It's a New Year, It's Actually Just the Same Year with a Different Name.

I love the romanticism associated with the New Year. Everyone gets all whimsical and promises themselves to do things that they didn't do before, but those promises are usually ignored... or filled vaguely, with a technicality.

I've never understood why people have to resolve to do something at the end of year, instead of just doing it. Maybe it's just that everyone forgets to until Bally's Total Fitness reminds them that it is time again to promise that we will make ourselves better, or go greener... or stop going to brothels.

Er... not from personal experience. It's just an example.

Still, you have to think about what you would do better this year. I don't like that approach. I think it leads to a day, usually around St. Patrick's day, acutally, where you realize the epic failure that your resolution has led to. Interesting. It usually ends in heavy drinking.

Personally, I like metered amount of failure, in a daily dose. It makes a much more reasonable emotional downswing, when such failure occurs. And I can even enjoy success. It's nice not having disappointment linger beyond the day. I enjoy my daily resolution plan.

So... what's my resolution, you ask, for the new year?

Not to make any more New Year's Resolutions.

Fuck. I'll try again tomorrow.

Mission Accomplished

Apparently, the coach swing pack was a hit with my mother. She did not ask for a gift receipt.

I think I'm 1 for 10 now.

The Chimes

GOD DAMMIT GOOGLE, YOU'RE DRIVING ME INSANE. WHY DO I HEAR CHIMES? WHY?

Justice is an Incredible Motivator

R. Kelly recently missed a court date, causing him to lie any cancel a concert in the Twin Cities.

Not that I care, really. I enjoy Kelly's music, he's an entertainer, and a good one at that. He'll keep your attention.

He's also got a 5 year old court case that has yet to go to trial...

You know about the child pornography charge, I get that. But if you really think about it, the last 5 years have been very good to R. Kelly, who existed in mediocrity with the exception of a few songs here and there. Kells doesn't even often top the R&B charts. Yet, buy involving himself in every song and remix he can, it's impossible not to know that he's famous.

Apparently that makes him impossible to take to court. God forbid we should ask him to trial for what he's being charged with.

It seems he may finally be running out of steam, with an upcoming court date in March. I'm not saying he's guilty, but damn. Drop the charges or have this trial. You're wasting Illinois taxpayer dollars.

One Small Victory

My wife has conceded to opening all but two of her gifts. She also conceded that I could do the same.

I had actually completely forgotten that she had gotten me gifts, too. Funny how that works.

Adding It to My Resume

I snap pictures of Ice Turds, apparently.

You already know this because 80% of my traffic comes from Afterglide anyway. I still haven't decided if being permanently associated with icicle poop is a good thing.

I'm a Sucker for Gorgeous Women

Those of you who know me, know that I can keep a secret till death if you ask.

You also know that some things are better left unsaid, and that I've never been too curious about anything. Here to listen, if it may be the case.

Interestingly enough, I don't like keeping gifts secret. Actually, I hate it. Too many years of failed gift giving to my mother have tempered a die cast cloud over any excitement I might have over giving a gift as a surprise. Nothing I have ever bought her has been satisfactory, and it's become a custom that a gift receipt accompanies every gift, from vases to leather jackets (which are exchanged for other vases and leather jackets).

My wife is the center of my life, and due to the terrible experiences I've had with gift giving, I like receiving some sort of confirmation that what I have gotten for her meets with her satisfaction. She has nice taste, but she is not a stubborn woman. Classical sensibility, but she understands that I am not a millionaire.

I do so love buying things for her, and worse than that, I enjoy giving them to her.

Today, she purchased a laptop. Well, I paid for more than half of it. The one we came to look at was sold out, and she does like Sony notebooks, and I certainly can't blame her. But to be able to give her something is a pleasure. She has a certain smile. To know that it is useful gives the item a whole new level of satisfaction.

My family's Christmas tradition was a harrowed representation of consumer reality.
My brother and I were allowed dollar amount allotments for our purchases, and we received them almost immediately after the purchase, saving a "stocking stuffer" for the Christmas gift that my dad would consider proper, though wholly unnecessary. Due to my mother's fickle nature, my parents would also receive their gifts prematurely.

Although I'm trying again, I'm stoic in my certainty that my mother will actually enjoy , or at least feign enjoyment of the Coach Swingpack I bought for her.

I only wish that my wife would give in to my demands that she open her gifts early to grant me a relief from my current state of mind. Of course, if she does, then I'll never break the curse. Still... the gifts are shaped interestingly, aren't they, dear. Don't you just want to open them?

Please?

In the Interim

I fail to see the appeal of owning a Desert Eagle. It is unwieldily and expensive. The rounds cost an arm and a leg.

I do, however, see the appeal of borrowing your friend's Desert Eagle:

My New Obsession

My wife could tell you with great detail all the things I've abandoned in the time she's known me. Good money I've spent on things I thought might be interesting, then completely lost interest in. Things I may not have had interest in in the first place, but I decided I'd try anyway.

Thankfully for me, she's infinitely patient.

Unfortunately, the things that I really get attached to, I can't stop. And I'm sure it's irritating.

Consider a moment, my newest obsession, sport shooting. I haven't been able to stop talking about it. Of course, I don't have the equipment yet to start competing, but it is important to me that I be able to compete with reasonable equipment, rather than attend the show and pick up the requirements only along the way. Even then, the rubber grips with finger grooves have already gone a long way to fix the problems I've been having with my double action trigger pull.

I'm a good shooter, but I've got a long way to go, and that is exciting, for once, instead of frustrating. And that's why I can't stop.

Games come and go, and thankfully, I've been saving a lot on that. I no longer buy video cards every year (that was an expensive addiction). Slowly... I feel games falling by the way side. And it's not that I want it that way... or that I'm simply lazy, I just feel the need slipping.

Where once a week, I'd spend a night on the couch playing the latest and greatest, I now find myself watching movies. Some I've already seen, some I've foregone in the past for this more interactive media.

I can only pray that this is some sort of phase, as my investment in to these monolithic (the playstation 3 and the xbox360, the wii is slightly less impressive) has been financially great. Not that I couldn't simply sell them, but my love of high definition movies has completely shut down that avenue, which is a good thing. I'm sure that if I did sell any of the consoles, I'd be right back in line, repurchasing them.

An interesting resurgence in my fascination with music has again been brought to my attention, where Souja Boy's dismal Soulja Girl single has stimulated the idea that people without talent need only be in the right place at the right time, Sting's autobiography "Broken Music" has stimulated the ideal that perhaps somewhere, there may be a creative outlet in music for me. Of course, that's sterile conjecture, as my talent for singing is gone and would require a journey to find again, and any instrument that I have an interest in would have to be completely relearned.

Then again... Who knows...

For your consumption,
Evidence that talent is completely optional:



And actually, I have to include this, so you can determine how much of his original single he's cannibalized with this song.
At least this one was fun:

Afterglide Express

I think Jeremy actually may have written this commercial from experience (on the other side of the fence, of course).

Enjoy:

Ch-ch-ch-changes

I'm sure you see the new banner, you obviously see it doesn't really match the old colors.  Obviously, this means one of two things:

1) I'm color stupid (and I am)

2) Site changes coming up (they are)

Pick which one you want.

Yep, that's me, I was working on my sight acquisition times (yes, with a camera), and thought it would be appropriate to change the banner to me, instead of a copyrighted character.

I also learned some things:  Putting your finger on the trigger is the worst way to get a sight picture, a fiber optic front sight will help me greatly, and I seem to be obsessed with this sport.  

A New Religion

Religion has always been an ultimate curiosity for me.  I neither depend on religion for sustenance or strength nor do I look to religion for guidance or reason.  The decisions I make are my own, and that is the way I like it.  

Don't get me wrong, I think it's wonderful when someone finds religion or faith for themselves.

I just hate getting religion pushed upon me.  And I'm sure many feel the same.

The problem I have with religion is the interminable list of provisions that each religion has, based on their specific brand of interpretation of the Bible.  Mormons count, too, even though they have a separate doctrine.  Even as beautiful and measured as the Bible remains when translated in to english, or even King James, there has to be a great measure lost in translation from original scripture to published translation.  And that every religion can nitpick these literal ambiguities and segregate themselves from other churches.  Or perhaps worse, deny the sovereignty of other religions.

