Musings of a Misanthrope

ENGL146EL Final Paper

2009-12-08T17:26:00.000-08:00

Bao Nguyen
12/08/2009
ENGL146EL

Citizen Portal: Narrative Art in Video Games

The continual growth of the video game industry, compounded with dramatic improvements in technology, has considerably changed the landscape of video game design. The genesis of interactive entertainment focused primarily on delivering amusement rather than interweaving dense narratives with gameplay, but the aforementioned advances in technology and a perpetual demand for a more sophisticated and worthwhile experience have paved the way for video games that include intricate plots and story devices. The medium itself has utilized the exclusive facets of design, visual elements such as atmosphere and modeling, to breathe new life into stories, while simultaneously embracing literary traditions. Three fairly recent examples of sublime storytelling, Prince of Persia: Sands of Time, Portal, and Grand Theft Auto 4, transcend the labels of childish entertainment to deliver rich and rewarding experiences that cannot be otherwise replicated.

Contemporary trends in gaming, discernible by simple observation, reveal a decisive schism between traditional, linear plots and sandbox narratives. The finest example of the former is the modern classic Prince of Persia: Sands of Time, heralded as the epitome of gameplay and narrative, a shining example that balances both elements. The Jordan Mechner helmed reboot of the franchise draws influence from Arabian myth, telling the story of the eponymous prince, manipulated by a vizier into unleashing the Sands of Time on the city of Azad. People are turned into monsters, and the kingdom is ravaged, setting the scene for the Prince's quest, with the power of the Sands imbued within his dagger. The linearity of the story and the ergodic nature of the game is complimented by the gameplay mechanics, which involve parkour platforming, combat portions against monsters, and time manipulation. The game is also cerebrally rich, raising questions of fate, while at the same time putting spins on ergodic navigation and self-reflexivity.

On a base level, the gameplay and level design, Sands of Time almost stands alone. The majesty of the level design – the ruined palaces and dank caves deliver a sense of immersion and awe that is impossible by a non-interactive medium. The gameplay mechanics are experimental, blending elements of time manipulation, parkour-influenced combat, and fluid platforming. The Prince's dagger controls the fabric of reality, allowing him to undo mistakes, freeze time, and drain the life from his enemies. The combat system espouses improvisation, presenting the player with a wide array of maneuvers to explore, allowing the audience to discover for themselves what the best reaction would be in any given situation. In this sense, Mechner's work is rife with ergodic control, allowing the player to manipulate the very fabric of time itself, to bend a fundamental dimension of the universe to the will of the audience. The combat is also heavily dependent on the player's reflexes, which affords the user that degree of freedom with which to dispatch the enemies. Sands of Time, while quite linear in plot and design, allows the player the creative freedom, the ergodic richness on a solely micro level, that is unseen in similar games, games that try to juggle several elements but end up falling flat.

The writing of Sands of Time further sets it apart from many titles. Despite the fantastic backdrop, Mechner's opus manages to make every facet of the game feel genuine and grounded. The Prince, at first, is resoundingly arrogant, behaving as such to disguise how terrified he is of the task ahead of him. When he meets Farah, the princess of Azad, their initial relationship is based on mutual enmity. But as the adventure wears on and the odds continue to mount, they begin to care for each other, exemplifying the notion that struggle is what brings people together. The Prince, understandably, begins to grow more condescending and sarcastic, which, while annoying, is quite relatable; he's just scared of what's going to happen. His body language, his drooping shoulders and disheveled hair further communicate a sense of exhaustion and sadness. Even Farah is characterized strongly, depicted initially as a disapproving, determined woman warrior, but it's clear that she's forced to adopt this exterior image for the same reasons as the Prince. The relationship between the two characters also sees intriguing interplay throughout the story; there is a considerable amount of chemistry and sexual tension, but it never feels shoehorned. Instead, their affection develops through their mutual reliance on each other: it comes naturally as opposed to some writer fulfilling a cliché quota. Mechner writes characters that are flawed and believable, rather than caricatures of familiar tropes.

The realistic writing lends credence to the idea that Sands of Time is a “literary” game. Mechner's narrative is simultaneously a deconstruction on the typical fairy tale, a clever experimentation in meta-narration, and an exploration on the foibles of fate and destiny. There is a clearly established antagonist and protagonist, complete with requisite princesses and overtones of mysticism. The narrative structure is also interesting; the Prince is the narrator and the entirety of the game are his memories as he recalls them to an audience. This ties into clever moments of self-reflexivity and meta-narrative, which are incorporated when the player dies, during which the Prince's narration stops and he reflects on his atrocious memory. All of these tricks are combined with the age-old question of destiny, and what role predestination plays. The Prince is embroiled in a situation that, despite his best efforts, seems impossible to resolve. He attempts to rewind time to prevent the Sands from ever becoming unleashed, but he's foiled in each attempt, perhaps because fate intends for him to undo his mistake by defeating the Vizier. The question is presented often, but there is never a clear-cut answer to whether the Prince is actually confined by the foibles of fate. The story, while basic on a surface level, is conveyed through very sophisticated narratological methods, literary devices used to both tell the tale and keep it original.

Sands of Time is straightforward in its presentation and themes, a jarring contrast to the Valve-developed Portal. Though simple in concept – escape a science lab using a gun that creates and links portals – the mind-bending gameplay and unconventional modes of storytelling that veil a self-reflexive subtext make it more than the sum of its parts. The player controls the main character, Chell, through a first-person perspective, using the device to solve puzzles in “test chambers.” Portal embraces minimalism, utilizing a single gameplay mechanic and monochrome color palette, while providing plot details through a single narrator, the Kubrickian AI GLaDOS. Its sparse nature ironically hides a sea of depth, making Portal a masterpiece of interactive entertainment.

The most striking feature of Portal is the complexity of its single-premise gameplay and its relation to the monochromatic and boxy levels. Players navigate Chell through a series of rooms that require certain objectives to be accomplished before entering the next one. For example, a room may necessitate the player to use portals to reroute a blob of energy to restore power to a door. The environments, though merely playgrounds for solving these puzzles, are dimly lit and almost always uniformally gray, which gives off a sense of being trapped. Each room is always a clever trial, and the game, though short, is expertly paced, with a uniformally rising difficulty curve. The message that the developers are trying to communicate through the simple premise and design can be construed as a criticism on modern game design. Big-budget titles are crammed to the hilt with physics and damage engines and top-of-the-line graphics and sound. But Portal's rejection of these facets is subversive, and states outright that games do not necessarily require these elements to be fun or successful. The driving force behind Portal is a clear representation of less is more; the premise is almost retro, harkening to the halcyon days of gaming where titles operated on a single premise and style of gameplay. In this regard, Portal is more rewarding, both for Valve and the player; the developer is allowed to create a pure experience rather than tarting it up with unnecessary minutiae that add little to the experience.

The plot, though minimal, is darkly hilarious and adeptly written, and also crucial to the game itself; without the inclusion of a narrator, the game would be moving through a series of rooms with seemingly no intent or purpose. The player character is a silent protagonist, so there is no development in that regard, but the narrator steals the show. GLaDOS is gleefully homicidal and tries poorly to disguise her intentions, traits humorously juxtaposed with her confused and tentative grasp on human emotion. Navigating through the hazard-filled levels are always supplemented by a grimly hilarious aside on part of the narrator. What's impressive about Portal is that it manages to characterize the narrator through a series of one-liners and off-color quips. Until the end, GLaDOS is an unseen character, which makes it incredible how the player can become familiar with her mannerisms without ever seeing her. It takes considerable talent to write humor with minimal context.

Portal is also impressive in its subtexts. The structure of the level progression and the constant reminders from GLaDOS invoke this image of a game designer directing his testers, as they go from level to level, their progress and use of the game's mechanics, complete with observation windows scattered throughout. And as the head designer, the overseer of the experiment, watches his work, he throws obstacles, misleads, directs, and providing a context for our actions, just like GLaDOS. Just as soon as the user believes they've figured out the pattern to the director's mind games, the environments are switched up to dirty maintenance areas rather than the sterile chambers of Aperture Science. In a sense, the metaphorical designer is always in control of his creations. In fact, the ending song declares the experiment to be a “...great success,” which is perhaps true; the player never manages to topple the parameters of the experiment, or beat the designer at his own game. Moreover, just like the minimalist design is Valve's vehicle for criticism on modern gaming's love affair with excess, the choke chain that the game forces the player to abide by, the strictly linear progression, is also their statement on the inherent lack of freedom in video games, despite the constantly parroted notion that anyone can “create” their own experience. The satirical edge to Portal is quite clever; rather than manipulating the audience with suggestion and contextual clues on how to proceed in a game, giving the user an illusion of freedom, GLaDOS provides the instructions directly, shatters all pretension. The narrative in itself is not quite so self-reflexive until one peels back the copious layers to reveal the meta core.

The notion of crafting one's experience is explored overtly in Rockstar Games' recent smash hit Grand Theft Auto 4, a series that bills itself proudly on the sheer amount of freedom afforded through its sandbox style of play. The degree of customizability, however, is questionable. Certainly Grand Theft Auto 4 offers a considerable amount of freedom in whatever actions the player wishes to indulge in, but the player is essentially following the tale of Niko Bellic, Serbian immigrant criminal. The story that unfolds and the nuances of the design present an outstanding take on the American Dream, revenge, and consumerism. Grand Theft Auto 4is interesting in that it presents the illusion of open-ended gameplay, but its main narrative is strictly linear and unfolds in a relatively straightforward manner.

The playground that Grand Theft Auto 4 throws players into is a surrogate New York, a well-designed facsimile of the Big Apple that captures the grime and glam of the unforgiving city. Rockstar's representation is incredibly organic and immersive, which allows the user to lose themselves in the experience, as though they're actually living in the city. The citizens of Liberty City behave just like everyday people, wondering aloud what to buy, what to do when they're going to get home, and other banal thoughts, occasionally interjecting their opinions with irreverent non-sequiturs, as is Rockstar's trademark writing style. These consumerism-focused diatribes, combined with the utterly pedestrian nature of their thoughts is the rather blatant commentary Rockstar is attempting to convey. The average person strives to get a job, earn a wage, and spend it, this vicious cycle, is the subject of Rockstar's misanthropic criticism. Several facets of the game satirize other parts of American culture, presenting radio talk and television shows hosted by extreme caricatures of the political spectrum, as well as humorous pastiches on supercilious celebrities and public figures. Certain landmarks are appropriately grandiose and brightly colored; the Times Square imitation is a pitch-perfect representation of the real thing – full of flickering, neon signs, tall skyscrapers, and congested streets, all comments on the excesses of American culture. No quarter is afforded in Grand Theft Auto 4's searing satire, which doubles as a biting lamentation on the fundamentals of American ideals.

The main story line touches on various themes explored in classical literature, namely the American Dream and the all-consuming poison of revenge. Niko comes to America out of desperation, to indulge in the wealth that his cousin Roman promises him. The impossibility of the American Dream is expressed almost immediately when Niko arrives at Roman's home in the neighborhood of Bohan, the Liberty City variant of the Bronx. Roman, who has worked for years at his taxi depot, honest labor, has never been able to achieve anything other than a cockroach-infested loft. As Niko begins to work for criminals in the Liberty City underground, he begins to climb the social ladder at an alarming pace, allowing players to purchase penthouse apartments and luxury cars, in part achieving what is typically represented as the American Dream – wealth and extravagance. The dichotomy established between these two characters, blood relatives, is striking and an incredibly effective and rather cynical statement on accomplishment; nobody ever achieves anything through honest hard work – being willing to abandon principles and work dirty is what sets the haves from the have-nots.

The other central theme presented in Grand Theft Auto 4 is the idea of revenge, which is also presented in a derisive, but quite serious light. Eventually, Niko's main intentions for moving to Liberty City are revealed – he's searching for the man who betrayed his army unit so many years ago, and is continuing his quest for vengeance. The question that Rockstar presents here demonstrates the consuming nature of retribution; the idea of getting even keeps Niko going, keeps him alive, but ultimately for the wrong reasons. When he finally tracks down the man who sold out his unit, the player has the choice of either shooting him, or simply letting him go. If the player chooses the former , Niko laments how he doesn't necessarily feel better about closing that chapter in his life, as it defined his existence for however long. Should the audience let him go, Niko ponders aloud to his cousin that it wouldn't make a difference if the man lived or died. In that sense, revenge is depicted in this game as a double-edge sword, keeping Niko motivated, but at the same time consuming every fiber of his being.

Ultimately what distinguishes Grand Theft Auto 4 from common literary texts and even its peers in the video game market is the degree of freedom it affords in its sandbox style of play. The player has the freedom to crash cars into busy intersections, shoot up shops, and even commandeer attack helicopters to blow subway trains off their tracks. The liberty that the player is afforded is so expansive that the actions the audience chooses to commit could potentially be construed as manifestations of the player's inherent personality, which, in that case, would truly make the experience that person's own. Niko is his own character, but the player can certainly ascribe their personal desires to his rampages and activities. Grand Theft Auto 4 works quite hard to deflect the ideas raised in Portal's subtext. Obviously, the player is incapable of complete and utter freedom due to inherent software constraints, but Rockstar does a lot to disguise the limitations of the design simply by presenting the game so well. The illusion of freedom and the fact that it's so enjoyable, even cathartic, ultimately dashes away any wondering as to whether it could be improved or expanded upon. Even the story missions, inherently linear with clearly defined objectives, afford the player some degree of customizability. Rather than trying to break through an enemy stronghold guns blazing, the audience can be ingenious and use a fighter jet to soften resistance on the ground before carving a path ahead. So while the player can't take total control of their experience, with Grand Theft Auto 4, they can come close.

The state of art and the development of storytelling has been one experimental gesture after another, attempts to tell stories while offering original takes on structure. The beauty of video games affords them this element of creative presentation inherently. The subtexts, the messages, and the minutiae are presented through intimation in text, but the ergodic freedom and vastly complicated design allows for a multitude of possibilities. Each of the three examples are hailed as classics, and the main reasoning behind this praise is their ability to so easily capture all of these essential facets of experimental art so effortlessly. They each present a fascinating and detailed story, but also manage to convey messages through the design, through the subtleties that nobody thinks about. Modern art strives to present rich experience through the medium, and, despite being the most nascent form of media there is, it's quite remarkable to note how video games have carved their own niche, gaining cultural relevance, so quickly.

Shadow of the Vampire - E. Elias Merhige, 2000.

2009-12-05T00:15:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the lateness, but I'm apologizing to hypothetical people at this point. Merhige's film is quite creepy and awesomely meta, with Willem Dafoe giving the performance of his career. The plot twist, if you could call it that was as predictable as the sun rising, but there are a lot of neat spins on the classical vampire tale, as well as the story of Nosferatu. Good, if safe, stuff.

PS. was too busy being social and shit. Bite me

The Woodsman - Nicole Kassell, 2004.

2009-12-03T10:33:00.000-08:00

Kassell's take on Lolita is an extremely unnerving and genuinely creepy film, starring Kevin Bacon as the titular woodsman, a pedophile recently released on parole. Bacon, one of the most adaptable actors in the business (for God's sake, the man went from A Few Good Men to Hollow Man) and his supremely muted performance speaks more to the audience than the longest dialogue. A supporting cast consisting of Benjamin Bratt, Mos Def, and Kyra Sedgwick are mostly unremarkable, mostly because Bacon dominates the role so thoroughly. This movie will rattle some cages, but it's ultimately worth it.

PS. Kevin Bacon, shockingly, has never received an Oscar nod. There is no justice left in this world.

Infernal Affairs - Andrew Lau and Alan Mak, 2002.

2009-12-02T16:50:00.001-08:00

Martin Scorsese's The Departed was a remake of this film, made with the typical frenetic Scorsese energy we come to expect from the madman, bolstered due in part to outstanding performances from Jack Nicholson, Leonardo DiCaprio, and Alec Baldwin, with most of the rest of the cast being forgettable as a trio of orphan chimney sweeps. Infernal Affairs is the proving factor that remakes are almost always inferior to the original source material. Lau and Mak's film has that Hong Kong style that makes Scorsese's fast-pace seem like a Grandma in the slow lane. Brutally fast-paced, insanely suspenseful, and wrought with style practically dripping from its celluloid, this is probably the best gangster film I've seen since Goodfellas, which, coincidentally is also a Scorsese movie. Watch this movie, it's fantastic.

PS. One of the stars, Tony Leung, is one of the best actors in the business. Apparently, in real life, he's somewhat of a quiet bastard. And who says opposites attract?

A few thoughts and Snatch - Guy Ritchie, 2000.

2009-12-01T13:33:00.001-08:00

So December 1st marks the anniversary of my drastic experiment, my attempt at watching at least one film every day for a year. I think it ties in nicely with my OCD and constant desire to have something to do, having abandoned video games almost entirely and finding children's trading card games to be wholly unsatisfactory. What has a year of this bollocks taught me? Well, for starters, a ton about film. Sure, I don't know much about the technical side of the equation, namely what kind of cameras are used and what sort of lighting and editing techniques are going on behind the scenes, but I'll have to take a course or watch a documentary on filmmaking to gain any knowledge of that stuff.

No, what this experiment has accomplished is getting me back into film, one of my biggest interests, aside from designer denim, medicine, and historical trivia. I know directors and their techniques and trademarks. I know which actors are capable of what. I know who's on the scene and what's coming up in the next few months. I know who's best in the indie circuit, and what the summer movies are going to look like. I've even gone back decades to learn about the old masters, and what their influence on the art form was, even if some of their films were drier than a desert on fire. I am an infinitely more educated person now, in regards to film, than I was a year ago. And the path to acquiring that knowledge, watching movies, analyzing themes, reading follow-up material, that has been an incredible amount of fun.

Now, perhaps doing another year of this would be excessive, but I don't think so. Rather, I think it would give me further opportunities to learn. More chances to experiment with genres I wouldn't normally give the time of day to (giallo, blaxploitation, Japanese film in general). Everything is a process and a path, and just chilling out, watching movies is not only good for my mental health, but also for making myself smarter. Or something.

Also, I don't think I update this blog enough, so from here on out, I'm going to use this space as a sounding board for whatever film I watch that day. Today, I watched Snatch, arguably Guy Ritchie's best film, if not his most kinetic. Fast-paced, furious, and full of that smug British dialogue, this is quite a good film. The humor can be a bit wearing at times, with many characters using the same sarcastic rhetoric question as a joke, but the characters are well-rounded and imaginative enough to not feel like caricatures. Ritchie's direction is blisteringly quick, which means the film wastes no time with explication, something also very refreshing. The griminess of London is also well-represented with Richie's picture quality, which, in any other case, would be a point against him, but in this case, works quite well, like Boyle's 28 Days Later, a personal favorite of mine. All in all, a very enjoyable, if repetitive film.

PS. Guy Ritchie went insane after this film, having married Madonna and contracted the crazies, which compelled him to make Swept Away. Ugh.

Return of the Jedi

2009-11-19T21:59:00.000-08:00

Hm, perhaps it is because I have nothing to be miserable about or general lack of giving a damn, but it looks like this blog hasn't been updated in a dog's year. Again, I seek to change that, but I usually don't have much to complain about these days that I don't already air to roommates and friends and such. But for my own edification, I feel that I need to start anew my hatred of the Twilight series, the multimedia franchise that has stolen the affections of prepubescent tweens, mentally deficient teenage girls, and desperately lonely housewives that, for some inexplicable reason, has become more popular than Christianity.

The first remark I have to make comes by way of the pretentious film buff in me. The notion of romance with vampires is a road well-traveled, beginning with the brides of Dracula in Bram Stoker's novel. Apparently becoming a vampire also means becoming a libertine, pursuing the sins of the flesh, the ecstasy of carnality. And it makes sense, certainly. It is well-developed in the novel, and further adaptations of vampire stories (Ann Rice, mostly) have portrayed it in a compelling way, see Neil Jordan's Interview with the Vampire. Hell, even Park Chan-Wook's Thirst was a compelling take on the vampire romance, establishing an intriguing dichotomy between a libertine vampire and her more conservative lover. With such representations in mind, how can anyone find it interesting to listen to a bunch of anemic teenagers complain about their tough lives when they're teenagers with typical teenage problems. How can anyone find this interesting? Especially considering the billions of representations of vampires that are infinitely more compelling than this dreck. Admittedly, some of the stuff is obscure, but how that takes away from its genius is beyond my comprehension.

My next point is the inaccurate representation of vampire mythology, something that has been well established throughout the ages. Vampires age slowly, cannot withstand sunlight, sleep in coffins, are remarkably pale, suck blood to survive, and are often endowed with super powers, like being able to turn into a bat or something. Even the little girl from the absolutely brilliant film Let the Right One In ripped people to shreds when the opportunity presented itself. On the contrary, Edward Cullen is a "vegetarian," sparkles when sun hits his accurately pallid face, is too much of a pussy to use his powers, and doesn't have a coffin in his living room. I can understand putting a spin on your story, but when it completely does away with established canon, you should call it something else. Instead of vampires, call them something more accurate, like namby-pamby twatrackets.

The bile machine has fired at full force, I believe. The whole deal with Stephanie Mayer being a Mormon and using the series as a springboard to promote Mormon values really doesn't have any bearing on the bastardization of vampire mythology or inanity of the plot. Blade, embarrassingly, is a better representation of vampire mythos and has Wesley Snipes kicking the shit out of Stephen Dorff. If that doesn't excite you, I don't know what will.

PS. Does anyone else find it funny that Kristen Stewart seems capable of two facial emotions? Apparently her acting coach didn't tell her that 'bemused wonderment' and 'sudden fright' were just a few emotions on the spectrum

One Eighty

2009-10-14T00:25:00.001-07:00

There's always this bizarre dose of optimism that overcomes you like a nasty rash the morning after a one-night stand when you suddenly experiment with routine, completely change the people you hang around with, and just generally throw caution to the wind and forget the consequences. Perhaps the good feeling of knowing you're accelerating your mental, and, in this case, physical growth is the contributing factor behind this happiness. Perhaps the change in scenery is refreshing enough for you to prance like a gay little ninny. I believe the point I'm trying arduously to make is that I'm not a whinging little shit any more. I actually feel remarkably ashamed that I was so depressed in a land of opportunity.

Although I still feel as though I need to make a few qualifying statements. There are definitely problems here. The postage service is slightly faster than the Pony Express and when you've been hopelessly hooked on Netflix for the past eleven months, it's like holding a bag of heroin just out of an addict's reach. There's no culture here, other than partying. Everyone is still fixated on partying, getting laid, and drinking themselves onto a transplant table. I'm all for that, but I do have these crises of conscience that demand me to go visit the nearest independent movie theater, something very distressing because there are none. The food is akin to dumpster diving in the slums of Mumbai, slowly poisoning your body as you cry for more, as the alternatives get remarkably expensive.

What I dig the most of this whole deal is the urgency of academic experience. Everything is short, sweet, and brutal. Teaching assistants seem to be on cocaine, and professors disappear into the darkness the instant their class is over. It truly is a dog-eat-dog world, which I kind of get off on. Any success makes me incredibly happy, if only for a few moments. But UCSB is remarkably challenging, I do have to say. I'm behind on my reading, and I have a midterm on Friday. Let's do it.

PS. You would think a beautiful beach community never sees rain, but apparently the man responsible for the weather down here showed up drunk on the job.

Retrofitted

2009-10-09T20:15:00.001-07:00

In a perhaps futile attempt to turn this blog back onto it's intended path, a vent for my various incoherent and hateful rants as established so damn long ago, I will now rant on the state of governmental affairs in America. You know, the Obama administration, whose capabilities seem only to be yapping about fixing everything. The Democrat controlled Congress and Senate that would pass a mandate forcing all racial minorities into concentration camps on the North Pole. What do these two things have in common? Their complete ineptitude? Their utter intellectuality? Correct, reader!

I am going to echo Bill Maher here when I say that Barack Obama needs a bit of George W. Bush in him. Bush did terrible things while in office; force the country into a quagmire in Iraq, wiretapped citizens, let greed run amok on Wall Street, and turned the country into as close a police state as we've ever been. But the crucial difference is that he got things done. He didn't beg for permission from his Daddy or wait for Congressional approval before attacking Saddam, he just got it done. And that's what Obama needs to do. He needs to push all of his new ideas, great ideas, mind you, onto the American people and force them to accept that yes, poor people are getting medical coverage no matter what you titwhistles keep blithering on about. Yes, I am going to keep kids in school. Yes, I am going to reduce carbon emissions. Yes, I am going to close Guantanamo Bay. Yes, I am going to invest in renewable infrastructure. Get the fuck over it. Obama has smarts, there's absolutely no doubting that. What he lacks, however, like all Democrats, is a spine. Stop trying to appease the crazies, Mr. President. They're going to stay insane, and no amount of reasonable rhetoric is going to penetrate their ten-inch thick skulls.

Next, we have a Congress that is more inept than Mr. Bean in a shoe factory. There is an overwhelming majority of Democrats in both houses and the Republicans are running like a schoolgirl would from a spider. Their ineffectual rhetoric about Socialism and Fascism gets parroted with every leader they disagree with, do not listen to them. Do not attempt to reach across the aisle. You're not Ted Kennedy, just fucking get some shit done. It doesn't even matter what! Fix health care! Impose regulations on Wall Street! Wash a car! Just stop reminding the American people that you're completely incompetent. The best ideas, at the moment, come from the left. But the Democrats are like a child with a chainsaw; has all sorts of ideas of what to do with it, but when he actually gets it, all he does is hack off his mother's legs.

In conclusion, the situation as it is sucks a lot. "Change We Can Believe In," as with most political slogans, is a load of shit. The only change we can enact is impeaching Obama and replacing him with a frog or something. Because at least then we could say we elected the first frog-president.

PS. Tune in next time when I describe my political affiliations, as if anyone cares.

Bloggy blog blog

2009-10-03T21:58:00.000-07:00

It is perhaps with a degree of cautious optimism that I say I am beginning to dig the vibe of this place. Sure, the utter lack of movie venues and other cultural bastions (where are all the museums for all the boring, stuffy people?!) make me want to cough up chunks of my pancreas, but there's definitely a lot to like, as well. The attitude everyone has is mostly carefree, which isn't exclusive to just the student body; the professors and teaching assistants are the same way. If you try, you'll get a rewarding experience. If not, whatever. Nobody is much hostile to anyone else, and everyone is very chummy. Even this stumbling drunkard who vomited all over the Theta house and destroyed parts of their fence was treated very well, which was quite the show.

The other cool thing about this place is how self-centered it encourages you to be, but perhaps that's just my ornery self rationalizing my disgust for human beings. Staying in your room, listening to death metal, and just chilling isn't looked down upon. Encouraged, even. Sure, you might feel a little bad for not indulging in the party scene because it's so in-your-face, but for the most part, people won't make you feel bad for not wanting to party. Furthermore, as all the males seem to be cut from the granite that built the columns of Mount Olympus, going to the gym is an absolute necessity. Even if you're extremely secure and don't mind showing off your obnoxiously large gut to random passerby, watching a gaggle of perfectly tan and shapely girls being accompanied by guys with builds like Abercrombie models still compels you to work out. And damn, does it feel good to exercise, as I covered in the previous entry.

Still, a handful of complaints continue to nibble at my shins like a starved puppy dog. A lot of the people seem to be cut from the same cloth, to the point where I honestly cannot distinguish one person from another. Girls are all so buxom and beautiful that I have trouble telling them apart. Guys hoot and holler about their infeasibly gigantic muscles to the point where I just shut off my brain and just guess people's names. Also, being the antisocial caveman recluse I am, eating alone in the dining commons makes me feel incredibly crappy and exposed for some inexplicable reason, but that could just be the food tearing a hole in my gut. Eating well at Santa Barbara is a notion founded in myth and fairy tales. If you want to eat well, prepare to pay an arm and a leg at one of the off-campus places. Otherwise, make due with the dumpster dinner they provide you. By God, the food here has wreaked havoc on my digestive system.

To conclude, I definitely feel more at home here. I suppose I was right (as per usual!). I just needed the quarter to start. The avalanche of work and extremely interesting classes has abated my miseries, at least for now. I'm sure once midterms and papers start rolling in, I'll want to throw myself off Storke Tower like I did when I first got here.

PS. I can't wait to go home just because the postal system here is like living in the 18th century.

Pumping iron

2009-09-28T18:03:00.000-07:00

Seemingly impenetrable miseries aside, it would appear that I've discovered the ancient secret to happiness; going to the gym. UCSB's recreation center is touted as second to none, with facilities jam-packed with all sorts of machines and weights. It's a rather comforting thought to know that there's a place I can go to to pretend like I have a modicum of strength. Cool, if exhausting stuff.

Today was the first day I hit that place up, so I started lightly by going over seven miles on an exercise bike and over two on a Stairmaster, both of which murdered my loins and caused me to have a massive heart attack. But I miraculously recovered and am now swimming in a pool of good-feeling and happiness, no doubt brought on by a flood of endorphins.

But yeah, it cheered me up real nice. Almost to the point where it makes me forget I have to miss House and go to places tonight, augggggghhhhh.

PS. There is officially no shame in panting like a dog with lung cancer on a Stairmaster. That thing is brutal.

What can I say

2009-09-26T09:54:00.000-07:00

Well, the situation is improving, albeit at the pace of a moving glacier. My copious insecurities have led me to believe that my entire floor despises my guts, but I pray to Christ that isn't the case. Giggling at them annoyingly for a few minutes shouldn't result in complete ostracization, right? It's all I can hope for.

Still, I'm beginning to hammer out a semblance of a routine. I have a few assignments for the week, all of which look incredibly simplistic, and I have a bit of housekeeping to finish (Get Xbox Live running, somehow convince the floor to focus their undying hatreds elsewhere, getting textbooks, cleaning the biological weapons that is my dirty laundry). But for the most part, it's mostly go to class, stave off starvation, come home, go to the gym, watch a movie, do work, watch TV. Like the lifestyle I used to lead before I came to this sunny bastion of insecurity and rivers made of alcohol, this one is inherently hedonistic and self-centered, just the way I like it. Of course, there will be occasions when cosmic rays will affect me and compel me to hang out with people. Plus, there are certain quotas that must be fulfilled, which is what Isla Vista is for.

