Nothing Escapes the Infallible Ken of My Madness

I have something to say, and I very commonly have something to say. One may say that I say something about having something to say more often than I say something, but to those people I say, “Fie!” Why? Because archaic, Middle-English profanity is super-cool, unless you suck: in which case, it’s lame. But, to those people, I say . . . Uh, “Fie!” And I have, thus, created a circle, so next paragraph.

If you actually read through the previous paragraph, award yourself one point.

I never had anything for Wonder Woman, not ever, not even a little bit. There was not even the slightest of arousal elicited from me by Wonder Woman in any form, fashion, shape, or vehicle. Perhaps, this could be accounted for by the fact that when I was young, animation in America wasn’t quite at the level of zealous-lemur-rape, a la G.I. Joe and, obviously due to be mentioned: Wonder Woman. Anyway, the point being that there should be nothing attractive about the most poorly-drawn woman since Olive Oil. Now, Major Katsunagi from Ghost in the Shell, on the other hand: sweet Jesus, yes.

If you noticed the contradictions within the previous paragraph, award yourself one point.

If you know who Major Katsunagi is, award yourself a Hell Yes.

A sentence should always have a verb, subject, and object; for example, I hate you all. Punctuation marks are like the candy of the English language, which is to say that they are sweet and savoury, and everybody wants to consume (use) it all the time – but, rarely do people realize that there’s unique candy, and that candy tastes better in moderation (also, with proper placement). Take the dash, as a demonstration of a shunted punctuation mark: nobody loves the dash. In fact, many people confuse the dash with the hyphen, and don’t realize the difference – it makes me cry. Sure, the semi-colon gets its chance in the limelight in high-school English classes, but when does the dash get its time to shine, its fair share of the pie, eh? I think it’s time that the dash got what’s coming to it – how else can you excuse breaking a clause of a sentence with something that’s not even necessarily tangential to what’s being said? Watch: so, Marvin and Lucy were walking along – hurriedly, as though wild gazelle were hot on their trail – on their way to the grocery mart. See? Fun and easy!

If you spotted the irony of the first and last sentence of the previous paragraph, award yourself two points.

If you know the proportional relationship between the hyphen and dash, award yourself one point.

If you would like to make a call, please hang up and dial your number again.

The next time I ever read or hear the phrase, “ . . . terrorists could strike . . .,” one more time in the news, or radio, or just . . . World . . . . I am going to strike terror at an indeterminate time and place. (Also, I demand more recognition of the ellipsis – God, damn it, I love ellipses.)

If you have, like me, seen or heard the aforementioned phrase more than three times in a day, award yourself a number of points equal to the number of times you spotted it minus three.

That’s enough of that.

Scoring:
0 – 1: You, sir, suck.
2 – 3: You, sir, are constructed from the essence of rose-coloured cheese-pants.
4 – 5: You, sir, may be in need of a new insurance policy, and I do believe that I have just the one that you’ve been looking for. It covers life, death, theft, fire, flood, natural disaster, martians, celebrity maulings . . .
6 – 7: You, sir, HAVE WON A MILLION DOLLARS! WOOHOO!! Uh, but . . . Er, ah, not from me, of course, heh-heh. I just kinda, you know, thought that you may have . . . Uh, won some money, from . . . Somewhere. OH, GOD, MY PRESCIOUS BODILY FLUIDS POUR FORTH FROM ME LIKE A BROKEN WATER FOUNTAIN FULL OF BLOOD!
8 – 9: -1
10 – 11: +0
12 – 13: +1
14 – 15: +2
16 – 17: Platypus steak-sauce ranchers ate your banana-coconut, lime-flavoured gelatin, then ran off to fuck a tyrannosaurus rex, the King of the Lizards and masturbating puppy-dogs full of cantaloupe and holy-water.
18 – 19: You, sir, are a genius.
20 – 21: Bush MUST Lose ‘04!

Adios.

My Story (Proscribed By Me)

It was a dark and stormy night, wherein the white rain marched down from the sky like determined soldiers towards battle, wielding their deadly machine-guns full of wind and cold. And the darkness . . . Oh, the darkness, how it engulfed my soul, swallowing it up like a murky pit of doomed despair and desperate doom. The snowflakes of rain, like the tears of an angel who fell down while riding a bicycle – blue, with tassels on the handlebars -- and scraped her knee right something awful, pelted against the window of my office, over and over and over; I wondered when it would stop, when the cessation of the torture of such rainy wetness would occur. It was hopeless, I decided, so I opened my drawer and extracted from the contents of said container built within the structure of aforealluded desk a stark, black, shiny bottle of Bourbon. Bourbon: truly, my only friend . . . Except for that guy, Steve or Nick or whatever: he’s pretty cool, we hang out, play Nintendo and shit.

There I sat, weak and weary, then there came a knock, such a knocking, upon my door; like the thundering of a thousand, uh, big things all . . . Falling down, it echoed around my office, rebounding and repeating through my head. Knock, knock, knock, knock . . . Knock, knock, knock . . . I carefully held the shot-glass I had produced from my desk, delicately gripping its tender sides, being sure not to apply too much pressure yet still enough to bring the glass sweet deliverance from the harsh, cruel fates of the electromagnetic gravitational well that surrounds this green globe of ourn (It’s a harsh existence, the life of a shot-glass). I’m not entirely sure what did not compel me to answer that knock, what force made it so that I -- instead of rising to the challenge and striving for the Gold, per se -- sat there, idly tumbling my drink about in my hand. Some would, one day, say that it was due to a traumatic, depressing childhood full of anguish and tears, turmoil and what is generally agreed upon as being the opposite of positive. Whatever the case may be, I didn’t answer that bloody door.

“Hello?” lilted a voice, penetrating through the hard, stiff wood of the portal to my domain, thrusting its influence deep and unstoppably forthcoming into my ears; it was soft, melodic, perhaps even musical or, in some countries, round – others, square – surely such a sound could only be attached to the epitome of the vision of beauty. I tongued the cold, bitter liquid in my mouth, moving it in a slow, intentional, circular pattern, daydreaming about who may very well be standing outside my door, at this very moment, desiring – passionately – entrance. With a start, however, I thought to myself, “Oh, shit, my colon is about to explode forth like some deranged, brown version of the Niagara Falls!”