I've been thru the Bible a few times.  I can't say it's had any profound effect on me.  Or that any part touched me spiritually.  I have a hard time with faith.  Against my own nature, I am a logical person, and for me, whatever is without irrefutable proof lays about only as theory.  And I don't take bananas or monkeys as proof.  And Kirk Cameron is an idiot.  

I struggled for years to decide whether or not I was atheist or agnostic, pointedly cavalier of my excursions in both sides of this spiritual river, whilst exploring the burgeoning facets of each faith's doctrine.

While each faith is interesting, it's absolutely unbelievable how intolerant to new ideas each believe system is structured to be.

I've settled on agnosticism, on the basis that I don't believe in coincidence.  And that there has to be some higher power than us.  

On that same note, I believe that whatever deity had put us in to existence would probably have used some scientific process and allowed us to evolve.  I also imagine that we can't be the only ones in existence.  If there is a God, and he created the heavens and the earth all for us, there is no reason to have made more than one quadrant.  More than one galaxy even.  It could all have been contained in our galaxy, I'm sure.

I also imagine that these other galaxies have being similar to us.   On planets similar to ours, but in different conditions, for different evolutions.  Maybe that makes us less special, but prove me wrong.  And don't use the Bible.  It doesn't count.  It's been thru too many changes.

To those who would say that the Earth was created in 7 days and that the Earth is not millions of years old, I ask you to keep it out of my face.  Your only proof lay in the Bible, a book you claim written by God, but was actually passed verbally by men until finally scribed.  This during a time when all things were thought to be made up of elements (earth, water, fire and rock).  I imagine if God was telling anyone these things, he'd simplify it for them.  Besides, it doesn't make for good drama:

"In the beginning, God smashed two atoms together, which created a massive explosion and spread out to the farthest reaches of nothing.  Of course, nothing, containing something is no longer nothing.  After millions of years, enough of these particles assemble and create gravity in space.  Or... a planet.  Anyway, after this planet is created, the core (due to seismic tensions) will become super heated and eventually pressure will have to give.  This creates massive explosions, and in the aftermath, due to the proximity (or lack there of) from the sun, this creates atmosphere and water.  Actually, you know what?  This might be a little much for you to take in, maybe I'll explain it to you when you are older."

I propose a new religion:

1)  You can choose to follow or reject any of the scriptures or holy books you choose to based on what you feel is right.  Knowing something is right in your heart but then rejecting that truth is the ultimate "sin", and your punishment will be knowing that your lie is only to yourself and that you and those you love will suffer from this.

2)  You are free to believe any doctrine you'd like, but you will not share your religion's doctrine with anyone unless they ask you.  You will also not be anymore involved in their exploration of  your faith than the one interested allows you to be.  Your faith is private.

3)  You will never exclude anyone from knowledge of these practices, regardless of faith, color, sexual orientation, age, intention or education.  

4)  Organized religions usually have provisions to the acceptance of people to Heaven.  These prejudices maybe fine for Heaven or Hell, but we are on Earth and all of us are humans.  You shall be treated as a human and no aggressive/outward discrimination towards another human for any of the differences specified above will not be tolerated.

5)  Congregations of this idea or belief system are welcome.  Gatherings to share each other's faith are also welcome.  You will not take this idea or belief system and claim tax exempt status or donations.  No money may will made from this doctrine or any publications relating to this doctrine.  Taking donations is also not acceptable under this tenet.  Religion and faith require no economic stability except to corrupt the minds of men, for true faith requires no money and keepers of the faith will not make money from the faith.

These are the five tenets of my doctrine.  I'll call it "The Interfaith Doctrine".  

I only ask that you don't take my faith and distort it for public consumption.

Sorry about the long winded post, I guess I had a lot to say

Locked, Cocked and Ready to Rock

The new Sig Sauer P226 9mm that I picked up finally made its paces at the range today, pulling down 100 rounds without a jam. The only problem that currently exists is with the magazine springs, which are not worn in, yet.  Otherwise, this weapon is a dream.  It also gave me time to work on some of the terrible habits that I've picked up in the interim 5 years since I last fired a weapon at a range.

Those habits, while common, are not difficult to correct, as long as you dedicate a little time and thought to them.  Of course, you have to think about them all the time.

Here are my first 50 rounds at the range maximum 50 Feet:

If you're familiar with firing techniques, you'll note that 1) I'm anticipating the trigger pull 2) I'm flinching and 3) the weapon is not correctly sighted.  The front sight is fine, but the back sight needs a light right adjustment.

I was able to correct, with a little work, most of these problems:

The first round, in the upper left was a combination of the mis-aligned sight and the trigger pull anticipation from first Double action round, I need to work on that first round for sure, if my intention is to try  USPSA tournaments.  The farther out rounds were from the first magazine in that set.  I was working on shooting between breaths correctly and not flinching, mostly because the rounds were bouncing back at my eyes (one landed on my face, behind my glasses).  You'll notice that I corrected most of my flinching problem, and almost all the trigger pull anticipation, leading to a solid midrange grouping.  The sights still need adjustment, but when I adjusted for the sight, I hit the bullseye ring 6 times.

We'll see how it goes from here, I obviously need more work.

New Horizons in Art Appreciation

This is the star of my new favorite show, "Sister Wendy". Her name is Sister Wendy. Her show is in a documentary format--she tours different art museums in the U.S. and Europe and showcases various works of art.
I love Sister Wendy!! She is so enthusiastic about art, and she wants everyone to share her passion. As you can see from the picture, she has buck teeth--but what you can't see is that she has a British accent--and a lisp. What a combination! For some reason, it's very endearing. As one of the reviewers on Amazon said, "You can't help but fall a little bit in love with her". Definitely true, but hard to convey in a written editorial.
Sister Wendy has an amazingly deep understanding of art, and she is really good at explaining her interpretation for anyone to understand. In addition to the lisping British accent, she has amazing vocal range. She doesn't speak loudly, and she really has a small dynamic range, but she is able to make everything she says sound intensely intelligent and important. In one segment, she was talking about a Korean pitcher that had some sculpted figures near the top of the handle, and she mentioned how the Koreans that used it must have felt such joy whenever they went to pour water out of the pitcher. She always likes to make speculations about the people that painted, used, or were some way involved in a work of art.
Another thing I really like about her show is that it isn't religious. She picks a great range of art--ancient Chinese scrolls, Buddhist sculptures, modern female artists (as well as the old standards)--not at all what you would imagine a nun would choose. And she approaches them all with an unbiased and sacred viewpoint.
I tried to find a clip on YouTube to give you an idea, but I wasn't able to find anything good. There is an interview with Bill Moyers on there, which was interesting, but not the same as watching the show. You'll have to get it from Netflix if you want to check it out.

Every Yard is a War

Anyone who knows me from a peripheral standpoint would say that I'm cheap.

I'll fight anyone over 75 cents if it means I win a battle. That's not to say that I'm cheap, though, it's a misconception. People who know me better know that I just really like fighting with people. And in that same manner, if I am undercharged, I will make a point to bring it to their attention.

However, today, I won my war. They let me trade the gun in.



I got a 'nicer' piece. It's slightly larger, with a tactical rail and night sights. Chambered in a 9mm, it's sure to save me money in the long run over ammo. Not that I've ever been a huge fan of the 9mm Parabellum. But it's not like I'm actually going to shoot anyone.

Really.

I promise.

Most Dangerous Game

Shooting is one of those cataclysmically testosterone laden "sports" that it is considered wholly unmanly to say you don't like. Or that after trying, you simply with not to participate further in.

This in mind, I absolutely love it. It's quite a rush when a small explosion leaves the cradled steel centered in the palm of your hand and decimates the piece of paper at the end of the line. The .40 Caliber Smith and Wesson round was a joy to fire, but the .357 sig round was the real winner in my hand.

There is a small problem, however. The used firearm that I purchased from Gander Mountain is malfunctioning, making it wholly unsafe for a target shooting pistol, much less a carry weapon. In 200 rounds, the weapon mis-fired more than 20 times. It is also not sighted correctly, or the barrel sits down and right. Markings on the barrel indicate that this might be more than a problem.

