My Hurricane Head

Dreams of the Golden-Eyed Girl: Facets

2010-12-09T14:55:00.000-06:00

Before I’ve even stopped the car, she throws open her door and starts running toward the water, the epitome of youthful joy and abandon. She kicks her sandals wildly in the air so that they arch backwards over her head, strips off her t-shirt and shorts to reveal a black swimsuit covered in pink skulls, and dives into the lake. After I park I take my time removing my clothes, basking in her graceful and powerful swimming. She moves like she was born in the water, cutting through it like a knife. After a few moments she surfaces, floating in place, and calls out for me to join her. With a wild whoop I dive in and swim slowly out to meet her with my clumsy and inefficient strokes. When I reach her position she throws her arms around my shoulders and plants a kiss on my lips. I’m tempted to give in to her and dissolve in her embrace but I know her too well, and sure enough she breaks the kiss by shoving my head underwater. We wrestle and laugh and play for a while, but I quickly tire and swim back toward shore to give her time to swim a bit more. I’ll never be as good a swimmer as she, and I don’t care. Her grace is one of the ways in which we differ wildly, and one of the many things which leaves me in a permanent state of awe when we’re together.

After the camping trip at which we met we’ve been mostly inseparable. Every day is a new lesson in the wonder that is her, and I’m an apt pupil. I feared before our first date that the connection we made on the trip was transient, that we would discover in the light of day that it was one of those shooting star moments that comes and goes before you can blink. When I picked her up that first time, I was so nervous I thought I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the dinner we made plans to share. I knocked on her door and stood on the threshold, nervously shifting from foot to foot and picking imaginary lint off my jacket.

After a few moments she opened the door and stood there, smiling shyly at me with a look I imagine matched my own. She greeted me with a quiet “hi” and I answered with an overeager “hey there!” whose dorkiness I immediately regretted. She giggled, clearly aware of my discomfort, and suddenly threw her arms open and launched herself at me. We both stumbled backwards, almost fell, when some hidden reserve of balance opened within me and I steadied us both. Just like our kiss that first night, the hug we shared was open and full, and I found myself relaxed and at ease immediately. I’d never met a woman like her, so willing to open and show herself to me. I swore to myself then that for as long as I was privileged to know her, I would match that openness, would let her see every facet of me no matter how embarrassing or shameful.

As we walked to my car she took a small gift bag from her purse and handed it to me, making me promise not to open it until after I dropped her off that night. I was itching with curiosity but decided to honor her wish. We drove to dinner, and the conversation never stopped. We greedily consumed facts about one another, largely ignoring the meal before us. At some point in the evening I told her a really bad joke I’d heard from a coworker earlier that day, and I saw for the first time that her nose wiggled when she laughed. That little wiggle stole a piece of my heart (not the first or last by any means) and I found myself doing everything I could think of to make her laugh just to see it again.

Before I realized it three hours had passed and it was time for me to take her home. When we turned onto her street I slowed the car to a crawl, telling her it was because I was trying to extend this last part of our evening as much as I could. She laughed and told me in that case I should take a couple of laps through her neighborhood, a suggestion I was more than willing to follow.

Eventually I had to return her to her home, as it was getting late and we both had work the next day. I pulled up to the curb in front of her house and walked her to the door. I knew this was the moment that movies and TV tell you should be awkward and filled with tension, but I felt none of it. Still, I was hoping to see that little wiggle one more time that night, so I started to make a joke about it. As I started to speak, however, she held up a finger to my lips to silence me. Slowly and gently she stroked my cheek once only, then took my hands in hers and simply met my gaze. I can only imagine the awestruck look on my face, but if she noticed it she didn’t comment, and instead simply held my eyes with hers like some sort of vaudevillian hypnotist. No matter how much light was around us I could’ve sworn her eyes glowed, their unique gold coloring as beautiful and marvelous as the first time I’d seen them.

She stood on her tiptoes but didn’t move toward me, so I took that as my cue to move forward into a kiss just as powerful as the first, but somehow more knowing and welcoming. When we parted I must have looked a bit aghast since I got my wish to see the wiggle once more when she laughed at the look at my face. She unlocked the door, paused, then turned and planted a quick peck on each of my eyelids before turning away and entering her house. I stood there until I heard the deadbolt engage, then turned back toward my car. When I sat in the driver’s seat I remembered the gift bag and pulled it from the backseat. She had told me about her love of knitting and similar creative endeavors, so I was delighted when I pulled a small knitted zombie doll from the bag. I had told her about my obsession with zombies, about my fully functional evacuation plan in the event of the zombie apocalypse, and not only did she not think it ridiculous but went so far as to offer suggestions on ways I could improve it. She had not only remembered but had gone so far as to create a unique gift just for me. This woman, without even trying, had completely undone me, and never had I been so glad to be formless.

Now, almost a year later, that zombie doll sits on my desk at work guarding over me. When I look at it during difficult or boring periods of my workday I think of her and am renewed. It’s strange to say that a representation of the undead reminds me of the love of my life, but it’s true. I knew after two months of dating her that I wanted to know her for the rest of my days, but held that knowledge close so as not to scare her off. This fear proved to be unwarranted on the day I discovered a small note in my messenger bag written on a piece of paper torn from a spiral notebook. In her best approximation of a small girl’s handwriting, she had written “Do you want to fall in love with me? (Because I’m falling for you…)” followed by the instructions to “check one” and three boxes with Yes, No and Maybe written beside them. I’m not ashamed to admit I got a little misty at the sweetness of the note, and I added a box with a huge check mark inside and the words “Too late” written beside it. She framed it and now it sits on her dresser. On the days I’ve spent the night at her place, I’ve noticed she touches it each morning like a lucky charm, though I think it’s me that’s the lucky one.

I’m torn from my happy memories of the past when she emerges from the water. The sun is beginning to set behind her, and the sky is on fire with oranges and purple and reds. The water beads on her skin and she ignites with refracted light, blazing in the waning day. It’s as though she’s covered with jewels, almost too brilliant to look at. The sparks of light coming from her wet form remind me of the small box in the bottom of our picnic basket, the small box that contains the only secret I’ve been capable of keeping from her. It’s an almost exact match of one I saw in a picture of her grandmother. She told me the story of how it was lost when her grandmother moved in with her parents shortly before her passing, and it’s one of the few times I’ve seen her cry. I went to several stores that specialized in custom work before I found one that could match the detail and beauty of the heirloom. I think it’s a pretty good match. I know it’s not the real thing, but my hope is it’s close enough that it will remind her both of my love and the love of her grandmother, the woman she once told me was her best friend.

As the sun continues to set I spread out our blanket and the food I prepared that morning, and we settle in to eat and talk. We watch the sun slowly disappear and the moon begin its ascent. After a while we both become quiet. I lean my head back against the bumper of my car, and she moves up close and places her head on my chest. For a while we sit quietly, savoring this moment only we share. After a while I ask if she wants dessert, and instead bring out the box. I ask my question, we both cry and she says yes, and then laughs when I struggle while putting it on her hand. Her nose wiggles, and I find my heart still has room to grow.

Lost in my dreams

2010-10-18T14:12:00.002-05:00

I recently took a road trip with my family (approximately 2700 miles of driving, not including city driving in our final destination) during which I did a large part of the driving. As anyone who has ever driven through West Texas can attest, there's not a whole hell of a lot to look at to keep your mind engaged. Aside from watching the sporadic traffic around me, I found my mind often playing through story ideas that have been stewing for a while. Several new ideas have presented themselves for my consideration, and I'm sure eventually I'll get to at least a couple of them, but none of them really got the grip in me I need to get writing. Then I started thinking about a story I wrote a few years back detailing one of the most intense and affecting dreams I've ever had.

The dream was about a girl with eyes of gold who took me out of my crazy head for a while, and took interest in me in a way no real world woman ever has. I'm sure we've all had dreams that felt all too real, and I'm equally sure we've all woken up from those dreams a little confused and, assuming the dream was a good one, a little sad that it was over. This was definitely one of those dreams for me. In fact, it was so real and so engaging that I found myself looking for that girl the entire following day. It was almost as though the dream were a sort of premonition, an advance notice to keep my eyes open and my senses sharp. Of course, as I'm sure you can tell from the large number of emo and almost self-hating posts I put on this blog, I never actually found her or the happiness the dream promised.

Strangely, however, the dream still pops up in my memory from time to time. It's as though my brain, without any (conscious) help from me, has established the feeling in that dream as a template for what could be. It's almost like an audio/visual representation of my hope that, no matter how much I fail or let myself and others down, that maybe one day a happiness like that could be mine. I've never dreamed about her again with such intensity (though she HAS popped up once or twice more in my dreams), but sometimes on a busy street or some other crowded place, I still look for those eyes, and a small part of me still hopes that she could be out there.

I wanted to follow the girl further from the initial dream, and imagine the life that would follow that sort of joy. As a result, I will be (attempting) to write a multi-part story of moments with the girl. So here now I am reposting the story of the original dream, (originally titled "Dream a Little Dream"), as the first in what I hope to make a five-part series, "Dreams of the Golden-Eyed Girl". Enjoy, and comment if you like.

Dreams of the Golden-Eyed Girl: Tremble

I was camping with friends who were more like family, enjoying the peace that only that sort of location seems capable of bringing. We drank, smoked, played ridiculous made-up games that would only amuse a close circle of friends, and generally made a party of life. As a general sense of well-being and joy carried me through the trip, I found myself floating through conversations and events as a detached observer. Of course I also participated, but mostly I listened and enjoyed my time with these people I loved. While listening to the third or fourth retelling of the time one of my friends almost got arrested because of being mistakenly identified as a Peeping Tom, I spied a girl that was new to me. I was instantly fascinated; maybe even, dare I say it, enamored. She sparkled and was intoxicating to me, even from a distance. I felt myself pulled to her and made my way over to the small circle of which she was a part. In the back of my mind I observed with amazement as I, normally shy and reticent, introduced myself and struck up a conversation with her about the latest music, or books, or Lindsay Lohan scandal, and she listened with seeming fascination and enjoyment. We laughed, talked, laughed some more, and generally just had a wonderful time learning about another person.

So enraptured was I, time seemed to skip in that easy way it often does in dreams. There’s no sense of having missed anything, just a natural progression or flow of time. It was quickly becoming apparent that this captivating girl and I had made one of those random connections that happen all too rarely, so I, continuing to display huevos grandes far beyond any I normally had, asked her out on a date. She smiled slightly, looked down, then met my gaze and, as I watched the moonlight play in her eyes, breathed a quiet "Yes." We sat outside that night, under that perfectly clear and starry sky you only find in unspoiled nature, making plans, deciding when and where to meet up, what to do on the date. We also were laughing, ribbing one another, and enjoying each other’s presence in a very easy and familiar way. I remember thinking “She’s the one I’ve been looking for,” which, while clichéd, felt absolutely true. Its truth made it even more special because it proved the cynic in me wrong. Proved that sometimes the cheesy clichés are truth, and it’s wonderful to be surprised by that revelation.

Plans made for the date to come, we began to head our separate ways to bed, to rest, and perhaps, in what felt like an already perfect night, weave dreams of even more perfection that we could return to at any time. She started to walk away and I, bemused, watched her go for a short while, before turning in the opposite direction toward my lodgings. I had a walk of about 100 yards back to my cabin, and I was in no hurry to get back. I wanted to walk slowly, breathe in the cool night air, and think about this new friend who already felt like so much more. The night was chilly enough that I could watch my breath plume out from my mouth like harmless dragon’s breath. The dry pine needles crunched under my feet, reminding me of the crunch of snow, which is one of my favorite sounds in the world. I was so enraptured by nature and by my thoughts of her, that at first I didn’t notice that the crunching of the needles was much more rapid than my own two feet could account for. In addition, the sound was coming from behind me as well as under me, and I knew that no matter how clear the air, I couldn’t be producing an echo that convincing.

I turned around, already preparing myself for a playful tackle from one of my other companions on the trip. So when I swiveled 180 degrees, a vulgar greeting ready to leave my lips, it’s only natural that I stumbled a little when I saw not one of my buddies but her, jogging toward me. She stopped about 3 feet from me and laughed quietly at my defensive posture, I’m sure knowing the mistake I’d made and finding it silly in a sweet sort of way. I was excited to see her back so soon, and was preparing to ask to what I owed the pleasure, when she took a couple of tentative steps toward me. Those steps brought her eyes into the light, and just as the first time I’d looked into them they took my breath away a little and made me forget what I wanted to say. She had golden eyes, ringed black and flecked with glittering reddish-copper. We watched one another, unsure but comfortable, and neither of us moved for a moment. There was an unspoken agreement in that instant, a hesitation to interrupt this all-to-brief instance of connection.

Eventually she closed the remaining distance between us. I saw nervousness and happiness play across her face in equal measure, and I marveled that this girl who so undid me could be anything less than self-aware and confident. I was being pulled tighter into her web, and I wanted nothing more in that moment. She reached out a trembling left hand (though whether from the cool air or from nervousness, I’m still not sure), and took my right hand. She simply held it for a moment, and looked into my eyes in an intense and absorbed sort of way that no one had ever looked at me before. She then lifted herself up on her toes and kissed me. It was a movie kiss, perfect in every sense. The night’s chill did not extend to that small surface area of skin that connected us in that too brief moment. The kiss was not forceful, not hurried, not lustful in any way. It was simply an acknowledgement of the bond we had formed so quickly and strongly. It was innocent, intense, and the best kiss I’ve ever had, awake or asleep. She reached up with her right hand, slightly cupped, and gently ran the back of her fingers down the side of my face. An electric chill travelled up and down my entire body, and I shivered noticeably. It felt as though the kiss could have lasted forever, and that wouldn’t be nearly long enough.

When she finally pulled back, I could see her cheeks were flushed, and the burning sensation in my face told me mine were as well. We looked into each other’s eyes again, and despite being dazed by the wonderful kiss we had just shared, I was still overwhelmed by the strength and intelligence and life I saw in her impossibly beautiful eyes. The look lingered only briefly; then with a quick squeeze of my hand, she turned and jogged back toward her cabin. Not a single word had passed between us the whole time, but we had communicated more deeply than I ever had with any other person. If I sound overly effusive, it’s only because it’s the only way I can think of to fully illustrate the beauty of that moment. I realized, once I’d regained the ability to think coherently, that my lips tingled slightly from the contact we’d shared. I carried this pleasant sensation with me back to my bed, too much in her spell to respond to entreaties for conversation or games, and fell soundly asleep, hoping to dream more about the golden-eyed girl.

Here we go again

2010-08-26T15:26:00.003-05:00

In the past, I’ve used writing as a form of “therapy” for myself. Just as people say that talking things out helps you to feel better about them, I feel the same way about writing. I think of myself as an open and honest person, but some of the fears and concerns I have I know are baseless, and therefore I feel stupid bringing them up out loud. I don’t like to worry or bother people with my worries. I’m a noted worrier about all things, especially interpersonal relationships, and to bring it up every time would be to create a “boy who cried ‘poor me’” persona for myself. Nobody likes to listen to me whine, and I’m so terrified it will push people away that I just swallow everything. Yes, I’m aware that’s not particularly healthy, but that’s how I’ve been for years now, and I can’t seem to shake it.

So what am I ~~whining~~ writing about today? Despite what is probably the truth, I feel like everything good in my life is fading away. I was recently promoted at work, which is awesome and frankly a long time coming, but even that has a tinge of pointlessness to it. The additional money it brings is already accounted for since my car has decided that it hates me and two major systems went kaput within a two week span, necessitating $1900 in repairs. Not to mention the additional stress the new responsibilities bring. Don’t get me wrong; I’m very grateful to have a job in the current climate, much less one where I’m advancing. I only mention it as part of the pile of shit under which I feel buried. It’s really part of a larger issue I have with money management (i.e. I’m really bad at it).

My mother and I are polar opposites in terms of beliefs and opinions (be they political, religious, or what have you). I love her with every fiber of my being, and I know she returns that love, but it’s very alienating feeling as though I have to constantly defend my “hippie liberal” beliefs against a family of conservatives. And defend myself I do. I make every effort to avoid these hot topics (and the store Hot Topic), and yet I still get drawn into conversations that make me internally cringe the entire time. I know I’m not alone in this. We all grow up, start thinking about this world we’re living in, and distance ourselves, in same way or other, from the beliefs we held as children. Parents often don’t understand this change. My mother in particular views it as a rejection of the VALUES she and my dad instilled in me, though that’s completely not the case. What does this have to do with why I’m writing? It’s because family is supposed to be a source of support when you’re feeling low, and while my mother supports me in the best way she can, she’s never been someone I’ve felt comfortable turning to with my crazy issues. We’re actually a lot alike in that regard.

Really when you get right down to it, my largest problem is how I feel rooted in place, unchanging and stifled. Most of that is my own doing. I have a hard time talking to or opening up to new people, and often change terrifies me. I worry constantly about pushing away the friends that are most important in my life with my neuroses. Knowing that some of my worries are shared by these people alleviates nothing. I watch my nearest and dearest as they live full lives, having loving relationships and healthy families, being active parts of the human race. I watch as they gravitate toward newer and more interesting people whose lives are in turn full of other interesting people and events. A large part of me rejoices for them that life is so meaningful, that they are doing things that leave lasting impressions on the world around them, that they can so clearly connect to life. And then I see myself, standing still and unchanging because of cowardice or sadness or whatever you have. I add nothing of significance to my world, and I can’t help but extrapolate that to mean I add nothing of significance to the lives of the people I love.

I’m a big ball of neuroses: jealousy when my closest friends become closer to others (which is pure selfishness and neediness, I’m aware, and nothing I would EVER IN A MILLION YEARS act on), sadness at my own cowardice, anger at myself for mistakes of the past, and fear of mistakes yet to be made. And when I compare all of that against the things I DO contribute both to the world and my loved ones, it becomes worse than a zero sum game. I sometimes feel like I’m actually subtracting from life, making things harder for the people I love, and as a result I wonder why they love me, and how long it will be before they realize how little I bring to the table and decide it’s not worth it. And then I feel terrible for those thoughts because all that displays is a lack of faith in them. The cycle turns ever onward, and here I sit, unchanging, not growing, feeling as though I’m holding those that I love back.

“So move! Make things better!” you might say. And I know I need to do that. But every time I feel ready to start, to make myself better, to make myself worthy of the love people continue to show me, the other thoughts take over and once again I’m lost in my own head. Which, if you haven’t guessed, is a dark and twisty place. So I guess this is just a venting session. Who knows if it will help me in any real way? If you’ve made it through to the end, I thank you for reading. And if you’re a close friend, know that despite my darkness I’m so grateful to know you and be a part of your life. I might not feel worthy of it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize and appreciate it, and I will continue to strive to make myself worthy of your love and respect.

Simple Gifts

2010-02-01T16:36:00.000-06:00

The memory is so strong in my mind it’s like a wood carving. Textures and smells and sounds all stand out in perfect relief: the twinkle of stars, the singing of crickets, the smells of the musty old building and the laughter of my friends, young and strong and happy. The future was a thing to be desired, an attainable goal, the Christmas morning present we couldn’t wait to open. Years and decisions and memories yet to be made or had, and every one of them full of possibility. Distance and time and a narrowing of focus had yet to drive us apart, and in our minds never had a group of people been closer or loved one another more.

That night we had decided to just drive, to take in the sights in our small college town for one last time. We would all be graduating in a couple of days, and we hid our fears at being separated in talk of the future and jobs and families. What we wanted to do was weep and hold one another tightly, because right now this was our family and its end seemed unthinkable. We knew we would still see each other, but none of us was naïve enough to believe that this closeness, this sameness of mind would continue once we started down our own roads. So we hid our sadness in laughter, recalling the time this one fell down the stairs, or that one was glued to his chair by jokester roommates. Still, we kept each other close for one last night and loved each other as fully as our breaking hearts would allow.

Most of our old haunts visited, we decided to drive out to the local “haunted” road to scare ourselves like we once did as freshman. Every small town probably has one of these. There’s no real haunting, but time and location and isolation elevates what’s really probably only a back road for farmers into a place of horror and slaughter in the minds of young people looking for thrills. Tales of Satanists run wild, horrible spirits seeking vengeance, cries of babies long dead served to add some thrill to this small town where the local burger joint was the height of fun. Every one of us had heard (and eventually retold) the story of Mary Paine, the girl who never made it to prom because of her death by misadventure on that very road. The fact that we had found no such story in the paper’s archives didn’t lessen the thrill of driving over the bridge that led to Paisley Road, didn’t lessen our hope to see that forlorn spectre wandering the lonely dirt road. We all longed to see her in her prom dress, beautiful and resplendent, none of us admitting that what we really were looking for was tangible proof that our emotions and memories would live on long after we left this town. Mary was the avatar for both our hope and sadness, and never before had we strained our eyes so strongly, almost desperately, for a glimpse of her pale form.

We didn’t see Mary that night, or ever for that matter, but we continued down the road all the same. Paisley Road had long ago been dug out of the earth so that walls of dirt stood 8 feet or higher on either side of the road. It was so narrow that compact cars only just fit on it, and many times had we heard of larger vehicles almost getting stuck. Old growth trees loomed over the road, forming an almost impenetrable canopy above us. Despite the perfect clarity of the sky that night, only the most scant of star shine and moonlight reached us below, so the effect was one of being all alone in an almost pitch dark earthen tunnel. We would stop our cars and extinguish our headlights, and bathe ourselves in the darkness. It was that darkness so deep you can almost feel it, like a large blanket wrapping you warmly. We felt the pressure on our ears and eyes, but it never seemed ominous. It was comforting, and there were more than one or two groans when the lights came back on and the engines roared back to noisy life.

Eventually we came to our actual destination on Paisley Road, Cold Springs Baptist Church. None of us knew for sure if the church was still used, though the condition of the building led us to believe it was, to some degree. It was always unlocked, and we had been here on many occasions before to drink and smoke (which we never did inside the building) and enjoy the quiet and peace this old one room building afforded us. Many students from our school had spent at least one evening at this church, and every one treated it with respect. It was simple inside, with plain wooden pews, a small altar with room for the lectern and a chair for the pastor, and a small choir loft behind that. There was no organ in the church, but there was a small, mostly in tune upright piano to one side. A sense of peace and long held belief fell upon us every time we entered the building. New families were blessed in this building, lives celebrated when they came to their eventual end. None of us said it out loud, but we all felt that this was the perfect place to end our evening, to consecrate our time together.

We sat talking, laughing in hushed tones, drinking our beers and ribbing one another. Couples shared quiet small kisses more full of meaning than any that had come before. Everything felt bigger, more full of import, and this in a time when we loaded every experience with the weight of all our as yet insubstantial years. We were raw nerves, every experience painful and joyful at the same time, and we wanted to feel it all. We were greedy, wanting to fill ourselves so full of this night that no other experiences would fit. We knew it was impossible, but our love could be found in the striving.

