A couple of days ago I was milling around my apartment, marveling in the amount of space I have since the Intrepid Traveler left. I had one of my Phish concert DVDs on and was listening happily to the feel-good jams. I went to change some laundry and as I was coming up the stairs, with only the bass frequencies piercing the walls, I heard something very familiar.
Bum Bum Bam Bam Bam Dum! Just like that except imagine I'm playing it on my bass and it's G, G, D, D, D, A! I couldn't believe it. Phish was covering Neil Young's Down By The River off his '69 Crazy Horse album Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere. Now, this song kicks serious ass. I used to be in a band called Gods of Rock, an outfit dedicated to playing rock with divine presence, and we covered the shit out of that song. Ten, fifteen minute long versions of Down By The River. Also, for about a week, I was in this other band that covered it as well. We were supposed to be a party-rock cover band, but the guitar player wanted us to play his original compositions, so I quit the day before a gig. Luckily they found a more ambitious tall guy who can play four strings. But here it was again! That killer riff!
"DOWN BY THE RIVER!" I was singing as I came into the room. But something was amiss. My voice was harmonizing even less pleasantly that usual. It wasn't Down By The River at all, but an original Phish song off their 2000 release Farmhouse. The song, which I'd never listening to all that closely before, is called Bug and if Phish doesn't think they're riffing off Neil, then they're lying to themselves.
So there's a lesson for all you wanna-be rockers out there. You figure it out for yourselves.
11/30/06
11/27/06
A Guide to AIM
So I have been somewhat annoyed with the chat medium lately. Not really with the medium itself, but with how people have been using it. Maybe I am just becoming a member of the old guard; I grew up using AIM. I have had the same screenname for ten years. TEN YEARS! I have been chatting under the alias "Toro412" longer than I have been a self-aware human being. Regardless, there are a few things that I feel need to be said about the chat medium, so I am going to say them, and I am going to use the blog medium. This is going to be a rant.
Stop saying "peace" when you leave unless you really mean it. I am sick of all these people I chat with who are all "I gotta go eat a bowl of ravioli, peace" when in reality they support putting up a wall between Mexico and the U.S. You can't want to build a WALL between us and anybody and then say "peace" when you are having a casual conversation with your peers. Nut up and say "war" and support your beliefs, stop pussy-footing around subject matter just because you're not at your big pro-war rally wearing your "Go Bush" cheesehead hat. If you say "peace" mean it or I will punch you in the face.
If you are going to put up an away message, please for the sake of baby Jesus do not use song lyrics that you heard on the radio. When Corey Taylor writes lyrics for Stone Sour (formerly of Slipknot renown) he is not being deep, he is being accessible. His lyrics can mean anything and that's why he is "so hot right now." He rights lyrics to make thirteen year-old girls think that somebody truly understands them...and that somebody used to wear a Hellraiser mask while he sang about his feelings.
Stop saying "peace" when you leave unless you really mean it. I am sick of all these people I chat with who are all "I gotta go eat a bowl of ravioli, peace" when in reality they support putting up a wall between Mexico and the U.S. You can't want to build a WALL between us and anybody and then say "peace" when you are having a casual conversation with your peers. Nut up and say "war" and support your beliefs, stop pussy-footing around subject matter just because you're not at your big pro-war rally wearing your "Go Bush" cheesehead hat. If you say "peace" mean it or I will punch you in the face.
If you are going to put up an away message, please for the sake of baby Jesus do not use song lyrics that you heard on the radio. When Corey Taylor writes lyrics for Stone Sour (formerly of Slipknot renown) he is not being deep, he is being accessible. His lyrics can mean anything and that's why he is "so hot right now." He rights lyrics to make thirteen year-old girls think that somebody truly understands them...and that somebody used to wear a Hellraiser mask while he sang about his feelings.
11/26/06
The Predicament of Facebook
I do not decieve myself when I think about why I like to use the peer-networking site Facebook. The reason this bothers mention is because a lot of people on Facebook think they actually use the site for its descriptive purpose; they think they use it because it connects them with their friends. The dark truth behind Facebook is that it is not constructed around "friendship" based relationships at all, or perhaps a more progressively minded individual would say that Facebook and sites like it are redefining the word of friendship, but I think that is giving up far too much credit to the creators of said sites.
