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.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
A Travelogue Part Deux
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.
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.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Someone tell me I'm healthy
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?!
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?!
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
A puzzle
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
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
Monday, August 25, 2008
Book Mobile
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."
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."
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Smothered
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
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
Saturday, August 23, 2008
A Travelogue
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!
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!
Friday, August 22, 2008
Outside Lands
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.
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.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Pessimism
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
It is ultimately futile
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Profanity laced rant
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.
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.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Juste
Would be a really cool name for a kid.
Stay tuned, viewers, we'll return to regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.
Stay tuned, viewers, we'll return to regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Fun in the sun
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.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Paranoid Android
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*
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*
Friday, August 15, 2008
But I'm a creep
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.
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.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Two Tickets to Paradise Part Deux
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 >_>
Although technically, I only have one ticket to paradise >_>
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Hip to the hop
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
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
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Accomplishment
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!
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!
Monday, August 11, 2008
Zombie Apocalypse Part Deux
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.
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.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Update: No more updates
At least not until I've fixed what I've broken.
Which I'm pretty sure is impossible unless I can control other people's minds and make them vomit information all over me. Writing soliloquies suck.
Which I'm pretty sure is impossible unless I can control other people's minds and make them vomit information all over me. Writing soliloquies suck.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Stricken
I have been afflicted with another bug, I feel like burning death at the moment. So you'll have to pardon me if I don't feel like pondering abstract concepts and talking about them and illustrating them occasionally with a sarcastic metaphor. I think I'm going to go pass out again. Au revoir!
PS. Funny how I never get sick during cold or flu season, only when it's summer and nobody else is sick!
PS. Funny how I never get sick during cold or flu season, only when it's summer and nobody else is sick!
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Black and White
In this world of ours, is there such a thing called right and wrong? Black and white? Good and evil? Has our image of evil been so tainted and corrupted by news media and propaganda that we view anything foreign as evil? Or is everything so relative that it'd be pointless to try and argue that it depends on the perspective? See, my opinion lies somewhere between the two, surprise, a gray area.
Like I said, I recently finished Watchmen, which really got me thinking about this issue, but being that my audience still haven't read it (Austin, Nina, Tep, whoever), I won't illustrate my example with it. But here's my point. Anything good or bad depends on the perspective of the person viewing it - it's all relative. This is why I don't think the Crusaders were evil, per se. We can agree that it was idiotic of them to persecute and wage war over religious values, but they had their supporters, did they not? They had the support of likeminded religious individuals who probably justified their moral crusade as righteous. "The Road to Hell is paved with good intentions," indeed.
Nothing is good or evil. Only varying degrees of evil. Hitler's regime was pretty horrible, but you couldn't call his reign equivalent to a Satan milkshake. His Afrika Korps, led by the honorable Field Marshall Erwin Rommel fought with distinction and was never suspected of any wrongdoing on the battlefield. So he was really evil, but his Afrika Korps weren't.
Our world today presents the concept of good and evil to the ignorant chimp masses, presumably to mollify their desires to rally hatred behind something. People like to be unified in their hatreds, to know that it's not illogical and to know they're part of a common group with a common goal. The rules of sociology apply - we must obey the rules of the game.
I really have no idea where I'm going with this. I'll be more coherent tomorrow when the topic isn't quite as abstract.
Like I said, I recently finished Watchmen, which really got me thinking about this issue, but being that my audience still haven't read it (Austin, Nina, Tep, whoever), I won't illustrate my example with it. But here's my point. Anything good or bad depends on the perspective of the person viewing it - it's all relative. This is why I don't think the Crusaders were evil, per se. We can agree that it was idiotic of them to persecute and wage war over religious values, but they had their supporters, did they not? They had the support of likeminded religious individuals who probably justified their moral crusade as righteous. "The Road to Hell is paved with good intentions," indeed.
