A man walked into my room today and started looking around and digging through all my belongings. I asked him to stop. He politely refused. I stood up from from the chair that i was sitting in and began puffing my chest outward with the hopes of scaring him.
He casually glanced at me and then continues to peruse my bookcase.
You see? This fucking city is run by pigs.
When he was done with my books he turned to my closet and started examining my collection of delightfully ironic t-shirts. He giggled to himself a few times. He turned to me and threw a smirk of disgust at me.
Understand? We're fighting a war we can't win.
I started walking towards him with my fists clenched. I tripped on my feet and fell to the carpet.
The man stepped over me and began typing on my laptop. I stumbled to my feet and threw a punch. My fist missed him by a clean yard.
The man became a clown and laughed at me. Indignant, I stormed out of my room and into the hallway. The clown who now wore a hat rushed past me and threw himself down the stairs. I heard the unfamiliar crack of his breaking neck three times.
When he reached the bottom, his body slumped over onto the hardwood floors. Worried about his safety, I unselfishly descended down the stairs.
As I hit the fourth step, he stood on his knees and laughed. I laughed. It was pretty funny. He seemed glad that I could take it all in stride.
His fist was the size of a Cadillac and his eyes were the color I thought Morningstar would like like if I knew what Morningstar was. He banged the bottom stair with his weaker coupe-sized fist and I heard the screeching of metal. At this point, I was thirsty so I hopped over the stair banister fell through the living room table feet first.
The clown told me he was a copkiller. I ignored his jive. He knew how to lay it on thick.
He wanted to tell me a joke. The best joke ever told, apparently. I waited impatiently. I was parched.
It was more of a long story than a joke.
He started:
There once was a boy named Jim. Jim had a pretty horrible family life in that his father drank entirely too much and his mother was an enabling sort of bitch. Jimmy had a sibling, a sister. Her name was Lucy. Lucy was a total klepto and ought to have stolen everything she came across.
One day, Jimmy walked home from daycare and found a rabbit sitting in his kitchen. He figured his sister stole the rabbit from a store or something dumb like that so he went about his usual business, waiting for the night to fall and playing with light switches. But when Jimmy walked into his room, the rabbit followed him. Jimmy berated the rabbit with ethnic slurs for that was how he was taught. The rabbit began to speak but Jimmy couldn't understand Spanish, so he blamed multiculturalism.
Jimmy's father then came home and found the same rabbit sitting in the kitchen. Jimmy's father blamed his bitch of a wife for the rabbit and cooked up a plan to teach her a lesson once and for all.
Jimmy's sister came home and realized that the rabbit the she stole while she was playing hooky the day before somehow got loose from his cage that she also stole. Realizing that the rabbit getting free was a sign from some higher being, she decided she would never steal things again, animals at least. She retreated to her room and watched the television she had stolen a month earlier.
Finally Jimmy's mother arrived at the house speaking on her cellular phone. She was speaking to her dear friend Carol who was going through a hard time. Jimmy's mom realized she was lucky to have such a great husband.
Jimmy's father crept into the room quietly and tapped her on the back. Jimmy's mother was surprised and dropped the phone. Then Jimmy's father made Jimmy mother wash all the dishes in the house and bring him a beer already opened. Jimmy's father only drank Pabst Blue Ribbon. Jimmy's father didn't like the wood accents in Sam Adams or the color of Guinness. Plus, if he went to the right place, he was able to trade his food stamps for Pabst.
Eight beers later, Jimmy's father remembered where he placed the hatchet that he bought for when he had to cut down those trees because the county said they were unsafe.
Jimmy was awoken by the sounds of cleaving. He walked to the kitchen and found that his mother was nowhere to be found, the flaky bitch. Jimmy's father offered to take Jimmy to the zoo the next day if he went back to his room and left the grownups to do their grownup things.
He ended the story with a smoky gut laugh.