I don't use Facebook because I like keeping up to date on my friends' lives. In fact, I rarely check my friends' profiles and the truth is I don't care that a guy I went to high school with just read Gulliver's Travels and it changed his fucking life. These are legitimate, true friends I am talking about. I would attend these peoples' weddings, I would invite them to BBQs, I would bail them out of a fight. But I seriously don't care about half of the stuff people put up on their profiles. But I still fill my profile with shit I am confident nobody else I knows cares about either. My roommate Matt doesn't have to read my Facebook profile to know that I have a newfangled obsession with the band TV on the Radio, he just has to walk into my bedroom whenever I am playing music. Why do I bother? Why do I list seventeen of my favorite bands if nobody is going to read it? I take more time judging whether or not a band should truly be qualified as a "favorite" or not than all of my friends will spend reading the list in its entirety.
The reason I do this is to expand my social capital. I jump like a crazed baboon anytime I see that I have a new friend waiting in the ranks to join my "elite" list of 329 friends. I can't even name half of the people on that list, but I will add even the most casual of acquaintances in a heartbeat, and I will PORE over their interests with a fine-toothed comb. I just became " Facebook friends" with a guy named Manny with whom I had (at most) five minutes of solid conversation with. Five minutes. I learned a little bit about the guy, but if he called me and asked to borrow two hundred bucks I would remove my phone number from my Facebook profile. This is what Facebook has created in the new social landscape of career-bound twentysomethings. We meet, date, hookup, work, and compete with hundreds of casual strangers, and all off a sudden this qualifies for immediate social connection. Manny has at his fingertips the single most powerful (and terrifying) use for Facebook; Manny can construct my life's narrative however he pleases and there isn't shit I can do about it. I can add clever quotes or funny ones, I can post pictures, I can say that I like to eat cheese and drink wine, but none of that really matters. What matters is how Manny percieves the information I provide, and there is no fucking way I can shape the perceptions of 300+ people that I know on varying degrees, especially when several of them I haven't seen since I had a bowl cut.
So I like to construct narratives. I like to decide if your religious views hold true to the pictures I see posted with you chugging your beers. I like to bathe in your hypocrisy, but on the lighter side, I also like to glimpse at the little unique qualities about people that come through. A wall post really doesn't say anything, "Did you see the Broncos game?" coming from my buddy Garrett is nowhere as interesting as seeing that he posted it at 5.12am, undoubtedly sitting in his boxers. Don't get me wrong, the real life comes through, but Facebook is making it so that you have to dig a hell of a lot deeper.
I don't use Facebook because I like keeping up to date on my friends' lives. In fact, I rarely check my friends' profiles and the truth is I don't care that a guy I went to high school with just read Gulliver's Travels and it changed his fucking life. These are legitimate, true friends I am talking about. I would attend these peoples' weddings, I would invite them to BBQs, I would bail them out of a fight. But I seriously don't care about half of the stuff people put up on their profiles. But I still fill my profile with shit I am confident nobody else I knows cares about either. My roommate Matt doesn't have to read my Facebook profile to know that I have a newfangled obsession with the band TV on the Radio, he just has to walk into my bedroom whenever I am playing music. Why do I bother? Why do I list seventeen of my favorite bands if nobody is going to read it? I take more time judging whether or not a band should truly be qualified as a "favorite" or not than all of my friends will spend reading the list in its entirety.
The reason I do this is to expand my social capital. I jump like a crazed baboon anytime I see that I have a new friend waiting in the ranks to join my "elite" list of 329 friends. I can't even name half of the people on that list, but I will add even the most casual of acquaintances in a heartbeat, and I will PORE over their interests with a fine-toothed comb. I just became " Facebook friends" with a guy named Manny with whom I had (at most) five minutes of solid conversation with. Five minutes. I learned a little bit about the guy, but if he called me and asked to borrow two hundred bucks I would remove my phone number from my Facebook profile. This is what Facebook has created in the new social landscape of career-bound twentysomethings. We meet, date, hookup, work, and compete with hundreds of casual strangers, and all off a sudden this qualifies for immediate social connection. Manny has at his fingertips the single most powerful (and terrifying) use for Facebook; Manny can construct my life's narrative however he pleases and there isn't shit I can do about it. I can add clever quotes or funny ones, I can post pictures, I can say that I like to eat cheese and drink wine, but none of that really matters. What matters is how Manny percieves the information I provide, and there is no fucking way I can shape the perceptions of 300+ people that I know on varying degrees, especially when several of them I haven't seen since I had a bowl cut.