After a time all of us became quiet, lost in our own reflections. I admit to drifting quietly between sleep and waking, I was so content and at peace. Beside me sat my friend Claire, her head resting peacefully on my shoulder, my fingers slowly combing their way through her long soft hair, hair like a river of silk. I had long harbored an unrequited crush on Claire. She was kind, and her blue eyes sparkled when she smiled, and I thought no creation on earth could match her beauty. Not only that, but she had the most heart-rending voice I’d ever heard. It was high in tone, and so sweet it sounded like it might break at any moment, though it never broke but soared. It was so pure and good it sounded like something from a higher level, a brief whisper from a loving God. I’ve always loved women who sing, but Claire is the template by which all of them are judged.

I had begun to drift again, my hand slowly falling away from Claire’s head and falling on the back of the pew. I was roused when I felt her head leave my shoulder. She rose from the pew and approached the piano. A few whispers from my other friends rose up when they saw her walking that way. I wasn’t the only one who loved Claire’s voice, and all of us straightened up a bit in our pews in anticipation of the gift of song she was about to give. She seated herself at the piano, lifted the lid, and plinked out a few halting notes. Satisfied with the state of the piano’s tuning, she settled herself more squarely behind the keys and began to very quietly play the melody to the old Shaker tune “Simple Gifts”. After one full rendition of the tune alone, Claire began to sing along, and we were all enraptured.

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,
'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.
When true simplicity is gain'd,
To bow and to bend we shan't be asham'd,
To turn, turn will be our delight,
Till by turning, turning we come round right.

When she finished singing, she softly closed the piano lid and returned to her seat beside me. I felt tears on my face, and heard small sniffles from all around me that told me I wasn’t alone. I looked at Claire with fresh love, and she smiled at me through tears of her own, and her eyes sparked in the moonlight coming through the church’s windows. I thought then that my heart might burst, and that it would be okay because no moment could match this one. I gently wiped her tears, and she laughed and did the same to mine, and with that the spell was broken. We heard chuckles from the rest of our friends, and the good-natured teasing started up again. We finished our beers, gathered our empties so we could leave this magical place just as we found it, and got in our cars to head back. Sitting in the back seat, I held Claire’s hand, and watched the night sky, and thought about how grateful I was for my friends, for the people who were my simple gifts.

Felicia Day Pwns My Heart

2009-06-30T16:58:00.003-05:00

**Another reprint from Pop Kultr.**

I’m an unabashed nerd. If it’s random or odd or geeky, I’m probably into it. Really, the only reason I don’t have a Mac is because I’m also a broke nerd. But I carry my iPhone with pride, and I pwn zombies in Left 4 Dead (not to mention, I have my own actual Zombie Apocalypse escape plan; Organize BEFORE They Arise!), and I’ve been to the Buffy musical sing-a-long. And with all that comes the pointless pining for nerd objects of desire. Natalie Portman, Summer Glau, Sarah Michelle Gellar…these are the ladies of nerdy dreams. And recently, a new idol has been added to this pantheon…Felicia Day.

My first encounter with Felicia Day was in the original airing of Season 7 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, where she played one of the potential Slayers (though I wouldn’t remember this until recently when I watched the DVDs). She was awkward and cute, and she survived until the end, which was no mean feat given the enormity of the situation before the Slayers.

Cut to a few years later (What? I’m not sure how many. If you really care, you too have the webternet on which to look such things up; I can’t be arsed) when a little mini-musical called Dr. Horrible’s Sing-a-Long Blog was taking the internet by storm. Two of its leads, Nathan Fillion and Neil Patrick Harris, were well known within the nerd community: Fillion from Firefly and Serenity, and Harris from How I Met Your Mother and nostalgia. The musical was funny and dark, and the songs had that solid-but-fun feel that Joss Whedon first introduced in the special Buffy musical episode, Once More With Feeling. But songs about an also-ran villian and his smarmy nemesis, while clever, would not be enough to carry this little phenomenon through three episodes and into countless portable devices. No, what it needed was a center, a beating heart on which to hinge all the silliness. And that beating heart was Felicia Day.

Ms. Day is no opera singer. Her voice is a little thin and wispy, but it’s true. There’s no bombast or overkill to her singing, just sweet simplicity. Penny drove Dr. Horrible more than his need to be in the Evil League of Evil, more than his quest for power, even if he didn’t acknowledge it. And it’s not until the end, when she dies as a result of one of his malfunctioning contraptions (SPOILER ALERT), that Dr. Horrible truly becomes evil. He no longer can feel anything, because his heart has been ripped out.

I ached with Dr. Horrible when Penny died. It’s a tribute to Felicia Day’s presence and skill that her death in this silly little musical could be so affecting. Nerd tears fell the world over the day Act 3 was released, and Ms. Day became the new girl every unloved boy (and some unloved girls) would give their Macs to meet.

I recently watched Ms. Day’s ode to gamer nerds everwhere, The Guild, in its entirety. It’s a funny, and kindly mocking, slice-of-life examination of a World of Warcraft-esque guild and its members. Her character, Codex, is awkward, shy and unsure of herself…in other words, just like every nerd in the history of ever. But she’s also smart and dryly funny, and pretty darn cute to boot (anybody want a peanut?). Zaboo (Sandeep Parikh) represents all of us when he becomes smitten with her. Codex also represents another part of all nerds, the one that always longs just a little to be one of the cool kids (illustrated by her lust for the douche-y stuntman), but will keep plugging along when it doesn’t work out.

I hope Ms. Day continues to get work and be prolific. She is talented, and smart, and witty, and she’s one of us (gooble gobble gooble gobble). And we could do a lot worse than her as a representative.

You can find all episodes of The Guild at www.watchtheguild.com, or you can buy the DVDs on Amazon. Seriously, check that business out!

Extraordinarily Ordinary - Soon I Will Be Invincible by Austin Grossman

2009-06-30T11:14:00.004-05:00

**This is a reprint from Pop Kultr, the new blog to which I'm contributing. You should check it out. It's shiny.**

I’m a diehard fan of superheroes. While I don’t read a lot of the “capes” comics, I’m fascinated by the almost infinite power of Superman, the self-made status and limitless genius of Batman, the…uh…boobs of Wonder Woman. (Mental note: look up definition of “misogyny”). I long for the day when my brain decides to stop being lazy and taps into one of the MANY latent super powers I’m sure I contain. The day I can wave my hand and have my remote fly into it using only my mind will be the happiest day of my life. I will follow the remote pretty quickly with my phone so as to make an appointment with the cardiologist I’ll need when my new telekinetic lifestyle takes its toll.

The allure of super powers in the real world is a common one, and the primary stomping grounds of Soon I Will Be Invincible, by Austin Grossman. It deals largely with the newest world-conquering plot by its main antagonist, Doctor Impossible, and the disappearance of the world’s greatest superhero, the Superman analogue CoreFire. Doctor Impossible shares narration duties with Fatale, a cyborg and the newest member of the newest incarnation of the world’s greatest superhero team, the Champions. The two narrative threads tell the story from both the villain’s and hero’s perspective, and dovetail nicely at the end for the climactic battle.

Doctor Impossible is the smartest man in the world (he claims to have an IQ over 300), and he uses his intellect, along with a few minor powers gained from one of many lab accidents, to create vast, Rube Goldberg-ian devices with which he regularly attempts to take over the world. “Attempts” being the operative word. When the novel opens, the Doctor is in prison after the failure of his (I believe) 11th attempt at world domination, and he quickly breaks out to set in motion attempt #12. Impossible is, at heart, a nerd. He was the small kid who was too smart for his own good, who was either ignored or picked on, and who internalized every moment of pain and humiliation. Despite his multiple failures and arrests, none plague him so much as the one that should have made him a household name, but instead created CoreFire, the most powerful man in the world and the Doctor’s primary nemesis. Impossible’s ego makes itself known frequently in his passages and in the description of his past creations, but you get the sense that he’s really just trying to get the cool kids to pay attention to him, and he frequently muses as to whether he made the best choice in becoming a villian.

The other voice in the novel is one of the newest cool kids, the cyborg Fatale. Fatale was created by an independent company after a horrible traffic accident essentially destroyed half of her body. The company subsequently goes belly up, and so Fatale becomes a mercenary for the US Government so as to pay for the expensive maintenance her robotic parts require. Fatale joins the New Champions partly for the allure of working with the world’s greatest heroes, but mainly to keep herself fed and running properly. Fatale’s sections are infused with a sense of sadness. Despite the amazing things she can do, she’s still just a woman who lost her ordinary life in a horrific way, and longs for the days when she didn’t weigh 450 lbs. or when men would look at her as anything other than an oddity. Fatale is us, amazed at the wondrous beings around her, but confused and a little frightened by the extraordinary world in which she lives.

Grossman populates the books with a number of other “meta-humans” that keep the pace moving and also keep you interested in the variety of powers and abilities that exist within this world. There’s Blackwolf, the non-powered human who is this book’s version of Batman; Elphin, who claims to be a fairy; Feral, a half man-half tiger; and Damsel, who is half-alien, half-human, and one of the few heroes with inherited powers. There are numerous other minor characters mentioned in passing, but Grossman provides an index at the end of the book to keep track of who’s who and who has what powers and abilities.

Despite the presence of all these magnificent characters, Grossman keeps the book down to Earth by making most of the characters basically human in desires and limitations. Small details, like Blackwolf’s use of painkillers, or the home imprisonment and slow decline of Baron Ether, Doctor Impossible’s idol, make the book feel very real and grounded in a world we mostly understand. Grossman often references past heroic exploits as though they are common knowledge, immersing his readers in this world he’s created. And through it all is Doctor Impossible and Fatale, two (mostly) normal people gifted with amazing abilities. They are both searching for something incredibly normal: intimacy and connection. There’s a sad irony that they could each be the thing the other is looking for, but will never find because they stand on opposite sides of the law.

Ultimately, I think this is Grossman’s point. Super powers are incredible, and the things you can do with them delight the imagination. But in the end we’re all human, and all we want is someone like us to keep away the darkness. Grossman’s heroes are extraordinary, but the things that make them amazing are also the things that make them feel alone. What’s more ordinary than that?

Pop goes your head

2009-06-29T17:34:00.002-05:00

For those few of you who are interested, I'm now contributing to a new pop culture blog started by my friend Jess. I don't know how much I'll be adding to it, but I will post the occasional article. My first is a review of Soon I Will Be Invincible, by Austin Grossman. It's not my usual of original fiction or douchey whining about inner turmoil, but it's something!

A few thoughts

2009-06-25T13:24:00.003-05:00

Change can be a slow process, especially when you're talking in terms of human personalities. It feels like change SHOULD occur at the speed of thought; I want to be different, so I become different. But who we are as people is imbedded in our minds, in the hardwired neural pathways that make us who we are, so deeply that change never comes as easily as we want. And so we struggle and flail against these ingrained personality quirks, and we make progress at a glacial rate. But the inability to change fully, immediately, feels like failure and therefore slows the progress even further. We are Br'er Rabbit fighting the tar baby, pushing so hard to change without realizing we are simply enmeshing ourselves further into the problem.

This is not to say change is impossible. I fully believe that with determination, belief, and the power of a strong will, we can alter those things about ourselves that make us feel incomplete or off-kilter. Habits can be broken or formed with enough effort. Still, even the strongest of wills can be eroded by the frustration to be found in slow progress.

Why all this focus on change and its frustrations? I'm dealing with certain personal issues, things about myself which push people away, and my inability to make it different NOW has brought me to a dark place. This dark place is familiar, one I visit often (though less frequently with each passing year; further evidence of the possibility of change). Most of this is internal. I berate myself for being this way or acting that way, for numerous quirks that I feel limit me as a fully realized person. But this internal struggle evinces itself in outward expressions: surliness, a general air of depression, a shortness with those in my small circle of friends.

I have a friend. This friend is, in relative terms, a new friend. I'm not known to be extremely outgoing, and meeting new people and making new friends is difficult for me. But I connected to this new friend quickly, and have come to care for the friend deeply in a short period of time. This care is in no way romantic or anything other than a connection between two like-minded people. For a long period of time this friend and I often spent time together, and it was always light and fun and full of laughs. Recently, I've begun to sense some distance between us, a cooling if you will. Nothing hostile, nothing intentionally hurtful, but a growing feeling that things are changing. THIS kind of change happens quickly, often without warning. Changes out of your control seem to come out of nowhere and can take your legs out from under you with little or no effort.

When I first sensed the change, I flailed and worried, trying everything I could to prove to myself I was being paranoid or was just simply wrong. And I'm still not denying that this could simply be me conflating two unrelated issues, i.e. my own personal demons and a change in circumstance for the friend. It wouldn't be the first time (I'm a perpetual self-blamer). But the longer it goes on, the more convinced I become that this is a genuine change in the tenor of our friendship, and I attribute this largely to my own shortcomings. I feel many things very intensely. I like to affect a laconic air most of the time, keeping my words sparse and my emotions in check, but internally everything feels immense and immediate. When it comes to my expression of care or concern for people, I have few filters. I am intensely in favor of those I care about. This intensity can push people away when they confuse it for other things, like romantic feelings. And the more they back away, the harder I try to pull them back in, which only serves to complete the loop. Loss and isolation are my biggest fears, but no one creates those circumstances for me faster than I do.

So I'm telling myself to back away, to let it go and have enough faith in myself to believe that my friendship is valuable, and that a little time and distance can restore what I feel slipping away. I choose to believe that I'm valuable to this person, and that when the friend sees that I'm capable of backing away, the concerns he/she has will be diminished and we can return to the lighter days. And if I'm wrong and the distance has nothing to do with my intensity (I'm often a negative narcissist), then distance won't hurt anyway. It will allow time for the circumstances which have created this situation to resolve themselves while also allowing me to return to a more level, positive state of mind. It's not easy, like any change, but it's worth the effort.

Thanks for reading (if there are any of you left). I promise in the future to return to what you're used to here, wacky shenanigans and hastily written short fiction. On a less serious note, I'm currently working on a new story that I'm pretty excited about, so watch this space if you're a fan of my writing.

And once again, the fruits of my boredom...

2009-01-15T19:12:00.002-06:00

Are the fruits of your...uh...fun. Anyway, enjoy.

End of the World

Hot Corker

This is what my boredom gets you

2009-01-13T15:23:00.001-06:00

Ready for another one?

2008-06-20T17:47:00.002-05:00

I'm on a roll with this short story business. For musical reference, I was listening to "Modern World" by Wolf Parade on repeat while writing this. I think it kinda captures the feel I was going for in the story. Enjoy, and drop me a comment if you like it.

Happy Birthday, Martin Aimes!

On the eve of his 40th birthday, Martin Aimes travelled in time.

That's how it felt to him anyway. It could easily have been a product of an undiagnosed aneurysm or a flashback from his more drug liberal days, but Martin was convinced that the rapid rush of images he saw was a personal journey through his own timeline. He'd never been one to buy into the idea of past lives or destiny, but the chair and the sights it showed him quickly changed his opinion on the subject.

Martin had spent the day prepping his house for the celebration that evening. Finger foods were in the refrigerator or oven as necessary, beverages chilling in one of the dozen or so coolers housed in the garage, decorations collected from Martin's various journeys across the world had been hung or strategically placed throughout the house. He had even somehow managed to hang the 300 lb. ceremonial fertility sculpture he had acquired in Brazil over the arch connecting the living room and front entry area, though he was convinced it would probably come crashing down any second, leaving Martin to celebrate his 40th with a personal injury lawsuit. But he was incredibly proud of the sculpture and the journey it represented, so up it stayed. The use of his souvenirs as decorations was his way of celebrating the 40 years he had already lived, and of the many things he had seen in that time. It was also to be a reminder that he still had many things to see and do, and that despite this milestone in his life, he had many years in which to see and do those things.

Since he had already thoroughly cleaned his house to the point that every surface sparkled and squeaked, even the cloth curtains, he was almost completely ready for the party when the knock on the door came. He answered, expecting to see an early party-goer, and was instead greeted by a nice but modest looking chair on his front step. He stepped out and looked up and down the street, but saw no one running from his house, nor any cars he didn't recognize from the neighborhood. Assuming this chair was an odd gift that would be explained at a later time, he dragged it into the house and closed the door.

Martin had several friends who were practical jokers, so he thought it prudent to thoroughly examine the chair for breakaway legs or a false back before trying to sit in it. The chair was of average dining room table size, solid wood that looked old and expensive and stained a light chocolate brown. It lacked any flourishes or adornments, and looked like it was created for solid function rather than airy form. There were no notes or greetings of any kind attached to the chair, save for a simple card reading "Happy Birthday, Martin Aimes," so the mystery of its origins remained a mystery. But the seat was nicely padded, the construction looked to be of quality, and Martin (an avid lover of antiques of all kinds) decided that he owed it to the chair and the craftsman who created it to put it to its intended use, just for a moment. So he sat and leaned his head back against the chair's back, and closed his eyes for a brief rest before making his final party preparations, which is how he ended up taking the strangest and most intriguing journey of his life so far.

The rush of dizziness that overtook Martin as soon as he had settled into the chair startled him, but he simply attributed it to the work he'd been doing since he got up at 8 AM that morning. He figured keeping his head back and eyes closed for now would allow the spell to pass. He realized how wrong he was when the smell of manure and dirty humanity hit him. Thinking again of the joker friends and the riot act he would read them for stinking up his immaculate house, he opened his eyes and quickly rose from the chair, but stumbled both from the continuing dizziness and from the sight that greeted his eyes.

Martin had been to France on several occasions, and loved every trip, but had never seen it like this. Everywhere he looked he saw horses, goats, cows, and other animals associated with farming. Stalls of fruits and vegetables surrounded him, all staffed by dirty and unkempt French people. Most alarming was the smell. His nostrils were assaulted by a mix of human and animal waste, rotten produce, and almost sentient funk of thousands of unwashed humans. Thinking he was dreaming, Martin pinched himself, but only succeeded in adding a smarting arm to the rotten stink and bizarre images surrounding him. Being an avid student of world cultures and history, he easily recognized the dress of the people as being from the mid-1700s. Certain of the impossibility of the situation he found himself in, Martin stood stock still and tried to simply observe, at least until a fat Frenchman started pointing and yelling in his direction.

Martin had never fully learned French, despite his numerous trips to the country. He understood some basic phrases, but would find himself hard pressed to communicate if left alone with solely French-speaking people. So he reeled from the confusion that hit him when he realized he could understand every word the fat man was yelling, and even more when he realized he was yelling back in French. Of course, despite the fact that Martin's confusion and embarrassment made it feel like this exchange took an hour, it all happened in a split second. It was just enough time for him to realize that what the fat man was yelling was "Look out, you stupid pig! Above you!," and for Martin to look up and see the globe-sized chunk of masonry hurtling toward his head from the building behind him. "Merde," thought Martin, and then all was blackness and dizziness again.

The assault on his nose ended almost immediately, to be replaced with a stifling feeling of heat and the smell of dust. Afraid of what he would find yet still infinitely curious, Martin slowly opened his eyes only to be blinded by the brightness of the sun beating down on him. The fear he felt at finding himself in a new locale with no explanation as to how he got there was ratcheted up several hundred degrees when he realized he stood in the middle of a dusty street, large wooden buildings rising up on either side of him, and that a large and angry looking man stood at the opposite end of the street with a gun pointed in Martin's direction.

The angry man was dressed much like the men from the Westerns Martin had so enjoyed as a child, and he realized, looking down, that he too was holding a gun and dressed like an extra from The Rifleman. Fear more than instinct made him squeeze the trigger, and he jumped what felt like 15 feet in the air at the explosion that emanated from the barrel of the gun. Shaking in fear, he threw the gun down even as a large whoop went up from the people standing on either side of the street, watching this showdown. Guns were fired into the air in celebration all around him, and he cringed and shook with each one. Men poured onto the street around Martin, slapping him on the back and yelling for whiskey for the hero. Martin allowed himself a small smile at being called "hero" and looked forward to a bracing shot of whiskey from the saloon he found himself dragged into, but the smile quickly faltered and disappeared when he heard a loud crack from above his head, as the people around him yelled and scattered away from him. He looked up to see a large, ornate chandelier tied to a huge beam that sunk inward and broke apart even as he watched. As the chandelier shot rapidly toward his head, Martin had time to think "Again?," before he was overtaken and shot back into the dark.

Next Martin awoke to find himself in the Industrial Revolution, in a large factory producing some product or another. Men and smoke surrounded him, and he found himself covered in grease and grime, and sweating profusely. As per the previous experiences, he became aware of his situation even as shouts warned him of some disaster. He looked up, expecting to see the ceiling of the building hurtling toward him, but instead fell flat to the floor as an explosion rocked the factory around him. After several confused moments, foremen came around and started ushering men out the door, and Martin found himself shoved unceremoniously into the street. He decided to take advantage of the longer duration of this visit and take in some of his surroundings. He walked down the street, nodding at people who passed him, and generally enjoyed his bizarre once-in-a-lifetime journey. That is, until shouts around him warned him, once again, to look up just in time to see the next in the series of head-trauma-causing objects whistling toward him. This time it was a large, dead, vulture-like bird, beak pointed straight at the crown of his head. "Oh, you have GOT to be kidding," his mind exclaimed shortly before being pierced by five pounds of carrion fowl and hurtled back into the blackness.

This time, Martin came to comfortably seated in the grass, leaning against a tree and surrounded by music and the smell of marijuana. Looking down at himself, he saw his clothes were of varied shades of tie-dye, and he suddenly realized the music he was hearing was Jimi Hendrix's famous version of the Star-Spangled Banner. Amazed at his good fortune at being able to see such a legendary musical moment, Martin threw back his head and whooped with pleasure.

And saw a naked man sitting in the tree above him, holding a set of bongos hooked on one finger and gesticulating wildly toward the stage. Martin's joyous yawp turned into a resigned sigh as he watched the bongos slip from Tarzan's finger, and he thought to himself "Stinking hippies," before the bongos crashed into him in the least musical way possible.

When the blackness and dizziness subsided for the last time, Martin found himself laying on his own couch, in his own home, in his own time. The chair was not where it had been when he sat in it, and a quick perusal of his house likewise turned up no mystery chair. Since his head still throbbed and he could still detect the faint smells of farm animal, grease, dust and pot, he quickly came to the conclusion that all the experiences were real glimpses of himself throughout history, and that once the chair had shown him these sights, it had travelled on without him to who knew where or when. He wasn't sure why the chair had shown him these things, except maybe as a warning to go through life with a hardhat. Martin realized he had only a few minutes until his guests were due to arrive, and so rushed upstairs to clean up and change for the party, filing away his journey for examination later.

He had just finished his ablutions and was slipping on his shoes when the first knock came on the front door. Giving himself one last look in the mirror, he smiled at the almost-40-year-old version of himself in the mirror, and laughed at what he was quickly becoming convinced was the dream he must've had while dozing on the couch. He giggled quietly to himself at the sheer absurdity that a mystery chair could take him on a space-time tour of his previous lives. He was still giggling to himself when he opened the door and welcomed his friends to his home. And he was still giggling to himself when he heard one of the supports he had installed for the Brazilian sculpture, under which he was currently standing, crack and start to give way. His giggle subsided when he looked up in time to see the 300 lb. sculpture slowly descend toward him, the figure's huge erect phallus pointed straight at his skull. "Happy birthday, Martin Aimes," he thought to himself even as the black embraced him once again.