My continued inability to relate to other human beings out of sheer disgust and disappointment has still contributed to a feeling of homesickness so thick, you could make a nice curd out of it. But we all must pay the piper and condemn ourselves to a nice fat plate of misery before we get a nice trifle for desert. Somehow, this metaphor still fits in the context of what I was talking about, but at this point I don't quite care any more.

PS. Man, this jungle juice sure is good AUUUUGGHH VOMIT

First impressions

2009-09-22T15:07:00.000-07:00

How does one communicate what amounts to nothing more than festering, hateful, bile? Crying themselves to sleep? Cutting their wrists with a broken Smirnoff bottle? Indecent liaisons with live stock? I suppose acting out would be a good way to convey the general unhappiness that descends on you like a homicidal vulture descending on a straggler, but then again, so is writing about it on a blog like some sort of depressive, whiny twat who's only met a few people on his floor and, even though is trying to be more outgoing, is failing miserably, or at least to a degree where an onlooker would say "Man, that kid is socially retarded."

It's not that I'm socially retarded, I'm merely introverted. Most of my favorite fun-time things to do are usually activities one pursues alone. Writing scripts. Watching old movies. Dancing naked down an empty road brandishing carrots. The usual. I do enjoy the occasional party or kick-it, wherein I'll become so intoxicated or crossfaded, I start vomiting vulgarities at houseplants, but an existence based solely on casual sex, copious imbibing of alcohol, and smoking an entire forest is not a fulfilling one; it is vacuous and exhausting, and I don't understand how anyone can enjoy it.

I'm sure extroverts will vehemently declare it's just because I'm reclusive. But I know extroverts who would rather go hang out at a movie theater or strip club or something, with absolutely no desire to die of alcohol poisoning. Parties are fun, but too much of a good thing is always bad.

Maybe I just need the quarter to start, which would at least give me a justification as reclusive and antisocial as Dr. House under house arrest (LOL GEDDIT). I really want to start writing some damn papers, reading some interesting literature, and discussing (read: obnoxiously dismissing other people's interpretations) themes and symbols and whatnot. An existence without work is a bleak one indeed.

PS. OOOOOOH I'M SO CLEVER

Untitled

2009-09-16T23:22:00.000-07:00

Hey look, it's this blog I update every seven years or so. How's it hanging, chimps? This is incidentally the last blog update coming from this fetid cesspool of boredom known as Fremont, California. In three days time, I will descend upon Santa Barbara like some sort of demented Santa Claus, bringing with me an unfettered desire to rip shit up. While I certainly value my intellectual pursuits and other silly flimflammery, there comes a time when you must pay the piper and drink enough beer and consume enough ecstasy to make Richard Lewis blush. I speak metaphorically, of course.

In all seriousness, casting aside the moronic fratboy attitude for a moment (I'm quite sure fratboys don't even know what a metaphor is), I am quite pumped to move down to Santa Barbara, to pursue what I view as a new adventure, the next frontier to borrow a Star Trek analogy, which in turn nulls all credibility. The intriguing classes, the classmates who actually know what the hell they're talking about, the beautiful beach that's two seconds away. What more could ask for, aside from a jacuzzi that spurts melted chocolate liqueurs.

Some might think that such a party-fueled milieu will bring about horrific changes to the ornery bastard you know and love, like a pedophile afflicted with lycanthropy. But like a pedophile with lycanthropy, the changes only occur for a single night, once in a while, before reverting back to indecent liasions with a catamite. This tortured metaphor has probably run its course, so let's just say the hateful misanthrope you know and love is still going to retain what makes him so irresistible. It'll be a frigid and rainy day in hell before I stop watching movies in favor of shotgunning a kegger. No matter how much I'll enjoy running around half-naked and declaring my love for statues, watching a movie, reading a book, writing crappy fiction will always be my true loves.

So to wrap up this entry, shit's about to get real. And I can barely contain myself. Seriously, I think I just whizzed in my bed.

PS. I can't think of anything clever to put here, so please enjoy this asterisk: *

A brief notice on elitism

2009-08-24T03:45:00.000-07:00

My continual self-education and subsequent transformation into some sort of elitist film buff has been a fun one indeed. There's a strange sort of pride in knowing that your tastes are refined and cultured, whereas the average moviegoer is content with watching a monkey explode every few seconds while popping off a clever one-liner written by a starving writer who has to donate sperm just to stave off malnutrition. My point is, I guess, is that I've reached a point where I think it's safe to apply some sort of arrogant, self-proclaimed title or "movie buff" or "expert," or something of the sort.

I despise titles and labels, so I'm not sure why I'm labeling myself. But the purpose of this entry is not to self-aggrandize my supposed cinematic mastery, far from it. Being that this is a personal blog, this entry is more supposed to acknowledge that my love for the silver screen far exceeds my love for other flimflammeries, such as human courting practices and the like. Perhaps that makes me gay. To that, I say a simple "fuck you!"

It's been a strange process of experimentation, but I've recently discovered nothing can quite affect my mood like a poignant and well-made film. But I've had to lament the overabundance and worshipping of garbage over true artistic genius. If you got a crowd of ten people, I'm sure they'd all prefer the atrocious Transformers film over a wildly experimental, but still totally awesome film Rescue Dawn. But it's not so much the movie's fault, but society itself. We live in a society where mediocrity is celebrated and experimentation is too shocking, which is pretty bad.

At this point, I sound like an extremely pretentious loon who's only futilely acting like he knows what the blithering hell he's talking about. Yeah, I suppose I do, but my points are still valid. I was just probably feeling hoity-toity when I wrote this. I thought this was supposed to be an adulation of the cinematic arts, but apparently my misanthropy won't even temper for five minutes.

PS. If you're reading this, that means you're not watching Inglourious Basterds. What the hell is wrong with you?

The Final Countdown

2009-08-04T17:56:00.000-07:00

In about one month's time, maybe a little more, I will be living the dorm life in Santa Barbara, far from the confines of parental control and police who give a damn. It is there that I will endeavor to change myself to be a more outgoing person, while retaining the qualities that make me special, namely my intense passion for various flimflammeries like film and literature. This summer has been one long self-improvement experiment, and I have definitely achieved some, ahem, ripped results.

The past few weeks have been one continuous dread-fest after another. I've been frightened that I'll despise it down there (still a possibility) and even more afraid that I'll be squandering the money that's being used to pay for my education. But I've been able to slowly shrug it off, supplanting it with a mixture of cautious optimism and restrained excitement. The idea of going to one of the top research universities in the country has stirred the thirsty intellectual inside me, and the notion of the occasional party, willing lady, and use of substances (responsibly, of course!) has awakened the repressed fun-loving beast that has spent the last 17 years playing video games.

My departure is imminent, but I'm not worried about it any more. Of course, given my track record, that could change in a matter of weeks, but I look to the week of September 14th with a degree of exciting nervousness. In the words of Niko Bellic, "Perhaps here, things will be different."

PS. You know that travelogue I say I'll write one day? Screw it.

Brief justifications Part II

2009-07-28T18:28:00.000-07:00

Oldboy: This was probably one of the most surreal and sickening movies I've ever seen this side of David Lynch. Featuring compelling performances from Korean actors I've never heard of, director Park Chan-Wook's most popular film is full of style, action, and bizarre storytelling. This movie's quite a trip, but it pulls it off extremely well. Plus, the ending is all kinds of fucked up.

Raging Bull: Some argue that Taxi Driver is Scorsese's best work. I certainly don't disagree that that was several kinds of amazing, but Raging Bull is the textbook definition of character study done well. And it's Robert De Niro in the title role, how can you lose? Shot in crisp black and white, perhaps to emphasize the brutality of boxing, Raging Bull is the raw, unadulterated, all-grown-up version of Rocky. No montages here, just brutal beatdowns and the inner conflict of a horrible yet sympathetic human being.

WALL-E: There is no movie sweeter than WALL-E. I challenge you to find one. You couldn't? I figured as much! Drawing on the charms of the silent film, Andrew Stanton's love story between two adorable robots, one a curious, lonely, and caring trash compactor unit and the other a slick, badass, bounty-hunting vegetation evaluator, is funny, heartfelt, and just generally awesome. There's some half-baked subtext in there too, but I was too busy watching the robots dance in space to pay attention to it. Also, Jeff Garlin as a fat space captain. How fitting.

The Shawshank Redemption: This movie is a little heavy-handed in its message, but you can overlook that for the amazing performances from Morgan Freeman, Tim Robbins, and that bastard Bob Gunton. Even though it's a bit unrealistic, the ending will have you singing with the birds for days, which is impressive for a prison film. That Stephen King whore Frank Darabont sure knows how to make a good movie.

Fargo: This is easily one of the funniest movies I've ever seen. The Coens' dark and dry masterpiece hits all the right notes with a hilarious cast. The film is kind of a study of Minnesotan culture as well with outrageous accents all over the place (The prostitute interrogation scene had me doubled over). Like most Coens' films, it's also ridiculously violent, which goes perfectly with the wry script.

PS. Who the fuck still honestly reads this? I just spent two rambly entries shamelessly promoting myself for no adequate reason. You'd think you people would have better things to do than indulge my narcissistic whims. But the fact that you do means I love you.

Brief jusifications Part 1

2009-07-27T11:20:00.000-07:00

Being that my snarky reserves are currently being tapped for the upcoming travelogue, as well as yet another script I'm working on, I feel that utilizing my funny bone for a vanilla blog entry would be squandering my talents. So instead I'm going to use it to plug my top ten movies of all time, and hopefully compel readers to watch them, if only so I can say "Haha, if you had listened to me sooner, you would've embraced this cinematic nirvana much earlier, you poof!" So without further adieu, here we go:

Blade Runner: I feel as though this cannot be said enough: Blade Runner is one of the most relevant movies ever made, which is even more impressive considering it was made over 25 years ago. Full of heavy thematic material, such as what it means to be human, memories, death and revenge, director Ridley Scott's opus also contains pertinent questions for the 21st century. What happens when we create sentient beings capable of emotion? Are they truly human? Are they lesser beings? The marvel of the film is that it poses all these philosophical ponderings without weighing down the rest of the film. It's as perfect as perfect gets.

The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly: Sergio Leone is a master of style if nothing else. But the final installment in the Man with No Name trilogy is easily the greatest, with interesting characters, a mesmerizing score from master Ennio Morricone, and wicked gunfights. All of this is wrapped up in Leone's trademark style; the panoramic shots of the vast and barren desert, the extreme close-ups in the duels, and a simultaneous fast and slow pace. There's no questions for the ages here; it's three-way hunt for treasure with cowboys and guns. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Apocalypse Now: Before Francis Ford Coppola went into a seemingly perpetual slump in his career (pretty much anything after the 70s), he directed what's considered one of the finest war films ever. Easily dwarfing the overrated Full Metal Jacket and Platoon, Apocalypse Now succeeds due to Coppola's spotless direction and brilliant thematic material. Time after time, war has been portrayed as ugly and horrid, but this film actually manages to make it seem fresh by juxtaposing it alongside one man's descent into madness as he hunts down someone even crazier. Combine it with Martin Sheen and Marlon Brando's mindblowing performances and you have a recipe for a movie that's probably the best of its decade.

The Dark Knight: Now this is one that everyone's probably already seen. Christopher Nolan's gritty reinvention of the Caped Crusader was excellent in Batman Begins, but the inner conflict, both in Bruce Wayne's mind and in the city of Gotham doesn't truly kick in until the Joker shows up. Nolan's take on the dichotomy of the two characters, as well as Harvey Dent's insane quest makes this not just an oustanding summer movie, but an intriguing character study of the Dark Knight and his villains. Plus, Heath Ledger as the Joker, come on now.

Trainspotting: One of Danny Boyle's earliest works is also his greatest and most energetic. Establishing himself as a premiere of style, Trainspotting transcends the label of "drug movie" and becomes something else entirely. With a frenetic pace and raw depictions of the drug scene in Edinburgh, combined with some very sympathetic characters, Boyle's work is special in more ways than one. Though it's a very serious film at heart, it's also filled with hilarious dialogue and sequences that truly make it special.

PS. Part 2 coming tomorrow. Or the next day. Or next month. Or something.

A few thoughts

2009-07-13T00:26:00.000-07:00

I've forced myself to stay sober for at least a month following my latest enlightenment, triple-fade episode in mid-June. I like to think I kicked that challenge straight in the face, abstaining from all forms of drugs, alcohol, and tobacco. It wasn't exactly difficult, but I've realized that in my journey, if you could call it that, that I miss not only the pleasures that it afforded me, but the risk and danger that came with it. For some strange reason, I thrive on both sides of the coin.

But now I've broken my sobriety and, as we speak, am off in other realms, feeling incredibly good about it. I want to convey something, however. I'm not a druggie. I will never let drugs grab ahold of me. The dangerous territory, the addictive amphetamines and opioids are as far as we go. And those are strictly, strictly limited to once in a blue moon. This is a dangerous game I'm playing, and I pride myself on being extremely knowledgeable on all the rules and being aware, at all times, of the risks and rewards involved.

My usage is simply another activity. It's not habit, it's not a tic; I simply don't need it. But what it does is offer me something to do. It's similar to the projects I'm currently working on. To me, it's no different than writing scripts, working on the movie, reading experimental literature, and watching foreign films. Everything I do, I do to gain experience, to make myself more knowledgeable on a certain subject, because that's who I am, someone who thirsts for the satisfaction to his curiosity. In the past, I've taken stuff for the wrong reasons, to alleviate depression, to escape from my problems, but I've wisened up. Everything I do is an experiment and an experience. I want to try new things, and I want to learn. As a teenager in the prime of life, I think I'm certainly entitled to explore what the world has to offer me.

This might sound like some ridiculous rationalization by a drug addict, but I assure you, it isn't. I'm not addicted to anything. Not people, not drugs, not squandering my money in Thai brothels. It's all part of the plan. The plan to have as good a time as possible before I'm off in the land of even better times.

PS. Love you all. Travelogue from the New York trip will be coming up shortly.

A short one

2009-07-06T00:56:00.000-07:00

I've returned from the Big Apple, a place I felt more at home than any where else. It's the equivalent of a UC school - gigantic, anonymous, full of its own culture, and capable of devouring your soul if you so much as let your guard down for a few minutes. I got to experience the local culture (the food there is absolutely sublime), and check out their movie scene - all great fun.

However, that being said, some serious bullshit that I didn't need happened on the trip. Shit like parents and grandparents coming along and killing the buzz every time I wanted to break off on my own. Shit like stupid confrontations and arguments that pretty much murdered all the enjoyment. Shit like going to an amazing city and not experiencing the nitty-gritty and instead going to the tourist traps that aren't even exciting (I didn't even get to go inside the Statue of Liberty, just got to stand in her shadow). My little movie theater excursions were microcosms of experiencing what the city had to offer. Aimlessly meandering Times Square with crowds so thick that you need a weed whacker just to move five feet is not my idea of a good time. It's cool to look at for about 30 seconds, but kind of meaningless when you could be experiencing so much more.

Lastly, shit happened. Killed my buzz, as if it weren't dead already after being chewed out mercilessly for two hours. But all in all, a good trip. The detailed travelogue will be coming soon.

PS. Maaaaaan, that's messed up.

Far Cry

2009-06-23T22:32:00.000-07:00

Looking back on that incredibly mopey and indulgent blog entry makes me realize what a whiny bastard I've been, a mindset that can only manifest itself if I'm feeling extremely good about myself, which I currently am. My Friday was mind-blowing in so many ways that perhaps it was the catalyst I needed to turn my shit completely around. Who can argue with a Counter burger, watching the soon-to-be-classic Moon, and kicking it with the gents for the night? The depressive attitude I had lingered on afterwards, but once this week started, I was just on top of everything.

For God's sake, I've started to go running in the early morning (10 AM is still early in my book, heh), tanning, watching Curb Your Enthusiasm and attempting to give myself a manicure (failed so, so miserably). Through just sheer force of will, I've compelled myself to change and try new things, things that have ultimately paid off in making me happy, or whatever. The house doesn't feel like a prison any more, but more like my personal playhouse. It's a nice feeling to know that everything you're doing is ultimately contributing to the benefit of your mental and physical health.

I might have broken a sobriety oath on graduation night, but I figure that a one-time exception on my graduation night is hardly a blight on my existence. I definitely don't mind doing that shit once in a while, but I am absolutely not centering my life around it. I've come to realize I can't stand it when that's the only thing to do when I'm with people. It's pointless, excessive, and often very, very boring. I'm all for hedonism, but a line's got to be drawn somewhere. I am excising the negative.

Prospects are looking bright. No jobs or whatever, but my scripts have been read by people who can actually do something for me, which I was extremely surprised and grateful for (Thanks be to Hollie). Pretty girl from Santa Barbara is talking to me, which is also great practice for the real deal, and I'm gearing up for the environment that will greet me when I go down there in July for orientation. I'm no longer petrified; I'm looking forward to it immensely. Like Poison once said, it will be "nothin' but a good time."

Bear in mind, I'm not one of those fucking hysterically positive, butter-side-up, types. The rain's just stopped. Maybe it'll be back. You never know with Bay Area weather. But at the moment, there's not much that's causing me to cut myself and writing shitty poetry with my own blood. Things are looking up for this old codger.

PS. If that agent can get my script to the right places, I will officially begin to wear a cross and sing praises of Allah. Seriously.

Iran so far away

2009-06-22T13:23:00.001-07:00

The turmoil in Iran is an interesting situation, but I feel an ultimately futile one. American intervention in the country, like American intervention in any country, fucked the region fifty ways from Sunday. Apparently, the brilliant minds at Langley didn't consider that the millions of pissed-off Persians, strongly averse to the idea of a pro-Western puppet government would rise up against the regime and install an Islamic republic, a synonym for "despotic religious dictator state." The funnier thing about that era was that Americans were so paranoid about Communism spreading in the Middle East that we supplied weapons to Saddam Hussein, thinking "Hey, we can disarm him any time, he won't be any trouble at all!" A horrendously ironic mistake we would make not ten years later when we would arm the Taliban and train Osama bin Laden to combat the Soviets in Afghanistan. The lesson here is to 1. Not screw with the Arabs and 2. Forget about intervening anywhere.

But I digress. The Iran situation, the mass protest is symbolic of, I think, two things. First and foremost is the buildup of resentment against the Ayatollah Khomeini and his whole bullshit regime. He's the Rasputin behind the throne, in a way, the real voice behind Ahmadinejad. Ahmadinejad is just a figurehead, no real power, no real sway. But the youth in Iran are openly rebelling and protesting against the corruption in the government, which is to say that the next generation in Iran will remember how horrible and ridiculous this notion of a "theocractic republic" is. The youth have the capacity to change things in Iran, and I believe that they can do so if they keep up this open rebellion.

Secondly is the desire for real democracy. Now, democracy isn't always a good thing, but in this case, it's at least preferable to a Supreme Religious Prophet running things. The whole Middle East is as stable as an epileptic at a rave, but if the Iranians can do away with the extremely strict cultural norms, relax their anti-Semitism, ease in a more democratic and involved system of a government, than perhaps it'll be the first state in the region to chill the hell out. As far as Iraq is concerned, there are less attacks every day, less soldiers dying; it's a lot more stable. And if they can maintain it, perhaps set an example, then maybe Syria, Jordan, hell even Palestine, can follow suit. Israel could finally take off its body armor before going to bed.

But it all hinges on the countries stabilizing themselves. Foreign intervention will simply exacerbate matters and further alienate the Arab world. Give peace a chance, you fucking war-mongering assholes.

PS. Now all we have to do is exterminate the religious right in America and all will be well.

The best of both worlds

2009-06-18T16:07:00.001-07:00

Well, let me tell you about the fantastic day I had! Golly, it was a hum-dinger. I woke up at around 9:30, but decided an hour of sleep would do wonders for my health. After all, there's nothing quite like getting enough rest to go about the rest of your day with! I had some cereal too, but it appears someone put the bag inside the box upside down, and then tore open the bottom of the box, so cereal went everywhere! Oh brother, but I had it all swept up in a manner of minutes! I finished the milk too. It tasted really fresh!

The day I had today was comparable to being crucified with blunt nails shaped like dongs. I'm telling you all about it if only to vent and tell you uninterested masses about my unfulfilled and putrid existence. Why do I wake up at 9:30 when the only benefits it affords me is allowing me more time to stew in my misery? I'm going back to bed, to hell with being healthy. I'd prefer to stay unconscious, where I'm not tortured by my overactive imagination and idiotic proclivities of the hooting teenagers driving down my street. But I better have some breakfast, which has been delayed by some fucking moron sabotaging the box of cereal I was planning to stuff down my craw. Now it's all over the kitchen floor and I have to sweep it up before a swarm of ants consumes it and subsequently the rest of my house. And what do you know, I just had the last of the milk and now I want to die.

Oh, how I love to exercise! I managed to finally break my record today. I wanted to see how many crunches I could complete in three minutes, and I pulled off 300! The new ten-pound barbells I picked up the other day burned up my arms something awful, but it's part of the bodybuilding process! It's a bit hot today, making exercise a lot tougher, but it'll all be worth it in the end!

Funny how managing a super-human feat like 300 crunches makes me feel just as vapid and empty as I have for the past few days. The new weights feel like several needles full of asp venom delivered straight into my major veins. If this is how people get muscles, then I am committed to eating McDonald's for the rest of my life and limiting any physical activity to strictly masturbation. And Jesus fucking Christ, it's like a Mumbai slum up in this bitch for how hot it is. If I wanted to die slowly of heat stroke, I would do jumping jacks in the Sahara.

I had a delicious meal today! Lean turkey meat on toast, with some protein bars and shakes to mix it up. I made myself a little fruit platter too, with grapes, strawberries, blueberries etc to add a bit of flavor. Golly, it was delicious. I could eat this stuff for the rest of my life, I tell you.

This fucking toaster oven is fucking broken. Why is it incapable of doing the simple task of toasting my bread? Why must I continue to reset it after every ten seconds? This turkey is drier than Hilary Clinton's vagina after a trip to the Dead Sea. Why the fuck is all this fruit rotted and soft? It's like eating a pimple or a corpse's flesh! If I ever eat this stuff again, it'll be too soon.

I finally finished The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemmingway. What an excellent book! I especially enjoyed the strong characterization of the cast, and the intriguing setting of Pamplona, Spain. The author sure loves his vivid descriptions. I do too; it makes me feel as though I'm there, running with the bulls!

Killed a nugget of time finishing up Hemmingway's first novel. Pretty exceptional work, and I especially dug all the drinking, brawling, and sex that comes with the fiesta. Of course, Hemmingway has to kill myse buzz by portraying it as vacuous and unsatisfying, so I guess it all cancels out. But it was still a fantastic read which brightened up my day a smidge. Which is right there with giving a burn victim a bandage and claiming that's about as good as it's going to get.

Time for a shower, and then I'm going to watch American Psycho! The book was one of the best pieces of contemporary literature I've ever read, so let's hope the adaptation can capture what's so special about it.

Time to stew in my filth, and then I'm going to try to add meaning to my life by watching an inevitably poor translation of one of my favorite novels. No doubt the film will tarnish whatever fond and psychotic memories I have of Ellis' fine satirical work.

PS. Hooray, I'm graduating tomorrow from an institution that prides itself on a different style of education but attempts to poorly emulate the normal going-ons at other schools. Here's to sitting in the blistering heat listening to a guest speaker blither on for forty minutes about nothing in particular.

Limp and ineffectual

2009-06-17T19:02:00.000-07:00

I believe the song "Satisfaction" by the Rolling Stones, while an anthem on the futility of sexual reproduction, is a fully accurate description of my life at the moment. There's no way to talk about any of this without sounding like the wrist-slitting, black-eyeliner-wearing dipshit that characterizes most emos, but I believe I transcend most mortal labels because I am a God among men. Which is ironic, because omnipotent beings don't usually get massively depressed and find zero stimulation in the funnest of activities.

I'm not quite sure what it is about my sudden and acute case of the blues, but I like to think it's a combination of watching other people become successful, happy, and satisfied and being trapped in this house with nowhere to go. While I'm sure I'd be welcomed warmly at the daily smoking sessions that take place around these parts, I'd rather not because I'd simply be trading sitting in a house doing nothing for sitting in a house stoned and doing nothing. Ennui is the true killer of most people. The highlight of my week was going to lunch for half-an-hour. Because it was new. Because it was unexpected. It's small things like that that snap me out of my spell briefly before I sink back into the quagmire like a fat man trying to swim in the deep end of the pool.

And my efforts at alleviating my boredom, mixing it up with my television viewing schedule, reading new literature, exercising myself close to death in a vain attempt to be so muscular that I gain one "Ripped douchebag" card, redeemable for polo shirts and the confidence to abuse women, and watching movies. After watching Conan and loving it, I've found myself sunken into the mire of routine. He's still as hilarious as ever, but marginally less so now that he's been ingratiated into the repetition of my day-to-day activities. Reading new stuff has been fun as well, but like watching late-night television, the excitement of the newness fades away faster than a shot of heroin in the ass. The only area where I would say I've found constant stimulation in is working out, but I can't do that every day for fear of severe injury. I usually work myself to the point of near-death, and that is consistently entertaining. Movie watching has also become marginally less exciting too; I find myself rewatching old favorites for the comfort they afford me instead of experimenting with foreign and new stuff. So I guess that problem is easily remedied; I just need to find the drive to continue it. Even writing, which used to bring me so much joy when I completed a script, now brings me fleeting ecstasy that's gone within half an hour, no matter how good I think it is, or what compliments people give me.

For a while, I've been on a somewhat vain attempt at self-improvement, which I don't think is working as well as I thought. As the above paragraph mentioned, I'm still reluctant to try new things and take a gamble, which is an inherent personality flaw. I should be addressing that moreso than anything else. Confidence issues have remained buried within my deep, rotten core. It does become unlocked, however, when certain substances are introduced into the equation. Plus, irrational and envious thoughts have been a constant and consistent plague on my mental health, contributing to this seemingly inescapable torpor of sadness. I am really trying, but like the wise Linkin Park once said, "IN THE END, IT'S DOESN'T EVEN MATTER!"

Funny how I still have my sense of humor. It's pathetic how I still can't surmount that anthill.

I also acknowledge how pathetic it is that I'm taking a temporary gateway out of this suck-zone to cope with my idiotic problems. I blame nobody but myself, because self-pity is for idiots, something I strive not to be. Really though, all it takes is a nice little adventure for me to snap out of my depressive, angsty trance, and now that the summer has begun in full swing, I look onto the horizon with a healthy dose of cautious optimism that things will swing my way before I leave this hick town for greener and sexier pastures. Maybe I can finally make a movie. Maybe I can finally find the elusive lady. Maybe I can become so utterly brawny that it appears I'm built out of a brick shithouse. Maybe my perpetual plague of meekness will prevent me from attaining true greatness.

PS. Maybe I'll tie a belt around my dick and neck and proceed to swiftly masturbate myself to death.

And now for something completely different

2009-06-13T21:28:00.000-07:00

The black colossus of a video game platform, the PS3 has, at best, a handful of genuinely must-own titles that take full advantage of the hardware and deliver a surreal and fantastic experience that cannot be replicated by any medium. And now inFamous, the latest offering from Sucker Punch Productions, a studio renowned for their games about a pilfering and hyperactive raccoon and his gang of anthropomorphic woodland mammals friends, is here to mostly justify all the money you spent on that particularly heavy paperweight.

Players step into the electrified shoes of courier Cole McGrath, the gravelly-voiced protagonist who sounds like a drunk man doing a Batman impression, whose package (not his junk, the package he's delivering) explodes and ravages Empire City, a fictitious metropolis that resembles an especially gray slum after the MacGuffin goes off. So Cole is off to do some grunt work for some lady in the CIA, his annoying sidekick Zeke, his ungrateful girlfriend, and some mysterious dude who you never actually meet, but whom Cole follows blindly anyway. The main missions are all variations on "Go here and shove lightning bolts up everyone's asses," but the game never feels repetitive. An extremely diverse palate of powers ensures you'll never stick to just one method of electric murder, and the environments are nice, varied, and easy to navigate. Summoning a lightning storm to smite a group of hoodies like you're God and they're the peasants who have displeased you simply never gets old. Neither does grinding on power lines firing explosive lightning bolts at random passerby.

The sidequests take a leaf out of Saints Row's book. Successfully completing them eradicates enemies from the rooftops, but other than that, there's no tangible reward. By contrast, Saints Row rewarded territorial control and side missions with fat stacks of in-game money for you to purchase extravagant mods for your cars and rocket launchers and pretty dresses. There's no real benefit to completing side missions in inFamous, other than not being hassled by gunfire when you leap around the rooftops. But then again, you can heal yourself by sucking the electric soul of your enemies, so mere human weapons are more of a temporary annoyance rather than anything serious, like a kitty leaping on top of your head. You can also scour the city for pieces of bling, which at least extend your power bar, so that's a side activity worth exploring, if you're a scavenging little vulture who needs to attain 100% completion in your games because you're psychotic.

The big selling point behind inFamous is the touted moral choice system, wherein every choice you make influences your appearance, how the NPCs in the game world interact with you, and what powers you unlock. It's a mostly shallow and extraneous addition, whose only purpose is to force you to play the game twice to see all the content. Sucker Punch seems to be fully aware of the whole notion of "Nice Guys Finish Last and Biggest Jerk Wins," and have thus beefed up all the evil powers to be totally mind-bendingly awesome and capable of laying waste to and enslaving all of humanity, while the good powers are about as effective as a bunny's farts. Furthermore, any choices you make won't influence the course of the story in any way whatsoever. Once you realize that, the needlessness of it all becomes painfully obvious.