Yes, I did clean and lubricate it prior to shooting.

I can only hope that Gander will take this pistol as a return credit towards the purchase of another weapon. I wholly enjoyed shooting (as I once did), and hope to clear away the bad habits that 5 years away from a range has seen me develop. I'm back to flinching again, which another trip to the range should alleviate. My muzzle control requires a bit of work, since I'm over compensating due to the action of the pistol. The slide forces the pistol up, the explosion back, where a rifle is mostly just back.

A couple of good things remained: My grouping at 25 yards is tight enough that the rounds enter on top of other hits, at 40 yards, this extends out to 4 inches or so, but I, after learning where the weapon should be pointed in relation to the sight, was able to consistently hit the bulls-eye (I mean the X, not the circle).

Overall, I really enjoy the Sig P229, but am sad to say that it has to go. It's a fantastic carry weapon, but given my situation, I doubt I'll be able to buy a Sig used again.

Forgotten Promises

After years of promising myself that I'd buy a handgun, the time has finally arrived. I'm only 3 years later than I had originally intended, and believe me, that is a record of sorts. I'm usually much slower.

I purchased mine, used, at Gander Mountain. Believe me, if there are two characters who look out of place at Gander Mountain, it's me and Bambi.

None the less, the experience was pleasant, and the two gentlemen who helped me Chuck and Tom were very polite and helpful.

My purchase was preowned, but I saved an immense amount of money over new and the gun (it hurts me to use that word, considering how many push ups I've had looked like it was in great shape. Overall, I'm fairly happy with it.

My concern, through my limited firearms experience, is that the weapon was not properly cleaned and lubricated before sale. I'm not sure exactly what their policy on this is, as they did give me a voucher for a free cleaning and inspection, thought you'd assume they'd clean and inspect a weapon they purchased to resell yes?

Anyway, I'm headed to the range on Saturday. My brother and his friend in tow. We'll put a few down. I'll try to remember my camera.

You Dirty Son of A Bitch

There has been a lot of debate as to whether or not Sony should be replacing a certain someone's Playstation 3 under warranty for free or for $150.

At first, on this debate, I sided with the crowd who said "Yes, they should fix it for free, it's their shit." That is, I was, until I saw pictures.






At The Consumerist, where I got these pictures, there is a debate and a poll about this same subject. The poll stands at about 55/45 in favor of Sony replacing this disgusting monolith for free. My personal belief is that this person's neglect of general maintenance has contributed to the failure of the unit. It doesn't take much to wipe off your Playstation 3, much less occasionally blow out dust, as I do with all 3 of my consoles, my surround sound system and my television.

The general rule of thumb, or rule of wrist in this situation, is that taking care of your shit makes it last longer. That's why, after a year and a half of service, my delightful MacBook and my wife's 2 year old Sony laptop are both in relatively good condition (I have stress cracks on the corner of my notebook, due to a poor choice in plastics, my wife's computer is mint) and my brother's Dell is duct taped at the hinges and around the monitor. At around the same age.

He believes that he will wring out another 6 months.

I just disassembled it to remove a screw mount that was rolling around and causing leads to short and smoke.

Fox News stuck their big nose into the Playstation 3 fuckup's situation, too. I don't know if you'd heard about it.

They used an actor to portray the guy.

Why? Probably because this guy knows he'd never get another date once someone figured out how abso-fuckin'-lutely filthy he is.

Update: I don't actually believe that the kid on fox news is the kid with the nasty ps3. In the off-chance that I'm wrong, I hope this shit kills his career.

An Oddity of Sorts

My brother has always had an interest in firearms. Actually, interest would be blunting the Katana.

My brother is obsessed with guns.

I've always had more than a passing interest myself, as the amount of engineering that goes in to each and every one of those things is incredible. That and they are really fun to shoot at a range.

My personal experience with firearms are limited to the M16A2 (bang bang), the M249 SAW (tukka tukka tukka), the M92f (Beretta) 9mm (Pop pop), and the M82 Barrett 50 Cal (BOOM!).

It was enjoyable, but grim experience when the only thing your told is that you're going to have to do this to a person someday.

It's an entirely different feeling to think that you can purchase one and do it to a piece of steel or paper instead, and no one is firing back at you. Or over you.

I have an irrational fear that my permit to purchase will be denied by the fair city of Apple Valley. I've never been arrested for anything. And still I worry.

Here's the one I picked out:


Only problem is... after that one... there are 10 more.

The Fine Print

Today, thanks to the pursuit of a dollar, everything has guarantees and fine print attached to it.

Everything is Free* (*after mail-in rebate, which you will never see).

Or Risk Free* (* if not satisfied with the product, contact our customer service and they'll call you a liar, you'll pay $5 dollar processing fee and not get a return on shipping and handling).

Or Guaranteed!* (Under ridiculous terms we specify that cannot possibly be met or proven so we can provide a more marketable claim).

Example:
Jeremy is Guaranteed!* to pee in your overnight bag. (*You will have to clean it up)


Case and point:
I am in the market for a fire-proof (or as reasonably as possible) safe. Sentry makes a "Fire-Safe", which one would assume means, as it is heavy and unwieldy, means that it can withstand being left in your house during the event of... say... a fire. One expects that the outside of the safe would undoubtably be damaged, as it does have a keypad for electronic entry.

One does not expect, however, that the safe is only guaranteed for 1 hour of fire conditions.

What the fuck does that mean?

Does that mean from the moment my house starts on fire? Or from the moment the safe is engulfed in flames? Isn't the point of buying the fire-safe to keep your belongings (notably, paperwork indicating the ownership of the house) safe from a... ahem... fire? Since it is 100 pounds, does that mean I have to try to bring it with me while I'm half asleep and escaping from the inferno?

Should I go back for it?

Am I supposed to document the fire? How long it takes from the initial spark to my house being cinders on the ground? Does that mean I'm supposed to record this? What the fuck? I need to find my video camera now?

The point is, "fire-safe" is misleading. Safe with 1 hour of fire resistance is much more accurate, yet, less marketable. But the terms of the fire resistance are not outlined on the box.

If I find the asshole that puts that shit together, I'm going to give him a guaranteed* kick in the balls.

(*I'll do it)

Reversed Consumerism

One of the interesting ideals behind our society is that everyone will get paid incredible amounts of money for everything they do, and never have to pay for what they want later.

I think of the music industry as a wild representation of this ideal. And the reality of it, as well.

Music is saturated with idiots who produce a generic product in the pursuit of your dollar, and because the industry that supports this model believes that the only way to maintain profitability is to find a bunch of acts that all look and sound like each other, or in Nickleback's case, like themselves, we're stuck with this as a mainstream product.

Several attempts have been made at producing a more marketable way of taking independent artists and bringing them to the public, but nothing works without some sort of airplay or exposure.

That, and everyone wants good, free music.

The problem with the statement above is interesting. The thing is, I like paying for music. I like knowing that an artist who produces quality material is getting paid because I enjoyed his product and I purchased it. The problem is that good albums are really few and far between. Thank Steve Jobs for iTunes. Not that everyone uses it.

But the idea is just the same.

Today, hip hop is infused with the idea that money can be made quickly if you follow the instructions.

First, you write and record and album. Then, you ditch 3 tracks off that album and you replace them with 3 standard tracks: The Guest Producer song (where Timbaland or Just Blaze create a great sounding and original beat with a hook that disguises your substandard rap ability), the Slow Jam (optional, but the ladies love a slow jam), and finally, the collaboration track. You start the track, but everyone in the middle make the song (right now, it'd be Akon, Kanye, T-Pain, Ne-Yo, Jay-Z, Chris Brown and/or Trey Songs).

This guarantees the album will sell 200,000 copies, even if you spend the last 45 minutes of the album humming.

And since hip hop is the antithesis of rock, the formula there is significantly different. You write an album, everything must sound the same, and be catchy. Then you release your first album and the single in the same 8 weeks, then you release another single at the end of 3 months from the release of your single. Then that's it. Wait for your sales, or not. It's much more hit and miss, which is why you get so many more hip hop artists on the top 40 than rock.