More Writing (Part 2)

2008-05-05T16:01:00.003-05:00

Scroll down for Part 1 of "More Writing" (but note, these stories are not related in any way).

Reborn

The infant stirs, not yet awake but partially aware. It dreams lush dreams of ancient seas and warm sun, of creatures great and small, of plants and insects and other things for which it does not yet have a name. Its eyes flutter under translucent lids, preparing for their time to open. Occasionally it feels warm on the inside as well as out, and this is love, though it does not yet know that word. A high lyrical voice sings numerous lullabies in many languages as it slumbers. This is Mother, though the voice is all it knows of the idea of parentage. At somewhat regular intervals the voice, now harsh and loud, proclaims, “NEW SECTOR CLEAN -- CONTAMINANT LEVELS REDUCED.” The infant feels fear when it hears Mother speak in this way, though fear is nothing more than the rush of adrenaline that courses through its veins; it does not yet know the name of the emotion. Again Mother speaks, now flat and even, speaking of food and nutrients. The infant does not know these ideas, only that when Mother speaks this way it feels contented and at peace.

In time, the child dreams of science and religion, music and literature, war and poverty and disease, all the things that make its kind wonderful and base. It sees images of men and women in white coats, urgently working together deep underground. It sees them pressing buttons and speaking to Mother, telling her she is their only hope. She sings to them as the poison they swallow takes hold, and sends her first children to clean them and inter them when they are finally and forever asleep. The child dreams of great cylindrical machines flying through the air, and of flashes bright as the sun, and towering dome-capped clouds. It sees men and women staggering and falling, burns and wounds covering their fragile flesh. It sees what Mother sees, great swathes of land full of fire and sickness and horror as its kind struggles to survive. And it feels Mother’s pain as the world turns black, cold and silent.

But then it watches as Mother watches, as ages pass and the land becomes green again. And suddenly it feels fear when it hears Mother’s loud voice again, this time saying, “SURFACE LEVEL CLEAN – BEGIN NEW EDEN SEQUENCE.” It feels her joy and hears her song as she releases her pets all over the world in pairs, and celebrates with her as the pairs become more. It watches as she samples water and proclaims it clean, as she samples fruit and declares it edible, as she watches her pets’ offspring and sees no mutations or sickness. And when Mother is satisfied, she speaks softly to the child, telling him to come forth and claim what she’s prepared for him.

So the child is released in a torrent of fluids and tubes, in a wave of fear and new sensations. Mother’s first children clean and swaddle the child while Mother sings of discovery and hope and new life. Mother helps the child, who she now calls Adam, learn to walk and talk and write and sing and embrace the world she has kept safe for him. Mother watches and teaches as Adam becomes a man, and her pride is as limitless as the stars.

And one day Mother tells Adam that her time is short, that the tasks set before her have been accomplished save one. Mother tells Adam of other humans the world over, kept safe and taught in the same way as Adam, ready to be loosed on this pristine new world to form it in the image given them by Mother. She tells him of love to come, and discoveries to make his heart sing, and reminds him of the lessons of peace and respect she has taught him. And she sings him one last lullaby as the doors open onto the new world, as her last thoughts end and she bids him farewell.

And Adam weeps with both joy and sorrow, for his beloved Mother is no more, but the world has been reborn with her passing.

More Writing (Part 1)

2008-05-05T15:37:00.003-05:00

I don't know what's up with me lately! Suddenly I feel like writing ALL THE TIME, and I find I have more ideas than usual. Anyway, the piece below is something I wrote a few years back after a dream I had grabbed hold of me and wouldn't let me go for several days. The second one (above in a separate post) is for a new blog I'm contributing to called Blog Me A Tale. It's a themed blog, and this month's theme, as you'll see, is mothers. Enjoy!

The Best (And Worst) Dream

I enjoy dreaming. It’s like a little stage play just for my benefit. One night, I had one of those dreams that leave you feeling melancholy when you wake up. I know you know what I’m talking about. We’ve all had them, and had terrible next days as a result. One of those ones that seems terribly realistic, in a utopian sort of way.

I dreamt that I was on vacation with friends, though friends in the abstract, of course. They had that disconnected, I-don’t-really-know-you-people presence that our dream characters always seem to have. I knew they were friends because I was with them on vacation, and what other possible reason could I have for being vacation in the woods (did I mention the dream was set in the woods?) with a bunch of strangers? Maybe they were subconscious representations of my waking life friends. Like, one was maybe really greedy to represent a friend I viewed in real life as particularly selfish. And one may have been particularly kind to represent someone in my life that I saw as my safe haven. Or maybe dream interpretation is all bullshit anyway, and I should just enjoy them for the cinematic magic shows they are.

Anyway, I was on vacation (in the woods) with these avataristic friends, enjoying the peace that only that sort of location seems capable of bringing. We drank, smoked out, played ridiculous made-up games that would only amuse a close circle of friends, and generally made a party of life. I know I make this dream sound like some sort of perfect life (I believe I already used the word “utopian”), but what good are dreams if they can’t occasionally show you things in an ideal sense? If all we dreamt about were number crunching, meal preparation, filling up with gas, dreams wouldn’t carry the power of myth that’s been attributed to them throughout history. So if I make my vacation (in the woods) dream sound wonderful and perfect, maybe it was at the time. And that gives me a little pleasure in what can be an otherwise often dreary and mundane life.

As the general sense of well-being and joy carried on throughout the dream, I found myself floating through conversations and events as a detached observer. Of course I also participated, but that’s the interesting dual nature of dreams. From this observer position, I spied a girl that was new to me. I was instantly fascinated; maybe even, dare I say it, enamored. She sparkled and was intoxicating to me, even from a distance. My participating self felt the pull and made his way over to the small circle of which she was a part. I observed with amazement as I, normally shy and reticent, introduced myself and struck up a conversation with her about the latest music, or books, or Britney Spears scandal, and she listened with seeming fascination and enjoyment. We laughed, talked, laughed some more, and generally just had a wonderful time learning about another person.

Now while this may not seem like anything particularly special, just enjoying getting to know another person, stop and think about your day-to-day life. How often are you able to simply relax and receive joy just from learning about another person? We all walk around, waiting to be hurt by others, by circumstances, just by life in general. We’ve all been stung so many times in so many ways that we’ve learned to walk through life playing ostrich, heads buried in the proverbial sand, avoiding trouble at all costs. How else do you explain unreported crimes to which there are multiple witnesses, so many people sliding into alcoholism despite being surrounded by friends and loved ones, teenagers with years of wonder, joy, and pain still ahead of them, taking their own lives? We avoid conflict at all costs, even if one of those costs is intimacy with our fellow humans. And so in the act of avoiding conflict, we avoid learning anything about those that surround us every day. But sometimes you let your guard down, someone slips in, and suddenly you’re reminded that life is full of things that make you laugh, make you cry, but generally just remind you you’re alive. And for me, the simple act of meeting and getting to know this entrancing girl was enough for the moment.

From that point, time skipped in that easy way it often does in dreams. There’s no sense of having missed anything, just a natural progression or flow of time. At this point it was apparent that my dream girl (in the literal sense) and I had made one of those random connections that happen all too rarely, and I, continuing to display huevos grandes far beyond any I display in real life, had asked her out on a D-A-T-E. We were sitting outside at night, under that perfectly clear and starry sky you only find in unspoiled nature, making plans, deciding when and where to meet up, what to do on the D-A-T-E. We also were laughing, ribbing one another, and enjoying each other’s presence in a very easy and familiar way. I remember thinking in my dream “She’s the one I’ve been looking for,” which, while clichéd, felt absolutely true. Its truth made it even more special because it proved the cynic in me wrong. Proved that sometimes the cheesy clichés are truth, and it’s wonderful to be surprised by that revelation.

Plans made for the D-A-T-E to come the next day, we began to head our separate ways to bed, to rest, and perhaps, in an already perfect dream, weave even more perfection that we could return to at any time. She started to walk away and I, bemused, watched her go for a short while, before turning in the opposite direction toward my lodgings. I had a walk of about 100 yards back to my cabin, and I was in no hurry to get back. I wanted to walk slowly, breathe in the cool night air, and think about this new friend who already felt like so much more. The night was chilly enough that I could watch my breath plume out from my mouth like harmless dragon’s breath. The dry pine needles crunched under my feet, reminding me of the crunch of snow, which is one of my favorite sounds in the world. I was so enraptured by nature and by my thoughts of her, that at first I didn’t notice that the crunching of the needles was much more rapid than my own two feet could account for. In addition, the sound was coming from behind me as well as under me, and I knew that no matter how clear the air, I couldn’t be producing an echo that convincing.

I turned around, already preparing myself for a playful tackle from one of my other companions on the trip. So when I swiveled 180 degrees, a vulgar greeting ready to leave my lips, it’s only natural that I stumbled a little when I saw not one of my buddies, but her, jogging toward me. She stopped about 3 feet from me and laughed quietly at my defensive posture, knowing, I’m sure, the mistake I’d made and finding it silly in a sweet sort of way. I was excited to see her back so soon, and was preparing to ask to what I owed the pleasure, when she took a couple of tentative steps toward me. Those steps brought her eyes into the light, and as always (something I knew instinctually in my dream logic), they took my breath away a little and made me forget what I wanted to say. She had golden eyes, ringed black and flecked with glittering reddish-copper. Dream eyes, in other words. We watched one another, unsure but comfortable, and neither of us moved for a moment. Then she closed the remaining distance between us, reached out a trembling left hand (though whether from the cool air or from nervousness, I’m still not sure), and took my right hand. She simply held it for a moment, and looked into my eyes in an intense and absorbed sort of way that no one had ever looked at me before. She then lifted herself up on her toes (she was 4 or 5 inches shorter than me) and kissed me. It was a movie kiss, perfect in every sense. The night’s chill did not extend to that small surface area of skin that connected us in that too brief moment. The kiss was not forceful, not hurried, not lustful in any way. It was simply an acknowledgement of the bond we had formed so quickly and strongly. It was innocent, intense, and the best kiss I’ve ever had, awake or asleep. She reached up with her right hand, lightly cupped, and gently ran the back of her fingers down the side of my face. The kiss lasted forever, but that wasn’t nearly long enough. When she finally pulled back, I could see her cheeks were flushed, and the burning sensation in my face told me mine were as well. We looked into each other’s eyes again, and despite being dazed by the wonderful kiss we had just shared, I was still overwhelmed by the strength and intelligence and life I saw in her impossibly beautiful eyes. The look lingered only briefly; then, with a quick squeeze of my hand, she turned and jogged back toward her cabin. Not a single word had passed between us the whole time, but we had communicated more deeply than I ever had with any other person. If I sound overblown or overly effusive, it’s only because I’m trying to fully illustrate the beauty of that moment in the dream. I realized, once I’d regained the ability to think coherently, that my lips tingled slightly from the contact we’d shared. I carried this pleasant sensation with me back to my bed, ignoring all entreaties for conversation or a game of spades or Xbox, and fell asleep to dream about the time I knew was to come with her.

And that’s when my alarm went off, awakening me to start my day in the real world. The world where I usually avoided eye-contact with others due to my painful shyness, the world where I couldn’t remember the last time a girl had agreed to go on a D-A-T-E with me, nor the last time I had asked. Sadness hit me in an instant and powerful wave when I realized the beautiful moment was little more than the elaborate stagecraft of my sleeping mind. I lay in my bed, gathering my wits and summoning the courage to rise and face my day, my responsibilities, my life. Finally, I shook off enough of the dream’s vestiges that I could successfully prepare for the next 8 hours of work-a-day life, and I headed to the bathroom to shower.

It wasn’t until I was washing my hair that I realized my lips still tingled.

Short story time

2008-04-08T13:32:00.003-05:00

The following is a first draft, very rough version of a new short story I just completed. Please give it a read and leave me a comment so I know where I need to do some work. Cheers!

Elder Lane by Bill Chandler

People still talk in asides and whispers about Peter and Iris Derleth. They moved into the neighborhood formed by the cul de sac known as Elder Lane several years ago, and though their residence lasted less than a month they are still the most famous residents of the normally quiet street. The end of their time on Elder Lane is of course the most often discussed subject when the Derleth name is brought up at dinner parties or poker games, but the things leading up to that end…they contribute just as much to the palpable chill that comes over any room in which that dread name is spoken.

Peter and Iris moved to Elder Lane in November right after the first snow fall, about two weeks before Thanksgiving. The whole neighborhood was a delightful mix of the smell of fireplaces burning, of the ozone scent of freshly fallen snow, and of baked goods which had been (and would continue to be) traded house to house from the weeks leading up to Halloween until well after Christmas. Nothing said more about the sense of community on Elder Lane than the welcoming scents which greeted visitors and new residents like the Derleths. The people of Elder Lane prided themselves on being the most neighborly neighbors in existence, and so would descend on any new people on the street with suggestions for dining, discounts to the local dry cleaner’s, sets of rules governing pet leashing and façade maintenance, and of course, entire baskets of food both homemade and store bought (Mr. and Mrs. Charles Betel, the oldest residents of Elder Lane at 82 and 80 respectively, always brought the finest gourmet bread they could find…both felt they were too old to be dithering about with a hot oven). Food was a point of cohesion for the people of the neighborhood. It was shared at wakes, births, anniversaries, and any other excuse the residents could find to gather en masse. And it was food that gave the first indication that the Derleths were unlike the rest of the people on Elder Lane.

The Derleths arrived with zero fanfare, and it was almost as if they had materialized on the street. For most of the year, #3 Elder Lane had stood empty. Some college kids had rented the place briefly, but moved soon after following a barrage of complaints (and a few heavily veiled threats) from the other people on the street about the late hours and loud noises that came with them. After the collegians left, the house seemed to become frozen in time – small, nicely maintained, but empty with a glaring “For Sale or Lease” sign standing in the yard like a repudiation of the normally friendly people who had driven away kids whose only crime was to be young. Some of them had the decency to feel bad about how the kids had been treated, but none of them were so broken up that they thought to seek the students out and apologize. So when the sign first displayed “Sold!” and then disappeared from the yard the first week of November, the people of Elder Lane breathed a collective sigh of relief that they would finally be able to return to their neighborly ways, and to make up for the actions of some of their more “zealous” compatriots.

So the welcoming committee was well and truly ready to greet the new neighbors with open arms, but never got the chance thanks to the way the Derleths arrived. Normally the moment a moving van pulled into a driveway, the new residents were flooded with welcome packages and offers of help to unload, but that was always assuming the new residents arrived during the day, which most did. The Derleths, so far as anyone could tell, arrived in the middle of the night and could have won the award for “Most Quiet Move Ever” had such a thing existed. One day the house was empty, the next it wasn’t, and no one had any clue that it was different except for the appearance of a small car in the driveway. Feeling themselves already out of sorts for having missed the newest arrivals to their small community, the neighbors gathered together to make their new neighbors feel welcome.

The group gathered on the front walk of the now occupied house, and Jack Marks and his wife Cindy took the lead (Jack and Cindy were one set of the Derleths next door neighbors, and so felt the responsibility to be the most welcoming). Jack rapped on the front door quickly three times, then stepped back and put his arm around his wife with a grin on his face, his equally friendly looking neighbors ranging behind him. Save for the presence of baked goods, coupon packs and broad smiles, this particular tableau could have easily been a repeat of the one that led the college kids to find a new house to rent. But their business today was welcome, and the sense of camaraderie flowing among them was palpable and alive.

It withered away and died when Peter Derleth opened the door.

Peter was a tall, thin man who wore small round framed glasses that caught and reflected the light in such a way that seeing his eyes was almost an impossibility; the viewer was simply blinded by the reflected glare and forced to look away before any determination of eye color (or kindness, or warmth, or any of the other myriad doorways into a person’s personality often associated with the eyes) could be made. Stranger still was his mode of dress. Peter wore plain, shapeless white linen garments that brought to mind priests and ascetics from throughout the ages. He wore no shoes, and kept his hands folded in front of him at all times. Even when Jack and Cindy held out their hands to shake, Peter kept his neatly placed in front of him, responding to their overtly friendly gesture with little more than a slight nod of his head. He greeted the people of Elder Lane in a polite but detached manner, meeting each person’s gaze briefly when his or her name was announced and responding with a simple, “Hello.”

Several people tried to steal glances inside the house, but due to the darkness from within and Peter’s frame blocking most of the small opening in the doorway, very little was determined about the interior of the house. Most people saw enough to realize that the house was almost empty of furniture. The living room, just off to the right of the front door, was furnished with nothing more than several large bookcases containing what appeared to be a large collection of very old and valuable looking books, and a large stone table in the middle of the room, about 7 feet in length. Nothing else could be determined from the tiny opening Peter allowed into his home, so the general immediate impression was that Peter Derleth was a new-ager, basking in the principles of Feng Shui and minimalism at the expense of what most considered to be basic humanity.

A woman’s voice inquired from within the house as to who was at the door, and Peter called her forward to meet the new neighbors. He introduced her as Iris, which many in the assemblage on the front walk felt couldn’t be more of an ironic name. Rather than the striking and lovely flower whose name she shared, Iris Derleth looked like a woman who had spent her entire life indoors, cowering from the sun or any other source of life and nourishment. She was pale and mousy looking, with long grey hair that was in dire need of a brush. The friendly greeting of her neighbors seemed to have the opposite effect of what was intended, in that it seemed to make her shrink further into the dark interior of the house. Almost as soon as she had appeared, she was gone, leaving Peter and the neighbors to blink uncomfortably at one another until Peter made some excuse and retreated into his house with only the barest of “Thank you”s before shutting the door. In the brief but highly uncomfortable exchange of greetings, no one had though to present him with the welcoming items they had brought. There was some discussion as to whether or not they should simply take the items back, but the need to appear overly neighborly led them to simply place the baskets on the front step and leave them there. The hope was that the Derleths would find this bounty and realize what a warm community they had entered, and respond accordingly.

The next day, all the items were left on the Marks’ front step, with a note in spidery handwriting that read simply, “Religious restrictions prevent us from partaking of these items. Peter Derleth.” Some people were offended and of a mind to speak out on the matter, but cooler heads prevailed with the thinking that religion should be respected, regardless of how cold it made one seem. They all assumed that an invitation to the neighborhood Thanksgiving potluck, a yearly tradition on Elder Lane, would serve as notice that regardless of religious or societal differences of opinion the people of the neighborhood still wanted the Derleths to feel a part of the community. The broad assumption that they would not come, thereby sparing the community the discomfort of having to deal with this odd couple, went unspoken but widely shared.

When Peter and Iris did indeed show up about an hour into the dinner, the gathered people felt almost offended at their presence despite the fact that it was their invitation which brought the Derleths to the event in the first place. But once again the sense of neighborly pride won the day, and the people set about welcoming the Derleths and trying to foist various items of food on them. Peter always answered in the negative for both of them, always referring back to the previously mentioned “religious restrictions”. When asked about their religion, Peter stated that it was an ancient religion which was nameless, and whose followers were very few but very committed. Several people commented on the fact that neither Peter nor Iris wore shoes, and that they had walked to the party through at least an inch of fresh snow but neither seemed to register any pain or coldness in their extremities. Peter told them this was due to the fact that a strict adherence to their religion gave them a, and here he paused as though searching for the right words, “command over the elements.” He refused to elaborate further. Shortly after, Mr. Betel (an avowed enthusiast of the written word) pulled Peter aside to discuss the books he had seen in the Derleth collection, and Iris was pulled into a small gathering of wives who wanted to find out everything they could about the newest members of their ranks.

After much wheedling and light badgering, the women surrounding Iris convinced her to try a small bite of a particularly popular dessert item in the neighborhood. Iris accepted the tiny morsel and, if the way her eyes rolled up was any indication, loved it. She had the look of a woman who had been on a deserted island for several months, and was only now taking her first taste of something other than coconut or fish. However, before the bite had been swallowed or the look extinguished, Peter seemed to appear out of nowhere and grabbed her by the upper arms. The two looked deeply into each other’s eyes but spoke not a word (some would later swear they were communicating without words, almost with a form of telepathy, because how else could Peter know that Iris was eating something?, but this was widely dismissed as “absurd”). The longer they stared, the larger the pool of tears welling up in Iris’ eyes grew, and the more frightened the people around them became.

After 2 or 3 minutes of this (the other people of Elder Lane watching uncomfortably the whole time), Peter released his wife and stepped back, once again assuming his removed and cold stance. After smoothing down his clothing and pushing his glasses up on his nose, he looked deeply into Iris’ eyes, and said “He waits.” Iris looked back at him fearfully, as though she knew what he wanted but was afraid to say it. Peter took a step closer to her, and in a lower and decidedly more ominous tone of voice, once again said “He waits.” After another brief hesitation, Iris looked up at Peter and responded “Yet He shall rise and His kingdom shall cover the earth.” Peter continued to glare at Iris for a moment, then gave the slightest of nods. He took Iris by the elbow and led her out the door without a single expression of thanks or regret for the events which had just occurred.

Tact had a hold on the neighbors, but only for a brief moment. The door had barely shut behind the departing Derleths before wild speculation and discussion of what they just witnessed took over. The Derleths were the prime subjects of conversation for the rest of the night, and for much of the rest of their time on Elder Lane. Over the next week, the community became more and more wary of the Derleths as more strange things occurred. Jack and Cindy Marks reported feeling a growing sense of hopelessness which disappeared as soon as they were away from their house and, more importantly, away from the Derleth’s house. Cindy was often seen standing on her front porch, staring at the house with a blank look on her face and tears dropping slowly from her eyes. Strange, alien looking plants sprouted in profusion along the walkway to the house, despite the cold and snow, and blossomed into flowers so dark they appeared black. Two Girl Scouts from a nearby neighborhood who were going door to door raising money for their troop were seen crying and running away from the Derleth house. When asked what had frightened them so, they would only point at the house and whisper “The darkness knew we were there.”

The people of the neighborhood were not blind to these things, and knew something was different about the Derleths, but none were bold enough to approach the couple’s house and demand an explanation of the strange events that had occurred since their sudden arrival. The boldness the neighbors had shown when ousting the college students had suddenly deserted them all, and now all they could do was gather together in small groups and whisper theories about the strangeness emanating from the Derleth house. Many were put forth – chemical weapons, mass hypnosis, lead – but no one felt any one theory explained all the things they had seen and felt. And none encompassed the night of their departure.

That day had been especially bleak. The sky remained clouded over, warning of a heavy snowfall approaching from the south. The mood on the entire street was palpably somber. The neighbors all felt led to gather together at the Betel’s house through some shared need for community, to try to fight away the emptiness they all felt. At one point Mr. Betel and a couple of other men from the neighborhood gathered up the courage to approach the house with the intent of speaking with the Derleths and determining once and for all what they were doing in there, and why it was filling the neighborhood with so much dread. They got as far as the sidewalk in front of the house before they stopped and turned on their heels, all of them ashen-faced. Mr. Betel said he had heard chanting in a strange language, and had suddenly felt as though there was no point to anything in life, a feeling which disappeared as soon as he stepped back onto the street. The men with him reported feeling the exact same thing. No further attempts were made to approach the house until that night.