The story is also an atrocious spectacle to behold, with truly awful characters and writing. There's the requisite secret cabals of evil scientists, ineffectual MacGuffins, and characters so annoying and cliche, you'll want to electrocute yourself. Even after you've written it off as a soft-science nightmare, the game throws in ridiculous plot twists that involve time travel, cloning, and mind control to spice up the story, which is right up there with adding pepper to your own vomit to give it a bit of flavor. You'll find yourself firing lightning bolts at a giant robot made of trash controlled by a malevolent, psychic hobo, meandering sewers looking for a nyphomaniac who can control minds, and fighting hoodied gangs capable of teleportation. The whole story is bananas, and as necessary as the aforementioned Karma system.

inFamous is flawed, but not so much that it burns down your house and kills your children, like Dynasty Warriors: Gundam. Despite all the negative criticism, inFamous is quite a fun game. The combat mechanics are refined and diverse, and the platforming and exploring are oodles of fun. It's just unfortunate that the story is so horrendous and the Karma system so needlessly tacked on. Ultimately, if you can overlook those flaws, you'll enjoy what inFamous has to offer. Even if you can't look past them, then you're probably a fun-hating trainspotter, or Benjamin Croshaw.

PS. I haven't done this since the 7th grade. I think my prose has improved since then, right?

Updates from Beyond

2009-06-11T02:36:00.001-07:00

Mein Gott, I haven't updated this blog in a dog's year, though you could probably attribute that to the fact that I have nothing to angrily complain about, at least nothing that's not pressing or urgent enough to warrant such a response. Although I have to admit that the Twitter fad has me irked to the point where I would swallow asbestos before hearing another news story on how 'big' it has become. Personally, I follow Conan O'Brien's Twitter Tracker for all things related to that preposterously pointless website, that vapid hole of dullness where people pretend to be interested in the day-to-day happenings of your life when it's about as exciting or as scintillating as changing the bag on your vacuum cleaner.

Perhaps I'm speaking a little bit out of my ass, as I do have a Twitter that I experimented with occasionally over the course of two weeks, but the whole social networking thing has exploded to the point that it's getting a bit worrisome. A culture that worships lapping up the banalities of famous people, celebrities, fashion models, and foreign diplomats isn't a particularly interesting one, one that strikes me as borderline obsessed. No, not borderline, genuinely obsessed, as though we take some sort of deranged pleasure in knowing that, hey, Ashton Kutcher goes to the super market too. Maybe it's our way of giving comfort to ourselves, to know that others are sharing in our miserable, nebbish existences. Misery loves company, especially when that company has starred in atrocious romantic comedies that appeal only to pre-teens and stroke victims.

This entry is going to be rife with hypocrisy because I am on Facebook about 27 hours out of the day. And what discernible difference is there between Facebook and Twitter? With these new updates they roll out every month, soon to be nothing! So perhaps I'm a part of this cult that worships intimate knowledge of a person's life. I guess I should kill myself now.

Although I'm less into stalking celebrities and more into stalking my Facebook friends to see which of them are insufferable.

PS. There is no spoon. There is a fork though, if you check the dishwasher.

Goals for the Summer

2009-05-16T00:56:00.000-07:00

(In order of priority)

Write a script and make a movie out of it.
Write a short story for the Esquire fiction contest.
Write a play of some kind
Experiment with different literature
Experiment with different movie genres (I've never seen a blaxploitation movie!)
Watch the entirety of Star Trek: The Next Generation
Drastically improve physique
Attain employment
Sins of the flesh

A moment of clarity

2009-05-08T00:48:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting at my desk, it's almost 1 AM. I'm in my pajamas, eating pasta, balancing out all that protein with some carbs. I'm listening to NWA as I'm reading Looking Back in Anger, a pretty decent play by John Osborne.

Life is good, man.

My favorite movie

2009-04-30T01:59:00.000-07:00

People who actually take ten seconds to learn about me know my favorite movie is Sergio Leone's magnum opus, the third in the Man with No Name trilogy, The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, a film with such style, such grace that the only damn word I can use to describe it is perfect. It is agonizingly slow, as are all Leone westerns, and perhaps all westerns in general, but the technical merits of the film are simply what's so remarkable about it. The constant use of close-ups, the panoramic shots of the desert, the minimalist dialogue. All of it is executed with supreme style, even if the story isn't exactly Citizen Kane. Standard western fare, hunt for gold, etc. The film also stars Clint Eastwood in his premiere role, as Blondie, "The Good." Lee Van Cleef makes his appearance as Sentenza, Angel Eyes, "The Bad," a villain so horribly memorable that my current AIM screen name is modeled after him. The ever-so memorable Eli Wallach stars as Tuco, "The Ugly," who teams up with Blondie to find the cache of gold in the desert. Those who can look past the slow yet subtle pace, the paper-thin plot will find an extremely rewarding film, one of the most stylish movies of all time that has techniques that will make any movie buff wet his pants. Also, the final climactic duel between all three characters is just so mind-bogglingly insane that I can't even describe it or post the YouTube video. You really have to see it for yourself.

PS. I wish I were a cowboy :(

A moratorium on trends in the current video game market

2009-04-29T00:24:00.000-07:00

An industry that once prided itself on original and fresh entertainment has fallen victim to a disgusting plague of sequels and shooters, completely devoid of anything compelling. Video games these days fall under three categories these days:

*The Casual Market. This is the sector of the industry that makes so much money that it's going to be completely impractical to discontinue them. While simplistic games have been around since their inception, never have they been so prevalent. The advent of the Nintendo Wii, as well as the Playstation Network and Xbox Live Arcade have carved a rather large niche for simple, enjoyable games. Unfortunately, for every Puzzle Quest and Bejeweled, we have to contend with truly atrocious garbage that floods the market; most of it on the Wii and even published by the bigwigs at Nintendo themselves! Wii Music is not a fucking video game! Carnival Games can be replicated by going to a fair while stoned on eight tabs of LSD! Casual gaming is a cornerstone and essential building block of the industry, but the popularity of the Wii has simply turned it into a bunch of imprecise stick-waggling nonsense that isn't so much video gaming as it is random stick waggling with the occasional button press.

*Sequel mania. Once upon a time, about five years ago, I used to rag on Electronic Arts' rehashing of Madden NFL every year, implementing few changes and cornering the market with that ridiculous exclusivity fiasco. With the benefit of hindsight, I think we can agree that while Madden's staleness has gotten significantly better, and the teats of that cow are somewhat fresher. However, the same cannot be said for a certain franchise called Guitar Hero, a series that has been so exploited, it might as well be renamed Frederick Douglass. Originally a series that was crafted with loving care from the music maestros at developer Harmonix, once Activision passed the money-grubbing franchise to the hack studio Neversoft (developers of the tenacious Tony Hawk franchise, another series that gets rehashed to death every year), who have released an ungodly amount of sequels and expansions to the series, each as needless as the last. The greed that has taken over this series is really quite sad, but just to give you a taste of what the franchise used to be, here's a timeline:

Under Harmonix's creative control:

Guitar Hero - 2005
Guitar Hero 2 - 2006
Guitar Hero Encore: Rocks the 80's - 2006

Under Activision's creative control:

Guitar Hero 3: Legends of Rock - 2007 Neversoft.
Guitar Hero: Aerosmith - 2008
Guitar Hero: On Tour - 2008
Guitar Hero: On Tour Decades - 2008
Guitar Hero: World Tour - 2008
Guitar Hero: Metallica - 2009
Guitar Hero: Modern Hits - 2009
Guitar Hero: Van Halen - 2009

I think you get my point. It's not just Activision that's wringing this cash cow's nipples dry, there's a Call of Duty sequel every year, Gears of War seems to have a certain release schedule, and even the holy BioShock, one of the greatest, most original titles is getting the sequel treatment. There are such things as good sequels, but the bad ones, the Guitar Heroes and Maddens are still the same rehashed garbage as they always have been.

*Gritty, realistic games. Here's my biggest beef with the industry. Why is it that these games, with their high-end graphics, impressive production values wasted on the same plots, the same scenarios, and the same bullshit? Killzone and Gears of War have the exact same plots, basically a bunch of huge, war-mongering dickholes march into battle with their guns mounted on their improbably huge power armor gruffly screaming the virtues of murder while occasionally spicing it up with ridiculous and unbelievable melodrama that fools no one. I'm so sick of these games; they may have the best gameplay in the world, but none of that matters when we're playing in the same environments, following the same linear storylines, shooting the same aliens in the same ruined environments. Are we so devoid of creative ideas that we can't put a fresh spin on shooters? What's with all the Space Marines? Shooters could have spies, Native Americans, and misogynists as their protagonist, are we that afraid of change? Come on now.

My ideal industry is one that pumps out creative, innovative and fun-to-play games. I'm willing to overlook flaws in exchange for experimentation, which is why I loved Mirror's Edge so much. The most exciting release this year is Brutal Legend, led by legendarily creative mind Tim Schafer, in his take on a heavy metal action game. It's creative. It's new. And it's what the industry should be experimenting with instead of Zone of Kill War Gears 9: Revenge of the Hell Locust.

PS. I hardly even play video games any more, which makes this incredibly long-winded entry ironic, or something like that.

Stuff that pisses me off: Volume 1

2009-04-28T00:20:00.000-07:00

Jesus Christ, I've been pretty mellow on the pure, unadulterated hatred front for a few months now, but the past couple of days have really cranked my abhorrence wheel up like a sloth on crystal meth. I am referring, of course, to the wildly reported outbreaks of swine flu, a deadly, lethal, dangerous, mortal, debilitating, crippling, horrifying, biblical plague, the latest in a line of diseases that the media deems so fit to exaggerate for better ratings and to fulfill their monthly scare-mongering quota. In the Bay Area, grandiosely describing the abduction and murder of that little girl from Tracy wasn't quite doing it, so hey, let's try to wet some pants with this new sickness!

I'm not going to quote statistics, or specific cases, or any data for that matter. All everyone needs to know is that a certain strain of the flu, supposedly originated in Mexico, has spread like a wildfire on cocaine, resulting in the shut down of various facilities, such as schools and churches. Quick aside: Mexico's poorest regions are shitholes, and we're surprised that diseases are spreading? It's like working inside of an empty septic tank and becoming shocked when you're covered in gallons of liquid shit. What's even more appalling is that people who caught the disease were hospitalized, then released with a clean bill of health, as evidenced here: http://www.reuters.com/article/topNews/idUSTRE53P23920090426

You see? If the most destitute people in the world can survive a nasty bout of the flu like this, why in the name of Jehovah are the people who live in the most industrialized, medically advanced society suddenly wearing doctor's masks and ostracizing people who sneeze like they've possessed by a demon? I'm sorry I missed the memo where Satan told all of his demons he would be manifesting himself on earth as a harmless effect as a result of a harmless cold! And the people who actually died of the disease I suspect had compromised immune systems, were already in poor health, or simply didn't receive medical care. It's a fucking strain of the flu. It's treatable. Even in Tijuana.

What else pisses me off about this whole affair? Ah yes, the unquellable hysteria that it brings on. Any change to society, any exaggeration, the advent of the downfall, will cause panic among the people. Of course, when it's an actual threat, say a Category-5 hurricane capable of decimating everything from here to Azerbaijan, the obvious thing to do is to sit on your porch, spitting chewing tobacco into an old coffee tin as a prostitute with beads provides you with furious fellatio. No, evacuating would be mildly inconvenient! But when something as minor and insignificant as a slightly more virulent type of flu comes out, the first instinct is to gobble down antibiotics, cold meds, and holistic bullshit like Airborne and those things that are little more than Vitamin C megadoses as though they were delicious candy. My God, the people who use antibacterial soap, antifungal deodorant, antiviral testicle cream – they're part of the problem. Simple biology dictates that certain strains of whatever nasty organism you're tangoing with are resistant to certain measures, and when they develop resistances to whatever you've been using, then you're kind of fucked aren't you? Methicillin-resistant staph aureus was bred by our own stupidities, and when we're about to cough up our lungs through our assholes, we realize that we should've listened to the doctor's instructions.

Hey people. Remember SARS? Bird flu? Anthrax? West Nile Virus? Yeah, they were touted as the possible trigger for a global pandemic too. Did it fucking happen? I don't think so. Maybe there were just four different flukes. Or maybe we're all just panic-prone idiots that suck up every word of the ratings-hungry media dumps into our willing mouths, like a good-mannered prostitute. The Black Plague was a pandemic. Smallpox. But those took place when there was no medical technology and about as much sanitation as my toilet. Stop acting so goddamn crazy, and if you do get swine flu, just have some chicken soup. You'll be fine.

PS. I have bird flu from being so ASIAN.

More faggy introspection

2009-04-27T02:01:00.000-07:00

A Loosely Connected Rant on Nothing in Particular

The horribly clichéd phrase “Nice guys finish last” is a lasting adage for a reason. It's true. While it's great for making yourself feel better about your inadequacies, by taking false pleasures in the happiness of others, any substantial relationship is unsustainable by being a “nice guy.” Outside of biological imperative, the stereotypical nice guy is boring, insecure, and wallowing. It's an image no one wants to have.

But it's hard when your heart gets ripped out your scrotum and all you want to do is listen to the melancholy tunes of Opeth and The Cure, write shitty poetry using your own blood as ink, and coming up with extravagant suicide scenarios, like skydiving naked into one of those silos in a nuclear power plant, or charging into a terrorist stronghold wearing a kilt and brandishing a harpoon gun. Even sadder is seeing the other party genuinely happy, without you, your services, excellent, one-of-a-kind services in your self-pitying mind, are no longer needed. All of this would make anyone feel like French-kissing a cobra.

But it's all something we have to cope with, I suppose, which is why I'm telling you this story. Call it a cautionary tale. It's bad feeling bad, pain and depression that can only be allayed with the strongest of barbiturates. It's nice, hitting the reefer, taking speed, smoking like a chimney, and taking enough sleep aids to knock out an insomniac for several years at a time. These escapades are all set to the dulcet tunes of jazz music of course, the most decadent and libertine of all musical genres, the equivalent of Marquis De Sade on cocaine.

Hear me out though. While wild drug romps are great, it just delays the issue, which culminates, eventually, one way or another, in you moving right along, becoming a better and wiser person. You can bury the issue temporarily with drugs and alcohol, it'll give you fleeting pleasure and distractions from your problems, but like a good zombie, whatever problems you have will just keep coming back, returning from the grave to haunt your pathetic, hung-up mind. When there's no more pot to smoke, no more vodka to drink, or any parakeets to strangle, you will wallow in your misery. You will drown in sadness, and suck on the poisoned nipple of melancholy. But that's how you move on. You will formulate thoughts, think critically and perhaps bitterly. You may want to listen to crappy music just to give yourself a bit of familiar comfort, but this is what builds character. This snowfall of sorrow will help you move along. It may feel like someone is wailing on your nuts with a pneumatic drill, but this is the good kind of pain. The type of pain you feel after an excruciating workout. It might not be immediate at first, but with time you'll realize it.

Almost always, you'll find some coping mechanism. The cool people read critically acclaimed satirical novels in an attempt to make themselves seem smarter, write irreverent pieces on seemingly nothing in particular, and watching foreign films as though they know something about movies. You'll feel better though. I promise, and if you don't, you can call my number for a refund. The whole thing can effectively be summed up as “Better to have 'loved' and lost, than to never have 'loved'” at all. I put massive irony quotation marks around the word 'love' because it's been used more than cocaine in a Bangkok brothel. Consider it an experience. Consider it learning. Be smart and try to wring some enjoyment out of life. Try not to get hung up on stuff like this because it will slowly kill you.

Walk out of the tunnel bitter, angry, and ready to kill. But as you keep walking, you'll realize your idiocy, bless the sunshine, and move onto the next coke orgy. I mean PTA meeting.

PS. That blurred the line between flash fiction and more incoherent ramblings spewed forth from God-knows-what in my brain.

Lightning strikes twice?

2009-04-26T01:01:00.000-07:00

Good Morning

Of course, I forget to set the alarm to wake up. Damn it all, why wouldn't I want to wake up to go perform the equivalent of eating my own head for about eight hours? It's great to wake up to the feeling of being stabbed in the ears by swords dipped in the gonorrhea discharge of Satan himself. Must remember to destroy it, along with the vibrating shower head that whirs with all the urgency of a narcoleptic koala.

Of course there's no hot water, because using all of it up to make green tea for your three hundred cats is infinitely more important. I remember when I looked forward to my morning masturbation prospects, the one shining spot of my day. However, that's hardly possible when your balls are shriveled up like dehydrated grapefruits because the water's colder than an Eskimo's vagina.

Of course there's a mixture of both pubic, facial, and cat hair in the sink, making me wonder what that clinically insane roommate of mine does to his cats when I'm asleep or out of the house drinking myself to death. It's great when you brush your teeth and instead of spitting out toothpaste, you end up picking out bits of fur between your teeth. Also fantastic how the toilet seat isn't so much used as support, as a fun little game to play to liven up those dull, dull urinary sessions.

Of course, when I get dressed, my best clothes are torn, when the scratching post is just outside my door. It's always fun to open your hamper to look for older shirts and have a nice, steaming surprise staring back at you cheerily. Also nice to know that you can have the color of your shirts changed all for free. Only available in yellow, though.

Of course, when it's time to leave the house, collect my briefcase and things, it's always essential to be raped in the ear canal by a flaming condom, which may sound like hyperbole, but it's not when you hear the usual uninformed opinions on “The Man” by a group of pugnaciously smelling hippies, your cat-loving, hairier than a sasquatch with hirsutism roommate among them. It's either that or you enter the living room and the collective hisses of three hundred felines combine into one giant super hiss, something the largest anaconda would be jealous of. As a music lover, it's also really nice to occasionally wake up to the sounds of an untuned acoustic guitar played by an uncoordinated liberal douche who has all the talent of a short story writer who writes humorous vignettes instead of actual substantial works.

So after all of this, I opened my front door and walk downstairs to the parking garage to my car. I warm it up, listening to NPR as I do as I come to a startling, but not altogether surprising revelation.

Today's going to be a bad day.

Sudden inspiration

2009-04-25T16:47:00.000-07:00

To The Fold

On an autumn day, I grew tired
Of the predictability of my life
I needed to light my fire
A blonde named Alice, my future wife.

She taught me through haze and smoke, what to look for, what to find;
The surreal journey we took
Was straight through the recesses of our minds
Our moon, hidden in some nook.

But the flames of our trees were took weak
We looked for alternatives, medicine's miracles
To help us find what we seek,
The enlightenment that sounded satirical

No qualms about theft; reward was much too great.
She laughed alongside me. Enough, enough.
We made safe in a cemetery, our treasure state.
Ingestion and smoking. Sniff. Puff, puff.

In a stupor, friends with ghosts and specters.
None moved on, wandering without aim
Life wasted, missed the call of the soul collector,
Eventually nothing left to light under the flame.

She cried to not worry, taking me by the hand.
We retired to her home, worse than a shack.
A shit hole, shoddily constructed on cheap land.
She led me to a room, whose door was jet black.

Thereupon a shelf, rested a golden grail, the orange vial.
Within, doses of indescribable pleasure.
Keeping even God running for miles.
I awaited ecstasy beyond all measure.

Soared among the eagles, flew to the core of my existence
Staccato of speech, and a tidal wave of rapture
My mind's eye sunk into it, absolutely no resistance.
But as I rode to the moon, she crashed to earth in a horrible fracture.

Laid in darkness, paralyzed and unable to sleep, eat, or fuck.
As she wept beside me, afflicted by visions of her own grave mound.
New fortune, summoned vitality and a change of luck;
We escaped into our minds, but didn't like what we found.

But she, she fell down into her hole, unable to go on.
Just a bit further, just a bit further.
She crawled and collapsed into herself; finally withdrawn.
That frail form, akin to the most gruesome murder.

I abandoned her, crossed into the numbed nerves of the city,
With one desire in mind, into that void of no return.
Fueled by pale fire, I feared nothing, looked on none with pity.
Twisted gaunt shells of humanity; a slow, slow burn.

Lucifer's kindness; the brownstone, and all that remains.
With seeming magic, and a wave of his hand
I felt her sweet song pulsate through my veins.
Temperamental moon; I'd reached my holy land.

Time fades, my moon is gone as I sing my aria of sorrow.
Chasing her, gone, stolen by another
I will do anything, murder, steal, climb Kilimanjaro!
Where is she? Please, I begged the blood brothers.

Pitiless guffaws as my mind grew full of thunderous
Pulled my hair, feverish scratching, and stumbles
Heart torn, boiled blood down an endless hallway torn asunder
Sweat running down my face, as I utter incoherent mumbles.

Bolts of lightning coursing through my body burning white,
Body aflame as the air froze round me
Darkness of death, descended like the night,
Tooting his horn, his evil revelry.

Sudden ecstasy, familiar and worldly.
A beautiful city of light as I drew the last breath.
Kiss and scent of death, embraced it morbidly
My city hung under a moon; she's returned to me only in death.

The Protest Generation

2009-04-24T11:49:00.000-07:00

The counterculture movement of the 50's and 60's convinced a bunch of liberal, drug-abusing, nymphomaniac hippies that they could influence massive social change, which somehow indoctrinated the next generation with the notion that they too could convince the world to change if they could gather up enough like-minded people to wave some poorly made signs around. The right to free assembly, guaranteed by the First Amendment, sadly is just an illusion granted by the government for plebians to feel as if they have some say in the matter. The only reason why the counterculture had so much success in the 60's was because most of the issues that they were fervent about had been brewing for a long time. The Civil Rights Movement that they supported was already making great progress in the South, and racial equality, if not cultural influences was being given brick by brick in the decades previous (Tuskegee Airmen, Harlem Renaissance, the birth of jazz). But you'll notice that protests today hardly have any sway in how something swings. The gay marriage protests, while admirable, really isn't going to change the minds of those bigoted pricks. For change to happen, we gotta find some other subversive way to achieve the goals, starting with socialization and education. That's how it went for the Civil Rights Movement, we just had to let it simmer for a few decades. Ask the New Left how their Vietnam protests fared. Waving signs doesn't do shit, and it never will.

An epitaph

2009-04-21T16:32:00.000-07:00

My attendance at one of the last Interact events of the year has really cemented my feelings on the club in general, something that can be roughly defined as "best of intentions but sloppy execution." Considering the horrible things I'm about to say, most of it hyperbole to get my points across, I do feel that the energy and funds of the club could really be diverted into something that would actually make a dent in the problems of the world.

My first problem with Interact is the disingenuous of it all. Despite claims that everyone's in to "help and make a difference in the world," I think it's mostly double-faced and appalling. The kids that make up Interact's main demographic consist of overachievers hoping to pad their college resume for when applications roll around. They may claim that what they really want to do is help, but I being one of these typical members, I can honestly say that what I'm doing isn't going to help the world at all, it's just something for me to put on my college app, which I did. The people I know through Interact and RYLA, I never actually see a determination to continue their work after high school. No, they may bill it as a way to make a difference, but deep down, we all know that we're in it for the little prestige it affords us.

This segues into my main beef with Interact and Rotary in general; the notion that people can "make a difference." Now, please don't get me wrong. I think giving water filters to the destitute in the Dominican Republic is just fine. It makes a difference in their every day lives, on an entirely micro scale. My problem is that it's all so counterproductive. A good example is Project Corazon. Rotary has a bunch of kids going to Mexico every year to build houses. What strikes me is that the money that is required sending them to San Diego, getting a hotel, and, in my case, going to fancy restaurants and movie theaters, could've been used to hire some skilled laborers to do the job, instead of a bunch of unskilled kids who wouldn't know physical labor if it bit them several times in the nipples. It's just to make the kids feel good, make them feel as though they've accomplished something, at the expense of actual work being done. I'm to understand that last year's International Project consisted of a group of teenagers going down to Panama to paint schools, afterwards getting shit-faced because there's no drinking age down there. It makes no sense to me; all these funds that are being raised through the charity events and fundraisers are simply being squandered because someone decided it was more important to make kids feel good about themselves instead of actually doing something. Use the money to invest in education, perhaps? Donate it to a cancer research organization? The possibilities, seriously, are endless, but people would rather make tiny strides and feel good about themselves, than take potential leaps, which, in my mind, is very sad.

I would honestly like to know the naivete that dominates the governing bodies of Interact. A lot of these kids are really cool (and mind-blowingly attractive, I might add), but the delusion that you're going into the annals of history as a great humanitarian by painting a school green is just embarrassing. I also know that your footsoldiers aren't seriously into this kind of thing, which is sad because people do need to get involved. They need to help. But they shouldn't do it because they get rewarded for it. They should do it because it's the right thing to do. And at the moment, the wrong thing to do is to waste the vast sums of money that could be utilized for so much more.

That's all I have to say on the subject. I joined Interact because I thought I could put it on my college app and have some fun with whatever the events were. But from an outsider's perspective, it's glaringly obvious that it's remarkably inefficient. And that saddens me because it could very well not be.

PS. The only student organizations that aren't lying out their teeth are the ones that promote self-enlightenment, like JSA, debate, or some sort of writing program. That stuff sharpens your wits, but it's a shame JSA is the equivalent of a horseshit bullet right between the eyes.

American Idol and the Downfall of Western Civilization

2009-04-03T18:26:00.000-07:00

American Idol is what's wrong with television. The medium used to be a compelling format for original programming, but the reality show changed all that. The forefather of all those pugnacious "real life" bastard shows, to this day, American Idol rampages on, sucking away the souls of teenagers and adults alike.

What particularly is so amusing about a British guy insult people? Are we so insecure about ourselves that we need to watch a TV show solely for the purpose of saying "Ha, I may be an idiot, but at least I don't sing like this retard here." That's what I have to say to the idiots who watch the show solely for the auditions. "Hurf durf, it's entertaining." Yeah, in the sense that you watch it simply to say "Goddamn, this is bad." You want to watch an entertaining show? Watch fucking House! 30 Rock! Life!

That previous paragraph may sound a bit elitist and pretentious, which it is. My main beef with stupid shows like American Idol, The Apprentice, and Survivor is that their pure idiocy manages to stay on the tube for fucking 15+ seasons. Survivor itself has been on the air for 18 fucking seasons, American Idol andThe Apprentice for 8. Tell me, how can we be so hung up on the repetitive stupidities of these garbage shows while truly brilliant shows like Arrested Development and Firefly are canned, despite the veritable avalanche of critical accolades? People tell me because AD was way too smart and clever for the audience - as if that's a fucking negative!

My complaint, like the entry before it, isn't focused solely on this god-awful show, but a look at awful television in general and how we're so damn obsessed with it. To be honest with you, the only reason I put American Idol up here was because I'm bitter that Arrested Development and Firefly were canceled. In the words of Sam, "This is bullshit." It truly is.

PS. The television networks could take a step in the right direction by canceling all the aforementioned programs, reinstating all the good TV they mistakenly canned in the past, then did a silly apology dance on live TV that I would then laugh at derisively at. A boy can only dream.

Nickelback and the Decline of Western Society

2009-04-01T15:07:00.000-07:00

It's not so much Nickelback that is causing the cancer and erosion of the hearts and minds of children and adults everywhere, it's what their music and success entails. An untalented hack that shits on a blank CD and sends it off to their record company somehow manages to go multi-platinum, earn the adulation and hormonal ire of teenage girls everywhere, and make enough to buy God and all the heavens is a criminal miscarriage of galactic justice. If there is a God, surely he'd recognize true talent and praise that as opposed to letting the idiots give accolades to people who don't deserve it.

A diversity in musical taste is what makes the world so interesting, and I am more than willing to argue with anyone about the band, or music in general. I like to think I have a fairly open mind, listen to a wide range of music, and appreciate classics while experimenting with new sound. But the one universal truth is that Nickelback is atrocious. Why is it that people are so attracted to a band that has asinine lyrics, repetitive sound, and is derisive that Carlos Mencia would blush?

I say Nickelback because they're the perfect example. I don't just mean Nickelback. I mean AC/DC. I mean Dragonforce. I mean a large percentage of today's popular hip-hop, like Cam'Ron and T-Pain. Every last artist sounds the same, has lyrics that make you want to slit your throat with the CD, and are just cacophony. And they're all successful because the idiots who listen to them are hooked, so afraid of experimenting that they're willing to take these shitty artists as the epitome of the genre. AC/DC is the epitome of hard rock! Listen to some fucking Guns n' Roses. T-Pain is the greatest hip-hop artist of all time! Ever heard of the Wu-Tang Clan or Nas?

The last thing I want is to sound like some sort of elitist. I appreciate a good amount of popular music, and some of it is quite good. But we shouldn't be celebrating that which we absolutely know for certain is terrible. As long as we continue to parade mediocrity as the standard while forgoing the genuinely awesome music, which may be indie or mainstream, whatever, society will continue to slip into that inescapable sewer.

PS. But remember, Nickelback is still irredeemable garbage and should be purged from this earth with fire and salt.

10 Things Contributing to the Decline of Western Civilization

2009-03-31T10:24:00.000-07:00

1. Nickelback
2. American Idol
3. Nationalism
4. The Cult of Personality
5. Imperialism
6. Richard Nixon
7. MMORPGs
8. Panda bears
9. Sex and violence
10. Movies made by Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer

Round 2

2009-03-26T15:16:00.000-07:00

It's extremely likely that I've touched on this subject a million and one times, but I feel it must be reiterated, because my position on the matter has changed oh-so-slightly, I've learned a few things or whatever, but the underlying principle remains the same: the concept of an omniscient and all-powerful being is a big whopping pile of bullshit, and it doesn't take George Carlin's standup routine or the ridiculous stupidity of my English class to show me that. But I suppose this entry isn't so much about religion as it is on my thought processes and the beliefs I subscribe to.

