new randoms

resting softly amongst the villains

The greatest sentences ever written by a human.

I think Patriots is a pretty cool guy;

he loses the only game that matters and doesn't afraid of anything.

We have been destroyed by this.

You read it here first; I want the only hit on google.

"We have been destroyed by this."

We have been destroyed by this.


MLWHBDBT.

The ultimate fate of his most illustrious Sir John of unshakable determination.

Here's the scene.

It's dark and it's raining in a city with a lot of multi-storied buildings; highrise apartment complexes and such. The sort of buildings with names like Madonna's. "I live in the Wittenborne." Oh I'm on the 17th floor of the Mitchell right across the way.

They're both crouched on the floor of the balcony facing outwards. She's half-asleep (I dont know why yet) and he's behind her with his arms draped over her shoulders crossing at the wrists.

He is simultaneously surprised, relieved, and overjoyed. He is terrified that it's all a dream. He is crying and laughing, literally at the same time.

"My Blue Heaven" BLASTS over the speakers. It's all too familiar, it happens all the time.

Pan across the city.

Two sides twist and then collide. Sometimes it just feels better to give in.

Cut to every scene of destruction that has resulted in this anomaly. Like the end of the Godfather. Everything falling into place.

Dull heat rises from the sheets. Double standardized suspicion is remedied, oh my blue heaven.

Cut back to them, zoom in on her, eyes shut. Everything's coated in rain.

A tiny voice starts to sing, 'you are safe, child. You are safe.'

Roll aftermaths of fated scenes. Every broken heart smashed open for the ridiculously unlikely ending being shown. Everything he engineered, and most powerfully, all the things he didn't. Fate tossed him one.

Cut to him.

It's you I can't deny.

Zoom in on his face. Eyes. It's exactly how you'd expect someone to look if they had just survived a trip through a black hole. Teary eyed joyous insanity. "I can't believe this worked" is what his face says, verbatim.

It's you I can't deny.

His grip on her tightens now. Spotlight them. Finally his.

Fade to black.
------

"And then what" is completely overrated. We saved the world! And then what? Go back to normal? Who cares. It's alright if the "then what" answer isn't much- getting there is everything. If you have done something so remarkable that it prompts an "And then what?" then you've already won.

That's how I know. That's how I know what matters and that's why I can use a term like victory in situations like these.


I'm not crazy, honest, but they're gonna be talking about us forever.

And even if they don't, they should.

on this night of nights we two are so hopelessly inevitable

it's a haiku.



In Filipino tradition, it is said that the way you spend your New Year's Eve will resonate throughout the year. Because of this it is almost mandatory in some families that the entire core group is together on New Year's Eve. This was not the case for my family last night, as our hero was facedown drowning in the largest flagon of Guinness ever poured by humans.


I decided to go downtown, which was the place to be, and thankfully I wasn't driving. We had a table and we were with a good crowd. Pictures up on lushcollective later on. Everyone and their mother was in some sort of relationship so I attached myself to an extremely tall beer and hoped for the best. My night was comped courtesy of Lauren and Audria from the Hills, so drinking/cabs were not an issue.

I was entirely overdressed and some very large women found me adorable in the same way that a cute hat is adorable or a big piece of cake is adorable. The camera added a lot of 'prestige' and generally creeped everyone out.

The entire night, I knew I would inevitably end up in pacific beach. It was a combination of deep seated determination and fate. It became my mission. Another girl, another party, another crowd- I left my heart in PB and that is where my night would end-

At any cost!

Still though, as the clock struck midnight I was *not* in PB, so I forced myself on the nearest female and trademark overwhelming awkwardness filled the air.

"That was nice. So I was thinking I should call you."
Yeah my boyfriend over there doesn't think you should.
"...whoa. Oops. Whoa."
[John of unlimited charisma quickly backs away from the booth.]

In Filipino tradition, it is said that the way you spend New Years Eve will resonate throughout the year. Maybe this year's gonna have me getting my ass kicked.

To Pacific Beach!

Many drunken phonecalls had filled me with a sense of urgency. As if she might disappear at 2 AM, or my cab would turn into a pumpkin, or other such fairy tale urgency. I managed to hail a cab and collected Kevin and Kathryn and it was off to PB. I generously offered to pay for the whole cab, but I was thwarted by the cabbie who reminded me that he only accepted cash. So I payed far less than my share and quickly exited the scene.

