Vet isn't a Very Good Word of the Day: I Only Get to Do This Particular Thing Every Four Years, Per Se

Hot Topic was never underground, people. For one thing, look at the name: Hot Topic. Seriously, think about that name and the connotations it carries, right now. Hot Topic, i.e. a topic that is "hot," which is to say, something which is a popular trend in social circles; in other words, Hot Topic equals Current Fad. Secondly, it was always a mall outlet, and, frankly, there is nothing, and I mean nothing, indie (e.g. independently established) about a MALL OUTLET. Thank you.

South Park was never clever, nor was it original. It was controversial and a shock to the general, decent public; mostly, because it was an indecent and filthy piece of tripe. Also, it has done nothing but set the standards for American animation back by a decade, only allowing the Japanese to further evolve their animation style past that of our's. Which leads me to my next miniature rant . . .

Anime is not the epitome of animation, people. For one, to clarify, anime is, by definition: Japanese. Nothing American is anime, period. Look, I am highly fond of anime, but I do not believe it is the apex of animation. It is, simply put, more developed and fleshed out than any other country's animation; decades ago, the Japanese realised the handiness of having no actors to deal with, so they took animation seriously. Decades ago, America realised Casey Casum had a funny voice. Right, yeah, so Japan has a lot of things set up better and done right in animation; what does this not mean, though, folks? It doesn't mean the answer is to lift cultural references and inside jokes out of anime and stick it in American animation. The stylisation of anime is nothing better than anyone else's, it just happens to be thier's. Get over face faults, sweat drops, pastel motifs (i.e. multicoloured hair), and action lines. It works for Japan, it doesn't work for us.

Even when "emo" music was underground, it was still shitty, people. I would know, I was there, when bands started dredging out these musical numbers about how hard it was to get laid and how they couldn't get a girlfriend. In a way, it was a relief to hear bands not try their damnedest to sound like cockney, low-class English vocals, but God damn it, why replace it with trying to sound as white and whiney as possible? The answer is not to spend two minutes crying on microphone while being backed up by instrumentals that make the pop-punkers look talented. Unlike a lot of movements in modern music, being taken to a somewhat mainstream and commercial level has not changed emo, that much -- It still sucks.

Mad TV is "SNL without the class," to quote my friend. And, I would add, without the talent -- Oh boy, a cast of mediocre, at best, white males, a clinically-insane, emaciated white woman, and a black woman or two? Huzzah! Strap me in for hours of watching pleasure, oh yeah! Mad magazine peaked something like a decade and a half ago, and since then, it's lifeline has been dipping -- The show doesn't help out.

Comedy in America died, years ago. It really has: just look around and think about it. What are the shining examples of comedy this decade? It's sad to say that the funniest man in Hollywood, today, is Jackie Chan. I should specify that I'm referring to the big screen cinema, not television. Comedy isn't dead while Becker and The Daily Show with Jon Stewart persists. The answer here is that Mel Brooks needs to direct a new movie, because he's not dead. And, you know, I've been delivering this rant for about a week, now, on and off, always saying that Gene Wilder is, unfortunately, dead; however, upon inspection of his biography, he's, uh, quite alive, apparently. He just hasn't been in anything decent since See No Evil, Hear No Evil, which was over ten years ago. What happened, here? Why is Mel Brooks not making comedies, and Gene Wilder starring in bit parts on random, unheardof television shows? See, more proof that comedy in America has been a dying animal for awhile . . . So, I should check IMdb more often, because I did not know Brooks was producing a remake of The Producers. Ew, that doesn't make me feel good on the inside, why try and redo something that was done so well, the first time around? Matthew Broderick replacing Gene Wilder? Nathan Lane replacing the infamous Zero? Fuck that, Jack . . . I never did like the fact that they took it to Broadway, to start with, but now remaking the movie with Nathan Lane's fat, worthless ass in it? Nicole Kidman does nothing to redeem this endeavour, as amazingly (and creepily) hot I may or may not think she is.

Oh, yeah. So, what I think needs to be done about Comedy in America: Mel Brooks needs to direct a new movie, casting the lead role to Robin Williams. Yes, imagine that, would you? Somewhere in there, Gene Wilder would have to make a comeo appearance. It'd be great, great I tell you.

