1 poem.   Congrats me.

Ozymandias

I have come to realize in the past months that I find no greater peace of mind than in watching the snow fall.
I have come to find something stirring,
some humble majesty, some humble joy in letting
the snowflakes lift me beyond the pavement upon which I stand into
Another beautiful day worthy of raising my eyes to the sky,
away from the pavement, away from the earth.

I forget the cold, the sting of melting flakes upon my neck and cheeks
I forget, only to remember days of clearer, less tranquil skies,
sunsets where you and me and everyone we used to know sat in broken circles
and gushed our loves and dreams to everyone, everywhere
and anywhere out of the world
while the band played Waltzing Matilda.

Perhaps it's one of those things I never noticed--as a young man from Southern California, a change of seasons, for one.
Like the still-warm day in October when I finally realized it was autumn
and my flip-flopped feet sifted through the first scattered leaves upon grass
Like December as the snow fell like October's leaves
and my booted feet fell through layers of fresh snow
with the most satisfying sound

Like February as I walked upon fields of ice
and stood under the shadows of trees,
branches still mockingly clinging to leaves brown and frail
which yet survive, sneering at me
even as I stare across the desolace
and dream of Ozymandias.

            Look at me, camera and fedora in hand taking pictures of seals and waves and shorelines, strolling down the sunlit cove in flip flops and jeans, letting the sound of the Decemberists and ocean waves flow through my ears like something foreign and new and novel.  It’s all like look, a seagull, that’s worth a picture, as long as I frame it against the waves and cliff-face.  I wind my way through brightly-clothed man after brightly-colored woman chatting vibrantly and walking nowhere in particular and there’s nothing to say except—

            Fuck, I’m like a tourist in my own land. 

            Let’s set a precedent here.  I hate, fucking hate tourists.  Despite the obvious hypocrisy coming from a kid who wanders around every new place like a tourist and semi-frequents European cities, there’s nothing more irritating than knowing that every other face and every smiling face is here on a joyride, an unwarranted escapade, tourists in your land.  Fuck being good neighbors, fuck being nice, it’s only because I would feel guilty about simply being a bad person if I sent a large Japanese family-group to San Ysidro instead of to the Children’s Pool.  Blah, what a conflict of interest.

            I got “home” yesterday after a night of an hour and a half of sleep and a day of airport loitering, expensive, shitty food, and an unprecedented case of plane sickness.  Spending four hours waiting in a boring airport with a body buzz is only more exciting than being told to walk from one end of the terminal to the far end of the adjacent terminal five minutes before boarding with an empty wallet because you spent your last twelve dollar bills on Dramamine and sub-par pizza. 

            This is how you know you’re home, when your dad, who met you past security, tells your mom, who’s driving, to pull over on the curb as she drives past us but she keeps going as though she didn’t hear, didn’t really hear. 

            This is how you know you’re home, when the TSA guy says he likes your hat instead of “can I see your ID?” and your sister looks at your fedora and goes “no.”

            Happy birthday to me.  Am I a bad person if I think the only thing good about spending my 18^th at home is I don’t have to pay for better food?

Prologue

 

            She happened upon the man and woman smoking the bong at five minutes past a quarter to two in the morning.

            The man noticed her as she approached.  The woman didn’t.

The man looked up at her with lazy eyes and made a gesture.  The woman didn’t notice.

            She skipped towards them, her baby pink dress trailing behind her.  He held up his hand as she skipped, but she didn’t stop, didn’t notice, didn’t lose an ounce of the burning curiosity in her pale blue eyes.  The woman heaved herself up from the grass and glanced at her.  She opened her mouth, but didn’t say anything.

            Good evening.  He clapped a hand over the mouth of the bong next to him.  He brushed a mess of dark hair out of his face.  He kept looking at her.

            I’m not s’posed to talk to strangers.  She had stopped her skipping and stood straight up, feet together with her hands folded neatly in front of her.  She looked like she was about to place her hand over her heart and say the Pledge of Allegiance, like she might well be doing the next morning.  The only thing missing was a large draping American flag. 

            Who told you that?  He smiled.

            My mommy.

            Well, have it your way then.  You just talked to me.

            Stranger danger, stranger danger! She chirped the schoolgirl rhyme and then giggled.  The woman reached over and grabbed the bong from the other side of the man.

            Dana, don’t be rude, can’t you see we have a guest?

            The girl stared at her, clutching an orange lighter between her fingers.  The woman looked up at the girl, smiling with intoxicating sweetness, and didn’t like what she saw.

            Oh forgive me, she said and placed the bong and lighter back onto the grass, grumbling.  She rolled back over to face the man and girl.

            What are you doing?  Her tone made him sick.

            He glanced at the woman as she laid her head back on the grass, staring at the sky.  Uhh, watching the stars.

            Why does it smell all funny here?

            The night makes a lot of things smell funny.   He inhaled deeply through his nose and blew up at the sky.

            I don’t believe you.

            You’re allowed to believe whatever you want.  Or you can believe what your mommy tells you.  Like not to talk to strangers.

            She cocked her head to the side.  I don’t know what you mean.

            Give it time.

            Don’t be mean.  Tell me what you mean.  Heehee.

            He laughed at her and laid his head back on the grass as well. 

            She sniffed the air.  It smells very smokey.

            Dana lifted her head up.  Like the bear?

            She shook her head vigorously, twirling her pigtails around.  Like what my mommy told me never to do.

            Dana snorted and picked the bong back up to the grass.  She put her mouth to it, fired up the bowl, and hit it as the girl watched on, entranced.  She blew the smoke into her face.

            Take one toke and you’re the devil’s joke!  The man laughed as the girl wrinkled her nose and swatted her little hands around trying to clear the reeking cloud from around her face as it dissipated.  She stumbled backwards, coughing, looking indignant in her own way.  Dana flashed her a smile and slid back onto the grass.

            Smoking is bad.  Her voice was sickening.

            Dana cough-laughed.  Not all smoking

            Not all smoking.  The man nodded his head and pulled the glasses off of his sweaty face.  He exhaled onto lenses and rubbed them vigorously with his black shirt.

            Why do you smoke?