And yet, knowing all this, I paid 5 dollars for an album without listening to it. Without a middle man. No brick and mortar store. No ad campaign. Just hype. I heard it from someone. And Trent Reznor was involved.

If you haven't purchased the album, you can download it for free, but I think you'll agree that it's worth the $5, at least to support the idea that suing your customers isn't the best way to make money.

The Inevitable Rise and Liberation of Niggy Tardust

Nothing says trust me like a free trial.

Pride of our Children; an open letter

Dear Sir or Madam,

As your son makes his honorable journey throughout the trenches, it is most important that he can depend on your for support.

Day after day, only the love and confidence you provide will enable him to do the duty he so nobly accepted. The times spent thinking and believing that there is a home, and a free world, enables him compassion. Acceptance will provide your son humanity.

Those of us who have served previously under these conditions knows there is no secret to managing the day to day events, only faith and courage.

In to the tremendous cloud of perfume from a member of the marketing department, we together will march in, and with your support, out as men. And as brothers.

Captain Ronald C. Gunz
Commanding

In Pursuit of Happiness

This morning at 0530, my alarm sounded the FFVII Victory theme in an attempt to tell me that it was time to wake up and to do the things I had promised myself I would do when I set my alarm to 0530.

This morning at 0530, while I was trying to reach the alarm and quiet it before my wife was disturbed I looked at the window and noticed that it was much brighter outside that I was used to. The new flood lights next door were too bright.

This morning at 0530, the room now silent, I had a decision to make. Do I reset my alarm and enjoy 25 more minutes of extensible sleep?

This morning at 0531, my eyes wide open and the new flood light blaring in my eyes the way a catholic school teacher would scream in to your ears for talking during class. With a ruler.

Besides... I just bought an iPod Nano Fatboy, specifically for this reason:


This morning at 0534, I was up and dressed... and stretching... preparing myself for a run I didn't want.

This morning at 0540, I was running. I'm horribly out of shape and I know that I'm only punishing myself for that fact. I'm running hard and there is pain in my chest and legs and jaw. It hurts when I breathe.

This afternoon, still sore, my breathing still raspy and painful... I made a decision... a phone call.

"Apple Valley Medical Center Appointment Line, how can I help you?"

"I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Widdifield, please."

"And the problem?"

"I think I have asthma."

Quantum Leap

Dr. House would say, "It is a universal truth of the human condition that everyone lies."

I say, "It is a universal truth to the human condition that anyone near a tape recorder has faked their own radio station. Especially after that Christian Slater movie."

I know I had one. I know people who had one regardless of what they would tell you... I've heard the proof.

I also know my wife had one. She still has all 8 volumes... I had the pleasure of listening to volume 1 and 2, well most of two. I'll give you a summary. Interesting side-story: I had to buy a tape player to listen, the only other tape player we have is in our old Jetta.

Tape one was more or less an introduction in to the psyche of my lovely wife and her best friend. Their show is a talk show, initially, though it grows in to so much more. At first, the callers (who are always from some "new" place, e.g. New Brighton, New York, or the fictional New Claire, even though the station is supposedly located in New York) call about their problems and as for advice. Tax advice... lifestyle advice... which is all delivered matter-of-factly.

Later, as my wife and her friend get bored with the formula, they start introducing contests for 3 day and 4 night or 3 night and 4 days, depending on when you catch them, at some resort... or a cruise. The catch? You'd have to call in and confess things like your most embarrassing moment, or things you'd gotten away with, and to this date, none were the wiser.

The funny part about this is celebrities would call in to the show and tell their darkest secrets for a shot at the cruise. Kathy Ireland (Remember her?) was a highlight. Some of the callers were from other parts of the country... or from other countries altogether, like Slavia, Sharon McKenzie, and E-beth-a-liz (her accent is terrific).

Later on, they started having celebrity guests and playing bits of music. I say bits of music... but what I really mean is snippets... like 20 seconds. The best part of this: when my wife (I say my wife, but it's really a little girl who grows up to be my wife) shuts off the song, but her best friend continues singing... because she was singing to the music.

Speaking of singing, the station's name is KWAT. The jingle goes "K-W-A-T, New York's radio station!"

A couple of highlights:
Guest Stars- My wife's sisters make cameo appearances. Steph, especially, is Dick Van Dyke. When asked to make a summary of her movie "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang", rather than give the short summary, gives a detailed summary going on upwards around 10 minutes. Halfway thru, my-then-future-wife tries to cut her off, only succeeding in provoking Steph in to shouting her story. At this point, my wife™ and her sisters start singing the "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" theme. It's ends up an absolute hodge podge. Her Arnold Schwarzenegger is fantastic, too.

Again with the voices- Some of the accent work is funny. Some of it is hilarious.

Judge Quanaleap- I wish I was making this up. Somewhere along the way, the formula changes a bit and they host a divorce court type of show, where two people argue about their supposed "love lives" and Judge Quanaleap shouts "silence" over everyone. All of it is a waste, of course, because Judge Leap doesn't even do any deciding, it goes to a jury, who's deliberations cover everything from "Pay 1 million dollars", to "stay away from him", to "figure it out for yourselves."

A bit of seriousness- A couple of times, they stop for a "60 second news break." In the earlier tapes, the updates were about the very serious "Oklahoma City Bombing," although at one point, the suspected bomber is named "Anomonous," because "We forgot his name."

And sisters being sisters, again- When you were younger, there was nothing you wanted to do more than be with your older siblings, and do what they were doing. At one point, Erin and Stephanie start complaining about wanting to be on the radio show, so Gina, says "You're the janitor, you can't be on the show. We've been to college for this." Then, Stephanie chimes in (at 8 years old), "Hey, you're only in seventh gr-" and the tape stops. Later, you get insight into their creative processes, and how they come up with the Quanaleap show, which changes from "Love Court" to "Love Jury", while they're shouting ideas over each other, you can hear poor Steph yelling "I wanna play (such and such character)."

All and all, I know you did it. Hell, I did it, too.

I promise some audio, once I do a capture.

A Fusion of the Blades

5 blades seems a bit much for the razor, doesn't it?

Especially a battery powered gimmick like the power fusion.

At my particularly disappointing trip to Sam's Club today, I did not find my brand of razors... the Quattro. Not that it's anything special, it really seems more like ripping your hair out of your face than shaving. It's just what I'm used to.

But there weren't any there. So I settled. And tried something new.

The Power side of the fusion is a gimmick. Those "micropulses" they keep talking about? It fucking vibrates. Don't buy in to it. But the 5 blades provide a reasonably comfortable shave. And it's closer than what I was used to.

I'd give it the full work out, but there is no way I'm putting this vibrating stick of death near my crotch. But you can take my review for what it is. I'm switching to this blade.

Call 911.

Time to Forget What Your Momma Told You

As much fun as I have discussing politics, there is one continuing issue that won't die.

Larry Craig.

I write this entry with the distant hopes that Larry Craig will search "Larry Craig is Gay" or "We don't believe you, Larry Craig" or "OMG are you fucking kidding me? Why doesn't Larry Craig resign, because nobody believes that he's not guilty". We all know that everyone one over 35 types in full sentences and questions in to search engines.

In the very unlikely event that Larry Craig does come upon this entry, I'll start off with this. It doesn't matter whether or not you're gay. Everyone in your party has decided for you. "I am not gay" is the new "I want to keep my republican job." There's nothing wrong with gay. Be proud, if you are.

And yet... let's disassemble your story. We'll even use the "Even if Larry Craig is telling the truth scenario."

So... you're in a Minneapolis airport, dropping your deuce. You assume a wide stance and accidentally knock boots with the undercover officer. You also manage to drop invisible toilet paper (that happens, I think I drop stuff all the time), and in your frantic search for said toilet paper, you accidentally make the "I wish to have gay sex with the person next door to me, regardless of the fact that I've never seen you before in my life" sign. It happens to the best of us. Ask Jeremy.

Then, you go to court. And rather than refute charges and say, "I am a man with a wide stance and I dropped some invisible toilet paper. I am not guilty," you thought it would be wiser to plead guilty, without any legal advice or even PR advice from your staff. Later, when the media outlets you were afraid of giving a juicy story to, pick up that this story and instead make it a nationwide deal, your plan was to undermine the justice system you were sworn to protect and retract your plea.