It was then that I knew that I would forever be locked in a fearsome, raging conflict of man versus himself, man versus nature, and man versus time. I harkened back to my past, to the memories that lurked in the furthest reaches of the recesses of memory, to those events that lead to such epic journey and change so long ago, and hoped that with the aid of these deadly ghosts of olden times I would triumph, after a necessary amount of elongated dialogue and punching stuff.

She walked into my office – nay, into my life -- with those luscious hips and that pert chest, clad in the most striking blue dress I had seen since that last striking blue dress I had seen, and I knew that I would be a changed man from that point onward. I knew that I would henceforth always be . . . A walrus.

The Fiction Continues (Still With No Reason Provided)

When the lights came on, joined in part by the dull, whirring sound of electricity initiating, it revealed a lovely display of death, dressed-up. In the centre of it all, raised slightly by a small platform, stood the reason for the occasion: a varnished, cedar coffin carved with delicate, floral designs along the sides. The pall was raised, revealing the dove-white padding on the inside, and also the lifeless, pallid figure resting therein.

Powdered, wintry facial features, all too symmetrical and perfect, were distinguishing a head topped in trimmed, combed, fragrant brownish-blonde hair. An especially oval quality was notable of the boy’s head, as well, and his neck was wide and stubby; which lead into a stiffened, ironed collar attached to a button-down, cyan-striped men’s dress-shirt. His two arms were crossed over the breast of the shirt, grasping each other’s hands in a frozen vision of a solemn prayer position.

Adjoining this morbid stand to the deceased was a veritable garden of flowers, hung and sat and draped about the corpse like some homage to the legacy of Babylon. White lilies and yellow daffodils; crimson, golden, and ivory roses; cyathiums of the darkest azure, or starkest violet; even daisies so daintily placed encircled the coffin, around and around. There would be much conversation about the flamboyant, ironic picture of such a person put in the midst of such beauty, that much was ensured.

When the body had first been wheeled into the morgue, the mortician on duty barely batted an eye at what was, lately, a common enough sight: young man, gunshot and stab wounds, signs of needle-use along the arms. He needn’t ask to know the story -- either a drug deal went wrong, or a coincidental gang fight happened, or whatever. It really didn’t matter much, in the eyes of the body’s last caretaker, since his job was to make it all look prim and digestible. Viewers of the corpse would later comment on the success of such an endeavour, too; they always did.

The arrangements for the ceremonies of the final rites of life had fallen into the hands of not the parents’ of this young man, but, instead, into the lap of his mother’s sister (the woman he had, as a young boy, delightfully addressed as Auntie Miss Lisa). It would’ve been rather difficult for either one of the boy’s bearers to perform the funerary procedure, anyhow, seeing as to how one had been the recipient of similar treatment already, and the other was committed to a behavioural institution, in the week following the son’s death. It was an arduous task for Auntie Miss Lisa to be taking care of, too, considering her two jobs and living son. However, she was to be commended later on for a job exquisitely well-done – as much of a consolation that, of course, is – more than likely.

Linen-clothed tables on wheels stood silent along one of the walls of the blank-walled, off-white room. Bread, ham, chicken, crackers, cookies, turkey, various cheeses, and sausages – all fresh and pristine – glimmered in the florescent light of the overhead fixtures, eagerly awaiting their future consumption by the black-dressed vultures soon to descend upon the site of the dead. Napkins, plates, and plasticware were all intelligently laid out, mostly to ensure the prevention of stains befalling the room’s light-blue carpeting. It was not a setup of the cheap variety, and all the expenses came out of the pocketbook of dear Auntie Miss Lisa. After all, little had been provided for in the event of the deceased’s passing, what with the laughably unpredictable probability of such an occurrence.

Unsurprising to almost all involved, the last response to the announcement of the gathering had been shock or sorrow; few mourned the loss, more celebrating the freedom. It had been a burdened existence within the family of the dead, veiling their shame and disgust in lieu of expressing the blunt and ugly truth of the matter: nobody saw worth in the boy, while alive. On the morrow of the discovery of the crime, there had been – reluctantly, it is to be imagined – phone calls to the traumatized, frantic mother, sharing in the sadness and delving out condolence and empathy; eyes turned to wet actors and ears shut down like expulsed appliances. A scene of the most typical of the sort for such a thing, it is to be guaranteed.

Indeed, one may even go so far as to say that nobody gave a damned care, in the world, except for his poor mother, of course -- she went insane.

What a spectacular scene that had been: more exciting and eventful than the boy’s death, was the surrealistic image of his mother, half-naked and screaming, being escorted forcibly by two police officers out the front door of her home. Clad in a shirt that hung baggy in excess on her frail, tiny body -- it fell midway down her thighs like a short dress – and underwear, she squirmed in the hands of the overpowering man and woman, in the process slinging blood onto their blue, ruffled uniforms. Auntie Miss Lisa had found her, an hour earlier, cowed in an unlit corner of her bedroom by the supposed, snarling threats of a spectral image of her son. The sister found her with a butter-knife gripped tightly in her palm, complete with blood dripping down her arms: it had been by the command of the ghost, apparently, to cut herself. One could guess that psychologists would later diagnose her with post-traumatic stress syndrome, but even with the aid of a name, it still had most definitely, right then and there, at that moment, broken her psyche apart into disconnected, irreparable shards.

Some say it had only been a matter of time, that ever since her husband had died, she had never been quite together. Suppose it didn’t help matters once the boy started with the whole drug affair. Never does a mother well to see her prodigy wilt like a flower in a tainted sun, you know.

