Short Bus Showdown

lunati(c)alm

2011-05-11T23:11:00.000-05:00

A quick sliding of slats, a gentle nudge, an arm around me, warm and teasing breath on the nape of my neck. My eyes slowly open to reveal sunlight filtered through an ocean of clouds, a lunatic's myopic delusion. I blink away the cobwebs of dream and take stock of the situation. In a strange bed, on the second floor of a strange house, I find myself gazing out at the turbulent storm through recently opened blinds. Rivulets of rain on the window distort my view of the world, and cast chimerical shadows over me. Am I still dreaming?

The latest lightning arc is still visible behind my lenses, the recent crash of thunder still resounds in my ears; the hours have done little to cool last night's blaze. I sense the smile, the fire behind me, the infernal source of passion such as I've never known, but I can't face her. Not yet. To face her now would be to risk the dream, to risk reality. Better to bask in her glow under the storm, to soak her in, to melt with her into a sea of the senses. Her scent, our scent, still lingers on the wind, still begs for attention, but she's patient, and she waits.

This is not my beautiful life, but it could be...

let there be light

2010-05-28T01:11:00.002-05:00

In the vacuum of space, light travels at a constant speed of 299,792.458 kilometers per second. A light-year is a unit of length equal to the distance light travels in a year. So if we know how far away an object is from Earth, and we know how far light travels in a year (almost 6 trillion miles), then we can determine how many years it took for light to travel from the object to Earth.

The closest (non-satellite) galaxy to Earth, the Andromeda galaxy, is about 2.5 million light-years from Earth. In other words, it took the light from Andromeda about 2.5 million years to travel roughly 14.6 quintillion miles to reach Earth. The furthest (undisputed) object from Earth, the IOK-1 galaxy, was discovered in April of 2006 at a distance of almost 13 billion light-years. This means the light from this galaxy had to travel for almost 13 billion years before reaching Earth.

Aside from the mountain of evidence available here on our planet, the very fact that we can see the light from the Andromeda and IOK-1 galaxies (and everything in between) is tangible proof that the universe is billions of years older than Creationists believe. What's that you say? God put the stars there to test your faith? That's a desperate and lazy excuse. But please don't take my word for it. Go get your calculator, do the research, and see for yourself.

Thanks and regards,
Tim

P.S. Unrelated to Creationist pseudo-science, and infinitely more interesting to me, is this: when the IOK-1 galaxy is observed from Earth, we are not seeing it as it exists today, but rather as it existed almost 13 billion years ago. For all we know, IOK-1 may not even exist anymore. This amounts to nothing short of visual time travel. We're actually seeing nearly 13 billion years into the past! Am I the only one fascinated by this?

P.P.S. Fuck the whores on the Texas Board of Education for selling out the education of millions of American children by replacing verifiable fact with political and religious propaganda. You are now complicit in the hillbillification of the next generation. Well done. You should be ashamed of your god-damned selves.

P.P.P.S. You never hear in the news, "Two hundred people were killed today when Atheist rebels took heavy shelling from the Agnostic stronghold in the north." ~ Word of Mouth by Doug Stanhope

tryst

2010-01-11T01:11:00.000-06:00

I have an ongoing love affair with the written word. Exchanging ideas with you in this way, constant reader, reminds me of the solitary lives of Edgar Allan Poe or H.P. Lovecraft, my favorite American authors. Due to their respective mental disorders, they were veritable shut-ins who rarely ventured out into society, and connected to the outside world only through extensive letters written to distant friends. While that sort of life may sound empty and unfulfilling to some, a person equipped with a vivid imagination would find great satisfaction in the idea of envisioning the outside world solely through the descriptive power of words. It's romantic, in a way, to think that a person can connect so deeply with a friend that mere words on a page conjure visions of a different world. The thought makes me smile =]

small hours

2009-11-11T01:11:00.001-06:00

On the subject of dreams, mine are usually vivid and lucid, and often involve recurring elements. It's always raining in my dreams, and my field of vision is always massive, I can see storm clouds for miles. Sometimes I'm walking along the edge of a rocky crag overlooking a vast and tumultuous sea, the waves of which are crashing violently against the rocks far below me. Flashes of lightning connect briefly with the sea, as if they're passing secret messages to unseen synapses just below the surface of the waves.

During these dream excursions, I sometimes encounter through my explorations another traveler, always female, and always shrouded in mystery. Her face is either out of focus or silhouetted against the electric sky so that her features are darkened and indistinct. I've dreamt of her all my life. She's grown with me over the years. She sometimes appears as a woman, at other times she appears as an object of distinctly feminine characteristics. Sometimes she appears as the moon, peaking through the clouds of a rainy night, whispering her ancient secrets to me just beneath the breath of the storm.

I've pondered the meaning of these dreams at length, and I've come to the tentative conclusion that she is my muse, my inspiration, the reason I keep waking up from the dream world, the reason I continue to search the waking world for her. I may never find her, but I won't regret a moment of the search.

rotted octopus

2009-11-07T13:11:00.003-06:00

If the good and decent folk at Merriam-Webster were looking to expand the definition of the word humanity, what could they learn by interviewing you? Based on a conversation, could they add a new, alternate definition under the word, or would your name be placed on the long list of duplicate entries?

While it's true that I'm in it for the conversation, that's not an open invitation to start hurling like rotted octopus any and all disposable trivia. I'm interested in learning about your dreams and passions. Tell me about your sins and virtues, those little adventures that are unique to you, that separate you from the multitude and bind you to the stars. Don't talk to me about your bowling night, or how your favorite sports team is fairing in the playoffs, or which antidepressant you're taking in order to kill your unique and interesting personality traits. And please don't stoop to the lowest form of communication by offering me a recap of what took place on your broadcast medium of choice the night before. Seriously. If I didn't care enough about [insert television or radio program] to tune in, why would I want to hear your abridged version of it? I don't give a tender shit.

Don't speak unless you can improve the silence. I'm busy trying to act as a catalyst to realign the world's paradigm of perception, don't talk to me about toothpaste. I ain't got that kinda time.

of vampires

2009-11-03T22:11:00.000-06:00

Concerning the question of vampire fantasies, we might be wading into some deep psychological waters here, but bear with me. I'll try to keep this as short as possible, but as you may have guessed, brevity is something I rarely embrace when the topic is worthy of discussion.

The vampire mythos has captivated the human imagination for 6 centuries or more, at least since the time of Vlad III of Wallachia, who was born in 1431. Vlad had many names, like Vlad Tepeš (Vlad the Impaler), Vlad Draculea (Vlad Son of Dracul), or my favorite, Kazikli Voyvoda (Impaler Prince). The names Tepeš and Kazikli Voyvoda were given because of Vlad's favorite method of torture and execution, impalement. The name Draculea, which sounds ominous, he was given merely for being born the son of Vlad II Dracul of Wallachia. In modern Romanian, Dracul means "devil" but in the time of Vlad Tepeš, Dracul simply meant "dragon".

Before Vlad earned the title of Impaler for his horrendous actions, he was actually hailed as a hero of Wallachia, Transylvania, and Romania because he liberated those countries from the oppressive rule of the Ottoman Empire. During his later years however, it is believed that he became convinced that large numbers of his own countrymen were plotting to undermine his rule, and so he committed atrocities against them, atrocities which have been detailed extensively elsewhere, so I won't go into them here.

The history of Vlad Tepeš is well documented, and many scholars think that the famous Bram Stoker tale "Dracula" is based on the history of Vlad Tepeš as outlined in William Willinson's book "An Account of the Principalities of Wallachia and Moldavia". On the other hand, many scholars claim that "Dracula" was based on the story of history's most prolific female serial killer, Elizabeth Bathory, a 16th century Hungarian countess who murdered hundreds of her servants in an attempt to retain her youth.

While these two stories stand out in history as possible inspirational sources, it is important to remember that "Dracula" was not the first vampire tale, just the most famous. Folk tales of vampires and the undead were circulated long before Elizabeth Bathory or Vlad Tepeš. Tales of such stories were often heard by Europeans who traveled to Hungary and the Balkans. When these travelers returned to western Europe with frightening tales of blood-sucking, unholy creatures, suddenly western Europe was overrun with vampires. One might argue that the legends created the vampires. One might even argue that Elizabeth Bathory, upon hearing the legends of vampires brought back from eastern Europe, was inspired to explore the authenticity of the legends' claims of immortality. You be the judge.

Alright, faithful reader, enough history. Let's get down to the meat of this: your fascination with vampires. From a psychological perspective, the fantasy is easily explained. For the same reason that sane people allow themselves to become addicted to drugs or alcohol, for the same reason that humanity has been captivated by books, music, movies, television, video games, the internet, etc., for the same reason that otherwise intelligent people waste their valuable time observing and discussing the lives of celebrities: in a word, escape.

The key to, and indeed the driving force behind, all of these fantasies, is the offer of escape. Escape from the ordinary, the mundane, the boring and monotonous ruts in which we humans often find ourselves. Routines are boring. Jobs are boring. Even relationships, if allowed to stagnate, can become boring. To combat the boredom, people turn to these seductive fantasies.

Unlike the previously mentioned fantasies, which are seductive in the sense that they offer a temporary escape in the form of entertainment, the legend of the vampire is also seductive in a different sense. Seductive is an appropriate adjective to use here because vampires, as I'm sure you know, are said to seduce their victims in much the same way that a person might seduce a potential lover. Captivating glances that hold hints of hypnosis, dim light combined with the sensual textures of velvet and silk, the image of an alpha persona, all powerful yet infinitely patient and gentle, the hint of controlled violence, soft and rhythmic voices that resonate within the primal recesses of the mind, the idea of slow and melodic sexual gratification which leads not just to orgasm but to eternal life.

*Whew, taking a breather...

Okay, so what does all of this mean in relation to your life? While this question can really only be answered with any degree of definity by you, constant reader, I can make an attempt. Given what I've learned about your life from our online interactions, and with the recommendation that you disregard what I'm about to say if it feels false to you, here it is. You're bored. You've become dissatisfied with some aspects of your life, although you are generally happy with most of it. You've reached the point in your life to which you've been led by family, friends, and society. You've tackled the school and college thing and succeeded. You've tackled the marriage thing and succeeded. You've tackled the raising-a-happy-and-healthy-family thing, and so far you've succeeded. You've faced down all of the challenges set in front of you, done all that was expected of you by your peers, and you're still alive to tell the tale. But here's the question you now face: what's next? What do you do with the rest of your life? You've grown into adulthood (and done so better than most, in my opinion), you've become the supportive spouse and nurturing parent, and you're good at it. So good at it, in fact, that your spouse is happy and your children will soon be independent and mature beyond their years. Now that you've reached this point in your life, with your spouse successful and your children fast approaching the time when they will need less care and nurturing, you're beginning to wonder what's next.

To pass the time, you dabble. Perhaps you toy around with the idea of starting a business, or perhaps you entertain the notion of having another child, or perhaps you take on a hobby or part-time job, knowing that it won't be forever, knowing that the next big challenge awaits you just up the road, although it's impossible to say how far. In the meantime, you dabble. You entertain your mind with dreams of world travel, of wealth and fame, of dangerous and exciting careers in motor sports. Of vampires.

The truth as I see it, patient reader, is that your mind thrives on adversity, on challenge. Your life is a fairy tale, some would say it is THE fairy tale, the tale to which all humans aspire. But I believe that your particular tale will not end here. I say this because you have the kind of determination upon which the foundations of empires are constructed, and armed only with that determination, you will meet any challenge with which you are faced.

In a sense, this description has been a sort of vampirization of your mind. While I was typing it, I tried to put myself in your place and imagine what it was about the details of vampire seduction that has so captivated you. You might say that I fed on your thoughts, so you see, the description is yours. I merely shaped it and taught it to breath.

So dream if you must, dream of breathtaking moonlit vistas, of vampires and Formula One races. You've certainly earned this temporary reprieve from the struggles of life, for there comes a time, as I'm sure you well know, when we must all "put away childish things." And on that day, when you're staring down the barrel of life and you realize you're not wearing your vest, just remember that it's okay, you never really needed it. The vest, like the vampire tale, is a placebo. We are eternal, all this pain is an illusion.

It's gotten rather late as I've written this. You're probably dreaming of dark alleys and lips stained crimson. I hope you embrace these fantasies, whimsical reader, because life can sometimes be all too real. It's been a pleasure. G'night.

be(muse)ed

2009-10-30T11:11:00.000-05:00

As he lay awake, shrouded in darkness except for the tiny orange tip of his cigarette, he allowed his mind to embrace the empty space around him, to mold the darkness into familiar, discernable shapes, into living, breathing entities, until the void surrounding him overflowed with laughter and life and love. There, in the darkness, his pupils tightened as he imagined a world full of light; his ears twitched slightly as he filled them with music of his mind's devising. He moved his mind effortlessly, surveying the world he had built, stopping here and there to inspect his creation, over high mountains, down steep cliffs, above seas accented white with foam, between towering structures built of metal and glass as testaments to the sky, across vast plains of farmland and desert, through the canopies of thick, luscious jungles. In that moment, his mind existed everywhere, and yet existed nowhere outside of his head.

As his cigarette's soft, orange glow crept slowly toward his fingers, he slowed his mind, slowed his breathing, and concentrated on the details. Synapses flashed imperceptibly and electricity lit the lobes of his mind like lightning flashes within a storm cloud as he searched here and there for his inspiration. Logic, he soon discovered, makes a poor leader, so he released logic, and instead embraced his intuition.

Intuition led him to a vast, steel grey sea, the waves of which licked and lapped the rocky shore seductively. There, sitting alone atop a sharp outcrop, was his inspiration. She smiled demurely, although her face gave away nothing; the smile resided within her eyes. He approached her slowly, with cautious confidence, and crossed what seemed like miles between them as he loved her with his eyes. She sat quietly, patiently, her smooth, graceful legs folded beneath her, and a delicate hint of laughter played around the corners of her mouth. She raised her right hand as he approached her, and with his right, he lifted her to her feet. As she stood before him, he moved his gaze over her, admiring her form as the euphoric scent of her, deluded as it was by the salty sea air, reached his nostrils, making him feel light-headed.

Still clasping her right hand in his, he slid his left hand from her wrist to her shoulder, trailing his fingers lightly over her smooth skin, and rested his fingers at the nape of her neck. She lifted her eyes to meet his, and what she saw there pleased her. As the sea's gentle waves sprayed tendrils of fine mist around them, he moved to her ear, parted his lips and whispered, "Thank you, for all of this. I love you." She kissed him then, and he was lost.

His eyes opened, pupils adjusting to the sudden darkness, and he felt the warmth between his fingers. He moved his hand to the ashtray and extinguished the cigarette, then pulled the blanket around him like a shroud. As he drifted off to sleep, he could still smell the salty sea lingering in the air, could still taste her on his lips.

equilibrium

2009-10-25T11:11:00.000-05:00

Standing in a vast field, I peer up into the storm-blackened sky and observe the trajectory of millions of falling raindrops. It doesn't occur to me to wonder where I am, or how I came to be here; instead, I stand transfixed as children of the storm dance the electric slide down my skin, simultaneously warming me and chilling me to the marrow. The rain leaves no part of me untouched; the moisture seeps in, permeates my clothes, my skin, my soul.

During a time in which seconds stretch out to days, I slowly begin to realize, like the dawning of understanding, that the air around me is moving. It starts almost imperceptibly, but increases by slight degrees until the atmosphere in close proximity is veritably singing with excitement, with anticipation of something to come. I can feel every tiny hair on my body reaching out expectantly, although what they expect I do not yet know. I momentarily avert my eyes from the raging storm above to glance at the tiny blonde hairs growing from the back of my left hand (which are defined in great detail, as if I'm observing them through a magnifying lens) and see that they are all pulling in different directions, seemingly in an attempt to abandon a sinking ship. As I watch, flashes of lightning from above throw my hand into sharp relief, and the fading light leaves negative afterimages behind my field of vision.

A stroboscopic flash illuminates the sky, and a faint scent of searing flesh mixes with the hint of ozone on the wind. Blinding light, accompanied by a sizzling, crackling sound, consumes the air around my body, and I'm filled with a sense of peace, a sense of balance. This is followed by a mind-shattering thunderclap, like the crack of doom, and, suddenly, I'm awake, sitting up in my bed, trying to shake off the quagmire of dream as I survey my surroundings. As the real world (?) slowly begins to filter in through the blanket of sleep, I hear raindrops steadily falling outside my window, the slight sound of trickling rivulets meandering down the glass. I inhale deeply, get out of bed, and start the morning's journey to the shower.

According to DreamMoods.com:

To see lightning in your dream, signifies sudden awareness, insight, and purification. Alternatively, lightning may imply a shocking turn of events. It suggests the many forces governing your life may be beyond your control. To dream that you are struck by lightning, symbolizes irreversible changes occurring in your life. It is a transformation of sorts.

As for my own interpretation, I believe the feelings of peace and balance that I experienced in the dream are significant. The arcing of electricity, both on a large scale (such as lightning) and on a small scale (such as static electricity), is a natural occurrence that serves to balance the distribution of electrical charge between one object or place and another. This exchange of electricity between places or objects, caused by the buildup of positive or negative charges, transfers a sufficient amount of electrical charge so that the electrical charges of both objects or places are equal. Perhaps my subconscious mind is trying to inform me of the balancing of some previously uneven situation.

Any thoughts?

fulcrum

2009-10-14T01:11:00.001-05:00

Consider the distinct difference between the ideas of potential reality (the future) and actual reality (the past), potential reality being the existence of all possible realities simultaneously, and actual reality being the reality that we, collectively, choose for ourselves at any given moment. The act of choosing transforms potential reality into something concrete; the act of choosing turns future into past using the present as a medium. The present is merely the transition of future (potential reality) into past (actual reality).

Once potential reality has been solidified by choice into actual reality, it cannot be changed (at least insofar as humanity has yet to understand how to live backwards in time). If this be the case, then choice becomes a thing of great importance; choice becomes the pivotal fulcrum upon which human history rests. Naturally, then, it follows that a narrow field of vision does not a wise choice make. If we, as a species, are to write human history to the best of our collective ability, then we must not limit ourselves. It is vital that we become conscious of potential reality before choosing our actual reality. Since we do not, as of yet, possess the knowledge to convert actual reality back into potential reality, convert past back into future, the responsibility lies with each of us to broaden our scope enough to embrace all possible realities, and therefore leave a legacy of actual reality that all will be proud of and none will regret.

I probably fall into the 'apocalyptically stubborn' category (credit goes to Krismas for coining that phrase) because I believe that there exists a rational, although not necessarily scientific, explanation for everything. Whether or not humanity has evolved enough to grasp those explanations is not the fault or failure of the phenomena itself, but of humanity.

contrast

2009-10-11T23:11:00.000-05:00

Think about love in terms of the light wave spectrum. Light behaves as a wave (also a particle, but that part is not necessary for this analogy), and what we perceive as color is merely light viewed at different wave lengths. Blue light has a slightly longer wave length than, say, red light.

Now think about what you know of visible light. We can discern red light from other visible colors because of its contrast to other visible colors, right? When we see something red (the object is not actually made of red light, it merely reflects more light of the red wave length than other wave lengths), our minds label it as red through a process of elimination, id est, our minds know that the object is not blue, or yellow, or green, or whatever, because the object does not fit into our minds' definition of those other colors, so we deduce that it must be red.

But think about this: if we went through our lives having never experienced the color blue, how would our minds behave then? Would we label as red any and all objects that are red or blue? If our minds don't know what blue is, and we encounter a blue object, would our minds not assume that the object was red since our minds don't possess any prior experience to use in labeling the object?

Speculation notwithstanding, let's try to prove it. The invisible parts of the light wave spectrum, the parts that are undetectable by the human eye, are made up of waves of different lengths. This light is as real as the colored light we can see, right? In the absence of all visible light, we would see black, right? For us, seeing black means seeing no light. But what about the light that exists on the invisible parts of the spectrum? We see black, but that invisible (to us) light may still be there, reflecting upon us like anything. We call it black, but were we equipped with the necessary optics to detect this invisible light, we would cease to call it black because the term black would lose its meaning. We would no longer be able to say that an object was black, because we would then be able to see the heretofore 'invisible' light reflecting from the object. We would no longer be able to define invisible light waves as black, because we would now see them.

The point I'm trying to make is that, in the absence of contrast, it is impossible to define correlating ideas. Take pleasure and pain, for example. Without the contrast of pain, pleasure loses all meaning, and vice versa. For the human mind to recognize pleasure, it must first have experienced pain. This is vital for our minds to recognize ideas through the process of elimination. This also accounts for why people seem to grow wiser with experience, rather than with age. A young person who has experienced much may be far wiser than an old person who has experienced little, due simply to the accumulation of experience. Experience in life gives our minds the tools they need to define our worlds. Without these experiences, our minds must do the best they can, which often leads to the enigmatic answer, "I don't know."

burning inside

2009-09-09T21:09:00.001-05:00

A spark becomes an ember becomes a flame becomes a fire becomes a blazing inferno becomes a dark cloud of billowing smoke and ashes upon the ground. Every spark has the potential to give birth to a blazing inferno, given the right supporting conditions (i.e., fuel & oxygen). If something as small as a spark can generate enough kinetic energy to decimate a building, enough energy to end life, but also enough energy to clear away the dead to make way for new life, if a spark can result in all of these things, then why are some people so miserable?

The human mind is fueled by synapses firing off electric sparks by the billions. Have you ever seen lightning bolts flashing within a storm cloud? Picture the storm cloud as the human brain. If thought is electricity, and electricity is a constant stream of electrical impulses, or sparks, what does this reveal about the potential energy hidden within the human mind? Do we not each possess the mental equivalent of an atomic bomb, no, a supernova? Do we not each possess enough potential energy to bring about the destruction or creation of life, if given the right supporting conditions?

One of the constants of energy is that, when presented with a choice of alternative paths, energy will always choose the path of least resistance (there are a few exceptions, but for the purposes of this blog, that statement will suffice). This constant can be observed by following storm clouds as they move from high-pressure areas to areas with lower barometric pressure. Water being pulled downhill by gravity will travel around rocks and trees rather than through them. The reason that electric wires are coated in rubber has nothing to due with the fact that rubber does not conduct electricity; most materials conduct electricity at a high enough voltage level. No, electric wires are coated with rubber because rubber is much more resistant to the flow of electricity than the metal wire, and since electricity always takes the path of least resistance, the electric current remains isolated within the wire.