Let's get the festering bile out of the way first. Religion and the concept of a God is useful in a few instances, but the severity of these instances are what have turned religious belief into such a lumbering behemoth. When things go wrong in life, people turn to God for comfort; just knowing there's a higher power there to support you gets you through the day, maybe assuages the depression of the tragedy or whatever event. Religion is useful, maybe even critical for some people, to help them get past whatever roadblock has been thrown their way. Even when their life isn't difficult, people often use God as inspiration and support, to stay happy. I have no problem with that, it's their belief and it works wonders for them. But it must be said that these people are living in a bubble, which isn't bad, per se. The illusion is nice for a while, but the happenings of the world will make you question your beliefs. If God is so kind, why does he let the genocide in Darfur happen? Why does he let soldiers get killed in the Middle East? It is my belief that these questions, these observations are what cause the erosion of religious belief, no matter its usefulness or inspiration.

If you had to attach a label to me, I think I would be called an atheist. But the problem with labels is that they entail certain things; if I'm an atheist, I must be stalwartly against religion. As the above paragraph proved, I'm open to the concept of religion as a means of comfort and support, not as a way to explain life's mysteries and trends. But my main belief system is such a hodgepodge of bullshit and schools of thought, it's hard to pin it to anything. I believe nothing happens to you after death - Albert Camus' existentialism. I believe life is what you make of it - Ayn Rand's Objectivism. I believe life is random, cruel, and absurd - Nietzsche's nihilism. I believe that the universe is governed by a higher power - the laws of physics and biology. I believe environmentalists are self-righteous, self-serving, arrogant douchebags - contrary to liberal thought. I believe that the government should exhibit stringent oversight on big businesses - contrary to conservative thought. We attach all-encompassing labels to certain beliefs, but those beliefs are generally assumed to carry a package deal or something: human thought is so gray that it's impossible to pin it down to any one thing. Nobody is a complete liberal or conservative, atheist or devout. We don't operate like that. We take bits and pieces of what we think represent our interests the most and smash them together into a mosaic of randomness.

This is a pretty rambly entry with no clear topic or anything. Somehow, it's all relevant and fits together, I'm just not sure how that is. I guess I'll end this with a clip from an extremely wise man who is unfortunately no longer with us. Watch it, you will not regret it.

PS. If you were an invisible man, you would also be blind, so that would suck pretty hard. If you ever went on a date, your date would be talking about movies and vacation spots with a pile of what looks to be vomit.

Exalted return, redux.

2009-03-25T20:12:00.000-07:00

Jesus Christ, it's been a long time since I've updated this motherfucker, and the last entry was a rant on the state of Israeli affairs, hardly an exciting bit of prose, or whatever. Having a nice long break really sets you up to be bored out of your damn mind, unwilling to read any books, play any video games, watch any movies, or listen to any stand-up or music. It's weird how ennui affects us; we'll bitch about being bored, but there's a multitude of activities you could be engaging in that would take it away instantly. Maybe I'm just exceptionally lazy.

Ranting about personal issues are what blogs (what a weird name for an online journal, by the way. This was kind of brought to light when I watched Yahtzee's review of 50 Cent: Blood on the Sand, wherein in described the word as "...something that sounds like it lives on a riverbed that communicates throught farts." I LOL'd) are usually about, so I think I'll take the opportunity to discuss the future, a subject that I've beaten like several dead hippopotamuses. But several things have shaken up the status quo, like an asteroid colliding with earth, only much more small-scale.

In about six months, probably less, time, I'll be off to college, to a bastion of higher learning, partying, and sunshine, onwards to a journey that I know nothing about, like going on a diamond-hunting expedition into a war-torn African nation and acting surprised when you get crucified by the local warlord. That's what I automatically liken the experience to, but it's clearly not as black and white as it seems. It's not a simple black or white, a a shitty, vomit-your-balls in disgust romp through dorms where the alcohol flows like the Hudson or a personal development wherein angels shower you with happiness and knowledge and you're extremely content. No. I can't speak from personal experience, but all of life is pretty gray, a concept that's served me pretty well so this is probably no exception. I expect it to be fun - learning specific parts of literature and writing, along with historical periods will be great. Sprinkle in a bit of film into the mix, and we've got ourselves a recipe for a good education. And isn't that what school is about?

The education side of college is just one head of the hydra, however. What about friends? Everlasting connections? So while I'm certain that I will receive the greatest quality schooling possible, what worries me is my social attitude and socialization skills. At the moment, I have a small group of friends, the coolest motherfuckers ever, most of whom I've known for a very long time - we go way back. See, they're used to me and my eccentricities, my attitudes, and my ticks. If they don't find it amusing, at least they tolerate it enough that I don't feel like I have to change myself too much. But I will be wiping the slate clean entirely, thrown like chum into a shark tank populated by malnourished blue sharks. So what if I'm incapable of making new friends down there? Am I just going to follow Karan all damn day? That's one of my primary concerns - I'm not a great socializer and never will be, and so maybe that particularly damning inability will cause a miserable time at Santa Barbara. I may be exaggerating and using the Slippery Slope fallacy a little bit, but it is a realistic problem. I am instantly reminded of RYLA, how kids become such fast friends when forced into close proximity. I suppose that's definitely possible if I'll be living in a dorm, but that thought continues to ominously linger in the back of my head.

That segues nicely into my next utterly depressing topic. How will I deal with leaving the people I know here behind? My parents have been pretty hysterical at the prospect of me just going on a weekend camping trip with friends, but the idea of moving down to Santa Barbara for months at a time has kicked their craze into permanent overdrive. Constantly I hear "You must call me every day, tell me about absolutely everything." It's not been a week since my acceptance, and already I'm being bombarded with decisions regarding housing and financial aid. I appreciate the concern, but it's getting a tad irritating. It'll be easy to deal with, because they're parents and will always be around, but the hard part is coping with the lack of friends, as I mentioned. The few friends I have mean quite a lot, especially that tall white dude I know, that short white girl I know, and some other colored people who know who they are. Confidants, gone. I mean, it's inevitable, but actually staring at it in the face, as it's coming towards me like a freight train driven by Yosemite Sam really shakes things into perspective. I'll learn to deal with it, but that doesn't mean I won't be miserable. And I can't even think of a metaphor to describe that.

Which brings me to another point (man, I am just killing it with the transitions and segues tonight), am I going to change? Will the big scary college absorb me and remold me into whatever shape it deems? Will I sacrifice the years of knowledge that reading and writing and watching have afforded me to become some sort of chugging, smoking, fucking douchebag? I certainly hope not, but let's be real. Something as earth-shattering as lifting up all your roots and planting them in another field will result in changes on a micro, maybe a macro level. But one of my unbending principles is to simply be who I am, not succumb to the more idiotic norms of college life, like staying out till 5 in the morning piss-faced. Maybe being smart makes you miserable. I don't know what to fucking think, to be honest.

I don't think I want to bum whoever's reading this out too much, not that I think that anyone's going to fucking read it, so I will end with some happy thoughts. I believe those people who claim "they can't wait for college" are being disingenuous. Nobody's life is so shitty that they want to move to the North Pole. In the buildup before you leave to an institution of higher learning, make the most of your time. Like inmates on Death Row - they exercise, educate, meditate, to yank some meaning and fun out of their last months of life, something I fully intend to do. Go on camping trips and other such adventures, smoke a little, read some books, watch some TV and movies. No point in whining about how everything's going to change when I could be utilizing that time effectively.

That is, if you people want to, of course. ;)

PS. Apparently in Santa Barbara, during the Halloween festivities, they send fucking mounties into the campus to beat the shit out of drunkards. That's just badass.

Exalted return

2009-02-01T00:15:00.000-08:00

I haven't really quite ranted on this blog in a long time; perhaps I fear everyone not reading me to death, but that doesn't really quite matter. A recent screening of the movie Waltz with Bashir has turned on my angry rant mode, so prepare for a lot of loud bile and snide remarks. I guess this will also be a mini-review of the movie as well, but...

Anyway, Waltz is a Hebrew movie about Ari Folman, who continually experiences nightmares where he's chased by 26 hounds, which he believes to be connected to his experiences in the horrific 1982 Lebanon War, one of the many conflicts between the Israelis and various other ethnic groups out for their blood and to drive them out of the Holy Land. The movie, while there's a focus on Ari's interviewing various other soldiers during the conflict on their stint in the Israel Defense Force which effectively gives it a kind of documentary edge, is animated and is an extremely creative and original way to tell Folman's story, which also contains themes of memory, the enigmas of the mind, and repression. It's a brilliant movie, with some particularly cool bits (like the opening scene and the "Waltz" with Bashir). The animation really makes the movie stand out - if it weren't like that, this movie would've definitely failed. Overall, a good contender for Best Foreign Film.

But it got me thinking about some stuff, an opinion I'm not exactly proud of, but I feel needs to be expressed anyway. It's about Israel and its hawkish military policies and its vast abuse of human rights.

As we all know, Israel was formed after World War 2, through various annexations and carvings of the region. The Jewish have their own homeland, smack dab in the Middle East, amongst a host of Arab nations that detest its very presence. With the first few skirmishes between Israel and its Arab adversaries, it managed to gain a little more land in the Six Day War. Most of these states, Jordan, Syria, etc have refused to acknowledge Israel's right to exist, with Egypt recognizing its sovereignty only just recently.

Here's the problem I have with Israel. It's nice to have an ally as powerful as us in the Middle East, a nice little pie in the sky if you will, but their very existence has caused so many miniature wars, so many pointless conflicts that you really have to ask whether or not it's worth it, to squabble so vehemently over a small piece of land. It's like fighting over the last cupcake in the shitty school cafeteria. You may feel good when you win the cupcake and triumph over the guy who's a few feet taller than you, but remember that you're still eating crappy cafeteria food! The Knesset and the opposing parties may not feel this way, probably feeling some religious connection to the land, but to everyone else, it's fighting over the bigger rock.

I realize it's probably not just fighting over a rock. It's proving you have big guns. It's proving you have balls of brass. You don't have to fight over the Suez Canal to do that. You don't have to secretly assassinate supposed "heads of terror." Furthermore, what right do you have to bulldoze areas of the West Bank, "relocating" Palestinians? What right do you have to pursue an aggressive expansionist campaign to collect more territory in the Gaza Strip and the West Bank, pushing Palestinians out of their homes? When you bait a wild dog, hit it with a stick, do you expect for it to just sit there and yowl? No, it's a dog that'll defend itself if attacked. You can hardly be surprised when the PLO, Hezbollah, Hamas, whatever governing body of Palestine decides to retaliate. The recent conflict that erupted was a result of Palestinian aggression, but it hardly comes as a surprise considering Israel's track record with local foreign relations. It's also a little hard to sympathize with these warhawks when they're supported by the might of the United States and their foes, who don't even have an established capital for God's sake, has to make due with whatever they can scrounge.

Do not get me wrong. I am not anti-Semitic. I fully support Israel's right to exist. They deserve a homeland. They've been trodden on for the better part of forever; it's only fair they get reparations for their suffering. But when your uncle gets you a really cool BB gun after you've come out of your gastric bypass surgery, that does not give you a free pass to shoot people in the eye. Don't act surprised when they get angry when you attack them. Two of the big players, Egypt and Jordan, have established friendly ties with Israel, but a large part of the Arab world still seems averse to their very existence. Here's some free advice for the Knesset. Stop firing rockets. Stop bulldozing refugee camps. Stop relocating transients. Stop angering the Palestinians and drop that gung-ho, imperialistic attitude. The Arab world hates America and Israel, and did you ever thought to wonder why? Could it be because we're warmongering, resource-thirsty, expansionist superpowers? The other kids in school will conspire to bring down the biggest bully in the yard, so quit giving the rest of the world wedgies if you want to maintain some degree of respect in the international community.

flash fiction

2009-01-30T18:44:00.000-08:00

Roots

When the town of Daisy was built up in the late 19th century, with its frontier style storefronts, its unpaved roads and, most notoriously, its saloon, the people were surprised to see a rather large tree growing at the north end. From their observations, this town was in the middle of nowhere, smack dab in the middle of the Mojave Desert, exceptionally dry and miserable, something to be expected from a desert town. The patience that was required to get through the day was saint-like, and any real pleasure came from a shot of a whiskey down at Al's Saloon. The tree was tall, thick, with green and hazel leaves hanging from its branches. It provided a nice shade, and the smell of its leaves in the summer was especially refreshing. The tree sprouted a delicious fruit every spring, something the town would take advantage of every season. The harvest would be plentiful, and it provided the people of Daisy a nice respite. This tree made life tolerable. Men toiling in the mines would return from a long day and lounge along the trunks, knocking back drinks from Al's. Women would pick and store the fruits to make all kinds of things – candies, juices, cocktails. Along with the nice “beverages” from next door, the tree was one of the few things that made life semi-tolerable for the town of Daisy.

Railroads and industrialization cut through the land, deeply scarring the vast expanses of the desert, bringing about unprecedented prosperity for all who embraced its mechanized ideals. Before long, most stores in Daisy were absorbed into a conglomerate, no longer built in the typical frontier-style, radically changed. Roads were paved, rotting buildings demolished without a second thought, and man even saw fit to attempt to drain the desert of every last drop of valuable blood it had left. Whatever ore, gold, or useful substance was excavated and used to fuel the trains, the automobiles, to fund business ventures and trips. The mining towns that typified America were a thing of the past, and the power of the Industrial Revolution was too great to stop. Holding back the tide was futile.

And in this climate of radical change, one thing remained constant. The tree still stood in its isolated corner, the leaves still crisp, its colorful combination of green and hazel. Fruit still hung precariously from the branches. Even as Al's underwent renovation, the tree seemed untouched, unchanging. Before long, as time continued it unending march, as the roads became connected, as the storefronts destroyed in favor of suburban housing, a city built surrounding the town, the tree began to wither. Kids would ride their bikes down to the newly-dug ditch, laughing at the strange shape that the “Witch Tree” was twisted into. Teenagers would sneak into its now hollowed-out base and do all sorts of unspeakable acts within it for the excitement of public consummation. And one day, it was bulldozed, along with other dead vegetation. They didn't know what it was. What it stood for. Why it was there. The town of Daisy, the people who now lived there, didn't understand its significance. It faithfully and unwaveringly stood for Daisy until the end of its days. And yet, it was now gone. Roots upended, time had continued its march.

Trying flash fiction again, let's see how it goes.

The Path

2009-01-06T23:55:00.000-08:00

From what I understand, I'm good at things. I'm a good writer, argue passionately and cogently, and criticize like a pro. I'm interested in a lot of things: Literature that has a philosophical base, movies with compelling stories and interesting camera techniques, and trying my hand at writing original stories some times, to varying success, obviously. I also like biology, understanding the history of lifeforms on earth, how the human body works, the natural order (Mother Nature fucking us up with hurricanes and the like). I think it's all fascinating stuff. The sciences in general are always interesting. I also think I'd make a great lawyer, combining the passionate arguments with logical facts and procedures and the like. That kind of thing.

And while I think I would be a good lawyer, and I would get filthy stinking rich arguing in court and drafting up contracts, it's something I really wouldn't care for, honestly. What you're good at and what you want to do don't necessarily overlap. I don't want to be one of those people who sit around their thousand acre mansions pondering what to do with their money while their trophy wives go off and have sex with the poolboy and their kids do heroin. Wealth doesn't guarantee happiness, but it does give you certainty. You'll be certain you'll never have to experience poverty. And how comforting is that to know, in the back of your mind?

But you always end up wondering what could have been. What would my life be like if I took that job as writer on SNL? How would I be doing if I never stole those Yu-Gi-Oh cards? What if that stupid Jew didn't shoot me down like a plane over the Midway? And what if I pursued my passions instead of working 9-5 at a job I'm good at, but hate? What if, after getting a degree in English, I moved to Los Angeles and took up a job as a waiter in a restaurant in Rodeo Drive, trying to slip execs a script? What if, instead of transferring to Boalt Law, I went to UCLA, changed my mind and went to their renowned film school to learn about screenwriting? And what if it just so happens that I landed my foot in the door and got approved for a budget to make a film? It would be my dream.

My secret ambition has always been to become a director, a writer, a producer of films. It simply combines my love for writing and movies into a nice little package, but I always knew it was next to impossible. Martin Scorcese and Quentin Tarantino started out pretty cheaply, the latter getting his foot in the door just by talking to the right people while he was working in a video rental shop at age 22. Lightning doesn't strike twice, or seven times, as The Curious Case of Benjamin Button would have you believe. But I feel if I don't pursue my interest, I'll spend the rest of my life wondering what if.

Of course, it could be the case that I become a lawyer, get sucked into the world of torts and nonverbal contracts and only wanting to re-emerge after several years with a lot of money to burn. I could fund myself? Perhaps I should put my dreams on hold, focus on a more realistic and plausible path in life. The question can still be answered in two years, after I finish my English major. Who knows where the wind will take me? The only thing I want is to not live a life of regret.

Waxing yourself

2009-01-05T22:51:00.001-08:00

After finishing an extremely mediocre novel, A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby, an annoyingly unfocused novel about the interesting topic of suicide, I was compelled to write an entry on the nuances and effects of suicide. Just to be clear, the novel could have been quite good if it had a focus instead of drifting all over the place like a meandering vagabond and even better if most of the cast wasn't entirely dislikable. It takes a leaf out of The Breakfast Club, only it's a lot less cogent. Book critic, I am not, so...

Suicide is a way out. The easy way out. The path of least resistance. When you're dead, you don't have to deal with the crap that life spits on you day after day. You kill yourself for different reasons - maybe the mailman who never missed a day of work for 30 years hung himself because he knew his life was unfufilling. Perhaps the depressed divorcee who never gets to see his kids ingests car fumes because he has nothing to live for. Whatever the case, it is entirely logical to want to kill yourself. Generally, you have a good reason to do it. In the case of the characters of the book, one of them is hated by everyone he meets, one of them has a catatonic son who is a drain, and the other two aren't interesting enough to even warrant a mention. Point is, unless you're a teenager looking for attention, people who contemplate suicide often have a good reason to do so.

Let's not lie - we've all had suicidal thoughts, even if jokingly and fleetingly. We all have days where's it's so damn bad that you just want out, never want to take another glance at that large pile of work, never want to talk to that asshole boss of yours ever again. I'm not going to deny it, I've had days so bad that I just want to throw myself off a roof. But we never go through with it. And the reason is because we have something to live for. It could be anything. Family. Friends. Wanting to see Christopher Nolan's sequel to The Dark Knight. Things like that, you know?

When I went to RYLA, a cabin mate of mine wanted to kill himself (nobody ever reads this blog, so it doesn't matter). What I remember of that day, and some talks in the cabin before that was that suicide was a very selfish thing to do. You leave behind all your friends, family, and people who care about you, without any concern for what pain they'll feel for you when you're gone. I don't think that's entirely true. Selfishness is a virtue, and assuming someone killing themselves is a bad thing, you don't know the whole story. They may have been crapped on all their lives, and whatever the problem is, it's unfixable. Obviously, if you can fix or at least try to improve whatever problem that person has, you should do all you can. But forcing someone to live a life they no longer want any part of is akin to not letting a terminally ill patient die. Death may be ugly, but that's entirely in your control. If you control your life, you should also have control over when you leave this world to go to the Great Gig in the Sky.

It's my opinion that life is worth too much to throw away. Many will disagree with that, but that's what I think. I wouldn't dare think of killing myself even if I were evicted from my apartment, had my funds seized, and my children died in front of me. I would be devastated, broken, dead to the world, but perhaps the human spirit can rise from the ashes like some sort of disfigured phoenix. Life is beautiful, but if you don't want to live it - if you've been trampled on your whole life, you can't get anywhere despite the best help in the world, you've lost the will to live, you're pretty much dead, that's fine. Let them do it. No matter what you do, nothing can improve their lives. Existentialism dictates that we make our own happiness. When we can't do that, life is no longer worth living.

What am I saying? Live life. Live every week like it's Shark Week. Live every day like you're going to be murdered the next. If you can't, do what you have to do. You'll hurt some people. You'll anger some people. But you don't have to deal with that any more. But please, let it be a last resort. I'm not advocating suicide, I'm only relating it to the worst case scenario, which I hope never befalls anyone.

The first entry of 2009

2009-01-02T00:47:00.001-08:00

The New Year is upon us, and so are new opportunities to break whatever resolutions that we promised ourselves just 24 hours ago. 2009 is yet another year to turn over a new leaf, begin anew, reconstruct the broken pieces of our banal lives and build something colossally cogent. A new dawn is arising, or whatever that line was from that trailer.

But in all seriousness, recent events and revelations have caused a maelstrom and whirlwind (maelwind? whirlstrom?) of emotions and pledges. And it's not just the New Year or the chemicals talking. I look back on 2008 very fondly, I did a lot of things I'm very much proud of, and right there is the foundation I can build on. The precedent has been set: I wrote a play, my cynicism tempered over the summer, I fell head-over-heels for a woman, I made a lot of new friends, I forgave and forgot, I made a point of educating myself through literature, movies, and writing, I became pseudo-independent, and I severed some cancerous growths from my life that don't benefit me at all. I had the motivation, obviously, to do these things when I didn't even put it on my list of things to do when 2007 ended. That's some inspiration, right there.

Furthermore, recent events have transpired that made me really reexamine my life and character. I haven't changed a lot (God, what would you people do without me, right?), I still accept the absurdity of life and the rules of the universe as the absolute highest power that can be granted, but life is short. Life is also beautiful, and when you go through it miserable, angry, disappointed, what enjoyment do you get out of it? The way I viewed the world, past tense, was that it was an ugly dog-eat-dog place where you can't rely on anyone, and everyone is your opponent. Hate everyone because they're out to get you. But that really isn't the case. Life is rife with opportunity, it just so happens everyone is too cowardly, for one reason or another to seize it. I sadly fall under this demographic, but that's what the New Year is for. 2009 will be a year to kick ass, take names, and make life worth living, instead of only partially worth living to see repeated screenings of The Dark Knight.

Also, recent events have also inspired an insatiable lust for jazz music, the ultimate form of self-expression, of beautiful improvisation. This is music that really comes from the soul, the essence of the musician that controls the instrument. A friend of mine who should be reading this entry right fucking now wants to go to a jazz club, and frankly, that would be the greatest thing ever. I have such respect for the art form that I actually want to learn how to play the sax. I believe Miles Davis played it, so if I learn, I'll be as cool as the guy who made Bitches Brew. Nina, I believe your uncle is a jazz musician, hook a brother up.

All in all, 2008 was a good year for me. I wish I had been bolder. I wish I hadn't waited so long for some things. I wish some things hadn't changed. I wish some things HAD changed. And I wish some things would just go away. But I don't regret any of it. What happened, happened and that's fine with me. I may have only gotten a small bite out of that carrot, but this is the year where I eat the whole damn thing. What does 2009 bring? College, rejection, and a new frontier. And to be honest, I'm petrified, as I mentioned. But I also mentioned that I'm excited. Excited to finally be able to test my abilities. 2009 will be a year of personal success, and I'm sure whatever I do between now and December 31st, 2009, I won't regret.

Cheers. And Happy New Year.

PS. We all know the real New Years celebration is Chinese New Year. Even though I'm not Chinese. Fun fact: we Vietnamese celebrate something called Tet, although you probably associate that more with a certain offensive during a certain 20th century conflict.

It's the most wonderful time of the year

2008-12-20T00:32:00.000-08:00

Ah, the holidays, a time of celebration, relaxation, and consumption. Christmas gives us a reason to be with friends and family. Hanukkah is incentive to kick back and chug some eggnog, and Kwanzaa is why we spend so much money on crap we'll never use. And it just so happens to be my favorite part of the year.

The cold weather and jolly holiday spirit validates my slothful lazing around, doing absolutely nothing, not that I needed a reason. I should be working on apps right now, but fuck it! It's Christmas, I deserve to unwind. The holidays give us something to strive for in our pathetic day-to-day lives, a short-term purpose.

But the holiday season also reeks of hypocrisy. The purpose of Christmas or any of the aforementioned holidays is to give, goodwill and love to all. Giving usually implies presents, fueling the absolutely unstoppable behemoth inundation of consumerism. While we clamor and gibe about giving to the less fortunate, about how "giving is better than receiving," it's plain to see that at the back of everyone's mind is a simple and irrevocable desire to have more stuff. And because we're a species of followers, once everyone decided to follow this pattern of behavior, everyone does. But this is one of those hypocrisies that are relatively harmless. What does it matter if little Timmy says one thing but really feels another? It's the holidays! Nobody cares if you're a hypocrite because they're too busy engorging themselves on turkeys and trips to the mall.

One of the most tragically humorous things about me is that while I'm shamelessly cynical and pessimistic, my tasty nougat center is composed entirely of romanticism. I'm a big huggy-wuggy teddy bear at heart, if by teddy bear you mean ferocious polar bear defending her cub. But in all seriousness, there are things that make me melt, like the movie Atonement, polar bear cubs, and corny romantic gestures. It provides a nice balance to my personality. The holiday season should also be on that list. It's a time of togetherness, love, and happiness. A time where we should all set aside pointless bickering, grudges, and ill-disguised animosity. You can resume that shit after New Year's, I don't have a problem with that. But somewhere around this time, I feel myself smiling a lot more (which is like once a day as opposed to the perpetual grimace I have on most of the time), prone to outbursts of Christmas songs, and just generally jolly and jovial, like a big fat Santa Claus. If you want to see an anomaly, just look at me during Christmastime. If I'm willing to brush off hypocrisy, then you know something's going down.

So dismiss the usual message I give out through this blog. Forget contemplating the meaningless of life, forget pondering the futility of being nice to people, forget musing the benefits of staying true to yourself and loving only what truly matters, forget wondering whether unconditional love exists or not, forget ruminating the downfalls of a capitalistic society.

Forget it all and just enjoy the holidays. One love, bruddah.

PS. The holidays make me hornier than a rhinoceros with genital warts.

Peepz

2008-12-19T01:38:00.000-08:00

Geographically, in the greater sense of the universe, human beings have been around for a few thousand years, effectively surviving and thriving in the time it took Jason Biggs' character to have an orgasm in American Pie.Isn't it remarkable, then, that in that extremely short amount of time, we've caused so much degradation, destroyed so many habitats, and ruined the lives of so many other species on earth, along with ourselves? We are capable of so much more than the wildebeest living in Africa, and yet we have consistently, time after time, done just as much bad as we have good.

The 'good' I speak of, of course, refers to what we've done to propel ourselves up the ladder in the animal kingdom - what inventions we've made to prevent us from being lion food, the weapons we've forged to fight off the Megalodons. In other words, all that we've done as a species is ensure our further propagation. I suppose you could call that a success, and indeed that's what animals use to mark their success in the world, whether or not they can survive. The only things we've done are entirely self-serving, and utterly meaningless in the scope of the universe.

Everything is meaningless in the cosmic sense. Nothing ever holds significance because it's all going to be gone when the Big Crunch happens. Armed with that knowledge in mind, wouldn't it be ideal for everyone on earth to just get along? The wars, the conflicts over oil and energy and money are all futile because you're all going to die. That's just the reality. I believe the phrase "Make love, not war," applies about ten times over in this situation. Life is what you make of it, and when you fill it with war, self-righteousness, and hypocrisies, one would think you're doomed to a life of misery, but they somehow manage to still believe what they're doing is right.

People are vain. They're susceptible to making rash decisions based on impulse and floods of hormones. That's what makes us human. What else makes us human? The ability to make rational decisions and exercise judgment. That, in my opinion, is what we should pride ourselves on. But history shows us that the average human is more likely to act impulsively, aggressively, fearfully, and without reason. See: the Crusades, the Spanish Inquisition, the Holocaust. Whatever we can't control, we actively seek to destroy so that the issue of not being able to control it no longer bothers us. But look at what rationality and reasoning has brought us. Democracy, the notion of liberty, business, and countless other things. There's almost a perpetual split between absolute pants-on-head retarded impulsiveness and stalwart rational thought. We humans, we're in a permanent state of drifting between PMS and normality. And when it's that time of the month, our periods are so bad we need to control it with medication.

In all seriousness, this whole, very rambly and inarticulate entry was just to show how my misanthropy has kind of tempered. Mankind is capable of the worst things you can imagine. We will commit atrocities without a second thought, all in the name of some abstract cause. But in the rare instances where we aren't indulging our impulsive whims, like juggling breadsticks, we're capable of so much. We can improve our world in so many ways, we just have to take our birth control pills and start taking the initiative. Because when the time comes, we'll want to have something to show to the Tralfamadorians. And I believe we're fully capable of that if we just try. The Greeks did it, our Founding Fathers did it, and our economic prosperity speaks volumes of our success. Just gotta pull our heads out of our asses and stop yapping about terrorists. There are more pressing matters, like building hovercars and colonizing Mars.

PS. I expect absolutely no one to get the jokes I made in this entry. And by no one, I mean stupid people.

We don't need no education

2008-12-18T00:26:00.000-08:00

In the time it took for me to read this article, plus however long it took for me to start giving a shit, I've had the time to ponder whether a college education is truly crucial to getting ahead in this world. It's not complete, however, without a rant on how this article rings true in almost every regard. And about how it applies to me, of course.

In this day and age, a college education is practically required to get anywhere in life. You want to be a lawyer? Go to law school. You want to teach? Gotta earn a Postgraduate Certificate in Education. The job scene is so competitive and dog-eat-dog that a post-secondary education is the bare minimum for getting a job. You'll need leadership experience, the ability to perform well under pressure, to able to work with other people, and have creative ideas and a drive to succeed. College prepares you for all that while bolstering your knowledge. Anyone who can graduate from college is practically guaranteed a job, unless they decide to go flip rocks on the corner instead of meeting with a lawyer.