Nothing is good or evil. Only varying degrees of evil. Hitler's regime was pretty horrible, but you couldn't call his reign equivalent to a Satan milkshake. His Afrika Korps, led by the honorable Field Marshall Erwin Rommel fought with distinction and was never suspected of any wrongdoing on the battlefield. So he was really evil, but his Afrika Korps weren't.
Our world today presents the concept of good and evil to the ignorant chimp masses, presumably to mollify their desires to rally hatred behind something. People like to be unified in their hatreds, to know that it's not illogical and to know they're part of a common group with a common goal. The rules of sociology apply - we must obey the rules of the game.
I really have no idea where I'm going with this. I'll be more coherent tomorrow when the topic isn't quite as abstract.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Hustle and bustle
In recent years, I've come to the realization that I've been trying to grow up, become an adult as quickly as I could. And apparently, that meant adopting mannerisms and habits that most grown-ups do, such as smoke, drink, and gamble, vices, to be honest with you. But upon contemplation, I realize that it's not all about that, I'm not just trying to be cool by doing the things that are limited to only adults, I'm trying to grow up mentally as well, trying, and sometimes succeeding but most times failing to mature and "transcend" my age group.
Within the media, literature, and even social circles, the stereotypes of teenagers and kids have been solidly established. They're self-centered, self-absorbed, selfish, emotional, horny, intolerable, generally even worse than the kids I mentioned in yesterday's entry. The thing is though is that all these characteristics are natural, everyone goes through them when they grow up, it's a part of the process, and it's understandable why these traits rear their heads; hormonal changes, increased stress from various facets of life, etc. But in spite of all this, I have waged an invisible campaign to make sure the aforementioned are kept to a minimum, at least, for me.
A friend of mine recently told me that one of the things he loves about me is the fact that I'm "able to recognize all the things that make us human and then go on attempting to eliminate them from yourself." I wondered to myself, why have I gone on and tried to do this? And I answered, just seconds later, because they're all negative traits, weak and needless, and we all know how much I hate needlessness (See entry Declaration of Suckdependence). The aforementioned characteristics are what make us human, but they're also negative values, and I suppose that being the crazy staunch believer in Darwinism that I am, I'm trying to rid myself of them, and adopting traits that are more useful.
That's not to say that smoking, drinking, and gambling are useful. They're not. They're vices, but enjoyable vices, if kept in moderation. I'm talking about things like contemplation before taking action, speaking with some air of sophistication rather than shooting your mouth off and swearing every other word (I'm still guilty of this though, doubt that will ever change), and knowing the world doesn't revolve around you. I've work to accomplish these, at least to a minimum. I don't think I'm egotistical or lecherous, and I like to think I use my mental capacities to mull over before I go through with anything.
Of course, I still swear like a sailor with Tourrette's Syndrome, so it's all for naught. On serious note though, I wonder if I'm missing out on anything by trying to mature so quickly. Dating? Parties? Loads of fun, I'm sure. Though on second thought, you only live once, right?
PS. I haven't been doing PS notes or swearing very much in the last few entries. I enjoy challenging myself, so I'm going to continue writing without swearing, or at least keeping it to a minimum. I know I'm phasing out PS notes.
Within the media, literature, and even social circles, the stereotypes of teenagers and kids have been solidly established. They're self-centered, self-absorbed, selfish, emotional, horny, intolerable, generally even worse than the kids I mentioned in yesterday's entry. The thing is though is that all these characteristics are natural, everyone goes through them when they grow up, it's a part of the process, and it's understandable why these traits rear their heads; hormonal changes, increased stress from various facets of life, etc. But in spite of all this, I have waged an invisible campaign to make sure the aforementioned are kept to a minimum, at least, for me.
A friend of mine recently told me that one of the things he loves about me is the fact that I'm "able to recognize all the things that make us human and then go on attempting to eliminate them from yourself." I wondered to myself, why have I gone on and tried to do this? And I answered, just seconds later, because they're all negative traits, weak and needless, and we all know how much I hate needlessness (See entry Declaration of Suckdependence). The aforementioned characteristics are what make us human, but they're also negative values, and I suppose that being the crazy staunch believer in Darwinism that I am, I'm trying to rid myself of them, and adopting traits that are more useful.