So I like to construct narratives. I like to decide if your religious views hold true to the pictures I see posted with you chugging your beers. I like to bathe in your hypocrisy, but on the lighter side, I also like to glimpse at the little unique qualities about people that come through. A wall post really doesn't say anything, "Did you see the Broncos game?" coming from my buddy Garrett is nowhere as interesting as seeing that he posted it at 5.12am, undoubtedly sitting in his boxers. Don't get me wrong, the real life comes through, but Facebook is making it so that you have to dig a hell of a lot deeper.
Largely Irrational Fear
This is an interesting article relating to something that I think about a lot, which is largely irrational fear. We tend to be afraid of the big, hollywood-blockbuster style catastrophic events but ignore all of the little things we actually have control over.
11/24/06
The CromagueBlogue
Friends, as the sage and prophet Ba' Diluh' said, the times they are a'changing. Not long ago I was just arriving at work when I realized I'd left my club back at the cave. I turned around and began the two week journey from the hunting lands back to my habitable environs. When I got there, my mate seemed startled and asked what I was doing. I said I forgot my club. She said that she didn't expect to see me for a few months at least. And then she laid into me about where are the fresh kills?!? I told her to stop her bitching and brushed past her into the cave and on the floor of the fire-pit room was a loin-cloth that definitely wasn't mine. And she doesn't wear loin-clothes. Who is he? I demanded of her. How long has it been going on? She didn't answer, so I took my club and left. A couple years ago, that kind of shit didn't happen.
11/22/06
cromablog test beta
me use phone mash numbers lady with hot robot voice talk to me, me never try to fight urges so me have phone sex with her, she keeps saying please hang up and try again, me not need to hang up and try again, me work the first time. me different than others me no think about consequences but me more practical than even pragmatic americans who pride on that trait cuz me do whatever me wants whenever me wants, eat, poop, sleep, me more in tune with body and body's needs than most new age peoples, me know what me wants and me wants to eat meat and me knows me family has dog, sister, fish pond all of which could provide meat, me hungry, me tired, me going to sleep me have no opinion on sunsets.
On Relationships
Cromagblog beta-testing post:
Today I walking down street when I see coming other direction an old ex-girlfriend, I think her name Becca. Becca seem to have done quite well for herself, having nice clothes and more important very nice boyfriend. This initially make me rather jealous, because I think maybe I no longer adequate as a man. Maybe I no longer able to attract females at breakneck pace of old days, maybe it time to hang up hat. This thinking make me take pause because I shocked at my own reaction to situation. I realize I getting old and more docile in later years of 23. Soon I be old man and no longer hunt or chase women, I only sit around house and paint. My father die when he was ripe old age of 33, and I determined to not go out any sooner than that old rotten pile of sour cream. At this point Becca is solid quarter mile down block, so I turn around and chase. At first she not notice and then she see me and smile and wave. Her boyfriend also see me but he see look on my face and tries to take a karate stance like in movies. This make me laugh because karate do not work against club. Club makes nice handshake with new boyfriend, they exchange business cards and pleasantries. He lying on ground asking club for cell phone number and I grab Becca but she has look on her face like she know this coming. She have look on face like she feel sad for me. This make me even madder because woman have outsmarted me again, and me feel ashamed because my behavior so easily predictable. I hang my head and grab club and kick boyfriend and walk further down street alone. I get nice cafe mochachino to help soul feel better, but it not work so I smash car. Car is owner's car so I smash owner. I feel little bit better at end of day, but apartment still one bedroom apartment and bed still twin bed, only room for one.
Today I walking down street when I see coming other direction an old ex-girlfriend, I think her name Becca. Becca seem to have done quite well for herself, having nice clothes and more important very nice boyfriend. This initially make me rather jealous, because I think maybe I no longer adequate as a man. Maybe I no longer able to attract females at breakneck pace of old days, maybe it time to hang up hat. This thinking make me take pause because I shocked at my own reaction to situation. I realize I getting old and more docile in later years of 23. Soon I be old man and no longer hunt or chase women, I only sit around house and paint. My father die when he was ripe old age of 33, and I determined to not go out any sooner than that old rotten pile of sour cream. At this point Becca is solid quarter mile down block, so I turn around and chase. At first she not notice and then she see me and smile and wave. Her boyfriend also see me but he see look on my face and tries to take a karate stance like in movies. This make me laugh because karate do not work against club. Club makes nice handshake with new boyfriend, they exchange business cards and pleasantries. He lying on ground asking club for cell phone number and I grab Becca but she has look on her face like she know this coming. She have look on face like she feel sad for me. This make me even madder because woman have outsmarted me again, and me feel ashamed because my behavior so easily predictable. I hang my head and grab club and kick boyfriend and walk further down street alone. I get nice cafe mochachino to help soul feel better, but it not work so I smash car. Car is owner's car so I smash owner. I feel little bit better at end of day, but apartment still one bedroom apartment and bed still twin bed, only room for one.