As what one could call the host, for the day, of the funeral home strode down the hallway, he watched a young mother pulling along a boy of an age no later than ten years. In the hand not being held by his mother, the son was gripping a bouquet of dandelions, their seeds springing lose from the stem and scattering across the hall. As he received scolding and berating for running off and picking weeds, the child gazed upward at his mother’s face, with what the wandering worker curiously noted as a strangely mature countenance for someone his age. The caretaker thought to himself, as he patrolled the halls of the final house for the dead, that the boy seemed very sad, very concerned, but, yet, extremely angry at something. It was in the eyes -- the child’s vivid, rust-coloured eyes – that an infinite well of innocent and pure compassion resided, but the downturn of his lips was just so slightly more than was normal. In his time of employment at the funerary parlour, many a sorrowful face passed before his field of vision, but this one lingered in his mind: haunted his subconscious. In a dream that next night, the short figure of that boy stood before him, cloaked in a surrounding of blackness, and stared into his mind’s eye; while he pierced through his soul visually, tears rushed down his cheeks, but, more disturbingly than that, was the outpouring of blood that rained from his lips.

When he woke up, the cacophony of a thousand children laughing intermingled with a thousand thousand children screaming echoed from ear to ear. That morning, before work, he took his normal coffee with a shot of brandy.

Inimical Gray

So, philosophy and life and all that . . . Yes, interesting. It’s an interesting phenomenon to be around a group of people: to be more specific, to be around people who gather on a regular basis, for any number of reasons. People . . . I don’t like people, really; at least, not in general situations. Even when you take specific people that I do enjoy the company of, and gather them up into one place, once the number there exceeds something like four or five, I no longer want to be there. Eight of the best friends I’ve ever had, in one place, is a horrible thought, in my opinion.
I don’t know precisely what it is, because it never seems to be the same reason twice that I hate being around people. Sure, if you broaden it to the most vague and all-encompassing of terms, then, well, I could say things like: it’s too loud, it’s too noisy, there’s too many conversations, nobody is saying anything worthwhile, I feel uncomfortable in crowds, et cetera. It has sort of given me a headache thinking about it, too.
Whatever it may be . . . I don’t like being around people, en masse; not ever, not in the past nor in the present. It could just be chalked up to introversion, but dwindling down my personality traits into handy psychological buzzwords has never been an appealing practice to me. Or, rather, I should say: for any purpose outside of passing commentary, has it been unappealing.
Take, for example, this: my twenty-first birthday just passed, the Thursday before last, and I had no party. There was a small celebration with my father, my roommate, and my oldest friend, but nothing more. I didn’t even feel compelled to tell people it was my birthday, I would rather not have made a fuss. Most people consider twenty-one to be a huge milestone event in one’s life, but . . . I didn’t really want to dwell on it. Moreover, I didn’t want to be surrounded by a crowd of people making a big deal out of it. So, now, I legally drink a sprinkling of alcohol here and there, and that’s that.
I don’t detest people, I have no deep, unbridled loathing for them, but I am not happy with a lot of people around. I thrive on my time alone, is what it comes down to, and I need to stop forgetting that. I grow unmotivated, lethargic, downcast, irate, and moody, then I remember that the last time I had a moment of solitude was a week or more ago. It’s difficult to ignore the addicting qualities of people: the entertainment, the conversation, the interaction. But, I’m a private man – maybe even too private – and I’m no social butterfly, so these things take energy from me, not give it.
I don’t particularly mind company, but . . . There’s only so much of it I can take. I’m half-tempted to keep away from everybody I know until the end of the semester, even until next Fall. It isn’t that I have a gigantic urge to get away, but I also don’t have an urge not to, and when it comes down to making that choice: I know which way I’d go.
I do enjoy the roleplaying game I run, so it’s not like I’ll stop that. I really did enjoy going to the beach-house in Nag’s Head, wherein I spent most of my time with just myself. I have no problem living with a roommate, despite never having had to share my space before, and I have no trouble getting away when I need to do so. It’s just . . . I don’t know, you know?
I’m not tired, I’m not exhausted, I’m not overworked or stressed, I’m not anxious or lonely, despondent or desperate. Ever since this year began, I haven’t felt much of anything, or when I do, it’s never for long. Life has gotten dull, I guess, and I’m in a rut, of sorts. I need . . . Excitement? Something different needs to happen to me, something new and refreshing.
“Everything is normal, nothing ever changes.”

Adios.

