Captain’s Logos

8 things

2007-08-03T17:24:00.000-07:00

1. I have no money right now. I’m not sure how this happened, but somehow I seem to have spent it all. This isn’t typically an issue that I would talk about, as most people regard their personal finances as a private matter, but the last thing I did before typing this paragraph was check my bank statement, so it is still sort of fresh on my mind.

2. There was an evil cat that lived at our house until recently. She was dropped off by a girlfriend of the tenant of the studio apartment beneath our house, and it seems that shortly thereafter she became an ex-girlfriend. The cat, however, stayed and took up residence in the vacant and dilapidated play-castle in our backyard. I was hopeful, at first, that this cat, being aged and salty in her ways, would teach our young kitten how to hunt and survive in the wild, because I want our Catalina to become a huntress. However, all the cat did was growl and snort at our cat, and at that point I realized not only that cats have the capability of snorting, something I was unaware of until then, but that there was no potential for a master/apprentice relationship there. The cat, as best as I can figure, is now dead due to neglect and the elements.

3. There is a TV show that comes on the discovery channel called “Man Vs. Wild” where the main character, Bear Grylls, shows America how to survive just about any situation you can put him up against. He typically parachutes out of a helicopter into a tropical rainforest or an arctic wasteland with nothing but a canteen, a flint and a knife, and has to make his way back to civilization. This, unbelievably, is accomplished in exactly 60 minutes every single time (if you concede that while we are watching commercials he is still hard at it), but you would not believe the things that he does. If he’s in the outback and without water he drinks his own urine. If he’s in a snowstorm in Iceland, he skins a dead Caribou, digs a snow cave and wraps himself up in the still-rotting flesh underneath the ice. His cameraman follows his every step and Bear quite poignantly narrates his journey to us by elaborating on his actions in candid British style: “This snake that just tried to attack me is really intimidating, but I just can’t help but be amazed at what a powerful animal this is.” Chomp chomp. The thing that I enjoy most about this show, though, is thinking about the evenings, when in front of the camera he is in -10 degree weather, rubbing two sticks together to start a fire, wrapping himself up in putrid animal flesh, eating eyeballs; while behind it his cameraman heats up canned soup on a Coleman stove, cinches up his Patagonia fleece and checks his e-mail on the sat-link. Survivalist to be sure, but impractical as well, which is old school.

4. I believe the world is reaching a crisis point. Label me as you will, for every generation has their chicken little’s, but the way I see it, there are two ways to be wrong about this. You either think everything is fine, then the bottom drops out and you find yourself scrounging for food every morning in your refugee camp, or you prepare for the worst, and when it doesn’t happen, throw a ‘the world’s doing fine’ party in your compound. That’s what you call ‘degrees of error’.

5.There is a problem with my corpus callosum. Most people are either left-brained or right-brained, either left-handed or right-handed, I am not one of these people. I am what is called, ‘dual-dominate’, which sounds like a good thing; kind of like knowing the future might sound like a good thing. But ask Ashton Kutcher, it’s not a good thing at all, you end up going crazy! Basically I am in a constant and random flux regarding which hand I do things with and which side of my brain I think with. Small things trigger it such as doing a Soduku puzzle or tightening a nut with a wrench, but I will suddenly find myself ‘switched’ and I have to start learning everything over again, but with the opposite side. And things get all jumbled around; I use the wrong side of my brain for the wrong things. I dream in mathematics sometimes, my analytical thinking is peppered with colorful and creative analogies. Once, after graduating college, I correctly recalled the quadratic equation, which I hadn’t used or thought about since high-school, because I dreamt it. I used to play tennis right-handed. Then I was left-handed. Same with bowling, except other way around. I can say words backwards as easily as forwards. It’s a mess up there.

6. After all these years of skepticism I must say that I believe breakfast truly is the most important meal of the day.

7. Even though I’m 23, I still have to carefully monitor how much candy I eat. If not, unfailingly, I will give myself a ‘tummy-ache’. Now&Later’s are currently at the top of my list.

8. If I were unemployed, I would ideally spend my time gardening and making furniture. These are two things that I have zero frame of reference or experience in doing, but feel I would be apt at. And it would be strictly a vegetable garden, no flowers except for those rare plants that produce both flowers and vegetables. Whether or not that actually occurs, and if it does whether or not it is indeed a rarity, I know not.

If you were...

2007-06-06T17:51:00.000-07:00

If you were a rat
We'd put you to death
If you were a cat
We'd say you did meth

If you were a bug
We'd say you were smart
If you were a slug
We'd douse you in salt

But you're just an excuse
An excuse for a dog
You are worse than refuse
And you cheapen this blog

So do us a favor
And fall off a cliff
I would forever savor
If you were a stiff

2007-06-06T17:32:00.000-07:00

Because the question of, "Why do dogs piss on fire hydrants?" may not be as easy as it seems.

They're marking their territory. That's right Johnnie, you get an "A". Now hurry along and get your associates degree so you can adjust claims or work in a crime lab or whatever.

They do it because they smell other dogs piss. You post hoc ergo proctor hoc spouting brain waste. Of course they do.

But at some point in time there was a dog, possibly visionary, maybe misunderstood in his time, a loner amongst it's peers, who laid aside convention and hiked it's leg at any and every fire hydrant it came across. This, in a rapid and inexplicable succession, led to every dog in existence pissing on every fire hydrant they came across.

If you want to believe that there is some massively linked dog conspiracy and they have communicated this universal 'dogism' to one another, well go ahead. But can this be? Are dogs capable of this highly organized and systematic networking of dogs across the world at large?

Or do they just like to pee on things?

2007-06-01T19:10:00.000-07:00

So what do dogs do?

This question may yield a plethora of suitable answers because dogs, outside of your yipper variety, are multi-faceted and resourceful creatures. But if one were to venture forth a solitary answer, one would think it might be sufficient to say...

Dogs piss on fire hydrants.

Right? Is this not what dogs do - in ostensibly universal terms? Are there not, this very moment, small Sumatran or Swahili children pointing and laughing as the village dogs are urinating on whatever fire-extinguishing, street-side water outlet their particular culture has instituted? They stand on the doorsteps of their huts clicking or grunting away with smiles, "Look at chinyey. Look how he hikes his leg and makes happy extraction on flame killer." (poor translation).

The point is that dogs piss on fire hydrants, plain and simple. And that is what dogs do. And the compulsory following question, if you are the inquisitive type, "Why do dogs piss on trash cans?"

And if you follow this trail of questioning to it's end, although painful at times, can really shake the foundations of your particular version of reality, if you are so inclined.

I like the post office.