11/21/06
borat babel
so I have seen some movies recently, two of them being "Borat" and "Babel" which I will elaborate on a bit. On the surface these are two of the most different movies out there. Borat, for starters, is the brainchild of British comic Sacha Baron Cohen previously better known for "Da Ali G Show." "Borat" is just about the rowdiest shit I have ever seen in my life. I went opening night in Emeryville which is a good crowd to see a movie in a packed house, lots of people dressed up in character, more like a sports game than a quiet viewing. Anyways, unlike most "funny" movies, borat presents comedy in the form of incredibly out of control awkward and uncomfortable situations that at times leave you fearing for Baron Cohen's safety and leave you awestruck at the size of his testes. The laughter though isn't the kind of gut pounding funny, it is more the kind of laughter where you are so shocked and awed that you know you have to react somehow, you just don't know exactly how so you revert to the lowest, safest common denominator of laughing. All of Borat's interactions are so awkward and uncomfortable that I eventually found myself feeling at first very nervous for everything he did and then just ultimately helpless for his victims and the situations as they unfolded.
"Babel" on the other hand is a devastatingly dark and beautiful film by Alejandro Gonzalez Innaritu, the often mispelled director of other devastingly dark and beautiful films like "Amorres Perros" and "21 Grams" which I think I saw with a number of ye fuckres in WW. This movie was a real fucking thinker which made it even better that I got stoned out of my mind right before seeing it. The plot itself is rather basic, some chaos butterfly flaps its wings in Africa and causes Drew to orgasm in Idaho theory shit, but for some reason that is a gold mine of a topic area to make you think about ideas like interconnectedness, causal shit and all that hoo-hah goodness. About 2/3 of the way through the movie, which I think I aptly described to a friend afterwards as "bruising my soul but the colors of the bruise were hella pretty," I realized as I watched terrible event after terrible event go down in a seriously pre-destined first semester core sorta way I realized I was experiencing the same sort of helpless feeling as I did in Borat. Well that's about it I guess, hella words to say borat=babel because of helpless feeling, god bless language.
so you might notice at the beginning of this there are hella links like in a real blog and then I fuckin stopped that shit real quick, well A) it's because my Safari interface doesn't let you link without typing in the code and B) I am not a real blogger, I am so fake, but my shit woulda been hella funny and gotten more ridiculous, like with links for "Africa" and "Drew" that were mildly humorous attempts at visual metaphor. breath.
"Babel" on the other hand is a devastatingly dark and beautiful film by Alejandro Gonzalez Innaritu, the often mispelled director of other devastingly dark and beautiful films like "Amorres Perros" and "21 Grams" which I think I saw with a number of ye fuckres in WW. This movie was a real fucking thinker which made it even better that I got stoned out of my mind right before seeing it. The plot itself is rather basic, some chaos butterfly flaps its wings in Africa and causes Drew to orgasm in Idaho theory shit, but for some reason that is a gold mine of a topic area to make you think about ideas like interconnectedness, causal shit and all that hoo-hah goodness. About 2/3 of the way through the movie, which I think I aptly described to a friend afterwards as "bruising my soul but the colors of the bruise were hella pretty," I realized as I watched terrible event after terrible event go down in a seriously pre-destined first semester core sorta way I realized I was experiencing the same sort of helpless feeling as I did in Borat. Well that's about it I guess, hella words to say borat=babel because of helpless feeling, god bless language.
so you might notice at the beginning of this there are hella links like in a real blog and then I fuckin stopped that shit real quick, well A) it's because my Safari interface doesn't let you link without typing in the code and B) I am not a real blogger, I am so fake, but my shit woulda been hella funny and gotten more ridiculous, like with links for "Africa" and "Drew" that were mildly humorous attempts at visual metaphor. breath.