I laughed as well. It was pretty funny I had to admit. I walked to the fridge and grabbed a soda. The clown said he was thirsty as well, so I gave him a sip of mine, but he got his clown blood all over the can. No worries, I thought to myself as I rotated the can and drank from a different side.
I realized I identified with the hatchet as I felt he was the most likable character in the story. The clown agreed and noted my resemblance to the hatchet. He asked if I wanted to meet his hatchet. I said yes and he told me to wait where I was. I did.
After cleaning up all the excess blood and locating my right arm I woke up and wondered what the hell a Morningstar was.
THE END
Moral of the story: Don't steal rabbits. Choose your fathers wisely. Do not under any circumstances seek congress with miniature axes.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
A Look at the Impending Doom That is our Future
The recession.
The Apocalypse.
Global Warming.
The 2012 Mayan Calendar Prediction.
TS-$&% Meteor Alert.
What do all these have in common?
They're all going to happen. And literally trillions of people will die.
But also, they're all distracting people from the real major issue facing humankind that will inevitably occur within the next...oh, I'd say 10-20 years.
And that is the growing fly population. Up until now, most people have treated flies like nuisances. Sure, you don't want it around your food, but if one's buzzing around in the house, most wouldn't even get off their butts to destroy it. And even if, perchance, they did leave their coach, they would more than likely shoo it or push it outside with small broom or something wimpy like that.
Which leads to a major cause of the rising fly population. Something I and other scientists like myself call the Shoo Factor. The Shoo Factor is the increasing likelihood that most flies will be shooed away than Slapped, Swatted, or Stomped, or as we call them, the Three S's of Fly destruction.
Through lots of scientific polling and experimentation we have figured out why the Shoo Factor is rising at such a rate.
Reason Number One. Something I call the Irresponsible Hippie Syndrome. This disease is spreading like wildfire through the United States middle-class. Its linked with the prevalent belief that all animals have souls, even teensy unimportant and gross flies. The belief that only cute animals have souls (dogs, cats, rabbits, baby hippos etc.)has been on the decline since the 80's. Unsurprisingly, the poor and rich share a greater inclination to destroy a fly. The poor due to anger and class conflict and the rich due to the lack of souls and a broad disgust for all those under them.
But some people (PETA!!!) seem to believe that all life is sacred and feel the need to shout it from the mountaintops, and the middle-class who have a desperate need to emulate hippie celebrities like Courtney Cox and others of her kind.
By now, you're probably wondering why you should be worried about excess flies.
Well, short-sighted one, lets think about the smaller effects of a fly surplus.
Have you ever been drinking something and found a fly in your cup? Yeah, me too. Its horrible, isn't it? This is especially bad for milk. I'm not sure why but whatever. I don't know about you, but when a fly gets into one of my cups, I am instantly repelled by the thought of using that certain cup in the future.
Now imagine this! Flies all up in your kitchen landing in your cups all willy-nilly. Throwing up numerous times in your milk, juice, gin, spring water etc. Horrifying.
Imagine opening the door to your kitchen cabinets and seeing cups, each one with its own painful flashback of rogue flies suicide-diving into your drinks. You realize that you have no cups that you're willing to use. So you drive to your local Wal-mart for new cups. But behold, everyone else is there buying new cups as well. And to make matters worse, flies are landing in these new cups as well.
This is the first stage of a cup shortage. The Fly-Cup index, a mathematical function I created for the purposes of this scientific article, states that the amount of usable cups has an inverse relationship to the amount of living flies. That is, as the fly population rises, the cup population plummets.
People on the telly try to fool us into believing that kids in Africa are thirsty because there's no clean water to drink. Wrong! A lie perpetrated by the liberal media. Africa is nation strangled by a cup shortage. And also AIDS.
What are you gonna use to drink your water? A plate? Ha, don't make me laugh. People will be forced to buy bottled water, which will hit Americans' pockets hard. I mean, we're already in a recession and now we have to buy $1.00 bottles of Dasani?
So the next time you see a fly. Use you hands, or your feet, or a swatter, it doesn't matter, just kill it.