I was totally lost at this point and several more phonecalls had me running into awaiting arms; though I inadvertently smashed some of her jewelry. Ataraxia is the state of mind in which you are no longer concerned with consequences. No more worries. It occurred to me later that I had lost my wallet somewhere and a small search party, armed with a single flashing LED keychain was sent out. Nobody found anything. My phone died. I don't know which cab company I took home.

In Filipino tradition, it is said that the way you spend New Years Eve will resonate throughout the year. Maybe this year's gonna have me going broke.

I wasn't worried about the wallet. I was happy to have completed my mission. I was full of alcohol and everything romantic there ever was.

Aren't you worried about it? It's such a pain in the ass.
"No, for some reason I'm not."

I woke up the next day with many farts still in me. My body has programmed itself not to fart in a girl's bed. Reality sets in and I remember where I am. Ataraxia wears off and I'm immediately disappointed by the inevitable trip to the DMV I'll have to make later. I got a ride to my car and I was complimented by the world's nicest floormats. They read, "You are THE BEST! :)" and I thought that was awfully positive for something you smear your dirty shoes all over but what the hell.

So in movie-mode I drove home. I might have been the only car on the road. I hoped I wouldn't get pulled over; I don't have anything on me. No license, no registration, no nothing. I make it home without incident and only now am I hung over.

I unleash a series of loud but not entirely unpleasant farts and I fall asleep. My cashmere sweater has shed all over my blazer and I look homeless, sleeping in jeans. I am awoken a little later by my cellphone, which is now charging.

A gritty, almost Rastafarian voice takes me by surprise.
Eyyy der Jannyboy! Ya know where yar wallet be?
"What? No?"
I've gat yer wallet Solees. Yar numba was in da wallet."


I met up with him at a neutral location and he handed the wallet to me. We happened to meet at a cafe and I offered to buy his meal. He said he had to get to work, but he wished me a happy New Year, told me to be more careful with my wallet, and drove off.

After getting my wallet back I realized how much work he had to do to get the damned thing back to me:

1) He had to dig through the whole wallet and somehow ended up with a list of contact information regarding the gym that I worked at.

2) He had to look up the directory OF that gym, and match my name to a list.

3) He had to determine which of the contacts would take him to me and which were just office bureaucracy runarounds

4) He had to call my ass, go out of his way to meet me at a safe and neutral location, and didn't even want some soup and a sandwich for his troubles.


Just because he wanted to do the right thing.


In Filipino tradition, it is said that the way you spend New Years Eve will resonate throughout the year. Maybe this year will see me being left vulnerable but loved by those around me.

I felt so good about the way everything panned out yesterday, and today was just icing on it all. And I didn't have to go to the DMV.

his lordship's infinite extravagance part one: "Wake up, you idiot, they're all waiting for you."

My alarm clock was almost $120 dollars after all appropriate sales tax had been applied. The most useful function it offers is the ability to wake me up with either a CD or mp3. This is fantastic. Every morning I wake up positive and determined, and with ample amounts of dreamboner.

In the least tragic way possible, I have never been so motivated to get up in the morning.

my dogshit morning.

I get up late this morning and I let my dog out into the yard. He's usually pretty good about holding it til he can go outside, though he's got a litter box for middle of the night stuff.

So I let him into the yard and I go back inside and pour out some cereal. He comes back inside as I'm finishing the bowl and I assume he's finished his business. He typically gets a small treat as a reward for going outside instead of stinking up the house with his litter box. I open up a new bag of treats and these are smaller than normal, but should be fine. I mean he's a dog right? He's not hungry; he just wants validation for taking a shit in the grass.

So I'm wrapping up 'The Price is Right' and he goes back outside again, and comes back in a minute later. And he's licking his chops.

'Holy shit' I realize. It makes so much sense. The treat wasn't enough. He used to always try to eat his crap when he was a puppy, and on walks I always pick it up before he'd even get the chance... I pry his mouth open- no trace, but his breath stinks like hell.

I have to know for sure. I'm in the yard now, desperately trying to find the poop that I hope my dog didn't eat. I check all the usual spots, and come up empty. This is disgusting. He just had a bath yesterday, and now he's gonna need another. God knows what's caked in his beard.

I'm walking back into the house, and right before I exit the yard, I find the poop. With my bare right foot.

And it's warm.








so I ate it!

har har har just kidding. But I did have to hose myself down and hop on one foot all the way to the shower. So that was exciting.

say it and mean it:

i will not contribute to the misery in this world.

YOU'VE GOT NOWHERE TO GO

Whoa, whoa.


Step one. Here's what I didn't post last time.