2007-05-31T18:03:00.000-07:00

I like it because when you walk in, the air temperature is set at a moderate and consistent temperature. The floor is clean, and the decor is sparse, outside of a few posters on the walls reminding you that your supplemental tax bill has changed or you have sex offenders in your neighborhood.

I like the fact that when you walk in you see all the PO boxes on your left, and it makes you feel good because every time you see a PO box on a mailing address, and you feel confused and intimidated because you don't have a PO box or even know what one is, that is where they end up and, hey, it's not so bad.

Even when the line is long with disgruntled and impatient customers, each with mailing problems so complex and distressing they forsook the safety of their home or place of work, the tellers are stoic. Each customer walks to the front of the line and presents his or her situation to the teller as if they were defending their motive for sending this particular piece of mail.

"See all I want to do is send this package here, and I can't do it from home because I don't have the right postage. At least I don't think I do. And I filled out this address box here, see just like it says, and I've put my return address ok? So...you know, just send it."

And then they brace as the lady in gray looks over the package, waiting for the inevitable rolling of the eyes, 'why did I have to get this customer' look, and calling for assistant manegerial aid because this is outside of the scope of their training. Then the assistant manager, angry with life, arrives to point out in dogmatic reprobation how we missed this box and didn't we know that their policy clearly states that you must insure your package a minimum of the equivalent of the co-efficient of the gross weight of the package minus packing tape.

We are ready for this and more, because, hey, this is the way a bureaucracy works.

But the tellers do not do this.

Package going to Sri Lanka? No problem, just fill out this customs form, check this box, lick this stamp and your on your way. I'll help the next customer in line.

Two dozen packages of different weights going to different zip codes? I do this in my sleep at night. Next customer in line please.

Priority or express? We know every nuance of each one, and will happily explain it to you in precise, efficient sentence constructs. Next.

Soon you are at the front of the line, and you feel a affinity for the rules now. You want to be part of the system, you want the stubby teller with a mole on her chin to look over your box with her discerning eye, look at you through her glasses and say, "son you've got it."

All this anti-establishment propaganda our hippie parents breastfed us, along with Seinfeld has made us regard the post office with disdain. A Bunch of crabby old lady with sticks up their butts, we say. We laugh at what most would say was inordinate attention to trivial regulations, we feel superior and liberated because we just go with the flow, and then we bitch at them if our letter wasn't delivered cross country in three days or less.

But they know better. They know what it takes to keep the world's postage running smoothly, and they're damn good at it. And they'll keep stamping, clicking, licking and posting away until precisely 5:30 Mon-Fri, 12:00 Saturday, and just you try and stop them.

Gimme!

2007-05-30T19:41:00.000-07:00

People don't really ever grow up. And I don't mean that in the Peter Pan type of way - a perpetual starry-headed child that is in awe with the world type of way - rather the opposite. It seems the people that do grow up learn, as they mature, that they have to strive to retain that wanderlust approach to life, they have to work at it, and some achieve it. The people who don't, well they just remain children in a very snotty way.

Like the kid you knew who, while out on the playground, would steal a steamshovel from right underneath you, and then walk only a few feet away in the sandbox and start playing with it like you don't exist. Now he's your neighbor. You see him from time to time, wave hello in passing, but you can tell he's the same kid. He's cruising into his garage every evening at six-thirty in his convertible mercedes C330l or whatever he's leasing at the time, dark sunglasses and bad comb over and you can almost smell it.

And then one day this picture of self-absorption looks down from his Men's Health magazine and realizes that his blue barrel trash bin, the one the city gives you and picks up once a week, is missing. Or maybe it's cracked, or he just wanted a new one. Whatever.

So after trash day when you walk down to the street to pick up your bin, lo and behold, you don't have one anymore. You are perplexed because, in this orderly society of homeowners, who would be so petty and thoughtless to rob someone else's means of disposing garbage. It must be a mistake, someone must have accidentally grabbed yours.

You puzzle over this on the way back to your house and then you see it, blatantly sitting in your neighbor's driveway, right next to his other cracked one. Never mind that you have your name written on it in bold, black, sharpee letters. There it is, already with a day's worth of fresh trash inside festering. Forget the fact that you no longer have a place to put your trash, and it will stack up in your garage attracting ants for the next week; that steam-shovel stealing prick had a crack in his old bin and needed a new one, what's the big deal. It's totally selfish. And childish.

And doesn't really leave you any other choice but to take one of the other cans that still has yet to be retrieved by it's rightful owner. I mean, it's not your fault that someone else stole your trash can, is it? It's really their fault for being so damn lazy they waited till, what, Saturday evening to pick up their can. And trash day was Friday!

Childish is what it is, all of it.

2007-05-29T19:19:00.000-07:00

Two park rangers walked slowly, steadily up the path as the crisp morning sunshine made it's way down to the forest floor. One ranger, a tall gaunt man with a neatly ironed pair of pants and shined boots was leading the way, keeping pace with a rhythmic march. The other, smaller and less kept, with tousled hair and a pair of crooked glasses, was scurrying behind the ranger with quick movements, taking a few steps off the path one direction, then off to the other side, then in front and then behind.

"They said it was about a mile up from here they last heard from him," the tall man said. "Must've been a hell of a way to go."

They came upon the body in a small, flat clearing where the trees receded from the path in a symmetrical ovular shape, and the snow had been trampled down. What was left of the mangled corpse lay cold and stiff, reminding the smaller ranger of half-eaten enchiladas left out all night.

"What's all over his hand?" Said the tall ranger. "It looks like he shit his pants or something."

The smaller ranger, now leaning down over the corpse, looking at it through his crooked glasses noticed a bit of tin foil hanging out of the torn and bloody pocket of the boy. "I think it might be chocolate," he said.

"How 'bout that." Said the tall man. "Poor little chunker had to have one last snack. I've heard of chocolate after a bad date, but you gotta really love it to have the presence of mind to sneak some before you get mauled," he chuckled. "Well that's Darwin at work for you, kid didn't have a chance."

"It doesn't seem like he should have been this far behind," said the smaller ranger. "I mean, if you stay with the group, you're safe. If you get on your own though, there are a thousand ways you can get ravaged by wolves out here."

"Let's clean it up and get out of here," said the taller ranger.

The two rangers did there best to wrap what was left of the body up in a tarp and they began carrying it down the mountain. As they left, the shorter ranger, though struggling to hold up his end of the bag, briefly saw what looked like an eyeball laying in the snow.

2007-05-24T22:15:00.000-07:00

Paranoia changed quickly to full-blown fear as the rotund scout watched his fellow campers separate themselves further and further from him. He hobbled along as best he could, but he had no chance of keeping up with the group. He could barely keep up with them when he was walking fine.