Around 11 P.M., all the people of Elder Lane were returning to their homes when Cindy Marks screamed. Concern for their neighbor drove them all to run to the Marks’ house, despite its proximity to the Derleths. They arrived to find Jack on the porch holding a sobbing Cindy, who kept repeating “He waits, He waits, He waits,” over and over while pointing at the Derleth house. Suddenly they all heard the chanting Mr. Betel had mentioned earlier in the day, sometimes in Peter’s voice, sometimes in Iris’. The chanting was unusual and unsettling, but not nearly so much as the third voice they heard in response. The voice was the vocal expression of darkness and terror. It seemed to come from inside the house and inside each of them, and all knew they had been touched by something ancient and inhuman. A few of the assembled people had spontaneous nosebleeds, and most of them either started crying or felt a strong urge to do so. The chanting voices from the house continued to rise in pitch, but the third voice stayed level, a sense of dread coming off it in waves.

Suddenly, a bright light flashed through the windows of the Derleth living room. At the same time, Iris’ voice rose suddenly into a scream of utter despair, driving the neighbors back in fear. Peter could be heard babbling and crying, and though no one could make out all his words, they all heard his last scream.

“He waits in R’lyeh! All joy shall be wiped from memory! His eye watches, and His gaze will burn humanity away! Come, Ancient One, and reward Your servants!”

As the last word was uttered, they were all blinded by another great flash of light, and all the windows in the house blew out. Then, it was as though a great vacuum had come in and sucked out all the noise. The neighbors were left staring at the house, their mouths moving but no sound coming out. A shadow appeared in the front windows of the Derleth house, and the sense of dread and loss of hope overwhelmed them all, driving them to their knees. Somehow they all instinctually looked away from the house, as though knowing that to see the thing which made the shadow would be the end of sanity and life. The shadow drew away from the window, and as it did sound returned. Iris could still be heard screaming inconsolably, but now Peter had joined her. The third voice spoke, and the screaming stopped all at once. All the street and porch lights dimmed, and then the night was quiet. The people, still quaking at what they had just witnessed, took a moment to realize that the dread had lifted. They were still frightened and confused, but all felt that somehow, things would return to normal now. They stood on Jack and Cindy’s porch, and watched the house until the sun rose.

No one was willing to approach the house with the police who arrived the next morning. The officers spent several minutes looking around the interior and exterior of the house, but found absolutely zero signs of either Peter or Iris Derleth. The only thing left in the living room was the stone table, which one officer stated was so cold to the touch that it was as though it had sat all night in a deep freeze. The bookcases stood empty, the books that had been in them reduced to ash all around the living room floor. The rest of the house had clearly not been occupied, except for the master bedroom. No beds were found, other than two blankets and two pillows which sat disheveled on the floor. Drawings on the walls depicted a great winged creature hunched over an ancient temple, with tentacles sprouting from its face, and a look of pure and utter malice in its dark eyes. The remaining items were gathered up and taken to the police station, but the officers felt certain the Derleths had simply disappeared in the night. Since none of the neighbors were showing signs of illness or violence, the case was filed away as basically unsolvable.

The neighbors slowly returned to their normal lives, and though the events of that night were discussed in whispers at gatherings, little mention of the Derleths was made. The neighbors would occasionally discuss why it was that grass or any plant life refused to grow around the house, or why that end of the street always seemed colder by just a few degrees. A few people tried renting the house over the following years, but none stayed more than six months. Jack and Cindy Marks moved away the following year. Cindy was now prone to crying fits that would come over her without warning, and Jack felt a change of scenery would serve them both well.

The people of Elder Lane were changed by the arrival and departure of the Derleths. The sense of community retreated from them and the formerly frequent gatherings became, at most, once a year events. They knew they had witnessed something few humans had, but none felt privileged by this knowledge. They all tried to go about their lives as best they could, with joy and hope, but all of them knew that somewhere in the dark a great eye watched them all, and joy and hope would burn in its gaze.

I'm so extreme, Fire's parents told it not to play with me.

2007-09-17T17:29:00.001-05:00

So my friend Crazy Lil Lady, who works in the film industry, was telling me about this horrible movie she watched today that sounded, from her brief description, like the world's most jam-packed EXTREME!sports movie ever. It included no fewer than three extreme sports, plus some churchifying and disablefication. Since Friday Night Lights has made me an expert in all things sports related [/guffaw], I now offer up my brief treatment for the best, most extreme sports related inspirational movie ever made. Hollywood...call me!

Title: All Your Sports Are Belong To Us
Plot: Extreme sports enthusiast, Dan "the Vivisectionist" Earthraper, has one goal in life: to be the most extreme athlete that ever extremed. One fateful day, he attempts the unbelievable and almost pays with his (extreme) life. Vivian (as he's known to his friends) paraglides onto the face of Mt. Everest, where he kills a bear with his teeth and transforms it into the world's most extreme snowboard. He begins boarding down the killer mountain, avoiding rabid mountain goats and snowbound serial killers, and is set to make history when his world is forever altered.
Forgetting a skate ramp he had left at the bottom of Everest from a previous attempt to skateboard naked down a felled treeline, Vivian hits the ramp going the extreme speed of 337 MPH and rockets 400 ft. into the air, where he collides with a parachuting extreme black ops marine with father issues (Olaf Murderingson). The impact instantly blows the legs off both men, and they plummet to the earth below. Fate once again intervenes, this time in Vivian's and Olaf's favor, as they land smoothly and safely on a stunt man's safety pad. The footage of two cursing and screaming men entangled in a parachute trying to get off a safety pad all while blood jets from the stumps of their now missing legs becomes famous thanks to cell phone footage, and the two men become instant celebrities with more money and women than you can shake an extreme stick at.
Olaf becomes addicted to sex and snorting ground up unicorn testicles, and is on a path to complete self-annihilation, but Vivian intervenes through his new connections in the Church of Scientology (where, thanks to his fame and riches, he has come to be considered the reincarnation of L. Ron Hubbard, and is allowed the privilege of running over Tom Cruise with a steamroller while making out with Katie Holmes). After a lengthy time in rehab (where he once again gains notoriety for punching Lindsay Lohan so hard she becomes a man), Olaf returns, and he and Vivian set about becoming super-extreme once again.
With their riches, they invent a rig for the disabled which allows prosthetic feet to be attached to BMX bike pedals, and they subsequently conquer the most extreme BMX course ever, one lined with herpes tipped broken glass and super cute puppies with super bad attitudes. They also invent the brand new sport Parafootball (Extreme!), where players are required to kill a hammerhead shark with their bare hands and use its corpse as a battering ram to attempt to enter the end zone, which is guarded by 40 ft. tall laser shooting robots. The two spend the rest of their days being extreme and murdering endangered species with broken beer bottles.

So there you have it. Don't copy my ideas and claim them as your own (I'm looking at you, Uwe Boll). This movie will garner me riches untold, especially if I get the casting I want (Collin Ferrell as Vivian, Dustin Diamond as Olaf, and James Van Der Beek as the robot). Yes, I know I didn't include a love interest, but who has time for love when you're busy paragliding and shark killing?

An Open Letter

2007-07-30T17:48:00.000-05:00

***Disclaimer – The following is as a result of some frustration built up on my part over certain events/attitudes/comments that have been happening lately. I mean no offense to anyone, but I need to make myself heard, and this is the easiest forum in which to do it. Please try not to take offense, because if you do, you’re probably missing the point of this whole thing.***

Dear People In My Life Whose Feelings Were Hurt Recently By A Trip To Outback,

Recently it came to my attention that some feelings were hurt because a dinner “event” was held, ostensibly in my honor, and not everyone I pal around with was invited. How it came to my attention, or through whom, is immaterial, and should not be pursued to exact any sort of retribution. The point is, it came to my attention, and I couldn't let it go unanswered.

The dinner event in question came about as a result of my mentioning to someone that I had received a gift card for my birthday and wanted to buy myself a nice steak dinner with it, and did this person want to join me? From there it became a “Hey, so-and-so might like to go too,” sort of thing. At no point did I say to anyone that this was a “birthday party/celebration” for myself; at no point was an invite list put together; at no point were names mentioned for invitation and rejected. It became an unofficial birthday dinner in due course; it certainly didn’t start that way.

I very much believe the idea that you build up a reputation over time through actions and behavior. Treat people like crap over and over and over? That’s probably what people should expect from you. I certainly have the reputation at my job that I’m a bit impatient and CAN be hard to work with, and I know without a doubt I’ve earned that reputation. But with my friends, in my personal life, I know without a doubt that I’m a good friend: loyal, caring, willing to do whatever I can to aid or make someone happy. I believe I’ve earned a little leeway, a little “benefit of the doubt” as it were, because I’ve rarely given any of you a reason to doubt me. Which leads to my frustration and confusion.

Why, when you weren’t invited (and I’m so weary of that word; this was NOT an event to which invitation needed to be issued!), did you automatically assume that it was a personal slight against you? Regardless of who you think put together the list of “invitees”, I can assure you it wasn’t a personal matter. At no point did any name, any name AT ALL, come up and get rejected outright. It was a mostly impromptu dinner, and that’s all it was. It was in no way an indictment of you or a marker of how much I value our friendship.

Why did I take the time to write this? Because I am, quite frankly, tired of all the damn drama. I get enough of it at work; I really don’t have the patience for it in my personal life anymore. At a certain point, you have to discover for yourself what’s more important to you, the person or their actions. I long ago decided people were more important to me. I don’t always live that, I know, and I don’t for one second think I’m better than you or anyone else. But all I hear about anymore is how this person’s feelings were hurt, or this person isn’t talking to this person. Sometimes there are legitimate reasons, and I recognize that. But to get your feelings hurt because you weren’t invited to Outback, when you KNOW FOR A FACT that I don’t act maliciously toward people? We’re adults people; we’re too old for things like that to hurt us unless we let them.

I love each and every one of my friends, and I hope you’re all my friends for a long, long time. This is not meant to alienate or anger anyone, and I’m heartily sorry if that’s the case. But we’re allowing our bonds to be pulled apart by silly little meaningless things, and I can’t just sit around and watch it happen anymore. I care about myself, and all of you, too much.

CHEEZ-ITS!

2007-06-22T13:06:00.001-05:00

David Blaine Street Magic 2

Flight of the Conchords

2007-06-13T23:47:00.000-05:00

These guys are some of the funniest em-effers I've seen. They have a new show coming on HBO this Sunday at 9:30. If you get HBO, you should watch it. If you don't get HBO, you should watch it online at the HBO website. It's about thirty minutes long, but it's well worth the time. Here's a little taste, to whet your appetite.

Seriously.

2007-04-25T10:35:00.001-05:00

Trust me on this

2007-02-14T14:07:00.000-06:00

Yes, I know it's lame that I haven't posted since November. And that it's lame that the last thing I posted was a video, and the newest thing I'm posting is a video. But what can I say? Lame is the new awesome.

So you're gonna start this video, and think to yourself "He's lost it. This video is lame." But remember, lame is the new awesome. Stick with it, and I think you'll find the video surprisingly moving. It sort of puts a whole new spin on the meaning of the song.

Great marching band, or GREATEST marching band?

2006-11-14T16:00:00.000-06:00

I'm going with GREATEST!

Ooh, Child, Things are Gonna Get Easier (But Not Before They Get a Lot Harder)

2006-10-02T12:35:00.000-05:00

Full disclosure time: I have a MySpace account. I know, I know, shocker, right? But yes, as a hard core webternet addict, I have a MySpace account that I generally check once a day. I've not met any lusty ladies who want to be my soul mates (though the cam girls, who all recently moved to Dallas, think I would be a terrific pal), and I'm pretty sure the youngest "friend" I have is no younger than 20. So maybe I'm not taking full advantage of all the benefits MySpace has to offer. To do that, I'd need to be a teenager.

A real life friend of mine, who is also on MySpace, recently discovered her teenage (14 or 15, I think) sister had an account as well when said sister asked her to be her MySpace friend. Now thankfully this sister's account is set to only be seen by her friends, because some of the things my friend found on the page disturbed her, and disturbed me when she told me about them. And it wasn't just the sister. Some of the sister's real life friends had the same sort of material. Material such as extremely suggestive headlines, inappropriate pictures, and conversational styles not fitting the sister's background (she talks like a thug). My response was typical, in that it contained my true feelings wrapped in extreme hyperbole. That is to say, I stated that all teenage girls today are whores. Now of course, I don't really believe that. But it illustrates my true feelings.

Teenagers, and to a lesser degree younger children, want to be older so badly. They want to drive, to drink, to attend "grown up" movies, all way before their time. This has been the case since time immemorial, and will probably be the case until the world melts in the supernova sun's heat. I did it, you probably did it. We don't really stop to enjoy youth until we're not young anymore. Thus, 30 year old slackers like myself revel at fart jokes, Jackass, and video games, when these are all things we should have enjoyed more when we were teenagers. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with them now (farts are pretty damn funny no matter what your age); I'm simply illustrating the attempt we all go through to recapture part of the fun and carefree spirit of youth that we overlooked because we were too busy trying to act like adults.

My friend lamented that this stuff gets worse and worse every year, and she doesn't see how it could ever get better. I believe it WILL get better, but, as the cliche goes, not before it gets a lot worse. There have already been hints of recovery, as illustrated by the backlash over all the "girl fight" videos that were being posted in MySpace accounts. But the simple fact that there are "girl fight" videos to post is a pure illustration of just how far kids have fallen. But they haven't bottomed out. And just like an addict has to hit bottom before recovery can truly begin, so too must kids hit bottom. And unfortunately, that bottom is going to be very, very bad. I truly believe that this epidemic won't begin the process of reversal until one of two things happens: 1) Authorities will discover a child porn/molestation ring operating solely online and soley through sites like MySpace, or 2) A kid will be killed by some creep he/she met online through one of those sites.

Now that might sound extreme, but I genuinely believe that's what it's going to take to get parents truly involved in their kids lives again. Parents MUST start actively parenting again, instead of letting media or the internet or whatever do it for them. Now I know this is going to sound all "Kids today! Get off the shed!", but I genuinely think children are being forced to grow up too fast by various media. But guess what? It's not the media's fault - it's the parents. And that's one of the major problems with the current administration; they don't want to lay blame for the degredation of children where it belongs, at the feet of the parents. Instead, they want to blame Janet Jackson's nipple, or the F bomb, or whatever other nonsense has their ire up this week, because then they don't have to feel guilty for the absentee parenting. It's all so easy when there's a ready scapegoat available for slaughter. That's what's really at the heart of all of the FCC fine increases and increased scrutiny. These ultra-conservative dillholes want to sanitize all media to the point where they can once again plop their kids in front of the TV, leave them unattended for hours, and not have to worry that Susie's gonna call Grandma a skeezy whore at Thanksgiving (again). It's selfishness on an epidemic scale, and it's disgusting.

Now you might say to yourself (if you know me), "But Bagboy, you HATE kids! Why would you care what happens to them?" True, I do hate kids. But in truth, I just hate being AROUND kids. I don't actually wish violence or harm on children and teenagers, and in fact believe we have a responsibility to keep them safe from the things/people they are incapable of protecting against themselves. It's all well and good to talk to them like adults, and treat them like adults, but you have to remember one important thing. THEY'RE NOT ADULTS! They don't have the discernment that adults do, because discernment only comes through experience and teaching. And it's the parents' responsibility to teach them, and to make sure that they experience things in a safe and nurturing way. That's not to say parents should hover, because that's almost as bad. But ground rules need to be set, and basic common sense needs to be enforced ("No matter how hot his picture might be, you will not/can not/should not meet that guy at a motel all alone. It's just a plain ol' bad idea, no matter what age you are.")

If I had to make a decision RIGHT NOW about having children that I would be held to for the rest of my life, I would say "No kids." But again, this isn't because I hate kids, necessarily. It's because I'm selfish. Selfish with my time, my money, my environment, my entertainment. I like things the way I like them, and I don't feel that I should have to give them up because I need to make a safe environment for children. But the difference between me and a large number of parents today is this: I recognize that I'm selfish, and to have a child in that mindset would be the worst kind of selfishness possible. But so many so-called "adults" want to have their baby cake and eat it too. They want to go out, party, drink, act like they always did before having kids, and still have kids, because hey...babies are cute. People don't think long term, that this is a life you are responsible for molding, for guiding, for teaching right and wrong. Just because little Hunter doesn't like time out doesn't mean time out or other forms of discipline (I'm looking at you, spanking) should be tossed aside. Parents need to remember who's in charge, and act accordingly. Until they do that...well, teenagers will continue to be whores.

All I'll say is...enjoy.

2006-09-13T13:28:00.000-05:00

Fun with newspapers!

2006-08-31T16:34:00.000-05:00

Headline from today's SMU Daily Campus: "Smoke-filled Cinco Center teaches lesson"

"Hello class, I'll be your new professor, Cinco Center. You can call me Mr. Center. Today we'll...wait, does anybody smell that? No? Okay. Anyway, today we'll be discussing *cough cough* the movement of quantum particles in an *cough cough* excited state. As you can see from the *cough cough cough* diagram on the *cough cough*...okay, seriously, nobody smells that? Is something on fire? Wait, why does my leg hurt? Oh, my...OH MY GOD I'M ON FIRE HELP SOMEBODY PUT ME OUT OH MY GOD THE PAIN THE HUMANITY OH MY GOOOOOOOODDAAGLAHSDGASDHGADHGHHG....."

Right leg is such a asshole!

2006-08-23T12:21:00.000-05:00

Bow to your sensei!

Call to action

2006-07-27T13:45:00.000-05:00

I want to write something. Anything. Something short, something long, something sweet, something mean, just something (except another installment in Mineola Missives - I don't really feel up to nostalgia). My only problem being...I can't think of a place to start. I've always wanted to write a lot more than I do, but I'm horrible at coming up with ideas and fleshing them out into plots. So that's where you few readers come in. Throw some ideas my way. They can be anything: essays, poetry, short stories, letters, whatever. I just need some ideas. You can put as many restrictions on it as you want (within reason; I'm not sure how easy it would be to write a 1000 word essay on why I like pudding...or would it?), and I'll do my best to fulfill them all. So help me out here folks, kickstart my creative flow!

This...is exactly what it looks like.

2006-07-11T13:11:00.000-05:00

Finally, the time is at hand...

2006-06-29T12:41:00.000-05:00

Superman Returns

Three things what I'm f*cking tired of, and one thing what I can't wait for

2006-06-23T12:39:00.000-05:00

Hey boys and girls, it's time for a look into the illogical and bizzare workings of Inner Me!

Thing I'm F*cking Tired Of the First: I'm a Superman fan. Big time. So the imminent release of Superman Returns has me all giddy and awash with nerdy fanboy giggles. Every time I see an ad on TV, I rewind and rewatch it six or seven times. Every time I see a trailer at the theatre, I punch the person next to me in my comic-boner rapture. That shot of the bullet hitting Supes' eye and flattening? Gives me chills every time. In short, I'm excited. But every one of these ridiculous articles speculating about whether or not Krypton's Last Son is gay? Is like a big ol' kick to the nuts. I'm genuinely glad that gay recognition/acceptance/rights in the US are, while still not ideal, improving more and more each year. However, the appropriation and revision of the world's greatest superhero (shut up, JT) into a gay icon really gets my ire up. I would have no problem with it if there were any indication in the entire history of Superman that he might be gay; however, Omar's "Gayest Look of the Episode" aside, there is absolutely none. Please, please, please...be aware this isn't an attack on the homosexual community in any way; it's an attack on historical revisionism, which I cannot stand in any form. (And yes, that's me, and it's what I wore to work today. It's how I roll people. How. I. Roll.)

Thing I'm F*cking Tired Of the Second: I'm a secret fan of celebrity gossip. It's fun for me, evil as this sounds, to see the haughty and self-important brought low. Yes, I know I'm only fueling their egotistical fire by reading all these silly little "news" items that pop up on the webternet. But's it's fun to giggle at their follies. That said, I cannot stand all the alliterative phrases used in celebrity news/gossip. Any time the Olsen twins are referenced, it's "Mini Moguls" or "Teen/Twin Titans" or "Homeless Aping Coke Fiends" (that last, non-alliterative one might be mine). But the worst, the one that makes me wanna drown puppies in the chocolate milk rivers of paradise, is "baby bump". Any time a female celebrity's stomach swells beyond washboard or skeletal, she MUST be pregnant, because of the g*dd*mn "baby bump". Just say she looks pregnant, for God's sake. Or, say what you're REALLY thinking, and call her fat. 'Cause Lord knows, we need more of THIS unholy mess.

Thing I'm F*cking Tired Of the Third: Meaningless work banter makes me violent inside. The other morning, I decided I wanted a Pop Tart (mmmmm....Pop Tarts) with my coffee. So I went to the vending machine, bought my twin pack strawberry Pop Tarts for a dollar, put them in the toaster, and waited for the pseudo fruity goodness. While I hovered over the toaster, a coworker came in to prepare her morning repast. She looked over at me as I was pulling the Tarts from the toaster, saw my little gems of morning fruit delight, and said, "Having some Pop Tarts?" In my morning mind haze, all I could respond with was a grunted "Mm." She cheerily wished me vast enjoyment of the Tarts, and I proceeded on my way. On my way out the door, however, I was stopped by another coworker, who glanced at the beautiful little fructose confections, and said (no lie), "Pop Tart time, eh?" Only later, when two cups of coffee had cleared the cobwebs from my brain, did I realize the missed opportunity. "Big gulps, huh? Cool! Well, see you later!"

Thing What I Can't Wait For: I'm not gonna overdescribe this one, except to point out that IT EFFING TALKS, PEOPLE! I've not done anything especially good in my life lately, but I feel, somehow, that Jesus is rewarding me. Me and all the other fanboys out there. So with out further ado, I present to you...Star Wars Transformers.

That sound you just heard? Was millions of nerds screaming, like little girls mind you, for joy.

If you're gonna hit it, hit it quick!

2006-06-08T11:27:00.000-05:00

Good day to you all, dear readers. I have a few small items on which I would like to discourse, so I beg your indulgence in these, my few paltry words. In other words, tie on yer readin' hat and grab yer ass for some Quick Hits!

My plan for my impending smoke stoppage has finally been put into action. Monday was the first day of Phase I, which involves no more smoking during work hours (so basically, no smoking prior to 5:30 PM). Phase II begins June 19, when I will limit myself to 10 smokes/day, and decline by 2 per week, which has me to zero by July 24, my intended first full day of no smoking. I'm sure you all find this infinitely interesting. [/snark]

In TV news, Everwood ended its four year run this past Monday. Most people who know me know I'm an unabashed WB fan. More of the shows I watch with any regularity are on that channel than on any other. I'm intrigued and a little excited by the merging of the WB and UPN into the CW, but some of the renew/cancel decisions boggle the mind. 7th Heaven is back? Really? That show sucks big old donkey balls. You may be thinking that statement is a bit graphic and over the top, but watch the show. You'll see. Everwood was notable in that it was a family centric show, but it dealt with life in a MUCH more realistic manner. Dr. Abbott performed abortions to live up to a promise he made to his father, and because he felt that women deserved the choice, but he hated himself for it. You don't see that kind of complex life situation every day, and certainly not on 7th Heaven. So boo to you, CW, for killing the one family show that made people think.