A Team Fortress 2 Story:

---

The double cross

Spy2 narrows his eyes and morality takes a backseat to personal gain, yet again. Spy1 charges bravely towards the enemy, mistaking Spy2 for a comrade. He waves him along, and together they infiltrate. The entire time Spy2 knows how this will end. A knife in the back.




We're both spies, you and me. Which means we're naturally dishonest. And I trust you so badly Spy1, because we are kindred spirits. Forgive me for seeing through your charming mask. We're both spies remember? I know what a mask looks like.


And you disgust me so badly because we're both fucking monsters, and I see the worst of me in you.


The worst kind of hypocrite: A spy with a bit of trust in one hand, and a butterfly knife in the other.

--


There we go.


step two: Everything always works out for the best with me.


when you hit rock bottom you've got nowhere to go but up...




A story about being strong.
----
So strong- strong enough to grimace and roll eyes and have conviction.


Knowing what you want is an issue of committing. Not to an idea or a person, but committing yourself to this pinhole you've picked out and just pouring everything through it, regardless of how long it's taking or how frustrating it is.

They say to go with your gut, as if the first impression has some sort of natural accuracy. Animal instinct, even. I guess in that regard strength is being able to say, "My gut said 'this', so I will stick by it even if i feel different now." That's pretty hard to do sometimes.

My convictions are the same regardless of who I am talking to. The words might change but the message is the same. Further evidence of my indestructibility. I had an epiphany last night and I bought a vampire costume today.

Hell is being forced to be around someone you don't want to be around. Because conviction can be strong but if exposure is constant it's hard to maintain.

How long til the audience stops rooting for me?

---

(the audience will root for me forever.)

---



A story about choices.
---
---
As long as you have options you will be happy forever. You fight with one parent; confide in the other. Girl A is trouble, you move to Girl B. Job 1 sucks but there's always Job 2.

And what's amazing is the second option-- the second choice, is almost always immediately validated as superior. As if it were the correct choice the entire time. This is the opposite of going with your gut, but ignorance has always been bliss.


That one was fun.


But here's something new.


Rooting for Ron Paul is like cheering your favorite badguy on. He's a republican and I'm supposed to hate him but I'm happy that he's gaining recognition amongst republicans.
---


She paints flowers and tries her best to cover up every empty space on the entire canvas. Cause why have any emptiness at all when you can have flowers?

But my angel, don't you realize? It's that empty space that defines you. Everyone does the same things now... nowadays. It's what you leave behind that makes you so special.



Its what you leave behind. It's what you don't do. It's what you get past.


Stop defining yourself by the flowers. Give the empty space a shot.

----

If I were my shame, where would I be?


Oh, found it.

You know you've found someonething beautiful when you break character for it. Someone or something that makes you wanna sabotage yourself just for a shot at something magical. I don't care how sappy that is.


"You're a good reason to quit."

He said.


"You're a good reason to stop."




"You're a good enough reason to change everything."
----








Every dream I have, that could never be a real dream, is inevitably spoiled for me by logic. An old dead friend appeared to me in a dream and I was certain it wasn't real. And he assured me that it wasn't real, because he was dead and I knew he was dead. So what do we do now, old dead friend? Am I writing your lines? How does this even work?

Wake up, then, or just pretend you don't know it's a dream and play along to try and find something new.



Sometimes you have to pretend you don't know what reality is in order to better believe the dream. That's not redundant, either, because dreaming is like booting in Safe Mode. You have access to shit you wouldn't otherwise, without fear of retribution or reprecussion. You can test out a pickup line in a dream.


You can jump in front of a bullet in a dream and realize what it feels like to save a life.


Heavy? Sure. But try it. It's as heavy as fate. Any fate worth anything is heavy.









Chemically induced sobriety allows a lonely drunkard like me to post vividly at 4:00 am. I feel like a cyborg. I feel like an angel. I feel like a starfall. I feel.


Without religion, we are at best animals. That's not opinion, it's true. We're definitely animals. We're biological. We're organic. But there isn't an elephant alive that believes in God.


That argument is neither pro/anti religion... by the way. I don't do politics and i don't discuss religion what the hey.









goodnight.

this hyphenated lifestyle

-

and my daughters will drive volvos.

I get home at 2:22 in the morning, which is more coincidental than ominous. My room, as always, is illuminated. It looks like the laboratory of a mad scientist; the television bouncing blue and white lightning against the simple slat blinds in the window. It looks like I'm already home. It looks like I'm up to something.

I ate pizza tonight, driven by both hunger and a desire for sobriety. Why can't we not be sober? I finally realize that's a plea for drunkenness; society has taught me to ignore double negatives otherwise. Regardless I eat this pizza and it is delicious. Brian works at Amore pizza on Mission boulevard in PB, and he is from New York and we talk about pizza and music.