When my friend and I take over the world, what we have decided to do is place Lewis Black as President of the United States of America. I could see it now, he'd break into national broadcasting to deliver one of those Presidential-type addresses: "And, now, ladies and gentleman, the President of the United States of America, Mr. Lewis Black." He'd sit there for something like twenty or thirty minutes, just gesturing wildly in the air, exasperated and bewildered by the state of the country. Visualise Lewis Black, if you can, waving his two, uplifted middle fingers about the screen, with the backdrop of the Oval Office, just sputtering and attempting to form coherent statements, but failing due to the immense migraine he's experiencing because he'd actually put thought into the Presidency. Once, he'd come on, and midway through, he'd die of an anuerism -- Moments beforehand, he'd spit out, "If it WEREN'T for my HORSE, I wouldn't have SPENT that YEAR in COLLEGE?!?!!!"

Somewhere in there, the cast of the Daily Show would be involved: Jon Stewart as Vice President, Steven Colbert as Secretary of State, Ed Helms as Secretary of Defense, Samantha What's-Her-Face as Attorney General. Fun stuff, what have you.

Bush MUST lose.

Uh . . . I'm done.

Adios.

Flibbertigibbet is Just a Funny Word

Bush is pushing a constitutional amendment that will define marriage as a union between a man and a woman.
Bush has, also, stated that this will not prevent the “civil union” of a same-sex couple, Vermont-style.
So, in other words, there will be no marriage, i.e. religious ceremonial-type thing, but there can be civil unification, i.e. governmental paperwork-type thing.
Really, what this amendment would do is disallow any priest who may be so willing to perform matrimonial rites upon a homosexual couple from choosing to do so (and you know there are Universalists out there who would, considering the ease of ordainment).
But, if they want the convenient status of being married (it’s not a cheaper legal state of being, by no means – it’s just easier, in the long run), they just trot to City Hall and do the Justice of the Peace dance.
This would be a Constitutional amendment made solely to regulate a religious practice.
I could rant a long time about this.
I could. But, do I need to?
Let me just say this much:
Every vote for Bush in 2004 is a vote for the brutal mutiliation of very furry, innocent, helpless, blind, newborn puppies.
Think about that.
Adios.

The End of the Age of No Titles (Maybe), or Untitled

I never much cared for my past, mostly when it was the present. I see a lot of people, they look back fondly on their past, full of nostalgia and other such bubbly emotions. People wish they were there.
When the past was the present, and I was who I was when it was back then, I always looked forward to the future. It was to be the golden times, the promised land of sorts. That helped me get through my days, way back when.
So, I’m turning twenty-one soon enough – less than a month’s time. I’m kind of disappointed in my once-future. I expected more from me. It’s like I hit eighteen and started coasting, almost. I shouldn’t coast, anymore. I’m just spinning proverbial wheels.
Not that twenty-one is the end of the future, but I feel like it should be somehow monumental, a crux point. Maybe I haven’t been coasting: instead developing in ways I hadn’t been before, while putting the other ways on hold. That’s probably the truth, but it seems impalpable, so harder to swallow.
I’m writing a long review of A Big Fish, so that’ll be up soon. Also, I think I may indulge in ranting about Donnie Darko. Rambling is fun, but it may be time to shift gears, again.
I like to write, but I don’t always like to write how I write, so I change how I write until it becomes dull, again. I don’t write anything much longer than short stories for good reason.
Stating an intent is counterproductive, typically.
Adios.

And Now is the Part Where I Do Not Title This, or Untitled

I have music in my head, quite a lot of the time -- Quite constantly, in fact. Such as, right now, I have Mad World in my head, mainly due to the movie, Donnie Darko. All around me are familiar faces / Worn-out places, worn-out faces . . .
Sometimes, I contemplate the idea that I am either too easily distracted, or overly obsessive. I hear music, and I subconscious count the beats, even map the notes out on an imaginary staff. I played violin in middle school, by the way. I only stopped because in 8th grade, the orchestra teacher was an utter prick and destroyed my enjoyment of playing. Fuck you, Mr. Birdsong. Or was it Birdcage? Bird-something, whoever -- Just, fuck you.
Maybe I'm autistic, but I doubt it; or, perhaps, obsessively compulsive. I straighten things out, a lot: it clears my mind, calms my nerves. That's just keeping my hands occupied, I think. My thoughts are rather disjounted, when unfocused -- Schizophrenic? Whose mind isn't sporadic and fuzzy when left to its own devices, though? Everyone else's, perhaps . . . Psychology is a crock, though. Applied philosophy with little scientific backing, that's what I think.
And I find it kind of funny / Find it kind of sad / The dreams in which I'm dying / Are the best I ever had
Things aren't as clear as they used to be. Time has obfucated my life. I used to know where I wanted to go. I still do. I used to finish what I started. I finish plenty of things. There's been a lot of conversation about dating, lately. Something I have zero experience at doing, but I still stand by a lot of my opinions regarding it.
I never did finish that essay/blog on my career choices. I should. You never finished half the essays you started and left half-done. It's true.
Mad World / Mad, mad world
Adios.