An Ex-Punk Perorates

Do you know what destroyed the punk scene, what truly obliterated the musical ?movement? of punk? I can propose a theory, if nothing more than that: which, I shall do. Firstly, I will state that if you don't think that punk is really dead, then you might as well not read this because I'm working under the assumption that the reader agrees that punk has died, therefore this is not an attempt to prove that punk is dead so much as it is here to postulate why such a death took place.
Here's what the problem is and was, and it is the same kind of problem that faces a lot of musical scenes -- and scenes of non-musical nature, too, for that matter. Punk started dying as soon as it became a requisite of being a member to listen to punk music. Which is to say, in order for a band to be accepted as punk, it became necessary for a band to listen to and, invariably, emulate another band that was already agreed upon by the punks to be acceptable as punk.
Think about it, back in the hey-days of punk, which is to say the late 70's and early 80's, did any of the original punk bands sound any way similar? Did Iggy Pop sound like Sex Pistols, or did the Dead Kennedys sound like the Gang of Four, or did the Ramones sound a damn bit like Circle Jerk? No, not at all -- Hell, the Dead Kennedys had a guitar styling that was basically surf guitar, with a tinge of classic rock'n'roll a la Elvis. These bands: they were all punk, there was no question of their punk natures, and it was great. Punk was punk was punk, it was a random gathering of musicians that really only shared the single characteristic of being antiestablishmentarian in nature.
So, what I am basically saying here is that the same factor that has malformed the British royal family into the horrible nightmare vision versions of human beings that they are, today, is the same one that killed punk, as it was: inbreeding. That's right, punk was cool and then it started fucking its cousins and sisters and shit, and that's not cool, no matter how figurative it may be.
If you take a look at modern punk bands, and, more specifically, the modern punk rock "labels" that exist, such as Fat Wreck Chords and Epitaph, you'll see what I mean. All the bands tour together, record together, play together, and (no big surprise) sound the same. Guttermouth listens to NoFX who listens to SNFU who listens to No Use For a Name who listens to Pennywise who listens to Lagwagon who listens to Anti-Flag. It's a big, fat, punk circle jerk where nobody else is invited, and Henry Rollins isn't singing the vocals. They wear each others' t-shirts, even. How cute.
Of course, what probably initiated this situation wherein nobody is hanging out with anyone but those who could get past the bouncer at the door is the fact that once punk got established as the choice antiestablishmentarian thing, well . . . It got elitist. As it goes whenever the same basic thing happens, which is to say that the social rejects got an image and attitude to cling onto it, they took it and horded it to themselves like that selfish eight-year-old fucking bastard down the street who had a Super Nintendo and Sega Genesis and never shared when you were in fifth grade. It became the non-conformist trend to conform to what was laid down as the standards of punk, which were created with innocent intent by those who actually treated punk as just a venue for creativity and expression. I don't think I really have to go into detail as to why this is stupid.
So, today, look at what we have posing as punk rock: Avril Lavigne being the apex of modern post-punk failure. Spikes, chains, dyed-hair, safety pins, combat boots, white tank tops, piercings? What the fuck? When did it become punk to dress like a confused, drunk homeless man lost in a thrift store? And all of the horrendous fashion is accompanied by bland, watered-down music that is just the latest rehashing of the last big punk band.
What I want to see is a punk band who listens to jazz. I want to see punks who admit that they have listened to, in the past, bands that were on the radio, and maybe still do (Because who doesn't have sentimental attachment to the bands they grew up with). I want to see a punk wearing a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt, or maybe sporting the image of an old Blues singer. I want to see a punker decked out in a zoot suit (Why, yes, I was a fan of the third wave ska movement, what happened to that). I want to listen to punk music whose influences are so diverse and ecclectic, random and, perhaps, untraceable, that it creates a new and original sound altogether, not necessarily likened to any punk band, at all, ever.
I listen to Strung Out, Nomeansno, Fugazi, Gang of Four, The Offspring, Pulley, Lungfish, Gob (occassionally), LARD, Snuff . . . All these bands still make music today, and they make good music. Which is to say that I am not meaning to imply that no good music comes out of what is left of the punk scene, just that the vast majority of the scene is dead and defiled. It's impure, and that makes me sad. As a contaminated scene, it loses that magnificent quality of being unlike any other venue of society; where you will find the bipedal results of what should've been a stain on a blanket thirteen years ago, instead of a baby. You will see the little fifteen-year-olds dressed in Dead Kennedy t-shirts who think that the stinking filth who tour as Dead Kennedys now are nothing more than miserable failures who manipulated their way into stealing the name. You will not go far without stumbling over a pothead in multiple spiked belts who couldn't find up from down on a map, and is screaming along to Anti-Flag, mindlessly chanting, "You gotta die, gotta die, gotta die for the government, die for the government, die for the government, that's shit."
If this is appealing to you, then maybe that's why you're possibly still a card-carrying member of the punk scene. Me, however? I found my way out of that status years ago, realising that I could stay home and listen to the bands I like without having to endure shit for what I may not listen to and like. If there's truly a difference between the so-called preppy kids ridiculing me for not liking Linkin Park or Staind, and the so-called punks ridiculing me for not liking NoFX and modern Black Flag, then maybe I just missed something essential. If there isn't, which I don't think there is, then . . . I told you so, nyah, nyah, nyah.
This has gotten long-winded, so I'll just be over there, wearing my headphones, listening to some Miles Davis.
Adios.

More Unexplained Fiction From Me (Yay, again)

They put a white flower on the top of the brown box and I thought that looked really pretty. There are flowers all around, I bet I could swim in them! That’d be really fun, swimming in a pool full of flowers: all different colours, too. I love pretty flowers.

“He was a good man, a good . . . Good man.”

Everyone seems so sad, crying and wiping their runny noses. I can see mommy standing over there, trying to not look as sad as everybody else. Mommy never likes to cry, she only does it when she’s in her room, after she tucks me into bed. One time, I tried to go in and ask her why she was crying, but the door was locked . . .

“I knew him since he was this high, eh?”

There was this one time, when me and him were little (he wasn’t as little as I was, he was always older) and we hid in the garden behind the school for a long time. Nobody found us, for hours and hours. We ran around the garden, picking flowers and weeds and stuff. I wanted to get a whole lot of flowers to give to mommy, but when they came and found us, they took the flowers away. He got really mad at them (I guess for taking away the pretty flowers) and started hittin’ ‘em. I didn’t see him for awhile, after that. I bet they put him in jail or somethin’.

“He could’ve done such great things, had his life not been cut short – Such a tragedy!”

The next time me and him saw each other, we went to the playground at school at night, when nobody is supposed to be there. We were supposed to stay at home, while mommy was out buying food and stuff, but he said we should go play on the swings. I told him that mommy said to stay home, but he hit me and I cried. I cried and cried, and when I stopped crying, we were at the playground, so I swung on the swings. I saw him talking to this man I didn’t know and I didn’t know if he knew him or what; he was wearing a long, long, black coat. When the man in the coat left, he said we should go home, but I was having so much fun: I didn’t want to leave. So, he hit me.

“I hope they catch the vagrant who did this to him! Justice should be served.”

Mommy was really mad that we had left, and I didn’t know how she knew. She just looked at me, and started yelling and yelling at him: I didn’t understand what she was saying. After that, I didn’t see him for a long, long time. Then, one day, he was there after school let out, and asked me for my book-bag. He took my books and didn’t give them back, then kicked me and ran away. I was really sore ‘cause he kicked me in the tummy and that really hurt.

“His fiancé must be heart-broken – Oh, I hope she took it well!”

When he was littler, me and him always used to play in the park. He’d take me to the park, and I’d run around and around. He’d meet this girl there, and they’d go off to the bushes and play, too. She looked really pretty, but always seemed sad, kinda like mommy.

“That is a beautiful arrangement of flowers, who did it?”

“Oh, that would be . . . Uh, I think Betsy brought it in. You know, she’s been seeing that tall guy, a lot.”

“Has she, now? Do I smell romance, tee!”

“Wheehee! I bet! I sure do!”

There are a lot of people, all talking or crying and wiping their noses with white tissues, turning them green and yellow. Everyone looks really, really sad: I don’t know why everybody is so sad. I wish that he were here, he could make them laugh with his jokes. He hasn’t come to take me to the park or play with me or nothing in a long time, I don’t think he looks me no more. I’m hungry!