I say that it is interesting how a lot of people have a favorite album, but it is typically not by their favorite band. This begs the question, "why is your favorite band your favorite?" I won't answer that now, but think about it: what's your favorite album... and is it by your favorite band? Bet you it's not.

Welcome to the rotation, I say out loud, as I drunk dial someone I've not drunk dialed before. I bat zero, though, and I get the machine. The message. The answering machine. Whatever. The drunk dial is less a cry for help than it is an acknowledgment. We're like criminals who want to be caught. Best case scenario, she picks up and we are outed as drunk dialers.

As if to say, "congratulations. I am in a disoriented state of mind and you made the cut. Welcome to my tequila reality."

And every song on the radio matters, so badly, because the lyrics are crystal clear. So sad I'm gonna die; I hope it's going to happen later than I think.

We want so badly not to be strangers. That's why we start a conversation with the pizza guy or our old and dear friends. "What's new?" as if to say, "Make me familiar again... make us not strangers and make our lives overlap so we can..."


So we can matter to eachother.


Legitimately.


Sometimes I miss everything so badly that I dream about the way I used to live.

How does the overdramatic adjective go?

The love of my life.

Life was my love, before. I want to wake up and go up stairs and know that I'm around people who care about the nothing in my life. Cause that girl smiled at me and it makes me feel good, and this diet is working well and I think I'm gonna take up charcoal drawing.

Let me be significant because I'm around you all day.


This is where we fall apart. This is where my system fails. This is where my magical rollercoaster live-at-home-lifestyle falters. Parents always care, but it's duty over interest. It's necessity over friendship and it's given instead of earned. I was born into this team, not drafted.


We were all destroyed by ourselves and now where are we?


What happened to us?


You realize what you're doing when you have to explain it to an old friend. Your life exists undefined till you're forced to define it for someone.

"So what are you up to man? I mean, are you into girls and stuff?"
Of course I am. What do you think?
"No I mean, what's going on with you and girls?"
Oh. Yeah, well... the diet, school, working out... it's finally been about me.
"Yeah that's probably for the best."
(I don't feel the same way.)
Yeah... probably....



I'm hard as hell inside and out and I just wanna be vulnerable for five seconds to remind myself that it's the softness that matters.


big slick on the draw, ace king is a good hand, drop back limped raise stand up with a new plan.

Never grow old.

I'm not embarrassed anymore. I feel young and I'm happy. I'm made young by what I'm doing. I'm finding life in habit and habit in life. Honest.



Never leave a stone unturned. No "what if." I have to stare into space once in a while or else I might miss that shooting star.



Better to regret doing than not doing.


I wanna be so content that all I worry about is my life. To prolong that happiness. To stay alive long enough to enjoy it. I never think about mortality because I'm never satisfied.






As if I have nothing to lose until I do.



What matters is the chance. The potential. I wouldn't trade this lotto ticket for the world.

Madden on Favre

Madden: Most other quarterbacks, Al, when they get flushed out of the pocket like that and pinned in 15 yards deep in their own backfields without an open receiver...most other quarterbacks are going to give up on the play and throw the ball away. But that's not Brett Favre. That's not who Brett Favre is and Brett Favre has to be who Brett Favre is and that's what makes Brett Favre, Brett Favre, and I think his teammates and his coaches appreciate that. You can see right here he's got a chance to dump the ball off to his fullback but instead, he's going to scramble ten more yards into his backfield and then he's going to wheel and throw a bullet right to the free safety. Now if that had been one of his receivers instead of the free safety, that would have been a completed pass. It turned out to be six the other way but that's not what Brett Favre was thinking about. Brett Favre was thinking about completing that pass and that's what makes him so great.

Al Michaels: But that's Favre's second interception of the first quarter and the Packers are down 14 nothing. Is Favre hurting his team more than he's helping it?

Madden: If it wasn't for Brett Favre, Al, the Packers wouldn't be in this game at all.

Dr. Solis operates on scrotum; hillarity ensues!

Can't we go ONE day without talking about my balls?

It feels like pulling a bandaid off. The pain is sudden but it is over as soon as it begins. Just don't look down.

Don't look down.



Some backstory. Since I was born, I've had a mole on my balls. Nutsack. Whatever. Specifically, I had a very small non-cancerous single-colored circular mole on the backside of my right ball. Testicle.

So it's always been there, and I didn't think anything of it. For 22 years.