Cause everyone and their mom does it.

My mommy doesn’t smoke.

Are you sure of that?

The girl cocked her head for a brief moment, dainty eyes skipping over the scene, the man and Dana sprawled atop the hill, glazed, red eyes skipping over the stars and a waning sliver of moon partially obscured by the fast-moving clouds while smoke

Not all strangers are dangerous.  The man blew smoke into the air.

            Can you show me how?

            To smoke?

            She nodded.

            He laughed.  You’re too young.

            She skipped over him to Dana and stepped on her neck with a crunch as sickening as her voice.  Dana convulsed, retching, spitting blood.  She wheezed, reddened eyes tearing up with an opaque glare.  The girl stared into them, watching hazel-green wax and wane as every last twitch quickly fled her body.  She cocked her head again and her little-girl lips tugged themselves into an innocent smile.

            He leaped to his feet, the hand diving into his pocket.  He drew the knife out of his side and held it in front of him, shaking.  She stared into his eyes wide with shock.  Who the fuck are you? 

            She smiled at him. 

            What the fuck are you?

            What my mommy named me.  She laughed and the knife shook.  He grasped the handle with his other hand, the one without the ring.

            What the fuck is she?

            She’s a person, DUH!  She smiled at him again.

            He didn’t say anything right away.  Maybe he couldn’t think of anything to say.  Maybe his mind wasn’t on saying something, but maybe on Dana’s lifeless body at his feet.  Maybe he felt like she was eating his thoughts.  Maybe she actually was.

            What’s wrong?  She took a step towards him.

            He raised the knife higher and shakier.  Stay back.  He stepped back uneasily.

            What’s your name?  She stepped towards him again.

            The blade shook.  I thought you weren’t supposed to talk to strangers.  Stranger danger?

            Her laughter was heinous.  That’s what my mommy said.  Step.

            Step back.  Well why don’t you listen to your mommy then.  And go away. 

            My mommy is dead.

            Did you kill her?

            I never killed anyone, stupid!  Don’t be so silly!  She took one more step and he took one more back.

            What the fuck do you call that?   He pointed at Dana.

            I heard you call her Dana, isn’t that her name? 

            He stepped back once more and his foot fell upon the bong.  The foot gave out and he fell.  By the time his head struck the grass, the knife was already out of his hand.  He let out a squeak and tried to push himself up but looked up and found her sitting on his chest, the knife clutched between her small fingers, blade pointed towards him. 

            Fuck.

            What is that?

            He twitched and tried to wiggle away but found himself unable to move, somehow trapped underneath a little girl not even half his weight. 

            How sharp is this knife?

            His eyes bulged.  She slid it so slowly, deliberately into his neck that the harshness and hostility of the word ‘stabbing’ would have been ashamed.  He gurgled, spraying her dainty face and pink dress with blood.  Her blue eyes watched on as the man shuddered, thrashed beneath her.

            Heehee.  She wiped the blood off of her face on his shirt, wrenched the knife out of his throat, wiped it off on his shirt.  She looked at it, the blade inches long, seconds ago inches deep into the man whose name she did not know.  Her eyes wandered over to the bong beneath his leg.  She tugged it out from under him, sniffed it, wrinkled her nose.  There was water in it.  She poured it out onto his shirt.

            She jumped up to her feet and skipped over to the asphalt path, bong in one hand, knife in the other.  Her dress, socks, hair was vibrantly streaked with red.  The blood on her arms gleamed in the dim moonlight, in the light from the intermittent yellow lamps along the path. 

            She kept skipping along the road until she came to the bridge.  It spanned over a little trickle of a stream, faded-red painted with a pair of low rails.  She made her way over to the left rail and jumped up on it like the gymnasts she watched on television mounting a balance beam.  She looked down the red railing and imagined herself flinging bloody cartwheels and handsprings along its length, dismounting in a spectacular full-twist and striking a victorious pose.

            She walked across it slowly, though, one foot in front of the other.  She managed a little wobbly hop before the wind picked up, running through her long blond, bloody hair.  She sniffed the air, eyes closed, smile plastered on her face and did a pirouette on the beam. 

            A light flashed in her face and she stumbled.  Her right foot missed the rail as she completed her spin and her left slipped out.  She landed hard on the rail but despite her jarring fall, she held on, a few drops of blood scattering around her.  As soon as she was steady on the rail, she raised her hands in front of her eyes, trying to block the light.

            What is going on?  The light was lowered out of her eyes and the girl could see a man holding it.  He was dressed in a tan shirt with many pockets emblazoned with patches and a badge, none of which she could read.  The shirt was tucked into a pair of dark gray pants, belted with a large copper buckle.  She thought he had a nametag.  With one hand he held the flashlight aloft and with the other, he reached towards his waist.

            Are you a policeman? She said sweetly.

            Police officer, he replied.  And park ranger.  What happened here?

            Aren’t you s’posed to figure that out?  You’re a policeman, like a detective! 

            What is that in your hand?  He pointed the light at her right hand, the one grasping the blood-covered bong.

            She shrugged and beamed at him.

            Why are you carrying a bong?

            Cause everyone and their mom does it!  She giggled and the police officer flinched.

            I’m going to need you give it to me .

            What’s your name Mr. Policeman?

            Mr. Policeman.

            That’s not a name!

            Officer Robert. 

Didn’t you say you were a policeman ranger too?

Please put the bong down and get off of the rail.

            You almost made me fall, Mr. Policeman Ranger Robert.  She laughed and pushed herself towards him.  He stepped backwards. 

            Put the bong down and put your hands up.

            Ooh, is this like a TV show?  Cause my mommy won’t let me watch TV.

            Where is your mommy?

            She’s dead.

            He froze. 

            Can you teach me how to use your handcuffs?  My mommy doesn’t let me play with hers.

            Little Girl—

            Ariel!

            —Ariel, I need you to do what I told you.

            Do you want this, Mr. Policeman Ranger Robert?  She held out the bong just in front of her. 

            He hesitated but she only smiled.  He moved his free hand into the light and reached for the bong, fingers shaking ever so slightly.  He looked into her eyes and she betrayed nothing.  His fingers closed around the glass and as they did he seemed to finally realize exactly how much blood it was covered in.