That's not to say that smoking, drinking, and gambling are useful. They're not. They're vices, but enjoyable vices, if kept in moderation. I'm talking about things like contemplation before taking action, speaking with some air of sophistication rather than shooting your mouth off and swearing every other word (I'm still guilty of this though, doubt that will ever change), and knowing the world doesn't revolve around you. I've work to accomplish these, at least to a minimum. I don't think I'm egotistical or lecherous, and I like to think I use my mental capacities to mull over before I go through with anything.
Of course, I still swear like a sailor with Tourrette's Syndrome, so it's all for naught. On serious note though, I wonder if I'm missing out on anything by trying to mature so quickly. Dating? Parties? Loads of fun, I'm sure. Though on second thought, you only live once, right?
PS. I haven't been doing PS notes or swearing very much in the last few entries. I enjoy challenging myself, so I'm going to continue writing without swearing, or at least keeping it to a minimum. I know I'm phasing out PS notes.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Mongrels
Children - the spark of innocence, the hope of the next generation, and the continuation and perpetuation of ideas. Accurate words to describe them, for sure, but do you know what other description fits them to a tee? Bratty, disrespectful, pugnacious, intolerable. Admittedly, you must be a pretty bad parent for your kid to embody all these characteristics, but some times they can arise from out of nowhere, like a vengeful bear emerging from a long hibernation (How many times am I going to use this metaphor? As long as it's still cool).
My opinion on children fluctuates from "Aw, so cute." to "Euthanize that thing." Funnily enough, babies don't cause me much annoyance. Something inherent about them prevents me from seizing them from their inattentive caretaker and tossing them down a flight of stairs - they're babies. Cute, innocent, helpless, poopy babies. It's entirely understandable that they cry into the night. It's understandable why they crap more than a fat man who just devoured an entire buffet and had a bit of chocolate laxative - it's because they're babies!
On the other hand, if your kid is crapping all over my floor, crying because they didn't get the Kid's Meal toy they wanted, or generally being unbearable, I reserve every right to wish swift death, pain, and retribution upon him. The kid is five years old, what did you spend all that time and money on, taking baths in ice cream!? If you're not prepared to raise your child properly, why'd you get knocked up in the first place? I'm sure there's varying degrees of how to "properly" raise a child. Here's my definition:
The kid musn't make a scene over trivial matters. The kid musn't crap or piss himself.
I don't think that's unreasonable to ask of a five year old. Of course, by age 5, my ideal kid has read most of Shakespeare's work, learned to play the guitar, dance salsa, write thought-provoking pieces with a saucy lexicon, and be able to fence. You know, pretty much everything I wish I could be.
My opinion on children fluctuates from "Aw, so cute." to "Euthanize that thing." Funnily enough, babies don't cause me much annoyance. Something inherent about them prevents me from seizing them from their inattentive caretaker and tossing them down a flight of stairs - they're babies. Cute, innocent, helpless, poopy babies. It's entirely understandable that they cry into the night. It's understandable why they crap more than a fat man who just devoured an entire buffet and had a bit of chocolate laxative - it's because they're babies!
On the other hand, if your kid is crapping all over my floor, crying because they didn't get the Kid's Meal toy they wanted, or generally being unbearable, I reserve every right to wish swift death, pain, and retribution upon him. The kid is five years old, what did you spend all that time and money on, taking baths in ice cream!? If you're not prepared to raise your child properly, why'd you get knocked up in the first place? I'm sure there's varying degrees of how to "properly" raise a child. Here's my definition:
The kid musn't make a scene over trivial matters. The kid musn't crap or piss himself.
I don't think that's unreasonable to ask of a five year old. Of course, by age 5, my ideal kid has read most of Shakespeare's work, learned to play the guitar, dance salsa, write thought-provoking pieces with a saucy lexicon, and be able to fence. You know, pretty much everything I wish I could be.