11/20/06
Anyone up for a blogging anachronism?
I want to start a new fictional blog called Cromagblog that is written from the first-person perspective of a caveman (Cromagnon man for the anthropological dorks in the crowd.) I think I can pulls this off because I have a good imagination and sometimes I think that I am a caveman. Sometimes I get the urge to just eat a cat. Sometimes I see a guy with his girlfriend and I think "If I kill him, she will be my girlfriend." Even though my educated mind tells me not to do these things, I still think them, and maybe Cromagblog can be a nice indulgence of my more animalistic tendencies. Plus I think Aaron Mandel would be an excellent contributing writer. Perhaps he could have his own columns on body hair and shitting in the nature. Cromagblog could be just what nobody is looking for, but we could have some nice graphics of cavemen adorning the front page so when visitors come in they will think "the content of this blog is absolute bullshit, but the layout is nice." Most people don't think cavemen and graphic design mix, but I guess they just haven't seen how a mastodon skull can really tie a room together.
Open Letter to the U.S. Government
Dear U.S. Government (those in charge of jets);
I solemnly swear that if you give me a fighter jet I promise to uphold all the rights of America by kicking major ass using said fighter jet. I would prefer something like an A-10 Warthog so that I don't get shot down easily (I hear they have armor) but really anything will do. I don't want to go looking a gift horse in the mouth. But if said "gift horse" happens to threaten the homeland, I will blow the entire horse farm to the moon, and if those surviving horses happen to start a moon colony that gets all righteous about the U.S. NOT owning space (which is bullshit, we own space) then I will retrofit my newly betrothed A-10 and I will make it fly into outer space and I will bomb the surviving horse farm colony all the way to Mars, and the whole ordeal will start over again because everyone knows we also own Mars.
Reading back through the opening of this letter, I do believe I just threatened you (U.S. Government; those in charge of jets) that if you yourself threaten the homeland then I will blow you to the moon and subsequently Mars. Since you are the gift horse, right? Did you even pick up on that? Probably not. You're probably just an intern and you don't even know where the jets are. You probably don't even know what an A-10 is (do I know what an A-10 is?) You probably have a better idea of how to get me a McGonnagal's flying broom than a fighter jet. Did you graduate from Georgetown? You'd better hope so, because if you graduated from William and Mary you had better hope to God I don't get that A-10, because if that school steps out of line it will be the first gift horse to get looked in the mouth with a missile.
I am digressing from my initial point which is that I want a jet and I want you to give it to me. I promise to act whenever prompted (at my own convenience) to uphold my own personal whims with said jet. If those whims happen to be homeland defense, so be it, but I will also take money bribes to fly over high school football and lacrosse games. For a nominally larger fee, I will also blow the lid off of any gymnasium and do a fly-over of volleyball games and pep rallies. I will also blow the lid off any government cover-ups free of charge, but that will be both a metaphorical "lid-blown-off" as well as finding the base of the cover up and blowing off its lid, so that all the plotters inside will run around like scared ants and I will be flying overhead in my government-issue jet screaming politely: "Run you little ants, run you little scheming ants!" Sometimes I might do that to Congress, but I am not a terrorist, because you gave me the jet. Don't ever forget that...you created me!
Thanks for the jet,
Drew
I solemnly swear that if you give me a fighter jet I promise to uphold all the rights of America by kicking major ass using said fighter jet. I would prefer something like an A-10 Warthog so that I don't get shot down easily (I hear they have armor) but really anything will do. I don't want to go looking a gift horse in the mouth. But if said "gift horse" happens to threaten the homeland, I will blow the entire horse farm to the moon, and if those surviving horses happen to start a moon colony that gets all righteous about the U.S. NOT owning space (which is bullshit, we own space) then I will retrofit my newly betrothed A-10 and I will make it fly into outer space and I will bomb the surviving horse farm colony all the way to Mars, and the whole ordeal will start over again because everyone knows we also own Mars.
Reading back through the opening of this letter, I do believe I just threatened you (U.S. Government; those in charge of jets) that if you yourself threaten the homeland then I will blow you to the moon and subsequently Mars. Since you are the gift horse, right? Did you even pick up on that? Probably not. You're probably just an intern and you don't even know where the jets are. You probably don't even know what an A-10 is (do I know what an A-10 is?) You probably have a better idea of how to get me a McGonnagal's flying broom than a fighter jet. Did you graduate from Georgetown? You'd better hope so, because if you graduated from William and Mary you had better hope to God I don't get that A-10, because if that school steps out of line it will be the first gift horse to get looked in the mouth with a missile.