“Aw, now look at you, aren’t you just growing up nice and big and strong?”

“Yes, he’s just like his father! He’ll be a pro-baseball player, I bet!”

“I sure hope so, someone has to support poor Lisa, always slaving around the house. Hmph, that husband of her’s, I swear!”

“Yes, I sometimes wonder if he works, or if he just goes out and drinks with floozy tramps!”

“Brenda! Stop that! This is a solemn occasion, show some respect for the deceased.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Toffee cake?”

“Ooo, lovely! I will have some.”

I’m kinda sleepy, I’ve been here forever. These grown-ups are boring, all crying and wiping and stuff. This ain’t no fun, I wanna go to the park with him and run and see the pretty, sad girl. Or pick some flowers for mommy; maybe I could give mommy some of those pretty flowers over there. I bet mommy would love that white flower . . . Sleepy . . .

“Aww, isn’t that adorable? Lisa’s little boy is all curled up in a chair, sleeping! Have you ever seen a more precious angel?”

The Salad Days are Gone? (Heh, What a Silly Phrase)

[Disclaimer: This entry has been deemed extraneous. It is highly disjointed and not necessarily coherent. Read at own risk.]

Thursday was my birthday – the day that I was born, twenty-one years ago, at around the time of the rising sun. Apparently, it was a long labour that started the night before, when all the Irish were out in pubs, drinking their ale, dancing, and singing. I was named Cory because it seemed unique, at the time – The Celtic spelling, not the Gaelic. Jay flowed together with Cory to make a nice, ringing sound of musical nomenclature, according to my mom (and I tend to agree). I didn’t get drunk or anything; my roommate and I shared about half a bottle of Captain Morgan’s Parrot Bay Puerto Rican Coconut-flavoured Rum, which I highly recommend to connoisseurs of good-tasting alcohols. I’ve always been a fan of Coconut Rum, especially mixed with Coke (or just straight). I converted my roommate to Coconut Rum with that, too, and we both agree that the next flavour of Coke should be Coconut Coke – It’d be awesome.
For my birthday, I received a black fiddler’s cap and the DVD for About Schmidt. Fiddler’s caps are neat hats, and I’ve always had a personal taste for hats I deign to be neat. Jack Nicholson is the embodiment of what it is to be the proverbial “The Man,” if you ask me; moreover, he is one of the greatest actors of his generation. I can not express in words my admiration of Jack Nicholson, and I was happy to make a second addition to my future collection of all movies with Jack Nicholson (the first was One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest). So, we sat down and watched About Schmidt, after visiting Outback Steakhouse and being filled with dead, delicious cow-meat (Huzzah for being a carnivore).
About Schmidt is a movie about a man at the end of his life, wherein it all begins with his retirement from years upon years of service to Woodmen of the World, an insurance company that employed him as Assistant Vice President and Accruement (I think that’s the term, may be wrong). Warren Schmidt was a man with plans to start a business of his own, but, instead, ended up chained down to a wife and daughter. Feeling the weight of being at the end of his life and having nothing left to occupy his time with, he decides to sponsor an African child through the Child Reach program. And it is through the letters that he writes to Ndugu, his foster son, that the inner thoughts of Warren Schmidt truly spill forth.
I was never really sure how to classify this movie, or what to call it: in a way, it’s a comedy and you find yourself laughing. But, it’s not really a funny movie – in the comedic sense, at least – moreso than it’s a . . . Drama, I guess. This is the story of a man at the end of his life who can do nothing more than look back and assess what he’s done, and slowly come to realize that there is nothing left for him to do. It’s sort of sad, at times, and it’s sort of ridiculous, at other times.
What is truly interesting about About Schmidt is that, at the least ways for me, you fail to ever really have the opportunity to develop an opinion on any one character; not one that is solid or concrete, in any way. Not even for Schmidt, himself, did I have a strong feeling one way or the other towards him. You can say that his daughter’s fiancé is a complete moron, but you can also say that he’s just a little scatter-brained albeit good-natured. Schmidt’s daughter: well, she is the most straight-forward of the character cast, but it’s hard to say whether or not she’s wrong or right to act how she does. At times, it may seem like she’s just being irrational and cruel, but then you have to give her that she is legitimately at the end of her rope. Everyone is kind of ridiculous in this movie, and it all lends itself to a feeling of a jaded, burnt-out vision of a chaotic world, through the eyes of Schmidt.
I found it rather ironic that my dad chose to pick this movie up for me in celebration of my birthday: a movie centered around a man at the final milestone of his life, looking backwards and revisiting everything he ever stood for in principle. At an age that is supposed to be symbolic of the coming into of adulthood and the figurative “rest of your life,” I find myself somewhat doing the same. In a way, everything was planned for and leading up to this age; humans are short-sighted creatures, so it was never in my capacity to think ahead of age twenty-one or thereabout. It all feels like, from this time and henceforth, everything is up in the air and intangible. The only grasp I have on what I will absolutely be doing is getting a degree (or two) from college in the near-future – Never before has it really felt like it was near that I would graduate college. My slate is clean, per se, and all that is left to do now is lay down new plans, new ideas, and new goals for the future.
Twenty-one is young, really. I have a lot of time ahead of me, according to general statistics for my demographic and all that. I could die tomorrow, but that’s fine – I’d rather not think in terms of brash realism, always. I’m not old, and I don’t feel old, because I shouldn’t feel old and anyone who says they feel old and have done it all at twenty-one . . . Well, they’re full of shit.

Adios.