He knew that something had been in the woods the entire time. No one would listen to him, of course. No one ever listens to the fat kid, he knew that. He was just some lazy pathetic chunker, out of his element and oblivious of the ways of the wild. Far be it for some couch potato to have the ability to see and hear imminent danger. These angry thoughts flew through the boy's head, along with many others as he traversed the ever-darkening path. His footsteps grew surprisingly sure, as he worked his way down, and although he was still wincing every time he planted his left foot, he was doing so with greater speed and accuracy than ever before.

Not that it mattered now. He was far enough behind the herd that he knew his chances of being singled out were all but certain. He wanted to stop and get the bowie knife he had used for whittling saplings out of his pack, but he could not. His legs would not allow it, and even the thought of slowing down sent a wave of fear and adrenaline through his body that made him shiver.

He could hear it all the time now, once to his left, then on his right; snorting and panting and then a low rumbling growl. Now it was behind him, he could feel it bearing down on him. He lunged forward haphazardly, clutching onto anything his blind hands could find to balance. Now it was directly in front of him. He froze, short of breath, and watched two yellow eyes floating in the darkness, eyes that knew; eyes that were reasoning and calculating every move he made. Clutching his pocket, he searched frantically for anything he could use and found...chocolate. The cynic deep inside him could not let this ironic moment pass without a quick mental jab, even as his heart-pounded through his rib cage he thought that it might serve as a fitting last meal.

Then he had an idea. Still in his pocket, he unwrapped the chocolate bar from the foil covering and began crushing the chocolate inside his pants pocket. His chubby fingers, gorged with blood and adrenaline, began softening and then melting the bar. All the while, he watched two eyes move closer and closer until a dark, hulking figure emerged around it. The wolf, fangs bared, hair bristled, moved slowly and assuredly closer to the boy, each step more intent then the last until he was almost in a full crouch with both hind legs coiled and cocked for attack, his head so low his slobbery saliva hung off his fangs and reached the ground, melting the snow wherever it landed. His rancid breath hung in the air as water vapor like a dragon fuming smoke.

The boy wanted to run. He knew that was exactly what the wolf was waiting for, but each grueling second the desire became stronger and stronger until he felt he was ready to burst. Still he kept still and silent, his hand deep inside his pocket massaging a blob of melted chocolate.

Now the wolf was within ten feet. Now seven. Each second passed like a decade but the boy did not run nor did he scream. He was close now, so close he could see each razor-sharp tooth in the wolf's mouth, he could hear he deep grumbling within the wolf's bowels. He knew he only had one chance, and he had to get it right or it was useless.

All of a sudden the boy felt calm, almost removed from the situation. This was it.

The wolf sprang forward both front paws aimed directly at the boy's chest, his jaws aimed at the boy's neck. Just as he did this, the boy pulled his hand out of his pocket and thrust it, as best he could in the wolf's eyes, trying to find the soft tissue between the sockets and the fur and the fangs. All the while he smeared the sap-chocolate concoction wherever he could - eyes, ears, mouth, nose.

Now he was down on the ground and the wolf was on top of him. Now he screamed and kicked and scratched but soon the wolf had his arms pinned down with his overpowering forelegs . He locked his jaws around the boy's neck and he felt a sharp pain and then the very strange sensation of skin giving way to tooth and insertion. The pain gave him a jolt of energy and he freed his right hand just enough to jab it one last time, all fingers extended, into the wolf's face. His thumb felt a strange wet softness, and he pressed harder. The wolf's grip around his neck relented enough for the boy to twist free, and for a moment he saw it's head, smeared with chocolate, his thumb one knuckle deep into the wolf's right eye. The wolf yelped and jumped back, shaking the boy's thumb free of it's eye socket. He shook himself off, whining and pawing at his eye which was covered in chocolate, backing up and then rolling in the dirt, visibly frustrated.

The boy had a chance to gather himself, and he watched the wolf perform this dance of agony, praying the pain would debilitate the wolf enough for him to leave; not only infuriate him. His left shoulder and neck were a mess of hair, dirt, blood and skin and although he could not see clearly, he knew that he was in bad shape. As his adrenaline subsided slightly, he could feel his pulse reverberating through his body as if each beat of the heart carried along with it an electric jolt. He tried to stand up but could not. He yelled and threw sticks and twigs at the wolf, who was now re-gaining composure, but even this effort was wasted as he could not muster enough strength to do anything but cause a scene.

The wolf, angry and hurt, looked at the boy with his one good eye. He saw him as a blur, arms flailing, yelling loudly, but in the same spot that he had been. He licked his chops once more, bared his fangs and leapt.

The boy saw the wolf come at him, fell on the ground with both legs kicking at the wolf, screamed frantically as he felt the weight bear down on him, and then black.

2007-05-23T17:22:00.000-07:00

A broken, sticky branch lay conspicously in the middle of the dark path. An hour ago, it had been happily taking in nutrition from it's source, the tree, and doing it's best to contribute to the overall cause by using the synthetic quality of light to manufacture and produce sap.

Sadly, those days came to an abpubt end on that tragic day, and as it lay snapped and forlorn on the forest floor, a dark shadow passed quickly overhead.

The branch had nothing left to do but putter out the end of it's days, in sad silence, not a noise it could make, and no one to hear it even if it could.

The wolf paid little attention to the melodramatic branch, as it passed by, only noted that it too shared a distinct smell that he had been picking up and honing along the way. Six pink piggies, one with a musty scent, at least two had urine lingering odors, maybe three, one smelled like old cheese and one had a distinct smell of fried meat. One little piggie, his little piggie, smelled only of blood and sweat.

The wolf quickened his pace and took extra care to keep his shoulders square with the path. He wasn't worried about losing his target. His ears perked stiff, his tail worked in fluid motion with his trotting hind and front-quarters, creating the perfect harmony of speed, balance and quiet. He was on the scent now, and although the group were still fifty or sixty trees in front of him, and he had no way of seeing them, he knew exactly where each one was by the sound of their thunderous footstetps, and how fast they were going.

In minutes, the wilting sun would send it's last full rays of despairing light into the forest, each beam singularly visible as a bolt of lightning, and then as the sun elipsed behing the horizon, each beam, cut off from it's source would melt and twist and dim, creating a murky world of false shadows and deceptive movement.

It was for this half-light that the wolf waited.