Cut to last Saturday. I'm in the shower, shaving my balls. I've gotten so adept at doing this that I'm usually not paying any attention at all. There is conditioner in my hair that is settling in. There might be a facemask or facewash or whatever I'm doing, but know that I'm not really focused on my balls. For once.

Then the bandaid gets torn off. I look down, to see what happened. No blood. No scrapes. Nothing.


Nothing.







NOT EVEN A MOLE.







I look at my razor and gasp. Stuck to the blades of my Mach III is the mole. The same mole that has been on my balls for 22 years. The 'beauty mark', so to speak, if you've ever had the fortune of having my balls in your face.

Not only have I sliced my mole off, I have done so in a way that has left ZERO blood. Not only that, but beneath this mole, apparently, was a perfect section of normal-colored skin. It was a little lighter in color at first, but it has since blended in with its surroundings perfectly. I am baffled.

It's like the mole was just a hat my ball was wearing. It basically fell off. I have no idea how this works.


I almost want to post pictures but I don't have any good "before" shots.








I hope this story made your day.

The human race. The rat race. The relay race.

Did you know that the majority of the passengers on the Hindenburg survived the historic crash? The, "Oh, the humanity!" crash? Only 13 passengers died. That's amazing.

When you factor in the air/ground crew who were injured, the body count stops at 35. That's not too bad, when you consider how famous this disaster is.

Then again, when the space shuttle 'Challenger' exploded, only seven were killed. It's still talked about today.

I guess what was remarkable about the Hindenburg explosion, to me, is that there were far more than 13 passengers on the airship.

So that's your fun fact.

It's not like I haven't been writing. I have been, but they're all stuck in 'draft' stage purgatory. Eventually they may be revised and posted. Time will tell. As a bonus, I have added three extremely short blogs below this one, that I hadn't published otherwise.

But enough jibber jabber. This is what you've all been waiting for:

I have found deeper meaning in the show, BEAUTY AND THE GEEK. (Season 3, aired on MTV in marathon format.)

The entire series is jam-packed with symbolism and metaphor. And boobies. Tons of them. Like at least four. That is a lot of titty. Wowie-wow-woah-wow! Seriously though.

Here's some essential background knowledge: The premise: eight 'beauties' (read: girls who have gotten by on their looks; basically idiots) are paired up with eight 'geeks' (read: guys who have gotten by on their intellects; basically social idiots) and they try to learn from each other. A pair is eliminated via quiz-competition each week. The eventual winners receive $250,000. Nice.

The first challenge was won by Nate, who with his partner Cecile, went on to dominate the entire show. This won them immunity from elimination for one round. That's irrelevant though. What's relevant is that after the beauties and geeks completed their first challenge, a lot of the initial magic was gone. The geeks were frustrated with beauties who couldn't figure out alphabetically organized books. The beauties were fed up with geeks who couldn't even work up the nerve to ask a stranger a question.

Tensions were high, and only one couple wins anything at all in the end. There's no second place. It's $250k or zero.

Or is it?

After the first challenge, after some discussion, and after being given ample time to really dislike eachother, each couple is handed a steel baton and they are escorted out into the main hall of the mansion they are living in. Each baton is being held by a beauty and her respective geek, simultaneously. Rather, they are both holding onto the baton. I don't know why that was so hard to explain. I want you to picture that, for a moment, though, because this means a lot to me.

Decision time.

The host offers a couple $5000 apiece to go home now. Call it quits, pocket five grand. The ride home and the money will be awarded to the couple whose baton first hits the floor. This means that both beauty and geek must let go of the baton.

Fingers quiver, but everyone holds on tight. The host increases the cash to $10,000. The couples are looking at eachother now. Still, the batons are being held firm.

Eventually, the cash prize is increased to $20,000 each. To go home, never see eachother again, quit the show, say goodbye- etc. One couple is seriously considering it at this point. The beauty completely lets go for a moment.

To kill the tension: She grabs back on, and all eight couples stay. I want you to take the last 20 paragraphs and throw them out the window, though, because this has all just been a series of building blocks. We're here. It's done.

What if, in a relationship, you could have so much faith- so much insane faith in not just yourself, or her, but the two of you... that you could just HOLD ON and it would work?


"I want you to take whatever doubts you have about us, and forget about them. Right now. Because no matter how badly you want that $20,000, I'm here for the long run. I'm not going to let go of this baton; it will not ever hit the floor. We're staying. Period."


No one said that line but I really wanted them to.




I wanna be the guy who's strong enough for both of us.
At the same time, I hope I never have to prove it.