The future of your children's drinks are at stake.
The Apocalypse.
Global Warming.
The 2012 Mayan Calendar Prediction.
TS-$&% Meteor Alert.
What do all these have in common?
They're all going to happen. And literally trillions of people will die.
But also, they're all distracting people from the real major issue facing humankind that will inevitably occur within the next...oh, I'd say 10-20 years.
And that is the growing fly population. Up until now, most people have treated flies like nuisances. Sure, you don't want it around your food, but if one's buzzing around in the house, most wouldn't even get off their butts to destroy it. And even if, perchance, they did leave their coach, they would more than likely shoo it or push it outside with small broom or something wimpy like that.
Which leads to a major cause of the rising fly population. Something I and other scientists like myself call the Shoo Factor. The Shoo Factor is the increasing likelihood that most flies will be shooed away than Slapped, Swatted, or Stomped, or as we call them, the Three S's of Fly destruction.
Through lots of scientific polling and experimentation we have figured out why the Shoo Factor is rising at such a rate.
Reason Number One. Something I call the Irresponsible Hippie Syndrome. This disease is spreading like wildfire through the United States middle-class. Its linked with the prevalent belief that all animals have souls, even teensy unimportant and gross flies. The belief that only cute animals have souls (dogs, cats, rabbits, baby hippos etc.)has been on the decline since the 80's. Unsurprisingly, the poor and rich share a greater inclination to destroy a fly. The poor due to anger and class conflict and the rich due to the lack of souls and a broad disgust for all those under them.
But some people (PETA!!!) seem to believe that all life is sacred and feel the need to shout it from the mountaintops, and the middle-class who have a desperate need to emulate hippie celebrities like Courtney Cox and others of her kind.
By now, you're probably wondering why you should be worried about excess flies.
Well, short-sighted one, lets think about the smaller effects of a fly surplus.
Have you ever been drinking something and found a fly in your cup? Yeah, me too. Its horrible, isn't it? This is especially bad for milk. I'm not sure why but whatever. I don't know about you, but when a fly gets into one of my cups, I am instantly repelled by the thought of using that certain cup in the future.
Now imagine this! Flies all up in your kitchen landing in your cups all willy-nilly. Throwing up numerous times in your milk, juice, gin, spring water etc. Horrifying.
Imagine opening the door to your kitchen cabinets and seeing cups, each one with its own painful flashback of rogue flies suicide-diving into your drinks. You realize that you have no cups that you're willing to use. So you drive to your local Wal-mart for new cups. But behold, everyone else is there buying new cups as well. And to make matters worse, flies are landing in these new cups as well.
This is the first stage of a cup shortage. The Fly-Cup index, a mathematical function I created for the purposes of this scientific article, states that the amount of usable cups has an inverse relationship to the amount of living flies. That is, as the fly population rises, the cup population plummets.
People on the telly try to fool us into believing that kids in Africa are thirsty because there's no clean water to drink. Wrong! A lie perpetrated by the liberal media. Africa is nation strangled by a cup shortage. And also AIDS.
What are you gonna use to drink your water? A plate? Ha, don't make me laugh. People will be forced to buy bottled water, which will hit Americans' pockets hard. I mean, we're already in a recession and now we have to buy $1.00 bottles of Dasani?
So the next time you see a fly. Use you hands, or your feet, or a swatter, it doesn't matter, just kill it.
The future of your children's drinks are at stake.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Adventuring in Ad Jungle Day 1
(in media res)
So here I was, confronted with the opportunity of a lifetime. This sort of stuff almost never happens to me. While reading about the many hardships of Britney Spears (don't judge her, she had a hard life ya'll), I received a pop-up message. A message that could truly make me believe this whole internet thing really could be worth it.
Picture it for yourselves: two cartoon men standing side by side wearing multi-colored spandex. Each of them holding humongous barbells in front of them. Immediately my interest was piqued. "What's this here?", I said to myself. Under the two men were words, no,scratch that, instructions.