So what, if anything, should the deterministic nature of energy indicate to us about why a spark fails to become a blazing inferno, fails to transform its potential energy into kinetic energy? Should we take this to mean that some sort of resistance is impeding the evolution of the spark? If so, what is the source of that resistance? What is impeding the spark's progress? Do we, as humans, create supporting conditions for our sparks such that our sparks find the path to failure less resistant than the path to success? Do we allow our individual fears, superstitions, and childhood angst, as well as the restrictions and boundaries which society attempts to place upon us, do we allow all of these things to erect walls of impedance that prevent our sparks from ever realizing their full potential? Do we confine our mental sparks to a hostile environment of our own devising? Why all the resistance?

double negative

2009-08-28T23:11:00.001-05:00

We are all guilty of negativity, pessimism, and cynical thought. It seems that while we use negativity to shield ourselves from the potential failures of our hopes and dreams (e.g., "I really hope this happens, but it probably won't", or "It has always been my dream to do this, but I'll probably never get the chance"), we are unwittingly turning our hopes and dreams into self-fulfilling prophecies of failure. I'm of the humble opinion that the acts of living, hoping, dreaming are hard enough; they don't need any help to fail. Yet we, as human beings, constantly assist their failure by reminding ourselves how unlikely we are to actually succeed. Why? Why limit ourselves to failure? Why give up on our hopes before giving them a chance to sprout wings and fly?

Is it simple human nature? Is it a primitive defense mechanism to prevent our lives from being shattered by the unrealization of something for which we hope? Or is it a coward's excuse? Are we so afraid that the subjects and objects of our individual desires will become reality that we sabotage our own efforts? Or is it a different variety of defence? By subverting our dreams, from what are we attempting to protect ourselves? An imagined eventual failure or disappointment? Possibly. But is it also possible that our subconscious minds know what's best for us? Could it be that the parts of our minds that remain hidden from us use negativity to prevent us from attaining that which is bad for us, that which we don't really need, that which is trivial and superficial, that which would prove to be more of a burden than a benefit?

Whatever the reason, it has become increasingly apparent to me, through conversations and events in my own life as well as my interactions with others, that the power of suggestion, the so-called power of mind over matter, this self-imposed and self-deprecating cynicism that we humans occasionally adopt is a very effective tool by which we keep ourselves perpetually martyred.

infinite

2009-08-11T11:11:00.000-05:00

If stars, planets, and other heavenly bodies were reduced to the size of atoms, would the vast distances between them remain proportionate? Would the speed and pattern of their orbits around other heavenly bodies resemble the orbits of electrons around the nucleus of an atom? Can the nucleus of an atom be said to be strikingly similar to the clusters of stars that pepper our universe? If the entirety of the universe, with all of its stars, planets, comets, asteroids, gaseous clouds, solar systems, and galaxies, was reduced to the size of a single organic cell, would we recognize it under a microscope. Would it resemble an amoeba? A cancer cell? A spermatazoa? A multi-cellular organism?

On the other hand, consider all of the billions of individual cells that make up our universe. Are all of these individual universes unto themselves? Are we merely occupying the middle rung in some sort of proportionate, spatial ladder? Within a skin cell, if one searches long enough, can a tiny sun be found, and with it a tiny Earth? Tiny people? A tiny version of me, living in a tiny version of America? Would my actions on this rung of the spatial ladder mimic the actions of those versions of me that reside higher or lower on the ladder? Would we make the same choices, take advantage of the same opportunities, share the same personality? This brings to mind images of Russian nesting dolls in a synchronized swimming competition, increasingly larger or smaller versions of me, all moving, thinking, and living in unison.

storm chaser

2009-07-11T23:11:00.001-05:00

As I stand here in wonder, the illuminating, intoxicating glimmer of her pale skin mixes with the moon's hypnotic light, casting an eerie, incandescent mask of delicate life against my otherwise sharpened visage. I stand motionless, but within this perfect moment, her pale glow invokes upon my stark countenance the illusion of perpetual motion. With my living, dancing features reflected in her eyes, I lose myself, my name, my history. Her subtle radiance softens me, mutates me, transforms me into something different, something other, until but a specter's shadow remains of my former self. The heavy machinery of my voice gives way to an echoed whisper, and as my presence fades into her splendor, merely a ghostly mist endures to bear witness to my existence.

She is strikingly beautiful, graceful, and unashamed of her positive qualities. She allows me to be chivalrous without risking the offense of her feminine sensibilities. She fills her life with the things she loves, as I do, and enjoys life to the fullest extent without guilt or remorse, as I do. We make love at every opportunity. We don't take things personally if one of us is not interested in doing the same things as the other, because we both understand that people have different passions in life, and enjoy different things, but our conversations are stimulating enough to keep us both enthralled. We both enjoy entertaining each other with stories of our adventures. She expresses herself naturally and genuinely, without worrying about what I might think of her. We engage in healthy debate on a number of topics, but in the end she allows me to kiss my way through her defenses. I love her to sleep at night, and I love her awake in the morning. I love her hello, I love her goodbye, and there is no shred of doubt in her mind about how I feel. She doesn't have to ask me what I'm thinking, because she can read it in my eyes. She is completely loyal, completely honest, and completely insane, just like me.

She is a magnet calling to iron-enriched blood, drawing and defining a field of influence. She is the reflection of a child's wonder, the reflection of a mother's eyes, and the promise of a desert mirage. She is a tinted window, a smoke screen, the embodiment of moon light, the faintly luminescent veil of midnight. She is a pirate's treasure, buried deep below the surface of a tropical paradise, marked only by a memory. She is an arc of blue-white lightning at the foot of the psyche, shocking and frightful, mesmerizing and hypnotic. She is a nameless breath, the wind of desire whispering through the boughs of the tree of life, a subterranean river, ever-flowing, ever-feeding the roots of the world. She is a Siren's melodic wail, a Gorgon's monolithic gaze, and a lighthouse warning ships of deadly shores. She is the light of dawn, the fuel of dreams, and the all-consuming flame of mystery. She is the foundation upon which empires are built, and she is the force behind their fall. She is the past for which men live, and the future for which men die. She is the hint of ozone in the air before a storm, and she is the prismatic refraction of light after the final thunder. She is the answer, and she is the question. She is all, she is none, and she is the one.

Dreaming of that face again...

random acts of thought

2009-06-20T09:20:00.001-05:00

I had a dream last night. There was a restaurant owned by Jim and Tammy Fae Baker. The restaurant was called "The Last Supper". The maitre'd, Jerry Falwell, showed me to my table and introduced my waiter, Jimmy. Jimmy Swaggart. He was sheathed in a mustard-colored sharkskin suit that fit him so tightly one was moved to take up a collection to send his crotch on vacation. Jimmy proceeded to tell me about the day's specials. Okay, there was only one special, but in was on sale for a low, low price, so act now because supplies are limited. I ordered a steaming bowl of religion, garnished with guilt, and a side order of platitude with just a sprinkle of piety. Jimmy then informed me that it was free hot chili day, and that I could choose the level of spiciness: regular, inferno, or hellfire and brimstone. Bring on the brimstone, I thought, there's nothing like a little contrast to balance a meal.

Something must have gone horribly awry in the kitchen, because Jimmy delivered a plate piled high with the most noxious, unsavory concoction I had ever witnessed, but being a man who pressures himself into experiencing new things, I decided to ignore the visual and aural evidence and dig in. I had actually swallowed a few bites before my taste buds warned me that such behavior was in violation of accords of the Geneva Convention. My digestive tract quickly vetoed my decision, and undigested what I had previously swallowed. I glanced at Jimmy, expecting to find a look of distaste in his eyes, but he assured me that everything was fine, and that it was an acquired taste. With his reassurance, I actually entertained the idea of ingesting another bite. For a moment, I developed a brief understanding of martyrdom, but I quickly regained my senses and requested the check. Jimmy declined, and with a twinkle in his eye, he stated that the first fix, er, meal is always free.

I thanked Mr. Swaggart for the enlightening experience, got up from the table, and made my way past the gift shop where one could purchase all manner of motivational videos, pamphlets, diet pills, arthritis-curing magnetic bracelets, miracle elixirs, fat-reducing contraptions, and breast-enlargement pills. How convenient, I thought, all of the necessities of life, available under one roof, but for a limited time only.

As I exited the restaurant, I awoke to the sound of my morning alarm, which is my computer playing "The Shit" by DOC at full volume. As I lay there, debating whether to turn off the alarm or remain in bed and enjoy the vocal stylings (I'm a silverback gorilla in a concrete jungle) of The D.O.C., Ice Cube, and Snoop, I reflected upon the dream to determine what message it was trying to convey. In the end, I decided that the dream was altogether meaningless, like telling a midget to grow up.

wings for marie

2009-06-18T11:11:00.001-05:00

As you may have observed, I'm extremely fond of a band called TOOL. Their innovative, powerful, and dynamic music, combined with lyrics which convey stories too haunting to be ignored, has always been a source of philosophical inspiration for me. To give you some idea of what I mean, I want to tell you a story about a woman named Judith. Actually, strike that. I want to tell you some facts about a woman named Judith, then I'll let TOOL tell the story.

Judith Marie Gridley was born on November 22, 1943. At the age of 21, Judith gave birth to a son, James Herbert Keenan. You may recognize the name. James, whose mother was a devout Catholic and a dedicated member of her church, was born into a religious household and later grew up to become a singer, under the name Maynard James Keenan. He's most famous for performing as lead vocalist for TOOL, but at various times he was also a member of bands such as A Perfect Circle, Children of the Anachronistic Dynasty, and Puscifer. His credits also extend to performances with the likes of Tori Amos, Alice in Chains, Rage Against the Machine, and Deftones, to name a few, as well as stand-up comedy in the early 90s with friend and comedian Bill Hicks. But I digress, this is not James' story, it's the story of his mother, or rather, some facts about his mother, Judith Marie Garrison.

In 1976, at the age of 33 (which, coincidentally or not, happens to be the very age at which Jesus Christ is alleged to have been crucified and resurrected), Judith suffered a brain aneurysm and stroke which left her paralyzed and wheelchair-bound. James was 11 years old. For the next 27 years, until her death on June 18, 2003, Judith endured her paralysis with unwavering faith in her god.

TOOL's latest album, entitled 10,000 Days (which is the approximate number of days that Judith spent paralyzed, 27 years), is dedicated to the memory of Judith Marie Garrison, (November 22, 1943 - June 18, 2003). This is her story, told through the lyrics and music of TOOL (note: I do not know any of these people personally, not am I producing an A&E Biography on them, so if I've fudged any of the facts, please keep in mind that all information herein was acquired through online sources):

WINGS FOR MARIE, PART I

You...
You believed...
You believed in movements none could see.
You believed in me

A passionate spirit
Uncompromised
Boundless and open
A light in your eyes
Then immobilized.

Broken
Fell at the hands of those movements that I wouldn't see
Yet it was you who prayed for me.
So what have I done
To be a son to an angel?
What have I done
To be worthy?

Daylight dims leaving cold fluorescents
Difficult to see you in this light
Please forgive this selfish question, but
What am I to say to all these ghouls tonight?
"She never told a lie,
... well might have told a lie,
But never lived one.
Didn't have a life,
Didn't have a life,
But surely saved one."
See? I'm alright
Now it's time for us to let you go

10,000 DAYS: WINGS FOR MARIE, PART II

Listen to the tales and romanticize,
How we'd follow the path of the hero.
Boast about the day when the rivers overrun.
How we rise to the height of our halo.

Listen to the tales as we all rationalize
Our way into the arms of the savior,
Feigning all the trials and the tribulations;
None of us have actually been there.
Not like you.

Ignorant siblings in the congregation
Gather around spewing sympathy,
Spare me.
None of them can even hold a candle up to you.
Blinded by choice, these hypocrites won't see.

But, enough about the collective Judas.
Who could deny you were the one who
Illuminated your little piece of the divine?

And this little light of mine, a gift you passed on to me;
I'm gonna let it shine to guide you safely on your way,
Your way home...

Oh, what are they going to do when the lights go down
Without you to guide them all to Zion?
What are they going to do when the rivers overrun
Other than tremble incessantly?

High is the way, but all eyes are upon the ground.
You were the light and the way they'll only read about.
I only pray, Heaven knows when to lift you out.
Ten thousand days in the fire is long enough;
You're going home.

You're the only one who can hold your head up high,
Shake your fists at the gates saying:
"I've come home now!
Fetch me the spirit, the son, and the father.
Tell them their pillar of faith has ascended.
It's time now!
My time now!
Give me my, give me my wings!"

You are the light and the way they'll only read about.

Set as I am in my ways and my arrogance,
(With the) burden of proof tossed upon the believers.
You were my witness, my eyes, my evidence,
Judith Marie, unconditional one.

Daylight dims leaving cold fluorescents.
Difficult to see you in this light.
Please forgive this bold suggestion, but
Should you see your Maker's face tonight,
Look Him in the eye, look Him in the eye, and tell Him:
"I never lived a lie, never took a life, but surely saved one.
Hallelujah, it's time for you to bring me home."

suspended animation

2009-05-23T11:11:00.001-05:00

This morning, I awoke to find that I was completely submerged in a mysterious body of murky, inkish liquid, which I presumed to be water, but which, in retrospect, could have been anything from oil to diluted pudding. Upon taking stock of my surroundings, I determined that I'd lost all sense of direction; up, down, left, right... these words no longer held any meaning. In addition, I found my field of vision limited to just a few inches of the nebulous liquid in which I was suspended.

It quickly became apparent that this viscous elixir had claimed me for its own, had performed a hostile takeover of my person, had executed a coup d'etat which effectively dethroned me and reduced me from acting dictator to bystanding observer. I was now a wholly-owned subsidiary, and thus had lost control of my fate. Panic set in at this point, and I tried to scream, but the ever-present liquid interpreted my silent scream as an invitation, a flashing neon vacancy sign, and moved right into the vacuum of my lungs to set up shop. To my utter astonishment, my new tenant proved to be a warm and convivial host. She was enriched with oxygen that permitted me to breath uninhibited; she held me close to maintain my body temperature; she even cradled me in a seductive manner. My panic evaporated, and I was left with a sense of infinite and resounding peace.

As I became accustomed to breathing in this environment, I found that I could also hear things, distant, indiscernible things. As I listened, I soon recognized the vibrations as the crashing of distant thunder, and through the depths of my briny cage, my eyes soon began to make out the accompanying flashes of lightning. Eureka! I thought. Where there is thunder, where there is lightning, there must also be an atmosphere. If there's an atmosphere, I reasoned, there must be a way out of this primordial soup in which I was encased. With only this thought to encourage me, I began to execute a series of slow but deliberate movements designed to propel me in the direction of the thunder. Approaching what I perceived to be the surface of this enveloping fluid, the lightning flashes became brighter and more lucid, the crash of thunder more distinct.

A sudden wave of doubt engulfed me as I thought of giving up this gift, of letting go of my newly found comfort, of relinquishing this wondrous experience to investigate what lay beyond the surface. This fear, however, quickly gave way to a sense of adventure, a lust for the chaotic, the same urges that have driven explorers for thousands of years to trade in their secure and familiar ideas for an astrolabe, a sextant, and a compass. I broke through the surface wearing nothing but a smile, ready to greet whatever mysteries lay beyond.

My eyes opened and I found myself alone in my bed. I'd left the bedroom window open the night before. The sun had not yet risen, and an atmospheric tantrum was raging outside. My face was wet with raindrops that had splashed against the windowsill. The elements of the storm, the thunder, lightning, and wind, seemed in competition with one another to determine which could create the most turmoil. This display was truly inspiring. As I lay in bed, wondering at the subtle flux of ambient light upon my surroundings, I lit a cigarette and inhaled the mixture of smoke and ozone, of fire and electricity. I love that smell.

898

2009-05-05T01:11:00.002-05:00

A few moments ago, I was startled from a dream, and upon waking, I had no recollection of the contents or events of the dream, save a cryptic image of three spinning, fiery digits: 868. Half-asleep, and not entirely of sound mind, I scarcely knew what to make of this, but then it occurred to me to reach for the book closest at hand, which happened to be Complete Tales and Poems by Edgar Allan Poe.

This book is an old friend, and as the title suggests, it contains not only a collection of stories written by my favorite author, but the last quarter of the hefty tome features a large collection of original poems, as well as a thesis by the author which analyzes in detail those works by other poets throughout history which have inspired him.

Half-asleep and half-convinced that a fully-dead poet was speaking to me in arithmetic dreams, I quickly flipped to the page marked by the number in question, but upon examining the words there written, I found little of value or consequence. Disappointed, my awakening mind had nearly resolved to dismiss the episode as a silly dream, but as I reached for the lamp, something occurred to me: in the dream, the numbers were spinning.

One by one, I mentally rotated the digits one hundred eighty degrees, until a new number emerged: 898. With renewed vigor, I now turned to the page in question. There, on page 898, I found printed the first half of a poem by Edward C. Pinkney, entitled "Health":

I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air,
'Tis less of earth than heaven

Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words:
The coinage of her heart are they
And from her lips each flows
As one may see the burden'd bee
Forth issue from the rose

Thoughts?

manifesto

2009-04-20T01:11:00.002-05:00

Another one got caught today, it's all over the papers. "Teenager Arrested in Computer Crime Scandal", "Hacker Arrested after Bank Tampering". Damn kids. They're all alike.

But did you, in your three-piece psychology and 1950's technobrain, ever take a look behind the eyes of the hacker? Did you ever wonder what made him tick, what forces shaped him, what may have molded him? I am a hacker, enter my world. Mine is a world that begins with school. I'm smarter than most of the other kids, this crap they teach us bores me. Damn underachiever. They're all alike.

I'm in junior high or high school. I've listened to teachers explain for the fifteenth time how to reduce a fraction. I understand it. "No, Ms. Smith, I didn't show my work. I did it in my head." Damn kid. Probably copied it. They're all alike.

I made a discovery today. I found a computer. Wait a second, this is cool. It does what I want it to. If it makes a mistake, it's because I screwed it up. Not because it doesn't like me. Or feels threatened by me. Or thinks I'm a smart ass. Or doesn't like teaching and shouldn't be here. Damn kid. All he does is play games. They're all alike.

And then it happened, a door opened to a world, rushing through the phone line like heroin through an addict's veins, an electronic pulse is sent out, a refuge from the day-to-day incompetencies is sought, a board is found. "This is it, this is where I belong." I know everyone here, even if I've never met them, never talked to them, may never hear from them again. I know you all. Damn kid. Tying up the phone line again. They're all alike.

You bet your ass we're all alike. We've been spoon-fed baby food at school when we hungered for steak, the bits of meat that you did let slip through were pre-chewed and tasteless. We've been dominated by sadists, or ignored by the apathetic. The few that had something to teach found us willing pupils, but those few are like drops of water in the desert.

This is our world now, the world of the electron and the switch, the beauty of the baud. We make use of a service already existing without paying for what could be dirt-cheap if it wasn't run by profiteering gluttons, and you call us criminals. We explore, and you call us criminals. We seek after knowledge, and you call us criminals. We exist without skin color, without nationality, without religious bias, and you call us criminals. You build atomic bombs, you wage wars, you murder, cheat, and lie to us and try to make us believe it's for our own good, yet we're the criminals.

Yes, I am a criminal. My crime is that of curiosity. My crime is that of judging people by what they say and think, not what they look like. My crime is that of outsmarting you, something that you will never forgive me for.

I am a hacker, and this is my manifesto. You may stop this individual, but you can't stop us all... after all, we're all alike.

- The Mentor, January 8, 1986

tempest

2009-04-11T07:55:00.001-05:00

This morning, I awoke to the sounds of a deluge; to the sounds of thunderstorms throwing tumultuous, turbulent temper tantrums; to the sounds of boisterous banshees beating bristled brooms about my window; to the sounds of the following poem upon my lips:

I am the eldest son of the raging storm
You, the youngest daughter of the steel grey sea
While I beat a blowing tempest to your door
You love me in waves that crash upon the shore
And rivers of my blood flow back home to thee

clever cat

2009-04-02T13:11:00.001-05:00

Sally, having swallowed cheese,
Directs down holes the scented breeze,
Enticing thus with baited breath
Nice mice to an untimely death.