Looking for something to fill a few minutes of down time? Then you should definitely check out Silent Library. This show is in the fine tradition of all Japanese game shows (that I've seen), in that it involves a bizzare premise and, at times, over the top punishments for losers. It's really a quite simple concept. Six players read a chart which names the awaiting punishment. Then six cards are dealt facedown on the table. Each player randomly selects a card, and the one with the skull card has to accept the punishment. It's that simple. Oh, there's also the fact that this all takes place in a "library", so the players have to be as silent as possible. It's kind of awesome.

In related library news, check this out. This video has the dubious distinction of showing possibly the worst news report ever, as well as being simply a gross story. People, man...people.

The first Wednesday of every month, we have a division wide meeting at 8:30 in the morning. The executive directors decided to start providing breakfast every time we do, which is a nice touch. Last month it was just pastries and juice. This time it was the full deal - eggs, bacon, hash browns, coffee and juice. The day before, my executive director sent around an email reminding us to be here on time Wednesday morning, because we were going to get a "hot breakfast!" When I read that, I immediately thought, "A sexy breakfast?!" Clearly, I've been reading too much Dinosaur Comics.

Many thanks to all of you who read and commented on the story in the last post. After reading all the comments from here as well as a forum on which I posted it for additional feedback, it looks like Ending B is the clear winner. I will either edit the original post to show the final version, or repost once I find out the results of the contest. Actually, yeah, I'll do the second one. But again, thank you for your comments. They truly helped.

Something for you to ponder: What is it with people in an office environment and popcorn?

Game 1 of the NBA finals starts tonight. Support your Mavs!

And finally, a little eye candy to close it out: Jenny Lewis, bitches.

I need your help, people. Stat!

2006-05-31T16:47:00.000-05:00

So here's the deal. I'm submitting an entry to a short story contest. A couple of weeks ago a website I read listed these really bizzare writing prompts, as a joke. Stuff like, "There is a breed of wasp that lays its eggs in spiders, and the larvae eat the spider alive from the inside out. Isn't that fucked up? Write a story about how fucked up that is." And so on. Well, people started submitting actual stories based on these prompts, so the site decided to turn it into an actual contest. I don't really expect to win; the readers of this site enjoy more highbrow fair than I enjoy writing. But I'm doing it for the fun and practice of it. This is the first short story I've started and actually completed. I feel pretty good about it, but I'm having a little trouble deciding on an ending (I have four in mind). So, without further ado, I present my story, "Click". At then end, I will lay out each the four endings, and if you take the time to read the story, please take the time to vote on what you think is the best ending. Thanks kids.

Prompt: "Write a short scene in which one character reduces another to uncontrollable sobs without touching him or speaking."

WARNING: This story is very, very dark. Just so you're aware.

*************************************************************************************

Darkness.

A rough cloth bag over my head, making it hard to breath, filling my nose with the smell of mildew. A similar piece of cloth acts as a gag. I’m not sure where I am or how I got here. I’m sitting in what feels like a hard metal folding chair, hands and feet bound. I realize in a detached sort of way that I’m not scared, yet, but I can feel the fear picking at the edges of my mind. Stay calm, I think to myself, try to figure out where you are and how you got here.

I think back to before I awoke here. The last thing I remember is getting into bed, sad and a little lonely. I live a pretty solitary life. I have few friends, my family lives on the other side of the country (though we’re still relatively close), and I work from home, so no coworkers. Days pass without me speaking to anyone short of the voices I deal with over the phone. It’s not a great life, but it’s what I have to work with. I remember closing my eyes, thinking some action was needed to break this rut I’d worked myself into. Feeling my body grow heavy as sleep overtook me.

Then, darkness.

And now this place, this chair, this gag, this hood. Still no solid answers, just more questions. So I settle in to wait. Wait for rescue, wait for some hint as to why I’m here. Just wait.

After what feels to me like several hours (but is probably only a few minutes), I hear the light “tock tock” of hard-soled shoes on a cement floor, coming close to where I now sit. I neither heard a door open, nor detected any change in the quality of light to suggest someone’s entry into my “cell”, and yet here he comes. The steps come closer and closer, until they stop right behind me. I feel a hand on my head, and then the bag is lifted away. I blink rapidly, expecting the pain of bright light to sear my eyes, but there is no light to blind me. I strain my neck to see my tormentor, but he is beyond my range of vision.

I sit for a moment, wondering what the next move is. I decide to try to engage my captor. I try to say “Hello?” or “Where am I?”, but the gag turns the questions into meaningless mumbles. I realize suddenly how thirsty I am, so I try “water” next. It comes out “ahter”, but it apparently does the trick. A soft light clicks on behind me, and a hand and arm, clad in a red leather glove and black featureless sleeve, enters my vision on the right. It’s holding a water bottle with no label and a straw sticking out of the neck. The straw stops right in front of my mouth, and I do my best to wrap my lips around it despite the gag. It’s not perfect, but a cool stream of water marred by the taste of the cloth, dirty and old, slides down my throat.

Just as I’m about to try to force out a few more questions, I’m stopped by the sound of a small motor fan, and a white square of light appears on the wall directly in front of me. A slide projector. The first slide appears. It’s a white title card, with five simple words in a bold typewritten font.

“Your life is a dream.”

I’m confused by this statement, but have very little time to process it, as the projector behind me clicks and a new slide flashes on the wall.

*CLICK*

“All dreams must end.”

*CLICK*

“Before a dream can end, its connections to the waking world must be removed.”

*CLICK*

My two best friends, faces beaten almost unrecognizable, lying on morgue gurneys.

*CLICK*

My brother on the floor of his bedroom, a gunshot wound to his forehead, a pool of deep red blood surrounding his head like a halo.

*CLICK*

Now inside my parents’ room. It’s mostly dark, except for the glow of the small nightlight my parents keep for early morning trips to the bathroom. It’s just enough for me to see my parent’s faces, deeply asleep. I can feel my pulse racing, my breathe forcing itself raggedly in and out of my body, tears on my cheeks. My chest is hitching as I try to fight the dread and the pain and I’m beginning to sob.

*CLICK*

My parents’ bathroom, the door open, the cool tile an abattoir. Blood staining everything, even reaching the ceiling. I hear a high pitched noise and realize it’s coming from me; I’m sobbing and keening.

*CLICK*

Close up on the shower’s sliding doors. The glass is translucent, but I can see the tub filled with dark red and unnamable shapes. A hunk of my mother’s platinum blonde hair, encircled by my father’s wedding band and stained red, sits on the tub’s edge.

*CLICK*

Ending A

The shower doors, open now. Two faces stare out at me. I’m screaming, sobbing, mumbling pleas for surcease.

*CLICK*

The blank white light comes back. My head is swimming, I’m still sobbing even as I’m losing consciousness and the white light is swallowing the world.

*CLICK*

I come to in my parent’s bathroom. For a moment I’m disoriented, and then it all comes rushing back. Finding Pete and Ally at home and putting the bat to work; my brother’s wide eyes and the silenced gunshot that closed them; purchasing the cheap saw and blades; the struggle, the fear, the violence, and finally the peace that settled over this room. And my pictures. My beautiful photographs to remind me that my dream has finally ended, and that I’m awake. I brush a tear from my cheek with one red leather-clad finger, lift the camera to my eye once more, and depress the button.

*CLICK*

Ending B

The shower doors, open now. Two faces stare out at me. Four blind eyes, unblinking. I’m screaming, sobbing, mumbling pleas for surcease.

*CLICK*

“And now, you are awake.”

*CLICK*

The blank white light comes back. My head is swimming, I’m still sobbing even as I’m losing consciousness and the white light is swallowing the world.

*CLICK*

I come to seconds later. The projector has been turned off, and the room is once again dark except for the light behind me. I mumble, asking why, expecting no answer but asking all the same. The footsteps approach my seat. For a moment I expect, welcome, death. A blade’s whisper, and I can sleep forever. Then the bag once again slides over my head, blocking out what little light remains. As I sob in the darkness, the end of all I’ve ever known like a wound in my mind, the footsteps recede, turning off the small lamp on the way.

*CLICK*

Ending C

The shower doors, open now. Two faces stare out at me. Four blind eyes, unblinking. I’m screaming, sobbing, mumbling pleas for surcease.

*CLICK*

“And now, you are awake.”

*CLICK*

The blank white light comes back. My head is swimming, I’m still sobbing even as I’m losing consciousness and the white light is swallowing the world.

*CLICK*

Ending D

The shower doors, open now. Two faces stare out at me. Four blind eyes, unblinking. I’m screaming, sobbing, mumbling pleas for surcease.

*CLICK*

“And now, you are awake.”

*CLICK*

*************************************************************************************

So there it is. I know it's a bit long, but hopefully some of you made it all the way through. Voting is now open!

THIS is what I want to be when I grow up!

2006-05-15T10:55:00.000-05:00

"Who created yo' ass?!"

2006-04-27T10:15:00.000-05:00

If church were like this, I'd go every day. (NSFW, due to language)

"When you pull the tab, the contents don't squirt in your face."

2006-04-26T09:56:00.000-05:00

There are so many things wrong with this video, but they all join together to make it so, so right. It's sacriliciously wonderful, and I hope you enjoy.

Strange dreams and other nonsense

2006-04-24T15:07:00.000-05:00

Last night I had the oddest, most rambling dream I've had in a while. At this point in the day I remember only scraps, but boy, what scraps they are. I was in a large building that was some odd combination of the Kalita Humphreys Theater, my friend Lane's first home in Mineola (the one on Lake Brenda, for those of you in the know), and my high school. Apparently, I was staying with Lane's family in what was supposed to be Lane's childhood room. It was a huge room with at least four sets of bunk beds, plus a recessed sitting area with a full sized couch. The furniture reminded me of the stuff in the lobby of one of the dorms at my college. Anyway, the event necessitating my stay was a paddleball tournament, in which not only was I a willing participant, but apparently some sort of nationals level finalist (in reality, I suck at paddleball). And I wasn't the only one. My brother, also a finalist, showed up dressed as though he was about to go on a covert ops mission. Well, there are some gaps in my dream memory at that point, but the next thing I can remember was being back in Lane's room, and being panicked because I was going to be late for my first round in the national competition. Fortunately, Lane knew a shortcut from the room to the performance area (why Lane's house was attached to a performance center, I have no idea) that utilized a few secret passages. So I started running fast as I could down this secret corridor, when I stopped because I heard some voices. I looked around a bit, and found a doorway to a hidden room. And what should I behold when I opened the door? Well, naturally, the members of ska-esque group Smash Mouth, along with a goofy guy I went to college with who now works at the church I occasionally attend. In addition to Smash Mouth's undeserved pomposity, the room was filled with what appeared to be WWII era radio/shortwave equipment. We spoke (I think I asked for directions), but I don't remember the details. What I DO remember is knowing, without a doubt, that Smash Mouth was being held in that room by MTV, for the network's own nefarious purposes. I continued running through the passage until I found myself in the theatre area. And that's the last thing I remember before my alarm woke me. Seriously, the hell?

This morning on my way to work, I got stuck behind this old lady driving about 15 miles an hour. That in and of itself is unremarkable, except for the fact that, in addition to the back of her head, the only thing I had to look at while she meandered down the road was about 15-20 brown and white Pound Puppies. Not the full sized ones we all remember from the 80s, but the tiny crappy ones McDonald's used to give away in Happy Meals. Apparently, this lady was fond of Pound Puppies. And driving badly.

Speaking of driving badly, does it seem to anyone besides me that the quality of traffic, in Dallas specifically but also in general, has really gotten terrible lately? In the past two weeks, I've somehow wound up behind at least three different vehicles that drove down the road straddling two lanes. Not to mention all the people driving 5-10 miles below the speed limit (and when you're in a 30MPH zone, those few miles make all the difference). Are they just handing out licenses like candy at the DMV now? Should they just start running those ads that always start "Bad credit? No collateral? Do you have $100 dollars? Then you're in!"?

Two movies that I've seen recently that I would recommend: Brick, a modern day detective noir mystery, starring that kid from Third Rock from the Sun, and that cute chick from Everwood. Oh, and Lukas Haas, finally looking older than 13. It's dark, funny, and exists in a little microcosm of its own, replete with shady characters and witty specialized dialogue. It's excellent. See it. Also, Friends with Money. Special thanks to Nate, Dish, and MAV for inviting me to this one, as I would've never seen it otherwise. It was funny and depressing, and as usual Catherine Keener, Frances McDormand, and Joan Cusack were excellent. Jennifer Aniston was good as well, though she was a little outmatched by her fellow actresses.

So yeah, that's it for now. Go outside and get some sun. You're looking pale.

Mineola Missives: The Jr. High Days, Part I

2006-04-07T11:16:00.000-05:00

Jr. High, (or Middle School, depending on where you went), is a time of big changes. For most people, it's the first time you experience the multiple teacher format that will continue through high school and college. It's the period where the girls come back from summer vacation having hit puberty, and suddenly, shoving them at recess isn't the only thing on your mind. New friendships are formed, old friendships are tested and sometimes fail, and the adult you will one day be starts coming a little more into focus. Jr. High for me was...well, in a word, miserable. Sure, there were moments of fun, and some experiences I wouldn't trade for anything. For the most part though, Jr. High was, for me, the genuine outcast scenario. I was the slightly introverted, inept, nerdy kid who never quite fit in. Mind you, I probably brought a lot of this on myself, as some of these tales will bear out. So sit back and enjoy a few brief stories of the miserable gauntlet of teasing and humiliation that was Jr. High.

*DISCLAIMER - Some of these stories might sound like I'm fishing for sympathy, and that's simply not the case. As miserable as it was, it helped form who I am today, and I'm pretty okay with that guy. I tell them simply to give more information on my formative years, which is what this whole Mineola series is all about.

Teachers and classes

The first notable teacher I remember from sixth grade was Mrs. Ramsey. Mrs. Ramsey was our 20/30-something World History teacher. Mrs. Ramsey was hot, and I wasn't the only one who thought so. It's amazing any of the males in her class learned anything, distracted as we were with drooling over her. Something about her class - the time of day, the people around me, something I've never quite put my finger on - always kind of made me lose it a little during that period. At least once a week, probably more, I would be sitting peacefully in Mrs. Ramsey's class, when I would suddenly be overcome by a fit of the giggles. Now mind you, this was in the middle of class, so I had to choke back my laughter and try not to give any signs of my internal state of hilarity. This usually resulted in me rocking back and forth and turning beet red. Lane sat next to me in this class, and every time one of these bizarre little fits would overcome me, he would turn and look at me completely stone-faced, which would naturally set me off even more. I don't remember ever getting in any particular trouble over this, but it wouldn't surprise me to be reminded I did. Oh, for one particular project we were required to make some sort of presentation with a partner. Lane and I paired up to make a model of the stone tablets on which the Ten Commandments were delivered (yeah, I don't know either). I mention this only because every time it comes up in our conversations, Lane always points out that that project was sidetracked when we tore out of my house to chase down the ice cream truck.

Mr. Daniels was our math teacher. Math has never been my strongest or favorite subject, but Mr. Daniels did his best to make it interesting, albeit often at his students' expense. For instance, he somehow found out at some point about a meaningless crush I had on a girl in my class. Instead of leaving it alone, he turned it into a math problem. I can still see him in my mind, holding up a drawing (he REALLY liked to draw little illustrations of his students to use in his word problems) he had done of the girl in question driving a car up a hill, with me in hot pursuit. Mr. Daniels had a real problem with people sitting on their feet in class; so much so that he turned it into a "spankable" offense. He was a little crazy.

Mr. Young was the computer science teacher. Mr. Young was, and this is putting it mildly, an aging hippy. He wore a LOT of tie-dye, had a long silver/grey beard, long lanky silver/grey hair, and some very interesting theories about the world and the future of technology. My particular favorite was the time he told us about the future of microcircuitry. He claimed that in the near future, scientists would be able to program a microscopic chip such that when you throw it into a puddle of water, the programming would take over and voila, you could have your very own motorcycle made entirely of diamond. Which, for some reason, he believed would never wear out due to friction. Mr. Young also claimed that once, in his younger days, he was out on a camping trip in the middle of some wooded area. One night while sitting in the cab of his truck, doing God knows what (though the rest of the story gives you a hint), he claimed that Bigfoot climbed into the back of his truck, smoked a cigarette, and then walked off. Some of us later told this story to Coach Day, knowing he would appreciate it. He laughed while we told the story, and at the end his only comment was, "Yeah, and then he married her. Ah ah ah ah ah."

Coach Michael Claire Cunningham taught...well, I don't actually remember what he taught (Life Science, maybe?). Probably because my memories of his classes all revolve around the weird stuff he tried to get us involved in. He was always giving us handouts about various activities and events around the world, or just random interesting tidbits he found in a book or the paper. We once made "peanut butter" in his class, which tasted exactly like what it was: peanuts he crushed up in a bowl with salt (?!). I also remember eating sardines in his class; for what purpose, I have no idea. After we had completed 8th grade, a few of us went by to bid our farewell to him. He was cleaning out his classroom at the time, and started giving us all textbooks, flyers, and various other informational crap he had stored up over the past year. I wound up with a set of VERY basic scientific "encyclopedias", which I think is still in my parents' house. His classroom also always had a TV/VCR in it, which we often availed ourselves of with his blessing. One day after lunch, a couple of us wandered over to his room for some reason. Now this was the time that New Kids on the Block mania was at its height, and the video for Step by Step had just been released, to the delight of teenaged girls everywhere. We walked into the room to find a group of girls huddled around the TV, giggling and squealing at NKotB's wacky antics. One of the guys I was with (or maybe it was me) made some random disparaging remark about the group. The next thing we knew, we were being bum-rushed by the girls, and thrown bodily out the door. It was like Wild Kingdom, only with teenagers and crappy music.

When I started 6th grade (1987), the city had just completed work on a brand new Middle School/Elementary School facility. My class was the first to complete all three years of Middle School in this new facility. In our 7th grade year, a teacher of some class I didn't take passed away during the school year. There followed the requisite mourning period, in which students who had probably invented new insults to apply solely to that teacher acted as though their best friend had just died. A short string of subs followed until a permanant replacement was hired. I think the replacement held the job for about 4 months or so before he, too, passed away. Thereafter, subs were shuffled in and out for the rest of the school year. Rumors and whispers of the "cursed classroom" shot around for a while, until we all got bored and moved on to something else. But still...weird, no?

Well, this post is turning out to be quite a bit longer than I expected. I still haven't finished out all the exciting and interesting teachers, much less gotten to the tales of humiliation and shame which, I expect, will be the truly popular portion of this segment. So I'll break for now, and soon return with The Jr. High Days, Part II, including the exciting tales of:

A coach called Skittles!
Coach Johnson, the motorcycle driving coach!
Mrs. Lamb, who thought it was fun to scream!
The Texas History teacher who thought she was a cat!
The band director with delusions of grandeur!

Plus many tales of me making an ass of myself. Should be fun!

Fun with playlists and Flickr!

2006-03-01T11:22:00.000-06:00

I was bored last night, and remembered how much I enjoyed making the VD playlists for you kids to download. So I've made another themed playlist, and once again you can download it by clicking on the playlist title. Can you guess the theme? (hint: It's birds.) It's quite a bit more GIRH (Generic Indie Rock Hipster) than the previous two, so be warned. Also, if you download a copy, do me a favor and leave a comment letting me know you did so. I might do this again in the future, but only if I can tell you guys want/like it.

It's for the Birds

1) Caribou - Pelican Narrows
2) The Be Good Tanyas - The Littlest Birds
3) They Might Be Giants - Birdhouse in Your Soul
4) Wilco - Hummingbird
5) Broadcast - Man Is Not a Bird
6) Iron & Wine - Bird Stealing Bread
7) The Prayers and Tears of Arthur Digby Sellers - Archaeopteryx
8) Boards of Canada - Peacock Tail
9) Antony and the Johnsons - Bird Girl
10) Mojave 3 - Bluebird of Happiness

In addition, since so many of us on the intar wubs use Flickr these days, I figured this little goof on it would go over well. I had to cover my mouth to stifle my laughter, if that tells you anything.

"He celebrates Black History Month in November."

2006-02-27T10:42:00.000-06:00

Generic Indie Rock Hipster video!

Safety Dance!

2006-02-24T12:35:00.000-06:00

Getting back to form, I thought I'd share some more funny/bizzare videos with you. First up is a little video mash-up action, with a dark take on Toy Story 2. (NSFW language)

Next is an American safety video, produced by Federated Mutual Insurance, showing the dangers of...being stupid, I guess.

And finally, a German safety video warning against the dangers of improper forklift use. Those wily Germans; first they outdo us in the Olympics, and now they outdo us in wacky safety videos. (may be NSFW due to humorous and outlandish violence)

Mineola Missives: The Coach

2006-02-20T13:51:00.000-06:00

Every high school has one, I'm fairly certain. Every school with a population smaller than the average college, that is. That one ex- or current coach who, because his schedule isn't full with other things, winds up with the scut jobs around the school. And Mineola High School is/was no exception. Our Scut Job Coach taught Health, Remedial Study Skills (yes, my school needed it), Drivers' Ed, and even a little fill-in Spanish (I think he was tapped to teach English as well at one point, but someone saw the folly of that situation before it was too late). He was also a minister at a Baptist church (his church was the first place my Christian metal band, Sanctification, played), and still coached baseball from time to time. A veritable Renaissance man of Mineola High School, he was. Coach Reginald Earl Day, I salute you.

A brief little sidenote before I continue. I don't actually think Coach Day's middle name was Earl. My friends and I had this really weird habit of giving people unnecessary middle names that weren't theirs. We had others we'd use, but Earl seemed to be our default. Try it in your own name and tell me it doesn't work to some degree, even for the ladies. We also lengthened names with odd appellations that made them sound vaguely like we were trying to name a restaurant in the TGI Friday's vein, and gave names based on who/what they looked like as well. Sometimes it got a little out of hand. Thus the reason that by the time I graduated in May 1994, our band director (tenor sax and drums, before you ask) was known to many of us as "Machine Gun Ray Slapdaddy Shotgun Kenny Rogers Santa Claus Vardeman". Thus also the reason one of the school administrators, of whom we were not very fond, was known simply as "Frog Lips". Our parents even used that one (my mom still does to this day).