To amuse himself in the meantime, he began sizing up his opposition, testing the waters to see how close he could come to the fat little piggie without making him squeal. He crouched low and moved stealthily through the trees, this time on the right, next time on the left, getting closer every time. When he got just close enough, sometimes less than a tree length away, he would paw a stick on the ground until it snapped and then watch as the boy darted his head in all directions, eyes searching the trees wildly, breath quickened, stumbling down the path all the while. The wolf enjoyed watching the boys futile resolve to stay courageous melt away with the sunlight.

This was all part of it. This was like pre-heating the oven.

It was getting good now, the light was getting just right and, the wolf noticed, the group had picked up the pace a notch as well, leaving the blood piggie that much farther behind, limping along in with short, panicky breaths, clutching his pocket compulsively.

He sat motionless now, letting the group gain ground in front of him, even losing sight of them. After a few moments he bounded off the side of the path and up a small embankment onto a large boulder. He shook his fur once again, flinging droplets of flesh-decaying saliva out of his panting mouth like a broken sprinkler, bared his grisly yellow fangs, and howled a particualrly menacing howl; a howl that, in hindsight, the wolf was quite proud of.

2007-05-22T20:48:00.001-07:00

The chunky boy scout was feeling worse than ever. Not only had he scraped up both knees after he slipped on a rock, but his ankle was twisted and, try as he might, he could not walk without limping. He tried bracing his steps against trees near the path, and to add insult to injury, his hands were now coated with sticky tree sap which made it difficult to use his pudgy fingers.

"Stupid camping trip," he grumbled to himself as he hobbled down the path. His toes were numb from the cold and his stomach was growling. He fingered the outside of the pocket, feeling for the last bit of a chocolate bar he had stashed after s'more night around the campfire.

The clear, thin blue sky was softening, and the shadows in the forest lengthened as the group pressed forward through the winding path. As the light began to fade around them, the leader quickened his pace in an effort to make it back before the dark enveloped them and they had no choice but to pitch their tents one last night. They weren't due back until the next morning anyways, but the leader reckoned that no one, most of all himself, would mind cutting the trip short by one cold, miserable night.

"Try to keep up back there." he said to the portly lad. "You're holding up the rest of the group."

"I'm tryyying," the boy whined. "It's kind of hard to speed up when you can't even walk" he said as he exaggerated his limp for dramatic effect. But the leader did not even so much as look back as he muttered something under his breath and glanced at his watch.

"Two more hours of light," the leader thought. "We can make this."

The frustrated boy grabbed for a branch to steady himself, which snapped off under the strain. "Stupid branch." He tried for a few moments to drop it but the sap stuck to the twig and he couldn't get his hands free of it. Every time he grabbed it with one hand, freeing the other, it would only stick itself to the next hand. Frustrated, he threw it as hard as he could, and it tore loose from his hand, but sent the gummy twig twirling up into his face and poked one of his eyes.

"DAMN IT!" the usually mild-mannered boy screamed in exasperation.

The leader turned his head. "Stop playing with sticks and march!" he yelled.

The boy decided that as soon as they got home, if they got home, he was going to write a letter to the entire scout organization about how, every night, his leader had tried to molest him in his sleeping bag.

A gust of icy wind rushed down the path past and through them, making all the trees, and all the boys, shudder as it left.

2007-05-21T18:31:00.000-07:00

The wolf was taking a nap underneath a fallen Birch tree when he heard a snap. Although his eyes shot wide open, the rest of his body remained completely motionless, and his breathing quickened. After a few seconds of perfect stillness, the wolf roused himself and put his nose into the air, sniffed three times and shook the snow out of his fur.

He smelled them coming down the path, thirty or forty tree lengths away (wolves measure distance by the length of a fully grown Birch tree) making enough racket to wake up the whole forest, five little pink piggies walking in a row.

"Just what I needed," growled the wolf. "A bunch of kids running around playing Indian, scaring off all my dinner." The wolf didn't like people much, he didn't like children most of all. His fur bristled at the thought of their pink naked skin, walking around on their hind legs like it mattered, a ridiculous patch of hair covering their head and that's it.

"Hmphh." thought the wolf as he snorted in their general direction. He walked in a tight circle several times, trodding down the ground for his bed. He eventually curled his way down and laid his head on his paws hoping to get a bit of rest before the sun went down, and he could try to scrounge up a meal. He watched the group of campers pass him by, unknowing as they were of his solitary spot.

As his eyes began to droop, he watched as the last little piggie making his way down the hill, an especially plump looking one, slipped on a rock and slammed all four paws into the ground at once. He noticed it took him a little while longer to get up than he thought it might.

"Hmmm." thought the wolf.

One of a Thousand Possible Ways to be Slaughtered by Wolves

2007-05-20T19:16:00.000-07:00

"There it is again", the slightly chubby boy scout said to his leader.

The wind was picking up now, channeling it's force through the small path etched into the forest. The trail, cold and white with snow, merely hinted at it's true direction and the group of weary travelers had more than once re-traced their steps after false turns. This year's early snow lay cluttered with brown and yellow leaves that had waited too long to call it a winter and fall from their perch. They were not the only ones, it seemed, the October snow had caught off guard.

"Listen. Dc you hear it? I think it came from behind us" said the large, rosy-cheeked boy. The scout leader, a pale-faced freckled boy, just turned eighteen, found it hard to believe the boy could hear anything aside from his huffing and puffing. He'd been at it all week, complaining that it was too cold, asking for more food than he was rationed, he really did not belong on this hike at all.

"It's the wind through the trees," he said, trying his best not to let the exasperation in his voice show. "Try to keep up with the group."

Of course he was trying to keep up. But it's hard to walk when your feet are blocks of ice and you haven't had a decent meal in three days. This was supposed to be a novice level hike, and when his scout group had planned it, he had been excited to go. And then, the very first night camping, the wind tore his tent up from its ties and brought along with it six inches of snow and the October from hell. He had wanted to go back after that night, but the group leader simply laughed and said that you couldn't let a little weather keep you down. After all, that was the point of the trip, to brave nature.

Well brave or not, he didn't have much of a choice at this point.

The leader, although he didn't want to admit it, wasn't feeling too much better about the ordeal than his portly charge. Looking after six runts for four days, in the freezing cold, having to wake up in the middle of the night, every night, because one of the little bastards was having a nightmare again, how he had gotten duped into this he could no longer remember. Something to do with looking good on a college application and ROTC scholarships. At this point, he didn't even care about college, all he wanted was a hot shower and a cigarette.

Now they were heading back, after three of the more unpleasant days most of the kids, leader included, could recall.

"There it is again!" said the boy.

"Now listen here. If you would spend a little more time walking and a little less time imagining sounds you'd make it a whole lot easier for all of us."