            She let go of the bong and swung the knife out from behind her and jammed it into his hand, impaling it on the railing.  She jumped onto the hand as he screamed and dropped the flashlight to the ground.  His hand went for his gun at his waist but she dismounted and disappeared behind his shadow.  His head swiveled around, looking for the girl.

            Hold this for me, Mr. Policeman Robert.  He jerked his head around, pain and fear blossomed on his face.  She shined the light on him and waved it in his face.  She was standing at his feet.

            And then he couldn’t see.

            Hold it for me, Robert, she said, offering the bong.  His right hand pawed at his eyes as he screamed for the light.  Come on!  We’ll trade, she said.  She shook the bong in front of his face as he flailed around.  When he didn’t take it, she huffed and hit him on his knee.  He let out a fresh cry of pain.  Take it! she screamed.  His shaking right hand groped at his knee until his fingers closed around glass.  She disappeared behind him again and drew the gun from the holster on his waist and pointed it at him, like the policemen on television.

            Your name is Robert!  Like Bob!  Bob Bob Bob Bobby Bob Bob Policeman Bobby Mr. Policeman Bob!  Stranger Danger Ranger Policeman Bob Bob Bob!  Hah!  She babbled on with his name while she examined the gun in her small, freshly-blooded hands, unlocked it, cocked it while he stood petrified, impaled to the rail by one bleeding hand, his other clutching the bong.

            She pointed the gun at his head and gave the trigger a playful squeeze.  Robert-Bob’s head recoiled, exploded outwards with fresh blood while she covered her ears from the bang.  Mr. Policeman Bob collapsed and slumped against the railing, his hand still impaled. 

            She looked at the gun with loathing and distaste. 

            No trade, she said and she tossed the smoking gun onto his lap.  She pried the bong from his fingers, ripped the knife from his hand.  Bob slid down to bleed on the bridge.  She stepped on his splattered head and mounted the railing again to resume her carefree journey.

            I’m sorry I took your eyesight Mr. Policeman Ranger Bob.

            She left him there and skipped on.  After all, there was still a lot to do in the rest of the night.

 

"She [Sarah Palin] said that small towns, that's the part of the country she really likes going to because that's the pro-America part of the country. You know, I just want to say to her, just very quickly: fuck you.”

 

Hey my school's in a small town.  And this town is probably as liberal as her pro-American towns are conservative.  ("Massachusetts, Vermont, Connecticut, Rhode Island, California, pfff")

If Bachmann is pro-American, I'm getting that Chinese passport ASAP.

Let the fucking witch-hunt begin.  Let's start with Palin.

Something gave me the sudden idea to rate my weekend.  Like with numbers. 

61 out of 100.

Yea it was that low, even though I finally got to go out on Thursday night.

Summary for fools:
-Corruption of youth and the Princess Bride (+.5)
-Notwork (bingo!)
-Hookah vs. Palestine/Israel  (*cackle*)
-Oranges (needley)
-Team Aznglo (YAYSO!)
-Heads or Tails (rehashed)
-Mornings (-42)
-Mornings are cold (seriously)
-Hit 100 plays of Pachuca Sunrise + Broken Glass ("AGAIN!  AGAIN!  I LOVE REPETITION!")
-DivOH Performance (thumbs up)
-DivOH in general (thumbs down.  like down)
-Laundry room reminiscence (:D)
-Peacelia and Mstr. Debater defeat world (no duh)
-Apples to Baked Apples (to more Baked things)
-8 hour rehearsals (deathhhh)
-Beginning of hell week (Great Depression)

Essentially my weekend was ruined by Sunday.  Again.  Figures.  It's as depressing as what Frank Rich has to say these days.  I haven't even called my parents yet, but I know if I had before midnight it would count as weekend and we'd be looking at closer to a 57.  Does that mean my week is ruined now?  Probably not: more days to average out the horribleness, except that hell week doesn't give many opportunities to come up for air, or at least not fresh air.  Cold air, definitely (see: HELL), but does cold make something fresh?  Beer commercials certainly make it seem that way.  But then again, only the shitty beers are advertised in ways relating to cold, ice, and iciness (seriously).

"Intelligence is a strange thing."  Lack thereof is another thing.  Maybe even stranger.  But it seems today that it's normal to be stupid, ignorant, and pro-American (but not patriotic).  Should be welcome back McCarthy or JFK?  Guinness and I suggested Che (what's his real name, hm, smarty?).  Is being stupid, ignorant, and pro-American really normal or just a trend?  Certainly being a plumber is now.  This can't be all there is to life.  Deus ex Machinas aside.

"If you don't respect yourself, don't expect respect from anyone else."

Ok ratings are pretty stupid I guess.  It's like at Zumbyes today: style defined as A, tone defined as B; we may as well define avant-garde post-metal as C.  Or C+.  You get the idea.  Force yourself to reminisce.  God, introspection can be such a drag.

Memo to self: Thank God for four things: Weed, Balls, Rainbow Sprinkles, and Atheism.

I spontaneously decided while studying amongst a pile of midterm-spawned Chinese notes, Diet Coke cans, and post-debate-punditry the line that sums up the contradiction that is America.

Nobody is perfect.

Think about it.  The purported great American ideal is the American Dream, the idea of making something out of nothing and reaching a higher ground of prosperity and getting served a course of happiness along with it and possibly a side order of materialistic spirituality.  In short, everyone wants to be perfect, but in America, this idea of self-deliverance and self-made success is as good as forced down our throats, obviously or not.  This is the perfect American world, a family of four, a lovely three and two house (and a lagoon-like pool), job security, 401K, etc.

And yet whenever someone falls on their ass, someone fucks up, someone just misses the mark, we are told those words: “Nobody is perfect.”  It’s a stupid, over-repeated line in this country.  And yet for all of its soppy self-justification, it is still 100% true.  Nothing is in order, nothing is perfect, nothing can become perfect.  And we seem to need to keep repeating this.

But never to ourselves.  Always to each other.

Talk ourselves down from stupid overreaching heights. 