- Geoffrey Taylor

radical

2009-03-19T01:11:00.004-05:00

POINT

Nobody has the right to worship on this planet any other God than Jehovah. And therefore the state does not have the responsibility to defend anybody's pseudo-right to worship an idol.
~ Rev. Joseph Morecraft, Chalcedon Presbyterian Church

We are to make Bible-obeying disciples of anybody that gets in our way.
~ Jay Grimstead, founder and president of Coalition on Revival

This is God's world, not Satan's. Christians are the lawful heirs, not non-Christians.
~ Gary North, author of Political Polytheism: The Myth of Pluralism

When I, or people like me, are running the country, you'd better flee, because we will find you, we will try you, and we'll execute you. I mean every word of it. I will make it part of my mission to see to it that they are tried and executed.
~ Randall Terry, founder of Christian Prolife organization Operation Rescue

I don't know that atheists should be considered citizens, nor should they be considered patriots. This is one nation under God.
~ Vice PResident George Bush Sr., press conference in Chicago on August 27, 1987

A struggle for the soul of America is under way, a struggle to determine whose views, values, beliefs and standards will serve as the basis of law.
~ Pat Buchanan, U.S. Senator and one-time presidential candidate

The 'Owner's Manual' for the Constitution is the Bible.
~ Tony Nassif, National Council on Bible Curriculum in Public Schools

While it is true that the United States of America was founded on the sacred principle of religious freedom for all, that liberty was never intended to exalt other religions to the level that Christianity holds in our country's heritage. Our Founders expected that Christianity -- and no other religion -- would receive support from the government as long as that support did not violate peoples' consciences and their right to worship. They would have found utterly incredible the idea that all religions, including paganism, be treated with equal deference. As for our Hindu priest friend, the United States is a nation that has historically honored the one true God. Woe be to us on that day when we relegate him to being merely one among countless other deities in the pantheon of theologies.
~ Family Research Council, Culture Facts newsletter 9/21/2000, commenting on a Hindu priest giving the opening prayer in the House of Representatives

The Christian West, because of the superiority of its values and the civilization those values produced, has an inherent right to rule over other peoples.
~ Pat Buchanan, U.S. Senator and one-time presidential candidate

The god of Judaism is the devil. The Jew will not be recognized by God as one of His chosen people until he abandons his demonic religion and returns to the faith of his fathers--the faith which embraces Jesus Christ and His Gospel.
~ David Chilton, author of The Days of Vengeance: An Exposition of the Book of Revelations

The Church has through the centuries, understood that ideas are really more dangerous than other weapons. Their use should be restricted.
~ Francis J. Lally, U.S. Roman Catholic Monsignor, 1958

What this is coming down to is who runs the country. It's us against them. It's the good guys versus the bad guys. It's the God-fearing people against the pagans, and some of the pagans are going to church.
~ Randall Terry, founder of Christian Prolife organization Operation Rescue

If you're not a born-again Christian, you're a failure as a human being.
~ Jerry Falwell, founder of the Moral Majority

COUNTERPOINT

Christianity neither is, nor ever was a part of the common law.
~ Thomas Jefferson, in a letter to Dr. Thomas Cooper, February 10, 1814

As I understand the Christian religion, it was, and is, a revelation. But how has it happened that millions of fables, tales, legends, have been blended with both Jewish and Christian revelation that have made them the most bloody religion that ever existed?
~ John Adams, in a letter to F.A. Van der Kamp, December 27, 1816

Where the preamble declares, that coercion is a departure from the plan of the holy author of our religion, an amendment was proposed by inserting "Jesus Christ," so that it would read "A departure from the plan of Jesus Christ, the holy author of our religion;" the insertion was rejected by the great majority, in proof that they meant to comprehend, within the mantle of its protection, the Jew and the Gentile, the Christian and Mohammedan, the Hindoo and Infidel of every denomination.
~ Thomas Jefferson, Autobiography, in reference to the Virginia Act for Religious Freedom

As the government of the United States is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion; as it has in itself no character of enmity against the laws, religion or tranquility of Musselmen [Muslims] ... it is declared ... that no pretext arising from religious opinion shall ever product an interruption of the harmony existing between the two countries.... The United States is not a Christian nation any more than it is a Jewish or a Mohammedan nation.
~ Treaty of Tripoli (1797), carried unanimously by the Senate and signed into law by John Adams (the original language is by Joel Barlow, U.S. Consul)

I've been in politics long enough to expect criticism and hostility. But I was unprepared for the hatred I get from Christians. Why do Christians hate so much?
~ Bill Clinton quoted in Washington Times, August 23, 1997

I and the public know
What all school children learn
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return
~ W.H. Auden

EPILOGUE

Some of the first colonists of the United States of America were seeking to escape religious persecution. The constitutions of several of the early U.S. states prohibited public support of religion (though some explicitly supported or demanded adherence to Christianity). Above all, the many varying sects of Christianity in America required that to be fair to all, there could be preference to none. It would have been disgraceful for anyone to wish to leave the newly-founded United States because of religious persecution. So the authors of the U.S. Constitution and Bill of Rights decided it best to keep the government out of religion. In the years between 1776 and 1833, every single one of the original thirteen states followed suit, revising their own state constitutions to include clauses for religious freedom.

No religious Test shall ever be required as a Qualification to any Office or public Trust under the United States.
~ U.S. Constitution, Article VI

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.
~ U.S. Constitution, Amendment 1 (which, in my opinion, should be the final word on the subject)

dirty word

2009-03-11T13:11:00.002-05:00

During the course of the last few months, I've heard many people, from commoners like me to the alleged best and brightest our nation has to offer, express disdain and distrust for so-called 'socialist' policies enacted by our new administration. These comments range from the uninformed to the just-plain stupid. When powerful politicians make such public statements, like John McCain's recent accusation that the Obama administration doesn't have the courage to let banks fail, I'm forced to wonder how such ignorance is possible.

Ours is not the first generation to fall on hard financial times, nor is it the first to see banks go belly-up. In 1933, during the FDR administration, the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (FDIC) was created to respond to the thousands of bank that failed during the Great Depression. The FDIC is an agency of the federal government which insures deposits against bank failure. The FDIC is managed by a five-person board of directors, all of whom are appointed by the President and confirmed by the Senate.

For the last 75 years, when a bank has failed:

The FDIC swoops in to take over the bank.
The FDIC then checks the balance sheets to ensure that the checking/savings/etc of the customers are covered.
The bank leadership is fired, the shareholders' values are liquidated, and bank assets are sold off to cover liabilities.
The bank is then put up for sale, and the new ownership can either reopen it the way it was or let it die.

Under the current administration, when a bank fails:

The FDIC swoops in to take over the bank.
The FDIC then checks the balance sheets to ensure that the checking/savings/etc of the customers are covered.
The bank leadership is fired, the shareholders' values are liquidated, and bank assets are sold off to cover liabilities.
The bank is then put up for sale, and the new ownership can either reopen it the way it was or let it die.

Why, then, is the idea of "letting the banks fail" considered noble and courageous, while the idea of nationalization is considered some big, scary evil? I've got news for you, folks. In addition to democratic policies, most major world governments, including our own, have employed socialist practices for years.

I'm of the opinion that a governing body should research a problem and then use whichever solution most effectively addresses the issue. Just because a particular method, such as capitalism, has historically been the best answer for our country does not necessarily mean that it cannot be improved upon. Perhaps the trouble here is not socialism, but the inflexible adherence to dogmatic ideas.

All of my life, I've been told that I'm fortunate enough to have been born in the greatest country in the world, the most powerful country in the world, the only free country in the world (all propagandized matters of opinion, by the way). What I've never heard anyone say is that I live in the most intelligent country in the world. Isn't it about time to change that?

ex(e/o)rcise

2009-02-17T01:11:00.003-06:00

If you've ever done any computer programming, then you've had extensive experience with the following subject. Even high-level programming touches on these concepts, although high-level languages shield us from the nuts and bolts of number systems as much as possible. If you're curious about alternative number systems as they apply to computer programming, read on. If you would rather be doing something else, this is your chance. Go!

Now that we've cleared out the disinterested, let's get on with it. The history of numbering systems is a long one. From the ancient Babylonians (who used a Base-60 numbering system written in cuneiform) to modern computing (programming, encoding, and encryption), numbering systems have been the basis, the backbone of technology. From the lowest-level bit to 64-bit values and beyond, these numbering systems are vital to the way humanity experiences the world. Even the pixel patterns that make up the words you're reading are dependent on whether or not a bit is equal to one or zero. With that in mind, let's get started.

In terms of programming, alternative number systems were originally used, and indeed they are still used, to conserve valuable memory space and to reduce lengthy clock cycles. In the following table, BIN represents the BINARY or BASE 2 number system, HEX represents the HEXADECIMAL or BASE 16 number system, and DEC represents the DECIMAL or BASE 10.

BIN DEC HEX | BIN DEC HEX
--------------------|--------------------
0000 = 0 = 0 | 1000 = 8 = 8
0001 = 1 = 1 | 1001 = 9 = 9
0010 = 2 = 2 | 1010 = 10 = A
0011 = 3 = 3 | 1011 = 11 = B
0100 = 4 = 4 | 1100 = 12 = C
0101 = 5 = 5 | 1101 = 13 = D
0110 = 6 = 6 | 1110 = 14 = E
0111 = 7 = 7 | 1111 = 15 = F

After viewing this table, the advantages of the hexadecimal numbering system become clear. Sixteen different values may be represented by a single digit.

In the BINARY or BASE 2 number system, each added digit can represent an exponentially larger possibility of values. This means that for every digit used in binary, the possible decimal values represented increases by a factor of 2. Just one binary digit, or BIT, can represent two decimal values, 0 or 1. Add another binary digit, and the number can represent four decimal values, from 0 to 3. Add another binary digit, and the number can represent eight decimal values, from 0 to 7.

In the HEXADECIMAL or BASE 16 number system, each additional digit increases the possible values represented by a factor of sixteen. A single hexadecimal digit can represent sixteen decimal values, from 0 to 15. Adding another hex digit increases the number of possible represented values by a factor of 16, so that the possible values now range from 0 to 255. You get the idea.

This translates into an exponential increase in storage capacity and an exponential decrease in processing time. Are you beginning to see the value of these alternative number systems (pun intended)? Now that we've answered the WHY, let's move on to the HOW.

The BIT
A bit is the smallest piece of data that exists. A bit is one-eighth of a byte (see below), and can equal either a one (1) or a zero (0). If you're wondering how ones and zeros apply to computing, think of each one and each zero as a digital instruction where one equals ON and zero equals OFF. In the programming world, a bit is said to be on or off depending on whether it equals one or zero. These ones and zeros make up the BINARY or BASE 2 number system. For example:

0000 = 0 0100 = 4 1000 = 8 1100 = 12
0001 = 1 0101 = 5 1001 = 9 1101 = 13
0010 = 2 0110 = 6 1010 = 10 1110 = 14
0011 = 3 0111 = 7 1011 = 11 1111 = 15

The NIBBLE
A nibble is made up of four bits, and is one-half of a byte (see below). A nibble has a minimum value of 0000 and a maximum value of 1111 (min 0 and max 15 in the decimal number system). The astute among you will have noticed that a nibble can contain 16 different values (0 to 15), which happen to be the basis for our next number system, the HEXADECIMAL or BASE 16 number system. Hexadecimal numbers are created using the following digits:

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 A B C D E F

The BYTE
A byte is (most commonly, and for the purposes of this blog) made up of eight bits, or two nibbles. The byte is the basic unit of information storage in computer science. A byte can store 256 different values, from a minimum of 00000000 (DEC 0 or HEX 00) to a maximum of 11111111 (DEC 255 or HEX FF). This will be important in a moment.

Okay, let's put it all together in familiar computer terms. You've probably noticed that numbers are thrown around a lot when discussing a computer's capabilities. For example, you may hear that a particular computer has a certain number of megabytes of random access memory (RAM), or you might hear that the same computer has a hard drive capable of storing a certain number of gigabytes of information. All of these numbers you hear are based on the byte, and all are multiples of 8. Now, I know what you're thinking, what about kilobytes and megabytes? Those aren't multiples of 8, right? In the computer world, they are.

In mathematics, the prefixes kilo, mega, giga, tera, and so on, represent exponentally increasing values, but these prefixes are traditionally based on the decimal or base 10 system, so that kilo means thousand, mega means million, giga means billion, tera means trillion, etc. But in the computer world, numbers are based on the binary or base 2 system, so when you hear the terms kilobyte (KB), megabyte (MB), gigabyte (GB), and terabyte (TB), they do not translate exactly. A kilobyte is not equal to 1000 bytes because 1000 is an exponent of 10, or 10³. A kilobyte is an exponent of 2, and is therefore equal to decimal 1024, or 2¹⁰. So a kilobyte is equal to 1024 bytes, not 1000 bytes.

Now that we (hopefully) understand these alternative numbering systems, let's talk about how they are used in computing. Imagine that I've asked you to use four adjectives to describe someone you know. For the purposes of this demonstration, let's limit the adjectives to: funny, hairy, jolly, and witty. (On a tangent, if you're wondering what Freud would say about my choice of adjectives, you're reading the wrong blog.)

You could use all, none, or any combination of those four adjectives to describe this person. Now, imagine that you had to use these four adjectives to describe not just this person, but everyone you know and everyone you don't know. Let's further imagine that you are not looking forward to this task, and you're desperately trying to think of some way to shorten the amount of work this is going to take. So you create a checklist with four boxes.

o funny
o hairy
o jolly
o witty

Then you copy this checklist one time for each person in the world. Now, instead of keeping track of a set of descriptions for each and every person, you merely have to keep track of each person's checklist. If a person, let's call him Hilarius Hairybottomus, is funny and hairy but not jolly or witty, his checklist would look like this:

• funny
• hairy
o jolly
o witty

Okay, this is easier, but the system can still be improved. If we use a digit to represent each adjective in order, then we could further simplify this task. We would need four digits, one for each word, and we could arrange them in the same order as the adjectives to avoid confusion. So the first digit would represent funny, the second would represent hairy, and so on. Using this system, the following series of four digits could be used to represent the characteristics of Hilarius Hairybottomus:

1100

If, on the other hand, our friend Mr. Hairybottomus paid for electrolysis and at the same time read a few books to increase his wit, we could easily change this four digit number to effectively represent his new characteristics:

1001

I bet you're wondering how this applies to computer science, eh? Imagine that instead of a person, Mr. Hairybottomus is a piece of computer data. He's sitting right there next to all the other thousands of data on your hard drive. This data has certain attributes that indicate how it should be treated by the computer's software, attributes like Readonly, Hidden, System, Volume, Directory, File, Archive, and Encrypted. Rather than storing these attributes for each and every single piece of data, why not store a number that represents all of them? This is where binary numbers come in. Each digit, or bit, in the following number is used to indicate whether or not the data has a specific attribute. In this example, a one means that the attribute applies to the data, and a zero means that the attribute does not apply:

Bits: 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 0 Attribute
----------------------------------
. . . . . . . 1 Readonly
. . . . . . 1 . Hidden
. . . . . 0 . . System
. . . . 0 . . . Volume
. . . 0 . . . . Directory
. . 1 . . . . . File
. 1 . . . . . . Archive
1 . . . . . . . Encrypted

As in the table above, instead of storing lengthy descriptions of data, we can simply represent the presence or absence of each attribute with a single byte:

11100011 (Hilarius Hairybottomus data attributes)

If we want to further simplify this, we can substitute the binary representation for the hexadecimal representation. Instead of the eight digit binary number, we need only a two digit hexadecimal number:

E3 (Hilarius Hairybottomus data attributes)

This is just one example of the many ways that the complexities of alternative number systems are used to simplify the computing world. Don't you just love the smell of irony in the morning?

finally

2009-01-20T11:11:00.000-06:00

After eight long years, I am once again proud to be an American.

carnies

2009-01-02T23:11:00.003-06:00

I must consider myself a fortunate man. Not only did the 2008 New Year's Eve (my birthday) fall on my favorite day of the week (Woden's Day, or 'hump day'), but I was lucky enough to spend the evening with some of the most talented and ingenious people I've ever known. I'm lookin' at you, Kristen and Mel. I'm also lookin' at you, Jackie. Chris, you're my muthafucka!

Mel, thank you for coming through with free Celebration Le Cirque tickets for everyone, them shits was incredible! Seriously, that made the night. Dear readers, if you've never had the opportunity, I highly recommend seeing this show. It is absolutely the most fun a person can have outside of Memphis, unless of course you have a shotgun AND a midget, but that's a different story.

Kristen, thank you for the birthday gift that I inadvertently left in the trunk of Mel's caddy. Whatever it is, I'm sure I'll love it. Also, thanks to you and Mel for your stirring rendition of "Little Drummer Boy" as performed by Creed. "A-fuckin-rump-pa-pum-PUM!"

Jackie, thank you for an evening filled with laughter and good cheer, you kept me smiling all night. I know I tease you a lot for being a dirty whore and letting all those foreigners touch your jubblies, but you are truly one of the most interesting and witty people I know. Given the stiff competition you have in Kristen, Mel, and Chris, I hope you realize that for the compliment that it is.

Chris, I'm glad you're back from Florida, life in Texas just wasn't the same without you.

Mike, we just met, but you seem like a cool dude, and your card tricks are astounding. Thanks for hangin' out!

In addition to spending the evening with the entire cast of Celebration Le Cirque (which is filled with talented musicians, acrobats, physical comics, and magicians, from all over the world), I was also treated to a rare evening with friends and family. Thank you all for making this another great birthday! Happy New Year =]

Love,
t.i.m.p.

P.S. My sister, Amanda, couldn't make it to the Celebration Le Cirque show because she's afraid of clowns. Everyone, please besmirch her profile with photos of clowns. May I suggest this photo to get you started? Seriously, Amanda, I'm sorry we missed each other. I hope you had a great night in spite of everything.

powers of ten

2008-12-16T11:11:00.001-06:00

In the summer of 2003, I went to Alpine, Texas with my then girlfriend to visit some mutual friends, Zack and Tricia Border. While in Alpine, we were fortunate enough to attend a Star Party at McDonald Observatory in Fort Davis. For those that don't know, McDonald Observatory is located at an elevation of about 6800 feet atop Mount Locke in the Davis Mountains of West Texas. These sparsely inhabited mountains offer some of the darkest night skies in the continental U.S., perfect for stargazing. The observatory staff hold bi-weekly events, called Star Parties, at which visitors are treated to amazing views of deep space vistas through several huge telescopes. Visitors are also encouraged to tour the astronomy museum, and watch several short documentaries throughout the evening. It is one of these documentaries that I'd like to discuss.

Powers of Ten is a film made by Charles and Ray Eames in 1977. The film takes the viewer from the core of an atom to the edge of the universe, moving ten times further every ten seconds. It's only nine minutes long, and probably more interesting than any other nine-minute activity in which a person could engage. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!

nitesco

2008-12-14T01:11:00.001-06:00

You really have no idea just how incredible you are. It's frustrating for me to see this and not be able to change your mind, because I know what the rest of the world does not, that you are THE best and THE brightest that humanity has to offer. It doesn't get any better, you hear me? And the fact that you feel destined to be alone is not a reflection of your failure, but a reflection of the collective failure of the rest of humanity. I'm truly honored to witness your shine. And while we're being honest, a large part of the reason I don't have a huge group of friends anymore is because of you, or more specifically, because I could never do better than you. It would be an exercise in futility to even try. I know that it's terribly difficult for you to accept this truth. I know because I've been there, where you are. Now, do me a favor, one friend to another. Choose.

goodbye

2008-12-08T23:11:00.001-06:00

Hear my song, yeah, people don't you listen now?
Sing along, oh, you don't know what you're missing now
Any little song that you know...

- Led Zeppelin, The Song Remains the Same

Human life is precious, beautiful, and fleeting. Embrace it while you can. Goodbye, old friend.

groundhog day

2008-12-07T01:11:00.002-06:00

Groundhog Day. Where to begin? Did you know that the groundhog was initially a serpent? Of course, that was before the Catholic church (by way of Pope Gelasius I) got hold of the pagan traditions, turned a pagan goddess into a Catholic saint, and changed the name from Imbolc to Candlemas.

Consider this excerpt from Carmina Gadelica, Volume 1 by Alexander Carmicheal, a collection of traditional Gaelic folklore:

Thig an nathair as an toll
La donn Bride,
Ged robh tri traighean dh’an t-sneachd
Air leachd an lair.

Which, translated from Gaelic to English, means:

The serpent will come from the hole
On the brown Day of Bride,
Though there should be three feet of snow
On the flat surface of the ground.

The Imbolc festival, dedicated to the goddess Brigid, was originally a celebration of fertility and the coming of spring, halfway between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. Now the Imbolc festival is called Candlemas by the Roman Catholic church and supposedly celebrates the trip that Joseph and Mary made, forty days after the birth of Jesus, to present the newborn Savior at the Temple of Jerusalem, as described in Matthew 2:22-40.

The thing is, according to the writings of a nun named Egeria, who made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land from 381 to 384, the Candlemas celebration was observed on February 14th. According to Egeria, February 14th was a day solemnly kept in Jerusalem with a procession to Constantine I's Basilica of the Resurrection, and with a homily preached on Matthew 2:22, which clearly indicates the celebration of the presentation of Jesus at the Temple of Jerusalem. So it would appear that, more than one hundred years before the time of Pope Gelasius I (494-496), Candlemas was traditionally celebrated on February 14th, which would put the birth of Jesus forty days before, on January 6th.

What does this say about the Christmas celebration, or, as many pre-Christianity pagans knew it, Dies Natalis Solis Invicti, "the birthday of the unconquered sun," which occurred four days after the winter solstice, on December 25th? Dies Natalis Solis Invicti was a sun-worshipper's holiday that celebrated the first detectable lengthening of daylight hours after the long winter nights. Ironically, when later Christians refused to take part in the sun-worshipping festivities, they were ridiculed by traditional pagans as atheists due to the fact that they didn't believe in a god that could be seen, like Solis Invicti, but in an invisible god.

So when did the recognized birthday of Jesus go from January 6th to December 25th, and why? The "when" is easy: sometime between the celebrations that Egeria observed in Jerusalem (381-384) and the time when Pope Gelasius I (494-496) moving of the Candlemas date from February 14th to February 2nd. The "why" depends on who you believe. The Catholic church's official claim is that the date of December 25th was derived merely by calculating nine months after the date of the conception of Jesus, March 25th. If that's the case, however, then why was the recognized date of Candlemas moved to twelve days prior, which caused the traditional celebration of the birth of Jesus to move from January 6th to December 25th?

Are you starting to see a pattern here? Incidentally, the pagan goddess Brigid was called a triple goddess in Celtic cultures, due to the fact that she embodied three personas (a trinity, if you will): Brigid the poetess, Brigid the smith, and Brigid the doctor. Sound familiar? The goddess Brigid from the pagan tradition is now Saint Brigid of the Catholic Church. The goddess Brigid was traditionally described as the goddess of poetry, cows, healing, smithcraft, holy wells, eternal flames, and healing. Saint Brigid, coincidentally, is the patron saint of poets, blacksmiths, healers, midwives, dairy maids... you get the idea.

This blog is getting lengthy, so I'll try to wrap it up, but while we're on this subject, the modern holiday of Easter can be traced back to a spring equinox celebration of a pre-Christianity pagan goddess named Eostre, goddess of the dawn. For the sake of Pete, the very name of the holiday is derived from hers! And don't get me started on the "coincidences" between the Anglo-Saxon god Woden (later called Odin in Norse mythology) and Jehovah, between the pagan celebration of Samhain and the Catholic celebrations of All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day, between early Persian and Egyptian religious beliefs and the coinciding beliefs of Catholicism... I could go on for days.

For the record, the Latin term paganus, like the Germanic term heathen, originally referred to someone living in a rural area. Since many different old religions were practiced in rural areas of the world, and since rural areas were "Christianized" later than larger cities, the terms pagan and heathen came to mean any adherent of a non-Abrahamic religion.