But success is what you make of it. Someone could be working a minimum wage deal at a coffee shop or book store or something for several years, get promoted to manager and continue working there for the rest of their life. They didn't go to college, didn't major and excel in a competitive field, but they're just as happy as the person who secured a lucrative position at a law firm. Likewise, someone could be begging for money in a college town for thirty years and they could be just as happy. People who get college educations can hardly look down on them and judge, "Man, why don't you make something of your life, like I did?" because you don't know what their situation is. Also, someone like that is a really big douchebag.

I suppose another reason why you go to college is for the experience you get alongside whatever education you pursue. You meet people, do exciting things, learn about yourself. And in a way, that could be more important than any silly psychology major. Is it necessary? Probably not. Is it enlightening? Absolutely. And it is my opinion that knowledge and self-enlightenment take precedent over anything else in life. You could take ecstasy and achieve the same thing; college is just another tool with which "to discover yourself."

The aforementioned article is interesting and thought-provoking, to know that the world's elite, this nation's top students are not only as messed up as the rest of us, but also probably going to do even worse than we are, in the long run. The advantage of a big, public university versus a small, tiny one is just that - the size. In a public university, it's a dog-eat-dog world; the professors, students, and system will chew you up and spit you out if you so much as sneeze, whereas in a school like Harvard, hell, like Claremont or Swathmore, there's individualized attention, as the teacher-to-student ratio is quite small, compared to the veritable crowds that you would see at UC Berkeley. According to the article, once you get in, it's a cakewalk - extensions are abound, you can miss class with impunity, and clemency is available if you ask for it. In that sense, then, you can make the argument that public universities, the schools were the crowds will eat you alive, prepare you better for whatever is out there in the workplace.

I guess a sense of superiority is festering in me when I think to myself "Public school is going to brutalize me, but I'm going to be much better prepared for whatever is lurking under the surface than those Ivy League scumbags." But that could just be the fact that I can't get into an Ivy League even if I mailed them a certain appendage in tribute.

What's life like for the kids that graduate from an Ivy League school? They become rich and famous? Practically swim in the piles of money that their jobs afford them? Live cushy, comfortable lives? For some reason, that just doesn't appeal to me either. Again, this may be because I'm seething in jealousy, but it's also because that kind of life is terribly predictable. Wake up, go to work, do absolutely nothing because you're set for life. I want to be a lawyer, sure, but I'm not just going to go to the office and review briefs every day. I'll dabble in various aspects of the law, maybe go to court, criminal law - I'll make and ensure my life is about learning different things and loving everything I do. Mr. Millionaire from Yale may be able to squeeze in sky-diving and having sex with Gisele Bundchen in between his lunch meeting with Donald Trump and those guys from Saudi Arabia, but that's never the case. You're not living when you do the same thing over and over.

To sum up, I'm not worried about not going to an Ivy League school. I can still get an excellent education from the schools I've applied and am going to apply to. To me, getting an education isn't just learning things that are important to whatever field you want to go into - it's preparing for the next big step. And while I would love to party down at Colombia some day, it wouldn't be giving me the toolset I need to survive in the next life. I do need an education somewhere though, God be damned if I start begging for change down at Telegraph Avenue near Rasputin's.

God, I can't wait for college. Probably will be the most terrifying journey I'll ever take, but I have a distinct feeling it'll be very much enjoyable.

PS. Thanks for the article. Also, thanks for nothing. And for chlamydia. You're supposed to finish your course of antibiotics!

Another list of people I admire

2008-12-17T14:11:00.000-08:00

With the prospect of six weeks of absolute freedom from anything and everything, I've decided to return to regular blog updates. I wouldn't want my skills atrophied over this exceptionally long break. Without further ado, here's the exciting sequel to a list of people I admire.

Alan Moore: I would go so far to call this graphic novelist, comic book writer, a visionary. Author of amazing works such as Watchmen, V for Vendetta, Batman: The Killing Joke, and The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, all of which are imaginative, exciting, and well-drawn, Moore also manages to combine adult thematic material with fantastical settings and characters. The juxtaposition of the two makes every one of his works utterly flawless. Leo Tolstoy and Fyodor Dostoevsky be damned, Alan Moore can bend your mind with naked blue men contemplating the misery of man's existence while building a gigantic palace on Mars. That's just as awesome as it sounds.

Natalie Portman: She isn't just the ideal woman, beautiful, talented, and Jewish; she's the ideal human being. Smarter than most of you, more beautiful than the skinniest supermodel, and an extraordinarily talented actress, Ms. Portman is just perfection. Furthermore, she's done a lot of things to alleviate poverty in other countries, namely the promotion of microfinance. While it hasn't taken off yet, the fact that she's actively pursuing it, by lecturing at various college campuses and such, means she's leagues above those superficial bitches you see on The Hills or something. Marry me, Ms. Portman.

Man, what is it with me and Jewish girls?

John F. Kennedy: I used to think he was the most overrated president of all time until I looked closely at what he's done. JFK was the manifestation of the emerging youth/hippie culture that was emerging at the time, and every one of his policies reflect a move towards peace and love. While he still had the Cold War to contend with, he didn't openly condemn the Soviet Union and risk mutually assured destruction. Impeded by a bunch of warmongering douchebags and a bullet to the face, he could've done so much more for the world. Imagine if he'd handled the Vietnam War instead of inciting it like Lyndon B. Johnson did. On second thought, if JFK had handled it like he handled all foreign crises, I'd probably be living in Vietnam right now, and not blogging. Probably de-mining the rice fields.

Nas: His catchy beats, excellent rhymes, and deep, thought-provoking lyrics, Nas is easily one of the greatest hip-hop artists of all time. It was a toss-up between him and Lupe Fiasco and Immortal Technique, but Nas' debut album was called Illmatic, and that, in a word, is ill. This man speaks from the heart, and the glorification of the ghetto, "hoes," and drug use are not the main attractions. Rather, gritty, first-hand experiences with the dark side of inner cities and urban desolation is what this guy talks about. Combine that with his clever plays on various words and vocabulary that would make me blush and you've got a recipe for one damn good rapper and musician.

Indiana Jones: Ah, the three Indiana Jones movies. I'm so glad they decided to leave it be after they made three movies. So glad Spielberg and Lucas didn't milk the franchise for what sweet, juicy milk it had left. Indiana Jones is the ideal that everyone wants to be. A savvy adventurer with the ability to kick ass, take names, and save priceless artifacts that melt people's faces. The "everyman" notion appeals greatly to us when we look at Indiana Jones and kind of makes us feel like even we, the dreary, day-to-day, paycheck-to-paycheck, white collar worker can break out of the ordinary and do something awesome, like swinging over a pit of spikes using a bullwhip and breaking up a child labor ring.

Jesus of Nazareth Jesus, the embodiment of all that is good within the hearts of humanity. Unfortunately for him, he vastly underestimated all that was wrong with humanity, like greed and intolerance. But you have to give him props for being so consistent in his kindness. Healing the poor, turning water into wine, and walking on water, his miracles inspired what goodness mankind can afford to summon, which is sadly not much. Atrocities have been committed in the name of God, of religion, but that's not the fucking point of religion, now is it? The point is to be like Jesus, to be kind, forgiving, and benevolent. Just goes to show you that not even divine intervention can efface the worst mankind has to offer.

I think I may be missing someone...nah. That's probably it. i love you, my three readers, if even that. <3

Another list of people I hate

2008-12-15T22:52:00.000-08:00

As Three Six Mafia once eloquently put it, "All them haters talkin' shit." Or something like that, it's a mainstream rap group, what can you expect from them? So in this exciting continuation of a list of seething hatred and fury, I round off another six people or general entities that fill my rotten apple core of a heart with further cynicism and misanthropy. Some of these people are already dead, so I guess they got what they deserved, but their legacy lives on and refuses to die, much like Jason Voorhees.

Andrew Johnson, the 17th President of the United States: Let's face facts, people. The American South is backwards, ignorant, and racist in this day and age. Andrew Johnson is who we have to thank for that. With the end of the Civil War and the initiation of Reconstruction, Johnson could've done so much to help the African Americans and freed slaves. But what does he do instead? He makes the ex-Confederate leaders kiss his ass and begins to openly oppose the ratification of various amendments that would grant civil rights to all. His resistance to change forces Congress to act radically and gravely, alienating everyone in the South, which leads to the formation of vigilante groups like the KKK. The reemergence of white supremacy spreads like wildfire and leads to the perpetuation of racism in the South. Generation after generation is raised with the mentality that blacks are inferior, and while it's been getting better, the South is still an embarrassment to most third-world nations. If Mr. Johnson had been a bit more decisive in his actions, perhaps we wouldn't have such an atmosphere of hatred and inbreeding.

"Protectors" of Marriage: I recently had the opportunity to yell obscenities at Prop 8 supporters recently, in an act of fury and mob mentality. In what is possibly the bluest state in the nation, gay marriage has been prohibited, thanks largely in part to the collective efforts of nearly every religious organization (though there are a few that didn't openly bash it) and affluent bigots. While I can't bring myself to care about the question of marriage, it's the greater conflict that makes me facepalm myself. It's a civil right, an undeniable freedom and denying anyone that liberty is discrimination. I thought we were past this people. I thought the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was enough for all of us. How is it we can still summon the last dregs of hatred and intolerance and deny a group of people their rights? Furthermore, how can these "crusaders" look at themselves and believe what they're doing is right? You're not protecting children from the harsh realities of gay marriage, you're not preserving a sacred institution, you're being bigots, and no matter what pretty dress you put on your ideals, that what it boils down to. Because all your pretty dresses are flat-out lies.

The Church of Scientology: Lots of religious bashing on my part, huh? But I'm not demonizing religion, I'm demonizing the utterly idiotic behavior it inspires. How people can believe in and defend the acts of an alien warlord whose ships shot souls back to Earth in soul nets is frankly ludicrous. The almost maniacal fervor that their followers exhibit really speaks to the efficiency of their brainwashing. It also quite disturbing to see healthy individuals being preyed on by a near-evil cult. The death of Lisa McPherson is a testament to this: a mentally ill woman brainwashed into only wanting church-provided medical care. She died of a pulmonary embolism, probably preventable had they taken her to a hospital. I hate the organization, but at the same time I'm deathly afraid of it.

Kanye West: Man, is this guy a tool.From the whole "George Bush doesn't care about black people" to the "I'm the voice of the generation, the best and the loudest," or whatever shit that he spews from his craw, the arrogance that he displays is completely unwarranted and the fact that he views and hails himself as some kind of visionary is unbelievably pretentious. The fact that his latest album, 808s and Heartbreak is entirely vocoded, it's not even his voice that's "the voice of the generation." I respect his lyrical skill and talent as a musician, but as Dr. House once said, "Arrogance has to be earned. What have you done to earn yours?" Kanye West will likely answer with a bunch of waffle, followed up by how it's just "haters" talking.

Vladimir Putin: Like the Israeli warhawks, this guy is on his hind legs, rearing for war and hawkish military action against small third-world, former Soviet satellites, so he must be taking a few pages out of the Bush Administration's playbook. The future of Russian foreign policy looks like aggressive expansionism, something that Soviet Russia was known for. So congratulations, Putin, your little puppet Medvedev has proven quite useful for a move back to the totalitarian Communist society. In a few years, you'll be moving missiles back to sunny Cuba, while we move missiles back to Turkey. Terrorism be damned, we'll be seeing Red for the next few years with this guy. South Ossetia was the beginning, Cold War: The Sequel will be the end.

Tina Mosleh: No list would be complete without an Ohlone professor that was so abhorrent and awful that I wanted to stab myself in the hand during class just for something exciting to happen. With an impenetrable accent and an awful and tenuous at best grasp on the English language, Mrs. Mosleh is everything wrong with a professor. She teaches, hell, reads right out of the book, and has very poor wording on all her exams and quizzes. It's no surprise that I cut the class at least once a week, and am probably going to get a B at best, but if you truly want to experience painful suffering and have the interesting subject of economics dulled away, take this lady's class. Don't say I didn't warn you.

And how to end this long ranting entry full of hatred and anger? Wif wuv of course <3.

But no love for you. Yeah, you know who you are, you little Napoleon. AND YOU BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

Untitled

2008-12-14T19:12:00.000-08:00

In an infinite array of vast black sky
Flies a celestial body, of great magnitude, capable of leveling worlds
And on the tiny world of plebians full of discontent we wonder
How the omnipotent, how the immortals will dictate our lives
Will it be fast, swift and purging?
Or slow, destroyed with fire and brimstone?
The spear in our side, the unpreventable wound is that of curiosity
Wondering, perhaps what will happen to us when this journey expires
And the answer, in this vast black sky, simply is nothing.
Our personal world ends with death, peace and joy nevermore.

Reflections

2008-12-06T11:56:00.000-08:00

You know those employee evaluation thingies? Like self-evaluation? I think it's time for me to do that, because I have yet to do such a task, in a broader sense. I think I've evaluated my faggotry in specific instances, but 'tis time for a general survey of my life. If it isn't satisfactory, I'm going to have to terminate my employment. Although I'm still a valuable employee. Where's my stapler?

Obviously the most immediate of things have been college applications. I applied to most of the UCs, and am planning on applying to USC, University of San Diego, and Boston University, all very good choices. I think I have a fair shot at getting into my first choices, Berkeley and USC, respectively. Academics and extracurriculars are solid, but I fear my downfall will be my terrible SAT score. It's not that bad, but it's not very remarkable either. My personal statements, which I went to great lengths to embellish and exaggerate, were not welcomed with critical acclaim from others. But it doesn't matter because they're just looking for the best-written cliches anyway.

I have a few apprehensions about the application process, but what I'm most afraid of is college itself. The reality of it is that I will be accepted to some school and I will attend said school. One constant I've always noticed is that college is big and scary. Big and scary enough to induce change in people. Sometimes its for the better, sometimes its for the worse. Change is inevitable, and that scares the living hell out of me. This is something I can't control and like it or not, some part of me will be different once I leave the rosy gates of whatever school I attend. Moreover, the roots I've established here, what friendships, influences, or whatever will also be gone. Maybe less so if I attend Berkeley, but if Boston accepts me, the only thing I'll have left here in California are my smelly, old parents.

When mothers have to let their kids go, it's unbearably hard for them. I can't say I'm a mother, or gone through it, but just considering the looming prospect is enough for me.

School is pretty satisfying, to be honest. But I've found I no longer give a shit about classes unless they're interesting. During my time at Ohlone and just in general, I've realized the futility and stupidity of the current education system. School is an institution for learning, not proving what you've learned. Some kid may grasp the concept of something, and that should be plenty. The only reasons why I have high grades in classes is because I actively want to learn, to become a more informed person, and that in turn, makes me a better person. Economics is plenty interesting to me, but I shouldn't have to take a bunch of stupid tests, listen to god-awful lecture, or anything like that. Bad teachers are like, the worst thing on this planet.

"How's your love life, tiger?"

Short answer: Fuck you.

Long answer: The few excursions I had into this kind of thing, as brief as they were, were loads of fun; the experience and learning from it was what I valued about it most. I convinced myself I was head-over-heels in love with her, which I think to be entirely plausible. I was entirely devoted to her well-being and comfort without any regard for my own happiness. And when things went south, I desperately (and successfully) turned it back to the way it was. I even endured...stories...shall we say, that I didn't want to hear.

Sounds like the fucking definition of "Friend Zone" to me.

But as time went on, I got a little better, didn't mind nearly as much. But it's still at a point where getting over it would be nigh impossible, so I'm not even going to try. The idea of it becoming more than friends, while certainly, appealing, is also nigh impossible, so I'm also not even going to try. The only way that would come into fruition is if the other party initiated it. I certainly still care a great deal about her, which will make the aforementioned switch to college all the harder, but shit happens. I do have to concede I feel like she's a whole other half that I need. A yin to the yang. The House to Wilson, the Holmes to Watson, the Rob Halford to Judas Priest. I could go on. I asked a question, "Why do we keep people who are the opposites of us around? To keep us balanced or because we enjoy their company." That works for me. In the end, I can just take comfort in knowing that the experience, the process I went through over the summer was something I wouldn't trade for the world. Maybe if they threw in some pie with it, I may consider it.

So in the words of Whitesnake, "Is this love?"

Yep.

I've also resigned myself to the fact that finding female companionship while I'm still here will also be nigh impossible, not going to try, etc, etc. The fact of the matter is that it takes too damn long for me to get close to someone, which I feel should be the basis for any relationship, faggoty as that sounds. I'm not too miffed about it; maybe I should get a dog.

I've always felt like a cultural heathen. Never seen enough movies, read enough books, listened to enough albums. I've started up a process of watching a fuckton of movies, reading all kinds of books, poems and plays, and listening to good music. I feel like I'm compensating for something while also feeling like it's a separate education of some kind. I'm enjoying it greatly. Maybe I'll use the blog as a record of shit I've done. You know what? That's a pretty good idea...

It's been a very comfortable, amusing ride. But in about eight, nine months time, the slate is wiped clean? The next great adventure? Certainly. But even Indiana Jones was scared when he recovered the Ark of the Covenant.

PS. I can't believe I ended all that meaningful rambling with an Indiana Jones joke.

Independence

2008-11-24T16:34:00.001-08:00

I always ponder the question - would I be able to live on my own? Earn a wage at a decent job to pay the bills in some apartment? Pay for school with my own money, pinch pennies and spend whatever time I don't devote to my job to studying? Could I be entirely self-dependent at the moment? Could always get that English Tutor job, and the one at Blockbuster while I work around my classes. Could take the bus to school everyday from my shithole apartment. Could I? Is it possible?

No. I'd choke on my tongue within the first 20 minutes.

It's an entry about nothing

2008-11-22T02:14:00.001-08:00

I fucking hate how stupidly profound and accurate The Breakfast Club is. Struck a chord though.

I figured why I was averse to watching it was because I don't like watching or reading about people who echo eerily similar personality traits or problems. I'd much rather be one of the characters from the other movies I watched yesterday - a gunslinger from Unforgiven or a gangster from Snatch. Just goes to show you, we'll do anything to avoid issues or something of that sort. In this case, aspiring to be a cowboy or a diamond thief.

Corny ass ending though, but I'm very glad I watched it. Reminded me of RYLA, to be honest. The whole, pouring your heart out to strangers thing is just as therapeutic as it sounds. What I wouldn't give to relive that week. Guess I gotta settle for the next best thing, this stupid John Hughes movie.

Damn The Breakfast Club. I hate it because I love it.

I hope the rest of the movies on my queue provoke more shit like this. That's why I'm looking forward to The Matrix.

PS. John Bender is one cool dude.

Lesson learned:

2008-11-18T15:34:00.000-08:00

Unconditional love is a superfluous term.

Conditions

2008-11-16T21:39:00.000-08:00

No long entry because I have a throbbing erection-headache. I just want to pose the question that I hope somebody can elucidate for me.

You "unconditionally love" your family, whatever. They haven't done anything exceptional to earn your love, your admiration, yet you do anyway. Why is it this occurs? It seems a bit irrational to me to love a table because it's rectangularly shaped. You love a table because you've had a lot of dinners on it and it hasn't collapsed over the weight of your pot roasts.

I sound like a pretty cold bastard, but this question has been posed since man was capable of thinking. Share thoughts, plz.

Justifications

2008-11-11T00:23:00.000-08:00

Perhaps I've been too harsh. Perhaps I've been too ironically intolerant and hypocritical. Religion, for all it's irreconcilable beliefs and blatant contradictions, when taken as a larger value, is incredibly useful to society, versatile in delivering on people's needs, and provides the support and faith that people need to get on with life. But all this is ruled by a predominant veil of hypocrisy and irrationality. Is it justified that whatever benefits we get from religion are wrapped up with a contract that will perpetuate irrationality?

Religion provides the support people need when that support is taken away from them. Someone who's been trodden on their whole life, diagnosed with cancer, and simply overlooked in society is more likely to turn to religion than someone who's been pampered, educated, and encouraged to find their own way. Religion allows the weak, those who have been ragged on for all their lives, to find their way, through God, through the idea of heaven, and through purpose. People need something, the belief that their higher power will provide it will certainly be enough for them to continue their lives, to live it to the fullest.

It's nice to have encouragement, to have that certainty. Some people just aren't strong enough to stand on their own two feet, to buy into the belief of the absurdity of life and the construction of our own purpose. But if you've been down in the gutter all your life, isn't it also kind of hard to believe that a greater power is looking out for you? People are diagnosed with terminal diseases all the time, I would believe that it's very hard for them to maintain a steady belief that their higher power is doing the best it can for them. While it's nice to have that steadfastness in life, it also seems quite hard to justify its existence.

The main problem I have mostly with religion is mainly that buying into it promotes irrationality. The very concept of an abstract, almighty being unconditionally loving every person on earth, even the scum like child molesters or murderers and allowing forgiveness is absurd. I haven't even belittled it, Straw-Manned it, if you will (Logical fallacies don't fly with me), that's the concept. It is inherently absurd when you take into consideration the logical rationalities that rule the earth and heavens. Quantum physics and astronomy and astrology govern how the stars and planets and neutrinos and the like behave. Evolution dictates animalistic behavior and adaptations. All of this is supported with evidence and verification. I cannot believe in something that has absolutely no proof whatsoever. But I digress. With the acceptance of religion comes the acceptance of its tenets, and its tenets are, like I just said, inherently irrational. As more and more people begin to accept the irrationality and the hypocrisies and contradictions, they're perpetuated. They're made permanent and integrate themselves into society, as plainly evidenced by the progression of society over the past thousand years. The belief of a God is so commonplace now that atheists and agnostics are now the pariahs and are not accepted. It's an unfortunate trend.

So while I fully believe that religion is useful to the people who need it, we really could do without it. Existentialism, the school of thought I subscribe to (and the best, hell yeah!), isn't for everyone. Not everyone can self-enlighten and realize what it is that makes them happy. Some people need help to bring about this realization. And that's absolutely fine. The problems I have with it, however, are the fact that the help that comes, the cavalry if you will, stays with us. The baggage isn't going away any time soon. The backwards and oftentimes hateful passion that it inspires really could be directed at something else - something useful. But I suppose its the price we have to pay to maintain a society that can function after being beat down throughout its life.

The Burden: Entry 2

2008-11-06T20:12:00.000-08:00

March 25, 1991.

Mood: Curious.

My client had hired me to tail his wife, to see if she was up to some funny business, which I could only infer to be her fucking some nigger cock or freebasing. It's money, but shameful money. I fucking hate this job.

I'm wearing some very nondescript clothes. Those detectives you see on TV and read about in books, they're nothing like the real deal. Sam Spade, Phillip Marlowe, Sherlock Holmes, the archetypal private eye, they're awesome. Hardboiled, gun-toting, cynical P.I.s. The reality of the matter is much simpler. We provide a service for paranoid husbands and wives, to give them information they don't want to know. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it might as well have killed some humans like some goddamn plague.

Anyway, this client of mine, a real schmuck. Short, little guy with glasses and a stutter contacted me and asked me to tail his wife. Apparently she claims she goes running in Golden Gate Park, but he doesn't buy it. I told him it'd cost four hundred greenbacks, which he forked over pretty quickly. All cash too. I had two suspicions, insights that the guy wouldn't like to hear. Rich, wealth, affluence leads to nothing but boredom. Where do you go when you reach the top? I figure if he can spare four hundred for a few hours of what amounts to stalking, he can spare some cash to drive that Maserati he has. To afford that Armani suit. Ironic how the man who has everything can lose everything over so trivial an issue.

It's an easy job. I just walk behind her, no problem. Get in my car when she does. Stay three car lengths. She ends up in some place in the Tenderloin. The guy who answers the door looks real happy and real suave. That swanky Latin charm. I fucking knew it. Tell the client what he probably already knew. This is how all of my cases go, and it's fucking abhorrent. It's easy, it pays alright, and I don't have to do much, but so is managing a liquor store.

He doesn't take it very well. I offer some insight, to which he responds violently. Those guys, Phillip Marlowe, whatever that I mentioned earlier. They carry a piece. I can't. So what does the big bad Private Eye do when his client takes swings at him? Fucking runs. Runs away like a pussy.

I hate this job.

The Burden: Entry 1

2008-11-03T23:33:00.000-08:00

March 11th, 1996.

Mood: Purgative.

I see you're reading my diary. Peering into the depths of my mind, the inner sanctum of my mental machinations. That's good. Shows either you're interested or perhaps just flicking through. My money's on the latter, you're probably thumbing through this as you go through my belongings. Just like everyone else - I'm of no consequence. Pawn this rant, cast it aside for those sparse few cents you need to pay off your drug dealer. Go on. Maybe the pawn shop owner will be more interested in what I have to say, or perhaps the sad chap who sorts through the recyclables, discontent with life. I have more in common with that guy than anyone else, but you'll never know because you're not reading this, are you?

Still here, are you? Still indulging in my miseries? Are they intriguing to you? Do I write well? Are my problems of interest? Well, if you've stuck around long enough to read this, maybe I'm doing something right. We'll see how it goes. So I guess I'll talk about some of my problems.

I recently lost someone, though not in the conventional sense. She was very dear to me, we were very close. And one day, she was gone. Taken away from me in a flash of thunder. At first, I felt nothing but anger and vengeance at those who abducted her. Nothing but seething hatred for her and her kidnappers. Then I realized she left of her own accord, abandoned the life she led here, the glories of the mundane and comfortable to stake her own claim in the world. My blindness could not see past the selfish fact that she left me. I didn't want to be happy for her successes. I just wanted my hatred to be mollified. And I harbored it for a good while, kept my feelings close to my chest. I drowned them in alcohol, marijuana, and the company of others, but nothing could quite fill the void left in her wake.

And one night, while intoxicated, I found myself violently assailed by an inebriated stranger, his fist knocking me out cold in the middle of Golden Gate Park. I was unconscious for some time, waking up to a beautiful and vast blue sky. And lost in that infinite blue I was woken up. Snapped out of my trance, realizing my hubris and folly. If she were here, she'd want my support, whatever I could offer. What she didn't want in her time of need was venomous thoughts of poison. But she wasn't here anymore. What did it matter? I could improve myself, but if there was no one to judge, why change?

I moved towards the final step, acceptance. It's what those new-age doctors call the last step of dying. And in a way, it was true. What is death but the passage of another person to another place? She left, went to another place, effectively dying. She was dead to me. No contact, no calls. But what happens after the death? Mourning. Remembrance. And that's what I did. I didn't linger on her metaphorical death. I remembered and honored it. But maybe she's still out there. Alive. Doing well. I hope that's the case. And I hope she hasn't forgotten about me.

Still reading? Well, good man. I didn't think I could captivate you. A rant on a lost woman who may or may not be alive, I suppose, is somewhat interesting. Have I hooked you? Is my writing perhaps exude an aura of intrigue? I hope so. But you know what I've realized in writing this entry? It's a very nice way to get things off your chest. Burdens. Onuses. I'll see you next time, if you care to read.

Peace and Love, Captain Jeremiah First, former Second Infantry Division.

PS. Thinking of doing this as a serial. What do you think?

Decisions, decisions.

2008-11-02T21:40:00.000-08:00

The package deal you get with life is decisions. Maybe you'll buy Fallout 3 instead of Fable 2 over the weekend (like me!). Maybe you'll choose to go to UC Davis instead of UC Berkeley. Maybe you'll become a lawyer instead of a big-shot movie director. Maybe you'll be miserable instead of happy. It all hinges on the choices we're confronted with in life. How you go about these decisions determines everything. Effectively, our lives are nothing more than a compilation of decision and effect. One thing leads to another, in a chain of consequences. But all of it is played out by us, the actors on the stage of life, pardon the incredibly cliched metaphor.

And the path you walk is never certain. You may abandon it and choose something else. The comforting certainty behind life is that you will always be uncertain, in a cruel twist of irony. Always will you wonder "what if?" But I find that pondering the alternate consequence is a waste of time. It will never happen, unless you go back in time and make it so. Abandon what you're doing, perhaps, and maybe you'll change and gain the alternative. Half of life is wondering what life is, but it's not about wondering what life could be. If it could be something, go out and make it that way. Summon what energy you have to achieve what you want.

We all make stupid choices in life. "Oh man, I shouldn't have robbed that old lady." "Oh man, I shouldn't have shot down that sexy Asian dude." "Oh man, I shouldn't have thrown my puppies into the washing machine so I wouldn't have to wash them." Our lives shouldn't revolve perpetually around them, which is evoking the "don't think about what could be" argument again.

I guess my entire point is simply this: contemplate your choices. Weigh the risks and benefits. And if your call was wrong, don't linger on it. Move on. Move past it. If you killed someone, repent. That kind of thing. Bad example that may be, but it conveys my point adequately enough. A life of regrets and wonder is, in the words of Eddie Vedder and the awesome band that is Pearl Jam, "LIFE WASTED!"

PS. Do we, do we know when we fly?

Pride

2008-10-28T15:23:00.001-07:00

"Fuck Pride. Pride never helps. It only hurts." - Marcellus Wallace, Pulp Fiction.

How right is a fictional gangster? In this unforgiving world where nobody cares about you, how important is it to be proud of your accomplishments, to make yourself feel good and valid? Do our achievements even mean anything in the long run, in the scope of the universe? How much pride is too much? These questions and more in the following entry!

Being proud of your accomplishments is certainly important, if only for your own happiness. But we all know that pride leads to arrogance, ethnocentric tendencies (as evidenced throughout history, manipulation of nationalism can lead to some horrifying results, such as the Reign of Terror and Nazi Germany). I suppose that one has to strike a balance, to stay proud of oneself, for that little bit of confidence, to know you're doing well, but keep it on the downlow enough for it not to blindside everyone else with arrogance. Pride certainly helps, it doesn't hurt, but too much of it and you've got a recipe for fuck-ups.