"Lift weights faster than the weightlifter to win a PS3*!!!"
My heart skipped a beat and I forgot to breathe. A PS3? I'd heard of those. Hey, in fact, I had just decided that I wanted one. Who doesn't like games, right? And plus, if I didn't want it I could always sell it. That's literally hundreds of dollars of income. That would easily solve all my problems...
No, slow down Sean. You're getting ahead of yourself. You haven't even beat the video game boss yet. The guy's muscles were huge and rippling while my character's were significantly smaller. I like to think of myself as a resourceful fellow, able to adapt in a multitude of situations, but never had I ever felt more challenged than with this feat. There was so much riding on it. The pressure could easily derail my chances.
As I sat there in my chair sweating and thinking I looked out the corner of my eye and realized that the enemy weightlifter had already started lifting the weights. Oh shit! I could feel the PS3 slipping from my grasps. I spotted the large red button labeled "Press Here" in the game window. Ok, put up or shut up. This was my chance to beat an expert weightlifter at what he did best, at his life's work. The odds were stacked up against me, but still I began clicking the button with a fierceness rarely seen on Mondays. Could I catch up?
My fingers were on fire as I clicked my mouse in rapid succession. My enemy's completion bar was being filled so quickly that for a while I doubted my chances, yet still I forged ahead filling my bar until it matched his. Our match reached the final stretch, my opponent seemed to be losing steam and though my fingers ached I pushed through the pain. I smiled as my completion bar was filled to the top. Suddenly all animation stopped. I jumped out of my chair and yelled at the top of my lungs. Luckily none of my roommates were home or they would've been wondering what was going on. Plus, I'd be reluctant to show them how to get their own PS3's because if everyone I knew had a PS3 than why would they ever want to hang out with me?
Nope, they gotta spend time with me to play my future super-cool games.
But anyway, back to the story. I was transported to a page with a form. It asked for my name, phone number, e-mail address, credit card #, and my friend's info, so I entered all that stuff into the form. Gosh, I didn't know that it took so much work to win free stuff. But it doesn't really matter, because now I'm on easy street. I am currently counting down the days until I get my brand new game system.
Which got me thinking. I'm not sure which games I want. I'm not really a fan of action or shooting games. I think I wanna get Tetris. Oooh, and Crazy Taxi! I hope they have Crazy Taxi! Man, you sure can drive crazy in those games. Also I'm gonna go to the store tomorrow and start stocking up on Blu-Ray DVDs to accompany my new system.
But don't think I'm just some shallow person who gets everything handed to him through pop-up internet games. I'm also gonna begin investing in more charitable causes. I got this e-mail from a duke in Nigeria (yeah, they have those, don't be so ignorant and racist), who's coming to America soon, and he needs to use my bank account to transfer some money. If you know me, you know how eager I am to help the people of Nigeria in any way possible so I agreed. He even agreed to leave a little leftover money in my account ;) .
Life is going so good for me right now. I don't think anything could ruin my mood for the next week. No, scratch that. For the next year!!!!!
So here I was, confronted with the opportunity of a lifetime. This sort of stuff almost never happens to me. While reading about the many hardships of Britney Spears (don't judge her, she had a hard life ya'll), I received a pop-up message. A message that could truly make me believe this whole internet thing really could be worth it.
Picture it for yourselves: two cartoon men standing side by side wearing multi-colored spandex. Each of them holding humongous barbells in front of them. Immediately my interest was piqued. "What's this here?", I said to myself. Under the two men were words, no,scratch that, instructions.
"Lift weights faster than the weightlifter to win a PS3*!!!"
My heart skipped a beat and I forgot to breathe. A PS3? I'd heard of those. Hey, in fact, I had just decided that I wanted one. Who doesn't like games, right? And plus, if I didn't want it I could always sell it. That's literally hundreds of dollars of income. That would easily solve all my problems...