When you're in a relationship, you're each holding a baton. It's a prisoner's dilemma. Sometimes you wanna be the first one to let go, because you think dropping it is inevitable. Sometimes you wonder if they're still holding on. Oh man, and sometimes... you let go, for JUST A SECOND, to see if the baton drops. (Girls call this real-life phenomenon a 'test', but we know that it is sadistic torture).

Sometimes you wonder if they're just waiting to drop it too.
---




Be strong enough not to budge if you believe in something. Don't miss out on something amazing because you were hoping someone else would do the hard part for you. If you really, really want something, hold on to it until you can't possibly do so any longer.








If you hold on as long as you can, you'll never regret letting go.










promise.

John De Bergerac

because it is better to fight in vain.










explanation, 9/26/07: This makes sense if you know the story.

I am John's uneasy shudder.

Because I'm basically a teenage girl, I live in a very Don Quixote-esque cartoon of a life. So I daydream about these grandiose heroes and their legendary reputations.

Rhetorically, I wonder aloud, "These days, who is famous--- who is legendary, even, for loving someone?"




well that's scary.




explanation 9/26/07: Haha! This is still funny. I don't know why I didn't post this in the first place. That is Tom Cruise freaking out on Oprah, by the way. That is hopefully the first and only Oprah reference I'll ever make on here.

I am John's haunting dissapointment

Don't ever catch me embarrassed.

The apology is worse than the incident. Always is.







Explanation, 9/26/07: Did I do something embarrassing on the 15th? I have no idea.

The Definition of Insanity

So she got into his car out of loyalty. She smiled all the same, but it was loyalty and nothing else that found her in his car. It is the ultimate act of charity- she has no idea why this is important to him, but she knows that it is important to him, so her loyalty brings her into his car and they drive slowly. He plays the saddest song he'd heard all week, but hesitates on the volume knob because maybe he'd rather see her happy than enlightened. Rather happy than healed.

They drive slowly listening to songs that remind him of her. He wanted her to hear them too, as if she'd fall in love with him the same way he fell in love with the songs. That strong association with art. I'll never forget the girls who own these songs. My favorite songs aren't even good songs, but the memories are the best. It's where it takes you.

It wasn't that sad, she said- the song wasn't that sad- as if in order for him to think of her, it would have to be a sad song. So he played her a happy one. Fate forces him to say something lovely as the loveliest song he'd heard all week comes to a close.

He halfway tells and halfway begs her never to stop being sweet. Cause she might be the only sweetness left in the world. She assures him she's stuck in this state. They're her crutches, but it's the boy who is lifted up by them.

It's her illness- but for the last half hour, it's been killing him. And it's been curing him.

She gets out of his car when he gives the cue, and her day goes on normally. His does too. Scratch one significant moment off the list, carve another notch in the belt. Write it down for the story that everyone's gonna see someday.

Junkie got his fix.

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over while at the same time expecting a different outcome each time.

She doesn't know why it makes him happy but she'd rather make him happy than break his heart.

We're all addicts in the end. Whether it's love, affection, or attention, we need it. To validate ourselves. To remind ourselves that we exist and we're important. The Capulet up on the balcony might sing to you, but she won't jump down into your arms. Not without a lot of dead bodies getting in the way.

The best you can do is get it down to a checklist and just keep on going throughout your day. Get that drug you need, but don't let it define you. Make yourself better without selling your whole life wholesale in order to get validated. Do something for yourself.

What kind of reputation would you have if you were the last living person in the world?

I've traded brick for straw.

No huff and puff will dismantle us.


Do you exist outside of the mirror? I do not. People call me out constantly for catching myself in a mirror, or sunglasses, or a wading pool or your deep dark beautiful eyes.

I look in the mirror to remind myself that I exist.


Even conversationally, I have no idea at all what I look like. I'm completely unaware of myself unless I can see evidence that I'm real.

Times like this I wonder if I'm not dreaming all of you-- but rather, am I part of someone else's dream?

I can't even see my own nose without closing one eye.

It's this lack of existence that makes interaction so damned meaningful. If I can't see myself, let me see myself in you. Our conversation is evidence that we both exist for real, cause I'm not clever enough to come up with your lines myself.

How powerful could you be if you paid attention to the image you gave off in every conversation? Is that dishonest? Or is it more efficient?

What if you postured yourself perfectly to convey an idea- so well positioned physically, that you basically didn't have to say anything at all?

What if you're already doing this subconsciously?
---

sometimes, the worst thing in the world is admitting someone is right. It is rare and dishonest to easily admit that you're wrong, if you're at all invested in the subject.