But how can we truly ever be proud of our achievements? They have no meaning. A kid who gets an A on his spelling test doesn't matter to the rest of the world. To the universe, he's just an ant crawling on the sidewalk, we all are. Our accomplishments are meaningless. The only exceptions are the ones that do affect everyone - the scientists at CERN and their hadron collider, the expeditions to new planets: the ones that impact the universe are ultimately the only acts of consequence. But there's the thing. An achievement that is meaningless to the rest of the world holds a world of meaning to the person who accomplished the feat. That person may feel good about what they did, and who cares what everyone else thinks? While nothing we do ever matters in the eyes of Mother Nature, it matters to us. And that's how we build our happiness.

Sounds like a bunch of existentialist bullshit, right?

Yeah, that's because it is.

Ultimately my rant boils down to the simple fact that too much pride leads to bad things. Hubris, nationalism, what have you. Be proud of yourself, but don't be too proud. Don't catch the arrogant and be irredeemable to the world. Don't be Adolf Hitler. Don't be Napoleon Bonaparte. Don't be George W. Bush. Shit sucks that way.

100th post

2008-10-26T08:56:00.000-07:00

Surely it calls for some kind of special post, but I'm not up for that, so I'm just going to make a normal post on some abstract subject, namely depression and dealing with it. In the course of a few weeks, I have been plagued with it, but like the knickers of an indecisive whore, it's been coming and going. The combined stresses of school and the looming horizon of everything else have contributed to this, as well as mania. So maybe I'm bipolar, I don't know.

You know those Zoloft commercials that say "depression hits you like a brick?" They're only partially right. It does hit you like a charging bull, but it's also like a parasite. It attaches itself to you, slowly begins to drain you until you do a damn thing about it. That's a tall order, being depressed prevents you from doing things that you would ordinarily otherwise do. Something drastic has to happen in order to break you out of this cycle, or you could take the low road and take antidepressants. But I find it more of an experience if you can cure yourself of your ailments. It' a learning experience, and you learn how to deal with it next time.

What contributes to this? Looking at my plate, it's just the ordinary stresses of a high school senior, isn't it? Not entirely, no. If that were the case, I'd just be taking the challenge in stride, glad of the distraction and experience. It's what the completion of the challenge entails. What happens when I've been accepted to college? I'm yanked out of my cushy, comfortable, complacent existence and tossed into a dog-eat-dog world. That was kinda the case with Ohlone, but I still lived comfortably, everything was fine. On the other hand, if I get accepted to my first choice, or, God forbid, my first out-of-state choice, I'm fucking gone.

I'm gone. I've lost everything that's established. The things I've done here, my writings, my GPA, what I've done through Interact and whatever, the few friends I have, it's all gone. The slate is being wiped clean, and that scares and depresses the living hell out of me. It probably won't be the case that that will happen, but my inherent pessimistic nature automatically assumes the worst, and that makes me miserable. I know I should think more positively, but that's like asking a turtle to stop being such a slow motherfucker. It's just in my nature, and while I can certainly try, it's not exactly easy or anything.

There are other things that have made me blue as well. I look at myself, and then I look at everyone else and they are clearly superior to me. Superior in their motivation, their execution, and dedication. Comparatively, I might as well be sleeping all day. Someone who can juggle a job, a club, school, and prowl for assholes is more dedicated than I am. Someone who can have more extracurricular activities than you can shake a stick at is more motivated than I am. Someone who can keep a girlfriend, be extremely sharp, all while dealing with the same crap I have to plow through is obviously cooler than I am. Maybe I'm not giving myself enough credit, but again, I can't help but compare myself to others. Maybe it's some sort of mechanism to make myself a better person, but at the moment, the only purpose it serves is to depress me.

Lastly, I feel as though I am being excised from other people's lives, the ones that matter. I'm usually quite selective about the people I like; most people I deem douchebags, but the ones that escape my harsh adjudication are usually quite special. So it sucks when I begin to assume that I'm no longer relevant. That being said, it's probably not true. I'm probably being a paranoid idiot, and it's just temporary, which has already been evidenced. It's most likely my awful pessimism rearing its ugly head again.

It's unfortunate to see this. My pessimism and cynicism has safeguarded me for years against disappointment, time after time. But maybe now it's that parasite I mentioned earlier - the root of all my sorrows. Being sad really damn sucks, I'm not gonna lie. I lose all appetite, all I want to do is either drink or smoke cigarettes, and sleep. I really don't want it to be the case and I don't want it to be permanent. On my friend's blog, there was a very appropriate line: "Enjoy everything, so that you can miss it appropriately when it is gone."

The truth of those words are unbelievable. Life shouldn't be about brooding and misery, but it's all that I can muster at the moment. Something needs to change for the better. I can't afford to be like this. Living in misery isn't living. It's the opposite, and I need to get out of this rut.

PS. I'm coming home again. Maybe we can start again.

What's happened?

2008-10-21T18:47:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've made a purgative entry on my life. Dreary and boring as it may be, it's nice to let loose every so often with every typical high schooler banality you can think of. But that's okay, because unlike you, I am cool. You're just like Fonzie's friend who he ignores but keeps around to make himself seem even cooler. Or something like that.

So college is coming up, the prospect of leaving this place and starting up what is essentially a new life terrifies the piss out of me, but at the same time it's also exciting. I view it as a challenge, but I'm still scared of it. I'm scared of adapting to change, of losing people here, of becoming something different. That's me, the pessimist. I suppose the only thing I can really say about this is that I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. And it's looking to be like the Golden Gate Bridge, not the sissy Dumbarton Bridge. Sigh.

I guess school's been doing okay. I'm not doing exceptionally well in my math and econ courses, but I just got an A in my online music course (not much of an accomplishment though, to be honest). I can probably pull up those grades if I tried, but I've been afflicted with early-onset senioritis, you could say. I am, however, kicking ass at the personal statements. The first few drafts were awful, but I'm having so much fun with them. Without an English class this semester, this is all I can hope for to keep my skills sharp. And it's made even better when I actually get some damn criticism on my work too. So that's nice.

I've gotten back into gaming, kind of. I've changed what I've been looking for in games now, I have a greater appreciation for single-player stories and campaigns. In terms of multiplayer, all I need is COD4. Still addictive as ever, and the upcoming and vastly improved Gears of War 2. That's going to be the shit.

Anything else? Missing people, hating people, loving people (Stephanie Bui oh my Jesus), failing at things, it's all good. Well, some of it is good, but some of it sucks. Here begins the descent into hell.

Note to self:

2008-10-17T14:11:00.001-07:00

Get your ass going, stop being a pathetic asshole. You've got shit to do.

Relativism

2008-10-16T17:42:00.000-07:00

The notion that nothing is ever concrete - everything depends on the perspective of the viewer is a load of crap. While it's true that many things in life can be differently interpreted by others, relativists (though perhaps not all of them) believe that everything holds a different value depending on how the person in question is looking at it. For example, religion is viewed as useful and helpful in providing purpose in one's life by the religious, obviously, and the weak-willed. How do I view religion? Completely worthless, the cancer of society.

Yes, in this case, a relativist's point of view is correct. But there are solid, established fact that are indisputable. I personally believe that religion is worthless and causing the slow decay of society with its suppression of intellectualism and self-expression, and I also personally believe that it's also an undeniable fact. The religious will counter my argument claiming it provides purpose, structure, and comfort, but that dances around the issue. You can't deny that the key tactic of religion is to quell any opposing view points.

Before this brief tangent devolves any further, I would just like to state my one and only point. The purpose of relativism is only to straddle the fence, satisfy both sides without stepping over to one side. Of course, I am only speaking of the most serious case - a total relativist will never have an opinion on anything. I can understand that it's all relative, but there are things that need to be considered, and you must take a side. Dodging the issue satisfies everyone and everyone's you're friend, but you need opinions. Pick a side. Join the Dark Side. We have cocaine and tacos.

A Novel: Serialized

2008-10-03T19:45:00.001-07:00

Provocateur: An Autobiography by Nick Washington

ONE: THE SAD LIFE

People are always talking to me, rambling, asking silly questions. What do they ask, you ask? Shit, there you go again, asking questions! Christ. Suppose that’s the point of an interview. No, but seriously, they ask me a lot of shit. “What’s it like being a gigolo?” “Are the working conditions hard?” “How do you cope with stress?” Well, I have some very simple answers, almost one-word replies. “It’s cool.” “No.” “Pretty girl named Mary Jane waiting for me at home.”

Honest to God, I’m not different from anyone else, they, everyone, the media, my goddamn sisters, everyone I meet except for my clients, treat me like some ultra-fertile savior of the human race, destined to bring the moisture back into the barren vaginas of old spinsters. I do an interview, just not like this, say some tabloid magazine, National Enquirer and I’m bombarded with a bunch of inane inquisitions. They put me up on a pedestal I’m not sure I deserve to be put up on, you know? And if having sex with women and getting paid damn well for it is something to idolize, I think some rescrutinization, is that a word? No? Some re-examination of our morals and culture needs to kick in. Nah, but it’s pretty annoying, I’m not going to lie to you. Maybe you need to look at the other side of my life to fully understand why.

My name is Nicholas Washington. That’s my actual name. No alias, no nickname. Well, I do have a nickname, but we’ll get back to that later. Named after the guy in red himself, jolly old Saint Nicholas, my parents had a sick sense of humor, they used to throw my sister in the pool just to make dead baby jokes. Anyway. Nicholas Washington. Born and raised in Los Angeles, the City of Angels, a desolate wasteland of superficial culture and ignorant hero worship of even more superficial celebrities. Everyone I knew, everyone I grew up with was obsessed with that life; glitz and glam. Never enough brains to fill an eggcup.

We were pretty wealthy; I lived in Beverly Hills with two sisters, both of whom decided to fall directly into the trap that was Hollywood. Didn’t deviate in the slightest from the goddamn masses of shallow, phony bitches that roamed the streets of Rodeo Drive searching for the chic, the popular, and the beautiful. It was enough to make someone vomit.

Judging from my tone, you obviously can deduce that I hated it all. I was inspired, somewhat, by my father. Hardworking, raised from the gutter, never a silver spoon in his mouth. I say somewhat because he did all this, made a fortune defending innocent men and prosecuting despicable paedophiles and homicidal catamites, but ended up marrying my cheap floozy of a mother. Yeah, I’m going to say that right now. My mother was just a whore, not quite on the level of a professional escort, no, that would be giving her credit. She just batted her batly eyelids at the right person. My father, Mickey Washington.

Mother was never around much, Dad was always working. I was practically raised by our butler, Dane. Nice fellow, he was. British, little sarcastic, just like how you see in the movies. He always had snippets of wisdom for me when I was in trouble, and yet he would never get mad at me when I was actually in a pickle. I looked up to Dane, both as a second father and maybe even an older brother. Emphasis on old. His staunch rationalism, biting wit, British behavior reminded me of a fictional character I had seen on TV somewhere. A doctor or something. But the important thing to remember was that Dane was the inspiration I had for not only pursuing my own interests, but making sure I did well in the not-so interesting things that would serve to further…my own interests!

I was a great student in school. By age 16 I was doing multivariable calculus, writing essays and pieces that brought tears to the eyes of stolid old businessmen who hated their wives, spoke four languages, Spanish, French, Russian, and Latin, and excelling in a variety of sports. I was the archetypal pinnacle of humanity. Arrogance aside, I seriously was an impressive specimen, perhaps they wanted to clone me. Not only that, but I was blessed with rugged good looks and a wit that matched, if not surpassed, Dane’s. He was my sensei after all.

High school was boring for me. I had finished all my classes, and more, laughably by the end of my sophomore year. But what the hell right? Even though I was a brainiac, that didn’t mean I had to leave high school, miss out on two years of fun. So what did I do? What would any kid do at that age, given that freedom, money, and prestige? Sex, drugs, and…that’s it. Sex and drugs.

Oh Jesus…if I were to tell you how many fucking girls I slept with or how many lines of blow I did, you’d need every single sheet of paper of the Congressional Library to document it all…Shit. Wild years. And that’s probably what motivated me to become what I was, a gigolo. I loved it. Sex was wonderful, liberating, and more often than not anonymous. I would just hit up a party, find a drunk chick, talk her up for a few minutes and away we would go. Of course, this was spread in between sessions of blow going right up our noses, sometimes we ate it. Time of my life. I would often have some really clingy girl who would always want to cuddle afterwards, but man, that wasn’t my thing. I wanted to get it on and get it out. That was my philosophy. Never had a girlfriend, mate. That’s for damn sure. It was Hollywood, it was Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills. Did you seriously expect anything less?

Consistency was the name of the game. Every night I was out, partying, drinking, snorting, fucking, you name it. But I always kept a cool head, even in spite of all this. I somehow managed to transcend the stereotype; high people do stupid things, I didn’t do stupid things. At least, relatively anyway. Some of the kids I was with decided one night, while on speedballs, to pretend to surf on top of a moving car. Let’s just say the poor bastard who tried to do it, Lenny, was lucky his dad was rich. Imagine if a kid from South Central lost half his face. Parents would just euthanize the fucker right then and there. Me? No. I never did anything stupid, paradoxically, while on drugs. If I had a bit of blow or dope, I would just sit there and chill the fuck out. It was my scene, but not my movie.

This shit went on for a long time, and it was the most fun I ever had, I’m not going to lie to you. Sure, you needed a fix every few hours, or minutes, in some cases, but nobody was ever around to watch me shoot up. Dane might’ve walked in on me a few times, but he never brought it up. I adored the lifestyle, I felt like a goddamn Rockstar. I was happy with it, yes. But I was stupid for drugs. Brilliant in other areas; I could translate Candide, The Aeneid, Don Quixote, and The Brothers Karamazov in three weeks, but I couldn’t go more than four hours without shooting up. It was okay though, I was never short of dope. I was fine. I was fucked up, sure, but relatively speaking, I was fine.

So for about two years, I was embedded in this shit. And then, during a guest pep speak, or whatever the fuck they call them, I suddenly realized my follies, ironically, while high out of my mind. The guy was up there on stage, impeccable suit and tie, crisp and clean, beautifully shaved, smooth composure, and suave presentation. He wore glasses, giving off an air of confidence and power. And then he spoke, his voice a powerful and compelling mixture of a bit of James Earl Jones and Martin Luther King Jr. He spoke with conviction, authority. But the thing is, he spoke mostly about bullshit, nothing really important, it was all waffle to me. But then he got the audience involved, and that’s when I began to start paying attention.

At first, I was only paying attention because I thought if he called on me, the whole school would know I was blitzed out of my mind. So this guy, this flawless, Aryan specimen points straight at me, his perfectly trimmed fingernail pointing directly over my heart, as if he was stabbing me there and hoping to steal the grams of coke I had in my pockets, asked me boomingly and clearly, “What do you want to do with your life?”

Now, Twisted Sister was pretty popular back in the day, and the situation reminded me exactly of that. Hell, that’s how the music video went. So, in my heroin-infused mind, pondering an answer to get the heat off me comes up with a perfect response. “I wanna rock!” And the shit hit the fan. Proverbially, anyway.

What this made me realize was that I was screwing up my young, nubile life. Here I was, humping away. Here I was, snorting grams of coke and shooting up heroin, forcibly conquering my liver. I wanted to rock. I wanted to be Dee Snider. But I wasn’t. There was no way I was going to be Dee Snider if I kept on doing what I was doing. Sure, Dee Snider was humping away, snorting coke, shooting up heroin, and forcibly conquering his liver. But the man worked hard before he could afford these luxuries. I hadn’t done shit. I haven’t rocked. And I didn’t deserve anything until I rocked. So back to our story.

The speaker kinda just laughed slightly and walked on, continued to talk about leadership, what have you. Admirable it was, sure. But this guy was preaching to the wrong crowd. Kids back then, most kids these days, with a few exceptions, they’re not interested in that shit. They don’t want to help the impoverished in Peru, they don’t want to build schools in Panama or deliver desks in Ethiopia. Hell, I’d go so far to say they don’t even want to read. What’s popular these days? MySpace. Jonas Brothers. I grew up in the 80’s, so you know I’m saying something when I say the music these kids listen to is just noise.

I may be a bit off topic here, tangential, but I feel it has to be said. I was part of that demographic, part of the uncaring teenager, the kind that only wants to fuck and snort. And I’m here to say I thoroughly regret that. Yeah, I educated myself, I learned a lot. But that doesn’t mean I’m ashamed at what happened afterwards. The phrase “O How the Mighty have Fallen,” immediately comes to mind. But kids will be kids. I’ve accepted that. I just wish I spent more time reading Nietzsche than going to parties.

But like I said, that speaker, man. He had some kind of power, some sort of sway over me. So obviously, I decided to clean up my act. It was just a little bit at a time, baby steps. Let me tell you that there’s nothing quite worse than going through withdrawal, it’s something I don’t want to relive any time soon. I tied myself to my bed, locked the cellar door, put out the air in my tires to prevent myself from going to see my dealer, Mitch. Mitch was a slimeball who operated out of a boutique in Rodeo. I could overdose on his floor and he’d be too blitzed to even raise a finger. Take my word for it when I say that self-rehab is almost never successful. I’m the only exception (that I know of).

Like I said, I was done with high school. I was just sitting around for the parties. But now that I wasn’t going to them any more, the gathering of massive anonymous crowds, I dedicated myself to more wholesome activities. I read some foreign literature, The Master and Margarita, The Count of Monte Cristo, Inferno, and Lolita. All in a week. I was hungry for knowledge. I lose dependency on one thing, I gain an addiction to another. Information. Stories. Themes. I ate it up.

I wrote several papers detailing key events in ancient history and their repercussions. The Sack of Rome. The Enlightenment. The American Revolution. Unrestrained capitalism in America. Contained communism in Russia. The Cuban Missile Crisis. The Oil Conflict. Not quite, ancient, more modern, but it served its purpose. It was all a distraction. Distraction from the abhorrent life I led. Distraction from the past I was trying to put behind me. I claimed to have a purpose. I claimed to want to be a smarter person. But I didn’t. I only wanted to divert myself from my problems. I didn’t want to think about it.

It helped, but it wasn’t enough. I enrolled at UCLA. With my father’s connections and pull, it was remarkably easy. My first class was something like “Sex and Sociology,” an intriguing topic. It put things in perspective, why we have sex, what elements compel us to have carnal relations with another person. Having spent a lot of time humping and dumping, learning the machinations that drive us to do what we do. I loved learning, man. I seriously did. But the thing was that while it helped me understand all of it, it made me ridiculously horny. So I was conflicted; trapped between my desires to hump and my desire to form a real relationship with someone. In the long run, it probably would've been wiser to go with the latter, rather than the former. How I managed to fall back into something I had yearned to escape, I don't know. That's the problem with trying to break your own habits. You just find a substitute habit to supplant your original. Sort of like how that guy kept collecting rocks instead of masturbating in that one Chuck Palahniuk novel. I remember that because it was funny, but outside of that, Palahniuk is an untalented hack. Sorry, lost my train of thought.

While I was at school, I cut off all friendships, relationship, connections with anyone I knew. I was a ghost. My dad knew I was at school, but he was so busy, he didn't even visit. The only contact I had with other human beings was swooping into parties and taking advantage of the drunk chicks. Yeah, it's bastardous and a dick move. But I didn't care. I needed something to occupy my spare time. I was ironically, and tragically, lonelier than I had ever been for those four years. The root of all my problems stemmed from human beings - human beings giving me coke, human beings giving me heroin, human beings giving me booze. I might as well do something natural, something God intended instead of getting high as a kite. It was the only solace I could find, to know that I was doing something relatively normal, even if my method of acquisition was less than gentlemanly.

I decided to go after my master's degree in psychology, attaining it with no problem, and then my pHD. Also no problem. I found if I put my mind to it, I could do whatever I wanted. Corny, taken-straight from an after-school special, sure, but it was true. I was one determined motherfucker. I was desperate to prove myself, to prove that those years of drunken debauchery wasn't representative of the real me. Everyone goes through that. Others judge on preconceptions, others judge based on a sole event in life, I wanted to be viewed past that. I would be getting a doctorate, subsequently allowing people to judge me by that. I was a hypocrite, but this hypocrisy tasted a lot sweeter. As long as my other hunger was satiated, I could function above normal capacity. I could go above and beyond the call of duty, and that's what guaranteed success. It was good. I could psycho-analyze people. Combine that with a sharp deductive ability and I could learn all about a person just by the way they talked, from the clothes they wear. You see that shit on TV a lot, few can actually do it. And those who can actually do it only learned so they can study the human being. And why would we study human beings, study animals, whatever? We consider them lower than ourselves. Certainly was the case here.

What did I do? Where did I go after I got my degree? The piece of paper that said I was qualified to make an exorbitant sum of money? Based on something some people saw in me? Nowhere. I stayed right there, went back to Beverly Hills and stayed in our old house. No one cared. I was a specter. So where was I going to go after this? After the massive amounts of sex, after the years of education, after the binges?

On a road trip, of course.

Poetry Part Deux

2008-10-02T16:32:00.000-07:00

Love Rain O'er Me

Be like water, my friend.
And with it, the power to adapt, to live, to the bitter end.
In the rain, the droplets fall, flashing and fleeting bits of coolness.
And happiness it brings, to be misted and kissed by the sky.
But with time, to think, to wonder, to fester, it becomes an unknowable beast.
And the rain will not return.
Destruction left in the wake of the storm is difficult to repair, but must be fixed.
The sudden onset brings about the realization of being tricked.
Water from all high is a two-headed monster.
One seductive and beautiful, if only to feed the other.
Is it possible for the rain to return? The gentle pitter-patter of pleasure?
It can't be measured.

The Tribulations

2008-10-01T08:39:00.001-07:00

"Hi, what's your name?"

"John."

"Oh, I like that name. How are you John?"

"I'm good. How are you, sweetheart?"

"I'm fabulous, John."

"That's good to hear."

"So why are you calling, John?"

"I wanted to talk."

"Mmmm, I like that John."

"Yeah. So let's talk."

"What do you want to talk about? What do you want to know?"

"What do I want to know?"

"Yes, John. Do you want to know anything? About me?"

"I would."

"What do you want to know about me, John?"

"What are you wearing?"

"A little nightie. Clothes are always so...constricting."

"Hm, is that right? Nothing but a nightie, you say?"

"That's right John, what do you think of that?"

"I like it. I like it a lot."

"Want to know anything else? Anything you want to know..."

"Yeah, what do you look like?"

"I'm blond, slender...horny."

"That's not something you look like, dear."

"Mmm, I like it when you call me dear..."

"You like a lot things, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"What color are your eyes?"

"What?"

"What's. Your. Eye. Color."

"Oh, why do you want to know?"

"I can know anything I want, can't I?"

"Sure. They're blue, John."

"..."

"John?"

"..."

"John....?"

"Yeah. I'm here. Thank you. Thank you for your time."

He hung up. From the tattered sofa he was sitting on, he hung up his cell phone. He stood up, walked into the nursery, and picked up his crying son. He patted him down, laid him back down to sleep. He walked back through his tiny house and sat back down on the sofa, reaching for the bottle on the coffee table.

And he continued his day.

The Flash.

2008-09-30T16:06:00.000-07:00

She rises each morning, at the crack of dawn, to care for her children. Always at the same time, never remiss in her expected duties. Each morning, she obliges their chirps, petulant and impetuous demands.

Never faltering and certainly never failing.

She looks into the distance, he's nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he went out in the night, although that certainly isn't like him. But no time to worry about that, she has voracious appetites to satisfy, which she already prepared for. After all, she's been through this ritual ever since their birth. She gives them what they clamor for, they chirp less, the morsels they consumed satisfying their bellies and subsequently quelling their neediness. She's a professional, she knows what she's doing.

Never faltering and certainly never failing.

She looks on coldly at them. They're now quiet, mollified temporarily. But certainly not permanently, much as she would like them to be. Abstract, omniscient, obligations ties her to them. Can't be severed even with the sharpest implement. They wouldn't live without her, and she couldn't live without them. A vicious cycle of surrendering your life to others. Selflessness makes others happy, but how much happiness can you really derive from pleasing others? It wasn't bringing her much pleasure. In fact, quite the opposite. Misery permeated everything. But what could she do? Leave them? Go some place else? There was no way.

At the moment, things were idyllic. From where she was, all she could see was vast and infinite green. The beauty and size of nature was truly something to behold. The silence wasn't deadly, as it usually would be, but calming and therapeutic. The follies of life were sudden and unrelenting, but moments like these were to be relished. There's nothing quite like it, and she truly appreciated, loved, the opportunity. There were only occasional flashes of serenity like this.

Suddenly, she heard a rumbling from underneath her. A mechanical monstrosity meandered into the plain, crushing all that stood before it. It came straight for them, knocking over the tree. She spread her wings and took flight in alarm, pausing for nothing, not realizing the nest was destroyed in a flash. They were gone. She didn't have time to look back, just narrowly escaping with her life. In an instant, it was all gone. In an instant, all was shattered. The peace was taken away. It was all over.

She had faltered. She had failed. But it wasn't her fault.

PS. Meditating to Massive Attack makes you write really weird shit.

Materialism

2008-09-29T08:21:00.001-07:00

The concept of property has inadvertently caused, all together now, the fall of civilization, the erosion of society, death in the millions, and the corruption of every generation that flourished ever since we evolved enough to be more intelligent than a sabretooth tiger with a cranial injury.

What is it that compels us to seek out property, items, materials? Is it the fact that we need to have things to feel comfortable with ourselves? Has pride of ownership sunken so deeply into us that it is akin to racism? Do we just want to look pretty in our new skirt or intimidating in our new car? A combination of all, to be honest.

This concept of materialism isn't necessarily a negative or limited to just humans, those flawed bastards that I hate so much. Lions and hippopotami are extremely territorial, komodo dragons will share their carrion so long as that carrion is YOU, and chimpanzees will fling their poo at any passerby. Point is, animals are as capable of altruism as I am capable of having sex with supermodels. It's an evolutionary instinct, to seek comfort with what you have. Hell, I can't sleep unless I have my huggy pillow.

But there's a fine line. There's a difference between getting what you need and what you want. And like the wise philosopher Jagger once said, "You can't always get what you want." And I find that to be pretty wise, even if it's coming from a Rolling Stone. Sure, we need a bed, cars, computers, cell phones, TVs. But come on people. There's a limit to how much shit you need. You have a perfectly good TV, Samsung DLP, 42 inches, capable of 720p output. Do you really need to consider updating it to a 58 inch LCD 1080p Bravia, just so you can mount it? Is that shit really necessary? You have plenty of nice shirts, do you really need more? We as a species find comfort and happiness from the things we buy, from the glut of unnecessary bullshit we have. And once the newest bullshit comes out, we trash what we bought earlier in favor of the newest shiny device.

How can we help it? Evolutionary instinct, let's say. Sure. That's plausible. But everything around our society revolves around owning more. Capitalism at its finest - what we want to accomplish is to achieve wealth through business. And what do we do with that wealth once we attain it? Exchange it for goods and services. That's what the American Dream is! Come over to the Land of Opportunity from a dirt-poor nation with absolutely nothing to get a lot of money and then spend it! This goes back to God knows when, probably back to when Grug decided that he needed a new spear to kill a Mastodon with. The media's constant barrage of telling us "You need this new product" merely exacerbates the problem.

But would I honestly call it a problem? Sure, if it's all we can think about. If we're raised believing that the entire point to life is MORE STUFFS, that's materialistic to say the least. If you want me to say more, the words "fucking retarded" and "collapse of society" come to mind. We want more stuff, sure. Acceptable fact of life that everyone wants to buy more shit. But when it becomes a value, a virtue, and something to strive for all your life, you're a slave to plastic, to cotton, to metal. And who wants to live like that?

A short story

2008-09-27T16:39:00.000-07:00

For several days, she was all I could think about. She didn't even know me. I didn't even know her. Somehow, the sight of her long, fiery hair incensed me, struck up a vast array of emotions, many of which were foreign and disturbing to me. I was ashamed of what I felt, such animalistic lust I had never felt before. I believed if I had just a momentary lapse of reason, this beast would ripple through me, strike me down, control me. A delicate sound of thunder would ultimately be the end of me.

So on that day, as she passed by, smiling her enigmatic smirk, I smiled back, going on my way. She ascended the stairs, I looked back, the darkness creeping back through me again, but this time, I let it go. I moved towards the sofas in the lobby, collapsed, exhausted, dipped into euphoria. Emotions I had never known surged through me, feelings of jubilation. I looked up, into the domed ceiling, a mosaic, a clash of color, a maelstrom of confusion and ecstasy. I let go, I was comfortably numb. Her face appeared in my mind's eye, a specimen of such divine beauty that I felt obligated to kneel, in my own mind, surrender my realm to another God.

And with that, I opened my eyes, returning to reality. I stood up, walked out of the building and stopped at the bus stop, sitting down on the rancid bench. I looked down the road for signs of the bus. There was none. I closed my eyes again. This time, she wasn't there. Instead, I saw a technicolor warp of buildings. These buildings extended into the sky, infinite and insurmountable, stretching higher and higher. And suddenly, without warning, they collapsed. Exploded into a million pieces, raining rubble from the sky, in a manner befitting the most malevolent, vengeful deity. And suddenly, I was there. A mortal man facing the downpour of man's proudest structures. Impact was imminent...

And then I opened my eyes. I saw the bus rolling towards me, braking. I climbed on, and took a seat towards the back. The bus rumbled forwards, driving along a dilapidated sidewalk. I looked up and into the other side of the road. Dozens of cars thundered down the speedway, their motors screaming like banshees. I closed my eyes, saw myself floating above a sea of gazelle, stampeding down a gorge. Their sharp horns glistening in the African sun, I looked down, from high up. The sounds of fear and panic permeated my ears, freezing my heart cold. As I floated above the stampede, I extended my arms, as if on the Holy Cross. I stared back down and dove straight into the rampage.

But then I opened my eyes. The bus had rumbled to a stop, right next to my apartment building. I got off and walked in, climbing some rickety stairs, ignoring the screams of the unhappy couple downstairs. I pulled out my keys and walked in. My apartment was dark, freezing, and foreboding. I sighed, turned on the light and collapsed on the couch. I stared at the coffee table, swiped my bottle of pills. I took down another two.