No, slow down Sean. You're getting ahead of yourself. You haven't even beat the video game boss yet. The guy's muscles were huge and rippling while my character's were significantly smaller. I like to think of myself as a resourceful fellow, able to adapt in a multitude of situations, but never had I ever felt more challenged than with this feat. There was so much riding on it. The pressure could easily derail my chances.
As I sat there in my chair sweating and thinking I looked out the corner of my eye and realized that the enemy weightlifter had already started lifting the weights. Oh shit! I could feel the PS3 slipping from my grasps. I spotted the large red button labeled "Press Here" in the game window. Ok, put up or shut up. This was my chance to beat an expert weightlifter at what he did best, at his life's work. The odds were stacked up against me, but still I began clicking the button with a fierceness rarely seen on Mondays. Could I catch up?
My fingers were on fire as I clicked my mouse in rapid succession. My enemy's completion bar was being filled so quickly that for a while I doubted my chances, yet still I forged ahead filling my bar until it matched his. Our match reached the final stretch, my opponent seemed to be losing steam and though my fingers ached I pushed through the pain. I smiled as my completion bar was filled to the top. Suddenly all animation stopped. I jumped out of my chair and yelled at the top of my lungs. Luckily none of my roommates were home or they would've been wondering what was going on. Plus, I'd be reluctant to show them how to get their own PS3's because if everyone I knew had a PS3 than why would they ever want to hang out with me?
Nope, they gotta spend time with me to play my future super-cool games.
But anyway, back to the story. I was transported to a page with a form. It asked for my name, phone number, e-mail address, credit card #, and my friend's info, so I entered all that stuff into the form. Gosh, I didn't know that it took so much work to win free stuff. But it doesn't really matter, because now I'm on easy street. I am currently counting down the days until I get my brand new game system.
Which got me thinking. I'm not sure which games I want. I'm not really a fan of action or shooting games. I think I wanna get Tetris. Oooh, and Crazy Taxi! I hope they have Crazy Taxi! Man, you sure can drive crazy in those games. Also I'm gonna go to the store tomorrow and start stocking up on Blu-Ray DVDs to accompany my new system.
But don't think I'm just some shallow person who gets everything handed to him through pop-up internet games. I'm also gonna begin investing in more charitable causes. I got this e-mail from a duke in Nigeria (yeah, they have those, don't be so ignorant and racist), who's coming to America soon, and he needs to use my bank account to transfer some money. If you know me, you know how eager I am to help the people of Nigeria in any way possible so I agreed. He even agreed to leave a little leftover money in my account ;) .
Life is going so good for me right now. I don't think anything could ruin my mood for the next week. No, scratch that. For the next year!!!!!
Monday, February 11, 2008
Adventures of Weird Jerry
Jeremiah wasn't a bullfrog. He was a boy. A human boy and he lived in the suburbs.
During the summer days, while his parents were away, he'd often mope around the house in nothing but his boxers. They were green but that's beside the point. Little Jer didn't have many friends. All the other school-kids used to call him Jerry the Fairy. Jerry didn't see what the big deal was. Fairies seemed pretty darn cool. They could fly and cast spells. Jerry would’ve loved to be able to cast spells. That’s an infinite number of peanut butter and banana sandwiches.
One day while Jerry was home alone on a particularly hot day, loafing around in his boxers watching
Part I:
A red rabbit stood behind the door. Jerry looked at the rabbit. The rabbit averted his eyes immediately from Jerry's eyes and looked at his pocket watch.
"Oh so late."
Jerry continued staring at the rabbit. The red rabbit cleared his throat and repeated his previous statement, this time louder.
"Oh so late."
Jerry stared into the rabbit's soul. The rabbit edged away from the closet door and dropped the watch.
"Are you not going to ask me what I'm late for?"
Jerry shook his head and continued devouring the rabbit with his eyes.
"Well. This is awkward...and creepy. Kid, can you not look at me so creepily. Hasn't anyone told you that staring at strangers is bad manners."
Jerry responded quietly,"Do you live in my closet?"