The contradiction is this: we espouse, think of, and attempt to live this perfect-world-American-Dream and at the same time we most certainly like to pull “nobody is perfect” out of the bag.

Last question: What would you do if you attained perfection?

Two whales.  In Buffalo and Mustard.

Did we overestimate ourselves?

But even as we finish up the bits, there's something just left  enough for the scavengers to come calling, but not enough to hold them back one more trip to earth.  Vultures fishing for the leftovers, like the dregs, cleaners, Untouchables, bottom feeders, but there isn't even half an ambulance to chase.

Awkwarturtle.

In a perfect circle, without sound.  Imaginary snow angels on the stone.  And trance and broncos and dangerous activities.  And love stories, of course.

And cheesy endings, or advancements or wannabe interpretive dances. 

And way out yonder, and cooler friends.

Still awkwarbut not as much.

But now cool words filtering through steel and plastic with cool beats and cooler air.  Something singing, too, but hotter air.  Hot hot air.

Some like it hot.  But some like it slightly cooler, or maybe colder.  Then again some like it even warmer.  *insert suggestive sound*

What's a PZone?

It's apparently socialist.  A Communist revolution.  A lot of bubbles rising and popping, a nice fannie.  Marx, but the one that can speak properly.  Not a draft-dodger, not a Brooklyn/LA-dodger, but certainly not a Yale Grad.  Or Williams grad.

Prank-Call

My refrigerator is running.

God has type-2 diabetes.  The jury is still out on what were his dietary problems but reporters speculate it's a mix of In 'N Out burgers, Diet Cokes, and everything else in McDonalds.  We hope he recovers, and our prognoses are more than likely optimistic.

Bump it outside.  But we can't, not right now.  A bit of alliteration does the soul well. 

Don't say it.

And a giant spider somewhere in the third act.

And don't ask.  Cause we might have overestimated ourselves, but God apparently smokes cannabis, bongs like the rest of us, Bong Hits 4 Jesus man, forget Gonzo, bed time for Reagan's Bonzo. 

Latina beats--sorry, Latino beats.  A big cluster.  See the Old Testament's view of the Universe.  It's probably easier, more feasible, more lolable.

Sorry, 1337 > Ebonics.  I'm not a racist.  Seriously.

But I did try to pay for a parking meter on a Sunday morning.  Just awful.  Like a fucked up bailout.  

Tomaas thinks its time for the Marxist working-class revolution.  Overproduction.  Maybe of houses but not of oil or anything we're supposed to know about.  Like Looser Change.

Yes on Q2, No on QE2.

And then there as an infinite inkwell, fires igniting, minds reclining, stars defining.  Aisle Passenger Seats and easier piano parts.  With good vibrations and sparkle motion.

Did the Hugenots go extinct?

And a strong sense of evergreen.

Do they collide?

Not if we try.

Much, much harder.

No I haven't forgotten about you.

But I also forgot about my homework conveniently for a while and haven't left much time for you.

The Zumbyes own.

You're what you own.

I slept through my first class.

I've decided that I can never listen to the health freaks, frontloading campaigns against food ingredients that might be harmful and unnatural, aspartame, splenda, and everything else and their mom.  I've just about figured that if I listen to this stuff for too long and actually take it in, I'll end up as something of a raw food vegan.  And that just sounds depressing to my meat-infused mind.  And somehow, another health guy will realize that there isn't a single food item left in the world that is still perfectly safe for consumption because we've fucked it up so badly.  Welcome to today: you eat the shit you dump out.  Literally.

"A thousand years ago there won't be anymore men or women, just wankers.  Sounds great to me."

An obligatory Trainspotting quotation. 

Compare to Russell Peters:

"Do you realize in a hundred years there won't be anymore white people?  Everyone is going to be beige."

I get this whole feeling every night I spend squirming through and in a crowded, sweaty, alcohol-libido-fueled dance floor.  The world is mixing, shaken or stirred, throwing in three parts Asian, one part Hispanic, two parts African, half a part Caucasian, and a matching half a part wanker. 

I get it from socio-economic diversity.

And a bunch of other shit.

Get with the program.

A modified version of this piece is in a more recent post under "Prologue."

The emergence of Sarah Palin as the blood-red Vice Presidential candidate of the  Republican Party has uncovered quite possibly the most ridiculous hypocrisy I've ever heard poisoning the airwaves.  Jon Stewart hit a lot of the points, but to rehash them:

-This week: Rove defends Palin's experience as a mayor of one of the largest (9000 people NOWAI) towns in Alaska.  Palin is therefore not a political selection because she has...experience.  Last month: Rove bashes Tim Kaine's experience as mayor of Richmond, only the 104th largest city (200,000 people and the capital of a state) when it is suggested that Obama would select him.  He further says that it would only expose a clearly political decision because he has almost no experience.

-Palin Sexism vs. Hillary Clinton sexism ("retreats behind the apron strings")

-Teen Pregnancy.  This one riles me up.  The Right is trying to say that Palin's daughter's pregnancy should be a personal matter.  Two problems: a) if Palin was a Democrat, Dobson, Robertson, O'Reilly, and all the other fucks in the talkingheads world would be all over her, b) IF YOU RUN ON A FUCKING PLATFORM OF FUCKING "FAMILY VALUES," EXPECT TO HAVE YOUR FUCKING "FAMILY VALUES" BE PUT TO THE SAME SCRUTINY YOU ATTEMPT TO LEVY UPON THE PEOPLE YOU WISH TO SUBJUGATE.

If you believe that your family values, your teen pregnancies, your personal matters should not be matters of the state, DO NOT make such personal matters a platform to run for matters of the state.

No Abortion even in cases of rape?  My god how misguided, cruel, and inhumane can you fucking be?

Rant off for now.

My dorm is officially sexy.  It has 2 green fuzzy chairs.

Wikipedia game is hard.  Gerty says it is.

I bought a pack of warheads yesterday and I think that I am doing my tongue and hard palette no favors by binging on them.  Like candy.  Oh dang.  Eyeohkneeduh can't take the sourness.  Wait, they're sour?  Guinness doubles over and dies.  Note to self, feed him a carbomb.  Or better yet, see what happens to Eyeoh.  Oh the fireworks that would fly.