The reason this is so disarming is because whenever you make an important decision, you pass it through several logical filters in your head, that you've developed over the years to make the right decision. Abortions, gunshots, moving days and 'goodbye forevers' shouldn't ever be impulse decisions.

When you're dead wrong about 'goodbye forever' it's embarrassing as hell because your whole fucking brain was wrong. Every checkpoint was just leading you in the wrong direction. No one ever elects to do the wrong thing by choice, we all think we're doing what's best for us.

The hardest thing in the world is to admit that every single step you've taken has been dead-ass-wrong. You're covered in lava and you broke your mother's back. Watch your step next time.

Harder still is the opposite of goodbye forever. Whatever that is. Getting someone's character completely wrong makes you feel like a real idiot. To the point where you might just fake it to keep from having to change your outlook.
---

Push ups keep me focused. With the heat, I shower a few times a day. I don't get in the shower without first doing a ton of push ups. Around 500 a day or so. Some with the Perfect Push Up, some without. They make me feel better about what I'm eating, and the huge chiseled pectorals don't hurt either.
---

Everyone's got these threads coming off them, and they're all connected to me. I don't cut any threads. Everyone I've ever encountered, I remember. Someone I sat next to in Comm 103 four years ago is still more special to me than some stranger.

These threads are also why I spend so much time digging around the cache of my life. Whether I'm ignoring your call or checking in after eight years, I've always been looking backwards while falling forwards. Maybe that's why my future calendar only ever goes as far as two weeks from now.

---

I wonder how much of drinking is the alcohol clouding the senses, or the inherently accepted fact that you can get away with more while you're drinking? That is to say, the drunken outbursts we experience-- I bet they are more EMOTIONAL than PHYSIOLOGICAL. Feel me?

Cause when I'm physiologically drunk, I'm pretty gone. I definitely exist; it's everyone else whose existence becomes questionable. But when I'm buzzed (you too) that's the time where I'm just doing all the shit I know I can get away with because of this mask. Probably.
---

I've been looking for purpose and in the process have spent a lot of time on myself, which has been rewarding. The more content I am with me, the more disappointed I am in all of you. Not really. That's harsh. What I mean is,

the more time I spend on myself, the less I worry about existing to other people... so when I *am* focused on you and yours, I'm a little rusty. A bit salty. Me me me.
---








Please remember that your life isn't the Hills or any other location-based pseudoreality show on MTV. The camera might sympathize with you but your real life friends need more than that. Even if it would make good television, it's not. My life could be the greatest movie of all time. It's volatile, but you don't have to touch and go.

You've just gotta live it and let it write itself.

imagine living your whole life for the worst thing you ever did.

part one: milfhunter
------------------

Like clockwork I'm old.

1985, John is born.

22 years later I am the oldest man in the entire world.

I've been so attracted to adult behaviour in girls lately that I must be an adult.

Can't find a job? Oh tell me all about it.
Stressed about your full time job? I've got a boner.
You miss college? Let's get married.
You're nervous about your wedding? Dear God lets run away from all this...

These grown up problems get me going so much because I'm at this bizzare stage where I might be the only medicine left for these people. I'm a grown up. Still living like an eighteen year old. I'm gonna make you young forever.

The people I'm closest to are my age, and in turn, a lot of them have graduated and moved on. And their situations are terrifying to a college student. But somehow, I'm not phased. I'm not scared. For some reason, I don't think it's gonna be me. That dude who slows down and lives for happy hour and is in bed by ten cause of work...

You see it, around this age, around this time, at this exact fifth year in college. That nervous confusion of the 22-24 year old college student. People feel old, and they're over the college scene. They just wanna get out. Move on, move up.

I do feel old, but I'm so not over it. I've seen enough wealthy and miserable graduates to know that it's not for me *quite yet*. I'm already thinking my career is going to have to be fun...

that is HUGE.

because as a business major, you usually realize in your senior year that your career will be lucrative but not fun.

I think mine might be fun. I might force it. It's gonna be great.

I've never felt so positive about the future. I think about it so rarely- I exist two weeks at a time. But I look forward and I feel good.

I see all these kids around me doing the SDSU dance, and it's funny to see how the patterns are so consistent. Freshman year people tend to act a certain way. Sophomore too. Junior too. Etc.

It's like my hero complex has grown up with me and graduated college before I did, because I just wanna save these 'grown up' girls who've accepted this monotony... the total value change.

I saw Johnny Rotten on Jimmy Kimmel and he's 50 years old and he's STILL pissed off. Ha!