It is apparent that the Catholic church, which directly influenced the various Christian sects that developed in recent history, has incorporated many aspects of the pagan traditions into Christianity in order to more easily convert, and thus subjugate, the stubborn pagans. I submit that the majority (if not all) of Christian traditions are merely the renaming and unlawful annexation of older religious or spiritual traditions. Meet the new god, same as the old god.

singular

2008-11-28T01:11:00.001-06:00

Love is an easy thing to doubt. One has only to glance over the current divorce statistics to see evidence of that, but I prefer to think of love differently. I don’t believe that love is a self-fulfilling prophecy, but a rare opportunity afforded to a person only once or twice in a lifetime, something to be treasured, and something for which one must work to keep. But when hard work pays off in the form of those little moments we share with another, those little moments of vulnerability that expose our throats to our lovers, and our lovers choose to kiss rather than bite, they are our reward for a job well done.

Love could also be viewed as something that is entirely within ourselves, singular and independent, something that we choose to share with others simply for the sheer joy of it, without expectation or need. If viewed in that light, it becomes easy to see that the lover doesn’t matter, that the name attached to the love becomes less significant, you know? Now I’m not suggesting that people should go out and sleep with others willy-nilly (no pun intended), just that the act of loving, in and of itself, is a kind of reward, regardless of whether or not that love is ever returned.

I’ve found in the past that some friendships and relationships, even those which I thought were bulletproof, disintegrated easily once the driving motive was removed from the equation. In other words, relationships based on dependence or need rarely survive the test of time. But I must consider myself lucky that life has yet to rob me of my ability to love. It may succeed in time, and I may become bitter and lifeless, just going through the motions of existence for lack of a better alternative, but for now, in this moment, I still have that magic, that spark, that good shit that keeps me smiling even while buildings are falling down, and people are dying in the Middle East, and families are disintegrating, and our country is run by Pinocchio, the almost, yet not quite, real live boy.

"All of a sudden, I found myself in love with the world, so there was only one thing that I could do, was ding-a-ding-dang my dang-a-long ling-long." - Al Jourgensen

111

2008-10-08T01:11:00.002-05:00

01101111 01101110 01100101
01100001 01101110 01100100
01101111 01101110 01100101
01100001 01110010 01100101
01101111 01101110 01100101

01100101 01101100 01100101
01110110 01100101 01101110

deus ex machina

2008-09-23T23:11:00.001-05:00

Why do you bash the wall with that hammer? Because you're convinced that you can walk through walls. Not only you, anyone. People. People in Nashville. You try to exert the full force of your mind on all the atoms of your body so that they will mix and rearrange and fit exactly all the holes in that wall. Then you try the laboratory method. You try to walk through it. Through the wall. Just like a few minutes ago when you took a running bash. And you failed. Horribly. You are punishing the atoms. You are making an example of them. An object lesson. A thing. So when the other atoms see what's coming, they'll let you pass through. Independent snots! Shape up or ship out!

I think that the problem may lie in the properties of the hammer. May I keep it for study?

the ninth

2008-09-22T23:11:00.001-05:00

Some Shakespearean scholars say that when Hamlet is pretending to be crazy, he really is crazy, correct? Now other Shakespearean scholars say that when Hamlet is pretending to be nuts, he really isn't nuts, it's an act. Now considering how Hamlet is acting, is he really and truly crazy? Yes? No? They're both wrong. Remember what happens. First, his father dies. Then his girl leaves him flat. Then there's an appearance by his father's ghost. Bad enough. Then the ghost tells Hamlet he was murdered, and by whom? By Hamlet's uncle, who recently married Hamlet's mother. Now that, by itself, is a hell of a hang-up because Hamlet liked his mother... a lot. So is Hamlet insane? No, he's not. He is pretending. But, if Hamlet hadn't pretended to be crazy, he really would've gone crazy. You see, Hamlet isn't psycho, he's hanging on the brink. A little shove, a little teensy weensy little push and the kid's gone. Bananas. Whacked out. So his unconscious mind makes him do what keeps him sane, namely, acting like he's not. You see, because acting crazy is a way to let off steam, a way to get rid of your fucking aggressions, a way to get rid of your fears and your terrors. If I did what Hamlet does in this play, they'd lock me up, they'd put me in prison, they'd punish me, sure. But him, Prince Royal Garbagemouth gets away with murder, and why? Because nuts are not responsible. Meantime, the crazier Hamlet acts, and the more he indulges himself, the healthier he gets.

I think there's something wrong with us.

daydreaming

2008-09-09T13:11:00.001-05:00

The way her eyes reflect the world, the way they reflect me; they hold all the mystery of tinted windows, of closed shutters, of hidden agendas. Unfortunately, my heart lies behind those dark eyes, so I have but two choices: I must either retrieve my heart without further damage, or I must steal hers in return.

She's a lady in a bad situation, maybe that's part of the attraction, part of her charm, my need to be a hero, a knight in not-so-shining armor. She's graceful, eloquent, beautiful, kind, evil, and torturous. She walks like a snake, talks like an angel in denial. Her gaze is an ionized moonbeam, full of spark and dreams and magic. She's stubborn, weird, and belligerent at times, challenging and challenged, and she takes no shit. She will argue with me to the death just to watch my expression change, and it drives me crazy. I'll try to explain.

Imagine yourself in a place devoid of light, I mean true darkness, where senses of weight, direction, motion, and vibration are and have always been meaningless. You've wandered around within the inky folds of this darkness, this void, for what seems like ages, thinking that this can't be it, there must be more, that if you wander long enough and far enough, you'll eventually run into something, experience something, cause some friction, initiate some kind of sensory input to indicate that it's not just you, that there's more.

Now imagine that, after all of this time, you catch a glimpse of something in the darkness, a faint glow in the distance, a reference point that didn't exist before. You start to move toward this pinpoint of light, and notice after a time that you're actually getting closer to it, making ground, covering the distance between you and it. At the same time, you notice that it is not retreating, not trying to escape your advances. This pinpoint of light becomes brighter, looms larger as you approach, revealing not the slightest hint of fear or apprehension. Here, now, is irrefutable proof of the existence of something other than, bigger than, yourself. Here is the light, that sweet, stimulating, hypnotic light that calls your name, beckons you on, and guides you home.

She is that light, yet I fail to do her justice.

the dirty south

2008-08-20T23:11:00.002-05:00

The last vacation I took was over five years ago. My brother and I, along with another friend, went to New Orleans. That's pre-Katrina New Orleans, obviously, and while we had a great time, there was a small element of suck, which I won't go into. However, this past weekend, I went to Memphis, TN, accompanied by my other two halves (I know that doesn't make sense, nothing has three halves, just consider it literary license), the beautiful and multi-talented ladies of Freezin Beggar. I submit that we three, over the course of a weekend, had as much fun as humanly possible without actually ending up in jail or dead. To prove my claim, I submit the following pieces of evidence.

About two weeks ago, Kristen, Mel, and I were steady tubbin' (which is slang for kickin' ass) when the subject of road trips came up. This developed into a discussion of possible destinations within driving distance. We discussed many different places, from New Orleans to Mesa Verde National Park, but when someone mentioned Memphis, it stuck. Neither Kristen nor I had ever been to Memphis, and Mel had only been for business trips. It was then decided that Memphis would be perfect. With the destination set, the three of us started to manifest mentally all of the things we would need for the trip.

First, the technical details. According to Google Maps, Memphis, TN and Dallas, TX are separated by precisely 452 miles of open highway (just under seven hours), assuming one follows the recommended directions. On a side note, add the numbers 4, 5, and 2 quickly in your head. Okay, I hear some of you groaning, but rest assured that no more math will be required for the duration of this blog. Now, I know what you're thinking, seven hours is a long fuckin' time to sit in the car. At first, I was thinking that, too. I was wrong, so are you, and here's why: Mel and Kristen are comedians, not stand-up comedians, they do sketch comedy under the name Freezin Beggar. A seven-hour drive plus two hilarious ladies (oh stop whining, I'm doin' the math, not you) equals a fuckin' good time!

For a few days leading up to our departure, we discussed ways to break up the monotony of the drive. There are the usual driving games that people play, but those are kind of boring, so we invented new ones. Most notably was the trinket contest. The rules are simple: every time we stop, for any reason, one of us would go into the store / truck stop / Stuckey's and purchase the weirdest fuckin' thing we could find for under five dollars. (If you didn't already know, let me be the first to tell you that there are some crazy trinkets to be found between here and Memphis. I know this because we bought all of them.) The contestants were not allowed, under any circumstances, to reveal what they had purchased until we got back to Dallas. Upon our return came the big reveal, the part where we each set out our trinkets for judgment. The results of that judgment can be found in my photo album entitled Down & Dirty in Memphis.

Back to the story. While I ironed out the accounting details (which sounds much more impressive than it is), Kristen put together a stunning "packet" of hot spots, attractions, and points of interest. Folks, the "packet" was incredible. Not only did it provide us with a listing of every club, restaurant, historical marker, and venue in Memphis, it probably listed the names, favorite colors, and food allergies of every Memphibian who ever lived. I didn't actually read that far, but it's possible. As for Mel, well, apart from getting a sweet fuckin' deal for our weekend lodging, the trip wouldn't have been possible without Mel because Mel did what she does best. She charmed. By that I mean that she exercised her sheer force of will to ensure that we got to Memphis. It's an incredible thing to behold, I assure you. So after a few bothersome but far from insurmountable roadblocks, we were on the road Friday by four o'clock.

Thanks in part to the combined efforts of Edouard and Fay, the weather over the weekend was perfect. When we left Dallas, it was August hot, but by the time we got a few miles outside of the metroplex, the temperature had dropped dramatically. In addition, cloud cover was almost complete, and as we crossed the border into Arkansas, the rain and fog (which is typical of post-hurricane weather) followed us most of the way to Tennessee. But as we neared the Hernando de Soto Bridge, which spans the Mississippi River and separates Arkansas from Tennessee, the hurricane clouds, having seen us safely and pleasantly through to our destination, decided that their work was complete and turned off the waterworks.

Crossing the Hernando de Soto Bridge into Tennessee, we see the skyline of Memphis just to the south, and, what the fuck, there's a fuckin' pyramid just to the north! Not just any pyramid, mind you, but a big fuckin' stainless steel pyramid! After some research I discovered that the pyramid is called the Memphis Pyramid Arena, and was the original home of the NBA Memphis Grizzlies. This pyramid, at 321 feet tall, is taller than the Statue of Liberty, and is the third largest pyramid in the world behind the Great Pyramid of Giza and the Luxor Hotel. The basketball team has since moved to a newer arena, so the pyramid is now host to various conventions and live shows, not to mention being used as a sound stage for the 2006 film Black Snake Moan. Why, you may be asking yourself, as I did, is there a fuckin' pyramid on the banks of the Mississippi River in the heart of America? It's because Memphis was named after an ancient city situated on the Nile River in Egypt, presumably because the location on the Mississippi river was reminiscent of that ancient city on the Nile. Can you guess the name of that ancient city?

Having solved the mystery of the ages, we continued along to our hotel, and with little fuss, Mel secured a room key. In less than fifteen minutes, we were out the door and into the Memphis night life. On a tangent, it's always amazed me how women, in this case personified by Kristen and Mel, possess the singular ability to go from looking road-weary and haggard to looking absolutely stunning in the same stretch of time that it would take me to shave my head. You ladies got skill.

When we arrived on the scene in downtown Memphis, it was around midnight. But, since bars in Memphis aren't required to close until 3 AM, and bars on Beale Street are allowed to stay open all night, we decided that we wanted to get some drinks and some food after the long trip, so we walked into the first place we saw on Beale Street, which just happened to be the famous B.B. King's Blues Club. As we walked in, we were greeted by an "I Shot the Sherriff" cover that was enthralling. The place was packed and jumpin', so we walked up to the booth to pay the cover charge, $5 per person. Then we asked the door lady where we should sit if we wanted to order food. She informed us that the kitchen was closed. A minor snag, but after a quick Q&A we learned that we could get stamped at the B.B. King gift shop next door, get some food across the street, then come back in. Cool, we thought, and we headed across to the Blues City Cafe. Once inside, we were greeted by friendly staff. We ordered a few beers and a few small plates of food, and were back outside in less than fifteen minutes. We again strolled across the street to B.B. King's, only to find that the place was locked up tight and devoid of all signs of life. "Motherfucker," I thought, "B.B. King just ripped us off!" I suppose there are worse things that could happen to a person than getting taken for fifteen duckets by a famous blues musician, so after some laughter, we moved on. But B.B., baby, if you're out there, don't think I've forgotten about you.

We strolled around Beale Street for a while, just getting a feel for the place, and discovered that Memphis at night is one of the prime locations for my favorite pastime, people-watching. Apart from the drunken tourists staggering around to a rock / r & b / blues soundtrack, the native Memphibians themselves are a unique breed of people. I found myself remembering the various tales of J.R.R. Tolkien and H.P. Lovecraft, in which the authors assert the distinct differences in the culture and appearance of river folk. They were onto something.

After much laughter, we decided that we'd had enough for one day, so we headed back to the hotel, discussing along the way the next day's adventures. We determined which spots in Memphis were a must-see, and which spots we could live without experiencing. Once these decisions were made, we crawled into bed for the night.

Before we proceed, a quick note about our sleeping arrangements. If your body is of the sort that craves cold air blowing down your neck and up the crack of your ass while you sleep, you'll be perfectly happy sharing a bed with Kristen. However, if you, like Mel and I, prefer a warm and cozy sleeping experience, you should ensure that there is enough blanket and body heat to go around, because Kristen will freeze you out of a hotel room. Luckily for Mel and I, the situation was such that, through the clever use of snuggling and body heat, we were able to (mostly) avoid waking up with nip-cicles. A note to Kristen and Mel, if you're reading this: If I poked anyone in the back, you have my sincerest apologies, but you must understand that sharing a bed with two attractive women is not the least stimulating activity in which a man can engage.

After a night's worth of rest and, uh, interesting dreams, we three awoke refreshed. First Mel, then I, then Kristen showered and dressed ourselves for the adventures to come. First stop, the legendary Sun Studio. For those that haven't heard, Sun Studio is a recording studio in Memphis. Opened by Sam Phillips in 1950, Sun Studio is famous for a number of things, including the recording of the very first rock and roll song, "Rocket 88" by Jackie Brenston and his Delta Cats. Another notch on the Sun Studio belt is the fact that the studio was the starting point for the recording careers of many, many local area artists, including Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, Roy Orbison, Carl Perkins, Charlie Rich, B.B. King, Rufus Thomas, and Chester Burnett (better known as Howlin' Wolf). We then walked about three blocks down to the original Heartbreak Hotel, which is in a sad state of disrepair. After snapping a few photos and marveling at these little corners of history, we decided to kick things up a notch by visiting Graceland. Coincidentally, the day we decided to visit Graceland was also the thirty-first anniversary of the death of Elvis Presley.

How does one explain Graceland in a paragraph? It may not be possible, but here goes. Graceland is another world, an entirely foreign, yet somehow familiar, landscape, and this world is populated by strange beings unlike you or me. Well, unlike me anyway. The populace of Graceland appears to gather its sustenance solely from the abundant supply of decadent trinkets and gaudy souvenirs. Armed with complex weapons that bear an uncanny resemblance to expensive cameras with telephoto lenses, these strange beings hover about, shooting everything in sight until the near vicinity is awash with muzzle flashes. Upon studying the habits of this intriguing race, I detected a sort of crude bartering economy, which would seem to suggest a vague hint of rudimentary intelligence. You see, it appears to be the primary goal of these beasts to transfer small items (such as plush dolls, flowers, et al.) to the grave of one of their ancestors with the intended effect being that the ancestor will reward the beast with good favor. After the exchange is made, the creature typically begins a somber half-chant, half-wail (which sounds a bit like the English phrase "I miss him so much!"), presumably to get the attention of the ancestor (although I suspect the reasoning for this behavior has more to do with attracting the attention of the creature's peers). This exotic culture seems to exist solely for the monetary benefit of the surviving heirs of the aforementioned ancestor, who, I'm guessing, at the end of each solar cycle gather up the worthless trinkets and burn them to keep warm.

Now, I don't want to give the impression that Graceland sucks, because it doesn't. In fact, Graceland can be the most interesting place in the world, especially if you're into people watching, like me and my two companions. And if you're into souvenirs of dead cultural icons, you could do much worse than Graceland.

After observing this unique cultural phenomenon, the three of us, Kristen, Mel, and I, decided that we couldn't see the value in spending over sixty dollars apiece to take the guided tour of Graceland, so we asked the guard at the gate if we could just walk up to the house and take a few pictures. We were informed that no one was allowed inside the gates while the guided tours were being conducted, but if we wanted, we could come back between 7 and 9 PM. At that time, the grounds are reopened to allow visitors to view the graves of Elvis and family for free. We decided that this would be an essential opportunity for further study into the psychology of the Elvis fan(atic).

Upon leaving Graceland, we agreed to return to the hotel and freshen up before the evening ahead, as we intended to get crunk. On the way, we decided that what we really wanted to do was see the real Memphis, not the Memphis that the Bureau of Tourism wanted us to see. Back at the hotel, Kristen and Mel began their mystical ritual while I consulted the all-seeing Packet. After perusing the descriptions of various venues, we resolved to see two of them at all costs: an old brothel-turned-bar called Earnestine & Hazel's, and a dance club called Raiford's Hollywood Disco. The reasons behind our decision were simple: a) Neither establishment was located on the tourist-choked Beale Street, b) Raiford's sells nothing but forty-ounce bottles of alcohol, and c) Earnestine & Hazel's used to be a fucking brothel. Enough said.

After leaving the hotel, we once again arrived in downtown Memphis, but the night was still young, so we decided to visit a nearby place called Martyrs Park, which allegedly has the best views of the sunset over the Mississippi River. Incidentally, Martyrs Park is so named in remembrance of those who tended over 17000 sick people during an epidemic of Yellow Fever in 1878. When we got out of the car, we found that a wedding was being held here, so after taking a few snapshots, we walked politely around the wedding guests and down a jogging trail along the riverbank, searching for the perfect vantage point from which to watch the sunset. Along the way, we found what may indeed prove to be the sexiest tree in existence (see photo album entitled Down & Dirty in Memphis). Then, as we perched precariously atop a flood wall constructed of sand bags which had since fossilized and turned to stone, we gazed into the miles-deep distance of a breath-taking panoramic view. From our vantage point, we could see all four bridges leading into Memphis, as well as the fuckin' pyramid mentioned earlier. The sunset was beautiful, despite the presence of hurricane clouds.

Having satisfied ourselves with this visual treat, we made our way back to the car. We were all getting hungry at this point, so we followed the directions dictated by the all-mighty Packet, and within a few minutes we were walking through the doorway of Earnestine & Hazel's. Now, I must confess that I wasn't impressed by this place at first. I saw a jukebox next to a small dance floor, a small pool table in the back, and a medium-sized bar. There were only about fifteen patrons inside at this time, and it didn't seem like this was going to be very much fun. I was mistaken. Walking through those doors turned out to be the best decision we could have made.

After surveying the scene, we walked over to the bar to order drinks. We were immediately greeted by two bartenders, Karen and Clarence. I opened the conversation by remarking to Clarence that we were in search of the real Memphis. "The real Memphis?" he asked. I then told him how B.B. King had ripped us off the night before, and that we weren't interested in seeing the tourist spots in Memphis, so we'd decided to try something away from the neon lights of Beale Street. Clarence said, "Well, you've come to the right place. Why don't y'all sit down and let us bring you a few Soul Burgers." Soul Burgers, in case you're wondering, are apparently made from the tears of laughing angels. They're so fucking delicious, and they're the only food served at Earnestine & Hazel's. After wolfing down the burger, Karen the bartender (a.k.a. Special K, a.k.a. Mama Memphis) came over and sat with us for a while. She told us about some of the history surrounding the place, it's time as a drug store and brothel, and also about the twelve movies that were filmed there, including Black Snake Moan, 21 Grams, and My Blueberry Nights, among others.

At this point someone, Mel or Kristen, asked if the place was haunted, and Karen said yes. We asked her about some of her experiences with the supernatural, and she told us she'd been working at Earnestine & Hazel's for years, and had seen many things (I won't go into the stories she related, as they are her stories to tell. Let it suffice to say that she was very convincing). Eventually she pointed us in the direction of the stairs leading to the second floor and invited us to explore. We thanked her for the hospitality and, beverages in hand, headed for the stairs.

The first thing we noticed was that the stairs were leaning slightly to one side, which lends a surreal effect to the climb. At the top of the stairs was an old sign with the letters "CP" written on it. The second thing we noticed was that the second floor was completely deserted; no patrons, no employees, not another living soul. There was no visible white light to be found except what streamed through the open windows. A long wooden hallway, worn and dilapidated from years of use, ran the length of the building. Windows lined one side of the hall, while in the other side were built several doors. These doors led to individual private rooms, which were obviously used to house "guests" during the building's stint as a whore house. The second floor appeared as though it had never been renovated from that time period, as the decor was old and rustic. The air was stiff and heavy with history, and immediately we three were overtaken by a sense of deep respect, as though we were guests within the home of unseen hosts. We began to explore each of the rooms in wonder, commenting here and there about the visible age of the place.

I decided to take a few photos of the various rooms, but when I powered up the camera, I was warned that the memory was full. I sighed and told Kristen and Mel that I'd have to delete some of the previous photos before I could take more. While I did this, they wandered off into the far reaches of the building.

So there I am, standing in a ten-foot square room, looking down at the LED screen of my camera, sifting through photos in search of deletion candidates, and the only light in the room is the upward glow of the camera on my face. After a few minutes of this, I hear a noise that sounds like air brakes outside the open window in front of me. I look out and see that a street trolley has stopped at a red light on the street below. The trolley is lit from the inside, and I can see three or four black passengers sitting on benches within. As I watch them, one of the passengers gazes up to the window through which I'm looking. The expression on the passenger's face changed quickly from calm to alarmed, and he alerted the other passengers. As he pointed at the window, the other passengers followed his gaze until everyone on the trolley was staring at me and whispering to each other in alarm. "I wonder what has them so upset," I thought. Then I realize that I'm standing in a dark room, in front of an open window, and the only thing the passengers can see is the camera glow on my face, so to them, I probably resembled a disembodied head or some sort of ghostly mirage. I quickly realized the potential of this situation and decided to juice it. I started making grotesque faces at them, the sort of faces of which nightmares are made. This caused the passengers to stand up and crowd over to one side of the trolley to get a better glimpse of the window. Then I begin to move the camera, which is still outside their field of vision, around in such a way that it caused a flickering effect upon my face, and this really got them stirred up. Just as I was getting into it, the traffic light on the street below turned green, and the trolley moved away into the night.