Monday, August 4, 2008
The Children's Crusade
In the past few years, controversy has re-emerged like a particularly vengeful grizzly bear awakens from hibernation, bringing with it much public condemnation across all sorts of entertainment media - music, movies, video games, and even books. This disturbing trend has been exploited time and again by politicians (Remember Joe Lieberman and the Mortal Kombat debacle?). But do these fear-mongers have a fair point in that these forms of entertainment, sick and wrong, should be prohibited from sale, at the very least, to minors? What course of action should be taken when video games get increasingly realistic, movies become spectacles of sex and nudity, and music is rife with profanity and sexism? Do they have a fair point?
Short answer. No.
Long answer. No, and all your arguments are ignorant and misinformed.
I'm not going to cite statistics to disprove the mind-numbingly flawed arguments that these crusaders drape over their bodies like some sort of self-righteous cloak. My opinion on this matter is that it is ultimately futile to attempt to regulate sales, or prohibit them altogether to a certain demographic. For one, it wouldn't change anything, for two, it'd be unbelievably difficult to enforce, for three, it'd be bad for business, and for four, remember the last time you tried to prohibit sales of a certain something that supposedly corrupted people? Remember how that turned out?
Hawks like Hilary Clinton, I believe, don't even care about the effects of these games on kids, they're just looking for supporters, playing off the insecurities and outrages of parents.
Whenever I go to my friend's house and we play something like Gears of War, (which we haven't in quite some time because he'd know I'd thrash him six ways to Sunday ;)), he immediately kicks out his younger siblings due to the extremely high level of gore, violence, profanity, and the idiots over Xbox Live. That's responsible, that's wise, and it's the right thing to do in regards to this situation. Instead of outright banning them, exercise responsibility as to what you let your kids get exposed to. It's why you became a parent, isn't it? Know what your kid is playing: Halo 3 has cartoonish violence, complete with purple alien blood, nothing worse than you'd see on TV. Ninja Gaiden 2, however, features rivers of blood, dismembered limbs flying in every direction, and if there isn't a decapitation every fifteen seconds, you're playing the game wrong.
This doesn't just apply to video games. I wouldn't want my kid to listen to Enter the Wu-Tang or watch Rambo: First Blood, for example. The rating system exists for a reason. In the end, my point is simply this: raise your kid, don't let the politicians do it for you.
Short answer. No.
Long answer. No, and all your arguments are ignorant and misinformed.
I'm not going to cite statistics to disprove the mind-numbingly flawed arguments that these crusaders drape over their bodies like some sort of self-righteous cloak. My opinion on this matter is that it is ultimately futile to attempt to regulate sales, or prohibit them altogether to a certain demographic. For one, it wouldn't change anything, for two, it'd be unbelievably difficult to enforce, for three, it'd be bad for business, and for four, remember the last time you tried to prohibit sales of a certain something that supposedly corrupted people? Remember how that turned out?
Hawks like Hilary Clinton, I believe, don't even care about the effects of these games on kids, they're just looking for supporters, playing off the insecurities and outrages of parents.
Whenever I go to my friend's house and we play something like Gears of War, (which we haven't in quite some time because he'd know I'd thrash him six ways to Sunday ;)), he immediately kicks out his younger siblings due to the extremely high level of gore, violence, profanity, and the idiots over Xbox Live. That's responsible, that's wise, and it's the right thing to do in regards to this situation. Instead of outright banning them, exercise responsibility as to what you let your kids get exposed to. It's why you became a parent, isn't it? Know what your kid is playing: Halo 3 has cartoonish violence, complete with purple alien blood, nothing worse than you'd see on TV. Ninja Gaiden 2, however, features rivers of blood, dismembered limbs flying in every direction, and if there isn't a decapitation every fifteen seconds, you're playing the game wrong.