Next time, I won't take more than I need.

You ever wonder why we're here?

2008-09-26T15:01:00.000-07:00

This question has been pondered ever since man decided that getting eaten by sabertooth tigers and killing mammoths with spears was a bad idea. Since the very beginning of critical thought, the idea of the point of our existence as a species has been wondered. And so I ask. Why are we here? Why is this species of ape on this tiny celestial body, slowly poisoning it with their inventions and such? In the grand scope of the entire universe, we're insignificant. So why are we here?

There is no "point" to our existence, strictly speaking. The evolution of neanderthals into what we are today has no specific purpose in the grand scheme of things. The universe and its natural laws didn't direct our evolution so that some day we might accomplish some grand feat. God doesn't exist and he doesn't love all of us unconditionally, as much as we would love to believe that. To the universe, the millions of years lifeforms have been wandering the earth have just been "chillin." Another million years will pass, our species will go extinct, life will begin anew, evolve again, and maybe give way to another species capable of abstract and critical thought.

The religious believe that the point of our existence is to live a full life, die sinless, and go to heaven. And while that's certainly, the least I could say about it is that it is an ideal. The worst I could say about it is that it's a load of idealistic bullshit that's stupid to abide by. So what do I believe?

The belief that you can nail life to one, single, all-encompassing purpose is also a load of bullshit. This is going to sound like relativist propaganda (which I'm sure a few of you are a fan of ;)), but life is simply what you make of it, to borrow an extremely cliched term. You make your own purpose in this universe, and the bigger picture, the framework in which you create this doesn't matter, because none of it affects you, or will affect you. Effectively, you're purposeless once you're born into this world. But as you grow up and mature, learn about the world, about culture, about society, you'll have a clearer picture of what makes you happy. And then you base your life, your purpose on that which makes you happy.

The argument that life's purpose simply is to be one with God is valid to the religious. If you base your whole life around an abstract ideal, once you die, you die happy. That's fine. But have you ever truly lived for yourself? You lived for your beliefs, sure, but does that really qualify? Have you done what made you happy? Do the things you wanted to do? Bring meaning to your own life? I don't know. I'm not religious.

What's the point of life? Why are we here? You ask a hundred different people that question and you might get a hundred different answers. The purpose of our lives is to make our own purpose, whether it's through religion, education, or what have you. We're not here to change the way the universe works (although those scientists at CERN might be), we're here to make ourselves happy. Life is a lot brighter that way.

Fucked up ways to die

2008-09-26T09:38:00.000-07:00

There are many.

But the worst one would be death by Candiru.

Although it is quite rare to encounter this horrifying, parasitic bastard, if you happen to be swimming in its waters, be afraid. Be very afraid.

The candiru, or Vandellia cirrhosa, a fish so feared that the second part of its binomial nomenclature is named after a degenerating liver condition, is most commonly found in the Amazon River and El Rio Negro. Also common to these waters are bloodthirsty piranhas and deadly crocodiles. So you know this thing is lethal when the natives fear it over all else.

The candiru is tiny. The biggest known specimen was only six inches long. What's so scary about it, you ask? This pugnacious little bastard hunts for prey by detecting ammonia and urea expelled by the gills of other fish. Once it locates its prey, it rapidly darts towards it, slips into the gills, and, using its spines, lodges itself in place. As if having a little parasitic fish inside you isn't enough, the evil thing begins to gnaw through a major blood vessel. Omnomnomnom.

Of course, fish aren't the only things this asshole fish feeds on. People unfortunate and foolish enough to urinate in the river are also susceptible to the Candiru. The fish can swim up any orifice, the anus, the urethra, the the vagina, anywhere is possible. As such, it is impossible to remove without surgery. Though it's likely that the resultant infection and systemic shock will kill you before some Brazilian doctor who got his degree over the Internet can touch your genitals with a bladed apparatus.

This has been a public service announcement. Do not piss in the Amazon or Black River.

Whine

2008-09-22T19:34:00.000-07:00

Despite the rant I'm about to write, I'm actually quite cheerful. No homework, new Prison Break and Heroes in an hour or so (although my expectations are extremely low for Heroes), no work in the foreseeable future, and I kicked my math test's ass. So, time for a little purgative writing.

If the title of the blog is any indication, I'm a misanthrope. I hate my fellow man, for many, many, many good reasons. But recently, some hope has been restored, but I'm not sure why. People with problems have talked to me, and instead of callously ostracizing them, I've actually given advice, comfort, and feedback. I guess I'm softening up, but make no mistake. I am still very much a misanthrope.

We're selfish. We're vain. We're paranoid. We're xenophobic. I'm not just describing America, but all humans. All values that have been so deeply indoctrinated that they're not going anywhere until we evolve into omnipotent beings capable of levitation and shooting thunderbolts from our eyes. I'm guilty of these despicable characteristics. Everyone is, there's no denying it and there's no way to get rid of them (trust me, I've tried and am still trying!). But imagine if we could purge ourselves of them? Would we be happier? Would all the world's ills cease?

Short answer: No.

Long answer: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

There's no such thing as utopia. It's just an ideal to strive for. We can come close to it, but we can never attain it. It's just in our nature, our behavior as human beings to be imperfect. But that doesn't mean we can't change ourselves. We can change ourselves to not be so xenophobic. To not be so materialistic and vain. Hey, a whole generation of kids in the 1960s pulled it off; they didn't want to embrace the backwards, racist ideology. In just a few years, all that paranoia, hatred, selfishness, fear of change was just cast out the window, raising a new generation of kids. It's very much possible.

Time after time, I've been let down, disappointed, offended by the stupidity and folly of mankind. All of the aforementioned manifested in their absolute worst. Everyone's guilty of them. Some people are just more guilty than others, and I've had the misfortune of having to deal with them. Cunts. That's how this way of thinking flourished.

That being said, I think I'm becoming something of an optimist. My human interactions have been fairly limited - I haven't been forced to mingle with a cornucopia of morons like I was a few years ago. I can pick the people I want to spend time with and cast aside the ones that I hate. Great system, because I've known nothing but great people for the past few months, hell, even years. I guess that's where the newly rooted optimism comes in. I've kinda given people the benefit of the doubt, that kind of thing I mentioned earlier. I wasn't really aware of it until I stepped back and thought about it. It's nice...I think.

I have no idea what the freaking fuck I'm talking about. Cheers.

Free Will and Acceptance

2008-09-19T15:00:00.001-07:00

I've recently read a few things that made me wonder about the individual human and his development. The stages of life that he goes through are dictated by the laws of sociology, physics, and psychology. Chuck Palahniuk's Lullaby really made me ponder the issue, as did a blog my friend wrote. So let's get right into it.

From the moment we take our first breath, our first steps, crawl for the very first time, we're bombarded by a garish assault of ads, expressions, norms, and values. You grow up in a Christian house, you'll learn to confess your sins, never to have sex before marriage, and to say a prayer before you eat. You grow up in a Russian household, your parents will put you through a rigorous training course so that you're badass like your distant relatives in the Motherland. My point is, form every angle, we assimilate values of our culture, develop a way of thinking that is in harmony with our way of life, and express values that sync up with what we were raised to believe.

In that sense, is there ever such a thing as free will? Is there such a thing as true originality? What we perceive to be free will is just choosing between brands. What we believe to be original is just adapted from an earlier work with a few variations and spins. I am reminded of Bioshock, a brilliant video game that brought up one of Ayn Rand's classic themes. "A man chooses. A slave obeys." But what is there to choose? We can choose between American cars or Japanese cars, we can choose between an Alfani or an Armani shirt? The point is, we're all subjected to the same stuff, the only choice we have is to choose which one, which company, which style to abide by. We're all slaves. Slaves to the norms, slaves to the culture, and slaves to the values that have been instilled in us since birth. We may try to break the chains, try to become unique, but there's no such thing. We're all the same underneath. It's just a mild variation on what might be different.

What else are we? What separates us from the beasts? We're self-aware. We're conscious of our own decisions, we know the consequences of our actions, and we can think critically. And yet, we are a herd. We're herded along, swindled by the mighty and their impressive rhetoric (irony!). You can claim your beliefs are unique, sensational. But chances are, someone else has already thought of it. We can never truly be original. Even the Constitution was adopted from various other historical documents and other values. The Magna Carta perhaps? Maybe Protestantism? I laugh at the emo kids trying to be "cool" by dressing up in all black, pretending their poetry is self-expressive of their "pain" (I can say with some certainty that at least my poetry isn't as lame as theirs).

That brings me to another point - acceptance. We do all these things, going back to the emo example, those kids dress like that, behave like that, listen to the crappy music to gain acceptance among their peers. Acceptance makes us happy, it lets us know that we're doing something right, it's just "invisible positive reinforcement," so to speak. And that's fine. We all want to be accepted, pretending you don't care what other people think about you is a load of bullshit - even if you claim that, on some level, you will always yearn for more.

What I find funny is that everything we do is to gain some small sum of acceptance from someone. I believe the sociological concept was the "Looking Glass and the Generalized Other." The Generalized Other is the vast accumulation of other people's opinions on us, and we consult it unconsciously. When you look at a mirror to determine whether an outfit looks good, and we ask ourselves "Does this look alright?" we aren't asking ourselves. We're asking the Generalized Other, the opinions of people, of everyone else. If it looks good, that means it's acceptable to others.

I suppose my point is this: we cannot avoid being conditioned by the values of our culture and we can never stop yearning for the acceptance of others. They go hand-in-hand, I suppose. Hell, I am definitely playing by those rules, despite my vehement declarations otherwise. Well, that was cathartic.

Run, Forrest, Run.

2008-09-14T20:08:00.000-07:00

Fun times. Highlights:

Starting the morning off with a healthy bit of diarrhea.

Finding a cowbell and growling at passerby

Yelling the word "shitty" to Nina in front of her Christian friends two seconds after she tells me to behave myself.

Trying (and failing) to start a mosh pit in the little concert hall.

Screaming "Fucking fuck fuck me fucker fuckity fuckshit" while going on Flight Deck.

Crushing Nina on the Centrifuge ride.

Crushing her hand during Drop Zone.

Swearing extremely profusely on rides with small children present.

Watching Austin and Kyle and some other girl swing back and forth like a horrifying human pendulum. I got it on video, whoop.

Talking about how Benjamin Franklin was an asshole to keep Austin awake as we drove back. Reasons: He dropped his Grandma's turkey and kicked it, choked their dog with a bone, flew an electrified kite into my house, force-fed me peanuts, spit on Martha Washington's food, and ordered a cease-and-desist on Chipotle's operations because he found an irregularly colored pepper. What a fucking dick.

Good fucking times. I haven't been this happy in a while :)

And all that shit comes crashing down with school tomorrow. Hopefully Bardell is particularly exciting in lecture and Prateek dies in a freak shampoo incident.

Every day I'm hustlin'

2008-09-10T21:59:00.000-07:00

On top of my regular duties as well, you know.

As opposed to me proposing an issue or something interesting to debate, I think I'll just turn this blog into my new, little diary. I've got no problems, but it's cathartic to write about a load of crap that nobody cares about except me. And maybe a couple others ;)

I'm a bit confused at the moment. There's a whole lot of shit I need to wipe up, or consider beginning to wipe up. But most of it is nestled, tucked away in a forgotten corner of my mind. I need to consider starting up college apps. I need to consider the SATs. I need to consider getting more community service hours. I need to consider the format of my next project. There's just so much I need to do, but have no motivation to even attempt. I mean, once they loom closer, like a homicidal robotic falcon flying in closer to deliver a payload of bullets and death, I'll have more incentive to run away, but I think I've just convinced myself to believe that it's too far on the horizon to worry about. I need to get my priorities in order.

Despite my confusion, I've managed to stay happy, outside of a few nitpicks. My play has been well-received from the people who I've allowed to read, I'm staying on top of my reading list, and I've managed to work in a decent amount of exercise. Football has also been extremely fun to watch, even though the Norcal teams are so unbelievably awful that Joe Montana would be ashamed to even be once affiliated with the 49ners. Go Chargers, even though their defense may be weakened once Merriman goes into surgery. Sorry.

That being said, there some things I could do without. For one, indulging the company of parasitic asstards is about as appealing as clipping my nails with a chainsaw. This is why I hate taking classes with people, though there are exceptions. They gravitate towards me, eat up my notes, and leave, but not before farting in my face as thanks. This time, I get to have all that but also have to sit next to a smelly, greasy, annoying Indian fuckstick. Even after class is over and I hint that I want to be alone to do my work, the twatface insists on following me wherever I go. I can understand if it's a friend, but this guy is not my friend. Never will be. I'm probably making a big deal out of this, but I'm going to have to deal with this for the next fourteen weeks. That's why I'm making it a big deal. I won't have my olfactory sense after that time, man.

I walked into the semester with the following mentality. "Oh man, this semester's gonna be awesome. I'll have an awesome history teacher, a great math teacher, I'll be able to write some ace papers, and I'll learn about economics and music." Turns out my semester is equally counterbalanced and I have no English class.

My history and math classes are awesome. But my econ and music classes are as exciting as playing with toejam. The Persian/Eastern European/Brooklyn whatever-the- fuck-she-is reads right out of the damn book, and the music class is boring to the point where you'd rather learn the Soulja Boy dance or learn how to tie a hangman's noose (like some people).

Like I said, small nitpicks, I just like being descriptive with overlong metaphors.

Fun fact: I'm doing horrifically bad in the Kaplan course. I haven't been completing the homework, and during class, I'm more interested in looking up vocabulary words I don't know the definition to (I've only found one, "obfuscate." Then I realized I knew the answer to it and felt dumb). My actual SAT score has been higher than all the practice exams, it's pretty funny. But also quite sad.

But we are fast approaching the end of the week, which seems to be loaded with fun throughout. Burn After Reading, another Coen Brothers movie, a comedy in contrast to the dark masterpiece that was No Country for Old Men. It looks excellent, and like The Dark Knight, I plan on seeing it more than once. On top of that, a friend (who better be reading this blog) is returning from Santa Barbara for a week up here. So I plan to school him in the art of Soul Calibur 4 and watch the premiere of House.Also, some Forrest Gump run thingy at Great America.

Like Brad Delp of Boston once said, "Takin' my time, I'm just movin' on."

I'm not dead yet

2008-09-04T19:53:00.000-07:00

The first week back at school has had an adverse effect on my mental health. Constant stress over my English class finally came to a head when Brosamer kicked out all the waitlisted people. But I shot him a nice, buttery email, which should hopefully help me out, if he likes me at all. He fucking better.

Everything else is good though. Bardell is as hilarious as ever, O'Connell the same, even though he's pretty scary when he gets angry. Mosleh's Eastern-European, Brooklyn, Californian, Persian hybrid accent is bizarre and the class seems extremely simplistic. I just activated my music course, so I'll be working on that, along with the mountain of math homework O'Connell assigned. Ugh.

But enough about silly school. Let's talk about something else. Once the school year started, I began to reflect, in my spare time, while waiting for class, about my summer. I realized it was probably the most productive summer I've ever had, in terms of experiences, accomplishments, and just general happiness. So obviously, the only thing to do is list it out on my blog (It's more for recording purposes, the probability that I'll forget the nuances is quite high).

I recall kicking the shit out of my finals (except one) and just kicking it for a while. I also recall getting accepted to RYLA, which seemed so far off. So then I take the SATs and get a pretty dismal score and play and beat Ninja Gaiden 2 and Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots, the former causing me to rage out several times. I also went to the midnight launch of the latter, which was pretty fun. I also marathoned MGS4, because it came out three days before RYLA. I actually pulled it off, good fucking times.

So then RYLA came along, and with it a maelstrom of emotions, revelations, and new motivations. This blog is a direct result of RYLA; that camp inspired me to write every day to whet my skills. Motivations shot up in every area: I wanted to write for papers, be active in Interact, what have you. It was a brilliant experience; I would kill to relive that week. The place changed me, not to a significantly frightening degree - not Dr. Jekyll and Joan Rivers, but it chilled me the fuck out, opened me up a bit, showed me that the world isn't always dark and miserable, although it most often is. Let's just say it eroded a bit of my cynicism.

I also enjoyed learning. I didn't just learn from the Trig class I took at the end of June till the end of July, but other things. More experiences, so to speak. I observed and made notes (not really, but you get what I mean), on the relationships of my friends, to make myself a more knowledgeable person. And maybe apply that practical know-how to maybe get myself one of those "relationship" thingies. Yeah, it didn't work, but that's ok. Live and let learn, right? It's probably a good thing, my attempts just made me grow closer to the two people involved - the consult and the target. And to be honest, that's more important than any successes. On second thought, maybe Trig was more important. ;)

The other RYLA functions, AIDS walk and the beach reunion, served as nice get togethers, pleasant and hilarious. Walking six something miles with awesome people, screeching Journey at the top of my lungs, and explaining point-by-point why 10,000 B.C. sucks to Justin never gets old.

As we come to mid-July, thus began the Great Reading Journey. I had nothing to do, my 360 was broken (still is), and I had nothing else to do, so I found comfort in books. It was alllllll good. You know what else was all good?

PANCAKES!!!

Outside Lands Music Festival (Even if I nearly dropped dead, was buried by a crowd, and barely recognized half the shit played)

A Journey to Bethel Island (Nothing like nearly drowning to make you appreciate life)

Watching The Dark Knight in the first 24 hours.

I'm not sure what else, someone please remind me of things I overlooked. I gotta remember this shit, you know?

Sarah Palin is a dumb cunt

2008-08-31T11:32:00.000-07:00

Might as well get my main point across. McCain's choice of VP was an extraordinarily bad judgment call - instead of picking a well-rounded candidate with good credentials and a solid track list of achievements, he just goes straight for the renegade democrats, the Obama haters. And while he certainly scoops up those morons, he alienates everyone else in his party, the Republicans who actually want someone decent for the Vice Presidency.

Palin is simply Dick Cheney with a vagina turned down to a softer volume. She supports the NRA, anti-abortion, supports the teaching of Creationism, and basically sucks the long, metallic dick of the oil companies. I initially thought, being the Alaskan governor, that she'd be all for the creation of alternate fuels and cutting down greenhouse gas emissions, but she's not. In fact, she denies that global warming is man-made, despite the damn near avalanche of proof that says otherwise. On top of that, this woman is even more "inexperienced" than Barack Obama, only this time, the argument actually works. She's been an office a total of two years, never served a full term, and has absolutely PISS ZERO foreign policy experience. Good call, McCain!

All in all, Sarah Palin exemplifies everything that's wrong with this nation. Backwards, ignorant, reliant on what's essentially heroin. The least you could say about her is that she shakes things up - a woman VP running with an old senile fart against a young, idealistic black man and an old senile fart. The drama will be on this November. I didn't think McCain would be savvy enough to pull off this move, but I gotta give credit to the old dog. But hey, he still picked a shitty candidate, so what little props I give him are immediately repossessed.

PS. Blog reverts to a semi-weekly updated basis.

Rawr

2008-08-30T14:51:00.001-07:00

It still makes me happy.

A Travelogue Part Deux

2008-08-29T13:03:00.000-07:00

So, I spent the day in Berkeley yesterday, so the only thing to do about it, obviously, is to write another travelogue about it. And here we...go.

Austin picks me up, Bela's in the car. I bring along a box of chocolates and we head off to pick up Dolan. After doing so, we drive over to a liquor store to procure an item of sensitive nature. And from there, after comparing a certain flavor of gum to my feces, we headed to the BART station. After getting all the ticket bullshit sorted out, we get on the train, and play Six Degrees of Separation, which is a fucking hard game. I had a really good one, but Robert Rodriguez just had to make From Dusk till Dawn. This weird black lady makes fun of me for holding onto the box of chocolates, claiming that it will have already melted by the time it's opened. So we opened it and are greeted with gloop and liqueur. So after we promptly ravage it and trash it once we reach Berkeley, with Dolan spitting some of it back up, disgustingly. It looked like smeared shit all over the clean, white nutrition facts.

Anyway, we arrive in Berkeley and Bela decides we'll meet up with her sister later. We walk around Starbucks and some pizza place before we go into the campus. We take our own tour of campus, avoiding the heat by dodging into the shade. We go by a few impressive and imposing buildings (Biology building is fucking huge). I figure I better get used to the feeling of being a smaller cog in a greater machine, otherwise I'm going to hate college. But the walk was fun. After that, we hit up another Starbucks where I futilely try to use Bela's BlackBerry to check the score of the Giants/Patriots grudge match. (Pats lost, fuck yes). Anyhow, Bela's sister, Luba, meets up with us in Starbucks and starts talking about Cal, how, when you're at a public institution, there's a veil of anonymity between you and everyone else, how the admissions process works, the sometimes utter stupidity of students (For an essay exam, a student emailed her asking whether or not they needed a Scantron. For fuck's sake). It was pretty enlightening, much more informative than what that admissions officer said to us the summer previous.

She said my friends should act out my play too. As if anyone would want to be in that production. >_<

So shortly after that, we walk towards Telegraph, a huge busy street full of shops and restaurants and shit. We go to this store called "The T-Shirt Orgy," which has some really cool stuff, but I decide against buying something. Missed opportunity, because that shirt was off the hook. And so was this "Ace of Spades" shirt I saw on a rack. Oh well.

We walk down to a four-floor bookstore which shocks me. I browsed the basement and the second floor, found Choke by Chuck Palahniuk and Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh. After I bought Lolita, I swore on my life not buy another book. But I fucking caved and spent 18 bucks on both of them. I'm a weakling.

So at this point, we're all starving balls. We head to "Smart Alec's," a health food joint which is also a damn tasty place to eat. At this point, Lucas comes down, looking very angry. Apparently, he had wanted to go to SF, but we went to Berkeley instead and he had to go home at 9 to go to a party or some shit...I don't fucking know. I do know it was a blight on my meal, the best damn chicken sandwich I ever had that someone else paid for (fucking books!). Anyway, we finish eating and go outside, pondering what to do next that doesn't involve money. As we ponder, Lucas decides to peace out and says quickly "I'm going to Rasputin's." Despite his continuous protests, we clearly see he's pissed as shit. We go to find him in Rasputin's, but he isn't there, having fucked off to Amoeba, another indie music store. So we spend some time browsing the records and CDs, it's really cool. I wish I had a record player, that'd be like the most novel thing ever.

Austin gets a call from his dad, asking him to pick up a copy of "The Kids are Alright," a rockumentary featuring the Who. Amoeba doesn't have it, so we go back to Rasputin's. Turns out they don't have it either, so we just browse the store. Lucas decides to leave without telling anyone, and he's gone. How rude, right? But whatever. Bela picks up a poster and we head back out. The Game was actually signing shit in Rasputin's - I saw a frail Asian man with miscellaneous Game merchandise running excitedly home. I throw some change into a bum's cup, to which he happily replies "God bless you!"

Anyway, we decide to go home, but not after I piss out an aquarium's worth of urine in Starbucks, exacerbated by the fact that you have to fucking buy something before you can use it. Twats. So we go to our train, and begin to wait. And here's where shit gets real. Another bum, covered head to toe in a black shroud thing pushing a shopping cart full with what I assume is shit asks this guy for some cash, to which he politely rebukes her. She mumbles something and walks along, looking at mine and Bela's cellphones. She begins to loudly curse and swear, something about "Fuck you Whitey, five hundred dollars, phones, Fuck you to hell, go to hell, you son of a bitch, I'll stab you and make you bleed over the tracks, fucking whitey, fuck, shit, kill you." She was out of her goddamn mind, so we all just kept ignoring her, to which she responded by swearing louder. I didn't feel threatened or anything, I was just weirded out.

Then we got on BART and went home. Dolan pitched the idea of a screenplay to me, which I finished this morning. Should be interesting to see how that goes.

go away

2008-08-28T12:00:00.001-07:00

i'm sleeping

Someone tell me I'm healthy

2008-08-27T12:48:00.001-07:00

So I've given vague details as to my exercise and dietary regimen, and the declarations have been mixed, ranging from "That's pretty good" to "You're developing an eating disorder. So here's the skinny on what I do. Comment on it and judge whether or not I'm only my way to becoming the next Mr. Olympia or some emaciated monstrosity destined for a spot on Dr. Phil.

I usually fall asleep around 1:30, wake up around noon. 11 or so hours of sleep. I almost never have breakfast. After waking up, I usually eat lunch, which usually involves some kind of meat, chicken, beef, pork, what have you with (yeah) white rice. Although I try to limit the amount of rice I have - there's a lot of sugar in it.

After that, I usually take a walk, around half a mile, just to get the heart pumping. I'm too much of a weakling to go running. I mean, I can, but I get tired too damn easily and just end up walking anyway. So I walk to various places near my house, Borders, Barnes and Noble, what have you. If I go to a bookstore, I usually spend about an hour or two reading and stuff.

Then I walk back and get started with the exercises. Forty pushups, forty sit-ups, 100 crunches. Then I go outside and work on the home gym, 40 on every machine. I also do curls with a ten pound weight.

I walk every day, 5 days a week, but work out only three days a week, MWF. I work out everything on these days instead of the specially targeted regimen I had adopted earlier.

Dinner usually consists of moar meat and rice, with as little rice as possible. Vegetables are usually thrown in too, brocoli, sprouts, asparagus. Not raw, though.

A couple of glasses of milk spread throughout the week. Also, I usually snack on whatever fruits I can find. Oranges, bananas, whatever.

I also have a bad habit of drinking fruit juice instead of water. It's like 100% though, but that's still bad because you're better off eating the fruit than drinking its tasty blood.

I have been noticing results, not too drastic, but results nonetheless. It is making me quite happy, but then I crash back to earth after five minutes.

PS. I'm peeling, what the fuck?!

A puzzle

2008-08-26T13:31:00.001-07:00

I can see clearly now, the rain is gone.

Horatio!

Anarchy.

They may take our lives, but they may never take our FREEDOM!

Eat this, you'll feel better.

Made it Ma, top of the world!

YOUUUUUUUU, crank dat soulja boy

OCTOPI

Bold and Brash. More like, belongs in the trash!

Sexy

The Man on the Silver Mountain!

Attack of the Show, attack.

Cash rules everything around me, CREAM, get the money. Dolla dolla bill y'all

Lolita

Evil men do what good mean dream of

Silent night, holy night.

The Firsts

Book Mobile

2008-08-25T14:05:00.000-07:00

My entire summer has been rife with just reading and writing. I'm a literary fag. But for some reason, I take extreme joy in reading massive piles of novels, comics, and whatever else is on my desk. So, time to run through what I've read and judge it.

I read the following:

The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemmingway. How to describe it? Dreary, boring, slow, and a pitiful payoff. I appreciate the themes presented in the story, and Hemmingway writes a great character, but the entire novella consists of an old man in a boat fishing. That's about as exciting as it sounds.

Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmund Rostand. Brilliant play with lots of action, snarky dialogue, strong characterization, and happy romance. Frankly the best damn play I've ever read. Hell, I'd go so far to say that it's one of the best pieces of literature I've ever laid eyes on.

Watchmen by Alan Moore. I thought this was a damn good graphic novel. It was my first comic book, so that might have something to do with it. But the exposition, characters, action, all of it is flawlessly executed. The entire cast of characters is so memorable, you might as well relabel them the A-Team instead of the Watchmen.

V for Vendetta by Alan Moore. As soon as I finished Watchmen, I wanted more of Moore's (ba-dum-tish) amazing writing. This graphic novel shares some similarities with the movie (obviously), but the characters couldn't be more different. V isn't the romantic, hesitant killer he is in McTiernan's adaptation, he's a cold, ruthless terrorist who seeks anarchy. It's so much damn fun to watch him work. Another winner from Moore.

World War Z by Max Brooks. The definitive dystopia novel. Forget 1984 and Brave New World, Brooks' exposition on the zombie apocalypse is more touching than those classics. His narrative, a fragmented exposition on survivors of the Zombie War, is realistic and frightening, making it all the more brilliant.

Candide by Voltaire. Voltaire's magnum opus is bitingly sarcastic, fast-paced, and hilarious in its bluntness. Not to mention it pretty much destroys the very premise of optimism throughout the entire adventure, stomping on its face every chapter to remind you of how foolish it is to be hopeful, but also lampoons adventure story cliches with outrageous and ironic descriptions of torture and violence. In short, it's damn funny.

Batman: Year One by Frank Miller. The excellence of The Dark Knight inspired me to check out the works that inspired it, starting with this one, Frank Miller's best work. Year One develops Batman and James Gordon in the same light, people trying to do the right thing in a city that only wants to do wrong. It is remarkably dark and serious, which is up my alley, for sure.

Brave New World by Aldous Huxley. I love dystopia novels, obviously. Like World War Z, BNW scares the living bejesus out of you by ironically describing a utopia and the life that the citizens live. Drugs, sleep hypnosis, castes, suppression of individuality, and vast amounts of sex characterize the ironic dystopian utopia of the World State. It's bone-chilling but also fucking awesome.

Batman: The Long Halloween by Jeph Loeb. While Frank Miller writes a mean Batman story, nothing can compare to Loeb's The Long Halloween. The story is heavily inspired by film-noir elements, realistic and dark, and yet Loeb still manages to slip the like of Poison Ivy and the Riddler in without disturbing the setting. The mystery is intriguing and well-written. It has everything a Batman fan would want.

Batman: Dark Victory by Jeph Loeb. This one was good, really good actually. Featuring Two-Face as the main villain, Dark Victory is a direct sequel to The Long Halloween, and its tale is pretty compelling, if a bit reliant on the plot of its predecessor. It's comfortable, and introduces Robin, which isn't exactly too great of a plot point. Ugh. Robin.

And currently in progress we have:

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov. I really love this book - I'm halfway through. The tales of random Russian citizens getting fucked up by Satan's retinue is endlessly entertaining. When you put a hippo-sized tomcat with an affinity for vodka and pistols with Satan's personal hitman, a fanged, redhaired cyclops and his personal assistant, a jabbering little man with a pince-nez, you have a formula that cannot be beaten.