Aren't I funny/sad/dreaming/dead sitting here blogging about how to feed carbombs to people?

Love is in the air.

But now it's a ramen filled balloon. 

To put it simply, I was an idiot for a very good reason.  Highgurl, Peacelia, Dreads, Tomaas, Shwan, and I played a circular game with Diet Coke and Ginger Ale then played another circular game with the option of passing.  Then we went FOOTing.  And musicing.  And more. 

Lead-filled.  It would sink (in a normal world). 

Would a ramen-filled balloon sink?

Probably a good question for the second circular game, but I don't have the ramen to spare for such an endeavor.  Nor do I have a balloon.  World: 2, JaKooza: 0, JaKooza's head: -42.

Classes start tomorrow and I don't know half of the classes I'm actually in (legit for 2 weeks) and I don't have a single book (legit for..... Try Again Later) and my seminar class requires 8 books.  I think my head will be a page-filled balloon in a few weeks, so packed full that when held up to the sun, jumbled, unintelligible words will be almost readable through the yellow rubber.  Coming from an English class that read half a book last year, I think I'm in for something of a rude awakening. 

Yea, I don't like reading all that much.  It's fun.  Yea.  But I like other things.  No seriously.

Highgurl and I had some of the most low-key auditions ever today as well.  How often in a 20-minute audition sesh do you spend more time talking about half-unrelated matters than actually playing the $6000 sword and board in your hands?  At least I didn't have to sing from Kiss Me Kate.  At least her voice is pretty.

Dr. Scissors, we own High and Dry.  Even if my falsetto is up balls to the wall.

And they ran out of rainbow sprinkles at dinner tonight.  The world in our small table was distraught and wavering.  Nothing like missing a vital ingredient on the eve of very intelligible action.

And I've been procrastinating sleep but I do have class in the morning.  Epuk fale.

EPUK FALE!
 

Eyeohkneeduh is the coolest person ever.

Guinness is even cooler.

Apparently Jean (or Jeh-UHHHHH)  is now the coolest.

Oh wait, Eyeohkneeduh is pretty cool too.

And everyone is upset that Jeh-UHHHH is winning.

And we're listening to shit for music.

Not anymore, cause I flipped on my own stuff, which takes shotgun even from Jeh-UHHHH.

"What about that supersonic culo that could tear words right out of niggers' mouths pull windows from out their motherfucking frames?"

Dude you're cool.  Seriously.

The new facebook is fugly.

I have five classes I'm taking and three of them have some kind of frat-style initiation.  Chinese has me taking the fucking final exam for that class (not t he one before mind you), Orchestra has an audition (this is legit), ficiton writing has me send in a 7 page writing sample, which was admittedly fun to compile, cause diving through piles of shit writing is always entertaining. 

No, I haven't reread everything I've put up on this blog.  Cause THAT is an effort of futility. 

SARAH PALIN AHAHAHAHAHAH!  THANK YOU JOHNNY (GOT YOUR GUN) MCCAIN!  MCBUSH-QUAYLIN '08!  Way to completely undermine your experience argument by continuing to play the role of ultimate pandering git.  If he was trying to steal Hillary Clinton voters, he doesn't do it with an inexperienced, younger-than-Obama, former beauty pageant queen, unknown, pro-lifer.  The fact that Palin posesses XX isn't just what Clinton supporters were upset about; the XY with less experience cutting in front of the experienced XX at the buffet line. 

Foreignpolicyexperiencelol.

I do get the feeling more than once in a while that I have to many groups of friends I like to hang out with.  I say that in the loosest sense of the word of both groups and friends.  I can't exactly call myself butt buddies with anyone yet, but best two of three isn't bad.

I think.

Or does winner take all.

'"We cannot walk alone," the preacher cried. "And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back."

America, we cannot turn back.'

No shit the first part of my blog is about our future president of the US of A.  What else am I going to talk about?  What else is any idiot gonna talk about tonight, provided they have some sort of desire to be associated with the happenings of the world beyond the Facebook, the Starbucks, the Britneys.

"Yeah, but you are aware there is an invention called television and on this invention they show shows, RIGHT?"

I don't think I really need to say much.  Everyone and their mom will (or at least SHOULD) be talking about something as monumental and important as this.  No sarcasm. 

Why do I feel like proprietor of illegality?  Like very often?

So apparently the US loses $42 billion a year prohibiting the use of cannabis.  Just think.... they could probably make $42 billion a year from taxing the shit out of it.  30 million pounds of ganja a year.

And the Bush  administration suggested that it costs $100/gram.  Silly Georgie, can't remember those days back in Yale?

yes yes, longer.   Fuck world and the internet. 

Yet not really. 

I know it's not 8/27 anymore.  I had to remind myself that it was still 8/27 at 2:58 AM EST on 8/28 back home to assuage my guilty conscience for not sending my dad a happy birthday email.  Who cares, I'm still posting it in between the long periods of unconscious time that most people refer to as sleep.

Idiot.

I reminisce about all of the little stupid things that I and all the rest of the wankers in the world do to assuage guilt.  I'm thinking along the lines of low-effort exercise, Diet Coke, one habit for another, Fox News.  Not absolution.

Absolution is devoid of true personal responsibility.  Admitting guilt/sin/whatever-the-fuck-you-want-to-call-it to yourself and a guy in a cape who won't say anything but might touch you (hatemail incoming) is not the same as doing it to a person you have wronged.  When you wrong someone, the person you must address is that person, not the man in the cape or the supposed guy above.  Forgiveness is important, less from a god you don't know exists, more from the man or woman across from you.  What if you fuck up their life and realize in death if there really isn't a god that you've left it with them?

Penn has it right.

In other news, I've been not-chill for 6 days.  Long time.  And yet there's a moment of euphoric clarity now 33 hours, 24 minutes, 18 seconds ago.  A friend suggests that I'm high when not actually high.  I laughed.  Seriously.

And now, I sleep and make a promise I won't remember to keep about blogging more tomorrow.  I suck.