A Redound to Nothing (Whoo)

So, I thought more about it, and through a conversation with my roommate, came this conclusion, regarding Comedy in America: what has happened is that it has moved out of the big screen, from the cinema (I just proofread this entry and found the typo, "cinemo," and I am full of fear, because I just got the image of an emo band making a movie, *shudder*), to the small screen(s). Which is to say, good Comedy in America is on television and on the internet. Like I said before, Becker and The Daily Show with Jon Steward (Fuck Craig Kilbourne) are shining examples of comedy on television. Also, The Simpsons is still being made, and Futurama is being rerun on Cartoon Network (God Bless Adult Swim). Ever seen Home Movies? I love that show, for no real, good reason, expect for that it's funny. Sure, SNL has gone to shit with its latest cast, but they did propel the career of Will Ferrel and David Hammond [sp, on two counts], so that’s something to be said: that being, “SNL still exists as a platform for decent comedians to use as a stepping stone.” Fuck Mike Myers, kinda, sorta – Sometimes, I hate that man (Austin Powers), other times, I love him (Shrek, Wayne’s World). And just look at all the stand-up you can find on various channels – Just look at it. Isn’t it awesome? It is awesome.
Also, there’s the internet, wherein one can find mounds of great humour, in the form of parody (www.theonion.com), comic strip (www.penny-arcade.com), randomosity (www.sixsixfive.com), and so forth, so forth. I read something like a dozen or two dozen web-comics, and they all amuse me, on some level or another. Let me just list them, here:
Penny Arcade, Mac Hall, PvP, Superosity, RPG World, Bob and George, 8-Bit Theater, It's Walky, Queen of Wands, Something Positive, College University, Sore Thumbs, Commander Kitty, Elf-Life, Ctrl-Alt-Del, You Damn Kid, Chopping Block, Dork Tower. I’m sure I forgot a few, but . . . Oh, well! Also, Something Awful can be entertaining. Who doesn’t love Sean Baby? I know I don’t not. It goes on and on like this, really – Which just showcases why people have decided that, instead of taking their comedy to Hollywood, they take it to things more accessible and down-to-Earth. Also, cheap. Free, even.

Linkin Park is one of the worst bands in the history of music. Don’t get me wrong, I am a fun of the occasional loser anthem, but it’s just pitiful when a band does nothing but beg for acceptance from society, which is what they do. This is what happens when kids with marginal music talent get picked on endlessly in high school: they go off and form bands about how much the cool kids suck. Do the world a favour, and don’t pick on a nerd, today. No, wait, let me append that: not nerds, because nerds are productive when alienated. Don’t pick on losers, true losers. I mean, God damn it, how can you be marginalised from society and not, at least, get the decent music taste that comes with it, Linkin Park, huh? Why are you losers who still listen to the cool people music, crap like Limp Bizkit and Kid Rock? Explain yourself! Then, die. Bitches.

River City High, there’s one I forgot. God, you have to love the River City Ransom video games, because where else can you punch a jock in the face, then buy a Mervburger? NOWHERE! That’s where. Oh, yeah . . .

Evanescence is that new band that I God dan can't stand, for some reason. Well, not for some reason -- For a number of reasons, which I will proceed to name. For one, it's emo disguised. Yes, you heard me: EMO. I'm drowning? Wake me up inside? Ugh! Ugh, I say! Oh, tragedy and woe, woe and tragedy and angst and woe and tragedy; woe, angst, tragedy, sorrow, despair, woe, sorrow, angst, angst, and tragedy! This is sappy emo (redundant, ain't it) wrapped up in the clever guise of something that might be spiritual, but isn't. What they did, this band: Evanescence, is fail miserably at trying to mimic Aghora. Because, Aghora does rock, and Aghora succeeds at combining progressive metal with operatic vocals, and Aghora's lyrics are well-written spiritual exploration. Fuck you, Evanescence, you Aghora-wannabe-bastards. Also, I don't care if I misspelt their name, they don't deserve proper spelling.

It’s a lot more fun to talk about things you have disdain for, than to speak of what you like, I’ve found.

Bush MUST Lose, ‘04

Adios.

Welcome to My Sanctum (Again and Still)

When I look back upon the things I have done, the things I have said, I do not wonder why I said them – I remember. I remember my feelings, my emotions, the schools of thought I was prescribed to at the time, the philosophies that I held up in light, and the psychological frame of mind I existed in, at that time. I don’t regret: that’s a principle I have adhered to for the two decades I’ve been here, alive, on this rock o’ our’n. I may question, I may falter, I may flounder in the face of the confusing jumble of thoughts and sounds of my mind, but I don’t regret, in the end. I see in my old writing, on this very Blog, my inefficiency at communicating coherent thoughts; however, as the title does indicate, this is my place for doing what may boil down to rambling and raving. Things may not connect, and they may not be the most understandable mass of sentences in the world – to anyone but me, at least, for I understand and know, like an inside trader (which, of course, is unfair to everyone else, but it is the way it is). But, the question here, for me, from me, to me, would be is this a success, am I successful with what I am doing, here, on this Blog? I would say so, since this was created for the infinite purpose of fulfilling the itch I have to write, here and there – Sure, this has gone stagnant at times, and there have been months when I simply didn’t put anything here, but such is the nature of a creature borne to function by whim. This is like a record of, for one, my progression as a writer; you never realize how you improve until you look back at what you once considered good, and no longer feel so proud of that creation. So, sometimes, this serves entirely to lift my spirits about my career (if you would go so far as to call it that) as a writer. It also is a timetable of the overriding mood I was experiencing at certain points in time, for even blank months tell me of things that are hidden between the lines. All that makes this sort of seem like a selfish endeavour, which, in part, it is; but, I also did have a desire to share these things with people – These things in my head. To this day, I don’t know who reads this, regularly or at all, and I don’t care to: it’s better to write to an imaginary audience, because it frees one of any obligation that may exist when the target audience is known. There were times I knew of one or two people who read this, and it ended up being a hindrance because I wouldn’t post things due to my subconscious desire to please those people. This Blog follows no pattern, it has no structure, it is nothing more than what I want to write, when I want to write; so, as a result, you get everything from movie reviews to poetry to inane babble. It’s funny to realize that one can actually improve in the presentation of babble, but I can see that I have gotten better at expressing what comes down to nonsense. The idea of a pattern and rhyme to nonsense has always been something I found entertaining – As my friend, and current roommate put it, “Isn’t it great that insanity can be the only way to stay sane?”
That was a really long paragraph. Have I ever mentioned how annoying I find it that HTML doesn’t allow for indention? Why is that? I’m a programmer, I should know this, but I don’t. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter, does it?
I’m writing this on Sunday, but I plan on posting it on Monday, simply to spread things out (I just posted that short story-type thing a few minutes ago). I made a decision for myself; set a goal: by next year, I want to have one, single product written, in full. I also decided what that product would be: my project to create a graphic novel that is, in essence, the presentation of a play, or a series of plays. I will have it written by the time I’m twenty-two, and then I will see what feels right about coming next. I’ve been mulling over and dabbling on this project for two and a half years, now, so I know what I want to do, how I want to do it – I just need to do it, heh . . .
Also, now is the time for revisitation of the past, re-evaluation, revision, and representation; in other words, a lot of things that start with “re.” Advancement, as well, of course, but you can go forward by looking back – I would know. The future is too uncertain to rely on, whereas the past has happened and can be used like a source, reference book in the bibliography of a research project. Some say let go, I say, “Fuck you.” However, that sentiment is highly tangential to . . . Everything here, really.
What I mean becomes clear, in time, as it always has been. You’ll see.
Adios.