The rabbit thought to himself. He'd been asked many questions in his long rabbit life but none so straightforward.
"No. I'm trying to find the queen," replied the rabbit in a stately tone.
"Does the queen live in my closet?"
The rabbit shivered when he realized that Jerry hadn't blinked once since he opened the door. He backed away from the door. "You know, I think this might be the wrong door. I'll just be going...on my way." The red rabbit turned his back on Jerry and retreated deeper into the closet.
"Wait, rabbit. Don't leave."
The rabbit turned his head.
Jerry continued,"I might have some carrots or something in the frigidaire"
"Frigidaire? How old are you, kid? No, I think I'll pass on the carrots. We rabbits don't even really like carrots. That's pretty much racist. Pretty much."
Jerry ignored this last comment and wheezed "Will you be my pet?"
The rabbit sighed and was forced to make a split-second decision. Should he verbally assault this kid who was obviously ignorant of him and his rabbit ways or should he give the poor kid a hug. Damn. Of all the troubled kids that he was sent to help by injecting whimsy and wonderment into their messed up lives, he had to find the creepiest, anti-rabbit one. Plus, he smelled like sweat and peanut butter. And as we all know, red rabbits hate peanut butter.
The rabbit made up his mind.
"Ok kid, you can come with me. Prepare to go on a journey filled with whimsy and wonderment et cetera et cetera. But do me a favor. On the way, can you refrain from looking at me like that?”
Friday, February 8, 2008
Case Study of Sleep Deprivation and its Effects
So, sleeping, huh. Sleeping's weird, ain't it? Yeah man, ain't that the truth. I haven't slept in months and I'm feeling totally fresh. Every day I feel more and more less energized and find myself less and less paying more and more attention in class. Which is why I advocate not sleeping. You're saying to yourself, "Well, come on, Sean. That's craziness you're talking. No sleep? No one can live off of no sleep. Except for zombies, because they're un-dead."
Well, I don't believe that's true. You can easily go months with experiencing the sweet release of slumberland. Sure, the first week is pretty tough. You're body tries to trick you into sleeping. Blinking seems like heaven. You find yourself staring into the infinite void that is your bedroom wall etc. But once you get past, the headaches, the bodyaches, eyeaches, and finally the mindaches (which, by the way, are not same thing as headaches. Headaches are like pounding pulses in your brain. Mindaches are more like jagged shards of ideas that attempt to drown your brain in the sea of the absurd, but that's all very tangential, which is only the slope of this blog at one point), you feel this sense of renewal. Not renewal like you would feel if you took the long coma-style nap that you start hoping and praying for, but renewal in the sense that everything around you seems so amazing that you start to actually believe you're dreaming.
And that's when the pacing starts. First, you pace to stay awake. And then it becomes involuntary. You stare down at the ground, as if you staring at the same stretch of carpet for hours on end will suddenly lead to you stumbling on a long-forgotten Rolex that you failed to notice the last twenty thousands times you passed by the gap in between your computer desk and dresser.
Obviously the lack of eyerest (yes, a real scientific term, since I'm a scientist within the scope of this blog) will lead to your loss of spatial recognition (sounds positively sci-fi, don't it?). You stumble over and over again on uneven sidewalk (chronic feetdragging compounds this). You walk into walls of buildings and hit your funnybone on stray desks. Don't worry, noone else is onto you yet. They just think you're clumsy. Hell, those wounds are almost endearing.
Plus, the girls start noticing the deep bags under your eyes. Hey man, that shows you got the depth of a poet mixed with the internal turmoil of a struggling musician.
Then you float through the boring parts of the day, not entirely sure of how exactly you got from class to your room, since you have no recollection of the journey. But the wounds on your elbow tell of a treacherous journey (arithmetic: you + curb = face + sidewalk).