I am digressing from my initial point which is that I want a jet and I want you to give it to me. I promise to act whenever prompted (at my own convenience) to uphold my own personal whims with said jet. If those whims happen to be homeland defense, so be it, but I will also take money bribes to fly over high school football and lacrosse games. For a nominally larger fee, I will also blow the lid off of any gymnasium and do a fly-over of volleyball games and pep rallies. I will also blow the lid off any government cover-ups free of charge, but that will be both a metaphorical "lid-blown-off" as well as finding the base of the cover up and blowing off its lid, so that all the plotters inside will run around like scared ants and I will be flying overhead in my government-issue jet screaming politely: "Run you little ants, run you little scheming ants!" Sometimes I might do that to Congress, but I am not a terrorist, because you gave me the jet. Don't ever forget that...you created me!
Thanks for the jet,
Drew
11/19/06
local news is priceless
from the 10pm local news here (paraphrased): "a man who woke up from a coma a few days ago has gone missing from the hospital where he was staying. He has a large medical scare on his head and is thought to be barefoot and confused."
11/18/06
High fashion...?
A fashion company titled simply Etro has got the brass balls to try and sell eyepatches as a fashion statement. What's next? Designer peg legs? Crutches? Hell, why not just slap a supermodel with fully functioning legs into a $10,000 wheelchair? You'll see them rolling up and down Rodeo Blvd. in no time, and high fashion will have successfully marginalized not only the poor and ugly but also the disabled. I love fashion.
Mr. Whistles.
I have realized today that you can't truly love something unless you hate a sliver of it, and for the sake of your love overlook that sliver. My love is football, my sliver is football fans. I attended Boise State's utter drubbing of Utah State today, and I had to endure the fan sitting behind me doing his high-pitched whistle into my ear every other second of the game. It seemed that this overly excited fellow found it necessary to show his support for even the smallest of victories by the home team. If a player managed to replace his shoe after losing it on the play, Mr. Whistles decided to give mad props and cheer the player's remarkable field vision for locating the missing shoe as well as an astounding dexterity by replacing the shoe with only one hand. I was tempted to let the Holy Spirit act through me and turn around and lay hands on the man, but I decided against it. I decided that perhaps Mr. Whistles' life sucked, and football was only thing worth living for. Maybe Mr. Whistles' gregarious exterior shown at tailgate parties was just a facade hiding his inner turmoil as middle life slowly destroyed what little soul was left from his youth. Maybe Mr. Whistles attends football games religiously because he has in fact lost God, or worse, God has looked upon Mr. Whistles and said "I forsake you." Perhaps football is the small thread keeping Mr. Whistles attached to sanity and Mr. Whistles, being who he is, can spin and twirl at the end of sanity like a small spider whistling his ass off at the smallest of occurrences on the football field because were he not to whistle he would no longer be named Mr. Whistles, and if he knew not who he was then the thread would break and he would tumble in the abyss.
Or perhaps Mr. Whistles is a jackass used car salesman who can't get it up and still thinks gold medallions are fashionable.
Or perhaps Mr. Whistles is a jackass used car salesman who can't get it up and still thinks gold medallions are fashionable.
11/14/06
honestly fuck this
i have been trying to write something on the blog for over a week and I cannot fucking do it. How fuckin emo sissy motherfuckin bullshit is blog writers block, somebody shoot me in the fucking face with a bullet full of goddam Dengue Fever. Here is shit I would like to soon blog about:
a comparison of movies I've seen recently (Borat, Babel, The Departed, mainly the first two due to unforseen similarities)
how much banks and hospitals suck, especially ones I frequent
where we are in life right now
suck a dick my brain, sincerely the pissed off brain, fight on bloggernauts, into the sphere, I am the smooth palmed messiah, side effects include rotten ass fingernails.
Aaron
a comparison of movies I've seen recently (Borat, Babel, The Departed, mainly the first two due to unforseen similarities)
how much banks and hospitals suck, especially ones I frequent
where we are in life right now
suck a dick my brain, sincerely the pissed off brain, fight on bloggernauts, into the sphere, I am the smooth palmed messiah, side effects include rotten ass fingernails.