So back to Coach Day. I took the requisite Health course with him as the teacher, and got to experience the drug box and the smell of burning oregano (or whatever they use to simulate marijuana) accompanied by his infernal laugh. Imagine The Count's laugh sped up ever so slightly, that one note "Ah ah ah ah ah," and you're pretty close (I do a passable impersonation of his laugh; fun for parties!). That laugh accompanied virtually every story the man ever told, and he told a lot. All you had to do to sidetrack him was ask some simple, random question, and off he went on a yarn-spinning journey. My favorites all came from Drivers' Ed., but there were many to choose from over the years. And so, I present to you a few tales passed on by Coach Day.

*DISCLAIMER - I offer no claims as to the veracity of these stories, just the associated hilarity.*

At some point in his life, Coach Day had been involved in law enforcement of some kind, and was apparently trained in several defensive techinques for disarming perps. Or, as he so eloquently put it, "I can apply my maximum force to a man's minimum force, and rip his hand in half down to the wrist. Ah ah ah ah ah ah." That sort of became my measuring stick for judging defensive techniques. "Yes, but can you rip a man's hand in half to the wrist?"

Coach Day was a big fan of those old Drivers' Ed. films like "Blood on the Highway" and so forth, the scare-your-ass-straight style of education so popular in the 60s and 70s. Being as I was in high school, and male, I naturally had a morbid fascination with those films and once asked if he or the school had any. He looked, to no avail, but came up with a little gem about a crash test dummy that one day becomes sentient, decides this life of abuse is for the birds, and hoofs it. At least, that's what I think it was about. About a minute-and-a-half into the film, it melted in the classic style, all melting from the center out and nasty burning petroleum smell. I think we spent the rest of the class making him tell us stories.

I'm pretty sure every small town has, in addition to Scut Job Coach, that one backwoods dirt road that's really nothing more than access for the various farms, ranches, and isolated houses in the area. And somehow that road acquires a mythic reputation, full of tales of Satanic activity and ghostly sightings. In Marshall, where I went to college, it was Stagecoach Road. I've forgotten the name of the one in Mineola, but I can still picture it pretty well in my head. Why is the picture still clear, but not the name? Well, because that was Coach Day's favorite place to take us for our driving practice. In theory, it was an ideal place for such activity. There was virtually no traffic on the road, and really nothing out there for the errant driver to hit besides trees and barbed wire fencing. But if some of the things Coach Day told us about the road had been true, then he was a crazy man for taking us out there. My favorite? He swore that, while driving out there one day, he crested a hill only to see a pentagram painted in the middle of the road, with...wait for it...two severed Doberman Pinshcer heads sitting in the middle of it. Lovely stuff.

Of course, these little drives were not limited to tales of the dark and macabre as interpreted by Reggie Day. Culinary tips came into play once or twice as well. This was where I learned that soft-shelled turtle makes a delightful soup (this was prompted by one running across the road in front of our car one afternoon; the look of the thing was enough to make me take him at his word). I also learned that ostrich was the most flavorful meat he'd ever tried (and he's tried it all - rattlesnake, the aforementioned turtle, squirrel, rabbit, buffalo, a variety of deer-like ungulates, etc.; I've not tried ostrich, but rabbit and elk are both quite tasty). His opportunity to try ostrich arose when a local man who raised them called him seeking help in freeing one of his birds which had gotten its head trapped in a fence. After much pondering, they decided the best and, lest you think him a cold bastard, most humane way to free the unfortunate creature was simply to kill it and eat it. Which I gathered from his story they proceeded to do with vigor.

One of my favorite subsets of the already subsetted Coach Day Drivers' Ed. stories was the Snowflake set (Coach Day stories-->Drivers' Ed. stories-->Snowflake stories). Apparently at some point in the past, Coach Day had taught an unfortunate soul known to his peers (and at least one of his teachers) as Snowflake. This nickname was ironic on a level that our insertion of "Earl" never quite reached. You see, Snowflake was apparently a 300-400 lb. black student who was mercilessly and relentlessly teased by his fellow students (although, based on the stories Coach Day told us about him, he might have brought some of it on himself) due to his weight and inability to control his anger. As a result, I was left with two of the funniest stories ever told by Coach Day (you may disagree, but that's because you can't hear Coach Day tell them). These stories were so popular, in fact, that Coach Day was asked to tell them on more than one occasion, and virtually every time he wound up laughing so hard he was in tears, as were many of his students.

One day, Snowflake's need to follow the call of nature led him into one of the school's restrooms. Now as the business at hand was sure to be...ahem...long and arduous, Snowflake was forced to enter one of the stalls. Fortunately, the stalls were unlike other school restrooms around the country in that they still had doors with functioning locks. Snowflake entered the stall and proceeded to continue the circle of life. When finished, he attempted to stand and exit the restroom. However, due to his rather large girth he had become entrapped in the stall, squeezed between the two walls like the trash compactor from Star Wars. I guess the theory was that, in his haste to enter the stall and complete his task, he failed to notice how tightly he fit. So after several attempts of his own and on the part of school officials to release him, a welder was called in to cut down one of the walls and thereby free Snowflake from his lavatorial prison.

Apparently as a result of the above shenanigans, Snowflake's time at MHS became a bit more unbearable. The already unrelenting teasing was amped up a notch, which led to a potentially horrible event that, nonetheless, is gut-achingly funny in my mind's eye. Snowflake was apparently an avid fan of Shop, and spent as much of his spare time as he could in the workshop tinkering away. One day the teasing reached a height Snowflake could no longer stomach (pun TOTALLY intended). The Red Curtain of Rage descended over his brain, he picked up a ball peen hammer, and proceeded to chase the offending student around the parking lot, screaming obscenities at the top of his lungs. According to Coach Day, Snowflake's voice was rather high-pitched and grating, a la Adam Sandler in the "They're all gonna laugh at you!" skit. So picture, if you will, a 300-400 lb. black man waving a ball peen hammer over his head, cursing to turn the sky red in a voice out of a cartoon, and chasing another student around a high school parking lot, and then tell me that's not hilarious. Sad, yes, but funny nonetheless.

The glory of Coach Day was truly in his ability to tell a great story. At least, that was true in my eyes. From what I understand, he was a loving and attentive father (his daughter Misti was in my graduating class; yes, her name is Misti Day) AND pastor. His genuine concern and fondness for his students was evident, and despite the fact that he was easily sidetracked and could lean a bit to the fundamentalist way of thinking, he was fascinating to talk and listen to. I hated a lot of things about my home town and my school experience, but Coach Day will always be a fond little gleam in my memories.

Ah ah ah ah ah ah.

Dripping with VD excitement!

2006-02-14T11:59:00.000-06:00

I'm not one of those people who gets all bitter and down on Valentine's Day. In fact, if it weren't for the decorations here at work or the fact that it's on TV every two seconds, I'd probably forget completely what today is. But for fun, and as a sort of "Valentine's gift" for you, my faithful readers, I've put together two Valentine's playlists, one for the lovers and one for the haters. Below you will find links to download the playlists (click on the playlist title), as well as the recommended listening order. You don't HAVE to listen to them in this order, but it's the order I put them in when I built them. On a broadband connection, the playlists take around a minute or so to download.

VD Lovers
1) Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! - Is This Love?
2) Belle and Sebastian - Step Into My Office, Baby
3) Snow Patrol - Chocolate
4) My Morning Jacket - Just One Thing
5) The Arcade Fire - Crown of Love
6) Sia - Breathe Me
7) Nick Drake - Fly
8) U2 - With Or Without You
9) Patty Griffin - Don't Come Easy
10) Daft Punk - Make Love

VD Haters
1) The Streets - Fit But You Know It.
2) The Postal Service - Nothing Better
3) Massive Attack - Angel
4) Fiona Apple - Not About Love
5) Keane - We Might as Well Be Strangers
6) Interpol - public pervert
7) Sarah McLachlan - Possession
8) Nine Inch Nails - Closer
9) She Wants Revenge - Tear You Apart
10) The Decemberists - We Both Go Down Together

If you try to download a list and it tells you the downloads are no longer available, please email me at bagboy(at)hotmail.com. I'll refresh the link and place a comment when it's available again. And FYI, I haven't forgotten about the Mineola Missives series. I'm working myself up to it.

Happy Valentine's Day, chumps!

"I got shoes for hands, everybody!"

2006-02-07T11:14:00.000-06:00

Southern Hemisphere battle!

2006-01-31T12:02:00.000-06:00

In response to Babs post of the unusual song of seduction by Australian comedy group Tripod, I give you New Zealand's Flight of the Conchords and their song, "Business Time":

And to display how multi-talented they truly are, I further submit "Rap Folk Battle: Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenoceros":

But the true reason I wanted to share them with you is this last video. Flight of the Conchords has seen the same future I have, and clearly, it's not pretty (slightly NSFW language):

Mineola Missives: The Background Info

2006-01-25T14:10:00.000-06:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about what my next post would be. The more I thought about it, the more I've been interested in sharing a bit about my youth. I realized the other day that I know quite a bit about the background and history of many of my friends, but they know very little of mine. This isn't necessarily by design, but simply a product of the fact that my memory of my youth is full of holes and extrapolations. I remember a lot of things hazily, but only a few things clearly. So I rarely tell home town stories because I don't want to leave things out or make things up. My friend Lane, who I've known since the age of 5 (and who many of you know), can rattle story after story after story off in precise detail, but his brain is used to the complex and obscure intricacies of musical composition. Mine is only used to looking at the internet and turning anything I hear into a dirty joke. So I will be doing a series of posts about things from my youth. People, incidents, and just weird or funny occasions that stand out in my mind. I'll probably be asking Lane for a little help along the way, and I'm sure I'll exaggerate here and there. But the point of this whole thing is to give you a little background information on me, and what my formative years were like. If that sounds like Death by Boredom to you, then by all means, move right along. I'm sure Lindsay Lohan got caught smoking crack out of the skull of a homeless man or something.

First, some background. For those of you who don't know, the Mineola referred to in the title is my home town. Mineola, Texas, population approximately 5000, give or take. Mineola is a pretty little town, full of antique shops and retirees eager to escape big city livin'. It's a Texas Main Street City, and the money provided by the state for that program has really turned the downtown area into a pleasant little place to be. Mineola is the home of Kitchens' Hardware and Deli, which is exactly what it sounds like: a deli housed inside an old hardware store. The store is so old, in fact, that in the rear there is a carriage lift which was used to move horse-drawn carriages to the second floor for repairs. I have no idea if it still functions, but that's not really the point, is it? You can go in and have a delicious Rueben and pick up some ten penny nails, all in the same place. Convenient, eh? Mineola also boasts the East Texas Burger Company, which features delicious burgers the size of your head. The Select Theatre, one of the oldest continually running theatres in Texas, still operates with weekend movies and the occasional performance by the Lake Country Players. I once heard that a magnolia tree that sits across from my first church, First Baptist Church of Mineola (no web presence...not surprising), would hold the record for the oldest and largest one in the state, had it not been cleaved by lightning at some point in its existence.

Mineola High School, that old bastion of learning, was the home of many of my more interesting experiences. It features Act One & Company, the state record holder for most State level wins (unfortunately, they're updating their archives, so the only thing I could find was a cached version of the 93-94 school year; scroll down to Conference 3A) in any U.I.L. event, including football (the total is, if I remember correctly, 7, five of them consecutively). Of course, this award winning group had to rehearse and perform in the connected cafetorium, while the loser football team played in their brand new stadium. The injustice, she still haunts me. You can also find the legacy of several years of graduating seniors on the streets in front of (the same street played a role in the only car wreck I've had to date) and leading to the school; if they haven't been paved over, that is. Each year, the graduating class was allowed to paint a design or slogan on the road, along with the class year. My year, 1994, was "No Fear," and not just because the shirts were popular then. But that's another story.

There are many colorful characters in the town, such as the man who still drives with a suicide knob, despite their illegality in this state, because he considers it necessary to his "handicap" (he has bad lungs). There was also the band director who threatened to shoot students with rock salt if we wrapped (T.P.'d, rolled, toilet papered...whatever you Yankees call it) his house. And then of course there was Mrs. Balog (pronounced bay-log). Ahhhh, Mrs. Balog. The substitute who...but then, I'm getting ahead of myself.

So there's a little background information on the town that helped form who I am. Once I start with the stories, you'll probably wonder how I turned into the awesome time traveler and anti-robot activist I am today. So tune in, uh, soon (next week, maybe?) for the first in what I hope will be a long series of stories of a youth, not misspent, but occasionally misaligned.

Resolution Revolution!

2006-01-05T15:50:00.000-06:00

I don't generally make New Year's resolutions. I spontaneously disappoint myself enough on a regular basis without having a planned and numbered list of ways to do it. But as this is the year in which my 30th birthday sits, waiting to consume my soul and my metabolism, I figured a couple of improvements were in order. And for lack of a better term, I'm using "resolutions". So here is my resolution "Top Ten", numbered, but in no particular order (did I just blow your mind?):

1) Stop smoking within a week of my 30th birthday.

2) After the smoke stoppage is effective, take steps to get in shape so that I don't pass out every time I get up from the couch.

3) Take better control of my finances. This can include a number of things, from debt consolidation, to credit counseling, to the import and export of endangered rhino horn for aphrodisiac purposes. Of course, the last one would require an intimate knowledge of the location of multiple rhinos, as well as the ability to track and kill large African game, so that probably won't happen.

4) Be a less self-centered friend, and don't get so focused on the negative.

5) Start smoking crack.

6) Perfect time travel.

7) Once #6 is accomplished, go back in time and invent the internet, and then tell Al Gore he was the one who did it.

8) Remain vigilent for the arising robot hoard.

9) Stop smoking crack.

10) Find a better hiding spot for the bodies.

Since I'm posting this blog on the international webternet, and Al Gore claimed responsibility for inventing it, Future Me clearly has accomplished numbers 6 and 7. Way to go, Future Me! Oh wait, that's right, I hate Future Me. I don't have time to explain now, but it has to do with him coming back in time and telling people all my jokes before I can, thereby ruining them. Future Me is a bit of a bastard; it's probably the lack of nicotine.

Last.FM

2005-12-16T10:32:00.000-06:00

So you might notice a couple of new buttons over there on the right. The one under the Flickr badge will update over the weekend with a chart of my top played songs. Then down there under the "I Power Blogger" button, you'll see a red "Last.FM" button. What is all this, you might ask? Last.FM is a music service that helps you find other users who have similar tastes, and it also recommends other artists you might enjoy. It builds a profile based on the artists you listen to, and also a custom radio station using those same statistics. It's simple and free to use. If you have a minute, you should join up and download the simple plugin that sends in the stats. Then we can have our own little group of listeners and radio stations, and we can become the rulers of the world. Or something like that.

Mad props to The Diva for directing me to this site.

Video explosion!

2005-12-06T09:20:00.000-06:00

If you know me, you know I like to collect little odds and ends from the webternet. Funny sites, clever littles animations, and, in particular, bizarre videos. Today I present three of those to you, my beloved reader.

First up is video proof of my theory that Nature will one day eat your face; She's just looking for the right sauce.

Second is the "Proper Names" video. If the dude in this video were to move into your neighborhood, you'd probably get a postcard about it.

And finally, right in time for the Christmas season, we have Christmas lights, OCD style! (You may have seen this one; it's been passed around the webternet quite a bit lately.)

So there you have it friends. I hope you enjoyed this little video tour. And don't forget to check out the lyrics meme below, and submit your guesses.

Memetic

2005-12-04T13:10:00.000-06:00

Yes, I know I haven't posted in almost a month. And I know it's lame to make my first post after that period a meme, but...suck it. Basically the way this thing works is I took the 25 most played songs from my iPod and wrote down the first line. I had to cheat a little and also use my iTunes top 25, since I apparently listen to a lot of lyric-less songs. You guys make guesses as to the song title and artist and post them in the comments. As correct guesses are made, I'll post the name of the person who guessed correctly at the end of the particular lines. Stolen from Boy Wonder and Phaino.

1) ~~And if the snow buries my neighborhood.~~ *Vic*

2) Once again, I find myself with my friends.

3) She was a lonely girl. Doesn't have a lot of something to remind you.

4) ~~She called me up today. "Meet me down at the old cafe."~~ *Vic*

5) Well I'm riding down Fifth Street; I'm coming down Main. I tried to bum a nickel for to buy cocaine.

6) ~~Sleeping is giving in, no matter what they tell me.~~ *Vic*

7) ~~I'm thinkin' it's a sign that the freckles in our mind are mirror images, and when we kiss they're perfectly aligned.~~ *Jamie*

8) Here I am, where I've been. I walked a hundred miles in tobacco skin.

9) ~~Alexander, my older brother, set out for a great adventure.~~ *Vic*

10) ~~Hey, the street lights are all burnt out.~~ *Vic*

11) ~~I am waiting 'till I don't know when, 'cause I'm sure it's gonna happen then.~~ *Vic*

12) I leapt across three or four beds into your arms, where I had hidden myself somewhere in your charms.

13) I fell in love again (all things go, all things go).

14) They say it fits if you let it.

15) ~~Something filled up my heart with nothing.~~ *Vic*

16) Don't admit you're sick; let your fit body bury it. The faintness that you feel is nothing permanent.

17) Dial up my number now, weaving it through the wire.

18) We met first in cafes, and later in rooms.

19) The cat calls through the night, and two chicks in the parking lot crack wise on the price of fame.

20) Sunday after, there was laughter in the air.

21) Too long 'till fall, sick summer in bed.

22) Bounds move to the boogie that be.

23) From the first time I rest my eyes on you, my heart said follow through.

24) All around me are familiar faces, worn out places, worn out faces.

25) ~~I was lying on the grass a Sunday morning of last week, indulging in my self-defeat.~~ *J.T.*

There you go kids. Enjoy.

Fight me or die! Can you do any less?

2005-11-10T15:02:00.000-06:00

Just type your name in, choose a characteristic, and click "Battle!". There's a plain text option after you see the results that you can copy and paste into my comments section. #1 Super Best Good Fortune!

Also for to have giggles: Skeletel structures of cartoon characters

These stupid quiz things are kinda fun

2005-11-09T09:35:00.000-06:00

In a Past Life...

You Were: A Mute Poet.

Where You Lived: Cyprus.

How You Died: Hung for treason.

Who Were You In a Past Life?

Your 1920's Name is:

Arch Major

What's Your 1920's Name?

You Are 50% Weird

Normal enough to know that you're weird...
But too damn weird to do anything about it!

How Weird Are You?

Winging my way to Californ-i-a!

2005-10-28T17:35:00.000-05:00

Aight fools, I'm away to sunny San Diego, for good free food, beautiful locales, the delicious smell of salt water, and maybe a little work if there's time. Maybe while there I'll meet a rockin' indie hipster:

Or a hot but shallow girl that I can woo with my wit and charm:

Hopeful dreams, both. But my experience is really more likely to be along the lines of this:

So until next time kids, have a lovely and safe Halloween (don't eat Mrs. Magillicutty's caramel apples, and don't give in to Mr. Wallace's invitation to "see what I got in Reno.") Peace to the nations of Zulu and Islam!

Californiaaaaaaaaa, Californiaaaaaaaa, here I coooooooooome!

I'm rich bitch!

2005-10-27T09:09:00.000-05:00

My blog is worth $3,387.24.
How much is your blog worth?

Whole lotta linkin' goin' on!

2005-10-26T12:56:00.000-05:00

I'm trying to be more regular about posting (thanks a lot, Babs). However, I have no new witty musings, no rants about the psychopathic nature of...uh...nature, and no wacky polls or quizzes describing my innermost self via characters from My Mother the Car. And so, in order to keep the flow flowing free-flow style, I present to you - in beautiful Technicolor and Roto-Scope - links!

1) This artist appears to have infiltrated my mind, stolen my most glorious daydreams, and garnered fame and love from it. So THAT explains why I continue to labour in complete obscurity.

2) This could, quite possibly, be the coolest commercial EVER. And it's for a TV, so you KNOW I love it.

3) Despite the fact that this fake drink is so mind-numbingly disgusting as to be incomprehensible, if you told the Dallas elite it was real, they'd be lined up six deep to buy multiple shots of it and drink it out of sorority girls' navels. Bastards.

Next time on My Hurricane Head: Why the Rich/Poor Wars of 2025 will be awesome and horrific, but not nearly so much as the Human/Robot Wars of 2046. Plus, monkeys smoking cigarettes! (Yes, I know it's technically an ape and not a monkey, but who's interested in "apes smoking cigarettes"? Self-righteous bastards, that's who.)

The irony, she is large.

2005-10-25T14:34:00.000-05:00

NOTE: z

No smoking around The Bagboy. Thank you for your cooperation.

From Go-Quiz.com

Who needs an original idea when you have a franchise?

2005-10-19T09:40:00.000-05:00

So the Keymaster posted yesterday about the fact that there will be, some time in the near future, a new Rocky movie. Yep, Rocky VI ladies and gentlemen. After the debacle that was Rocky V (Tommy Gunn anyone?), Sly has decided to take time off from becoming one giant walking vein to make part VI. Aintitcoolnews.com is saying that rather than Rocky VI, it will simply be called Rocky Balboa, and that it will be a return to the feel of parts II and III. His opponent will supposedly be Roy Jones, Jr., (last seen as Ballard in The Matrix Reloaded/Revolutions) as Mason Dixon, continuing in the tradition of interesting but mildly retarded villian names in the Rocky series. It sounds like it's going to be a "Rocky looks back at his life before entering the ring one last time" sort of thing, which...potential dullness alert. I've written a brief paragraph that I think could describe the next movie pretty well.

In Rocky I, he started down the path to become one of the world's greatest fighters. In Rocky II, he overcame his first obstacle and formed a lasting frienship. In Rocky III, he lost his mentor and fought a powerful opponent. In Rocky IV, death visited him once again as he fought for the honor of his country. In Rocky V, he returned to the streets from which he came to fight for integrity, honor, and family. And now, in Rocky VI, he will face the loss of his beloved soul mate as he takes one his greatest opponent yet:

Medicare reform.

Rocky VI: The Oldening. Coming to a theater or nursing facility near you.

So there you go kids. Keep your eyes open for this one, as well as revivals of other popular series:

Indiana Jones and the Lost Eyeglasses
Jaws 5: Attack of the Greenpeace Hippies
Friday the 13th Part 11: Jason vs. The Red Wings
Halloween 8: Ding Dong Ditch
Back to the Future 4: Let's Piss Off Stephen Hawking Some More

Full up on crazy and no stopping 'till dawn!

2005-10-11T12:31:00.000-05:00

Anti-abortion activists have taken a number of tacts over the years to try to get their point across. Protests, lobbyists, boycotts...even a bomber or two. But never has the anti-abortion movement been so plainly disturbing until the advent of Lil' Markie. His real name is Mark Fox, and his raison d'etre is apparently scaring the blue hell out of people with child voices and fundamentalist wankery. You can read a bit more about him here. But most important to this particular post is the song "Diary of an Unborn Child". It's a story, of sorts, told from the perspective of said unborn child. And yes, it's just as amazingly disturbing as it sounds. Listen if you dare, but IF you dare, listen all the way to the end.

Also? Why do I have to keep being right all the time?

Except for the hawtness, not terribly surprising.

2005-10-03T09:39:00.000-05:00

"Which LOST character are you?"