And Now, I Will Inexplicably Post Fiction (Yay)

It’s not so much the way it sounds to hear someone die, as it is the sight of life, itself, expiring before your very eyes. Some may say it’s the sound, but I would disagree.

“He was a good man, a good . . . Good man.”

It brings a small tear of irony to my eyes to hear the platitudes of a funeral spewed forth by people who never once thought fondly of this dead fool. I have always been simultaneously fascinated, amused, and disgusted by the human race and the practice of civilised etiquette and all that jazz, it’s sort of, kind of a hobby for me to watch. Maybe, that’s why I am here, in the first place.

“I knew him since he was this high, eh?”

That’s funny, because had you known him that long, you would have came to the conclusion that I did, that he should die horribly and in a lot of pain. I used to wish that upon him, continuously, while in his company. Much to my own surprise, and slightly to my chagrin because God damn do blood-stains take a long time to wash out, did my little wish come true. Hoo, hee, they’re not even daring to acknowledge the raging amounts of drugs this son of a bitch dropped in his lifetime. Even dead, his eyes are more bloodshot than a heroine addict’s while shooting up and smoking a joint at the same time. Mmm, it’s too bad they close the eyes, and all.

“He could’ve done such great things, had his life not been cut short – Such a tragedy!”

Romeo and Juliet was a tragedy (Granted, a really stupid one), or even JFK being shot in the face by the CIA or whatever, but this flop falling dead? No, that wasn’t a tragedy, it was God sparing us from the torture of his company, especially from that annoying laugh of his: false, forced, too loud, and inappropriate. Not to mention his breath, which I am sure was only ten-thousand-times improved by dying.

“I hope they catch the vagrant who did this to him! Justice should be served.”

Yeah, the guy should be given a Congressional Medal of Honour for ridding me of that scrawny dog’s blather. I’ve heard two businessmen waxing the most empty and shallow conversations in the world, and been more engrossed by the intransigent genius of the words coming out of their chapped, white lips; they could be exchanging the phone numbers of their secret mistresses in a delicate, code language and I’d break out a pad of paper to write it all down so that I could later admire the beauty of their conversation, before I’d stand in the same room with that bastard-ass for three minutes. Hmm, coffee . . .

“His fiancé must be heart-broken – Oh, I hope she took it well!”

Took it well? Took it well in the ass, from his co-worker standing over there: yeah, see, that one, with the smug grin on his face that is trying so desperately to feign mourning. I once saw an opossum on the side of the road that had half of its body crushed and mangled doing a more convincing job of seeming genuine and alive. Come to think of it, I felt more sorrow and pity for that run-over creature than I do for this worthless, bloated carcass, here, heh.

“That is a beautiful arrangement of flowers, who did it?”

“Oh, that would be . . . Uh, I think Betsy brought it in. You know, she’s been seeing that tall guy, a lot.”

“Has she, now? Do I smell romance, tee!”

“Wheehee! I bet! I sure do!”

Idiots . . . Hm, standing here, sipping coffee, brooding over the ignorance of my surroundings -- Someone should hand me a black beret and teleport me into a coffeeshop, where I’d fit in with the rest of the cynical philosophers of Starbucks (great minds of our time, indeed). Ugh, I hate people; moreover, I hate people who hate people for no reason other than to have something to hate, at the moment. Ooh, little sausage-wieners on a stick! Awesome, I didn’t see those, before . . .

“Aw, now look at you, aren’t you just growing up nice and big and strong?”

“Yes, he’s just like his father! He’ll be a pro-baseball player, I bet!”

“I sure hope so, someone has to support poor Lisa, always slaving around the house. Hmph, that husband of her’s, I swear!”

“Yes, I sometimes wonder if he works, or if he just goes out and drinks with floozy tramps!”

“Brenda! Stop that! This is a solemn occasion, show some respect for the deceased.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Toffee cake?”

“Ooo, lovely! I will have some.”

Ergh, I’m getting sleepy. How long has this been going on? Three, four hours, now? How much respect could possibly be paid to the dead body of a futureless, druggie moron who was lucky to get stabbed when he did? I should append that: he wasn’t futureless -- his future just happened to be dying in the streets, like a sewer-rat mauled by a starving alley cat. On top of that, he was a rather washed-up, mangy, filthy, disease-ridden, scrawny, pathetic sewer-rat; which is saying a lot for sewer-rats, really . . . Uuh, so tired . . .

“Aww, isn’t that adorable? Lisa’s little boy is all curled up in a chair, sleeping! Have you ever seen a more precious angel?”