This doesn't just apply to video games. I wouldn't want my kid to listen to Enter the Wu-Tang or watch Rambo: First Blood, for example. The rating system exists for a reason. In the end, my point is simply this: raise your kid, don't let the politicians do it for you.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Understanding
I spent my day shucking corn, which was hilarious and fun (ANY LAST WORDS!?), and then spreading butter on them, like I do my thighs every Thursday. I thought manning the booth would just be sitting there doing absolutely nothing, but it got pretty stressful. It's okay though, I found it to be enjoyable nonetheless, if a bit tiring.
After a bit of a consultation, I felt a bit better about myself, though I still feel like I'm a selfish jerk. Started V For Vendetta yesterday. Alan Moore is a genius, to be frank. His stories transcend stereotypes of most comic books - their supposed silliness and two-dimensional characters; there is an elaborate and remarkably dense narrative in each of his stories, with an even heavier emphasis on cogent characterization. His work is better than most "greats" of literature. I'm taking my time with V for Vendetta, soaking up every nuance and word, because I blew through Watchmen way too quickly. I'm definitely going to reread that too.
The play's going well too. I recently wrapped up Act 2, the ending to it was a bit cornier than I would've liked, but I thought it was decent, if not good foreshadowing and setting up for the next Act. I plan on introducing a lot more plot points, hopefully I can do them some justice.
I haven't been feeling the blog lately. Not to say I'm not going to post something every day, but it just hasn't been on my list of priorities. The last few entries have been made at night, right before the next day. Oh well.
Cheers to it all being worth it in the end.
After a bit of a consultation, I felt a bit better about myself, though I still feel like I'm a selfish jerk. Started V For Vendetta yesterday. Alan Moore is a genius, to be frank. His stories transcend stereotypes of most comic books - their supposed silliness and two-dimensional characters; there is an elaborate and remarkably dense narrative in each of his stories, with an even heavier emphasis on cogent characterization. His work is better than most "greats" of literature. I'm taking my time with V for Vendetta, soaking up every nuance and word, because I blew through Watchmen way too quickly. I'm definitely going to reread that too.
The play's going well too. I recently wrapped up Act 2, the ending to it was a bit cornier than I would've liked, but I thought it was decent, if not good foreshadowing and setting up for the next Act. I plan on introducing a lot more plot points, hopefully I can do them some justice.
I haven't been feeling the blog lately. Not to say I'm not going to post something every day, but it just hasn't been on my list of priorities. The last few entries have been made at night, right before the next day. Oh well.
Cheers to it all being worth it in the end.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Gay shit and feelings Part Deux
I hate myself for becoming so reliant on another's attention. The seesaw-esque banter, the quasi-sexual idle chatter was more than just that, it was the sole source of attention that I so desperately craved. And I got what I craved, like a junkie getting his hourly fix. I'm not trying to be funny, the metaphor is extremely fitting. I'm, bummed, you would say, a little bit at the lack of reciprocation. And like some junkies, relying on escapism to take me out of the withdrawals, I.E. reading Alan Moore comics, writing my play, and playing drunken Monopoly.
And with these realizations, I further comprehend that I am weak. I let myself get entranced by all this attention, not considering the consequences when it would be inevitably taken away. And while I may be able to justify it, rationalize it perhaps as "just human," maybe I don't want to be human. I don't want to suffer from this stupid withdrawal, which shouldn't even be that big a deal. But it is. If it makes me think I'm weak, it definitely is taking a toll on something.
I understand why this "heroin" was taken away from me. She moved on, past my stupid, idiotic words, beyond my platitudes and confessions, like the person she is: not one to dwell on idiocy and negativity. And despite my rampant cynicism and caustic critique on others that do, I find myself to be a hypocrite, guilty of that which I deride others for. I am glad of two things, that I realize my own hypocrisy and her ability to roll with the changes. But at the same time, I also feel like I'm no longer important, even though I probably hold some modicum of importance in her life, no matter how small. But again, the banter that used to downright pollute our conversations has been completely annihilated, to the point were I don't even want to talk any more, because I know there won't be those sparks of attention, those little exciting moments.
