The Decider Girl?

Sternly, she snared my eye and whispered to me, "We'll never get another kind." And at that moment I knew that I had a picked the right cake mix.

Rubberband Theory

In chatting with my best friend in the world, an interesting discussion came up on the way we, as people, seem to interact with each other.

See... my theory, is kind of like... frictionless pool. Except, instead of pool balls, we're fleshy, fragile rolling things. I guess you could say balls. I've developed it a little since then, but

We all continue in a direction, unstoppable until we collide with another (meeting, dating, sex, marriage; these are all collisions). The collision leaves you in a different shape. A different person, in case you're not smart enough to follow the metaphor. Sometimes that collision is so devastating that it stops your momentum and completely changes your shape.

Connie and I have had an interesting friendship. It spans about 10 years, and there are periods of inactivity that would make a sloth look like it's on a meth. I made mention, that on our cosmic frictionless pool table, it's as if we're bound together by some elastic substance that continues to force us back together after we've gone too long in opposite directions. Though, each time we collide we're slightly different from the last time we'd met.

We've been in fairly constant contact for the last couple years, which a couple of months of black outs when the terrorists from a bad Segal sequel block communications. Usually, they return right when she says "which makes you really fucking stupid." You can see why I enjoy talking to her. In fact, she's probably the reason I married my wife. I think she said "You and her have a really good thing going and you always" *black out* "which makes you really fucking stupid. If you want to marry her, just marry her."

She's an incredible person, and I think it's admirable as hell that she can just pick up and change career directions the way she is now. She's just about to start school again on the 26th. So let's give her a good old fashioned golf clap.

This one is for you.

The Decider Guy

Hmm... HD-DVD or Blu Ray. What a decision.

I just bought an HD-DVD player add on for my Xbox360 from my local Best Buy (or, as my colleagues and I have labeled it... "the buy" and "fuck-yourself-with-a-stick buy"). I'm still 3 weeks to go on my receipt until the return limit expires, but I can't say that I'm disappointed with it. There certainly is a lack of titles, at least, a lack of titles that I want to see, which all seem to fall on the Blu Ray end of things.

I just can't get behind that format. Don't get me wrong, I want a PS3. I just don't want it to play Blu Ray.

There are a few reasons that brought me to that decision, so it's not that I'm just buying an HD-DVD player for the sake of bitching about it. You've probably read them 100 times already if you frequent sites like "Digg" or "Slashdot".

I'm not your typical rapper, and this isn't your typical Ronny Gunz post. It's a plea. A call to dollars if you will. HD-DVD players are cheaper, and I can't tell a difference between the movies. That and I don't like being wrong.

Don't make me wrong here.

Instant Gratification

I love baking cakes.

Actually, I'm going to amend that statement.

I love baking cakes of the Betty Crocker, pop-that-shit-in-the-oven-3-minutes-after-you-open-the-fuckin-package variety.

Pardon my French, I'm excited.

Truth is, I don't get much pleasure out of the actual cake. It tastes fine, sure. But I can't tell the difference between chocolate fudge or german chocolate... or devil's food... or double chocolate... or... well... any of them. They all taste the same. Well, except for "Butter Recipe Chocolate", but we'll get to that in a minute.

You see, my cake baking fetish starts and ends in the batter. Real cakes take way to long to get to this stage, hence, my preference for the bake-it-god-damned-fast brand of cake batter goodness. There's nothing (bake-wise) that I get more pleasure out of than preparing the cake batter, dumping it in to the cake pan and cleaning up the remains. With my tongue.

This is why I love the "Butter Recipe Chocolate" cake mix. All the taste and mess of the other cake batters, none of the nasty "did I just consume vegetable oil" regret.

It's fantastic. Don't act like you've never done it. I'd be tempted to eat all the batter before it gets in the cake pan, except that my wife prefers it all baked and everything (not that she doesn't enjoy the batter, if you know what I'm saying),

and...

well...

what the fuck is the point of buying cake mix if you're not going to bake a fucking cake?

