ENGL146EL Final Paper

Bao Nguyen
12/08/2009
ENGL146EL

Citizen Portal: Narrative Art in Video Games

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Woodsman - Nicole Kassell, 2004.

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

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

Infernal Affairs - Andrew Lau and Alan Mak, 2002.

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

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

A few thoughts and Snatch - Guy Ritchie, 2000.

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

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

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

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

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

Return of the Jedi

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

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

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

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

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

One Eighty

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

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

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

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

Retrofitted

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

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

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

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

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

Bloggy blog blog

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

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

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

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

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

Pumping iron

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

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

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

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

What can I say

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

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

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

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

First impressions

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

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

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

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

PS. OOOOOOH I'M SO CLEVER

Untitled

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

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

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

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

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

A brief notice on elitism

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

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

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

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

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

The Final Countdown

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

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

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

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

Brief justifications Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brief jusifications Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few thoughts

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

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

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

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

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

A short one

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

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

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

PS. Maaaaaan, that's messed up.

Far Cry

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

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

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

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

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

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

Iran so far away

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

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

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

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

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

The best of both worlds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Limp and ineffectual

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now for something completely different

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Updates from Beyond

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

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

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

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

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

Goals for the Summer

(In order of priority)

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

A moment of clarity

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

Life is good, man.

My favorite movie

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

PS. I wish I were a cowboy :(

A moratorium on trends in the current video game market

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

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

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

Under Harmonix's creative control:

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

Under Activision's creative control:

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

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

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

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

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

Stuff that pisses me off: Volume 1

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

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

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

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

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

PS. I have bird flu from being so ASIAN.

More faggy introspection

A Loosely Connected Rant on Nothing in Particular

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lightning strikes twice?

Good Morning

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today's going to be a bad day.