[15:58] Prahphecee: yep you be east coast now
[15:58] Prahphecee: its fucking ALL WOODS!
[15:58] LordofOran: I KNOW SO MANY TREES
[15:58] LordofOran: OMFG
[15:58] Prahphecee: and not like Cali ones
[15:58] Prahphecee: thin waferry lookin ones
[15:58] LordofOran: yep
[15:58] Prahphecee: like if these trees were people the would be vegetarians
[16:01] LordofOran: big ass maples and evergreens and oaks with lovely foliage glimmering in highlighted outlines echoing a high-arced late summer sun

This realy agrees with me.  I'm seated in a wooden deckchair in the middle of the central quad of the Amherst College campus.  I'm facing South.  And North.  You wouldn't get that unless you went here.  I was formerly trying to count trees, something that was easy in a desolace as Southern California where a few trees an acre was a fucking forest in suburbia.  If I've really gained one appreciation of this country through the trees is how big it is, how coast to coast, sea to shining sea brings you through endless expanses of amber waves of desert sand and spacious splashes of greenery, out of a suburban frying pan, over purple mountains into fruited planes.  It's something unappreciable, not even staring out the portholes of a metal cigar of an airplane (soon to be plastic).


* * *

The grass is nipping at my feet.  The sun is slowly dropping, dripping its dying sunlight over the shingles of the South dorm to filter in between the branches and leaves and space.  The bugs supposedly come out around now and I can already see them bathing in the sun, little motes of dust fluttering in an aimless wind.  I think I'm thinking about the leaves again.  I'm probably thinking about sex, drugs, or music.

How long should it really take for me to realize that my chronic laziness couldn't screw in a lightbulb?

I know for sure I'm thinking about leaves now, imagining the hordes of green glowing orange, red, brown against the sunlight.  In a couple months, I will see it.  I know that.  I'm probably thinking about sex, drugs, music. 

Now orange, red, brown.

I imagine the withering, the frailty, the fall of falling, legions of orange, red, brown forming autumn medleys upon the grass.  Something flickers before me in the drunken sunlight, an image through a screen of still-green, still-living foliage, a possible memory, a possible projecting of imagination.  It seems too real to be both, seems more like the dreams I used to have, the long-lost experiences of gripping surrealism in adrenaline-filled nights, colors flashing like white elephants, memories flowing like streams of passion, men and women falling like leaves. 

He is running into an autumn afternoon, surrounded by sheets of dead leaves, orange, red, brown.  He clutches a dark green rake that is too big for him.  He jumps the last two steps from a house up a short hill and stops before lowering the rake to the ground.  It looks too heavy for him as he drags it with both hands through a sidewalk of leaves.  He rakes for long, failling in every sense to make more than an organized mess.  The pile is almost exactly as high as him though, a Procrustean bed of orange, red, brown. 

There are no sounds, just images, just colors, just flashes of something that might have been.  I can't remember.  The orange, red, brown is scrambled in my mind like a kaleidoscope before I can see the rest.  The sun has drifted downstage right in the sky, ending the projection forever.  Except..

Except that the last flash, the last shot of a leaf-projected image is still there, if not suspended in a green canopy then framed in its every detail within my mind.  He's still lying in the orange, red, brown even as it disappears from the green in the sky.  The tree branches hold it aloft, just below the bell tower but just above my blue flip-flop-decked right foot.  Its every last splendor is far more than brick buildings, asphalt roads, leaves of grass, leaves of trees mixed together into an impossibility, a dream, can hold, than a memory could ever hold.

I glance at the clock.

5:55:55 PM.

Too perfect.

Freeze this moment, this split second and immortalize it for me.  Send it home in a small heart-shaped music box with an extra row of green stamps so that when I open it once again, I do so to the tinking melody of the music box that will play as this Massachusetts postcard is viewed once more by a marred man, a simple F-sharp, G-sharp, C-sharp, A-sharp to end the last of an imaginary sadness, to remind me that there shouldn't be a reason to be afraid of the past, that eternity can hold more than grass, leaves, laziness, flip-flops, sex, drugs, music, orange, red, brown, inevitability.

How long am I allowed to dream?

Not much longer.  By 5:56, the phone rings and it's time for something else, anything else.

There is such a thing as love.

Not Lazy.  Never lazy.



Fine you win.

This is the first blog entry (of hopefully many) that I am writing from the lovely grounds of Amherst.

Part 1: It's so green.  Really fucking green.  Of a two hour plane ride to Hartford, (not counting the atrocious-mountainous-desert-ridden-deprivation-induced-drowsy-fucking-agony that was 4:30 AM wake-up to a three and a half hour leg to pressure-cooker-Chicago) I spent an hour of it gazing out of six inch plastic into well-rounded hills rolling with more trees in a square mile than exist in the county of San Diego (don't tell me those so-called forests have real trees.... dried up tinder =/= trees).  It's so pretty.  Really fucking pretty.  And green.  If it weren't green I probably wouldn't love it as much.   Humidy, mosquitoy.  Not Cali.  But anyone who compares weather in any part of the world to SoCal is beyond racist.

Part 2: NO MORE OF YOU-KNOW-WHAT.   I fucking quit.  Yea, Roy, Bambi, Sketch, "I FUCKING QUIT."  Cancelled, deleted, out of my system.  At least til I hit withdrawal, like Roy.  Who knows though, I'm doing great right now.  Maybe people is my fix.  It really does feel like I've shut a really awful chapter in my life, the one that nobody talks about/is ashamed to admit.  Apparently admitting addiction and being able to talk about it is the first step on the way to recovery.  I'm not a psychologist but two out of three isn't too bad.  Maybe people is my fix.

Part 3: People is my fix.  Not are, is. 

Part 4: Roomie is awesome.  'Nuff said.

Part 5: Part 3 with more commentary.  Watch from 25 mm as I play social butterfly to the degree that I actually meet people before getting pigeonholed for eternity.  It's not nearly as hard with Part 4 in my life, turning our room within a day into the Party Room of Stearns Floor 2.  Who doesn't love a mildly-well-organized two-room single lined with posters of awesomeness supported by backing tunes from the sexiest stereo setup (until we find a sexier one).  Ice cream.  Shitty music.  1+1.5 hours of sleep.  Pretty good but oversimplified food. 