When the trolley had gone, I immediately burst into laughter. Then I ran off to find Kristen and Mel so I can tell them how I just improved Earnestine & Hazel's ghostly reputation. I find them sitting on a bench in a corner room of the second floor. I ask what they're up to, and they said, almost in unison, that they were talking to the ghost. After a few more questions, I learned that they had been speaking with the ghost for a few minutes in an attempt to let it know that we meant it no harm and that we were only there as guests. When they asked the ghost to show them a sign that it understood what they were saying, Kristen felt and Mel saw the Red Stripe bottle move in Kristen's hand. Now, keep in mind that I did not witness this manifestation in person, I was in another room, but I believe what Kristen and Mel said.

The room that they occupied contained an old wooden piano, as well as a small, L-shaped bar that could accommodate about eight people. Above the bar was a sign that read "12 Mellow Fellows Blues Lounge", and there were old photographs, yellowed with age, tacked to the peeling walls. We took a few photos of this room, and I related the story of my temporary haunting to Kristen & Mel. At this point, Karen the bartender came upstairs to see how we were doing, and to tell us some more history. She told us about the "CP" sign, which stands for Club Paradise, one of the many businesses to occupy the second floor of this building in its long history. According to Karen, Club Paradise was the first club in Memphis, and one of the first in the south, where black musicians were allowed to play in public. She also told us about the "12 Mellow Fellows Blues Lounge" where Ray Charles used to shoot heroin and play the piano all night. We then asked her about the twelve movies that had been filmed here, and she asked us to follow her.

We followed Karen back down the leaning staircase and through a narrow hallway that was just short enough to rub the top of my head as I walked through. We walked through a sort of courtyard to reach another, hidden part of the building. Behind a locked iron gate, we found the bar from Black Snake Moan. It was exactly as depicted in the movie, from the long narrow building to the small wooden stage where Samuel L. Jackson played the blues. After taking a few more photos, we made our way back to the front bar for some more drinks. When we sat down at a nearby table, the other bartender, Clarence (a.k.a. C-Note, a.k.a. Pimp Daddy because of the time he pimped three cocktail waitresses to members of Alice Cooper's band) came over and sat down with us. Kristen, Mel, and I were eager to hear more about the building and its history, so we welcomed his company. First, he ordered a round of drinks for everyone. Then he spent the next two hours telling us everything we wanted to know about Earnestine & Hazel's, Memphis, and the surrounding area. Even at 59, Clarence had a certain youthful quality about him, and there was never a dull moment. In addition to being well-versed in local lore and legend, we found Clarence's mustache to be of the highest caliber, easily overshadowing the moustaches of far younger men.

After we three had absorbed much information from Clarence, we remembered our other must-see destination, Raiford's Hollywood Disco. We asked Clarence if he knew the place and if it was worth checking out. As it happens, not only did he know the place, he was a frequent patron, as well as a friend of the owner, Raiford. Not only that, but he said that his shift ended a few hours ago, and that he'd be happy to take us to Raiford's, which was only a four-block walk. We all agreed that the idea was tremendous, so we finished our drinks, told Karen that we'd be back in a little while, and strolled down the street to Raiford's.

I'm sure some of you out there have heard the term "off the fuckin' hook" before, right? Wrong. Forget everything you ever thought you knew about what a dance club should be. In fact, until you've been to Raiford's, you should just go ahead and consider yourself uncultured. You see, Raiford is a 65-year-old black man. Apart from owning the place, he runs the DJ booth. I know what you're thinking, how cool a place can this be if a senior citizen is picking out the dance music? Again, you fail. Old black people are not like old white people. As black people age, they somehow retain their taste for good music, whereas white people seem to grow more lame with age. Trust Raiford, he knows what he's doing. Now, Raiford has two fine-ass daughters, and they take care of the bar. Raiford also employs what he calls "the brutha with the gun" who ensures that, to use Clarence's phrase, "Ain't no problems here."

To illustrate what I mean, picture a Dallas dance club, filled with everyday Dallasites. You've got a pretty good cross-section of cocky dudes, catty girls, douche bags, belligerent drunks, elitist and cliquey assholes, etc. Now imagine that same dance club, but remove the cockiness, the cattiness, the belligerence... in short, remove all attitude and pretense. Now you're starting to get an accurate picture of Raiford's. Clarence was right, "Ain't no problems here."

At Raiford's, you can't buy a bottle of beer. You can't buy draft beer either. Or wine, or shots, for that matter. All they sell at Raiford's is forties. If this sounds too low-brow for you, then you're exactly the kind of douche bag that Raiford's was built to avoid. If this sounds hilarious to you, then you'll fit right in under the disco balls and multi-colored strobe lights. Bring your dancing shoes, though, 'cause everybody dances at Raiford's, even yours truly, although I defy anyone to produce photographic evidence to prove it.

Around 2:30 AM, we three, and Clarence, were exhausted from dancing, so we made our way back to Earnestine & Hazel's. When we got there, Karen greeted us like long-lost relatives. She whipped up some more soul burgers, brought some drinks, sat down with us, and the five of us ate, drank, and laughed until well past closing time (3 AM). Finally, we thanked both her and Clarence for their endless graciousness and paid our tab. On the way out, Karen gave us her phone number and address. She said not to bother renting a hotel room the next time we were in Memphis because we were welcome to stay with her for free. Now that’s some fuckin’ southern hospitality! We each hugged her tightly and wished her well, and promised to look her up on our next trip. Then we shook hands with Clarence and drove back to the hotel for some much needed rest.

The next day, we checked out of the hotel, and headed out of town. On the way through downtown, we stopped at a place called Dyer's, which is alleged to have the best burgers in Memphis, but all we found was poor service and disgusting food (don't bother). It didn't matter, though, because the three of us were of the opinion that, after the events of the previous night, all other things would pale in comparison.

During the seven hour drive back to Dallas, I was fortunate enough to witness the creation of two new Freezin Beggar sketch characters. I won't reveal anything about them, but let's just say that they're loud, obnoxious, and utterly hilarious Texans. We laughed all the way home.

If you've made it this far, I applaud you. I suppose I owe it to you to wrap this up, so here goes. You know those stories about people who've been in prison for a long time, and when they're finally released, they have trouble readjusting to free society? I think I'm experiencing the opposite of that right now. I feel like I took to Memphis like a pyramid to a riverbank. I had so much fun in Memphis that I'm actually considering moving there. So the only problem I can see with this trip is that we may have jumped the shark. I don't know if there's a way to top our weekend in Memphis, but goddamnit I'm gonna try!

t.i.m.p.

2008-08-19T01:11:00.001-05:00

A man walks into a Cadillac dealer,
And he's looking at some Cadillacs,
When the dealer comes over and says,
"Are you thinking of buying a Cadillac?"
He says, "No, I'm buying a Cadillac,"
"I'm thinking of pussy."

p.s.

2008-07-28T20:11:00.001-05:00

If it's sloppy, eat it over the sink.

bay of pigs

2008-07-06T01:01:00.002-05:00

From the movie The Great Debaters:

St. Augustine said, "An unjust law is no law at all," which means I have a right, even a duty, to resist with violence or civil disobedience. You should pray I choose the latter.

disconnect

2008-06-06T01:11:00.001-05:00

Dark grey skies and wint'ry eyes
Reflect upon a midnight sea
Briny waves engulf her form
Her image washes over me

Luna's low, hypnotic light
Spawns living shadows in my eyes
Muddling my thoughts of her
She hides behind a thin disguise

Let daylight burn our masks away
And wake me from these hollow dreams
When we meet dawn, she is gone
Not everything is as it seems

ignignokt

2008-04-11T01:11:00.014-05:00

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traditional

2008-01-01T13:11:00.002-06:00

The people who started traditions like democracy, communism, capitalism, countries, borders, governmental consent and control, patriotism, religion, marriage as a legal institution, the concept of the home team versus the visitors, rules and regulations; the people who started these traditions are all dead. We, the living, are free to start our own world, to shape it as we see fit. So why do these traditions, these thinly disguised lines of division, still exist? Que bono? Who benefits? Who benefits from the continuing division of humanity into separate, manageable units?

Today is the first day of the new year. It could be the first day of a new world...

(This message has been brought to you, not by the sins of evil men, but by the indifference of good men.)

woohoo

2007-12-09T14:42:00.001-06:00

Today is my brother's birthday. I'm honored to have shared this life with you, compassionate one, unconditional one. May the next year of your life outshine the last thirty-four. I love you, bro!

stfu

2007-11-27T15:51:00.002-06:00

Drawing upon my fine command of the English language, I said nothing.

defined

2007-11-09T11:11:00.001-06:00

Recursive: [ri-kur-siv] (adjective) see Recursive.

this just in

2007-10-25T09:52:00.001-05:00

I'm not wearing any pants, film at eleven.

mutiny

2007-10-22T13:11:00.001-05:00

The gods have a great sense of humor, don't they? If you lack the iron and the fizz to take control of your own life, if you insist on leaving your fate to the gods, then the gods will repay your weakness by having a grin or two at your expense. Should you fail to pilot your own ship, don't be surprised at what inappropriate port you find yourself docked. The dull and prosaic will be granted adventures that will dice their central nervous systems like an onion, the romantic dreamer will end up on the factory floor. You may protest that it is too much to ask of a person that he or she defy their family, their society, their weighty cultural and religious heritage in order to pursue a dream that they don't really understand. Of course it is asking too much. The price of self-destiny is never cheap, and in certain situations it is unthinkable. But to achieve the marvelous, it is precisely the unthinkable that must be thought.

Don't let yourself be victimized by the age you live in. It's not the times that will bring us down, any more than it's society. When you put the blame on society, then you end up turning to society for the solution. There's a tendency today to absolve individuals of moral responsibility and treat them as victims of social circumstance. When you buy that, you pay with your soul. It's not men who limit women. It's not straights who limit gays. It's not whites who limit blacks. What limits people is lack of character. What limits people is that they don't have the nerve and imagination to star in their own fucking movie, let alone direct it.

going home

2007-10-14T01:11:00.001-05:00

"the woman you want to call home"

When I read this, the hair on the back of my soul stood on end. I dream of her at night, this woman I want to call home. I see her face bathed in moonlight, only sweat and the fog of our life's breath between us. In the morning I try to remember, try to see the shape, the lines, try to feel that warm breath again, but she's gone. Have I invented her, invented home, because she does not exist? Does she exist only because I've invented her? Is she a dream, a memory, a ghost? Or am I? The search continues...

curious

2007-10-11T17:24:00.001-05:00

1	x	9	+	2	=	11
12	x	9	+	3	=	111
123	x	9	+	4	=	1111
1234	x	9	+	5	=	11111
12345	x	9	+	6	=	111111
123456	x	9	+	7	=	1111111
1234567	x	9	+	8	=	11111111
12345678	x	9	+	9	=	111111111
123456789	x	9	+	10	=	1111111111

1	x	1	=	1
11	x	11	=	121
111	x	111	=	12321
1111	x	1111	=	1234321
11111	x	11111	=	123454321
111111	x	111111	=	12345654321
1111111	x	1111111	=	1234567654321
11111111	x	11111111	=	123456787654321
111111111	x	111111111	=	12345678987654321

experiment

2007-10-04T08:32:00.001-05:00

I'm planning to study the affects of gravity on free-falling objects of solid matter through a non-vacuous medium by hurling myself down a flight of stairs, but I need someone to subsidize my research by covering my medical expenses. Any takers?

haunted xi

2007-09-17T11:11:00.001-05:00

A ghost haunting a thin photo of the past
Something once beautiful, now twisted and broke
A memory that could never really last
The shadow of life behind a veil of smoke

A voice beyond the wall speaks only of dreams
Dim visions of old traditions obsolete
The choice before the fall unravels the seams
Leaves nothing in its wake but an empty seat

Hope lies within the smoldering rubble of empires?
Hope lies within?
Hope lies...

gheigh

2007-08-29T10:15:00.001-05:00

(Note: This blog was inspired by a conversation in which my brother and I engaged while watching a movie last night.)

First, acquire two televisions of equal size and appearance. Next, connect each television to a separate DVD player. Combine the audio output signals of each DVD player into a 5.1 surround sound system. Acquire one copy each of the movies Brokeback Mountain and Blades of Glory. Insert the Brokeback Mountain DVD into one DVD player and insert the Blades of Glory DVD into the other DVD player. Wait until the root menus for both DVDs are displayed on their respective television screens.

Next, place the remote control for one DVD player in your left hand, and place the remote control for the other DVD player in your right hand. Poise your thumbs, carefully now, directly above the Play button of each remote, and slowly but firmly, now, apply just enough downward force with each thumb to depress each Play button simultaneously.

Finally, position your face so that one of your eyes can only focus on one television screen, and the other eye can only focus on the other television screen. This is not as easy as it may sound, and might require that you either a) position your face in very close proximity to the television screens, or b) cross your eyes.

If you've followed these instructions to the letter, what you should now be experiencing is the gayest 3-D stereoscopic effect ever! Every new invention needs a catchy name, right? We'll call this Dr. Frankenstein-esque monstrosity Brokeback Glory Hole On Ice*. Coming soon to a rest stop near you! Please contact US Senator Larry Craig (R - ID) at your nearest airport restroom for advance tickets and showtimes.

(Disclaimer: If you've found this blog to be offensive in any way, you have my sincerest beliefs that you're too fuckin' sensitive. Find somethin' useful to do with your time instead of wastin' your life worryin' about what the fuck I be doin'.)

uninhibited

2007-08-28T16:37:00.001-05:00

The weather today is absolutely beautiful, as well as inspiring. On such days, under such clouds, I find it increasingly easy to believe in the extraordinary, the outlandish, the ridiculous and random. For example, while taking my usual 3:30 'sacrifice my lungs to the god of fire and nicotine' break, I was so elated to have escaped the faint scent of my own burning flesh under the August sun that I took a stroll to the third floor of our office parking garage (I chose the third floor for reasons I have no intention of revealing here, but those in the know will understand).

When I arrived, I was fortunate enough to witness a breath-taking vista of nature's vivid creation. As I gazed out over the landscape afforded to me by my increased altitude, I felt as if I were on the deck of a huge ocean liner, overlooking the coast of some tropical landscape rich with lush rain forests painted in vibrant colors. The molecules themselves seemed alive and breathing, and with every breath, the atmosphere swelled around me, pressing against my skin and filling me with an electrical current of possibility. I looked up and observed platoon after platoon of enormous clouds drifting slowly, lazily through the sky, and for a brief moment, I understood the sense of wonder and intimidation that the Aztecs must have felt when they first spotted the great ships of the Spanish Conquistadors appear on the eastern horizon.

In electrically-charged moments such as these, I can believe anything. I can believe in ghosts and goblins and giant insects on the surface of the moon. I can believe in gods and demons and televangelists and politicians. I can believe in the Tooth Faery and the Easter Bunny and the Three Billy Goats Gruff. I can believe that cheaters never win, that crime doesn't pay, that nice guys finish last, that women prefer assholes, that our government has our best interests in mind, that love conquers all, and that true love lasts forever. Under a raging storm, faery tales don't seem so far-fetched.

Crazy? Hmm, crazy, eh? I prefer the term uninhibited dreamer.

the price

2007-08-16T16:02:00.001-05:00

"The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself." - Friedrich Nietzsche

ignite

2007-08-04T13:28:00.001-05:00

If you're a
• Fighter
• Writer
• Biter
• Flame-igniter
• Crowd-exciter
• Or you wanna just get high
Then just say it

But if you're a
• Liar, liar
• Pants on fire
• Wolf crier
• Agent with a wire
Then I'm gonna know it when you say it.

rhymes n shit

2007-07-25T08:33:00.001-05:00

Flames hold a masquerade ball in the skies
As opulent sunbursts dance in your eyes
The threat of an end, a thrilling disguise
The weary rebirth of a sudden demise

Follow me down through the ground to the town
Where tortures are few, where pleasures abound
Where the wicked are punished, where beauty is crowned
Where the laughter of lovers' voices resound

Loosen your heart and lighten your load
Follow me down this serpentine road
To a heaven about which countless have crowed
The simple exuberance of love à la mode...

power plant

2007-07-17T03:59:00.002-05:00

A recent conversation has me thinking about the idea of preconceived notions, or, to put it less politely and more bluntly, prejudice. I don't mean racial prejudice or sexual prejudice. No, I'm talking about social prejudice.

The conversation to which I'm referring took place over this weekend past. It was a conversation that I fully expected to have at some point, but didn't know when the opportunity would arise. As it happens, the chance was there this weekend. As for my other expectations regarding the discussion, I'd made certain assumptions before the conversation took place, assumptions concerning the personality and character of the other participant (let's call him Joe), and these assumptions were based solely on my previous experiences with Joe.

Before I continue, permit me to point out that my previous experience with Joe had been limited to three instances. That's not to say that I'd only seen Joe three times in the past, just that there were three defining instances that stick out in my mind. It won't be necessary to go into the detail about these three moments. Let's just say that the first impression I got was not good, and while my second impression was somewhat redeeming, Joe didn't exactly garner critical acclaim with the third impression. Conversely, and this is only a guess based on the available evidence, it would surprise me greatly to learn that Joe had not also based his assumptions of me on these same three experiences.

Now the stage is set for the conversation mentioned above. When the opportunity arose over the weekend, I immediately seized it. Armed only with my assumptions, or, if you will, my preconceived notions, my prejudices, I approached Joe and initiated the conversation. And Joe, armed only with his preconceived notions, engaged willingly. Speaking from my perspective, I can tell you that I had a sort of outline in my mind of how I expected the conversation to progress, based on these preconceived ideas I had. I would also think it would be safe to say that Joe had his own expectations, based on his own experiences with me in the past.

At this point, you may be asking yourself, 'Self, why is he being so vague? Why is he speaking in pronouns? Indeed, Self, why is he speaking at all?' Well, to answer the first two questions, the conversation is not the point of focus here, but rather, it's the insight into human behavior afforded by the occurrence of the conversation that I'd like to discuss. As for your third question, well, I'm speaking because you're listening. As the saying goes, if a tree falls in the woods...

Okay, back to the story. As Joe and I sat and talked, and the conversation progressed, I was bothered by this nagging feeling in the back of my mind, but didn't stop to acknowledge this feeling until well after the conversation was finished, as I felt that the business at hand was more pressing than exploring my pestering psyche.

The conversation took about fifteen minutes to complete, and to my pleasant surprise, the conversation had taken a drastic and almost immediate turn away from the outline I'd drawn for it in my mind. Put simply, I expected one thing, and instead received something radically different. Even more strange, perhaps, is the fact that I'd gone into the conversation with every intention of shattering Joe's preconceived notions about me, but never expected that he would, at the same time, reshape my notions about him. Funny how the mind works, eh?

If, during the course of the conversation, I'd given any heed to that nagging feeling from my subconscious mind, I might well have recognized the transformation of prejudice for what it was at the time that it occurred, and been able to observe it with more clarity, but even seeing it purely through hindsight, I find myself amazed that the human mind is capable of such things. Even more, I'm amazed by the realization that I'd allowed myself to develop ideas about Joe based on limited or circumstantial evidence, without ever really making an effort to expand that experience base.

Since the weekend, I've had some time to reflect on what this eye-opening conversation means, not just about the preconceived notions I'd harbored, but the fact that I'd let them develop in the first place. This inevitably led me back to one of my earliest childhood memories, one that comes to me with such haunting clarity that I could almost believe it happened yesterday. It's not the memory of a person, or a place, but the memory of an idea, one that stuck with me all of my life. I believe that it was a pivotal moment in my early development, and that it has continued to shape the way that I think throughout my life. In addition, it has given me objective insight into the intricacies of human relationships, although as I've illustrated above, I still have much to learn.

The memory is this: When I was a small child, maybe three or four years old, I overheard someone (perhaps a family member) use the phrase 'power plant'. Hearing this phrase now, my adult mind immediately conjures up images of high voltage towers, hydro-electric dams, nuclear cooling towers, wind farms, turbines, and generators. However, when I heard the phrase 'power plant' as a child, my child's mind had yet to develop a broad experience base with which to properly define the phrase. Instead, having nothing in my limited experience with which to compare the phrase, my mind automatically broke the phrase down into its component parts, then tried the comparison again. What my mind knew of the word 'power' naturally came from the dominating force in my life up until that point: television, but more specifically, Saturday morning cartoons (Battle of the Planets, Star Blazers, Thundercats, etc.). Since this was the only definition of 'power' I'd ever been exposed to - at three or four, I knew nothing of energy or electricity - my mind easily associated the word 'power' with super powers. As for the word 'plant', again, at the tender age of three or four, my child's mind knew nothing of the word's additional meaning, namely a structure or establishment designed to carry on an industrial business, so I instead grasped at what I knew the word to mean, any member of the kingdom Plantae, you know, plants: trees, bushes, herbs, vegetables, roots, leaves, flowers, etc.

Equipped with these two perfectly logical definitions, my child's mind of course put them together, and the resulting definition for the phrase was constructed. Power plant, n., any member of the kingdom Plantae which, by some supernatural or extraordinary means, has acquired super powers. Now, the fact that I listed, step-by-step, the process of reasoning which brought my young mind to this conclusion may give the impression that it was a time-consuming task, something I'd had to ponder for a while. Not true, all of this took place in the blink of an eye. As soon as I heard the phrase, my trusty, under-developed mind was right there with a suitable definition and corresponding mental image, that of an innocent looking garden flower, perhaps a daisy or a sunflower, who wore a cape and utility belt, fought crime, and could of course shoot laser beams out of its eyes. I mean, duh?

Even more strange, perhaps, than my childhood definition of an ordinary, common phrase is the fact that, once my mind had settled the question of what exactly a power plant was, I had no cause or need to challenge the definition. I don't mean that my mind was closed off to other possibilities, and was therefore unwilling to acknowledge another possible definition. No, I mean that, at such a young age, my mind had not yet developed a base of experience such that it would ever have even occurred to me that another definition might be possible, you see? It wasn't until much later, as I began to mature and to experience newer and broader scopes of existence, that my mind finally conceded the fallacy of its original assumptions. At this point, my mind apologized profusely, and with a bow of embarrassment, quickly ducked out the back.