The freckled leader sighed and trudged on, pushing a fallen branch clear of the path, and quietly calculated how long they would have to march in the dark if they wanted to make it home without camping another night.

2007-05-19T14:31:00.000-07:00

Lately I have watched two movies that I really liked. The first one is called "Children of Men" and is a science-fiction tale about the state of the world in 40 odd years. I liked it for two reasons, the first one was it's frightening plausibility, and the second for it's attention to detail.

If you've watched this movie, you may notice that whomever made it went to great pains to make sure that every smallest detail of every scene shot had some sort of significance. The bulletin boards they pass as they're heading off on a train, the newspaper clips that are panned over oh so briefly, the colors people wore and the attitudes they had, they were all deliberately planned out. It's one of those movies you could watch 10 times and still pick up new things along the way. I believe in the industry they call this a 'layered film'.

The scary thing about this movie though, is that although it is based in the not-so-far future, it is a completely different world than what we live in right now. I'm not talking about flying cars and robot servants, but just the quality of life and the ethos of life are, I'd like to think, more than a few years away from us.

However, everything that has gone wrong and made life so drastically miserable, can be traced to issues that we, as a global community, are dealing with right now. Immigration reform, separation of super-rich from middle class, threat and fear of terrorism, gluttonization of capitalization, all these things are issues that we are dealing with right now, which according to the movie, end up going horribly amiss.

The other movie I watched and enjoyed was "Pan's Labyrinth" which is an adult fairy tale. I have to say that I was a little bit disappointed though, because all the reviews made it out to be something it really wasn't. It was a fantasy, to be sure, but it was not a fantasy in the 'Lord of the Rings' sense, rather it was a reality/fantasy combo. Nevertheless, it was really good because of the cinematography and the special effects.

I can truthfully say I have never seen a movie more gory or less offensive. This is because it was not done in an effort to shock or disgust (although it certainly has that capability), rather it was done to portray a very very realistic rendering of the tale.

If you're reading a book, it's up to your imagination to supply the details, and if the book says, "he cut off his leg with a bandsaw" it is up to you to supply the appropriate graphic content. Usually when I get to one of these scenes in a book, my imagination conjures up more of a symbol for leg-being-chopped-off, then actually witnessing it. However, in this movie, your imagination doesn't get the opportunity to be squeamish, because it's right there in front of you.

I was also surprised at the amount of Judeo-Christian elements that were present. Many of the central ideas, themes and symbolism were rather easily traceable to Christianity. This surprised me because I'm sure that those in the evangelical circles would be quick to brand this movie as being pagan in a very polytheistic cultic sense. I would be curious to hear more about the screenwriter's and producers intent they had for this movie.

Out of the rut

2007-05-18T10:18:00.001-07:00

It's hard to say how I have felt lately. Discouraged? Meaningless? Lacking confidence? These are all things that I struggle with daily, and so I cannot begin to express how encouraging it is to hear from you, my faithful readers, who have encouraged, no, implored me to get back out there and start writing again.

Thanks to all of you, but mainly this goes out to you Code man. Thanks for being there for me when I needed you most.

For those of you who don't know Cody, he is my sister's husband, aka my brother in law. Here is a picture of him practicing karaoke because of an ill-advised wager he is participating in.

If it weren't for this sad, confused man, there is no telling where I might be. Hang in there Code Man! Keep singing!

Avert ye eyes oh faint of heart.

2006-12-14T14:32:00.000-08:00

Also note in the picture that when "two thumbs" carter is at complete peace with the world, he allows his second mutant thumb to come back out and see the light of day.

2006-10-30T09:29:00.000-08:00

This was how Mary and I dressed up for our halloween party this year. For those of you who understand the significance, we thought ourselves quite clever for thinking it up. For those of you who do not, you can still enjoy the spot-on attention to detail that was displayed in creating white trash, right down to the trashy Bud-ice bullets and the pregnant/drinking aspect.

If you are going to commit, I say go all out. If not, get off the damn porch.

Cuz then you really might know what it's like...

2006-10-17T13:27:00.000-07:00

Sagely recited by the lead singer of Everlong; or was it Everclear? Everlast? Anyways, the point of the song is that we (we being white collar, WASP, suburban, naive to the real plight of people Americans) are so quick to pass judgement upon those on 'the other side of the tracks'. Those degenerates who are doing cheap and dangerous drugs, killing one another, holding up liquor stores, and we scorn them and their ways. BUT if we were to walk a mile in their shoes, well then we would really know what it's like to have the blues (or play to lose? drink the booze? Anyways.)

Well I have lived, for the last 20 odd days (odd in every sense of the word), on the other side of the tracks. You see, due to an unfortunate cultural phenomenon that is equivalent to manifest destiny on crystal meth, everyone and their 2.34 children have moved to California, which has effectively made housing prices skyrocket out of missile range much less first-time buyers, which has created a massive urban sprawl that creeps daily into the outerlying cities, one of which where I used to live (Valencia? Anyone?), which boosts our housing to insane levels, and the upshoot is that it puts me smack dab in the middle of a trailer park, in an even further outerlying city (Los Angeles? Yeah, I think you head down about 60 miles from here. Gosh I'm not really sure. You sure you mean Los Angeles???), and paying $600 dollars a month rent (yes, $600 is inordinately expensive for a room in a trailer park) and sharing a doublewide with a 47 year old woman named Theresa, who I have determined is a real life witch, or maybe wicca, and her two cats. And everything smells like smoke and vinegar.

Now that I'm moving out, I can be a little bit more casual about the plight I was in, before it would just make me too depressed.

But the point here is not to draw attention to my calamity, although that is certainly an important thing to do, the point is to say that maybe in some way, I DID walk a mile in the shoes of others. And I didn't really learn anything. So my point, I guess, is that you can't trust the message that pop music is sending, which is sort of a given.

Nuts.

Where is Thomas Payne when you need him?

2006-10-09T14:35:00.000-07:00

Because this country has lost its common sense in a bad way, and I’m not sure what we can do about it any longer.

Remember in middle school when some new policy would be instituted by the middle school bureaucracy, and they would announce it over the PA or at an assembly? It would usually involve dress code or lunch rules or something fairly trivial, but it was such an obviously half-baked idea that the entire student body would threaten to revolt. It would go like this:

Principal: “In matters pertaining to the dress code, all open backed close-toed shoes for girls will be banned, and all t-shirts that have printed monograms, unless that monogram is done with 400 dpi resolution images and does not include the colors yellow, off-yellow, or chartreuse, will be outlawed for boys. Boys can wear high-backed open heeled toe ended shoes, as long as there is no print on them, but women can only wear military issue hiking boots or wrap their feet in duct tape.”