You promised to resign if your plea wasn't dismissed, and when it wasn't dismissed, instead held on to your position for dear life. You are also appealing. You party has given no support, a good portion of them calling you immoral and a liar, and yet, you're still there. You're a promise breaker and a liar. And you like to try to hide things, publicly.

The worst part about it is that I think less of you in this situation than if you were looking for anonymous gay sex in a Minneapolis public bathroom who pled guilty because you were guilty of what you were trying to do, although, in doing what you were trying to do, you hadn't even done anything illegal. Well... sodomy is technically illegal here, but let's face it, that's an outdated law. And you hadn't gotten to that part yet. Instead, you say your party has thrown you to the lions.

You couldn't just say, "I'm sorry, I lied. I am gay and I was looking for gay sex. I lied because I was embarrassed and I was afraid that no one would elect a gay republican. I lied and I wasted valuable taxpayer time and money. I lied and I took the nation's attention away from greater issues than whether or not I am gay. Issues like where our taxes are going and the situation in Iraq. I can only ask the people who had supported me in the past. It's obvious that I am not who you thought I was, but there is a need for change in me, and there is a need for change in America. And a need for acceptance. I pray that you'll forgive me for my weaknesses. For not believing that you were all more tolerant and responsible. For undermining your confidences. I do not intend to resign, and can only hope that the service I've provided you in the past, and the rest of the actions I take in the future can speak for the kind of America I believe in."

You can have that one, if you want. I won't charge.

Funny thing is. You're not going to be re-elected anyway. You know it. Your staff knows it. If they're telling you that you will, fire them, they're lying.

Hey. And have a nice day.

Thank you for your money

Why is it that people running chinese restaurants always seem so upset? Lee Ann Chin's doesn't count, it's not real chinese.

But if you run your own little operation, your little corner of suburbia where people are magically transported to a place where the food isn't anywhere close to authentic, but it's cheap, you should be pretty god damned happy that I'm there in the first place.

I don't want free fucking wontons, or cream puffs or whatever. I just want a fucking smile.

Don't look at me disgusted. There are 2 people standing in your chinese restaurant. You... and me.

And you don't have to take my money. If you don't like me. I could go to the equally disgusting Eddie Cheng. Or the fan-fucking-tastic 1st Wok. Make up your mind. Do you want my money or not?

You don't have to take it. You do own the restaurant, don't you?

I just don't know what I'm missing in the equation.

Is there a secret handshake?

The Secret Wonton Handshake?

A Legal Solution

I was listening to the radio today and they spoke of rapper T.I.'s arrest for federal gun charges. This sparked a debate with my friend as to whether or not they were only trying to make an example out of T.I. for other celebrities, because of his current status on the rap charts.

My conclusion? My friend is an idiot. And so are you, if you side with him. The reason he got caught might be due to his currently popularity. Carrying firearms to public events is a pretty surefire way to be caught. Religious convictions aside, you'd never catch MC Hammer carrying a firearm to an event. Why? He doesn't get invited.

But we can solve the problem to everyone's satisfaction.

Lindsay Lohan. Paris Hilton. Britney Spears. Nicole Richie. Michael Vick. L'il Wayne. T.I. DMX.

Q: What do all these people have in common?

A: They are all celebrities who are in trouble with or have been in trouble with the law. All celebrities who have been defended by fans who said it was either "Racism, Blatant Racism" or that they were a "scapegoat" or an "example to others".

To these people who are publicly defending these celebrities, I hope you understand that if you had done the same thing, you'd have gone to jail for a much longer period of time than they have/will.

To the celebrities on the list, I can only repeat the solid legal advice that was already provided by Jim Carrey, in the fantastic Liar Liar.

"Quit breaking the law, asshole."

A Quick Break

I was just introduced to something awesome...

Something you have to see to believe...

Just... Go

Hot Chicks with Douchebags!

What's In a Name?

I understand some certain inevitabilities about life. But really... stereotypes go to far.

I completely understand that my last name is Gunz. It's not an easy one to live with.

But do you really expect that I always carry a firearm? Sure, I've got a cache of weapons at home and a conceal and carry, but those are for legitimate purpose. I have my rights.

But I don't always carry them with me. Or any of them for that matter. It's just not convenient.

And so many buildings have that sign that says I can't. To the guys who think they can, no, you can't. Whether it's a mall, or a store, or an office, it's private property. You're an idiot.

So it's just easier for me not to carry one. Stop asking me.

Trial of Nuance

Ang- "Your Honor, the prosecution contends that the defense is, in fact, a "meanie."

Judge- "Defense, do you have an attorney representing you today?"

Gunz- "No, Your Honor. I am representing myself."

Judge- "And your response to these allegations?"

Gunz- "Your Honor, although the prosecution feigns at contention, I think it's also important to note that the prosecution has had a piece of steel shot through her face. I don't believe the prosecution is qualified to assign such a quality to myself. Also, if you'd refer to my previous case, Jeremy Afterglide vs Spaz the cat, which I represented the defense Pro Bono, Ang is a documented "poopy-head". More recently, it is important to note that she is very sweaty, and may be required by the state to switch to Mitchum brand deodorant."

Judge- "Mr. Gunz, you've certainly done your research."

Gunz- "I believe I have your honor."

Judge- "I rule in favor of Mr. Gunz, and his undeniable logic."

Ang- "Hey that's not fair! He is a "Meanie!" Capital "M" and all!"

Gunz- "That may be so, but this is my blog."



Here's to making my co-worker's girlfriends hate me. Cheers.

Let's talk about this for a second

To me, there is a definition of Mod or Modify:
make partial or minor changes to (something), typically so as to improve it or to make it less extreme.

You can mod a shelf... or your kitchen... or your car (spoilers and body kits don't count as mods unless your car goes faster than 160 miles per hour).

You cannot however, mod yourself. Or at the very least, what you consider "Modding" is fucking retarded, so stop calling it that.

Really, I know when we were all young and we wanted to be unique we could do things that maybe no one else accepted. But it's not unique, you know. It seems like 50% of women have themselves "tramp stamped" and there are a good portion of retards out there with the "barbed-wire bicep" disease.

At least those are concealable. You could live your entire life and never let any one know that you did that.

But sticking shit in your face? Why does that seem like a good idea? How is that individual? I bet your friends did it.

And to all of you out there with industrials, creating larger holes in your face; You know what you are?

You're a Dodge Neon with a soup can and an aluminum spoiler.

Centennial

Our friend Eric the Pirate on "talk like a pirate day":

Dreaming about peeing:

I've never seen one of these that wasn't punched in. The button is below it, you retards:

I beg to differ:

 The Mitchum Ad People Suck:

In Retrospect

An interesting segway of my "childhood", when file sharing maintained a pseudo-legal status (mostly that no one was getting sued), I managed to stay away from television.

Not all of it, obviously I was watching star trek, but I didn't see a single music video for any song between 1995 and 2001. Internet radio stations... or "Shoutcasts" had taken up a majority of my time (because actual file sharing was too tedious over dial up) and a lot of the music really appealed to me.

But what was I missing?

A lot.

Thanks to YouTube, I can go back in to my past and replay all those lost musical moments. Let's just say I'm glad I missed them when I did.

Everyone was retarded.

Seriously... no socially redeeming aspects to any of them.

I'll prove my point. I'm a huge Sting fan, so it pains me to do this.

For the stupid hair alone.

Sincerest Form of Flattery

I love the McFlurry™.

To me, on the market, on any market, there is no more blatant a rip off of another company's developed and successful product. Even beyond the iPod clones.

I was working at McDonald's when they rolled out the McFlurry™, I know what kind of shit they were trying to pull.

Here's how it works, they fill a cup full of their signature ice cream, then they drop some topping on top. Then, they stick a special spoon in to the mix, which clips in to the McFlurry™ machine and is supposedly going to stir your McFlurry™ until it realizes a near Blizzard™ consistency.

But the reality of it is that the person that's making your McFlurry™ doesn't give two shits about how your McFlurry™ tastes because he makes $6.25 an hour... and the only reason he got that is because he's a crew lead (meaning he's the only one of the 10 people they hired over the summer that didn't quit with the coming school year).He held the McFlurry™ in the machine just long enough to make it look like he made an effort. But he didn't. The only thing mixed at the bottom is the ice cream and the little bit of topping the McFlurry™ spoon took to the bottom.