So how does all of this tie together, you may ask? Well, if we take the two individual events, my conversation with Joe and my child's definition of a power plant, and strip away the details and inessential elements, we're left with two very similar occurrences. In both instances, my mind had formed preconceived notions, based on limited experience, in order to define something that was unfamiliar. And in both instances, once the definition was formed, my mind never thought to question the definition it had developed until it was forced to reconsider new evidence.

I'd like to propose a toast:

Here's to Joe, to new evidence, to the shattering of old ideas, to the accumulation of visceral experiences needed to define new ideas, to sunflowers and laser beams, to new beginnings and clean slates. Thanks, dude, I owe you one. Sláinte!

(On a side note, the scientific name given to sunflowers is Helianthus annuus, which I suppose would explain the brown spot.)

struggle

2007-07-11T16:32:00.001-05:00

One day a man saw a butterfly shuddering on the sidewalk locked in a seemingly hopeless struggle to free itself from its now useless cocoon. Feeling pity, he took a pocket knife, carefully cut away the cocoon and set the butterfly free. To his dismay it lay on the sidewalk, convulsed weakly for a while, and died.

A biologist later told him, "That's the worst thing you could have done! A butterfly needs that struggle to develop the muscles to fly. By robbing him of the struggle, you made him too weak to live."

Where the soldiers at?
Where the warriors at?
Where the riders at?
Where the fighters at?

What you know is who you are, who are you?
Do you know who you are in the world? What is your world view?
What do you go through? What has your life shown you?
What are you learning in this so called life?
Do you have principle or do you blow with the wind?
Do you wanna be free but don't know where to begin?
Do you know your enemy from your friend?
Will we survive? Do you believe? Are we afraid?
Would you rather have control of your life or be a slave?

journey

2007-04-09T08:28:00.001-05:00

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep

- excerpt from "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost

secretos de luna

2007-03-30T15:58:00.001-05:00

Wind whirls and lightning curls
Down through skies of ocean grey
Sol hides, his time he bides
No visible rays of light betray

His position in the heavens, high
He patiently waits for his chance to shine
To define the line, the earthly spine
The division of day, of night, of time

But wait, he must, for the gods of thunder
And rain, and wind, and cloud and storm
Rant, rave, rage, and render asunder
Everything under their atmospheric form

As tempers expire, and forces retire
To unweathered beaches in tropical climes
Sol seizes the chance to exhibit his fire
To inspire us all with flames of desire

The moon tells me your secrets...

mile(s)mile

2007-03-14T08:39:00.002-05:00

North Texas was peppered with thunderstorms yesterday, and all I could think of during the day was that I couldn't wait for 5 o'clock to arrive. When the clock finally struck five bells past noon, I quickly made my way to my car, drove to the top level of the parking garage (which is open to the sky), and sat in awe for an hour or so. The sky overhead was in a beautiful state of constantly shifting turmoil. As I observed tiny slivers of white lightning in the middle distance, as well as obese, pimp-purple lightning bolts further away, rapidly heat and convert air molecules to plasma before my eyes, the subsequent thunderous explosions shook and rattled the car windows around me. I noted that every imaginable shade of grey was present and accounted for, in addition to a slight drab-greenish hue to the southeast. As I stared, enthralled, I could sense the color of my eyes shifting and changing as rapidly as the sky above; it was as though I could actually feel the weight of the atmosphere's reflection upon my lenses. It's funny how chaos can have such a calming effect.

I realize that the official date this year for which the universe has scheduled the vernal equinox (and the official first day of spring) is March 21st, but something as chaotic as springtime cannot always be expected to follow the rules. Yesterday, one fact was made abundantly clear to me: spring has sprung.

In other news, I had a brief conversation with a friend last night, who informed me that on March 5th, 2007, an ex-girlfriend, about whom I've written a few times in the past, gave birth to a healthy baby girl. I don't quite understand what I'm feeling about this, but for some reason I can't stop smiling. Is that weird? The best way I can describe it is that I feel like a proud uncle or something, like when my niece and nephew were born. Perhaps it's not the cause that matters, but the effect. At any rate, this is for Harper Eden (thanks for the smile):

Harper Eden
Born into this world, into her mind
Dancing in on tiny angel's feet
Delivered, sealed, and signed
And perfectly designed
To touch the lives of everyone you meet

Only a newborn baby has the power to change the world...

revelation

2007-02-28T16:50:00.002-06:00

The subject of numeric relationships has always fascinated me. I see them everywhere, dates, times, street addresses, telephone numbers, zip codes, bar codes, etc. To that end, I present to you the magic square. The construction of magic squares is a popular recreational mathematics game (insofar as any type of recreational mathematics may be called 'popular'). A magic square contains numbers that are arranged in equal rows and columns such that the sum of each row, column, and sometimes diagonal is the same.

The following image was constructed by dividing a square into 36 equal parts (6 rows, 6 columns), then entering a number (from 1 to 36) into each part. The result is that the sum of the numbers in each row, as well as each column and both diagonals, is the number 111. The sum of all 36 numbers within the magic square is the number 666.

"Now the weight of gold that came to Solomon in one year was six hundred threescore and six talents of gold." - 1 Kings 10:14

"Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred threescore and six." - Revelations 13:18

(For further information on the construction and history of magic squares, check out the Magic Squares article on Wikipedia.)

top 5

2007-02-08T09:46:00.001-06:00

Top 5 songs to play when you're depressed:
1. Flood - TOOL
2. Riders On The Storm - The Doors
3. Dazed And Confused - Led Zeppelin
4. Pushit - TOOL
5. Walking After Midnight - Patsy Cline

Top 5 songs to play when you're angry:
1. No Quarter - Led Zeppelin
2. Pistol Grip Pump - Volume 10
3. Wrong Nigga To Fuck With - Ice Cube
4. Jesus Christ Pose - Soundgarden
5. How I Could Just Kill A Man - Cypress Hill

Top 5 songs to play when you're happy:
1. Jimmy - TOOL
2. Ramble On - Led Zeppelin
3. Still Of The Night - Whitesnake
4. Hand On The Glock - Cypress Hill
5. Five To One - The Doors

Top 5 songs to play while you're driving:
1. NWO - Ministry
2. High Plains Drifter - Beastie Boys
3. Intolerance - TOOL
4. Adventures In Failure - MC 900 Foot Jesus
5. Naked In The Rain - Red Hot Chili Peppers

Top 5 songs to fall asleep to:
1. I'm Only Sleeping - The Beatles
2. Bed Bed Bed - They Might Be Giants
3. The City Sleeps - MC 900 Foot Jesus
4. Spanish Caravan - The Doors
5. Sexual Healing - Marvin Gaye

Top 5 songs to wake up to:
1. The Shit - D.O.C.
2. Ball Tongue - Korn
3. Adrenaline Rush - Obie Trice
4. Mic Check - Rage Against The Machine
5. Sultans Of Swing - Dire Straights

Top 5 songs to play on a first date:
1. Dancing Days - Led Zeppelin
2. Moondance - Van Morrison
3. Breakdown - Tom Petty
4. Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic - The Police
5. Black Magic Woman - Santana

Top 5 songs to play while making love:
1. Let's Get It On - Marvin Gaye
2. Closer - Nine Inch Nails
3. Feel Like Making Love - Bad Company
4. Sexy Motherfucker - Prince
5. Smooth Criminal - Michael Jackson

Top 5 songs to play at your wedding:
1.
2. Never Tear Us Apart - INXS
3. Let's Stay Together - Al Green
4. Eight Days A Week - The Beatles
5. Power Of Love - Huey Lewis And The News

Top 5 songs to play during a breakup:
1. Crosstown Traffic - Jimi Hendrix
2. Whipping Post - Allman Brothers Band
3. American Woman - The Guess Who
4. I Used To Love Her - Guns N Roses
5. Sleeping Beauty - A Perfect Circle

Top 5 songs to play at your funeral:
1. Planet Caravan - Black Sabbath
2. Happy Phantom - Tori Amos
3. When The Levee Breaks - Led Zeppelin
4. Time - Pink Floyd
5. Best Thing That Ever Happened To Me - Gladys Knight

(Note: list subject to change without notice.)

featured

2007-01-08T09:41:00.001-06:00

My employers, TriTech Software, do what they call a "Featured Employee" program, which means that an employee of the company is selected each month, and the selected employee fills out a short survey. The survey is then posted in a high traffic area, on a white board, and the employees name is written down the left side. For the duration of the month, other employees are encouraged to write comments on the white board, and the featured employee gets a free parking space. As it turns out, my name was drawn this month. Here's the survey I filled out:

NAME: Timothy M Johnson

GROUP: IT Department

WHAT CITY WERE YOU BORN IN? Corpus Christi (Body of Christ), TX

WHERE DID YOU GROW UP? I've lived all over, from Seattle, WA to Fort Meyers Beach, FL, but most of my life has been spent in and around Dallas.

WHAT IS YOUR MIDDLE NAME? Michael

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE MOVIE? My favorite movies include Léon, Goodfellas, True Romance, and High Fidelity.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE TV SHOW? I don't watch TV.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE BOOK? My favorite authors include Edgar Allan Poe, H.P. Lovecraft, Irvine Welsh, Chuck Palahniuk, Tom Robbins, Nick Hornby, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

WHAT DO YOU LIKE TO DO IN YOUR SPARE TIME? I like to read, write, enjoy live music, and act as a catalyst to re-align the world's paradigm of perception.

WHERE IS ONE PLACE IN THE WORLD YOU WOULD LIKE TO VISIT? I've always wanted to travel to Venice, Italy to see the canals and waterways.

WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF? I know everyone always says carnies, but I'd really have to go with public speaking.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SPORTS TEAM? I can't really get into team sports; I prefer one-on-one competitions, such as boxing.

WHAT KIND OF CAR DO YOU WISH YOU HAD? Someday I'd like to rebuild a 1967 Shelby Cobra.

TELL US A FUNNY STORY ABOUT YOURSELF: When I was in my early twenties, I had a roommate who inadvertently shot his waterbed mattress with a pistol. After plugging the holes in the mattress and giving him the obligatory lecture on gun safety, we drained the mattress until it was light enough for us to carry outside. Together, we lifted the mattress and maneuvered our way through the house and out the back door. The sun had set a few hours earlier, so we negotiated the back yard in darkness in an attempt to reach the garbage can in the alley. We didn't get halfway across the back yard before we both heard a startled gasp. We then noticed that our next-door neighbors were standing on their back porch, staring at us in horror through the chain link fence. Apparently they were drawn outside to investigate the gunshot they had heard, and were shocked to see two men carrying what appeared to be a dead body. Needless to say, that situation was difficult to explain.

obviously

2006-11-22T17:17:00.001-06:00

Both angels and demons are products of, and reside within, all humans. We all possess (no pun intended) the potential to be angelic or demonic, but it's what we do with that potential that determines whether or not these "deities" manifest themselves.

fine dining

2006-11-20T08:36:00.002-06:00

Once, I read an article in a newspaper by a travel correspondent (whose name escapes me). The column was about various restaurants in different parts of the world, and the dangers of sub-standard health regulations. The article was entitled, "The Perils Of Eating Out Abroad"

question

2006-10-26T14:27:00.001-05:00

Hey, have you ever wondered how to properly spell the word turd? I mean, it could be spelled several different ways, right? For example:

terd - rhymes with nerd
tird - rhymes with bird
tord - rhymes with word
turd - rhymes with curd
tyrd - you have to roll the 'r' with this one, like the Scottish

According to Dictionary.com, the word is spelled T U R D, but, also according to Dictionary.com, the word is a slang term for feces. So who decides the proper spelling of a slang term? Merriam and/or Webster? The good and decent folks at Dictionary.com?

I feel a revolution coming on...

subversive

2006-10-16T15:23:00.001-05:00

NOTE: This blog was inspired by this blog.

Ladies, turn off the TV, turn off the radio, cancel your subscriptions to Mademoiselle and Vogue, wear what you feel comfortable in (and I'm not just referring to your clothing), trade in your old hang-ups and put a hefty down payment on some self-esteem. Do not allow yourselves to be judged by standards other than your own; not the standards that are fed to you; not the standards of your parents, or your church, or your friends, or your lovers, your own standards are the only ones you must live up to.

And men, give up the fuckin' fantasy, stop dreamin' about the synthetic beasts you see in beer commercials and quote-men's-magazines-unquote; stop torturing yourselves with images of women you'll never have, of a life you'll never have. Seek out the beautiful creature that compliments you, not you-plus-money, or you-plus-power, but you. Why fantasize when you can experience?

They can only do to us what we allow them to do.

solitaire

2006-10-16T15:21:00.001-05:00

Standing in the rain
Soaked to the skin
Dreaming of her face again

Raindrops and moonlight
Entwined, combine
To remind me of her shine

Faint whispers of her
Echo through years
Memory of buried tears

Leaning on this stone
Chilled to the bone
I'll endure this storm alone

I, of the storm
You, of the sea
We, of the moon
Destined to be.

gag reflex

2006-10-11T07:31:00.001-05:00

The following video is real, not a re-enactment. All of the sounds you hear are authentic. The wooden box shown in the video had been sitting in a garage all summer, and contained various garbage, including two rotted cantaloupes.

Who: Jeremy the Jackass
When: Sunday, October 8, 2006
Where: In the back of a UHaul truck parked in a driveway in Garland, TX.

AiC

2006-10-02T09:53:00.001-05:00

Alice in Chains. Alice. In. Chains. Alice-in-fucking-Chains! Okay, almost Alice in Chains, Alice in Chains sans Layne Staley, but still fucking phenomenal.

Brent, Jeremy, Billy, and I met Eric, Cindy, and Cloe at The Angry Dog around 6:30 for dinner and drinks before the show. Then we headed out to Grand Prairie to the Nokia Theatre. Due to some heavy traffic, we arrived just in time to miss the two opening bands, purchase some drinks, and find our seats before Alice in Chains took the stage.

Brent, Jeremy, Eric, and Cindy all sat together in the third section slightly to the right of the stage, and Billy, Cloe, and I sat together in the second section, just off center from the stage. The place was packed with people, old and young, some of whom appeared not to have changed in the last 15 years, but who cares, they were having a great time.

The band played for about two and a half hours, pausing twice to change sets, and returned to the stage for a fifteen minute encore. Jerry Cantrell (guitarist) was absolutely amazing. His dynamic and melodious riffs, combined with a charismatic stage presence, absolutely stole the show. While nothing will ever compare to the brooding, desperate vocals of the late Layne Staley, the acting singer, William DuVall (Comes With the Fall), proved to be a powerful force. The phrase I heard repeated all evening, which reflected my own thoughts, was "I was skeptical at first, but he did an amazing job."

About forty-five minutes into the show, the band stopped playing to change to an acoustic set. While the stage hands were setting up, a video montage was played on the big screen, a tribute to Layne Staley, with footage of various tour and studio moments. Following the video tribute to the legend, the band played an acoustic version of Don't Follow that brought the fucking house down, and in my opinion, earned them much respect.

After the acoustic set and a few technical difficulties, the stage was again changed for another electric performance which included a beautiful, haunting version of Would. For the encore, the band returned to the stage to play a few more songs, including the well-placed Rooster, which really hit home for a lot of people, given the current state of world affairs.

All in all, the show was amazing, the food was excellent (if you've never eaten at The Angry Dog, you're missing out), and the night was simply incredible. I have to give thanks to Cloe for scoring great seats and for driving to Grand Prairie and back, thanks to Brent for driving to The Angry Dog, thanks to Jeremy for driving to Brent's, and thanks again to Jeremy for telling all of us about his misaligned testicles.

mary jane

2006-09-28T12:15:00.001-05:00

I left work around 7 o'clock Monday night, and it had been a frustrating day, so I went to _______ by myself to blow off some steam and play pool. I traded my driver's license for a set of billiard balls, picked a table, and was preparing to play when I heard from behind me a soft voice. "Can I get you anything?" Without looking up from the rack, I ordered a beer.

When the waitress brought my beer, I was bent over to take a shot. I paused, asked if I could start a tab, took the shot, and then looked up to hand the waitress my credit card. I was now face-to-face with a strikingly beautiful, red-haired lady. My mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Before I could say anything, she accepted my card, and then flashed a smile that would've killed me if I'd looked at it head on.

Luckily, she turned and walked away, so I was saved for the moment. She came back a few times to check on me, but I was drinking the first beer slowly. I started feeling guilty because she was making those trips to check on me, but I never needed anything, so the third time she came back I told her I'd be ready for another beer when next we met.

She smiled again, but I was prepared for it this time, and I ducked (j/k). She returned about 10 minutes later with a fresh beer, and then, to my surprise, she sat down at my table and waited patiently for me to finish the shot I was making. I didn't realize she was there at first. I made the shot, and then turned around for the chalk, and there she sat. I have to tell you, she was a sight! Eyes the color and texture of a storm at sea... but I digress...

She said, "How are you doing?" At first, I mistakenly thought she was asking if I needed anything, but she'd brought me a beer just before sitting down, and it didn't sound like the normal absent-minded "I don't give a shit how you're doing but it's my job so I have to ask" waitress question, it was more of a genuine question. I told her I was doing well, and asked how she was doing. She seemed surprised by this, smiled self-consciously, and said that she was good. I smiled and said, "What's your name?"

Do you know what she said then?!? She said, "My name is Mary Jane." I almost shit on myself! I grinned like a man possessed and feigned disbelief, "Are you sure that's your real name?" She smiled and said that it was. Then she asked my name. I said, "My name is Tim," and stuck out my hand.

She reached out and shook it, and when she did, my wrist popped so imperceptibly that I barely noticed. She noticed. She adopted a look of concern and asked, "Did you hear that? Your wrist popped." I said I hadn't noticed, and she asked, "Do you have wrist problems?" I said, "Not that I'm aware of."

Then she asked if she could see my wrist. I handed it over (no pun intended), not knowing what to expect. She took my wrist in both hands and gently turned it over, examining both sides, and then she proceeded to manipulate the bones in my hand and wrist until I heard my wrist pop again. She said, "There! That's it." I asked, "What does that mean?" She said that there are several bones in the wrist, called metacarpals, and that sometimes these bones can become misaligned. I said with a grin, "What are you, a chiropractor or something?" She laughed and said, "No, I went to school for orthopedic massage."

She was still rubbing my wrist and hand at this point, and it felt wonderful. I looked at her hands and her arms, which were very thin, and wondered how such thin arms could produce such strong movements, so I said, "You have strong hands for a lady." She smiled, and I pretended to be serious and said, "Wait, you are a lady, aren't you? I have been fooled before." She laughed, lifted her chin so I could see her lack of Adam's apple, then said, "I think so."

She gave me back my wrist, and I thanked her for the massage. She said, "Anytime," and flashed that smile again, and I swear I felt my heart skip. I heard myself say, almost as if it were against my will, "You're cute." She blushed, and then went to check on her other tables. In her absence, I had time to wonder what the fuck had come over me.

After the wrist massage, my mind was racing, and I was playing like shit, so when she came back to check on me, I said, "Mary Jane, I think you cursed me. I haven't made a decent shot since you left." She smiled, and made a point to visit more frequently. After a few visits, she asked, with sarcastic concern in her voice, if I was shooting any better. I laughed and said, "Yes ma'am." She smiled again, and I said, "The smile helps."

At this point, I'm thinking that this woman is beautiful, smart, and funny; too beautiful, smart, and funny to be talking to me, in fact, but I was intrigued. However, I was a little guarded because she couldn't have been more than 24 or 25, possibly younger, much too young for me, but I was having fun, so I just went with it.

So I continued to play pool. She came back later to check on me, and I guess she had seen one of my tattoos peeking out of my sleeve, so she lifted it up to see the whole thing. She asked if it was some sort of crazy clown, and I said, "No, it's a comic book character named Lobo." See said, "Cool." I said, "I was young." She looked surprised and asked, "You're not young anymore?"

I said, "No, I suppose I'm not." She asked how old I was, and I replied, "I'm thirty-one." She laughed and said, "I'm thirty-three." I was floored; I never would've guessed that she was thirty-three?!?

After regaining my composure, it occurred to me that I may have just insulted this woman, so I apologized, and said, "I never would've guessed, you look so young." She blushed, giggled, and said, "It's because I'm so immature." Then she went to check on her other tables, pausing briefly as she walked away to glance back and smile.

Things got pretty busy after that, and she was running around like crazy, stopping to check on me once in a while. I ordered some food, ate it, played some more pool, and waited. If I hadn't met her, I probably would've left after an hour, but instead I stayed for four hours. When I finished my food, she came back and said, "All better?" I said, "Yes, ma'am, it was delicious."

Eleven o'clock rolls around, and the evening has been fantastic so far. By this time, I could see that Mary Jane was really busy, and probably would be for the rest of the evening, but I didn't want to leave without at least saying goodbye, so I waited for her to return, and tried to work up some courage. I was so nervous...

She came by and, while trying to prevent my nervousness from affecting my speech, I said, "Mary Jane, may I ask you a question?" She said, "Of course." I negotiated, "How about two questions?" She said, "Sure." I said, "One's business, and the other is personal, and to be honest, I'm a little nervous about the personal question." She grinned encouragingly and said, "Don't be nervous, just ask."

So I said, "First, the business question. May I please have my check?" She laughed and said, "Of course." I said, "Thank you. Now, the personal question." I took a deep breath and pressed on. Looking into her eyes, I said, "Mary Jane, are you by any chance married or otherwise attached."

She blushed and said, "Well, no, sort of, not really. I mean, I'm not married. I had a boyfriend, but we decided to take a break." I kept my composure, but inside I was jumping up and down. I smiled coolly and said, "How fortunate for me. In that case, madam, if you don't mind, I'd like to give you my phone number."

She smiled, took out her pen, and said, "Okay, what is it?" I recited the number to her, and she wrote it down on her ticket book. While she wrote, she was standing close to me, and I could smell her hair... men lose their sanity in moments such as these.

