" The light's are off, and I can't see what he's doing, but there's a slight dread building at the back of my head. "Oh hell," I think. "Please no," I think. I teleport <> over to the other side of the room, where I get down on all fours to get a better look at the cat's "shenanigans." A string of vulgarities ranging from the angered to the comical issue forth from my mouth as I realize the dark seeds of this cat's blackened heart are taking root in a cosmic comedy. A joke played at my expense.

The cat's taking a humongous dog-sized crap right on the floor. All the kindness we've shown him. All the hospitality, all the trust and friendship metaphorically shit on in a moment of this cat's feral abandon. The little s.o.b.

I get up and turn the light on so I can see the extent of this beast's selfish damage. He's still going. I get back on all fours, and the smell is terrible. I gag and retch. I pull my shirt over my nose and breathe exclusively with my mouth. The cat stares at me. Its eyes tell me that it knows why I'm angry, yet he's still pretending to not understand what my problem is. He's finished his business, and he wants out of the apartment. Probably before I tear his legs off or something. He bolts out. The apartment smells awful. It smells like old people, which is weird. That bizarre mix of collected scents that produce that extremely bitter mothball "old people" smell. I get a handful of paper towels and pick up the little bastard's mess. This is the part of dog owners, who take their dogs for walks in the park, that I don't understand, and if I ever own a dog, a part I refuse to take part in. The feel of the cat's evil joke sickens me. It takes two paper towel "runs" to get all of it. I run, full on sprint, to the dumpster outside to dispose of it, trying not to gag the whole time. I come back inside, and it still smells like old people. This cannot abide.

I search the cabinets. No airfreshner. Damn. We do have about a gallon of disinfectant, which I use liberally until the thing is virtually gone. The smell is still detectable. This cannot abide.

I make a run to the store for scented candles. The house now has a lovely smell of melons and vanilla cookies. On the way back into the apartment, the cat shows up, meowing at me. Deep pleading black kitty meows. He runs to the door before me, and meows at the door. I look at him and I tell him, "No you little black bastard. You shit on my carpet. People who shit on my carpet don't get to come back."

"MMMMMMRRRRREEEEOOOOOWWW"

"Dammit you little s.o.b, no!" In retrospect, I realize we have "african american" neighbors across the hallway, and directly above me. I hope they a) didn't hear me, or b) realized I was talking to this devil cat.

I open the door, and the cat bolts in. I drop my bag of candles, hurdle the couch, and the amplifier, descend on the cat like a carrion feeder, and scoop him out. The cat meows out this bassy "ah man, c'mon!" kind of meow, and I keep telling him what a bastard he is. I drop him outside, and I can still hear his bass meows.

I guess the moral of the story here, well, there's an obvious one that sounds sort of naughty, but this is a family place! C'mon! The moral of the story that we're going with is, "don't be stuck alone in a house with a crappy kitty."

Class Today

2007-01-18T09:41:00.000-08:00

I thought about sticking this in my religion and philosophy section, but decided this doesn't count as i'm neither speculating or philosophizing.

In my history class today, my teacher was talking about the Christian model of belief, and like a good (cliche) college professor, it's both inadequately and improperly represented. What do I do, though? I so wanted to say, "Um, actually, the Bible, if it's in fact read, says that the race of man fell, in the garden, not because of the deceit of Eve, not that she was even deceitful, that was Adam's own deception, but because Adam ate of the fruit. It says that. I promise you." There were other things she said too, but this one exceptionally stood out to me.

I remember. It's the bizarre assumption (that mostly comes from a couple of hundred of years of scripture abuse and ignoring facts) that somehow Christianity is a religion that doesn't bother to use our intellect, despite the fact that many of the advances in many different fields of, well, everything, were performed by Christian men and women, or at the very least, people who had belief in a monotheist faith or deity. Several times she talked about the world "organizing itself into the more rational secular model." These comments make no sense, and I really wanted to say something. I still feel guilty, like I didn't stick up for a friend who was being humiliated, but ultimately, I think I might have come off as a knowitall, when she doesn't even yet know or understand me or my nature. I might have seemed combative. Perhaps comments and argumentation will come later, but right now I think I need the teacher to see that I'm a dedicated student that wants to learn about history in addition to being a dedicated Christian that believes in the ethics and teachings of Jesus as rooted in the Judaic tradition.

In other news, I hate poetry (as a general rule of thumb. Sometimes I'm surprised.), but I do enjoy T.S. Eliot. He underscores the philosophy I hold that, in writing, people who rock go by their initials, which is why I have taken up this practice. We Got T.S. Eliot, J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, J.K. Chesterton, and others. I like Eliot because he writes, essentially, really introspective short stories that seem to, by chance or design, or both, the poetic structure. I'm currently reading two collections of his stuff via dailylit.com. Unfortunately, I don't think they offer "The Hollow Men," which is, of course, his best poem. Fortunately it's public domain, which means I can find a copy of it no problem.

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Yet another Blog

2007-01-11T00:20:00.000-08:00

i created story time, a blog for stories and story stuff.

indulge... ingrates.

"Burger of the Apocalypse" or "Hell's Beef"

2007-01-07T23:12:00.000-08:00

So, I'm not usually given to writing about this sort of thing. Not at all. This is a special occasion. Enter: Odyssey Chicago.

So, I had a burger. It tasted alright, but it's reeking havoc on me. I think something is trying to live in there. Anyways, I had to go. Really really bad. So, I got up to go use the john. The “regular” one, the non-handicapped one, was disgusting to behold. Toilet paper all over the bowl, wet, sticky... used. It was gross. I turn to the handicapped one, and I hear a strange “chunking” sound. I lean in a little, and it's a man, standing up, peeing, and throwing up at the same time. Gross. I turn to leave, and make eye contact with the other guy in the bathroom as we're leaving (men's room etiquette no-no), and he says, “I'll be damned. First time I've seen that.” Indeed.

So, I went back to my table and sat and waited for a few minutes. Dear Lord, I can wait no longer. I think I actually ignored one of my friends as I ran to the john. I get there, and, good, the handicapped one is free, and this man was one of talent, apparently. The bowl is clean. I do my business, and as I leave, I notice little pools of carrot and noodle on the floor. Gross. Apparently his aim is not as good as previously thought.

So, here I am now. This burger is still working its dark magic on me. My stomach feels very hellish, and I, in general, feel very weird. I wonder if I got food poisoning. Maybe I'll get to call in tomorrow and stay home. Wouldn't that be a treat? I mean, a treat with a cost.

another blog.

2007-01-04T23:08:00.000-08:00

filmade.

like limade, except not.

i figure that for the first little bit here, as i keep generating blog categories, these things will be coming quicker than they will later. perhaps a month in things will sort of settled down into a nice pattern? i'm unsure, as i don't even know how many categories i want/need.

more bloggin'

2007-01-04T12:49:00.000-08:00

i have a new blog now. its theme?

dreams.

i figure as i get more blogs under my belt, i will publish li'l announcements here telling ye of them.

all things new

2007-01-02T23:16:00.000-08:00

this is gonna be the hub for what i want to do.

this is my first step into the direction of real blogging. can you taste the excitement in the air. it's palpable, like mango tangerine.

i chose nuevos rancheros despite the fact that i'm not a farmer, or a ranchero, because i thought it was clever. and since i operate on a level somewhat akin to a 486: simple, but so simple no one dares go there, i whipped up Nuevos Rancherosis. the state of being a new farmer. spanish.

so, i'm not sure what all's gonna go down here, but you can probably count on the fact that it will be "phat," and quite possibly, "funky fresh."

enjoy. or don't. your big kids. you can do what you want... except that.