How does one fix this problem? As a friend of mine said, simply get over her. And despite my best efforts, I can't seem to bring myself to do it, or try. Not only because I would lose, for sure this time, the aforementioned attention, but also the one girl I ever loved. Corny, for sure, but I can't describe how I feel any other way. From the beginnings of my realization that I liked her, as time marched on, those feelings just became more and more powerful, and now, it seems they can't be removed, no matter how hard I try. Of course, that doesn't mean I'm going to stop trying. But I'm holding onto that last thread of hope like a two-year old hanging onto a security blanket. That's what I am. A toddler, clouded by too many emotions.
I really had to purge these thoughts from my head. I couldn't stand just thinking about it any longer. My hope is that shit just goes back to normal, 100%, as if nothing ever happened, as if I never divulged my feelings. But that's wishful thinking. I'll be lucky if it goes back to 50%. Here's hoping. If there's anything I learned in the past two months is that repression is bad. Let it all hang out. I'm probably coming off as crazy and needy, but I swear that isn't the case. Le sigh.
Sorry, princess. I've just dropped another bomb on you. I hate doing this to you, but like I said, I seriously can't keep it inside any longer. I realize you don't need these kinds of drama and complications in your life, and you shouldn't have to deal with it. For that, I apologize. I'm still hoping for things to return to normal. Lastly, I hate how impersonal this is, ranting over a blog entry. I would think that this kind of thing deserves better.
And with these realizations, I further comprehend that I am weak. I let myself get entranced by all this attention, not considering the consequences when it would be inevitably taken away. And while I may be able to justify it, rationalize it perhaps as "just human," maybe I don't want to be human. I don't want to suffer from this stupid withdrawal, which shouldn't even be that big a deal. But it is. If it makes me think I'm weak, it definitely is taking a toll on something.
I understand why this "heroin" was taken away from me. She moved on, past my stupid, idiotic words, beyond my platitudes and confessions, like the person she is: not one to dwell on idiocy and negativity. And despite my rampant cynicism and caustic critique on others that do, I find myself to be a hypocrite, guilty of that which I deride others for. I am glad of two things, that I realize my own hypocrisy and her ability to roll with the changes. But at the same time, I also feel like I'm no longer important, even though I probably hold some modicum of importance in her life, no matter how small. But again, the banter that used to downright pollute our conversations has been completely annihilated, to the point were I don't even want to talk any more, because I know there won't be those sparks of attention, those little exciting moments.
How does one fix this problem? As a friend of mine said, simply get over her. And despite my best efforts, I can't seem to bring myself to do it, or try. Not only because I would lose, for sure this time, the aforementioned attention, but also the one girl I ever loved. Corny, for sure, but I can't describe how I feel any other way. From the beginnings of my realization that I liked her, as time marched on, those feelings just became more and more powerful, and now, it seems they can't be removed, no matter how hard I try. Of course, that doesn't mean I'm going to stop trying. But I'm holding onto that last thread of hope like a two-year old hanging onto a security blanket. That's what I am. A toddler, clouded by too many emotions.
I really had to purge these thoughts from my head. I couldn't stand just thinking about it any longer. My hope is that shit just goes back to normal, 100%, as if nothing ever happened, as if I never divulged my feelings. But that's wishful thinking. I'll be lucky if it goes back to 50%. Here's hoping. If there's anything I learned in the past two months is that repression is bad. Let it all hang out. I'm probably coming off as crazy and needy, but I swear that isn't the case. Le sigh.
Sorry, princess. I've just dropped another bomb on you. I hate doing this to you, but like I said, I seriously can't keep it inside any longer. I realize you don't need these kinds of drama and complications in your life, and you shouldn't have to deal with it. For that, I apologize. I'm still hoping for things to return to normal. Lastly, I hate how impersonal this is, ranting over a blog entry. I would think that this kind of thing deserves better.
Friday, August 1, 2008
I hate the 80's.
I know a few people who are absolutely enamored with this decade, my mother shamelessly being among them. I also know a few people who have such a seething hatred for the era that they count their blessings every night to not have been born during the Reagan administration. So where do I fall? I lean towards the seething hatred, to be honest.