What I Have Deigned To Be Worthy of Pursuit in Life, Sort of (I'm Full of Shit)

One of the greatest either ironies or follies of life as a human being is that we invest an enormous amount of our time in trying to communicate the most complex and deepest aspects of our being (some may call it a soul, some the inner-self, et al), which is the single-most impossible task you could ever set in front of a thinking, reasoning creature. My personal theory, which I am sure is partial plagiarism of a group of other theories in philosophy mostly pertaining to existentialism, is that there is who you are, truly, and who you are, in communication. The latter version of the self is further divided by the fact that the appearance of this self is only partially responsible to yourself, and also the resultant of the filter of interpretation and perception that others apply to it. To paraphrase anime, which is in horrible taste for something that may or may not be intended to sound intelligent or thoughtful, there’s the “Shinji in Shinji’s head,” and the “Shinji’s in Rei’s head,” then the “Shinji in Asuka’s head,” et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. It’s really quite a fascinating idea or topic, in my humble opinion.
What I find to be a great query set before us, as sentient beasts of primal urges and civilised tendency, is there a dividing factor between these two versions of the self? Is it possible to be unbalanced on the level of the soul-self? Since the secondary version of the self is merely a translation of the primary, true-self to language and communication, could one go so far as to say that it is irrelevant to what could be called universal truth, or does the act of communicating the self inadvertently alter what lies beneath, thus creating a circular relationship between these two selves? Is it a conscious or unconscious decision as to what parts of the self to communicate, or a mixture of both? When one is faced with the idea of denial of their self, does it matter, at all?
I wonder if the end result of the choices we make and the life we live the level of balance in which we keep the two selves. If certain series of events will lead one to be more consciously concerned with the true self versus being more wrapped up with trying to communicate the true self to others, then, inversely, can this conscious practice be altered, or is it too integral in the congealed personality of the individual. . . . Or, one may ask, is there really more than one self, or merely a singular self which is accompanied by multiple projections of that self? Where do the factors of lies and honesty come into the equation of being? This train of thought leads to a discussion of morality, though, which isn’t what I want, here.
Is it better to be more true to the self or to be skilled at conveying the truth of the self, I think, is the question. To focus inwardly on the actual, relevant self, and occasionally, if one is so compelled, share a product of the self with the rest of the world, seems to me, to be a better way of life, rather than to be worried about the kind of self that one is projecting to the rest of humanity and that image. It’s a private way of living, of course, and leads to an introverted nature, in the end; which, honestly, doesn’t bother me overly much. I would be content with introspection and quietness over a loud, cumbersome string of expression that may be wrong, later, but seems correct, or convenient, or desirable, at the time.
There is something to be said for social interaction, human contact, verbal conversation, but one can not forget that that something may not always necessarily be needed to be said, or is superior to what can be said about personal exploration, sensory deprivation, and isolated, peaceful, quaint solitude, not to mention the conversations of the mind with itself. It is easy to become confused with who you are because of how people are telling you who you are, based on their own perception of you. . . . Fuck that.
Adios.

And Now: Vagary! Look . . . Politics! Or Is It All Apple Pie?

Kerry is going to take the candidancy for the Democrats.
Still don't know who will be Green.
Nader . . . He's there.

Bush MUST lose, '04.

This was short and sweet . . . Bitterly.

Adios.

"My Foolish Heart," it's a good song,
Really, I guess, it says it all --
In our hearts, we want to believe in miracles,
In a benevolent force of inevitability, we invest our lives,
Unbenownest to us children, things fall apart:
Nothing lasts forever, no matter how much you try.

Be good, be bad, holy or unholy,
The sins, the virtues, the forces of nature,
What we really want is a return to the womb:
Warm and alone, fed and ungrown,
Come on, Mom, take me home,
Take me the fuck home!

The choice has been made: no reward,
Nor any need to repay,
No "Days of Wine and Roses,"
It all blows through, blows up, blows apart reality --
Stop crying, stop crying,
It won't make a difference.

Be kind, be mean, be how you choose --
Nobody cares, nobody stops to smile,
Nobody will shake your hand and hand you your just dessert --
Just death.

It's a song I wrote, long ago,
It's a song I promote, again and again,
It's just never very fun, you know,
To have it sung to yourself.

With no childhood to recall,
You build walls against walls --
Years and years, defense and anguish,
Everything gets torn down, always,
By another, someone seemingly better:
Let me warn you, here,
That it's all a facade.

They lie, they cheat,
They take you for all your worth,
Only to leave you high and dry,
Surprised to be so bled.

It's a process of humiliation,
It's a process of degradation,
It's an education, emancipation,
In anticipation, we wait to be freed --
We wait, and wait, and wait.

Twist and turn, torn and worn,
Warped and frayed, forgotten and amazed,
Ablaze and afraid, agape and unmade,
Unwound, undone, undressed --
Did you forget all that defense?
Did you forget that good intent is missed?
Did you find that the world is a lie?
Did you find that the world is unkind?
Did you forget what you learned, as a boy?
Did you forget that nobody changes, given time?
Did you find yourself scarred, again?
Did you find yourself scared of death?
Did you find rage?
Did you find hate?
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes . . .
Yes, yes, yes . . .

I am a man standing in stone,
Unmoved and cold, so wrong,
I am a vision in stone.

I am a man standing in water,
Unsettled and cold, so wrong,
I am an oasis in a desert.

I am a man lost on the winds,
Unquieted and cold, so wrong,
I am a shape in the clouds.

I am a man aflame in outrage,
Unquenched, wrenched from within,
Blistered and fevered, wasted --
You don't want to taste the heat,
You don't want to know me.

It's a song I wrote, long ago,
I wrote my end, I wrote the end,
I wrote our parts, I wrote the cues,
I wrote the direction, the inflections,
The choreographied dance of the damned.

I wrote in anger, I wrote in tears,
I wrote while shaking, I wrote while praying,
I wrote so rapidly, I wrote so vapidly,
I wrote it all, I wrote it all:
I wrote my end, my friend,
Like it or not, it's in red on black,
Chiseled in tablature,
Christened in glassware,
Made to raise questions,
Made to lay down graveyards.

They'll hurt you, my son,
Don't go out there, my son,
They'll break you, my son,
They'll do to you what I have felt,
My son, my son, my son . . .

There is no right,
There is no wrong,
There is nothing to be seen,
No truth, no saving --
Stop crying, stop crying,
It won't save you, I swear.

No one cares,
No one shares,
No one bears your burden for you,
No one grieves your heartache for you,
No one smiles and waves a good day to you,
No one acknowledges your good deeds to you,
No one knows exactly what it is you know,
And worst of all, no one knows,
No one knows how to know to know.

I will not go out,
One foot to the floor,
One breath to explode,
I will not go out.

Love me, love me:
Calls the foolish heart --
The folly of mankind --
It will go unanswered,
Unsponsored, unlanguished,
My foolish heart; I hate,
My foolish heart.