Aaron
11/10/06
Smooth Palmed Messiah
Look at your hands. The palm part. See how there are wrinkles? Well, those wrinkles have been there since you were in fetus mode. The way your hands were clawed up all the way back in your mom's womb/test-tube makes for the wrinkles you have now.
I have a vision, friends, of a smooth palmed messiah. People talk about positive eugenics, like making babies bulletproof and cancer proof and stain resistant and stuff, but hear me out. I want science to go in there and open a kid's hands up so when he or she is born, they will have smooth palms.
This person will be pampered unlike anyone else. You know how Chinese emporers used to grow their fingernails long to show that they didn't have to do plebian shit like shovel dirt and open drawers? Well, smooth palmed messiah is gonna have to get top-notch treatment too so that their hands never have to fold and form wrinkles.
By the time smooth palmed messiah reaches adulthood, the nature of their smooth palms will be so fantastic that people will instantly go into zealous states of religiosity in his or her presence. Smooth palmed messiah will be able to stop wars by simply raising a hand. A beautifully smooth palmed hand.
Await the coming of smooth palmed messiah.
I have a vision, friends, of a smooth palmed messiah. People talk about positive eugenics, like making babies bulletproof and cancer proof and stain resistant and stuff, but hear me out. I want science to go in there and open a kid's hands up so when he or she is born, they will have smooth palms.
This person will be pampered unlike anyone else. You know how Chinese emporers used to grow their fingernails long to show that they didn't have to do plebian shit like shovel dirt and open drawers? Well, smooth palmed messiah is gonna have to get top-notch treatment too so that their hands never have to fold and form wrinkles.
By the time smooth palmed messiah reaches adulthood, the nature of their smooth palms will be so fantastic that people will instantly go into zealous states of religiosity in his or her presence. Smooth palmed messiah will be able to stop wars by simply raising a hand. A beautifully smooth palmed hand.
Await the coming of smooth palmed messiah.
11/9/06
Board Game Heaven
Board games remind me of log cabins. Log cabins used to be legitimate forms of housing. You would cut an oxen-sized swath through the great American wilderness and when winter started breathing down your neck (back in the day you knew winter was coming because one of your kids died) you would chop down a bunch of trees, build a log cabin, and live in it. Your whole family would live in it. One room. One room means sex in front of the kids. You need kids to work the fields, so you had to get used to having sex in front of your own children. Nowadays, log cabins are just a gimmick. You might have a house in the woods, and it might have logs attached to the outside, but it sure as hell is not a log cabin. People only stay in log cabins nowadays for the irony of it, like "look at us, its gusty and we don't have television. We're like the settlers." Board games have a similar history. They used to be the only form of gaming entertainment available. You played Monopoly or you built a puzzle or you watched your parents have sex. That was it. Nowadays people play board games as some sort of half-assed attempt at getting back to "the roots" or whatever. Families will play board games on family night in order to bond, like they will go out and stay in a log cabin for a few days. Then, just like log cabins, after playing a board game for a while you realize that it sucks. Even a fun game, like Settlers of Catan, sucks after a while. I haven't played that game in months, and I am never like "I wish I was playing Settlers of Catan right now." Even at work, where I want to die from boredom, I don't want to play Settlers. Board games are boring, and that's the bottom line.
11/6/06
RE: My Biopic
If you've read the contributor profiles to your left, you may have seen I set out 6 months ago to find some sexy, sexy gold. It's no Captain Bart's treasure, but I don't have to worry about those ferrari payments any longer.
My hand overfloweth.
My hand overfloweth.
11/5/06
What constitutes news?
Tonight during Sunday Night Football there was a local news spot that went something like this:
- "Local farmer "Uncle" Ben Turkington awoke Sunday morning to see three of his steers injured. He blames local pit bulls, but the Sheriff's department have no witnesses, and no proof that it was the pit bulls."
Thanks, KNDV news. I was really worried about Uncle Ben's steers. I mean, his steers do a lot for the community. They sit there, being steers, and hopefully someday they will produce sausage and beef. The pit bulls, on the other hand, do nothing but run amok around town kidnapping children and stealing the television sets of elderly. There are rumors that the pit bulls are also racists, because it is rumored that they are specifically targeting the elderly. The pit bulls accuse the elderly race of abusing social services and leeching millions of dollars out of the health care system. The pit bulls have not made any official statements, but their leaders did release a short, poorly-focused film of what experts say is the leader of the pit bull gang, Sparks. Sparks is known throughout several local neighborhoods for, quote "shitting in yards." Prior to this incident the pit bulls transmitted a message of non-violent social change, but tensions have been high between the bulls and the steers, with tensions hitting their peak when the pit bulls made several negative statements regarding the steers noticeable lack of reproductive organs.