Enjoy your delicious McFlurry™.

Speaking of Potatoes

Did you know that a micro-waved potato is the 3rd hottest thing on the planet, following Thermite and Molten Steel.

What's that you say? Not true?

Tell that to the roof of my mouth.

What More Can I Say to You?

I like music. A lot more than I should.

If you had known me in high school, you'd think I was a raving ego maniac. And it's true. I was, mostly because of my above average vocals. I'm still an ego maniac, but there's less to back up my claims now.

I'm still not a bad singer, but I'm certainly not good enough to do anything with it, anymore. My last high school choir instructor (we had three) has even been quoted saying, "A real shame. He had a lot of potential. The true definition of a 'never was'."

Which is absolutely true. And had I gone to a vocal instructor and learned all the tricks of the trade, like the inward cough, I might even be singing in a semi-professional/professional capacity. Possibly in an opera. I could have been that good.

But I've met some of the people who sing professionally. Not even I was that bad. I don't think I could have done it. Not while still maintaining my current bad attitude. I'm kind of glad things are the way they are.

The only problem is that I can't let go of music.

I never had the kind of training required to go anywhere with it, though.

I can barely read music (I only read tenor clef). I can't play the piano. My wife is a musician, it makes things that much more discouraging when it comes to actually doing something about the crap that rattles around my head.

I hear it, and it goes quickly. I can see why people think composers are insane. They are. I feel like I'm going crazy with all of this rattling around. Worse yet, if I get it out, is it mine? Or did I steal it from someone?

I try to tell my wife what it's like, but I feel bad. I feel like I'm offending her, or that she thinks I'm crazy.

But, then, am I deluding myself? Is it just my ego? Or my inability to let go of the things that aren't anymore?

Wow... this is all so depressing. I didn't think this post would end up this serious. I'll say something to lighten the mood.

Potato.

Continued Torment

Do you have sibling? Many siblings? Do they break your shit?

Mine does. It's non stop. Even now that I've moved out of my parents' house.

He's broken things you wouldn't believe, studio quality headphones, infinity speakers, VCRs, game controllers, computers, airsoft guns, cameras... the list goes on. It does.

Trust me.

We had him over on Sunday for a bit of Ole Piper. It's good, old fashioned greasy pizza. Tastes good, but eating in the restaurant is not a pleasant experience. We elected to eat at my house.

During the course of the meal, my brother made it a point to declare his loves for olives, black and green. Feeling seasoned, I determined the time to be right to introduce my junior sibling to the Kalmata variety. I pulled out the jar and my olive pitter, I then deftly pitted the olive in question and placed the olive pitter in the sink. I handed him the olive, and I'd say he enjoyed it.

Dinner wrapped up, and we were about to head out. I ran to the latrine and finished up my business. I walk back in to the kitchen, and there's my brother. Looking out of sorts.

"What's up?"

"Your olive pitter broke."

A Missing Chapter

Does anybody but me actually admin to enjoying Star Trek?

I thought not, but I'm going to tell you about some little revelation I had. In the first and second seasons of every Star Trek show, they have no idea what the fuck they're doing. Well, maybe on Enterprise, which might explain the lack of charm people felt towards the whole show.

The first season of The Next Generation, or TNG, was rife with poor acting and bad ideas. Picard's character was written as the anti-Kirk, but Stewart play him just like Kirk, down to the pauses between words... or mid-words, as it were. There were rehashes of Original Series, or TOS, episodes and homages that went way past homages and straight in to bludgeoning. All of the character motives lacked any subtleties or clever nuances that kept the viewers interested in later episodes.

In short, it's fascinating to watch, and god-damned hilarious.

But I'm going to focus on one episode in particular. An episode I had no idea even existed until 2001 or so.

Season 1, Episode 25.

In this Episode, an Admiral comes to take the Enterprise away from Picard to use for his own devices. During all of this, they discover that the Admiral is actually an alien, whoo took over the Admiral's body and was trying to make the Enterprise a part of an alien fleet loyal to the aliens who had taken over bodies in the upper echelons of Star Fleet's ranking staff.

Before this episode, there is never a mention of any aliens or this plot, mostly due to the caustic nature of the show in it's infancy. I'm willing to deal with this.

But they never mention this again. Ever. Not even in stagnant conversation.

Like during a poker game.

"Commander, do you remember at the end of the first year, when all hell broke the fuck loose?"

"No, and neither should you. Raise, indiscriminate amount, regardless of the fact that we don't have currency."

It made me hope that it would come back and bite them in the ass later... but I didn't even get that satisfaction.

Instead... we got the Borg.

And someone stopped doing drugs.

DIY Your Life

My father was never what you'd call a "handy" man. Thanks to that, neither was I.

I've tried to be, lately, with The Wife's father's help. And I've have some successes. And some longer term failures.

The work I did solo, on the shower, was a tremendous success. I had help with the kitchen sink (which I'd discovered recently, actually leaks). But guess what, I know how to fix it. That's right, this morning, I found inspiration on one of my two favorite places to think.

I always do my best thinking in bed, just before sleep claims my consciousness. My second muse inducing spot? Like any other man, it's on the can.

This morning, that's where I got the idea that perhaps, just maybe... the water pressure is too high. I never stopped to put two and two together, but there it is. And you know what? It's gonna work. I always get this feeling when I'm right.

That's why it always seems like I'm right, Gina, because I generally don't push if I'm not sure.

And yet, here I am, nervous like a school boy who might have written something particularly nasty about a teacher he was attracted to and not realized that she had just walked by (Kurt, if you're out there, you remember what I'm talking about).

I'm willing to cut a hole in a wall, jam my arm thru some fiberglass (which, I've discovered, I'm extremely allergic to) and re-pipe the bathroom, caution to the wind, "who cares about water damage"? But the idea of opening up my Xbox360, a $250 dollar item, has me in a cold sweat.

It's Alanis Morissette's definition of Ironic.

Distended Elation

I no longer want an iPod touch.

The lack of an "Add Event" to calendar feature just kills me.

Really, Apple, what the fuck?

Domestic Disturbance

At Jeremy's "Beat the Heat with Meat and Alcohol" shindig, I had a great time.

We had beer. And Hamburgers. And hot dogs.

Mrs. Gunz loves hot dogs.

When she asked me to get a hot dog, the last time, there were none on the grill. I asked Jeremy if there were anymore hot dogs, and he dutifully (as the host of the party) threw on some hot dogs. I set off to deliver the news. Her response?

"Are you back without a hot dog?"

These are My Confessions, Part 1

I still like listening to Mambo No. 5

This one is for Jeremy

The video embedded below contains adult content, poop references, and overall poor taste. However, when I saw it, I could not help but to think that this was Jeremy (Jerry, Jeremy, coincidence? I think not.) during his sophomore year of high school.

Not Safe for Work. Viewer Discretion is advised.



/Do you like to skateboard?

A Little Bit of Clarity

My brother-in-law has just completed his 15th annual "I'm not dead award" appearance, and with this year, he begins his first year of high school.

I've done more than my share of reminiscing lately, but it's such a trip to remember things, only because they're better than when they actually happened.

I was young, but I knew things. I figured out in middle school what Simon has now realized... a full 8 years before your average human being figures it out. It makes him miserable now, but he'll see. He'll understand one day that it is the path to enlightenment.

My wife stifled her own laughter as he realized his conclusion, which she repeated to me in confidence.

"I don't see the point of getting up in the morning. It's like, I get up, I go to school, I come home, I do homework, I sleep, I get up and go to school all over again. Then I'll go to college, and after college, I'll be at a job, and it's always the same thing."

See, my brother-in-law has got an easy life. As frugal as his parents are, he doesn't understand that supporting yourself these days means becoming a slave to the economy, and the only pleasure we can get out of not blowing our brains out and instead living our near automatic lives, is becoming a consumer and buying some really cool shit. Or for some of us, having lots of children.

So they can have cool shit.