When I was about 12, I was wrapped up in Grand Theft Auto: Vice City, and being the impressionable bugger I was, I absolutely loved it. Outside of the great, Scarface-esque story and the endlessly replayable gameplay, I was amazed with Rockstar's ability to send the player back in time to the 80's. Barring the aforementioned elements, what I also loved about Vice City was the atmosphere. I was so into it that I bought the official soundtrack to the game, so I could be washed away in the sounds of the 80's.
And then I grew up a bit, and realized that the 80's fucking sucked.
I'm not just talking about music and movies. I could go on for days about glam rock and John Hughes, which I will later, but outside of that, look at the decade as a whole. Recession, the explosion of AIDS, the introduction of crack cocaine, and all those fucking neon lights. And while we had a bit of prosperity while Reagan was in office, Reaganomics would ultimately skyrocket the public debt. Not to mention he nearly risked all-out nuclear war with the Soviet union by forgoing detente and outright confronted Gorbachev. I mean, good for you, ending the Cold War, but you could've done the same thing using Nixon's strategy.
I'm glad you had a good time snorting coke and having unprotected sex, but come on. How could anyone think that this was even moderately enjoyable? Even the culture sucked, for God's sake, people were wearing leisure suits like Tubbs and Crocket:
And somehow, the people of the 80's were too in love with all this bullshit to not notice their president selling weapons to Contras in Iran. Brilliant!
The 80's were also responsible for jumpstarting Tom Cruise's career. I'll admit that Top Gun,Risky Business and, to a lesser extent, Cocktail(>_>) were fun to watch. I will concede that the 80's weren't a bad decade for film, outside of the cavalcade of Jason movies, which, while awful, were fun to poke fun at. But I do love me some National Lampoon's Vacation.
Music of the 80's:
Enough said, I think.
PS. Very few bands escaped the 80's ability to turn good music into crap with a bunch of synthesizers in it.
PPS. At least this wasn't too bad
PPPS. This was probably extremely rambly and didn't make much sense. But that's ok.
When I was about 12, I was wrapped up in Grand Theft Auto: Vice City, and being the impressionable bugger I was, I absolutely loved it. Outside of the great, Scarface-esque story and the endlessly replayable gameplay, I was amazed with Rockstar's ability to send the player back in time to the 80's. Barring the aforementioned elements, what I also loved about Vice City was the atmosphere. I was so into it that I bought the official soundtrack to the game, so I could be washed away in the sounds of the 80's.
And then I grew up a bit, and realized that the 80's fucking sucked.
I'm not just talking about music and movies. I could go on for days about glam rock and John Hughes, which I will later, but outside of that, look at the decade as a whole. Recession, the explosion of AIDS, the introduction of crack cocaine, and all those fucking neon lights. And while we had a bit of prosperity while Reagan was in office, Reaganomics would ultimately skyrocket the public debt. Not to mention he nearly risked all-out nuclear war with the Soviet union by forgoing detente and outright confronted Gorbachev. I mean, good for you, ending the Cold War, but you could've done the same thing using Nixon's strategy.
I'm glad you had a good time snorting coke and having unprotected sex, but come on. How could anyone think that this was even moderately enjoyable? Even the culture sucked, for God's sake, people were wearing leisure suits like Tubbs and Crocket:
And somehow, the people of the 80's were too in love with all this bullshit to not notice their president selling weapons to Contras in Iran. Brilliant!
The 80's were also responsible for jumpstarting Tom Cruise's career. I'll admit that Top Gun,Risky Business and, to a lesser extent, Cocktail(>_>) were fun to watch. I will concede that the 80's weren't a bad decade for film, outside of the cavalcade of Jason movies, which, while awful, were fun to poke fun at. But I do love me some National Lampoon's Vacation.
Music of the 80's:
Enough said, I think.
PS. Very few bands escaped the 80's ability to turn good music into crap with a bunch of synthesizers in it.
PPS. At least this wasn't too bad
PPPS. This was probably extremely rambly and didn't make much sense. But that's ok.
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