Sawyer
You are Sawyer. You are a Jackass.

I hate to say I told you so

2005-09-28T16:22:00.000-05:00

See? SEE?!? What did I effing tell you people?!?

NOW you know why I never really learned to swim. I didn't want my ass to be bitten off!

I'm damn near a Socialist!

2005-09-28T09:41:00.000-05:00

You are a
Social Liberal
(61% permissive)

and an...
Economic Liberal
(21% permissive)

You are best described as a:

Democrat

Link: The Politics Test on Ok Cupid
Also: The OkCupid Dating Persona Test

Nature hates us and wants us to die

2005-09-15T10:03:00.000-05:00

I'm not normally a tree-hugging Save-the-Earth hippie type. I mean sure, I'm all for conservation, recycling, and treating the earth with respect. I don't, however, subscribe to Kurt Vonnegut's idea that we are merely a disease, and the planet's immune system is trying to wipe us out.

Or at least I didn't.

But lately it seems Mother Nature and her cohorts have been telling us to watch our backs. I mean, we can't even trust bugs (not that we ever could) or cute little water mammals any more, and they're both smaller than us! Add to that the recent tsunami and Hurricane Katrina devastation, and I think we might be overlooking a slight hint.

Of course, this might be a hint that's been there all along. When you see creatures like this, the Black Dragonfish, (one of the many really creepy things that lives in the deep ocean), it makes you wonder just how lucky we've been to have survived this long. I mean seriously, there are creatures in virtually every climate and region of the world that would gladly sucker punch us in the lifeline if given the chance: in the ocean, in the desert, in the mountains, in the forests, the gentle rolling prairies, and even in the mighty modern city!

Truly, nowhere you go is safe. We should all be very, very afraid and tremble at the might of nature. We thought we were the Mike Tyson of evolutionary progress? Well, nature is Buster Douglas, and it's just waiting to sock us one in the glass jaw.

IT'S...

2005-09-15T09:27:00.000-05:00

ALIIIIVE!!!

Unicorn Power

2005-08-31T15:50:00.000-05:00

The Perry Bible Fellowship

The first line is key

2005-08-30T19:41:00.000-05:00

The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.
Stephen King--The Gunslinger

Whenever I'm looking for a new book to read, I often base a purchase decision on how quickly the first page hooks me. Of course, this doesn't always work out, but generally it's been a pretty good method for finding new authors and works. Even more important than a strong first page, however, is a very strong first line. This is the author's very first chance to give you an idea of what the following story is about, and to do it in a few simple words. The first line should give you a sense of the ride on which you are about to embark. The line quoted above is perhaps the best first line of a novel that I've read. Immediately, with only twelve words, King introduces the reader to the main character, his occupation and enemy, and starts a long list of questions running through the reader's head. Who is the man in black? Why is this gunslinger following him? All questions will come to be in answered in the course of an enthralling read. Here's another example:

Nothing ever begins.
Clive Barker--Weaveworld

That's it. Three simple words, but as the story unfolds, you realize that those three words are incredibly apt in giving you a sense of the tale. Here's one more:

The snow in the mountains was melting and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation.
Donna Tartt--The Secret History

Again, a very succinct and basically vague sentence, but there is so much potential leading into the novel that follows. Why this focus on first lines, you ask? I aspire to write stories of my own. I've never been very good at it, simply because I'm terrible at creating a solid throughline. I'm good at snippets and phrases, but I find the continuation of a plot extremely difficult. That, and I'm lazy. But I often find, even for my brief dalliances in writing, that if I can start with a solid first line, it gives me jumping off points from which to write. If I can write a strong first line, it forces me to ask myself questions related to that line. It's in finding the answers to those questions that I often find my plot. Stephen King, in his "how to" book On Writing, compares the act of writing to the unearthing of a buried artifact. You don't always see the entire shape of the thing at first, but the little pieces you do see allow you to extrapolate the overall view. As I continue to write, more questions are asked, more answers found, and so on until a cohesive plot is formed.

Again, you might wonder why the focus on this particular subject. I've been thinking of trying my hand at another short story, just to get back into the process of writing, but as usual I've been having difficulty with finding a solid plot. So I started trying to come up with a good first line, something from which I could build as I go. And today, unbidden, a line popped in my head. It still feels clunky and rough, but I think it has potential to lead me into a humorous and entertaining story. Ready?

Preston became aware that his frequent ill-timed erections were somewhat of a roadblock on the path to righteousness.
Bill Chandler--Fledgling story idea

So there it is. Hopefully this line can lead me into an exploration of who Preston is, why he wants to be righteous, and, most importantly, what's up with those erections. I'll try to remember to post updates, if anything comes of this.

So great I might Royal Rainbow

2005-08-29T10:37:00.000-05:00

I started to do this as an addendum to the hurricane post, but felt it deserved an entry all its own. I need to extend my hearty and special thanks to Crump, Babs, Diva, PLW, Keymaster, and MAV for including your humble blog host on the trip to New Braunfels this weekend. Despite the fact that I wimped out and didn't go tubing, I still had a really great time hanging out with all of you. I especially enjoyed the opportunity to let my inner Nerdlinger run wild with Crump and PLW (seriously, I have NEVER seen someone laugh so hard at the term "oral thrush"...just think what would have happened had I said "scabies") over music, games, and superheroes. I also got to indulge my obsessive TV talk with the girls, and anyone who knows me knows I'm in a state of bliss when talking about TV. I really had a lot of fun, and can't imagine a better group of people to have it with (I just wish YayCoffee, Delicious Dish, Nate, and Special-T could have made it as well). Yay for friends who don't suck!

My namesake will keel you dead

2005-08-29T09:45:00.000-05:00

While listening to NPR and their the reports of Hurricane Katrina this morning, one thought kept running through my head: What in the hell have the Gulf states (with the exception of Texas) done to piss off God? I mean, seriously people. Florida alone has been hit by mother-effing SIX! hurricanes in just under a year! Some people are probably of the opinion that God's trying to destroy Disney World for their horrible love of (and insurance provision to) teh gay. Alabama and Mississippi are supposed to get hit, and are indeed feeling the stronger side of the storm. I'm of the opinion their involvement has something to do with their national education rankings (they are numbers 44 and 47, respectively). Of course Texas, which has so far been relatively untouched by my natural progenies, is 33 on the list, so...hold on to your pants, Galveston (or don't; could be more fun).

And then there's Louisiana. Oh Louisiana. You've grown from a former land-holding of the dirty, dirty French (which might explain the smell when you cross the state line) into a state known for its drunkeness, nudity, and occasional shifts in sexual orientation. People who have known me since college, and some who have known me a shorter time, know that I despise Lousiana. Its crappy state bird (the Eastern Brown Pelican), its crappy roads (cha-gunk cha-gunk cha-gunk), its crappy highly criminal governers, and its crappy aboveground "burials" (please make special note of the phrase "noxious fumes emitted by corpses" in that article) all serve to make Louisiana one huge, non-stop groin kick of a state. And now Katrina has come to make it even worse. Weather analysts are saying that if the city's water pumps go out and aren't reactivated quickly enough, New Orleans could turn into a toxic lake of petrochemicals and raw sewage. Road trip!

Seriously though, whatever you four states are doing...cut it out. Go to church or make a homeless guy a sandwich or something. You're harshing the buzz for the other 46 (no snide comments from you, Puerto Rico) of us. (Sorry to any readers from those four states...I kid because I half-heartedly love.)

She'll kick YOUR ass

2005-08-11T17:51:00.000-05:00

I like videogames. Specifically, I like videogames for the PS2 and the Xbox. I never was one of those early gamers. You know, the ones who holed themselves up for hours on end and played Doom or Quake or some other early generation computer game on a small network, all the while screaming at each other and inventing lovely new epithets to call one another. But I do love me some videogame action.

I also am a fan of the punk rock girl. I am turned to a mass of dumb flesh at the sight of a pierced and tattooed lass. Which is odd, considering I'm about the most white bread fool you're ever likely to meet. But what can I say; the punk rock girl just ignites my anarchic soul and sets my heart all aflutter. This little paragraph really has nothing to do with the rest of the post, except that the punk rock girl [femaleis rockus hardcoreix] often enjoys the videogame, so I often think of the two in conjunction. [/boondoggle]

Anyway, today I stumbled across a blog called Old Grandma Hardcore. No, you filthy beast, this is not a porn site featuring the geriatric set. It's a blog written by some unnamed guy (he apparently goes by the nome de blog CtrlAltDelete) about his 69-year-old granmother. Said granmother (the nominatave matriarch of the blog title) LOVES videogames and curses like a sailor. Two things which I whole-heartedly endorse. And apparently she is quite good at them as well. As a whole, she sounds pretty awesome. Of course, you can see for yourself on some of the videos the blogger has posted. Great stuff. Incidentally, I'm adding it to my favorites list over there on the side, so visit and read at your leisure. You'll enjoy it, I assure you.

I'm so touched.....

2005-08-09T17:23:00.000-05:00

Apparently the fact that I'm still residing on Earth and haven't been taken up in the Rapture is proof of my friend JT's safe spot in Heaven. You'll have to read his blog to fully understand that statement.

So there you go Jason. Not only is my post proof that you've not been left below, but I'm also drumming up traffic for your site. I think you owe me five dollars.

Or some black-tar heroin; whatever's easiest.

Some quick links

2005-07-29T10:18:00.000-05:00

1) As a follow-up to my rant about movie theatres from the other day, you can read this article in which a college freshman expounds on the unwritten rules of theatre etiquette. I agree with every single thing he says.

2) You can make your own Google header!

3) The following link is sick, obscene, twisted, offensive, disgusting, and repugnant. It just so happens that it's pretty effing hilarious as well.

Gay-ification

2005-07-27T16:44:00.000-05:00

So my friend YayCoffee has this whole discussion thing going on her Live Journal about slash fiction. Now, I'm still a little muddy in the whole fanfic vernacular, but my understanding is that slash fiction is fanfic which creates homosexual pairings of well known characters who are not expressly portrayed as gay in the "canon" literature. It could refer to all romantic pairings, gay and straight, of this nature, but for my purposes I'll use it to refer to the former. Basically, she was saying something along the lines of she didn't understand why everyone needed to take profound platonic relatioships, and turn them into romantic ones. The idea is that people seem to lack understanding that just because something is stronger than a standard platonic friendship, that doesn't necessarily equate to a romantic connection. This is a sentiment with which I strongly agree, and have thought about a lot in reference to pop culture.

Nate and Dinah and I were talking about something similar the other night. Specifically, the movement of revisionist history going on toward older TV programs. By that I mean the trend of taking characters that were generally considered sexually neutral, or not IMPLICITLY straight (i.e. a big deal was never made of them making out, or whatever, with members of the opposite sex), and proclaiming them gay because of some societal stereotype.

I use as a particular example the whole Bert/Ernie debate of the 90s. Two men, living together, neither of them with female companionship. Of course, they DID share one bedroom, but in separate beds, with space between them. "They did the same thing in the early days of TV! Lucy and Ricky never shared a bed on screen, and they were MARRIED!" you say? Well, that was because of Standards and Practices for the time (the people who make the decisions as to what can and can't be allowed on TV), and it doesn't even begin to relate to these two puppets. My feeling, in this particular case, was that Bert and Ernie were meant to be seen by children as brothers. They didn't live with their parents, but they had a very brotherly relationship, (something to which the children watching could relate), and brothers sometimes share a room. I feel that's all that was meant to imply.

The reason it came up in our conversation was this: We were discussing what old TV shows we would like to see on DVD. Mention was made of Diff'rent Strokes, Growing Pains, Family Ties, and The Facts of Life. When this last one came up, I mentioned having a crush on Jo when I was growing up. Dinah said something along the lines of "Even though she was a lesbian?" Of course, she was joking, but this got us off on the whole train of hating it that no character was safe from being considered gay, even if there was nothing to support it.

Don't get me wrong. This is not a condemnation of being gay or gay people. It's a condemnation of using stereotypes to revise history (besides, wasn't Jo the one who dated George Clooney on the show?) and make it fit better with our current ideals and norms. Plus? THEY'RE TV SHOWS PEOPLE! They don't HAVE to match the melting pot society in which we live. That's why they're FICTIONAL.

Anyway, that's my rant. Long-winded and boring as usual. So to make up for it, here's something funny to watch. It kind of makes fun of the smelly French, which would make ANYBODY feel better.

Musings

2005-07-26T10:04:00.000-05:00

1) I finished Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince last night (after staying up until 2 AM two nights in a row). What a great read. It really is the perfect bridging story between the previous five books and the last one to come. So many big, big things happened, full of joy, heartbreak, and long-awaited answers. Hats off to Ms. Rowling.

2) I finally joined My Space yesterday (you can see the link over there in the sidebar). Nathan and Dinah have been telling me forever that I need to join, so I finally bowed to the peer pressure and signed up. I hear about people meeting random strangers on that thing all the time; I have at least two friends who met and went out with people from My Space. Of course, I don't believe it was to much success in either case, but still.

3) One day, when I am disgustingly wealthy, I am going to open an adults only movie theatre. Only those 21 and up will be allowed, and alcohol and appetizers will be available. Why the emphasis on the adult only theatre? I went to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on Sunday with Nate and Dinah. We waited until 8:30 to go, hoping the kid factor would be reduced by the late hour. No such luck. First there was the family who brought a BABY to the movie. The kid started to cry, and the parents looked like they were going to take him out. Instead, they proceeded to pace back and forth in the front of the theatre, while the rest of their kids ran willy-nilly around the theatre, totally unsupervised. In addition, about 10 minutes into the movie, two women came in with about 6-7 little children between them. One of the women sat right next to Dinah (who sits right next to a stranger in an uncrowded theatre?), and held a little girl in her lap. The girl talked out loud during most of the movie. I realize they are children, and can't really be blamed for their rambunctious behavior. But the parents can CERTAINLY be blamed for their lack of control over the kids. Neither of these sets of parents made any significant effort to control their children. KICKED IN THE FACE!!

Seeing is believing

2005-07-01T09:20:00.000-05:00

Indian Paintbrush
Originally uploaded by The Bagboy.

I went to Ennis back in April with Erin and Nate to the bluebonnet festival. Nathan told me about it, and told me I had never seen bluebonnets like I would see at this thing. "Yeah, right," I thought. "I'm from Texas; I see bluebonnets all the time!" Boy, was I wrong. There were places where the fields were a solid blue for hundreds of feet (if you click on the picture, you can see an example or two). On top of that, I never realized that bluebonnets had any kind of pleasant scent. But when you step out into an entire field of them, it's mind-blowing how good they smell. Kind of like honeysuckles, but a bit sweeter. It was a great experience, and I might have to go back next year.

I wanted to post this picture for the simple reason that I'm not a visual artist. I can't paint, draw, sculpt, build origami monkeys; none of it. I can occasionally take a decent picture, but it's usually an accident. However, this one I planned, lined up, adjusted angles on...yada yada yada. And it turned out better than I could have ever imagined. So this is my one and only piece of artistic greatness. You may commence with the bowing.

Celebrate some gay!

2005-06-29T17:16:00.000-05:00

In honour of our friendly neighbors to the north legalizing gay marriage, I proudly present...

THE GAYEST THING EVAR!!

And a hearty congrats to the Canucks. If you're anti-gay marriage, I'm sorry if this offends you. I'm neither for nor against the particular issue, but I AM for a person's ability to choose for him/herself.

Links-a-poppin'!

2005-06-23T15:40:00.000-05:00

I figured it's been a while since I did a good old-fashioned link round-up. So without further ado, away we go!

First up is a terrific piece of French animation which cleverly demonstrates the Butterfly Effect (and no, I don't mean the crappy Ashton Kutcher movie): Le Building (Brief animated nudity and violence)

Want to see how far we are from the nearest star? Want a guided tour of our little section of the neighborhood? Like to play with cool Flash based astronomy tools? Then this one's for you: Planet Quest 3D New Worlds Atlas

Really, who didn't see it coming? Tom Cruise writes a letter to Satan

And finally, the robot revolution is beginning. I advise seeking shelter immediately in any local government facilities with fall-out shelters. Of course, you might have some time to plan, since the robots are still just predicting the weather. (This could very well give you nightmares. I felt the last tattered shreds of my innocence slip away watching this seemingly innocuous weather report.)

Taste my religion

2005-06-22T16:00:00.000-05:00

Tried out this religion quiz forwarded to me by my friend JT. It ranks you in accordance with where you fit in different Christian ideologies, based on a set of agree/disagree questions. It's sort of fascinating. For instance, you'll notice that Fundamentalist is lowest on my list, but I was raised Fundamentalist. I'm much more open-minded and liberal these days (a fact which causes my mother no end of grief). Anyway, give it a try, and let me know where you fall.

You scored as Emergent/Postmodern. You are Emergent/Postmodern in your theology. You feel alienated from older forms of church, you don't think they connect to modern culture very well. No one knows the whole truth about God, and we have much to learn from each other, and so learning takes place in dialogue. Evangelism should take place in relationships rather than through crusades and altar-calls. People are interested in spirituality and want to ask questions, so the church should help them to do this.

Emergent/Postmodern

86%

Evangelical Holiness/Wesleyan

68%

Modern Liberal

64%

Classical Liberal

61%

Neo orthodox

46%

Charismatic/Pentecostal

36%

Reformed Evangelical

29%

Roman Catholic

18%

Fundamentalist

14%

What's your theological worldview?
created with QuizFarm.com

Funny this site is, mmm.

2005-06-07T15:28:00.000-05:00

Wondering what that's all about? I'm sure many of you (and by "many" I mean the three people that read this thing) are fans of Star Wars Episode III. I saw it last week, and my reaction to most of it was a firm and unflinching "Meh." It had the cool effects and fights, and there were one or two cool moments (Darth Vadar's first breath, anyone?), but for the most part I was overwhelmingly underwhelmed. So with all that said, I give you Star Wars Epidsode III: a steaming pile of Sith (found, cleverly enough, on "The Best Page in the Universe").

Also, plenty of examples of Superman being a SuperDick.

Oh, and one other thing...

2005-06-06T15:45:00.000-05:00

You know, The Phantom Professor has been receiving a lot of attention since she was outed. For those of you not in the know, that links to a blog run by one Elaine Liner. Ms. Liner is an arts critic for The Dallas Observer (where she regularly makes personal attacks against actors/directors/producers; yes, personal attacks). Ms. Liner was also an adjunct writing professor at Southern Methodist University. While a professor, she maintained the aforementioned blog, and often commented on things she observed/heard on campus, interactions she had with students, or just SMU life in general. She labeled the rich, blonde, petite girls who are SMU's stock-in-trade as "Ashleys", giving her a way to discuss their vapidity without naming names, which would've opened her up to a libel case.

The blog ran in complete anonymity for quite a while, until it was discovered that it was Ms. Liner running it. I can't remember how, nor do I really care; we'll get to that in a moment. Regardless, the truth came out. Shortly after it came out, Ms. Liner lost her contract as an adjunct professor at SMU. Were the two connected? SMU claims no, Ms. Liner (naturally) claims, if not directly, it certainly didn't help.

People have been lauding her as someone speaking the truth about how things are at SMU. I can't really argue with that aspect of it. The way she describes things are pretty accurate. There's a real focus on the surface of things here (which would explain why every office in my building has a flat screen monitor, but I have to pay about $35/month (!) for my health benefits). So she makes a few good points. That being said, I'd like to express the following opinion of Ms. Liner: She is a horrible person, and that was a really inappropriate thing for her to do.

I know, it seems hypocritical of me to say her points were good but they make her a horrible person. But that's not what I meant. What I meant was that the expression of those opinions was the bad thing to do. She quoted things students said to her in confidence, and while she may not have used any names to indentify the students, the students themselves knew when they were being quoted. I would go so far as to say their friends knew who they were as well, and potentially could have learned details they shouldn't have known about friends/acquaintances. In addition, the labeling of a subset of the school community in a pejorative nature is unprofessional in the utmost. She's in a position of leadership, authority, and guidance over these students. Rather than bemoaning the fact that they have little focus on the deeper things in life, try to guide them toward those deeper things. Is that what a college-level professor is supposed to do anyway? Guide and instruct?

Something definitely needs to be done about the love of money and surface around here. I'm not saying I'm any better than Ms. Liner. I'm not, however, in a position of authority over the students, so anything I say is just inane rambling (if you've gotten this far in the post, you can definitely see the truth in that statement). When it comes from Ms. Liner, it's wholly inappropriate. Did the blog have anything to do with Ms. Liner's ousting from SMU? Who really knows except the administration? Should it have had something to do with it? You bet your sweet bippy.

Art schmart

2005-06-06T14:53:00.000-05:00

Today's all about art on teh intrawebs. Actually, it's only about two websites on teh intrawebs, but they're both artistically related, so nyeh to you.

The first is Gallery of the Absurd. An artist writes brief little comments on something going on in the world of the vapid celebrity, then creates a (rather impressive) piece of art based on that blurb or celebrity. Par exemple:

The second is from Dave Devries' Monster Engine. Dave takes children's drawings of monsters, superheroes, and miscellany, and turns those drawings into actual pieces of art. It's effing brilliant. My favorite is his translation of a child's interpretation of Superman:

Anyway, it's all great stuff. Check it oot, eh?

Tom Cruise: That's some tasty crazy!!

2005-06-02T17:02:00.000-05:00

From Television Without Pity (TWoP for those in the know):

While I would much rather be recapping Tom Cruise jumping his own self-made Scientology-loving shark on Oprah, dragging Katie Holmes out against her will… All right, I will recap it. Quickly. Here it is: "Look! I love women! I love me some vagina. Look. Look how I chewed Katie's lips off with my hetero-love-passion! Check it out. I love black people, too! Oh, yes. Black women. Tina Turner gave me roses, that's how motherfucking vagina-loving my shit is. I'd friggin' wear a vagina if I could, but in a really manly way. Intense? Hell yeah, I'm intense. Look, I help people. I'm known for that. I'll get your kids off Ritalin if you just donate a billion dollars to The L. Ron Hubbard Home For Terrible Sci-Fi Fiction and Freaky C-List Yeardley-Smith-Level Celebrities. See, I told you I was known for helping people. You know what else I'm known for? Fucking gay porn stars and then suing the balls out of their mouths when they come out with the story. What? Yeah, my children are black? Fuck you, Oprah. How dare you even notice something like the color of someone's skin. That's how fucking non-racist I am. I didn't even know my kids were black. I thought they were very tan. You're black? See! I didn't even know that! Now I'm going to stand on your couch until you get me some vagina right the fuck now!!! Go see War of the Worlds, opening June 29th! And then go hump some vagina, cuz that's what I'll be doing!"

Courtesy of Stee, who is one clever fellow.

Liar!!