Or you could live with your parents until you're 50 and they die. Whatever. Then you'd sound like this kid:

I Used to be so Popular

As my traffic dwindles slowly to a close, I realize that the only thrill out of making my two mnspeak appearances were that someone I didn't know was reading my posts.

That said, I had given thought recently to closing this project down, but the truth is, I like it too much. People I don't know still read this occasionally, though I do get the random weekly hit looking for some incest porn.

I enjoy having an outlet for these things.

On to the show:

My high school years were a veritable crapshoot. On one day, I felt like the coolest person alive, on others, like no one even knew I existed. It was a pseudo-depression in a bi-polar sense, and we all went thru it.

The problem is, while I wasn't a "popular kid", I was still friends with the popular kids. I never had people over, and the few people who finally did purchase enough rewards points to catch even a sighted glimpse of my humble abode were rarely allowed inside.

Between this, and my random stints and strong friendships with members of the gothic and gay cliques in high school, I became a sort of mysterious figure. Never had I really been skinny, nor terribly fat, my peers were always intimidated by the seemingly limitless bounds my weight training teacher who conjure for his entertainment. (On more than one occasion he threatened me with an F if I didn't "push my limits", these days, that'd get you sued.)

Football players and computer geeks alike would venture to the weight room at the end of the week to see what my max was in the bench press. (280, by the way, before the class was over for the semester. I still hold the sophomore bench press record there.)

This kind of notoriety really set me apart from everyone. Between that, being in drama, the math team, the chamber choir, and a video production virtuoso, no one really knew what to make of me. So, I was popular in some classes and shunned in others.

But then I had my group of outcasts. My best friends. People who thru thick and thin would always be there. Would support me in failure and tell me that I deserved each success. Who did not care what accolades I had except that they were MY accolades, and that they believed they deserved recognition.

These same friends... I've made no attempt to contact during the last 6 years, until now. And I don't know where to start.

Some friend I turned out to be.

Garr... Clarkie... If you're out there. I'm looking for you.

The Duality of Man

I want everything.

I want an easy life, and a beautiful struggle.

I want happiness and tragedy.

I want to fit in, but not be part of the crowd.

I want to do everything, but I still want to learn.

I want to earn everything, but I want it given to me.

This is why we're never happy. This is why we always should be.

A now a break from our regularly scheduled programming

I go back and read this blog and it's all very interesting to me.

It has evolved beyond me. It's a part of my ego, the need to be better than myself.

I can admit descent however.

Things I can't do as well as I used to. I used to sing. Some would say better than your average human.

Things I never could do. I never could act.

Things I'll never be.

And I'm still a kid at heart, sort of. My parents think I was deprived of childhood too early. Not in the "grow up, you have to run the house now, we're divorced sense" but the "you can't sleep over, you can't play contact sports and you can't go out with your friends" sense. I did the later ones a few times. I would have been an incredible football player.

I might have even gone to some small school on a partial or full scholarship for it. That's irony.

Because of the way my life panned out, I have a small addiction to escapism.

Actually, it's not even escapism. Just the option to find it.

Instant gratification and all that.

I buy a lot of games. And I apologize to my wife for that fact. It's money, I know. And I should stop. I'm trying.

At least it's not stamp collecting.

Not sure where you've been

A short one today:

During a quick outing to Sam's Club, I happened to walk past a woman yelling at her child. This happens a lot in my life, but one thing she said irked me.

"I didn't raise you to be a pain in the ass."

I hate it when parents say that. Yes, you did.

You may not know it, but you did. Are your kids under 15? You're wholly responsible for what a pain in the ass they are. You're in denial.

Two steps:
1) Whup his ass. Sure, you go to jail for that sort of thing these days, but we need to bring this limited form of corporal punishment back. Our kids NEED it.

2) Put the fear of YOU in them. I turned out pretty good, and I did my fair share of stupid shit, but when it came down to it, I was more afraid of disappointing my father than I was being called a chicken.

Another piece of advice: If your kids are incapable of behaving themselves when they're out and about, leave them at home. Find someone to watch them. Your husband didn't want to be there, I can tell by the look on his face. The threat of getting another "I didn't raise you to be a..." lecture isn't kidding anyone.

Especially not your offspring.

Pictures from this years Concrete and Grass. Picture Link goes to Flickr Set.

Modesty Forlorn

I can no longer utilize the rest room facilities at work.

While Jeremy certainly spent days making a ruckus over the "ass joint", I had never come to believe any of these fables. I had always thought he was creating some drama for his blog's sake.

Yesterday, however, left me in disbelief. Seeing what I have seen, I now know that there is one sick (both in a physical and psychological sense) son of a bitch working here.

I can say no more without compromising my Taco Bell.

Just trust me.

Don't ever use the bathroom here.

Advice for Those of Us Who Choose to Live Vicariously Thru the Young at Heart

Parents, fresh off the first day of school (not that any respectable parent is actually reading this), you're certain to have asked your child how their first day of school was. And your child, new clothes, new shoes and new glasses for some, shot back, "I don't want to talk about it."

What the hell? Who bought the clothes they are wearing? Or the food they're looking for in the kitchen? Who is the one looking for second mortgage and refinancing options to make sure that your little ungrateful crotchfruit (I had to use this today) gets the opportunity to booze and find rampant sexual promiscuity at the university that is willing to take their negative, lazy asses.

Where's the respect?

Now I know you don't expect to have to foot the bill, and that your little saving grace is going to 180 themselves and make 80 a year right out the gate with the career path you've picked out for them. I have some bad news for you, though. They don't want to be a psychologist. And really, don't you think the lawyer market is saturated.

Your little mushroom probably wants to be an actor. Or a singer. Or an artist.

But you don't have the heart to tell them they aren't good at these things.

And that they'll be in college for 3 years before they figure out what they want to do. And it will be another 3 before they finish, because their credits don't apply to that degree.

My advice to you? Your kid's a little brat, but put up with it. Correcting that behavior will get you put in jail these days. Just make sure they don't sucker you in to paying for college.

It's Not Communism

There is a key to success. I figured it out years ago, when I was pondering the great Plebian question of life.

In order to be a "have", you must be willing to create and keep "have nots".

It does not change for situation. Regardless of who you are. If you have money, the only way to keep having money is by not letting other people have your money.

And it's a far cry from the dream they sell to you in school or on TV. The dream where you work really hard and someday, when you're about 30, you'll get rewarded with millions of dollars and everything is going to be fine.
But we can't tell everyone that it's not true when they're younger, or they're not going to want to work. And the people who have already figured out my message have already started to abuse welfare, because they can eat and clothe themselves and their children. Any calls to force such people to work are met with arguments of assumed racism.

But being a have not isn't all bad.

We work hard for our possesions, but we can sleep at night.

My food tastes better, knowing that it didn't come at the price of someone else's.

Life is ok, but we need to stop living in some dream, before it becomes a nightmare. And I will happily work every day for the rest of my life.

Because there are countries where the dream is different.

Where if you work really hard, you might be able to eat tonight.

Just Ain't Satisfactionin' Me

All this reminiscing about days past has got me awful contemplative about times past and the meaning of life.  Or, really the progression of life.

The worst thing about time passing is that there is no substance to it.  There is nothing left of it as it passes.

Are we corporeal beings?  Or do we simply experience things in our existence in a sequential manner because it makes the most sense to us?  Do we have any control over our futures, or is this all just played out in a sequence, like a gigantic symphony?

The weirdest part about the whole experience is the nostalgia you feel.  Sometimes, it's like you're in two places at once.  But are you?

Does 'I think therefore I am' apply?

All this is why I feel particularly horrible about breaking one of the cardinal rules we were taught that civilized humans don't break:

I ate the soggy waffles.

Advice for the Young at Heart

It's almost time for school again and an odd dream about attending high school at 23 had me contemplating a cadre of reticent rules which are learned, much to my dismay, only after the end of your school years (including your college years).  Interestingly enough, most of the advice I can provide applies to both college and high school.

This doesn't apply to college:  Are you a Junior?  Thinking about college?  Start.

Are you a Senior?  Thinking about college?  Apply,  you dumbass.

Not going to college?  Join the military.  You need job skills.  Out of high school, you're unemployable.