Sophistication makes part 3 better.  And part 5.  Right?

Part 6: The Rumpus Room has returned in New English form.  I love you Claire Broad.

Four halves are better than two. 

"Two holes are better than one."

Name that quote.

10 points.

It is the eve of battle.  In five hours I will be leaving home.  I'm supposed to sleep because my flight is at 6 AM, but anyone with expectant jitters knows that a) pushing your normal sleep time back four hours in one night is impossible without help and b) the jitters would fuck you at 4 AM anyways.  Oh well.  I don't think I'm supposed to sleep on the plane either, because I get in sometime in the late afternoon.  I hate flying West to East.  I hate wasting away time that I don't get to choose to waste away.

With this new leaf in the story of my life (lol <3 cliches), I'm making a new commitment to update this fucker daily.  I'm breaking my vow of laziness pertaining to this blog.  $5 says I'm down to every other day by the time I turn 18.

In cleaning through all of my old shit, I dug up something from early junior year, written in reaction to one of the stupidest things I've ever done.  You might be able to tell what it's about, who it's about, and everything in between if you're that crazy, but unless you know the Event, you'll end up playing Go Fish for a while.

            It’s never really certain how someone will react to what you say.  You spend years with people and you still don’t know what will happen.  Someone once told me that if you’re not sure, when the words come out of your mouth, they fall to the ground like a coin flipping through the air, not sure which way it’ll land, 50-50.  The doctor told me that no one really knows how to react to death, whether it’s their own or that of others.

            It’s probably true.

            Suppose I just wanted to see which way the coin fell.  We held hands and tossed it up and waited for it to fall.  No one called the side.  Just tossed it and let it fall.  Not sure what I was thinking then, maybe there’d be a “middle” instead of a “head” or a “tail.”  But there wasn’t, it was just “heads they win, tails I lose.” 

            So it did come as a shock when I saw “dude, you crossed the line” on the computer screen.  I don’t think it mattered which side it landed on, but it sure wasn’t “middle.”  The phone calls that followed didn’t make much sense, I still didn’t think that both heads and tails were a losing side.  I understood that I had lost the flip, but I didn’t know what that meant.  I figured that there might be a bit of “what the hell” as an immediate response, but when He called, Caesar was right.  Alea Iacta Est, he said.  The Die is Cast.  I don’t take Latin, but whatever “The Coin is Flipped” is translated, it probably just means the same thing.  Once you’ve tossed the dice, thrown the coin, crossed the Rubicon, or invaded Iraq it eventually means the same thing.  There’s no turning back from it because it’ll always be there. 

            I didn’t quite put the puzzle together then, though.  To me it had started like a 50 piece puzzle, but each day made it bigger and bigger and bigger until it was a Herculean task to realize what went where. 

            If I could pick a most important lesson that I learned out of the throng, it wouldn’t be “Don’t joke about death.”  It probably wouldn’t be “respect other peoples’ reactions” either.  I’m not sure why either of those lessons doesn’t stand out in headlines to me, lessons learned though they are.  It might be “things that started personal should stay personal,” but I think all of the aforementioned reasons have exceptions.  However, whether this sounds weird or quirky, right or wrong, I think this is the biggest thing I learned:

            It is morally wrong to fish for Schadenfreude.

When I was on the way to work today, I spun Black Holes and Revelations by Muse on my pretty pretty iPod.  When I got to City of Delusion, my favorite song on the album, I gazed at the album art player and did what any other pseudo-pretentious sap would, try to figure out what the hell the album/song was about.

My conclusion?  The song City of Delusion is the keystone of Black Holes and Revelations.

 
    On the cover art of Black Holes and Revelations we see four men sitting around a table doing something, probably playing poker, which fits accordingly with Muse’s fondness of the game and also with the theme of pre-apocalyptic waiting.
    Starting with the man farthest on the left and going counter-clockwise, we see that each man is representative of something in today’s society.  The first man farthest to the left wears a suit splattered with all kinds of different religious imagery.  This man represents the power of directed Religion in modern society.  The ignorance of religion is suggested by the fact that his man wears blinders on the sides of his head (like race horses).
    The next man wears a suit bedecked with eyes.  This man represents Government and the power of those who control our lives.  The eyes would be Muse’s common reference to the growing government invasion into our private lives for causes such as fighting terrorism (though such themes are found in songs like Citizen Erased, which more references 1984).  A key feature to note is that we are not permitted to see his face, a nod to closed government and all of its hidden actions and specifically, since this is coming from Matt Bellamy, conspiracy theories.
    The man farthest on the right wears a gold suit.  He is also fat.  This man represents Wealth and its imbalance towards the rich and its prevalence in modern society.  Greed and corruption are also emphasized based on how the various men are looking at each other.  Religion is staring at Wealth across the table, with the blinders shielding out the men on either side (Government and Revelations), suggesting a link between religion and greed, such as those from the Medieval Catholic church, or perhaps Religion is asking for support from Wealth to fund it modern crusades and inquisitions (also perhaps reference to the war in Iraq as well).  Wealth, however, is looking towards Government and away from religion.  Since we don’t know which one Government is looking at, this suggests that Wealth is looking for cues from Government, explaining an inexorable link between money and those who run the government today (corruption scandals and maybe more about Iraq).
    The man farthest away that sits across from Government is Revelation.  Keeping in theme with the title of the album, this man’s suit is covered with what appear to be mirrors, but could also be solar panels.  If these are mirrors, they fit perfectly with Revelation and an inner search for it, forcing all three men, if they look at him for cues, to look in upon themselves.  If they are solar panels, they represent the impending energy crisis and Muse’s fascination with the concept of peak oil, and the fact that Revelation is staring at Government is something of a challenge, Revelation challenging Government to fix something before the Apocalypse (but we know it’s too late because the Horses are already in view).
    It is suggested that these men also represent in a larger scheme, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.  In reviewing the Four Horsemen of Revelation, it is interesting to note that only one is named in the Bible, the Horsemen of Death.  The others, War, Pestilence, and Conquest are not named.  Note that there are only three horses on the table and they are situated on the table in between Government and Wealth.  This indicates a suggestion that a tie between Government and Wealth has brought about the first three Horsemen and the last, the death of humanity, Armageddon, or perhaps the Apocalypse, is yet to come, perhaps because of it.
    So how does this tie into the song City of Delusion?