I'm from the other side of the 'hood

I'm not going to lie. Things are a little different where I come from. We listened to a different type of music than you did. In my fifth grade class, when you were at school dances saying, "Kris Kross is gonna make you jump", we were on the corner saying, "Fuck tha Police". You catch my drift. The funny thing about it is that we were in Connecticut. I love that state. You'd never expect it.

You see, if you're like most people, you read Connecticut and said, "What the fuck is this guy on? Wasn't he getting the silver spoon treatment?" The funny thing about states like that is that there are a lot of rich people. Of course, wherever money goes, people follow. The more money there is in an area, the more of the "seedier" elements of society will pile up, trying to get a piece.

Norwalk isn't a pretty town. It's big. And all the "As Seen on TV" product advertisements you see after 4pm until about 6 in the morning come from the area about 3 blocks away from where I lived. I visited a few years ago, and things looked the same, except that most of the people I knew moved out and the neighbors dog was dead. And the street got smaller.

Well, not really smaller, but there were a lot more cars there now, than when I was growing up. You could barely walk down the middle of the street, and when we drove down it, there may have been 4 inches between mirrors on both sides. We left that neighborhood about a year after the first murder on the block. He was sixteen, and it was a drug deal. I don't have to tell you it went badly, but, I suppose I just did. I tell you all this because I want you to understand where I'm coming from.

Violence is always around us, in one form or another. We grow up with it in cartoons, TV shows, cereal commercials, music, comic books, and even our history books. When I tell you that you yourself are desensitized to all but the most extreme forms of violence, and maybe even then you enjoy movies like Saw or Hostel, it may take a couple of minutes to fully grasp that understanding if you don't meditate on that often.

My wife, on the other hand, is the opposite of that spectrum. There have been instances where she gives me a heart attack from her reaction to violence in a movie. Don't get me started on blood.

It's really very delicate, she is like a flower... or a butterfly. Untouched by the ugly reality, or illusion as it were, of violence that influences our actions or even speech.

Which is why it was a complete surprise when she kicked me in the back last night.

"Sorry, it was an accident." *ZZzzzzzzzz*

I love you, sweety. Happy Birthday.

The Olson Scale

Perhaps I feel a bit bad leaving the Olson bit hanging without any type of explanation.

The "Olson" scale is a measurement of anger, except, there's a twist (if you knew Olson, you'd understand the twist).

The Olsons run backwards. From 1 (the highest any normal human can attain, though deities and constipated Jeremies(sic) can run almost 0, where 0 is infinite unrecoverable anger) to ∞ (this is usually reserved for those enlightened, and those who have completed Ninja Gaiden Black on it's most difficult setting and have sworn never to play again).

You can also augment your Olson factor by dissipating any fecal threat with a level more difficult than cobalt picture window. Also, I hear shooting people works well.

In anticipation

If you're coming here from afterglide.com, welcome!

If you're coming here because you've perilously lost the trail of internet porn you were downloading. Good luck.

The post below, that was my reaction to Jeremy's blog. Go... be dazzled... then jerk off to his blog about nothing... and everything. Oh, and buy a t-shirt.

I'll do my best to keep up and post. I even created a link on my desktop and everything to remind myself to rant until I drop from 2 Olson to 200 Olson (I'll detail the olson scale later).

You and your blog make me feel like a bad person.

It's intimate. This setting, I mean.
It's about me, or you. Maybe it's about us.
The point is, your blog makes me feel like a stalker.
I know you now. I know what you show me. And what you don't only gives me insight in to your "persona".

You're online, and you tell me things you wouldn't tell your parents (but they could find it, if they only asked a little).
I know about your Lolcatz obsession. And your cobalt poop.
And that time that guy flicked you off on a drive-slow-drive-by.

I can't stop.

I hate you.

Fuck you, Jeremy. Fuck you and your pretentious blog.

And for making me a hypocrite.