Don't let the seizures surprise you. Its just your selfish body trying to get back at you. The key is to predicting them before they happen. First, you enter a semi-dream like state. Let's see, how do we describe this objectively. It's like time slows down, but everyone else voices get higher in pitch. Think "The Matrix" without the stunts and Neo, Trinity, and Morpheus replaced with Alvin, Theodore, and that other tall nerdy chipmunk. Resist the urge to scream when you notice their laughs resemble "death giggles" (yes, another intellectual term, keep up).
I personally own 4 helmets, I would let you borrow one, but with the shape you're in by this point, you'd probably just leave it somewhere or get it dirty with blood. Plus, I'm uncaring. I'm an Aries, didn't you know? That makes me self-centered et al. (I read the astronomy section in the paper often, don't get behind, its important work).
And that's when your taste in music goes out the effin window. You start preferring the Stones to the Beatles, and this my friends, is the point that we shall label "of No Return" (easy math: Exile on Main Street != Revolver (side note to the side note: when placed in front of an equal sign, ! means "does not equal", as opposed to when placed after a sentence, which means "I have no sense of restraint" or "I underestimate people's understanding of context")). You now have the ability to speak in tongues as well. Which will come in handy if your lifegoal is to be a Pentacostal minister, which, if it is, means you might as well by those tongs for handling the snakes. I have a plethora of snake tongs. But with the shape your in...also the moon is lined up with Mars, which every discerning astronomer knows is the omen of all omens for us Aries.
So now we wait for your impending collapse into early dementia. Oh, there it is, coming 'round that corner. Your parents are worried, your friends avert their eyes as you pass them floating on your magic carpet of post-sleep euphoria. The snakes haven't eaten in months. Teachers complain about you knocking every goddamn test-tube over every day.
So the man who wear all white show up while you're enjoying your daily lunch of the crust off your lips. Who knew the sleep-deprived were so vulnerable to oversized butterfly nets? Well, they did. And they exploited that advantage.
As the drug cocktail numbs you, and you disappear into the gates of Slumberland, you begin crying. You were really looking forward to that piece of lip crust.
Such waste.
Well, I don't believe that's true. You can easily go months with experiencing the sweet release of slumberland. Sure, the first week is pretty tough. You're body tries to trick you into sleeping. Blinking seems like heaven. You find yourself staring into the infinite void that is your bedroom wall etc. But once you get past, the headaches, the bodyaches, eyeaches, and finally the mindaches (which, by the way, are not same thing as headaches. Headaches are like pounding pulses in your brain. Mindaches are more like jagged shards of ideas that attempt to drown your brain in the sea of the absurd, but that's all very tangential, which is only the slope of this blog at one point), you feel this sense of renewal. Not renewal like you would feel if you took the long coma-style nap that you start hoping and praying for, but renewal in the sense that everything around you seems so amazing that you start to actually believe you're dreaming.
And that's when the pacing starts. First, you pace to stay awake. And then it becomes involuntary. You stare down at the ground, as if you staring at the same stretch of carpet for hours on end will suddenly lead to you stumbling on a long-forgotten Rolex that you failed to notice the last twenty thousands times you passed by the gap in between your computer desk and dresser.
Obviously the lack of eyerest (yes, a real scientific term, since I'm a scientist within the scope of this blog) will lead to your loss of spatial recognition (sounds positively sci-fi, don't it?). You stumble over and over again on uneven sidewalk (chronic feetdragging compounds this). You walk into walls of buildings and hit your funnybone on stray desks. Don't worry, noone else is onto you yet. They just think you're clumsy. Hell, those wounds are almost endearing.
Plus, the girls start noticing the deep bags under your eyes. Hey man, that shows you got the depth of a poet mixed with the internal turmoil of a struggling musician.
Then you float through the boring parts of the day, not entirely sure of how exactly you got from class to your room, since you have no recollection of the journey. But the wounds on your elbow tell of a treacherous journey (arithmetic: you + curb = face + sidewalk).