This would be followed by an explosive burst of epithets directed towards the principal, the administration, etc.

Mid-pubescent boy thinking of the ‘No Fear’ t-shirt he just bought for $17 at racquet and jog: “This is so stupid. I hate this school. I’m gonna wear that shirt! I don’t even care if I get d-hall, how else will I get Christie to notice my pecks?”

Girls in back: “oh my gosh, this is like, totally unfair. Do they even know that you can’t, like, look cute with your feet wrapped up in duct tape? I swear if they do this I will get my daddy to write a letter. He’s like a lawyer and he will totally sue this school if I tell him to.”

Girl # 2: “Totally!”
Girl # 3: “Yeah.”

15 year old 2nd year 8th grader who has worn nothing other than black jeans and a solid black t-shirt for the last 3 years anyways, and more for the self-amusement than anything else: “I’ll kill him. I’ll f***ing kill him.”

Assistant principal under his breath to principal: “Uh, I think we got a problem here Bill.”

And after a few hours of squabbling, homeroom teachers threatening mutiny, hate letters written, petitions signed and angry parents on hold, the administration will relent.

See that is how a democracy works.

So when the F.A.A. institutes a new policy that says that any liquid substance brought on a plane has to be less than 3 ounces or it will be confiscated and you either have to check said 3 ounce bottle of liquid or surrender it, we shouldn’t really be blaming them. We should be blaming ourselves.

I flew to San Francisco this weekend, from LA. It was a short trip and I didn’t want to check a bag, as all I had was a change of clothes and, sadly, my toiletry kit. So on my way there they confiscated my Old Spice high endurance shower gel in the security screening line.

Unfortunate, I thought, but nevertheless, I suppose I can understand that in keeping with this new ordinance, they had to do it. My bad, airlines. I haven’t flown since the new rule and it slipped my mind. We’re cool you and I, and after all, I could have kept a shitload of C4 in that baby.

On my way back, they took my toothpaste. This pissed me off a little bit more, because first of all they didn’t take it on my way there, so obviously they are getting more nitpicky and secondly, it was a little tube of toothpaste, probably barely 3 ounces. And not even really fluid, more of a…well… paste. So I began to wonder if they were systematically depriving me of hygiene products and if so, why???

In addition to my toothpaste and shower gel, which were now history, the only things I had in my toiletry kit were a toothbrush, and a little bottle of cologne, clearly less than the critical 3 ounces. Because of course, everyone knows that it is absolutely impossible to blow anything up if you have 2.9 ounces of it or less. James Bond did it with a stick of gum stuck to the window; anthrax on an envelope can kill hundreds, but whatever.

So seeing that they were SOL when it came to confiscating my bottle of cologne, they simply determined that were this a hazardous material, having it in a Ziploc baggie would confound me to the point that when it came time to unleash this plague upon my fellow passengers I would be thwarted by the interlocking seal of freshness.
So they escorted me out of security, sent me on my way to find a Ziploc baggie, and once I did (luckily, because those things are never around when you need them) made me go through the entire screening, id checking, wand waving process once again.

Next to me on the plane was a guy who carried on two oars. Yeah, like oars. Like Talented Mr. Ripley to the back of the pilot’s cranium with medulla oblongata stuck to the paddle oars. Next to him was a lady who brought on a pool cue. So apparently bludgeoning is not a threat we are overly concerned with. Meanwhile I’ve got no soap and no toothpaste and I can’t seem to figure out how to open this Ziploc baggie to get to my cologne.

It doesn’t surprise me that much, what these people are doing. Does it make any sense? Of course not. Unless they have discovered that the only true terrorist deterrent is hassling them so much that they just don’t want to fly anymore it does absolutely nothing, and deep down everyone knows it. Nobody is thinking, as they sit on the plane next to a guy with a towel on his head, “This guy looks like trouble, but if he made it through that rigorous screening process, at least I know he won’t try to brush the pilot’s teeth to death.” Let’s face it folks, you wanna bring a plane down badly enough, you will find a way around the toiletry ban.

But the thing that troubles me is that we, the PEOPLE, are letting this happen. It is in keeping with large bureaucracies to make ridiculous rules, that is what they do. But up until recently it seems, when these things would happen it would incite the people into such a near mob-like frenzy that they would change these rules. But now we are just letting them take our toiletries, strip us down next to naked to get through the xray thingie, and very few of us are actually terrorists to begin with.

People! Sack up and do something! Didn’t you learn anything in middle school?

Fact you!

2006-09-28T14:58:00.000-07:00

So here’s a fun fact.

Did you know that if Alaska were to be cut in half, it would make Texas the third largest state?

Well I did. Because my girlfriend happens to be from Alaska, and apparently most Alaskans are very cognizant of the geographical implications inferred by dissecting their beloved frontier-land into more manageable chunks (what else do you do when it’s -50 degrees for 3 months straight? How many times could you slice it to have every parcel look exactly like a Mr. Planter’s peanut man, top hat and all? These are the issues!). So when this glorious schism takes place, Old Alaska would remain the largest, and the newer, more improved Alaska, which suddenly received state annexation despite its secession, would rank second. The end result of this imaginary process is that every time I talk to someone from her family they will invariably say to me, “So how are things in the third largest state?” (upturned noses and country club guffawing aside).

“Well, they are good,” I reply, and leave it at that. Because they are good, and even if they weren’t I wouldn’t admit it thereby lending even more credence to their hinting at our inferiority.

But what I’m thinking on the inside is, “You think you're special permafrost brain? Just because your stupid territory happens to be one of the largest land masses in the world outside of Siberia, which furthermore was all but barren and deserted except for various indigenous natives until along came William Seward, who against all conventional wisdom purchased this wasteland from Russia in 1867, and then America annexed it in 1959 so as to create a military buffer zone between US and then arch-enemy soviet Russia coupled with the fact that oil was discovered off the Kenai peninsula, you think you’re sooooo special. WELL YOU’RE NOT!”

Sometimes my mind harps on the historical.

Do I have a point here? Not really, except for the fact that we Texans don’t even like our State being called the second largest, much less the third. Truth is we were the absolute largest until these jonny-come-latelys sashayed into the mix. To me Texas is like Hank Aaron and Alaska is like Barry Bonds, and 500 years from now, when people are searching through the annuls of history looking to see what the largest state in the Union was, it will show Texas every year up until 1959, and then there will be Alaska, with a big asterisk next to it which would read:

*Although Alaska was technically the largest State in America there is growing evidence which suggests Alaska used performance enhancing techniques to obtain the record such as pretending icebergs were part of their land mass and coercing surveyors to lie about the acreage with false promises of igloo sex (which is sex in an igloo not with an igloo, which would almost certainly result in the comical Dumb & Dumber ‘frost’ dilemma, although not involving the tongue).