- "Local farmer "Uncle" Ben Turkington awoke Sunday morning to see three of his steers injured. He blames local pit bulls, but the Sheriff's department have no witnesses, and no proof that it was the pit bulls."
Thanks, KNDV news. I was really worried about Uncle Ben's steers. I mean, his steers do a lot for the community. They sit there, being steers, and hopefully someday they will produce sausage and beef. The pit bulls, on the other hand, do nothing but run amok around town kidnapping children and stealing the television sets of elderly. There are rumors that the pit bulls are also racists, because it is rumored that they are specifically targeting the elderly. The pit bulls accuse the elderly race of abusing social services and leeching millions of dollars out of the health care system. The pit bulls have not made any official statements, but their leaders did release a short, poorly-focused film of what experts say is the leader of the pit bull gang, Sparks. Sparks is known throughout several local neighborhoods for, quote "shitting in yards." Prior to this incident the pit bulls transmitted a message of non-violent social change, but tensions have been high between the bulls and the steers, with tensions hitting their peak when the pit bulls made several negative statements regarding the steers noticeable lack of reproductive organs.
11/4/06
Modern Medicine
Today I did something new, I got a drive-in flu shot. I went to the parking garage of the hospital near my house, followed the sign that said "proceed to the 5th floor for the flu" and didn't even have to get out of my car. Now that's convenience!
11/1/06
The Unexplained.
Throughout ones life there are various experiences that will lead you to believe in the paranormal. The following is a few of my observations that lead me to believe that there are "others" among us.
-Every time I turn on the water to take a shower, the nozzle is always aimed outside of the shower as far as possible, causing me to make a catastrophic decision: do I wet my clean towel sopping up the floor or do I keep my towel dry and give a hearty aqueous "fuck you" to my neighbors downstairs as the collecting water slowly drips onto their duvet cover? The ghosts obviously find my naked moral dilemmas hilarious.
-Every time I like a girl, it always turns out that she is actually a man. I am convinced this has to do with lycanthropy. Lycanthropy, for those of you uneducated in the ancient tales, is the condition exhibited by humans who turn into horrendous combinations of man and beast during certain times of the day or month. Werewolves are a prime example of lycanthropes. I think that when I begin hitting on these "women" they are in fact women, but after I have had a few beers the moon emerges from the clouds and their adam's apple practically punches me in the face.
-Every time I wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and the moon is visible, I glance out the window to see a pale hairless man sitting atop a nearby house. He is always staring directly at the moon with his glowing red eyeballs. He will slowly turn his head, clockwise, until his chin is above his nose and then he will fix my gaze until I can bring my screaming consciousness back into my body and hurry past the window to try and get what remaining urine I have in my bladder into the toilet without becoming so cripplingly terrified that I pull my own teeth in horror. I call him the moon man.
-Every time I turn on the water to take a shower, the nozzle is always aimed outside of the shower as far as possible, causing me to make a catastrophic decision: do I wet my clean towel sopping up the floor or do I keep my towel dry and give a hearty aqueous "fuck you" to my neighbors downstairs as the collecting water slowly drips onto their duvet cover? The ghosts obviously find my naked moral dilemmas hilarious.
-Every time I like a girl, it always turns out that she is actually a man. I am convinced this has to do with lycanthropy. Lycanthropy, for those of you uneducated in the ancient tales, is the condition exhibited by humans who turn into horrendous combinations of man and beast during certain times of the day or month. Werewolves are a prime example of lycanthropes. I think that when I begin hitting on these "women" they are in fact women, but after I have had a few beers the moon emerges from the clouds and their adam's apple practically punches me in the face.
-Every time I wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and the moon is visible, I glance out the window to see a pale hairless man sitting atop a nearby house. He is always staring directly at the moon with his glowing red eyeballs. He will slowly turn his head, clockwise, until his chin is above his nose and then he will fix my gaze until I can bring my screaming consciousness back into my body and hurry past the window to try and get what remaining urine I have in my bladder into the toilet without becoming so cripplingly terrified that I pull my own teeth in horror. I call him the moon man.
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