 

The Lyrics of City of Delusion:

 

Stay away from me
Build a fortress and shield your beliefs
Touch the divine
As we fall in line

Can I believe
When I dont trust
All your theories turn to dust
I choose to hide
From the All Seeing Eye

Destroy this city of delusion
Break these walls down
I will fight
And justify my reasons
With your blood

You will not rest
Or settle for less
Untill you guzzle and squander whats left
Do not deny
That you live and let die

Destroy this city of delusion
Break these walls down
I will fight
And justify my reasons
With your blood

          
    The song is a back and forth dialogue between Government and Revelation with the other two players contributing a few lines here and there.
    “Stay away from me,” is a line sung by Government.  He says these words to all of them, trying to keep government out of public scrutiny.  “Build a fortress and shield your beliefs.”  He perhaps says this to Religion, which keeps in with the power of American organized religion, a veritable “fortress” today.  “Touch the divine as we fall in line,” is said to himself.  It’s something of a reference to what ordinary people are doing, trying to touch the divine through religion, but what they really are doing is falling in line, into a mold sponsored by the Government.
    The next stanza is spoken by Religion.  He says, “Can I believe when I don’t trust,” suggesting that Religion only trusts in one thing and thus belief is completely grounded in trust in one thing, God.  “All your theories turn to dust” is a more general line.  From Religion’s viewpoint, it’s the blinded-narrow-minded view that all theories that do not directly support religion are false and are nothing more than ashes and dust.  From the standpoint of the average Joe, this is about the conspiracy theories concerning the government.  However, the enlightened average Joe does not believe in what the government does because he does not trust it, but all others see the conspiracies collapse into dust.  All people, though, “choose to hide from the all-seeing eye,” in the attempt to preserve their privacy.
    Revelation sings the first part of the chorus “Destroy this city of delusion, break these walls down.”  He is urging those who really seek Revelation to destroy first the city of delusion and lies that surround government.  He provides the mirrors for those who seek him to look in upon themselves and thus look through all the delusions they have concerning the government.  Religion sings the rest of the chorus “I will fight and justify my reasons with your blood.”  This is a stab at radical religion’s use of violence to achieve what may be viewed as political means (Government could be looking at Religion on the album cover to see what he will do).
    The third verse is sung solely by Revelation and he is singing it to all of them.  “You’ll not rest, settle for less, until you guzzle and squander what’s left.”  He is attacking them on the basis that they are prepared to simply continue their activities and destroy what’s left of the world in the process.  For Religion and Government this involves war and violence and for Wealth it’s the unconscionable destruction of the environment and such for the sole purpose of furthering wealth.  “Do not deny,” he says sharply to all of them.  “That you live and let die.” 
    City of Delusion is the core of Black Holes and Revelations and it matches up perfectly with the artwork.  So what are the Black Holes and Revelations?  Revelation has been explained, but the various corrupt, life-sucking Governments in the world must therefore be the Black Holes.  Expansionist governments grow outwards, sucking all into them and growing larger and larger.  Thus the Black Holes are the Government and they are a direct challenge to Revelations.  This is all aided then by part of the chorus of Starlight:

 
“Our hopes and expectations / Black Holes and Revelations.”

 
   This is almost certainly a suggestion that humanity puts far too much hope and expectation into faith and government.

Overreaching?  Possibly.  But I would not put it past the genius of Matt Bellamy to craft something like this.

So.  It's been a while.  And this isn't gonna be a long post either.  I'm lazy.

Updates on me, essentially.  The Con was the Con and awesome as the Con always is.  More Kevin Smith please.  Seth Rogen and Laura Bush. 

Lately I've been getting back in touch with all of these people that I somehow lost contact with over the years, like dropped calls.  Everyone does the same small-talk question opener.  It's either "How have you been?" or "What have you been up to?" or some other polite, unintimate, somewhat distant time-icebreaker.  I've also lately been giving the same response to everyone; my response generally entails talking about how I pretend to work for $9.50/hr, chill, and sit on my ass 24/7 with small breaks to come up for air and banter with people I call friends, reminiscing on times past at the TBS hell of the past 6 (minus 1) years. 

The people who haven't seen me in a year/haven't checked my facebook page (shame on them) usually ask where I'm going to college, assuming they remember that I graduated this year.  I tell most of them who didn't also just do the whole college bullshit that I'm going to Amherst and most of them then respond with "where is that?"  Liberal arts must not be popular these days.  Or not. 

I find it ironic that instead of going back to burn in the TBS furnace, I'm going to freeze in the land of Sour Diesel and chilliness.

Lately I've been realizing that as I small talk with others for shits and giggles that I really don't know how to talk to people anymore, assuming I ever did.  You can only rehash the polite, unintimate, somewhat distant small-talk questions so many times before you have to drop something else (not F-bombs).  But what are my interests?  Play to my strengths?  Who the fuck do I talk to about DNA transfection, World of Warcraft, Cannabis, music nobody's heard of, and violin?  I'm an anti-social, I guess.  I think I was on a roll earlier in the year, but either labels just stick really well within the TBS community or I'm really that bad.

Is it bad?

Not sure.  Check again later.

Lately, I've been late.  To just about everything.  Laziness seems to be losing its "pays off now" appeal, especially when you show up late to work.  That doesn't pay off now; it means you technically are losing money because it's time you're not getting paid for.  So there, I just disproved the popular mantra of "laziness pays off now."  Sorry fellow slackers.  I've gone to the dark side.

Not really.  And I'm done blogging for the night. 

Because I'm lazy.

It's technically old news, but working in a lab for Alzheimer's Disease, studying amyloid beta and dendrites and all that stuff....behold.... the ultimate mix of work and pleasure:

http://www.scripps.edu/news/press/080906.html

The Brief Paper: http://pubs.acs.org/cgi-bin/sample.cgi/mpohbp/2006/3/i06/pdf/mp060066m.pdf