Or something like that.

So the next time someone says to me, “So how are things in the third biggest State?” (snicker snicker) I will say to them, “Well, they are good.”

But at least you know what I’ll be thinking.

One Night Stand

2006-09-22T15:35:00.000-07:00


One Night Stand Goes Wrong..... Funny things are always good.

And just who is New Orleans' patron saint?

2006-09-19T13:02:00.000-07:00

Because I have my suspicions.

FACT: New Orleans was devastated last year by hurricane Katrina, uprooting thousands upon thousands of LOWER CLASS to lower middle class urban dwellers.

FACT: Superdome became symbol of New Orleans devastation

FACT: New Orleans Saints, also uprooted, had dismal season w/ poor qb, bad coaching and vagabond schedule. (Although when was the last time the Saints were good? Does anyone even know?)

FACT: Bush administration (read: media) was heavily criticized by people (read: media) for a slow and inadequate response to the hurricane

FACT: Promises were made that New Orleans would be restored to its former glory by many high-up people.

FACT: Sports in general and football in particular has great potential for forming ethos, especially among mass audiences (read: lower to lower middle class urban dwellers)

FACT: in 2006 NFL draft, Houston surprisingly took DE Mario Williams in the first round, leaving consensus # 1 pick Reggie Bush for...guess who?

FACT: All of a sudden, Saints have new high-powered offense, new qb, two new rb's, Reggie being one, and seemingly a lot of money to spread around.

FACT: Next Monday night, the Saints (2-0) will be playing the Falcons (2-0) in the newly refurbished Superdome, once a symbol of destruction and devastation, now the symbol of triumph, on ESPN's (read: ABC. read: Disney. read: MEDIA all caps) first year of hosting.

Haven't checked the odds on this one, but wouldn't be altogether surprised if the patron saint of New Orleans (read: whoever it is that really controls our country. read: once again, the media) bestows a benevolent blessing upon the indefatigable people down in creole country...And then buys the movie rights.

Now how is THAT for a conspiracy!

And furthermore

2006-09-15T15:58:00.000-07:00

So to pick up where we left off yesterday…what is good?

I had an overwhelming response by my loyal readers to the question I posed, and I wanted to thank them all for that. Christopher, you are right, sitting on the couch watching football is good. Well done.

Amy, you continue to try and trip me up in every direction I go with your sophistically inclined semantics and it will get you nowhere.

However, kudos to everyone who got involved and was heard!

So, (be happy Amy) are we talking about things that are good, put so well and concisely by Christopher, or are we talking about the definition of good itself, and does it matter?

In an effort to stick with the platonic realities here, and not try to divulge into philosophy, where a lot of talking gets done and not a lot else, here’s some good reading for anyone so inclined:

The dog sensed them first. Dark as it was, Ian Murray felt rather than saw Rollo’s head lift suddenly near his thigh, ears pricking. He put a hand on the dog’s neck, and felt the hair there ridged with warning.So attuned as they were to each other, he did not even think consciously, “Men,” but put his other hand to his knife and lay still, breathing. Listening.The forest was quiet. It was hours ’til dawn and the air was still as that in a church, with a mist like incense rising slowly up from the ground. He had lain down to rest on the fallen trunk of a giant tulip tree, preferring the tickle of wood-lice to seeping damp. He kept his hand on the dog, waiting.Rollo was growling, a low, constant rumble that Ian could barely hear but felt easily, the vibration of it traveling up his arm, arousing all the nerves of his body. He hadn’t been asleep–he rarely slept at night anymore–but had been quiet, looking up into the vault of the sky, engrossed in his usual argument with God. Quietness had vanished with Rollo’s movement. He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the half-rotted log, heart beating fast now.

And now:

If a deponent fails to answer a question propounded, or a party upon whom a request is made under § 4.70, or a party on whom interrogatories are served fails to adequately respond or objects to the request, or any part thereof, or fails to permit inspection as requested, the discovering party may move the administrative law judge for an order compelling a response or inspection in accordance with the request.

The first is from a book that I will not reference for the sake of plagiarism, the second is from a legal document. Which one is better? Which one is good? WHY???

Stay tuned!

Your attention please

2006-09-14T16:44:00.000-07:00

I will now introduce a topic that I will be talking about for the next couple of posts. This will be an interactive type of thing, unfortunately nobody reads my posts (YET!!!).

But to start things off, and why not start things off this way, I want to ask a simple question.

What is good?

Seems pretty simple eh? Well, maybe so, but we will wait and find out if it is as simple as it sounds. And if the answer is what I think it is, it may be something very good indeed!

So chew on it awhile, ask your friends, ask your relatives, hell ask Ann Landers if you want to what do I care? Geez.

And we (read: I) will return to this little discussion next time.

oh yeah, and vampires are bad too.

2006-09-13T16:24:00.000-07:00

I would like to dedicate this blog to the degenerates out there.

Those lackluster do-nothings who complain about the world yet make no attempt to make it better.

Those nincompoops who will never know true happiness, but find enough temporary joy to get through the day by ridiculing others, throwing mud in people's eyes, and all around being difficult.

The frail, the emotionally devoid, the copy editors.

Amy, this blog is for you.

So is this going to like...make me late?

2006-09-12T16:59:00.000-07:00

Today there is a fire.

And by today, I mean this entire last week, and by fire, I mean thousands of acres are being burnt in Santa Clarita every day because all the grass is dead.

I have seen the smoke for the past week, I have heard (very little, but still have heard) about it on the news, but today I really stopped to consider it. Why? Well because they are shutting down the freeway because of it.

You mean to say, Nathan, that there has been a fire ravaging your fair countryside for the better part of September, and you haven't thought about it? And now the only reason you have let it even seep into your consciousness is because now it is causing traffic?

Well, yes. But we have fires all the time here.

And then I stopped to wonder. Where do I live??? And following very quickly from that. WHY??!!

Can it be Both?

2006-09-11T16:06:00.000-07:00

Right now our culture is in pretty desperate need of some self-examination. Which is hard to do, because our culture is busy right now putting up halloween decorations, so I decided to go ahead and examine it for all of us.

And after minutes of intense scrutiny, I came to this conclusion about the culture at large. We are either the laziest culture in history, the stupidest culture in history, both, or the most brilliant culture in history.

Please allow me to explain.