Don't let the seizures surprise you. Its just your selfish body trying to get back at you. The key is to predicting them before they happen. First, you enter a semi-dream like state. Let's see, how do we describe this objectively. It's like time slows down, but everyone else voices get higher in pitch. Think "The Matrix" without the stunts and Neo, Trinity, and Morpheus replaced with Alvin, Theodore, and that other tall nerdy chipmunk. Resist the urge to scream when you notice their laughs resemble "death giggles" (yes, another intellectual term, keep up).
I personally own 4 helmets, I would let you borrow one, but with the shape you're in by this point, you'd probably just leave it somewhere or get it dirty with blood. Plus, I'm uncaring. I'm an Aries, didn't you know? That makes me self-centered et al. (I read the astronomy section in the paper often, don't get behind, its important work).
And that's when your taste in music goes out the effin window. You start preferring the Stones to the Beatles, and this my friends, is the point that we shall label "of No Return" (easy math: Exile on Main Street != Revolver (side note to the side note: when placed in front of an equal sign, ! means "does not equal", as opposed to when placed after a sentence, which means "I have no sense of restraint" or "I underestimate people's understanding of context")). You now have the ability to speak in tongues as well. Which will come in handy if your lifegoal is to be a Pentacostal minister, which, if it is, means you might as well by those tongs for handling the snakes. I have a plethora of snake tongs. But with the shape your in...also the moon is lined up with Mars, which every discerning astronomer knows is the omen of all omens for us Aries.
So now we wait for your impending collapse into early dementia. Oh, there it is, coming 'round that corner. Your parents are worried, your friends avert their eyes as you pass them floating on your magic carpet of post-sleep euphoria. The snakes haven't eaten in months. Teachers complain about you knocking every goddamn test-tube over every day.
So the man who wear all white show up while you're enjoying your daily lunch of the crust off your lips. Who knew the sleep-deprived were so vulnerable to oversized butterfly nets? Well, they did. And they exploited that advantage.
As the drug cocktail numbs you, and you disappear into the gates of Slumberland, you begin crying. You were really looking forward to that piece of lip crust.
Such waste.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
The Bedlam in Goliath -- Initially and Recently
Let me just go ahead and say that when I heard "Wax Simulacra" on Late Night with Conan O'Brien, I was worried like hell. On first listen, the song seemed static and bland. The time signature didn't seem to hide the fact that it was barely a song. And then came the sax solo, it seemed, dare I say, overly new age. But being a fan of most of their previous work, I bought their latest CD...and its good.
Definitely more of a return to their debut "De-loused", focusing more on individualized songs than the extended jams of "Amputechture" or beds of noise favored in "Frances the Mute". Sure, the first half begins to exhaust the listener with its loud-louder dynamics, but after the cool down that is "Tourniquet Man", the second half invigorates the listener with some of the best "hooks" that can be found on a prog album.
So that's great.
This Super Tuesday stuff is too excruciating to watch. They just predicted Clinton will win California and I started shaking. Why is America messing this election up for me? Is there some sort of hidden plot to crush all my dreams? Hulk Hogan pretty much endorsed Obama. Hulk Hogan! Are we just gonna pretend like that didn't happen?
I've got news for you America. That happened. That most definitely happened. Now that's an endorsement noone could've predicted. Now if you squander this, America. I won't be there to pick up all the pieces.
Definitely more of a return to their debut "De-loused", focusing more on individualized songs than the extended jams of "Amputechture" or beds of noise favored in "Frances the Mute". Sure, the first half begins to exhaust the listener with its loud-louder dynamics, but after the cool down that is "Tourniquet Man", the second half invigorates the listener with some of the best "hooks" that can be found on a prog album.
So that's great.
This Super Tuesday stuff is too excruciating to watch. They just predicted Clinton will win California and I started shaking. Why is America messing this election up for me? Is there some sort of hidden plot to crush all my dreams? Hulk Hogan pretty much endorsed Obama. Hulk Hogan! Are we just gonna pretend like that didn't happen?
I've got news for you America. That happened. That most definitely happened. Now that's an endorsement noone could've predicted. Now if you squander this, America. I won't be there to pick up all the pieces.
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