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?