If you go to Wendy's you will notice something. When you go to get your ketchup, you grab the little dixie pill cup, and you press down on the ketchup lever, and presto! the ketchup fills the little dixie pill cup to the brim. No more, no less. And I imagine the same exists in most fast food chains across our fair land.

aside: if the old addage is true that you are what you eat, then one need look no further than the fast food industry to see what a perilous predicament we are really in.

Now this is the height of civilization, you might be tempted to think. We, as a culture, have evolved to the point that we no longer need to trouble ourselves with the inconvenience of actually having to worry about overfilling our ketchup. It is all ready, right there for us, the only way we could screw this up is if we decide to: a. move pill cup out of ketchup path mid-ketchup descent, or b. apply second ketchup lever squeeze once pill cup is already filled to the brim with first lever squeeze causing ketchup to overflow. I'm sure these have both been done, but one cannot judge a culture by its lowest common denominator, so we must forge on.

"So what's the" - belch - "problem with that?" Culture at Large asked me as it was checking it's myspace account and scratching it's bald spot with a spork.

WELL THE PROBLEM IS you have to understand that for this event to occur, this seamless consummation between ketchup and pill cup, that sacrifices were made, jobs created, thousands, TENS of thousands of dollars were spent. Dixie Inc. had to form a committee called the 'ketchup pill cup committee' and they had to find out who was in charge of things over there at Ketchup Levers Manufacturers and propose this revolutionary idea. And then KLM had to make their committe, the 'Pill Cup Committe' (or PCC) and these committees had to meet on a bi-weekly basis, maybe even WEEKLY, to determine the optimal size for a pill cup of ketchup, and how large a lever would be needed to provide enough ketchup to fill said cup, and they had to bring in phycisists, astrophysicists, to create a prototype, and then beta testing, and then implementation. And then they had a party, catered by fast food conglomerates throughout the country, where this product was pitched by paid salesman, who earned commissions which were split fairly between contributing committees, and then this new product was installed in fast food restaurants across the country, and all this was done, all these hours of labor, months of planning, thousands and thousands of dollars were spent so that YOU, mr. consumer, didn't have to THINK ABOUT HOW MUCH MOTHERF*****G KETCHUP TO PUT ON YOUR TRAY.
So, that leads me to believe that we are:

A.) The laziest culture on the planet. Which somehow doesn't seem to add up, because after all, we worked very very hard to be that lazy, and working hard and being lazy are contradictory and thus cannot co-exist.

B.) The stupidest culture on the planet. Also a problem, because although the device is pointless and almost excruciatingly so, it does work perfectly, and we are the ones who made it work.

C.) Both. Potentially so, but still leaves the question, how come we don't hear cases, daily, of people either forgetting or forgoing the effort to breath anymore while watching daytime television?

D.) The most brilliant culture in history. This wins by default. Something still doesn't check out, but there's a 9/11 tribute concert on FoxHD featuring a touching duet of "I Can Only Imagine" with police radio footage in the background sung by Lil' Kim and Enrique Iglesias, and I need to grab something to eat beforehand so I gotta go.

Wendy's sounds nice.

Why I eat at Chili's

2006-09-08T12:00:00.000-07:00

Because of the chips and salsa.

Obviously, I wash my hands no matter what

2006-09-07T10:15:00.000-07:00

I think that everyone, to some extent, possesses some sort of ingrained idea that reality is not 'real'. What I mean by that, without getting too philosophical, is that everybody, no matter how grounded they are in the day to day, cold hard facts of life, at some point has questioned reality.

For example, yesterday I was using a public restroom at the mall where they have the little automated hand washer things so when you stick your hands under the faucet, water magically emits. Well, the one I was using must have been broken, because no water came out when I stuck my hands under it. However, (and this isn't the first time this has happened) when I stuck my hands underneath the faucet and nothing came out, my initial reaction was not to assume the faucet was broken, my initial reaction was to question whether or not this meant that I existed. Now eventually that thought subsided, and I moved one faucet over and cleaned my hands.

"A trifling matter!" you might say. Well, maybe so, but it troubles me a little bit to think that my knee jerk reaction to something like that would be, instead of assuming the faucet is broken...very probable, to doubt my very existence upon the earth. Where does this come from? If all I know and all I have ever known is my own existence, what is wrong with me, 23 years in, to let a broken infrared monitor on a water faucet give me cause to doubt.

And furthermore, why do they use those infrared things? It seems to me that if you are so concerned about sanitary issues that you wouldn't even want to touch the handle of a faucet, then you are doomed when it comes to getting soap out of the dispenser. And the soap dispenser has more bacteria potential anyways, because let's be honest, if you actually use soap after going to the bathroom, not just a simple 'wet&dry', then you probably had some issues. And that soap dispenser is going to be the bacterial stomping grounds of said issues. But nobody ever thinks of that.

So what is reality? And what is the most sanitary way to use a public restroom? And is it actually more sanitary in a public restroom to not use soap? And if that is true, does that mean that public restrooms are some sort of metaphysical wormhole that traditional reality and reason do not exist? Because if so, then maybe those infrared scanners do work.

Hello World!!

2006-09-06T14:02:00.000-07:00

These famous words (see title) once uttered by yours truly as I stood completely naked on my 3rd story apartment balcony after being de-toweled by a roomate, may prove apt here as well. (maybe not)

However, I must admit that I enter the blogging world with a certain level of apprehension. Because it seems to me that a blogger, by very nature of being a blogger, is willing to concede a few things that I am not sure I am ready to concede. It seems to me that if you are willing to create a diary open to the viewing public you are either:

Showcasing your unbelievable writing ability
Screaming, "Look at me, look at me world! I AM important, I DO have something to say."
Filling up a void or a hole in your life
Bored

Not that there is anything wrong with these things, that is if you do have unbelievable writing ability to showcase, or if you do have something to say, or if it is filling up a void in your life, or even if you are just bored. However, I feel that I am none of these things, thus the apprehension.

HOWEVER... and this is why I feel so good about what I am now undertaking, I have discovered a new reason to blog, one that does fit me, and one that I think is altogether important, maybe even fundamental to my existence.

You see, I live far away from family, many friends, and for the most part those who know me best. I have always kind of toed the line between, dare i say, genius and insanity, and have counted on them to sort of keep me on the map. However, now that they are gone, I feel that insanity is prevailing, which is not altogether bad, but I would like to keep some sort of record of my descent into madness. That way one day, when I am removed from this world, people can look back at this blog and say, "Ahhh, that's where he snapped, November 18, 2006 when he spoke at length about the urge to be a pirate and then fell asleep on the letter 'r' causing 35,000 consecutive 'r's but decided to post the blog anyways because of the overall piracy theme".

So with that said, and hopefully much more in the future ... hello world.