When she finished writing, she looked up at me and smiled that dangerous smile again, and I said, "Mmm... you have a smile that could lure men to their deaths." She took the compliment gracefully, grinned, and said, "Oh, I wouldn't do that." Then I turned her attention back to the phone number and said, "If ever you find yourself in need of a meal or some conversation, I'd love to repay you for the wrist massage. It was a pleasure to meet you." She said she also enjoyed meeting me. Then there was an awkward moment when she looked like she was going to hug me, but we ended up shaking hands instead.

She brought my check, all blushes and smiles, and I paid it, then returned the billiard balls and retrieved my license. While I was standing at the counter, she walked past me, said, "Thanks again. Goodnight." and ran her hands from my shoulders to my lower back. Grinning like an idiot, I walked out the door and left.

I hope she calls, but if not, I'll always have that evening, that one evening, that one sparkling moment, when I was totally, passionately, completely, and unapologetically in love with Mary Jane.

NOTE: For those of you that don't know me, the preceding tale is unique in the fact that I have never once, in my thirty-one years upon this planet, given a complete stranger my phone number. For that matter, I've never been the one to make the first move. I know that's strange, but I'm shy, so shut up.

mischief

2006-09-20T15:07:00.001-05:00

NOTE: I've elaborated on some of the details in the following story, for the sake of illustration, but the basic elements are completely true.

Several years ago, my brother, Chris, worked for a company called EnviroCheck. His best friend at the time, Dave, also worked for the company, on the same crew. EnviroCheck was hired by various commercial interests to install environmentally-friendly water filtration systems in office buildings, apartment complexes, etc., which meant that the crew had to do some traveling to different parts of Texas. If the job was too extensive to complete in a day, the company would usually put the crew up in a hotel room for the duration of the trip.

After one such trip, Chris returned and proceeded to tell me all about it. Wait, before we go any further, I should describe Chris and Dave. Chris is about 6'2", 220 pounds or so, and Dave is about 6'5", and weighs in around 250 pounds. Okay, that should do it, back to the story.

When the crew arrived in Houston, they checked into a hotel for the night. Chris and Dave shared a room with two beds. Since the crew arrived in the early evening and had no responsibilities to meet until the next morning, Chris and Dave decided to do a little boozing.

After a few hours, when they had gotten good and shitty, they started feeling mischievous, as men will often do, and devised a plan to entertain themselves. Here is what they did.

Dave picked up the phone and dialed room service. He asked the voice on the other end of the line whether or not they could order pudding. The voice replied that pudding was indeed on the menu. So Dave ordered a shitload of pudding to be delivered to the room. A little while later, there came a knock on the door. Chris answered the door to discover that, apparently, the only pudding available was the kind of pudding that comes in those little snack packs. Perfect. Chris quickly signed the bill, took delivery of the pudding, and closed the door. Phase I of the plan was complete.

Now these two huge dudes, who are completely shit-faced, have acquired a large number of pudding packs. What to do, what to do? Well, if you're a drunken young man with an affinity for loud music and mischief, as these two gentlemen were, the possibilities are endless. However, these two guys were not interested in random mischief, no, they had a plan for premeditated mischief. They removed the top mattress from each bed, took all of the newly-obtained pudding packs from the room service cart, and proceeded to cover the bottom mattresses with unopened pudding packs. Once they had exhausted their vast supply of pudding, the top mattresses were placed delicately on top of the pudding packs. Phase II of the plan was complete.

We now have two drunken men in a room with two beds, the mattresses of which contained an unholy amount of pudding packs. The stage had been set, and only Phase III of the plan remained. Dave inserted a CD into the portable stereo, cranked up the volume, and the two began to dance around the room in mosh-pit fashion. As the music and moshing built into a frenzied climax, the two drunken men climbed onto the large dresser and proceeded to 'stage dive' onto the beds. Oh, how the pudding flew!

After several minutes of this, both men collapsed, exhausted, onto their respective beds and passed out. The next morning, when they received their wake-up call, Chris and Dave were severely hung over. As the remnants of the blackout faded, and the memories of the previous night's activities swam into focus, they looked around the room, surveying the damage. There was pudding everywhere, pudding on the walls, on the floor, on the ceiling, on the furniture, on the phone, on and in the portable stereo. They had somehow even managed to get pudding between the pages of the ubiquitous hotel room Bible, much to Gideon's dismay.

Realizing there may be some trouble over this, Chris and Dave quickly showered away the pudding splatters from their persons, exited the room, went to the front desk, and checked out. They left a message for the rest of the crew, stating that they could be found across the street, enjoying breakfast at a local cafe.

Oddly enough, there were never any repercussions from their adventure. Perhaps the hotel is used to that kind of behavior from its guests. At any rate, the events of that evening were ever after known as "The Great Puddin' Caper".

anagrams

2006-09-20T08:18:00.001-05:00

An anagram is a type of word game that consists of rearranging the letters of a word or phrase to produce other words or phrases using all of the original letters exactly once.

My full name is TIMOTHY MICHAEL JOHNSON. Anagrams of my name include the following (note: I've added punctuation):

Shh, Malty Homo Injection
Tiny John, Homo Alchemist
John Stein, Mythical Homo
Mythic Hotel Ninja Homos
Johnny Oh's Chamomile Tit
Ninth Majestic Holy Homo
Josh Monolith: Meaty Inch
John's Meaty Homo Chitlin
John's Tomato Chili Hymen
Johnnie Hoot's Hammy Clit

lunae dies

2006-09-18T12:54:00.001-05:00

How did Monday get such a bad reputation? Is it because Monday signifies the end of the weekend, and therefore the end of our weekly mini-vacations? Or is it something deeper, more primal, something that dates back before history, before written language? Are we genetically predisposed to hate Mondays? Think about it. Even those of us who don't work a Monday-through-Friday job treat the first day back to work as a Monday, even going so far as to call it "my Monday".

According to Wikipedia, Monday gets its name from the Moon, which in turn gets its name from Mani (Old English Mona), the Germanic Moon god. Similarly, the Italian name (lunedi), the French name (lundi) and the Spanish name (lunes) come from the Latin name for the moon, Luna. In India, Monday is Somvar. It is based on Soma or Somdev Vedic, God of Moon.

A poet (she was a poet in more ways than just the literary) once said to me, "The moon is a friend to lovers." I find this to be profoundly true on many levels. For example:

In the literal sense, the Moon provides ambient illumination by which to admire the countenance of a lover.

In the anatomical sense, the Moon exerts a certain influence upon women, which in turn greatly influences men. I don't think it's necessary to describe this further.

In the aesthetic sense, the Moon's soft glow not only illuminates, but also accents and softens the features of a lover, giving the observer a sense of love, a sense of home.

In the metaphorical sense, the Moon may be viewed as the face of a lover; in the same manner that the Moon is a reflection of the sun's rays, the face of a lover is the reflection of our ideals, our hope and dreams, our passion.

In the romantic sense, well, the Moon just does something. I mean, poets, artists, and lovers have tried to define the romantic effects of the Moon for millennia, as evidenced by the exploding population, but have so far failed to put it into words. Perhaps it's an effect that was never meant to be defined. Perhaps the romantic stirrings within ourselves lie outside the capabilities of human language, and can only be truly understood through emotion.

So why the stigma? What happened to create Monday's less than desirable reputation? I mean, in my opinion, anything remotely associated with the Moon can't be all bad, right? Has humanity become so focused upon the shallow and superficial, the day-to-day, that we've lost sight of those primal feelings of yesterday?

I don't know about the rest of humanity, but I love Mondays, especially cloud-covered, rain-soaked Mondays, the kind of Mondays that make me want to seek out a lover's embrace, to whisper whimsical nonsense into her ear, and to awaken in her those primal instincts which humanity seems so intent on forgetting.

Happy Monday, everyone.

cthulhu mythos

2006-09-16T14:51:00.001-05:00

That is not dead which can eternal lie
And with strange aeons even death may die

- H.P. Lovecraft

pistol pete

2006-09-14T18:44:00.001-05:00

NOTE: For the sake of those involved (you might know them), all of the names (except my own) and dates in the following tale have been changed. For those of you who have heard this story and know the persons involved, I would appreciate you not naming those individuals. Your disretion is appreciated. All other comments are welcome.

Let's set the stage. Once upon a time, I lived in a small bungalow located somewhere in north Texas with my girlfriend at the time, Loretta. The bungalow had three bedrooms, one of which I shared with Loretta. The other two bedrooms were occupied by our roommates, Pistol Pete and Dolores, who really has nothing to do with the events of this story as she was out of the house at the time of their occurrence, so I mention her only for the sake of thoroughness. My best friend at the time, who did not live with us but was a constant visitor, also played a key role in this tale, so I'll introduce him as Rufus. And then there's me. My name is Tim.

Now Rufus and I often enjoyed taking trips to the local shooting range on Saturday afternoons. The range is outdoors, and when the weather is nice and you've had a long week of dealing with life, there is no better remedy than standing with pistol in hand, and blowing the crap out of paper targets and plywood backdrops. If you haven't had the pleasure, I highly recommend it, as it is the most fun one can have with a pistol without getting arrested.

So on this particular Saturday, Rufus and I had planned to spend our afternoon at the range, as usual, so that morning I prepared the equipment I would need. Protective earphones, check. Yellow-tinted safety glasses, check. Walther Tactical 9 millimeter with extra magazine, check. Jericho 9 millimeter with extra magazine, check. Colt MK IV Government model 380 with extra magazine, check. Four boxes (200 rounds) of 9 millimeter target ammunition, check. One box (50 rounds) of .380 caliber target ammunition, check. Reinforced briefcase with interior foam padding and keyed locks for transporting firearms, check. Key that unlocks the keyed locks on reinforced briefcase, check. Membership card and cash for range fee and targets, check. Having packed all of this equipment into the car, I called Rufus to inform him that I was on my way to the range, and Rufus confirmed that he would meet me there.

I then grabbed my car keys and headed for the door. Just before I reached it, my roommate, Pistol Pete, asked where I was headed off to, so I informed him of the plans that Rufus and I had made for the afternoon. Pistol Pete then asked if I would mind him tagging along, as he hadn't been to a shooting range in a while, and he had nothing else to do that afternoon. After ensuring that he possessed enough cash to cover the membership and range fees, I grabbed an extra set of protective earphones (check) and safety glasses (check), and I welcomed him to accompany us. He did not own a pistol, but I assured him that, between Rufus and I, there were plenty to go around. In fact, Rufus and I would often trade off for the sake of variety.

On the way to the range, I asked a few questions to try and ascertain the amount of experience Pistol Pete had with guns. He assured me that he'd been exposed to firearms for most of his life, and that he'd learned all there was to learn about guns. We discussed gun safety, different types of pistols, etc., and he appeared to have at least a basic understanding of proper firearm handling.

Pistol Pete and I arrive at the shooting range just in time to see Rufus unpacking his equipment from his truck. I park the car next to his truck, and Pistol Pete and I get out and unload. Then the three of us head into the small range shop to purchase our range passes and targets. Since this was Pistol Pete's first visit to this range, he also had to purchase a membership ($9 for a lifetime membership). We concluded our business, and with targets and equipment in hand, we walked out onto the range.

For those that have never been to an outdoor shooting range, most of them have similar layouts. Usually, there will be separate rifle and pistol ranges, and each will have targets set up at different distances from the firing line, ranging from a few feet to a few hundred yards. Rufus and I would normally alternate between the different pistol distances at random, but on this occasion (since Pistol Pete was out of practice) we chose the shortest distance (25 feet), claimed a bench, and proceeded to set up shop.

Once we'd laid out all of the necessary equipment, we waited for the all-clear signal, then set up our targets. After firmly affixing our targets to the plywood backdrops, we made our way back to our bench and awaited the all-clear signal again. While we waited, I chose a pistol from my equipment, the Jericho 9 millimeter (my baby), and performed a preliminary inspection of the weapon to ensure that it contained no barrel or chamber blockage. Having satisfied myself that the weapon was in perfect working condition, I loaded the magazine, inserted it into the pistol, checked the safety, and placed it on the bench. I then selected another weapon for Pistol Pete, the Walther 9 millimeter, and repeated the inspection. Confident that the weapon was in order, I loaded the magazine and handed it, along with the pistol, to Pistol Pete. I then discretely watched Pistol Pete with a careful eye to ensure that he was competent and capable of handling the firearm I'd just given him. While I did this, Rufus performed his own ritual with his weapon of choice, a .40 caliber Beretta.

We received the all-clear signal and commenced firing. Bullets flew, targets were punctured, pistols were reloaded, and plywood splinters littered the ground. When the smoke had cleared, and all shooters had either exhausted their posted targets or their supplies of ammunition, the all-clear signal was given again, and the process was repeated.

During all of this, I noted a peculiar awkwardness in the way that Pistol Pete was handling the pistol, so I suggested he try the Colt MK IV, which is a smaller pistol. He agreed, stating that he thought the Walther 9 millimeter might be too large. So after inspecting the Colt MK IV, I loaded the magazine and passed it over to him. He immediately seemed more comfortable with the size and weight of the pistol, so we resumed shooting.

This continued for a few hours, with the three of us changing distances every so often. Once or twice during our shooting, the Colt MK IV jammed, as pistols often do when used excessively without cleaning, and I helped Pistol Pete clear the chamber, but other than that, the rest of the shooting went smoothly. By the time early evening rolled around, we had all three gotten our fill of positive destruction, so we unloaded our weapons and packed away all of our equipment into our respective vehicles. Then Pistol Pete and I said goodbye to Rufus, climbed into the car, and made our way home.

Along the way, Pistol Pete went on and on about how much he enjoyed our time at the range, and how much he like the Colt MK IV. I considered this for a few minutes, then I related the story of how the Colt had come into my possession. I told him how I'd purchased it from an acquaintance a few years earlier, how the acquaintance had been in need of some quick cash, and how we'd agreed that when he was able, he would purchase the pistol back at the same price, sort of like putting up collateral for a loan. I then informed Pistol Pete that the acquaintance had never mentioned the pistol again, and considering that I really had no use for it, I asked Pistol Pete if he would like to purchase the pistol for a dollar. Naturally, he asked, "Why so cheap?" I explained that, if I just gave him the pistol, there would be no record of the transaction, and I would therefore be liable for any crime that he or future owners might possibly commit with the weapon, and that, by selling the weapon and obtaining a signed and dated receipt, I was protecting my own interests. Pistol Pete agreed to this and the deal was done.

When we arrived home, my girlfriend at the time, Loretta, had just gotten home from work, so while unpacking the car, I briefly discussed with her the day's events. After bringing the equipment into the house, I separated the Colt MK IV from the others, gathered its parts and accessories, drew up a simple receipt, and handed these things to Pistol Pete. He signed and dated the receipt, pulled a dollar bill from his wallet, and gave the receipt and cash to me. I signed and dated the receipt, pocketed the dollar bill, and that was that. Loretta started to prepare something to eat, Pistol Pete took the Colt MK IV and accessories and retired to his bedroom. I gathered the rest of my equipment, locked everything up in a safe place, kissed Loretta, and headed for the shower.

After giving myself a once-over, paying particular attention to the naughty bits, I got out and dried off, threw on some old clothes, and went to the living room to have a smoke and relax for a moment with my girl. We talked for a few minutes, and I asked if she'd like to come with me to meet Rufus later. As she was agreeing, we heard a shot. When I say we heard a shot, I don't mean it came from somewhere in the neighborhood. No, I mean it came from behind Pistol Pete's closed bedroom door.

In stressful situations like these, the key to keeping people calm is to give them a job to do, so when Loretta let out a brief shout and looked at me with concern, I tossed the cordless phone to her and said, "Be prepared to call 911, I'm going to go in there and see what happened." I approached Pistol Pete's bedroom door and listened for a moment, but I heard only silence. Expecting the worst, I opened the door and walked into the room.

I surveyed the room. The first thing I noticed was that Pistol Pete was kneeling on the floor in front of his waterbed with a stunned look on his face and the Colt MK IV still smoking in his hand. I checked the area immediately surrounding him for signs of injury, such as blood, but saw nothing. A few moments elapsed, then Pistol Pete's shocked expression wore off and he turned to look at me, and the pistol in his hand turned with him. Now, both he and the pistol are staring at me. Without a word, I cross the distance between us and disarm him. He doesn't utter a word of protest, his hand just falls limp onto his lap. I quickly remove the magazine from the pistol, as well as the chambered round, and put the pistol in my pocket.

Having satisfied myself that we were both safe and uninjured, I noticed that Pistol Pete was still in shock, so rather than try to get information from him, I glanced around the room to determine where the bullet went. That's when I noticed the leak that had mysteriously sprouted in Pistol Pete's waterbed. I crossed the room and stuck one of my fingers into the entry wound, then looked around for the exit wound. When I found it, I also found the bullet, which had gone through the water mattress at a downward angle of about forty-five degrees and become lodged in the wooden frame of the bed. I put another finger from my other hand in the exit wound, then tried to get Pistol Pete's attention.

At first he was unresponsive and just kneeled on the other side of the bed, muttering things under his breath. I then called out to Loretta, who was still waiting in the living room, and she came back to the bedroom. She carefully peered into the doorway, but I assured her that everyone was safe and told her what happened. She immediately became angry, so I asked her to put off being angry for the moment and give me a hand. She agreed, but I saw in her eyes that this was far from over.

I asked her to come over and replace my fingers with hers so that I could retrieve the garden hose. She hesitated, then asked where the gun was. I told her that I'd unloaded it and that it was currently in my pocket. With a look of relief, she came over and stuck her fingers into the dike. I ran outside, grabbed the hose, and came back in. I hooked the nozzle up to the mattress, pushed the other end of the hose out the window, and started to drain the bed. Then I switched places with Loretta and asked her to leave the room for a moment because Pistol Pete and I had some things to discuss. She reluctantly agreed.

When she'd gone and closed the door behind her, I roused Pistol Pete from his trauma-induced daze and asked him what the fuck happened. He proceeded to tell me how he had come into his room, taken the pistol out of its case, then inserted the magazine, but when he tried to remove the magazine, it went off. I immediately called bullshit, stating that it had to be more than that (if you remember, I'd had enough time to take a shower between the moment he entered his room and the moment Loretta and I heard the shot). I happen to know a little about pistols, and as with most semi-automatic pistols, the Colt MK IV requires that the operator insert the magazine and then pull back the slide once to load the weapon. He then told me about playing with the gun. Apparently he had inserted the magazine and pulled back the slide, which inserted a round into the chamber and cocked the hammer. At this point, he was holding a loaded pistol, with the hammer cocked and the safety off, and he couldn't figure out how to de-cock the pistol, so he resorted to what he'd seen on TV. He put his thumb against the hammer to prevent it from striking the firing pin, then pulled the trigger. The only problem with this is that he hadn't counted on the hammer slipping from underneath his thumb. He pulled the trigger, the hammer slipped and struck the firing pin, the firing pin struck the round in the chamber, and the shot was fired.

Now that we had gotten to the bottom of things, I ensured that I had Pistol Pete's full attention, then I pulled my finger out of the entry wound on top of the mattress, which caused a stream of water to flow out. I let him observe this for a moment, then said, "Pistol Pete, do you see how fast this water is escaping from your mattress? Blood escapes at the same rate." At this point, Pistol Pete burst into tears, and I didn't have the heart to continue the conversation, so we sat in silence. When enough water had drained to remove most of the weight from the mattress, I asked Pistol Pete to give me a hand carrying it outside. He grabbed one end, I grabbed the other, and together we made our way to the backyard, where I planned to drain the remaining water and throw the mattress away. As we exited through the back door and descended the porch, the sound of nearby voices informed us that our neighbors were standing on their back porch. I glance over and see the looks of horror spread across their faces.

Now keep in mind that it's dark outside, our neighbors have just heard a gunshot coming from inside our house, and Pistol Pete and I are carrying what appears to be a body wrapped in plastic. Can anyone say Benny Hill?

After telling the neighbors what happened, and disposing of the mattress, we went back inside and decided to discuss everything tomorrow once we'd all had time to think about things. Pistol Pete once again retired to his bedroom, sans pistol, and Loretta and I exchanged exhausted glances. I called Rufus to inform him that we wouldn't be meeting him for drinks, and said that I'd explain everything the next day.

Wow, this story has stretched on longer than I'd intended, let's wrap it up. The resolution is that Pistol Pete was so embarrassed about what happened that he moved out two weeks later, which is probably for the best because, had he chosen to stay, then Loretta and Dolores and I would've moved instead. In case you're wondering, he took the Colt MK IV pistol with him.

plurality

2006-09-13T08:01:00.001-05:00

A co-worker asked me the other day what the proper plural form of penis would be (it's penises or penes, by the way, not penii), and it got me to thinking. I tried to determine if a situation would ever present itself in which I'd have the opportunity to use the plural form of penis, but I couldn't think of any. I mean, the only time I use the word is in reference to my own, and I couldn't imagine ever needing to refer to my own in conjunction with another.

I finally reached the conclusion that I'd only ever need the plural form of penis in a definitive sense when, as if by magic, the following conversation took place between me and a female friend who is pregnant with her third child (the other two are boys):

HER: We got the news today, it's going to be a boy! I got my wish of all boys!
ME: That's great, madam, congrats on the penis!
HER: Thank you, I'm beginning to feel outnumbered.
ME: Haha, it's funny you should say that...

At this point, I proceeded to tell her about the conversation with my co-worker concerning the plurality of the word penis. Then, with a dramatic clearing of the throat, I triumphantly announced:

Madam, you are surrounded by penises!

degrees

2006-09-07T21:51:00.002-05:00

NOTE: This blog was inspired by the question posed in a friend's blog, entitled "Just wondering if you think you can love someone too much?"

I believe it's impossible to love someone too much, just as it's impossible to not love someone enough. Too much love is not really love, it is obsession, and not enough love is, well, I don't know what to call that, but it's not love. Love is a fairly flexible and improvisational thing, and can adapt to any situation as needed, but it either exists or it doesn't.

Let's draw an analogy between love and technology (go ahead and get the Napoleon Dynamite jokes out of your system). A digital switch has two states of being, on or off. A power switch is an example of a digital switch. An analog switch, on the other hand, can exist in any state between two limits. A volume switch is an example of an analog switch, where the volume can be set anywhere between mute and full blast. Now, if I think of love in terms of electronics, I can't really define love as either analog or digital, because love exhibits the characteristics of both. Digitally, love either exists for someone, or it doesn't. In analog terms, love exists to a greater or lesser degree depending on circumstantial constraints (like war, poverty, health, wealth, success, level of stress).