Birdwell? Was it Birdwell? I think it might have been, that sounds right, kind of, sort of . . . Or not. I don't know.

Part Three of the Times in which Titles are Unneeded, or Untitled

I’ve never been all that especially fond of love stories, or romances. Not because I’m a deep-rooted and embittered cynical bastard who sneers at hope, love, and kittens (which I am, mind you), but because it’s not these themes that are something that these forms of art tend to explore and expound upon, elaborate the intricacies of or make any the better for the time. Kittens are so passé. You see, the way I see it, is that love is just what it is – love – and these stories, tales, plays don’t change anything about it. Also, they don’t reveal anything startling about it. For example: oh my freaking God above, love is a confusing, convoluted, emotional, tumultuous, strenuous, chaotic, lucid, maddening, frustrating, euphoric, pleasing, uplifting, and twisted sort of thing. This is truly an unexplored concept, never seen before in the annals of history, literature, theatre, and art.
I will concede that love-based dramas are entertaining. But, my problem with them is that they can’t be anything more than that. It’s certainly not a message which is vital to the world that must be promoted; love has never stopped being around. Because, you know, we’re here. There is no age of the past wherein love vanished, dried up, and was forgotten – no, there really wasn’t, don’t give me any lip about this statement. Love is what love is, and love is still where love has always been.
So, in other words, love is unchangeable, unbendable, and unending. Stories can be meant to be mere, trifling fun, frolicking about in the fields of lilacs and butterflies, but maybe the only thing I am trying to say with this is that these types of stories aren’t to my taste. Love isn’t profound. Love isn’t deep. Love isn’t thought-provoking. It is touching, it is heart-warming, and it is amusing, at times, and horrifying, at others. Love is emotion, not thought; as such, I don’t like spending time dwelling on it.
Think of it this way: dwelling on other emotions is pretty much universally accepted by the school of psychology as unhealthy. If you dwell on anger, you’ve got rage issues. If you dwell on despair, you’re depressed. If you dwell on death, you’re unsoundly morbid. If you dwell on destruction, you’re a psychopath (Somehow, the Endless has become synonymous with emotions, for a moment). If you dwell on hatred, you’re too bitter. On the flip-side, if you dwell on happiness, you’re overly idealistic. If you dwell on pleasure, you’re hedonistic. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera; so, it only follows that if you dwell on love, a certain quality of your mental well-being is somewhat askew. Do take notice as to how the results of being obsessed with the more positive emotions are states of being that are much more socially acceptable, but nonetheless flawed and faulty.
In conclusion: kittens.
Adios.

It is Still Not the Time for Titles, or Untitled

It’s odd, you know: in the essence of the universe, the world, and life, there is chaos, and there is order. One can not possibly operate without the other, nor are either separate forces from each other – always intermingling and intertwining, back and forth, through and through. Not one without the other, ever.
Within the reach of human capacity, there are two avatars of each side: mathematics serves to symbolize order, and love to represent chaos. Mathematics is a universal science and, some say, language, a la Close Encounters of the Third Kind (Spielberg’s excuse to incorporate aliens into a musical). It isn’t so much an avatar or abstraction of order, either; moreso, it is an extension of it, a part of it. There are mathematical theorems in regards to chaos . . .
Love is the same way, I suppose – it is not representative of anything, so much as it simply is something – a part of chaos. Love follows some orderly manners, though. It’s strange, and interesting (at least, to me, but who listens to me).
Valentine’s Day is approaching, you know. I’ve never liked Valentine’s Day: not at all.
Adios.

Today is Not the Day for Titles, or Untitled

You see, there’s this thing; this thing where I delve deeply into the structure of things, how things are made up. One could call it an obsession with how things work, but not so much destruction and reconstruction, because that’s dull. But, you see, I like to sit about and quietly dwell on the operation of . . . Everything, anything. What motivates human nature? What aspect of the universe gives rise to advancement? Where does psychology fit into the spectrum of sciences, if at all? Hm, I’m pretty sure I can induce narcolepsy at will, but that means I’m thinking about too many things, or confused.
Sometimes, I’m afraid of my reality. Sometimes, I have this thing, wherein I wonder what it’s like to go insane. I think about insanity, a lot – The loss of sense, reason, logic. Possibly, it’s because of the first thing, where I break all that matters into parts and bits and stuff, which is all, you know, logical and sensical.
I like to equate love to insanity, because, if you think about it, they really are in and of the same facet of the universe, and all.
Hm, this was weird. I feel weird. Oh, well . . .
Adios.