I blame your parents for not letting your teachers tell you how worthless you are to the real world.

This does.  Girls.  If you're wondering why the guy you like doesn't seem to get the hint, a quick and dirty way to get his attention is to STOP TALKING ABOUT YOUR BOYFRIEND.

Guys.  I know you think you're cool.  You're not.  Stop acting like a douche bag.

Girls.  Stop dressing like whores.  You're gonna get raped.

Guys.  Pull up your pants.  Pop your collars, though.  It may look weird, but it's fine by me.

Girls.  That nerdy kid that you expect is going to help you, is not going to help you unless you put out.  It's a new generation.  And the internet is full of porn.

Guys.  Sex completely changes relationships.  If you're only there because you want sex, you're going to have to handle the break up.  It is your fault.  If you really enjoy the company of that person, don't have sex.  Either way, you're gonna fuck it up.

Both of you.  The other sex doesn't know what you want, they're not magically going to get it.  Not tomorrow.  Not 50 years from now.  Just say it, you won't ever see them again after 4 years.

Lastly.  You know that friend of yours that doesn't have to do homework and doesn't have to study but magically passes every class with a B or better?  You're not them.  

Do your fucking homework.

I'm dangerous, like Maverick, except... in a kitchen

Before I met my wife, the only things I was capable of making by myself were Mac and Cheese and ramen.

You hear this story from every man alive.  Sometimes it's present tense.  "The only things I am capable of making..."  Other times, it's resistant, like my father:  "I never cooked and I'm never going to cook.  You cook one meal and you have to cook every other meal for the rest of your life."

But I'm an anomaly.  I love to cook.  I even prefer to cook over going out.  But I would never have learned anything if it weren't for my life.

At this point, I'm still looking at cook books, but I've graduated beyond measuring everything out.

And I've mastered chicken.  I make gorgeous, delicious chicken.  I can make it golden brown.  I can make it really white.  It's always tender.  And always tastes like real chicken (even when it's stripped of flavor from freezing, bleeding and packaging).  

But how do you explain something to that with your peers?  When your peers are mid-twenties to early thirties men who still believe pizza and Chipotle constitute a weeks dinner menu?

How can you explain that in ten years, you'll be begging me to let you eat at my house?   That you'll buy cases of beer on a whim, knowing that this might purchase you entry to sit at our dinner table?

You'll see... I may be a scant 24 now... but you'll see.

You might even let me drive your Ferrari Mid-Life-Crisis edition.

Poetic Justice

Today, I ate a cookie in the car.

Eating a cookie in the car could be likened to eating a cookie in bed, but then, you'd be stupid for saying something like that.  You wear shoes in your car.  You wear a raincoat.  If sulfur and hellfire and brimstone rained from the heavens, you'd bring that in to your car, too.

It's only natural that if you were to drop a minute crumb from the edge of the cookie, you wouldn't let go of the steering wheel and cause a tremendous accident.  You'd just let the crumb make its way to the floor.  And eventually disappear.  Or be vacuumed.  

Funny story.  Cookies, as it turns out, are bio-degradable.

But then, from the corner of my peripheral hearing...  I thought I had heard.... yes...  it was... a scoff (I'm half deaf in my right ear).  Slight... like a cough, half between that and laughter.

But a scoff none the less.  One to indicate my foolishness in dropping, then abandoning that fragment of cookie to the nether reaches of the vehicles floor.

And yet... almost immediately, from my beloved's mouth...  almost silently, "oh no."

This fragment, punctuating her own folly.  She was now the owner of a smaller cookie, nearly a tenth smaller.  The remnants now buried deeply in between the seat back and the seat bottom.

A moment too sweet to let pass.

Love you, sweetie.

No need for introductions...

/wtf?

Ok, this one needs an introduction... but apparently the big box of toilet paper at Sam's club is good for 400 shits.

Not just a ... well... you know

I've never understood the idea behind denying that you're gay.

I've understood the idea of condemning it in the Bible.  And never taking it out.

You want your congregations to grow.  Every member is another head and another income.  And if you said, "Gay is fine,  we don't mind.  Do what you do."  Then, the future of your church is in jeopardy, because 3 generations from now... you might not have members... or enough to support you.  The way I figure, it came down to money.

These days, you've got people so worked up about being gay.

It says you shouldn't be in the Bible, I get it.  But it doesn't seem to me that it should still be there.  I don't know about this whole "word of god" thing works, but for me, it was still written by man.  And it is corruptable.  Same with the Qur'an.  Men have translated them.  You don't know who these men were, they're not in the credits.

But, then there's faith.

And you scary people who believe god is talking to you.

One thing is clear to me, there are plenty of church leaders who are gay, and have gotten in trouble for soliciting gay sex.  There are politicians who are gay, and have gotten in trouble for soliciting gay sex.  There are men and women who do nothing but preach to you harder, because they're fighting with their natural urges.  But denying you're gay?  Just reaffirms that you're gay. 

There's nothing wrong with that.

Soliciting sex in the bathroom?  There's definitely something wrong with that.

That's disgusting.

Call it a Social Experiment

We dog sat this weekend, for just a couple of hours.

My wife's parents were journeying north to drop off her sister at College.  Yes, summer's over.

Anyway, the dog:

He's cute... and quiet.  Thankfully quiet.  And really sleepy.  All the time.  He snores like my dad.

Anyway, the dog, we want a dog, no question about that.

But it was so damned interesting, how the dog just integrated himself into our lives:

He came in, took a quick tour of the house and hopped in to bed and took a nap (it was 7 am or so).

No fighting, no fussing, no barking, no peeing... nothing.

"This is my new life, now, I guess.  At least they don't own a kennel.  Oh well...  I'm sleepy."  At least, that's what I imagine the thought process is.

The dog my parents owned, Rocky (creative, innit), he was cute, too.  But a brat.

And if you ever took him anywhere that he thought might be his new permanent home, there was barking... and biting and pissing all over the place.

And he'd do that for a week and a half, before he'd finally succumb to the inevitable.

But here's this dog.

Fucking Ghandi. 

Really? REALLY?

There are limitations to polite conversation.  Especially during that awkward silence when we're waiting for your unbearably and inexplicably slow computer system to pull up the information I've request.

You're a nice enough guy, really.  But I don't think you should be telling people that you're a reformed drug addict.  Good for you, though.  Really.  But you're 32 years old, and I know more about your life than I know about my brother's.  I don't need to know that you're straightening yourself out.  Or that you got your G.E.D. at 29.  

Especially not if you work for the company that runs our security systems.  

Especially not if your company has done a good job of screwing the pooch on synchronizing the database.

Especially if that's going to create 3 hours of worthless work for me.

Snatch back your brain

When I was younger (I start a lot of posts that way, don't I?),  I used to keep a notebook by the side of my bed.

At this young age, I still believed in the magic of poetry and that just writing made you accomplished.  At that point, you believe you can be anything, not because you've been told, but because you still imagine.  You imagine you'd be anything.

At this point?  A poet/songwriter (at the height of goth rock, they were one in the same).

Round about midnight, maybe later, something... well I'd describe it then as electrifying, but now it seems more... tepid.  Like water.  Water you're going to submerge yeast in before you'd bake bread.

It was the base of something more... something consumable... but before... it was just tepid water.

The next day, whilst I was supposed to be studying and "finding myself" at high school, I'd formulate a poem from those bits and pieces... or sometimes, you could let it stand alone.  It's poetry, you can get away with that shit.

Jewel did.

That's the dream.

You play like you want someone to read it and identify that segment of themselves in your work, but really, you just want money and fame.

Someone to buy thousands of copies in your books and treasure them for two days until they realize that you're full of it.  And you got their money.  Then they'll sell it on Amazon for a penny plus shipping.  That's what it was worth to them.  A penny and shipping.

It stopped for a while.  Years in fact.  It was like sleeping and not dreaming.  

A lack of inspiration.

And yet, last night.  It happened again.  But it was different this time.

It was music.  A song I'd never heard before.  A choral piece, I think, but I'm not sure.   I don't remember.

I didn't have a fucking music staff to write on.  

...Not that I would have been able to...

Time is Ironic

I have a thought for you today:

We invented time as a reason to say "you should be better than you are."

Discuss.