The bottom line for me is that I ask myself one question: Do I love this person or not? Once this question has been answered, there are no further questions of degree, because love is either on or off. I don't believe it's possible to control the degree of love I have for someone because it's not within my ability to define. It will adapt in degree as dictated by each situation, but it's either there or it's not.

In literature and other art forms, love is often depicted as light, perhaps because it gives us a warm, glowing feeling, but the comparison would seem to be rooted more deeply than that. Light is also dualistic in nature, exhibiting characteristics of both a particle and a wave. Also, love may be the only force in existence that could possibly compete with light, both in speed and endurance. A ray of light can endure traveling for millions of years through the vast, vacuous reaches of space, only to arrive at its destination intact and unchanged. The same can be said of love.

woden's day

2006-09-06T08:32:00.002-05:00

According to historians, Wodanaz or Wodinaz is the reconstructed Proto-Germanic name of a god of Germanic paganism, known as Óðinn in Norse mythology, Woden in Old English, Wodan or Wotan in Old High German and Godan in Lombardic. Odin probably rose to prominence during the Migration* period, gradually displacing Tyr as the head of the pantheon in West and North Germanic cultures.

Wodanaz is associated with poetic or mantic qualities, his name being connected with the concept of woþuz (furor poeticus), and thus the god of poets and seers. He is a shapechanger and healer, and thus a god of magicians and leeches. He is associated with the Wild Hunt**, and thus a death deity. He is also a god of war and bringer of victory.

Happy Woden's Day, everyone! Embrace your inner poet today.

* As you can probably guess by the clever name, the Migration period was a period of time between 300 and 700 AD in which numerous people, including the Goths, Vandals, and Franks, began a migration from Central Asia to Europe, triggered by, among other things, the fall of the Roman Empire and the incursion of the Huns.

** The Wild Hunt was a folk myth prevalent in former times across Germany and Britain. The introduction of Christianity also brought this folk myth to Scandinavia. The fundamental premise in all instances is the same: a phantasmal group of huntsmen with the accoutrements of hunting, horses, hounds, etc., in mad pursuit across the skies. Seeing the Wild Hunt was thought to presage some catastrophe such as war or plague, or at best the death of the one who witnessed it. Mortals getting in the path of or following the Hunt could be kidnapped and brought to the land of the dead.

painting

2006-08-14T22:32:00.001-05:00

In the absence of love, all other things seem dull and flat, as if the powers that created life were distracted at the last minute and forgot to add the finishing touches. Love makes everything more vibrant, more tangible; love electrically charges the air in our lungs, and adds an extra spring to our step. Love is a painter's brush, constructed of soft bristles of compassion and understanding. Without the detailed brush of love to define things, our colors run together, our lines are crossed, and life becomes a confusing, muddled mess. But when the love brush is used to add highlights to our habitats, those subtle touches that accent the light of this world, our surroundings are transformed into breath-taking three-dimensional panoramic vistas.

If given a choice between love or the sun, I'd be one nocturnal son-of-a-bitch...

weekend update part 3

2006-08-07T14:29:00.002-05:00

After the events of Friday and Saturday, I spent the entirety of Sunday recovering. I started the day bright and early around noon and stumbled around the place in a semi-comatose stupor while faint images of sex toys and spontaneous nudity danced around in my head. When the morning (okay, afternoon) fog lifted, I decided that a bowl of soup would be just the thing to wake me up, so I put some soup on the stove, stretched out on the couch, and promptly fell asleep.

A few minutes later, surely no more than ten, I was awakened by the sound and accompanying odor of my soup boiling over. I jumped up to find that half of my soup had either boiled away or splashed onto the surface of the stove. Damn! I performed a quick cleanup job, added more water, and finished preparing the soup. I poured my twice-cooked soup into a bowl and returned to the couch, placing the bowl on the coffee table to cool.

A few minutes later, surely no more than ten, I awoke to find that a narrow beam of sunlight had found its way through the blinds and decided to move into the neighborhood of my pupil, considerably lowering the property value of my ocular cavity. I also discovered that my twice-cooked soup was now ice-cold. Damn! It was quickly turning out to be "one of those days." No matter, a little microwave processing was enough to turn my ice-cold, twice-cooked soup into piping-hot, thrice-cooked soup. Upon tasting it, I discovered three very important facts: first, I'm not a very good cook; second, the dish I had loosely-termed as soup would have been better employed to remove varnish from old furniture; and third, a burnt tongue does little to improve one's temperament.

Having disposed of the "soup" according to EPA regulations, I decided that leaving the house was just not an option. Given my stellar performance up until then, it would not have been inconceivable for me to inadvertently part with one of my cherished limbs, so I squared my shoulders, set my jaw, and dedicated myself to the daunting task of exploring for posterity the areas in and around my bed.

The slumbering observation of the space betwixt my comforter and mattress was interrupted some hours later by a crash of thunder. Surely this was a dream, I thought, because thunderstorms rarely vacation in Texas during the month of August. As I peered out the window, however, with one sleepy eye (not to be confused with a lazy eye), I noted that the atmosphere appeared to exhibit all of the familiar symptoms of a thunderstorm: high winds, a darkened canopy of swirling clouds, a significant drop in temperature, and the occasional arc of electricity in the distance, followed by low rumbling sounds reminiscent of a post-Pancho's gastrointestinal revolution.

In the face of this overwhelming evidence, I had little choice but to conclude that a storm was indeed imminent. I quickly exited my warm nest and made my way to the balcony where I narrowly avoided being hurled headlong into the cement sea below. After properly anchoring myself against the wind, I stood and absorbed the essence of it all, inhaled deeply the scent of ozone, and patiently awaited the moment when raindrops would be evicted from their comfortable cloud condos due to too many complaints of excessive noise.

While awaiting the promised downpour, I became increasingly filled with nervous energy, so I ventured indoors to retrieve my deck of smokes, and discovered that the smell inside my place was not nearly as beautiful as the odor I'd experienced outside, so I threw open all of the doors and windows to allow the spring-like atmosphere to permeate my abode. No sooner had I done this than the rain began to fall, beating a rhythmic cadence against the exterior of my humble shelter. The rumbling of thunder had moved much closer in proximity and threatened to shake the shingles from the roof. I grabbed my smokes, a book (Love In the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez), and a beer, returned to the balcony, and climbed onto the rail. Perched atop this pernicious precipice, I introduced fire to cigarette, cracked open both beer and book, and proceeded to enjoy the small pleasures that life had seen fit to afford me on this auspicious occasion.

I suppose every good story should end with a moral, right? Let's go with this: If you're not satisfied with Texas weather or personal luck, simply wait five minutes; they're both guaranteed to change.

weekend update part 2

2006-08-06T19:35:00.003-05:00

NOTE: Some of the information in this blog was learned second-hand, so if I've fucked up any of the facts, please feel free to correct me.

At first, Saturday exhibited all of the symptoms of being another boring day, complete with a little shopping, some residential maintenance, and some personal grooming (I won't bore you with the details). I completed all of these mundane tasks, and had resigned myself to a quiet evening at home, when I received an unexpected message asking why I wasn't at the party.

At this point it might be helpful for me to state that all of the names and locations in the following tale have been changed to protect the innocent.

Now, you may be asking, what party? Well, I have a close friend, we'll call her Lafawnda, whose sister, we'll call her Wilma, is married to a police officer, we'll call him Fred. Fred and Wilma live in the same North Dallas suburb in which Fred works to protect and serve the public (this will be important later). The party in question is being held to celebrate Fred's 40th birthday.

So I receive a message from Lafawnda asking why I'm not at the party celebrating with everyone, and I reply that I'm spending the evening at home to conserve cash, as my recent exploits had left me a little light in the pocket book. Lafawnda quickly replies that it won't cost a thing, as there are two kegs of Shiner, one keg of homemade raspberry beer, several bottles of homemade whisky, trashcan punch, and a kitchen full of snacks. Lafawnda then says that Wilma even saved enough ingredients to prepare an Irish Car Bomb for me. How cool is that?

At this point it might be helpful for me to state that I have the most thoughtful, and indeed coolest, friends in the world.

On with the show. I get in the car and drive, at dangerous speeds, to the location of the party in a North Dallas suburb. Upon my arrival, I see a garage full of people, I hear loud music, and everyone appears to be having a great time. I narrowly avoided flattening a drunken pedestrian, the famous and infinitely-talented Wallace Wallcock, and managed to park in the relative vicinity of the party.

I walked in and immediately saw several familiar faces, including Fireman Chinchops and his wife Ethel, Lafawnda and her husband Tyrone, the Mungfather and his girlfriend whose name escapes me, Electrical Discharge and his girlfriend Gypsy, Kilometer (the birthday boy from the night before), as well as my brother-in-arms, the aforementioned Wallace Wallcock. I greet the hosts of the party, Fred and Wilma, and thank them for the invitation. They make me feel welcome and ensure that I'm aware of all keg locations and their proximity to me, then Wilma offers to prepare an Irish Car Bomb for me.

While waiting for the drink, I sat down at a picnic table that was set up in the garage and bullshitted with several old friends. Then my drink was ready. Lafawnda joined me in the shot, only instead of an Irish Car Bomb, she had a Mini Cooper, which is what she calls a half-sized Irish Car Bomb. I'm telling you, folks, this was an Irish Car Bomb that dreams are made of.

No sooner had we finished our drinks than we hear a commotion coming from just outside the garage. This is followed by a loud smack, like a turkey leg colliding with a block of ice. At this point, as if by some party magic, everyone who had been sitting in the garage was now standing in the driveway, where we watched with herd mentality what appeared to be a fist fight.

Remember earlier when I told you that Fred was a cop? Well, this fact came in handy because not only was Fred a cop, but four or five of the other attendees were off-duty cops. These guys quickly broke up the ruckus and the party went on, with everyone asking what happened, how it started, etc. After several different versions of events, I received what sounded like the full story.

A neighbor of Fred's, who lives a few houses down, brought a guest with him, a guy who knew no one at the party. Remember, I arrived roughly fifteen minutes before the fight broke out, so I did not witness most of the events leading up to it. Apparently this guy was behaving like a jackass, being rude to the other party-goers, even going so far as to offend the hosts' sister, Lafawnda, by instructing her to remove her shirt. So the guy was asked to leave several times. He refused, and Fred decided to remove the unwanted guest. Jackass swung at Fred, the host, at his 40th birthday party, so Fred employed a law enforcement front choke to subdue Jackass. At this point, the neighbor who lives across the street, and who also happens to be a professional body builder, sees Fred trying to defend himself, so he clocks Jackass and Jackass goes down.

When Jackass gets up, he walks down the street to his friend's house, the one who invited him in the first place, and tells his friend that some big guy started shit with him, so he and his friend return, seemingly with the intention of continuing the fight. They are immediately stopped by a barrage of off-duty law enforcement and made to return to the house down the street. About ten minutes later, after the excitement has died down, who should arrive but two on-duty police officers? It then becomes apparent that Jackass has called the police.

From what I could gather, Jackass wanted to press charges against the guy who hit him, but after several short discussions between on-duty and off-duty cops, an agreement was reached that no charges would be filed. Jackass went home, and everyone else moved the party inside. Ah, it's good to know people who know people.

So the party continues, and we're all having a great time. For Fred's 40th birthday, he received several gag gifts, including a latex pocket pussy, a butt plug, and a pair of life-like toy breasts. These were a huge hit with everyone. I believe I've seen the butt plug, which had a suction cup on one end, stuck to every smooth surface in that house.

Anyway, the reason I mention the toys is to segue into the female anatomy lesson in which I had the pleasure of participating. A mid-20s woman, whom I'd just met that night, after seeing a diagram on one of the sex toy packages, admitted that she was not very familiar with the female anatomy, and that she had all of the sexual knowledge of a 5-year-old, so Gypsy and I take it upon ourselves to give this lady a crash-course. We quickly procured pen and paper and set about constructing educational diagrams in the hopes of enlightening her, and she took to the lesson like a duck to water. Afterwards, the diagrams made for amusing conversations with the other guests.

By now, I was feeling rather drunk, so I retired to the kitchen to feast on the bounty of prepared snacks, and there I found Fireman Chinchops' wife, Ethel. As is our custom, we engaged in a conversation of philosophy, dreams, and metaphysics, which I thoroughly enjoyed. We discussed some strange dreams she'd been having, followed by insomnia, and a sense of urgency she was feeling in determining what lies beyond.

At some point, I wandered into the back yard to discover several people of my acquaintance populating a picnic table, smoking and laughing, so I decided to sit and join them for a while. I then noticed that there were three guys and a girl in the above-ground jacuzzi. Everything seemed normal, so I didn't give it a second thought.

After sitting for a while and listening to the various conversations, I soon learned that the people in the jacuzzi were stark naked. This point was driven home when the girl, whose name I never learned, climbed out of the jacuzzi, still nekkid, and started to chase Wilma the hostess around in an attempt to accost Wilma with her dripping breasts. There was much laughter at this, and soon the three dudes decided to get out of the jacuzzi too. Thankfully they did it quickly and without much fuss, so it wasn't too grueling an experience.

At the end of the night, I said my goodbyes, thanked the hosts, wished Fred a happy birthday, and drove home at dangerous speeds. The party was fantastic, and I'd like to thank all persons involved for their participation.

weekend update part 1

2006-08-05T17:51:00.001-05:00

Due to a swelling of the uvula, I called in sick-of-it to work on Friday, and spent most of the day sleeping. Occasionally I woke up to perform the usual gargling ritual, alternating warm saltwater and mouth wash. This seemed to do the trick, as it usually does, and by 6:00 I was feeling much better. I could breathe more easily, and my speech no longer mimicked that of a retarded Tony Danza. It turned out that I could not have planned things better, because my dear friend Maggie had obtained four free Tom Petty tickets, one of which was not being used, plus VIP passes and parking passes for the performance that evening. I quickly accepted the unused ticket, and agreed to pick her up and drive in exchange for her generous gift.

I picked Maggie up around 7:30, admired her freshly-painted toes (take that, lady!), and off we went to Razzoo's to meet the other two ticket holders, Kristi and Daniel (two of the coolest people I've had the pleasure to meet, by the way). The show started at 8:00, but none of us were really interested in seeing the opening act (Trey Anastasio), so we hung out at Razzoo's, had a few drinks and a few smokes, then headed to Smirnoff Music Center. (On a side note, I'd just like to say that I find it infernally irritating that smoking is prohibited in a restaurant whose culinary offerings will kill faster than cigarettes.)

We made our way to Fair Park, Kristi and Daniel in one car, and Maggie and I in another. After some confusion, we located the correct entrance and were informed by the parking attendant that the parking fee was $30 US. I casually produced the parking pass *BAM* and she let us through. We entered the arena through the Icehouse Lounge, and the opening act was still on stage, so we grabbed a few cold ones and commandeered a table. We downed the beers, observed the people, smoked, and then we were out into the arena.

We found our seats without too much fuss; they were located about halfway between the stage and the lawn in row BB, just to the right of center stage. I couldn't believe our luck! We even had wait staff to deliver beer and snacks. Then we learned from the ticket hag watching our section, who was beset with some strange mouth disease (not quite scurvy, but far too advanced for mere halitosis) that smoking was prohibited in this huge outdoor arena. No matter. Through a little ingenuity and clever posturing, we were able to satisfy our nicotine cravings once the lights went down.

Now I'm not a huge Tom Petty fan, I could never really get into his music. Perhaps it's the nasally, sort of half-whining vocals, but his music never really did it for me (with the exception of Breakdown, which is one of my all-time favorite songs). So as you can probably imagine, I wasn't nearly as excited about the prospect of seeing him perform live as I was about just being there with friends and enjoying the moment. The point is that my expectations for the performance were low, and I was just there for the experience. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that, not only was the performance enjoyable, it was the most fun I've had in quite a while. Tom Petty puts on one hell of a show!

About halfway through the set, we learned that they'd brought a surprise guest with them, none other than Stevie Nicks. Again, not one of my favorites, but I soon found out from Maggie that Kristi is absolutely obsessed with Stevie Nicks (apparently her parents used to play Stevie Nicks songs for her when she was an infant, and Kristi's loved her ever since). Kristi proceeded to break down, and tears started to flow. It was a very touching moment, one that I'll remember forever. That one moment, the look on Kristi's face when Stevie Nicks started to sing, well, that made the night. Kristi and Daniel recently started trying to have a baby, and so this surprise performance by Stevie Nicks was like an omen for them, some sign from the gods that they were on the right track. I'd bet dollars to donuts that they went home and conceived that night. Good luck, you two, my fingers are crossed.

So after the show, we hung out at the Icehouse Lounge for a little while to let the crowd and traffic thin out. While we waited, I called Miles to see where he was (it was his birthday), and he told me that he and the crew were over at the Public House on Lower Greenville. So Maggie and I said goodnight to Kristi and Daniel, and headed over to the Public House. We walked in and the place was packed, I mean wall-to-wall, standing room only. We looked around and spotted a few familiar faces: Sparks and Meagen, Jason and Kathleena, Tracy and Katie, Chris (who was spinning there that night), Seth, and of course, the birthday boy himself, Miles. After several drinks, drunken dancing, and some very kind words from a friend (she knows who she is), we ensured that the birthday boy would not be driving home, then we broke north. I dropped Maggie off at her place in Plano, then drove to my place in Richardson.

All in all, I'd say that the evening was enjoyed thoroughly by all who attended. Surely this was the highlight of the weekend, right? To my surprise, Saturday picked up where Friday left off. To be continued...

knuckle heads

2006-08-03T14:19:00.001-05:00

I recently mentioned to a friend of mine, who happens to be the mother of five children, that I was having trouble sleeping one night due to a noise that was emanating from some unknown source. Upon getting out of bed to investigate, I tracked the noise to a half-full 7-Up can sitting on a table across the room. It turns out that the fizzing of the can's contents was the source of my insomnia. So the following day I mentioned to my friend that I thought it was odd that I was able to hear that barely audible fizzing sound from across the room.

Without skipping a beat, she said that I was probably pregnant because pregnancy can heighten one's senses. Here was a possibility I hadn't considered, so I decided to enlist the help of a film student friend of mine. I'll have him conceal his video camera and follow me into the local Planned Parenthood, where I'll ask to take a pregnancy test (apparently, due to a man's physiological makeup, most men test positive for pregnancy). When the results come back, I'll need to determine who the father is, and since I've been on the wagon for quite some time, I'll insist that a paternity test be given to both my left and right hands to determine which one will be held accountable for child support. Once the guilty party has been determined, I'll retain the services of a qualified attorney to file a paternity suit on my behalf.

So what started out as a silly discussion quickly turned into an outline for a short film. Although the discussion of the short film ended here, the conversation was by no means complete. From here we went on to discuss what, if any, were the possible influences one's chosen hand might have on one's sexual preference. In other words, if a man is right-handed, then the right hand is said to be the dominant hand. If we call the dominant right hand the masculine hand, and call the less dominant left hand the feminine hand, then what does it mean in terms of sexual preference if a person prefers one over the other? If a man routinely chooses the masculine hand when 'doing the deed', does it point to some sort of underlying preference? What if a person is ambidextrous? Would that indicate bi- tendencies?

If you're interested in participating in this study, please state, in the interests of science, which of your hands is dominant, and which you prefer. If you have no preference, say so. If you prefer both at the same time, say so. If you're a good boy/girl and don't do 'that sort of thing' then don't bother commenting because you can't be trusted to tell the truth.

NOTE: I'd like to thank Rachel and Maggie for their invaluable contributions to this discussion.

public service announcement

2006-08-02T11:26:00.001-05:00

Don't speak unless you can improve the silence.

inquisition

2006-07-30T09:02:00.001-05:00

What would you do if I sang out of tune? Is this a test? How many roads must a man walk down before the call him a man? What became of subtlety? Who's got the biggest balls of them all? Who am I to judge and strike you down? Professor, what's another name for pirate treasure? Shouldn't you have said what you meant? When did you say the earth would stop turning? Is all the world jails and churches? Why don't you watch where you're wandering? Will your tongue wag so much when I send you the bill? Have you seen my wig around? Can I get a little lovin' from you? Is this what you had in mind? Is there anybody in there? What are these tortured screams? Where were the parents at? Can I get an amen? When all is over and we return to dust, who will be my judge and which one do I trust? What's the future of mankind? What was it like to see the face of your own stability suddenly look away? Why must she climb on his knee? Why then are you so surprised when you hear your own eulogy? How could you turn us into this after you just taught me how to kiss you? Why can we not be sober? Can you keep them in the dark for life? What is this but my reflection?

NOTE: This blog was constructed entirely of song lyrics.

end of an era

2006-06-30T23:12:00.001-05:00

The power of words is astonishing. Individually, words may trigger the entire spectrum of emotions, invoke changes in mood, cause joy as well as pain, ruin a perfectly good day, or improve a perfectly shitty one. When carefully constructed into a series of syllables, words may change the world. Ten little words, painstakingly polished and aligned, like the pillars of Stonehenge, have the capacity to summon a power beyond human perspicacity. How can ten innocuous little words start such a monumental metamorphosis? The answer can be found in chaos theory.

The flapping of a single butterfly's wing today produces a tiny change in the state of the atmosphere. Over a period of time, what the atmosphere actually does diverges from what it would have done. So, in a month's time, a tornado that would have devastated the Indonesian coast doesn't happen. Or maybe one that wasn't going to happen, does. This phenomenon, common to chaos theory, is also known as sensitive dependence on initial conditions. Just a small change in the initial conditions can drastically change the long-term behavior of a system. (Ian Stewart, Does God Play Dice? The Mathematics of Chaos, pg. 141)

Like ten little indian boys setting fire to the wagons; ten little words have sparked a revolution.

Mention this to me, mention anything,

And watch the weather change...

agreements

2006-06-17T13:53:00.002-05:00

According to something I just read, which may or may not be credible, drinking coffee boosts cognitive performance, and makes one more accepting of arguments that go against our core beliefs. Drinking coffee makes us more pliable, more malleable, more easily persuaded.

I've been drinking coffee all morning. If you want to convince me of something, now's the time.