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. Austin heartily recommended this one to me, and I already really like it. The character of Humbert Humbert is both fascinating and creepy, like a peeping tom with the most advanced satellite technology or something. I am definitely not giving up on this one.

A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. This is a pretty hilarious book; Ignatius P. Reilly, a spoiled as shit manchild is a perfect protagonist. He's like the literary form of Will Ferrel in Step Brothers.

Stuff I gave up on:

Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut. There's only so much weirdness I can take. I stomached and loved Slaughterhouse Five, but this one is like Slaughterhouse Five combined with Eraserhead combined with a Max Ernst painting.

Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. SLLLLLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess. I feel really bad for giving up on this. The made-up vocabulary kinda turned me off, but I reckon I'll get back to it some day.

Dune by Frank Herbert. Like LOTR, there's so much to keep track of, such a huge overarching mythology that it's just too damn intimidating.

The Jungle by Upton Sinclair. I just got really damn bored with it.

Stuff in the future:

Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card
The Plague by Albert Camus
Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller
Catch-22 by Joseph Heller
On the Roadby Jack Kerouac

I leave you with a quote from Dr. House:

"Read less, more TV."

Smothered

2008-08-24T11:45:00.000-07:00

The majority of my readers (read, all of them) have siblings, so it'll be hard to relate to what I'm about to say. Bear in mind this is not a stereotypical "OMG I H8 MAI PARENTS" rant, more of a mild criticism. Maybe if I make this clear, some strides will be taken to improve. And maybe my internal organs will leap out of my body, dance a merry jig, and go drinking at a bar later.

I am an only child. And while the position comes with perks, it also comes with a vast amount of annoyances. Let's get it out of the way, yeah, I get the shit I want most of the time. Funny how this works, I go shopping for a cheaper pair of jeans and my mother forces me to get the most expensive and fashionable pair of jeans, as if it makes a difference somehow. I'm all like "Sure!" See? Perky.

On the other hand, getting expensive jeans comes at a cost. I'm completely smothered. During the summer, I've been at home a lot. I wake up round 12, I'm here for like four hours alone. I get a call every two hours, asking me if I'm ok, asking if I've eaten, asking if I'm ok again. I call to ask if I can eat the last bit of gelatin in a can and I'm given a ten minute step-by-step instructional lecture on how to get it out. If I decide to go on a walk, the call count increases considerably. Small annoyance at first, but it begins to grow the more I have to endure it. Understandable, I suppose. Only child, feel the need to protect as much as possible. But still, I'm independent enough to walk three blocks without getting shanked by an African-American.

On the plus side, I am pretty much given permission to do whatever the shit I want. What's that? Stay at Austin's for several days? Sure, just as long as you tell me how you're going to get home. Go to the movies with some girl we don't know? Go ahead! Walk through a crime-ridden city to go to a concert chock-full of potheads and alcoholics? Do your thing! It's nice to know I can do whatever. I don't want to take advantage of it, however, because then I'd be more guilt-ridden than Batman.

Upon reflection, I see that this rant wasn't too whiny. It's ok. Everyone dislikes their parents once in while. But apparently don't care enough to write about it. Sorry >_>

PS. ARGH BRING ON THE SCHOOL PLEASE

A Travelogue

2008-08-23T22:28:00.000-07:00

So, Outside Lands was absolutely goddamn amazing. I only got to see two bands, but even if I didn't get to see anyone, I would've still had a blast. So let's run down the adventure I had on Friday, because it was a grand one, I can tell you that. That being said, here's the Dramatis Personae:

Bao "Olympian" Nguyen
Austin
Lucas
Mosher
Bela
Dolan

So. After pestering Lucas for several hours over the phone about which Muni and BART line to take, I establish a meeting time of 2:30, so that we have enough time to take the 2:51 BART up to San Francisco. Of course, Lucas, Mosher, and Austin are all late, so we have to take the 3:06 BART. The plan was to avoid the massive rush of people, but upon reflection, if I wanted to do that, I should've left at 5 in the morning. So anyway, Lucas, Mosher, and Austin eventually get here. Lucas is accosted by four douchebags wearing stupid ass hats. More on that a bit later.

We get up to the platform and a couple of trains. A few trains are out of service, which prompts The Four Douchekateers to loudly proclaim "BULLSHIT!" We settle into a train that takes us straight to SF. During the 40 minute ride, I eavesdrop on several conversations. I see Lucas hitting Mosher a lot, the Four Douchekateers talking loudly and obnoxiously about football, parties, sex, and "Dude, she's only 15!" I wanted to shove them into an electrified track.

Now, we get to SF, and see a vast crowd of people swarming the gates like ants. We get some change for the MUNI thingy and head downstairs, where the swarm becomes a vast infestation, complete with a Queen and several Drones. It's incredibly crowded, navigate-able only with a shotgun and some booze to help you forget what you did. So after much deliberation and insulting Mosher, Lucas and Austin figure out we need to go on the N Line. At first we argued we needed to go on the M Line and the O Line or something, but those trains weren't even a little full. How to find your way: Follow the immense crowd.

And immense it was. The sheer amount of people packed into the MUNI trains was akin to several Holocaust survivors in a bunk. (Too soon?). We had to wait for at least three trains to pass before we could squeeze into one. During the extremely slow ride, Lucas, Austin, and I played a game where we would balance on one foot while holding onto the rails. I surrendered after a few minutes while the other two, clearly inhuman and among the likes of E.T. managed to play for at least 15 more minutes.

So after mocking Mosher some more about his inability to count, we finally reach our destination: 19th and Judah. So we walk a few blocks, see Golden Gate Park, our destination in front of us and joyously run in, only to realize we have about half a mile of walking to do. On the way in, we encountered the likes of desperate ticket scalpers, Afro-Americans wielding lawn chairs, very garishly dressed homosexuals, and, surprisingly, normal, middle-aged people. Lucas was especially surprised that the concert wasn't polluted with prepubescent screech-cunts.

Eventually we reach the ticket...place. We're greeted by another crowd and some hostile bees. I manage to dodge the stingers of death and get into the festival no problem. Mosher and I decide to take a quick excursion to the bathroom, whereupon a boisterous, obese monstrosity begins yelling at the urine on the floor. Quite a surreal experience. So we do our business and enter the park, hearing some sounds from Manu Chiao. We grab some pizza and decide to go see the Black Keys as opposed to Beck. We make our way to the other end of the park and enter the decently sized crowd, the smell of marijuana and stale beer being our welcome wagon.

So after some waiting, the Black Keys come on and proceed to rock the living shit out of everything in existence. I practically break my neck headbanging to them, and "dancing." I wouldn't really call it that though. So some people begin to thin out to get to Radiohead and I move up, not noticing whose view I'm blocking - two dwarves were right behind me. I was extraordinarily embarrassed, so I moved to the side. During the set, Dan Auerbach kept switching guitars, so I asked Lucas what they were, boldly claiming "It was a Stratocaster!" I didn't mean to say Stratocaster, I mean to say a Fender, because the stock looks like the one Fender has. He and Mosher teamed up on me. Jerks. At least I got the SG right.

Anyway, the Black Keys were absolutely amazing, and I even recognized a few songs. Towards the end of the set, a bunch of drunk guys began to stumble around in a pseudo-mosh pit. I was all like, "Meh." It wasn't big enough to be worthy of my attention! So towards the end, I tell Lucas we should hurry up and get to Radiohead otherwise we wouldn't be able to get close. Oh, how right I was.

At this time, Bela and Dolan touch down in San Francisco. They call up Lucas as we briskly walk to the other side of the park. Turns out their MUNI train broke down at 6th and Judah, so they had to walk the rest of the way. That translated to "30 blocks," though I'm not sure how. They're trying to get to Radiohead while we try to dodge beer-wielding fatsos and hypothermia. At last we get up to the field and try to navigate through the crowd. Much easier said than done.

Navigating through a crowd of 60,000 drunken, high, and stumbling Radiohead fans is like navigating through the Minotaur's Labyrinth while blind, deaf, and missing your legs. I completely lost everyone, at least temporarily. I managed to run through the early parts of the crowd pretty well, but once I began to reach the meat, it was like driving home from San Francisco at 5 PM - complete and utter deadlock. It seriously took me 15 minutes to move up like 10 feet. I really wanted to see the stage, the beautiful visualizer. As I elbow my way up, taking advantage of the tiniest opening, a woman comes dragging someone unconscious, presumably, along the crowd, screaming "Clear lane!" Nobody really moves, so she screams "ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?! MOVE!" She gets access to the "Disabled Persons" platform, with a clear view of Thom Yorke and the crew. I really couldn't focus on the set while rampaging through everyone.

Eventually, I settle on a nice, roomy spot. Austin manages to find me and we don't move until it's over. For the record, Just and Karma Police were off the goddamn hook (I had to ask the guy next to me what they were playing >_>). So I began to anticipate Creep, their signature song or something at the end. I was sorely disappointed, but their last song was pretty boss anyway. All in all, it was a great show, though I could've done without the constant pushing and shoving. But that pales in comparison to what happened after the concert.

So, Radiohead finishes their set and the crowd of 60,000 people begin mobilizing in one direction. Talk about a clusterfuck. Again, it was moving at seriously one mile per hour. I nearly lost Austin a few times too, which is weird. So he and I manage to make it to relative safety, wherein I collapse from standing up for eight hours. The cell phone reception is piss poor, so it takes a while before we manage to contact Mosher, Lucas, Bela, and Dolan. When we finally do, we go off the path and amazingly straight back to the street, where several buses and MUNI trains are running.

As we walk down to our destination, which we still don't know, I encountered an unpleasant surprise. Nina screams at me from across the street. So after hugz and formalities and a suppression of a desire to throw her onto moving traffic (<3), we decide our destination is 24th Street and Judah. We manage to squeeze into a MUNI bus and we're on our way home! Too bad the MUNI ride is slower than a tortoise with no limbs and is hotter than the Human Torch in a sauna, but we eventually make it to BART, after foolishly getting off at the wrong stop.

At this point, Lucas begins to get worried that we might miss the last BART train on the transfer to Bayfair. So as we comfortably collapse in our seats, we find this not to be the case and get home to Fremont relatively pain-free. Aside from shooting urine from five feet away into a disgusting toilet, it was all good. The journey, to be honest, was just as fun as the concert. Outside Lands is the shit, and you're shit for not going to it!

Outside Lands

2008-08-22T12:54:00.001-07:00

is more important than some silly blog.

Tomorrow's entry will most likely be a detailed rundown of how it went, how awesome it was, how I want to see Thom Yorke naked, etc.

Wait, what.

Yeah.

Pessimism

2008-08-21T13:18:00.000-07:00

Experience has taught me that optimism and hope is foolish. Any glimmer of hope of me becoming an optimist died when I read Candide. The world as I see it is a bleak one, where everyone is only interested in saving their own skins or progressing their own lives, with little regard for anyone else. Not always true, but that doesn't mean the generalization is false.

Optimism is foolish. You build up hope and hype for something and bring it to so lofty an expectation that whatever the final product is, it cannot possibly fulfill your fevered anticipation. In the end, you will almost, certifiably always be disappointed. This is a fact of life. The one exception is The Dark Knight.Harry Potter 7 was hyped as hell, and it was pretty mediocre. 300 was touted as the movie-going experience of a lifetime but it was all flash no substance. I have been especially susceptible to this curse, disappointed time and time again, so every time something is announced, I just automatically assume it's crap until I get the opportunity to let it prove me wrong.

Doesn't apply to just various forms of entertainment. When I work with other people I don't know, I merely assume they're going to give me crap and from there work it out. It happened on my last English presentation. Dumb bitch didn't know what was going on during Robert Frost's time, so literally at the last minute, I told her to paint the poem as an anti-industrialization piece. I also practically did her part for her. Of course, when I work with people I do know, I think I'm entitled to have some expectations: I know them, for crap's sake.

You could say this is unhealthy, being so negative all the time. I just find it an effective shield against disappointment. When you're negative towards something, if it turns out to be good, you're happy, you're one up. But if it turns out it sucks, you've lost absolutely nothing! It's always a win-win situation.

It is ultimately futile

2008-08-20T13:34:00.000-07:00

She cries for me.

Not sure why, never certain about anything. That's who I am. Indecisive, weak-minded, incapable of clear-minded judgment. At least when it comes to the dames. The vicious, soul-sucking women of such beauty and elegance that you can't help but fall in love, only to be stabbed in the back by their duplicitous natures. They're all the same. They all want something from you, and the way to attain what they want is always the same. Cruelly. Mercilessly.

But not this one. She cries for me.

What's different about her? She's shedding tears. They never do that. Is she the lone wolf in the pack? Or perhaps it's just a trick. Like I said, these dames will do whatever it takes to get what they want. Water from her eyes is probably just a diversion so she can steal my wallet or sell my expensive hat. It must be a trick. I look deep into her eyes, maybe that will give me some kind of clue.

There's a spark there. Something genuine. She's not one of them. She's different. The smell of her perfume, whatever that scent is enraptures me. It evokes a lustrous temptation, although I hold it back; I'm not an animal. It's comforting, yet exciting. I'm happy with that smell for only a fleeting moment. I look back into her eyes. The tears have stopped, but the piercing radiance of those eyes have, like the perfume, stolen my soul. In this darkness, I can hardly tell what color they are. Green? Brown? Black? It doesn't matter. She cried for me.

Her lips are inching closer. I recoil a bit, not sure what to make of it. I stand up, walk to the corner of the room, leaving her bewildered. I look back fleetingly and see the tears well up in her eyes again. The illumination of the tears, they provide reflection. Her eyes are green. I've always been a sucker for green eyes. And once again, I'm a sucker. When will I learn?

She stands up, extending herself. She's not taller than me, but she's not short either. I turn around and back up into my chair, not taking my eyes off those startling eyes, lit up by the infinite sorrows of her tears. What the hell is she crying about? And why do I care about it so much? It must be because it's so damn different to what I'm used to. This snake is just biding her time before she strikes. I look at her, focus on her body. She's dressed like them, but still looks adorable; unique. I light a cigarette and she coughs as I expel the smoke into her face. Funny, they don't usually do that.

She walks towards the door and turns around, gazing at me so intensely I feel as though a spotlight has been cast upon me. I ease back, in an attempt to fruitlessly make myself seem insignificant to her. She continues to stare, while I look away, cast my eyes on the floor.

This one's different.

She stands there, finally turning back towards the door. She puts her hand on the knob and turns it, opening the door. I look up, a gaze of longing and forgiveness on my face. Sorrow. Repentance. A wide rage of emotions. She looks back, but the intensity of her glare has died down. Her beautiful eyes accentuate that heart-shaped face. She's amazingly beautiful. And she's different. She blows me a kiss and walks out the door, silently closing it behind her.

I sit there, bewildered. I look towards the ceiling, at the slowly rotating fan, at the cracks in my ceiling. I get up, sit down on the bed and stare out the window at the stars, the infinite power of the universe; I behold quite the spectacle. I feel wholly insignificant when stacked against all this. It's remarkable, yet evokes a strange mixture of sadness and elation. Best not to think about it.

I lay down, head on the sweaty pillow, pondering what could have been. She was beautiful. But was she any different? I wasn't sure. Her eyes were beautiful. And yet she seemed completely bloated with venom. I'm never sure about these dames.

Today is going to be a bad day.

Profanity laced rant

2008-08-19T20:59:00.000-07:00

I'm reverting temporarily back into the foul-mouthed jackass I was a few weeks ago as opposed to just a regular jackass I became recently. Hang on to your seats, motherfuckers.

Damn, that was liberating.

So I'm going to go off on a tirade, about my favorite thing to bash on, the things that make us human. In particular, how you get dependent on other people for help when you're in a situation. This has been made very obvious to me in the past few...years, I would say. Goddamn.

Anyway, this trait is incredibly annoying. When you don't have a single fucking sliver of self-reliance, of self-dependency, all you are is a goddamn leech. A leech who sucks on the supple blood of others to sustain your own interests. A parasite, and not one of those helpful, symbiotic parasites like tube worms, but parasites that drain your energy, depend on you for a bunch while giving you jackshit in return, and are just generally reliant on the help of others rather than carving their own niche.

If you're dependent on the help of others, why bother doing anything at all? If you're just going to mooch off everyone else, you've effectively done nothing but taken the ideas and advice of others and attempted halfheartedly to pass it off as your own. You've no ambition, no energy, but you're still trying to reap as much benefit as you possibly can through the easiest way. That's human, to want the biggest reward with the least amount of effort. But it's also fucking idiotic and annoying as shit. Man up, sometimes the only way to get to the fruit is to get your chainsaw, risk bodily harm, and chop down that fucking tree. You cannot lie there from your deck chair, sipping a Mai Tai with a long stick and poke at it. That's fucking impractical, lazy, and stupid.

Luckily, I only know a few of these people, all of them are within my extended family, so I'm going to have to deal with them most of my goddamn life. I always feel guilty for not helping people, but in that sense, I'm extremely fucking moronic as well. When you know someone terminal with a disease and is going to die within the month, there's no point trying to research all the potential cures and treatments. There's just no point. In my case, all I do is feed the parasite. I need to stop that. Human it may be, but comparable to sticking your head in a beehive just to get honeycomb. If that's too complex a metaphor, it means you're fucking dumb.

PS. You don't appreciate life until you've nearly drowned multiple times, get your feet shredded into bloody bits by razor sharp grass, and try to play five Queens in a game of Bullshit.

Juste

2008-08-18T22:59:00.001-07:00

Would be a really cool name for a kid.

Stay tuned, viewers, we'll return to regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.

Fun in the sun

2008-08-17T11:26:00.000-07:00

That's probably not a Radiohead song, but it is an accurate description of what I'm going to be doing today up at Austin's cabin. I'll be back tomorrow, so if I feel like it, (ie, not completely drained by dodging Great White Sharks in the lake with the jetski or not mentally incapacitated by excessive amounts of Scrabble), I'll continue with the Radiohead theme. That is, if I can find a suitable song. But have I ever given up? I don't think so.

Paranoid Android

2008-08-16T16:17:00.000-07:00

Please could you stop the noise, I'm trying to get some rest...
From all the unborn chicken voices in my head...

Would I call myself a paranoid person? Sure, but that'd be like an Internet troll diagnosing himself with Asperger's Syndrome. I suppose I would say I'm unjustifiably paranoid about a few things whereas I'm utterly apathetic in the face of things that would cause more devastation, sadness, and death than a My Chemical Romance concert.

Say the words "Terrorist threat," and I'm likely to laugh loudly and condescendingly in your face, before calling you a fearmongering pillock. Terrorists may be conspiring to blow up monuments and cities, but the administration and media have exaggerated the threat to the point of silliness. Funny how they can't continue to ride the high, so to speak, of outraged American nationalism. I guess we're not entirely as stupid as I figured Americans citizens to be, although the fact that we allowed ourselves to jump up and down incessantly like a toddler who's spilled all his candy at the premise of striking back at the terrorists was pretty stupid. Even if we realized our folly years later. That's like sticking your friend in the face with a pitchfork and saying six years later after he gets plastic surgery and physical rehab "That wasn't the smartest thing I've done."

Was I going somewhere with this? Oh right, paranoia. Yeah, I'm strangely paranoid about things. When I'm about to go to sleep, I stare at my ceiling and keep the door open. For one, it gets hot. For two, if an intruder comes in through my window, I can easily escape through the open door instead of fumbling with the crappy handle. Also, straight access to the katana I keep in my closet. But anyway, before I drift off to sleep, I always have to listen to the ambiance of the house before I'm comfortable. Basically, if I don't hear any noise, I'm more comfortable. But if I hear noises (most of it comes from the absurdly loud fish tank my dad built). I always think someone's broken into the house.

Another example, whenever I come home late, alone. I always get into a...CQC kind of stance...just in case. Yeah, that's really dorky and extremely paranoid, but you never know. Gotta stay sharp. I once also wanted a knife to take on the bus when I went to summer school too. Parents wouldn't let me have one :[

Heh, also, on the bus, I usually sit in the way back or the way front, so that nobody can sneak up on me. >_>

I'm pretty sure none of this is particularly helpful, but at least I know I'll be prepared to act when stuff goes down. Like if a guy on back of the bus gets up and holds everyone at knifepoint, I can take out my trig book, throw it at him, and while he's temporarily distracted, disarm and knock him unconscious. Of course, this requires balls, which I am out of at the moment.

PS. Everyone wish happy birthday to Nina, who turns 16 tomorrow. Tell her you hope she doesn't die in a tragic smelting accident. Because I'm sure that would make us all sad. *snicker*

But I'm a creep

2008-08-15T16:22:00.000-07:00

In honor of the Radiohead concert next week, all the headlines from now to then will be lines from their expansive library of songs. And because Radiohead has such a wide variety of songs encompassing subjects as exile and robots, I'm sure I'll be able to find a line that will fit every occasion. That being said, let's talk about why I'm a creep. I'm a weirdo.

I'm not, I just like weird things, I suppose. You could make the argument that staring at someone's online networking profile and studying their interests for several minutes at a time simply just to deduce some small tidbit of information about their personality and behavior. I do this for two reasons, I suppose. One, to prove that reading Sherlock Holmes stories and watching rereuns of House have not gone to waste. I love pretending like I know something about deductive reasoning. I'm probably not giving myself enough credit, seeing as how I actually have deduced correctly based on little evidence. Two, I like to think every human being has some unique characteristic or trait within them, whether it be they have a thirst for blood and a hunger for flesh, or they like to play the tuba. And on social networking sites, people often put their interests and activities they do, which leads me to believe I can figure them out by just their Myspaces and Facebooks alone. I'm wrong half the time, but that's beside the point. I rationalize it as "Data collection and prediction."

But weirdness is a virtue. If everyone's named John Q. Vanilla, where's the excitement? A world without weirdness would probably be like Idaho, to be honest with you. Dull and uniform throughout. But I suppose there's a fine line between weird and creepy.

Would you call stalking a 32 year old, redheaded, simply sensationally stunning, snappy dressing, history teacher creepy? Well, not for my age group. But I rationalize it as boyish fantasies. But then again, she's also the perfect woman. Older, experienced, extremely intelligent and well-versed in history, and the kicker: RED HAIR AND GLASSES. Jesus christ. Shame she's married. See? It's things like that would be called creepy but I merely brush off as adolescent dreaming. Besides I know plenty of people who would agree with me, including others who lust after their middle-aged, potbellied, balding English teachers. Now THOSE people are the sickos ;)

What am I saying? I honestly have no idea. I guess my point is that there's weird, there's creepy, then there's DAMN. Weird is break-dancing with a cantalope smuggled underneath your skirt and a smallmouth bass sucking on your head. It's different, hilarious, and unique, though admittedly attention-whoring. Creepy is a 40 year old man going to a teen movie alone and watching attentively. And DAMN is whatever you want it to be, baby.

PS. I found that I can sing like Thom Yorke, when he hits the high notes by squeezing on my testicles with a vice grip. And I can sound exactly like Rush's frontman using this method as well.

Two Tickets to Paradise Part Deux

2008-08-14T14:56:00.001-07:00

I have a ticket to go see Radiohead on August 22nd. No other words are necessary.

Although technically, I only have one ticket to paradise >_>

Hip to the hop

2008-08-13T16:01:00.000-07:00

After years of decrying rap for being so sucky and horrible that a monster from the Cthulu mythos in a black hole couldn't escape it, I have finally began to open up the musical genre. I was introduced slowly, exposed to the mediocre likes of DMX, Busta Rhymes, Ludacris. All very unremarkable, which served to establish my long-standing hatred for the genre of music known as hip-hop. Now that I'm no longer an ignorant cretin, I actually listen to some really good rap.

See, my main problem with rap, a problem I assume is universal for everyone, except the people who make it, assuming they're not self-hating suicidals with a pre-selected razor of choice, is the fact that it seems every rap song that's produced has an emphasis on one of the following:

1) "Bitches and hoes" (Yeah, I technically just used a swear word, but I'm just using their vernacular).

2) Glorifying the ghetto.

3) CASH MONEY

4) CARS AND RIMS

5) Drive-bys

It's repetitive, annoying, and grating. If you heard one song about macking your harem of women, you've heard them all; there is absolutely no way to make it fresh.

Why would you want to glorify that which you've escaped? It's idiotic. Sure, you can have pride for your hood, or whatever the saying is, but it's utterly stupid to make living in squalor, selling drugs, and having gunshots as lullabies sound cool.

Same situation applies with the bitches and hoes and cars and rims; it was amusing the first time. The second time? Akin to having your ears cleaned with a katar.

I judge hip-hop as poetry, because that's precisely what it is, poetry with music. Good poets are fresh, exciting, and cogent. Even if it's a reiteration of one of the five horrible elements, it can be done in a cool way, like how the Wu-Tang Clan does it. Example:

Watch that and you'll want to start breaking things.

No, but seriously. Rappers. Stop writing about bitches and hoes. Seriously, it was annoying after the NWA did it. And for the love of god, murder Soulja Boy. You guys get into feuds that result in bloodshed all the time. Ice T, I know you're not a fan. All it takes is just a couple stolen diamonds, and BAM. Who wouldn't want to purge the scum responsible for this? :

WARNING: LISTEN IF ONLY TO LOWER YOUR IQ BY AT LEAST FIFTY POINTS. ONCE YOU LISTEN TO IT, YOU CANNOT UNLISTEN IT

Accomplishment

2008-08-12T13:08:00.001-07:00

I finished my play last night. 99 pages, 98 if you exclude the Dramatis Personae, which I do not. My feelings of happiness, genuine pleasure, would not fade even as I drifted off to sleep. At long last, after countless failures (Mountain Goats, yeah, I said I would finish that, but turns out, I'm a liar. Hallucinations in a Coffee shop, triad of Hitmen, detective noir), I have completed an original work of fiction.

Of course, "original" isn't exactly the right word to use in this context. I probably, in the fortnight (fancy, pretentious British word), or two that I spent writing it inadvertently ripped off hundreds of romance novels, Shakespearean cues, and dialogue from The Catcher in the Rye or something. But that shit doesn't matter, because this was a brainchild of mine, conceived as I drifted off to sleep on an exceptionally cold night.

Sure, I'm happy at the fact that I finally completed a work, one thick enough to beat goats to death with, but the pleasure that pervaded my dreams last night wasn't the fact that I completed an original piece, it was the fact that I had the sheer force of will to continue with what I said I would. My previous failures are no longer a problem for me, especially since my play could beat them to death with its sheer girth. The feeling of just simple achievement is more pleasurable than the most powerful orgasm or the purest heroin.

I claim to be done, but I'm not. No sir, not even close. The editing, trimming, and screening process will take longer than it took to write the first draft. I need to find the mechanical and grammatical errors, which I'm sure are aplenty, need to trim the fat from the storylines and plot points, as well as redundant dialogue and meaningless exposition. On top of that, I need to show it to the people who are actually interested in reading it. I definitely want to give a freshly edited, third draft copy to my English teacher, for sure. Maybe send out a copy to everyone who had a character in the play too. But that...might not be very smart. >_>

Cheers! To the editing room!

Zombie Apocalypse Part Deux

2008-08-11T15:15:00.000-07:00

The first entry I made on zombies was more of a lighthearted discussion on the repercussions of messing with that which should be never messed with, if that makes sense. When you think of zombies, you always think of slow, dimwitted, lurching atrocities of flesh determined to feast on the supple, tender meat of the living. And in that characteristic, there's something charming, amusing, almost slapstick to their inherent traits. It only gets scary when a mob of a million living dead are storming your supposed fortified house, destroying everything in their wake in pursuit of warm, screaming sustenance. That's the general picture of the zombie apocalypse, right? Well, that and huge fortresses with every known method of deterrence known to man staffed and maintained by hardened mercenaries with guns so big, they require wheels to be moved from place to place.

We always overlook the human element.

And that's precisely why a zombie invasion would be absolutely horrible for mankind. The living dead, sure, would be an omnipresent threat and we'd have to adapt our war-torn societies accordingly to fight off this undead menace, but more than that, we'd face extinction not from them, but from ourselves. The human being, we would hoard oil, murder each other for the superior camping spot, and ravage the roads trying to escape the threat. While the zombies would surely cause their fair share of death and devastation, humans in their irrationality and fright, are capable of causing just as much, if not more.

And are we that much greater than zombies, in the greater sense? We consume, mindless, never satisfied with what we already have...We as a species, our society, mostly, are akin to the living dead in the sense that seek to only consume, to buy, to have. And once we have what we want, once we've devoured that brain, we look to consume more of it, we will never be happy until what we get what we want next. The only solace, the only escape from this vicious cycle is death, or in the zombie's case, the destruction of the brain. Yeah, we're zombies. Great leap of logic!

Like any disaster, life as we know it would begin to start sucking most precipitously where ever that disaster takes place. Zombie apocalypses...take place over the whole globe. Any idealist who thinks they can create a multi-tiered Flaktürme with MG42s posted in every window and a variety of secret saferooms and escape routes underneath the tower is sorely mistaken. Even if you hold off the hordes of the undead, will you be able to gun down the desperate, needy, and violent hoping to seek shelter but don't care as to what they wreck? The ideal scenario of protection in an invasion is just a dream. It's not going to do any good.

Nations will fall, millions of refugees and destitute will overcrowd cities, the environment will go straight to hell. Life will be nothing but misery for decades, if not scores. But in the case of a zombie apocalypse, remember the Golden Rule of survival. If you oblige by it, instead of pulling out the guns wielded by moronic pillocks in South Central Los Angeles, your chances of survival will be much greater, should you need to fight off a horde of the Army from Hell.

Blades don't need reloading.

Dance puppets, dance

2008-08-10T22:03:00.000-07:00

But I don't feel like it :(
DANCE
OK :(

Right on. You're dancing.