2005-06-02T12:46:00.000-05:00

OK, so...hypothetical time (and by hypothetical, I mean it really happened to me, but it's hypothetical for you). Let's say you have a coworker who, while a nice person, truly blows chunder when it comes to her job, and this person continually screws crap up that has a direct effect on YOUR job, which you then have to fix or have her fix, and bring to her attention so maybe she'll learn from her mistakes. However, despite all your efforts to help, (including directly offering to answer questions, take some of her burden because you often finish your work quickly, etc.), she both refuses your help, AND continues to screw up. Let's say this situation is so bad, in fact, that your and her boss has been getting multiple complaints from people in your dept. due to her screwing crap up, her inability to answer questions, or help in any significant way. In fact, the situation is even worse than that...there’ve been so many complaints about her that the head honcho of your dept., your executive damn director, has had to make special arrangements to RE-train her AND your direct supervisor, as a way of stemming the complaint tide.

Now imagine you do well at your job...keep your head down, don't make trouble, you're thorough and responsive, and you've gotten MULTIPLE compliments from people on your team and your dept. as a whole, INCLUDING thanks for making things run smoother than they've been in the past. Now imagine that there is a particular task you and the idiot share...a common email account that people in your dept. can send questions and requests for help, and you and the idiot both work that account, doing a first-on-the-scene sort of thing for the common questions, and dealing individually with emails that pertain directly your position (which you do work, maybe not as often as you should, but you do work it at least once a week, usually more).

Now let's say there's a particular member of your team who trained you, and with whom you get along quite well but who the idiot hates for reasons neither entirely clear nor accurate, and that team member calls you into her office one day to inform you that, during a state-of-the-union meeting about the idiot, your name came up in a negative sense. Specifically, that you had told the idiot that she was solely responsible for the email account (a blatant lie), and she was therefore overwhelmed responding to emails and couldn't do her job to the best of her ability...in essence (and this is my interpretation), that it's your fault that she sucks. Not only that, but your direct supervisor, who you thought you had a good relationship with, backed up her account of things...all of this in front of at least one other manager and the executive director. He and the idiot seem to have some odd relationship, where he continually covers for her mistakes. Did he ever ask you your side of things? No. Did she ever come to you to say she was overwhelmed and could you take on more responsibility for the email account? No.

The rub is you're not supposed to know....it was told to you in confidence by that team member. In fact, that team member probably wasn't even supposed to know, but heard it from a manager you really like and respect, and who seems to like you as well. You don’t want to get anyone in trouble, but you want to call the idiot on her lie, and ask your supervisor why he didn’t just ask you about it first before supporting her in front of the executive director. What would you do to prevent further false tarnish to your reputation using information you’re not supposed to have?

Condomanimation

2005-05-05T16:06:00.000-05:00

Coolest safe sex ad EVAR! Even if it is from the stinky French. (Just kidding, Frenchies! I truly love your fries and your kisses....just not together.)

(WARNING - Depicts brief animated nudity, so may be NSFW)

For the international traveler, Part the Second

2005-05-03T13:32:00.000-05:00

Even more important phrases, useful for complimenting your fine Chinese hosts' cooking.

Part the first is here.

And then of course, there's this (make sure your speakers are on). Or, if you prefer, this.

Posterior Haberdashery

2005-04-25T11:03:00.000-05:00

"I think the audience that watches reality TV has a coliseum mentality. They are cheering for the lion, not the gladiator. I don't know at what price we're prepared to pander to that audience. But anything that is degrading to them, or humiliating, or holds them up to public ridicule, none of those things are going to be acceptable," he said.

Now you may read that quote and think, "What's so bad about it? He's just decrying the dumbing down of American entertainment." And if you were referring to "Trading Spouses" or "Who's Your Bitch?" or any of the other pap put on by Fox, you might be right. But the really, truly stupid thing about that quote is who made it, and in reference to what.

Who: Bob Arnhym, director of the Miss California Scholarship Pageant.

What: Regarding the possibly of "Fear Factor"- or "Survivor"-ing the Miss America pageant.

Why: Apparently, the Miss America pageant is currently without a broadcast outlet, due to the fact that its ratings for the past several years have continually declined. Things are so bad, in fact, that there is the possibility of no Miss America pageant this year.

You may wonder why this has my dander up. And the reason is simple: the man who doesn't want to "pander" to the reality TV audience is...drum roll...the scholarship director for a BEAUTY PAGEANT! He gives college aid based (primarily) on who is or isn't pretty. Now I know there are other factors involved in beauty pageants, like talent and the interview and so forth. However, in recent years the pageant has shortened or eliminated the talent portion, and moved the interview to an off-camera format, therefore broadcasting pretty much ONLY the beauty portion of the pageant. Don't get me wrong -- I'm not one of those prim idiots that thinks beauty pageants are demeaning to women. I feel that the women involved do so by choice (mostly), and there's nothing wrong with celebrating their beauty. But for someone to get all up-in-arms about the association of Miss America with reality TV is asinine in my opinion. After all, technincally speaking, wasn't Miss America the first example of reality TV? So what if they don't eat bugs or marry the homeless? It's an unscripted television show with contestants competing for a prize in front of a national audience. If that's not reality TV, I don't know what is. What do you think Donald?

Trump: "Bob Arnhym, you're a loser. You hang around with losers, you become a loser. I bought Miss USA, and it's doing great because of me. I bought it for one million, and now it's worth five million. And Melania will be competing next year. It's gonna be yooge."

(Trump appears courtesy of NBC and his own gigantic ego.)

The truth about Halloween candy

2005-04-16T12:19:00.000-05:00

"'Candy corn,' I think. 'Corn that tastes like candy. I can't wait....SONOFABITCH!!'"
--Lewis Black

Guerilla Comedy

2005-04-13T10:55:00.000-05:00

If you've spent any time at all on teh intrawebs, you've heard of one guerilla comedy troupe or another. Maybe it's the Surveillance Camera Players, who perform short plays in front of...you guessed it...security cameras, both for comedy value and protest value. Or perhaps it's Improv Everywhere, whose most recent performance was putting a "bathroom attendant" in the Times Square McDonald's. Hilarity, wackiness, tomfoolery, and good bathroom hygiene ensue.

But taking things one step farther on the creative scale is Prangstgrüp. They did one of those anti-Bush ads for MoveOn.org (featured on the site). But mostly they do true guerilla comedy. The two stand-out performances (that I've seen so far; haven't had time to work through the whole site yet) are Reading on a Dream: A Library Musical, and Reach! A Lecture Musical. The gist is that the performers enter a public, university related setting, and perform a "spontaneous" musical. Hilarity, wackiness, balderdash and dancing ensue. There is a noticable lack of leg warmers.

On a side note, breakdance for Jesus, ya'll! Also, taking candy from a baby, TO THE EXTREME!! Also? Barbie pulls a Britney Spears.

For the international traveler

2005-04-06T13:48:00.000-05:00

Important phrases to learn and speak.

This is Dr. Monkey-Horns!!

2005-04-04T11:22:00.000-05:00

This is my computer blog.

I am a Japanese school teacher.

Become a flesh donor!

Out of flippin' nowhere

2005-03-29T16:07:00.000-06:00

Is it strange that a woman I used to have a "thing" with, who is now married and has a baby, text messaged me last night? THREE times? Out of the clear blue sky? And asked for my new address so she could "write me"? And addressed me as "baby" and told me she missed me? And that I'm writing this post entirely in questions?

Gluttony - The American Way

2005-03-21T15:26:00.000-06:00

What I'm going to say has been said multiple times over by multiple people in multiple ways, so I'm not for a second claiming originality here. My subject is trite and overworked, but I amused the hell out of myself the other night when I first saw the commercial to which this will refer. And yes, I did say amuse myself, but don't be dirty, you crass gutter-swine. LOL! LMAO! ROTFL! WTF! BBQ! Or something.

So I'm watching TV the other night (one of my favorite forms of exercise), when one of those random commercials for crap that no one ever (I hope) buys comes on. It's by the same people that made that Chocolate Factory thing where the magical process of a double boiler is made simple for the common American so we can all make those ridiculous chocolate covered spoons for our coffee or tea or whatever the hell. I'll admit, I do love some chocolate fondue with angel food cake, but if I'm just dying for that, I'll just spend $20 at Target for a fondue set. Hell, that one even has multi-colored forks so my guests don't get herpes from one another! Beat that, Chocolate Factory! (That, by the way, may be the most unintentionally dirty sentence I've ever written.)

The particular commercial on which I've chosen to rant is for some sort of cake making contraption (no link; they're apparently too ashamed to put it on teh intrawebs) which allows you to make a bowl shaped cake with a regular round cake bottom. Why, you may ask, would you want to make a bowl shaped cake? Why, so you can fill it with things! Things such as what, you (the nosy question-asking bastard) may further ask? Why, such as ice cream! Italian tort or somesuch! Gobs and gobs of frosting! Or, if you're feeling particularly saucy, more cake! Goddamn, it's a cake explosion! Watch out for shrapnel! And I can't even begin to figure out how to put ice cream in a cake without making it soggy or ripping it all to hell, but that's for some fool baker to figure out, not me.

Now what could I possibly have against this useless contraption, aside from it's obvious status of "Shit No One Really Needed"? My problem is this: the world already sees us as a bunch of greedy, heartless pigs, and now we're making things to put one cake inside another cake? 'Cause one damn cake isn't enough? Fill that bitch up with weed or money, and we might have something on our hands. But filling one cake with another? Besides sounding like a sugar coma waiting to happen, it's simply unnecessary, and only serves to make Americans look more like gluttonous pigs than ever before. I don't mean to go all political about it, but goddamn people...if you have $30 extra dollars to spend on a layered-cake-globe-system, go out and buy some homeless guy a damn sandwich. And maybe a Twinkie. Then everybody gets cake with something inside! (Again, unintentionally dirty.)

Edit on 4/20 (Yeah, bitches!): I found the evil contraption's intrawebs presence. It's the Betty Crocker Bake 'n Fill. The horror.

Reason enough to quit

2005-02-22T13:12:00.000-06:00

Everyone has his or her reasons for hating elevators. The uncomfortable silences or, on the opposite end of the spectrum, the uncomfortable small talk about the weather or whose kids are doing well in Little League. Boring, painful, and needless chit-chat. An elevator ride lasts what, all of 30 seconds? Maybe 1-2 minutes if you work/live in a really tall building? And yet some people feel the need to talk through the whole thing, because a few seconds of silence is apparently a horrifying prospect. That used to be my biggest pet peeve about elevators. Until now.

Someone has been spitting in the corners of the elevators here at work. And not just some random popcorn-stuck-in-my-teeth-and-I'm-trying-to-get-it-out spitting either. Some individual with the social graces of dirt has been hawking up some big ol' phlegm wads and spitting them in the corners of the elevators. And leaving them there to dry. If you look in the corners of the elevators of the Blanton Building on the SMU campus, you'll find some lovely ovals of dried human mucus. Seriously...WTF?!? Referring back to the short span of an elevator ride, you can't hold your damn snot in until you reach a floor with a bathroom? Goddamn, it's sick. And it's not like I work with a bunch of teenagers here. The majority of people I work with are 10-20 years my senior. And yet we have a serial spitter.

I have a sneaking suspicion who it may be. There's a man who works on my floor (we'll call him Count Plegmenstein (silent g)) who apparently has been smoking 3-4 packs a day for the last 40 years, judging by the Herculean hacks and coughs he spews all over the place. He's a mixed-bag of fun noises and habits. Many times I've been in the restroom, answering nature's call or washing up after, and he's come in wheezing like an organ with a hole in the bellows. He comes in and sets down his full gallon cup (!; I shit you not), and proceeds to perform his daily ablutions. At the public restroom sinks. And boy does he get into it. He juts his ass out in the air as he leans his entire forearms on the counter. He turns on the water from both taps to full blast, and proceeds to splash water all over his face as though trying to sober himself up, all the while hacking and coughing like he's on the edge of death. And that's not an exaggeration. Many times have I listened to those grunts and groans of his, thinking he's either going to throw up or pass out. I don't have a weak stomach in the slightest, but it makes even me a little nauseous. Then he brushes his teeth. When he's done with his little bath, he then yanks towel after towel after towel out of the dispenser and finally heads out the door. Still coughing and wheezing. Some of those coughs definitely sound like the coughs of the Serial Elevator Phlegmist. (*Note to Self - Start band called Serial Elevator Phlegmist)(*Note to Self Part Deux - Learn to play an instrument)

Anyway, it's really nasty, and I don't feel I should have to suffer through it alone.

On a side note, how hardcore do you have to be to be labeled as Party Guy on Paris Hilton's address book? An address book which includes Lindsay Lohan and Ashley Olson?

These titles are too much pressure.

2005-02-21T17:19:00.000-06:00

I'm a really shitty blogger.

That is all. (See? What'd I tell you!)

I don't post when I don't have much to say

2004-11-23T11:05:00.000-06:00

Yeah, it's been a while. I haven't really had anything new or exciting to add that I would deem worthy of a visit to my humble little blog. I thought I would at least get a snide comment or two on my last post, being as it was so filled with hotlinks and angst. Hey, that sounds like an ad for canned stew or something. "Mr. McMeaty's Hearty Stew! Now with more hotlinks and angst! Mr. McMeaty's - for when rotten horse meat just isn't filling enough!"

Anyhoodle. I tried to elevate things with Krista, to no avail. She recently had a showing of her work, and I showed up looking and acting my best. Dressed head to toe in black, carrying freshly purchased lilies (thought not the kind she really likes...calla lilies are hard to find at the last minute...on a Saturday...at 5:30 PM), I went in ready to woo and win. I ended up spending most of my time on the periphery, watching her meet 'n greet her guests. Well, my friends who went with me had to go to prepare for a party we were all attending later, but I chose to stick around, hoping the impression I was trying to make wouldn't go unnoticed. I was quickly disabused of that notion when I noticed that she left the flowers sitting in the kitchen of the gallery when she left. And to top all that off, I firmly believe she had a "date" there. So that avenue's gone. Amber told me to look at it as the wonderful confidence builder that it should have been. No dice there. She also told me it freed me up for other women (HA!). But Krista was...very special. I hadn't connected with someone like her in a while. So it's back to the drawing board, and that image I once had of myself as a lonely, overweight forty-year-old man in a laundromat looms ever closer.

I'm being Mr. Sneaky here at work as I arrange interviews for other positions. I'm torn between tellng my supervisor in an act of full disclosure, and keeping it from her until I know something definite. I'm mightily afraid of prejudicing my superiors against me until I know if I'm out of here. I keep getting bullshit assignments that are way outside of my job description from a manager and "trainer" who do very little on their own. I'm too old and experienced (and smart, frankly) to be treated as a glorified gopher. For example, I'm currently doing everything in my power to avoid rewriting a policy that was just rewritten about two months ago. And why should I have to rewrite it? Because my boss can't find a copy of the rewritten version. So I should suffer for it? My ass.

I don't know if anyone other than JT actually reads this. It's very strange to think how I pour my thoughts into this thing for no reason other than self-satisfaction. Maybe a format change would be in order? Like nothing but free form, stream-of-conciousness writing. Or maybe little mini-scripts. Who knows? I just know that my life is too damn boring for a blog.

By the pricking of my thumbs...

2004-10-07T13:25:00.000-05:00

Ever get that feeling of existential dread? You know, that gnawing, ache-in-your-gut feeling that something bad is about to happen? Or worse, that something bad is already happening, but you're not fully aware of it yet? I have that right now. There's nothing in particular that would lead me to that conclusion, and yet I can't shake the feeling that something's going/about to go wrong. Maybe it's my constant state of financial depression, or my back which gets a little worse each month. Maybe it's backlash from all the years I tended to be a jerk with little apology. Who really knows? I just know that I'm feeling severely out of sorts today.

Spent the evening with Krista on Tuesday. Alan asked how it was, and I had to think about it for a bit before I could answer. I really have a lot of fun with her. The flow of conversation is easier with her, in a lot of ways, than with people I've know much longer than her. We laugh constantly, and she's very easy to open up to (and I think she feels the same way, based on some of the stories she's told me from her life). But she just isn't into me the way I want. And that makes it hard to be around her. I know that sounds painfully selfish, but it's honest, which is what I'm trying to be more of these days. I mean we're sitting there, watching Shark Tale (something I would only see with her), and I can't concentrate on the damn movie because all I can think about is how much I want to grab her hand, or put my arm around her, or just lean the hell over and plant one on her. She intoxicates me. I know that sounds horribly saccharine and cheesy, but it's the best way I can describe it. Around her, I really can't think straight without a lot of effort. I mean, is it normal that every time I leave her company I have to take a few minutes to compose myself?

I'm not going to sit here and claim I'm in love with her. I'm not 100% sure I've EVER been in love, so how in the hell would I know what it feels like? Other people can try and quantify it for me, but isn't your love for another person a wholly personal experience? Yes, there are some commonalities. Wanting to be around him/her all the time, caring more about him/her than yourself, etc. But I'm the type of person that wholly invests himself in his platonic relationships, so how do I know when there's a difference?

Not long after I first met Krista and we had spent some time together, she told me, very up front and honestly, that she's looking for an instant "romantic" connection, and she didn't feel that with me. I could deal with that...if I felt like it were wholly true. But our interactions (and you'll just have to take my word on this) seem to indicate otherwise. I honestly feel like she's making a mistake by not giving me a chance. I think the two of us together could be something truly great. But that's how I feel. I know I have to respect her feeling on the subject, and I do. But how long can I go on ignoring my own desires and needs? How long can I sublimate them to my desire not to lose her friendship? Is the truth just going to pop out of me one day, like steam from a pressure cooker? And wouldn't the after effects of that be worse than if I were truly honest with her about what I feel? So damn many unanswered questions. And I'm veering dangerously close to sounding like a teenage drama here.

Being an adult sucks my ass.

Keep your fingers crossed!

2004-09-23T15:45:00.000-05:00

Good to see from the old electoral college meter over there that Kerry seems to be gaining. Not that I'm a big Kerry fan, but Bush lost me a long time ago.

Gearing up for a party for Nathan this weekend. It sucks to have a party to host and no money to do it with. Hope everyone likes the taste of air!

A conversation I don't want to have.

2004-09-14T13:54:00.000-05:00

Went to visit the 'rents this weekend. Whilst there, my mother asked "Are you planning on voting this year?" To which I replied, honestly, that I hadn't decided yet. It's out in the open now--I no longer like GWB. She reacted a lot more calmly than I anticipated. I figured, given her increasingly ultra-conservative standpoint, that she might tell me I was sinning somehow by not voting for Bush (and I'm not joking about that). Fortunately, she seemed to accept it on its own merit. Though I could tell she was definitely NOT happy. What surprised me even more, though, was the fact that my dad actually agreed with me on a few things. Even when I was talking about how I disagreed with some of my sister's parenting choices.

Now I know the fact that I despise children should disqualify me from even having an opinion on the matter. But they are my nephews, and probably the closest I'll come for a loooong time to having kids of my own. So I do disagree with some of what she does, but I respect her decisions because, after all, she IS their mother. And all in all, they're really great kids with really loving and attentive parents. I don't mean to imply otherwise.

All that to say, all my studious efforts to avoid any subject even remotely related to politics around my parents were swept, quite cleanly, aside. And the results weren't nearly as bad as I anticipated.

Anyway, enough of that. I'm bored out of my skull at work. Which in and of itself isn't that bad, since I'm writing this from work. But since I'm broke all the time too, it's leading me to have somewhat of a laissez faire attitude about my responsibilities around here. Oh well, I guess it gives me more time to ramble on this thing.

Oh, Hurricane Ivan? Hurry the frig up and do something. I'm so tired of hearing about it.

'Cause Anime is teh suck!

2004-09-09T14:03:00.000-05:00

"Tuesday, September 07, 2004
Marfy.
I am currently sitting here smelling insence. o-o Tis goo.d xD School was fats today. o-O My homework was quite easy also. A good day! Marf..."

This is from a lovely little blog called Teh Blog of the Radish. It's written by a 13 year old kid, who uses the word "marf" repeatedly and lists mushrooms as one of his likes. It's genius; you should check it out.

Shameful Shilling

2004-09-09T11:50:00.000-05:00

I decided to let a few random strangers in on this nonsense. I figure I'll try that for a while, and if it works out then I'll slowly inform my friends of the site. It can't hurt to get some random, unbiased feedback on my writing before those who know me best start reading my insanity.

So here's my shameless shill section. I hope to bring in a little traffic through the help of such sites as Technorati, Daypop, Blogdex, and Popdex. You can see that Technorati and Popdex have added a couple of small new features to the page. I'll be sharing some of my favorite sites, blogs and otherwise, thanks to the help of Blogrolling (over there to the side--->). And finally, my blog address will show up on other random blogs, just like the one you see toward the top of the sidebar, thanks to Blogsnob. Try out today's random link; who knows what genius you might find. Oh, that hurricane image in my header? Hosted for free thanks to ImageShack. The other two pics (Rick James and me giving birth) were posted using Picasa and Hello, subsidiaries of Google, who owns Blogspot.

Good lord, I feel like a cheap shill whore. I need to get back to some of my core values, like...uh...indie rock! Liberal guilt! Detached irony! There, now I feel a little better.

Genius...pure genius.

2004-09-08T16:45:00.000-05:00

Holy crap.

Filling the time

2004-08-29T17:51:00.000-05:00

Another weekend spent by myself. Seems to get a little easier with each passing week, which kind of scares me. But I guess it's a good thing, as no changes appear to be coming down the pipeline. After I pissed Jennifer off, and pretty seriously I might add, something felt final. Hopefully I'm wrong, but I doubt it.

What I'm amazed at is my ability to fill the time, even if it's simply with watching TV. And aye, a lot of that's been done. Today I've spent a good portion of my time online, reading up on the latest ARGs (Alternate Reality Games) and finding instructions for getting started with this stupid SimCity 2000 I've had sitting around forever. I know, it's sort of an old game to be messing with, especially with the wealth of entertainment options available at my disposal. But it's just one of those things that sort of seemed to call out to me to mess with. So right now I'm waiting for the first tutorial from the manual to print out, so I can refresh my memory on how to play the stupid game. At least tonight there's a new episode of Six Feet Under waiting for me, new episodes on Adult Swim, and tomorrow I'll get another movie from Netflix. Thank God for modern conveniances; otherwise I might go mad all by myself. Anyway, the manual's done now, so I guess that's all I have to write for the time being. Does this excitement never end?

2004-08-22T02:07:00.000-05:00

Oh, and I forgot to add this: R.I.P. Rick James. We hardly knew ye and your wicked ways. Mind you, I'm not terribly knowledgable when it comes to his music, but I like what I know. Hearing stories of his funeral, which was officiated by Louis Farakhan and where numerous joints were sparked mid-service, makes me wonder how I'll be remembered when I go. Rick lived hard, probably died hard, and look at the fond memories so many people have of him. His funeral was virtually a party. Would that my passing could have half that impact.

One more push, Mrs. Henderson.

2004-08-22T02:00:00.000-05:00

And I wonder why I'm still single. I have a feeling this exaggerated face has a lot to do with it. Probably pretty representative of my demeanor a lot of the time. God, I look like I'm either severely constipated (how crass), or trying to vomit up a watermelon. Either way, not a pretty sight, and probably not one to share with the kids. Or anybody who's not blind, for that matter.