I'm completely rambling. I don't feast on other people's misery, I just wanna help. For realsies.

------------------

part two: something's wrong syndrome
------------------
Everyone loves to be a victim. You can see it in people as young as toddlers. Here's a classic example:

Kid is toddling around the living room and bonks his head on a table corner. Ouch! He pops back up and keeps toddling around, but mom runs in from across the hall and coddles the shit out of him. "OHMYGOD AREYOUOKAY? OHMYBABY!"

This attention... shit, read Choke. Anyways, this attention not only reinforces the behaviour, but the "what's wrong?" aspect of it suggests that SOMETHING IS WRONG!

So the kid cries, cause she's wondering if he's okay so he must not be.

"What's wrong?" is the most fucked up thing you can ask someone.

Are you alright? Well fuck you, I'm not now.

And once you make yourself the victim, there's no backing out. You're miserable and you can't just turn it off. It's hard to change character on a dime. All cause some drunken bitch couldn't perceive the difference between distracted and depressed.

Here's how you fix it. Just claim drunkenness. Just do it. You can get away with anything if you're drunk, don't make yourself a victim or a villain and just say, "Oh I'm fine, I'm just shitfaced."

That's all there is to it. Heed that one, save yourself a lot of awkwardness. Trust me.

Jamaican? I thought you were some kind of outer space potato man.

The trouble with looking backwards is that its so damned embarrassing. No one ever looks back and thinks about how cool they were. I'm always incredibly ashamed of things I've done even six months ago. I have no idea what I'm doing right now that will embarrass the shit out of me a year from now, but I'm certain that I'm doing it.

---

People think someone who talks a lot is confident. "He's so confident. He's got opinions on everything." Did you ever stop and consider that maybe he's just terrified of awkward silence?

to expand...

People think someone confident is brave. "He just says what we're all thinking. That's why it's funny. I wish I'd had the nerve to just say it." Did you ever stop and consider that maybe he's just terrified that unless he says something, no one's gonna know it?
----

My wild goose chase of a Saturday had me all over the place. Off to PB. Off to Downtown. Off to Del Mar. Off to Caramel Valley? What?

We ended up in the largest house in the entire world. Contained inside was the largest television in the entire world. The girls there were all categorically similar, but I won't do the disservice of guessing at the country of origin. Names like Basma, Saddaf, Deema, etc.

It's funny. A common question was, "so how do you all know eachother?" as if the three members of the Lush Collective couldn't meet by natural means.

I was talking to one of them (who had a boyfriend? I'm still not sure on this.) And I lied and said I was a writer. That's not entirely a lie; I'm writing right now, but I said I was a published writer. That's a lie.

I don't even know why I did that. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I was incredibly drunk. The guy and girl who lived there were brother and sister and were very accommodating.

Why would you lie to someone you don't even know? Cause you can get away with it? The ease in which I lied made me completely second-guess first impressions. Scary. Especially with how significant first impressions are.

Even physically. Women. I'm going to paraphrase Chris Rock, but you're all a bunch of fucking liars.

Your hair isn't that straight, your skin isn't that flawless, you're not that tall, and your boobs aren't that perky. Your eyes, hair, nails, lips and skin aren't even the original colors. Typing that, I laugh.

And here's the insane thing: Guys don't even care. I so don't care. If I think you're pretty, you could show up in flat shoes with a curly afro wig and blue eyeliner and no bra and have a zit on your nose and I'd STILL probably think you're pretty. And I have "high standards". Sure you can cover this and enhance that but if we're ever gonna have a future together (and that's what this is all about, isn't it? nudge nudge) I'm gonna figure you out.

What if you walked up to a girl at your WORST.

Like this, for example.


What if instead of hyping up this first impression, I gave you my very worst. Unshowered, unshaven, barely awake. Exhausted. Faded brown tshirt and a smile full of toothpaste.

What if I still made you laugh, and what if you realized that this first impression--- it's all uphill from here.

How cool would that be? See people at their absolute most revolting- and decide if you can handle it. It's like an investment. Cause that guy in that picture up there cleans up really, really nice. And you liked him when he was disgusting. You just won the lottery!

Maybe it doesn't work that way, but it's a nice thought. I'd hate to meet a girl at a cocktail party and have to wear a tux for the rest of my life.


What if we met and I wasn't trying to impress you.



What would you say when I did?

we fell stumbling into the future part 1: reflections- Dr. Solis dissects the perfect girl.

not literally.

Back when Mark Wahlberg was "Marky Mark", people used to send eachother funny emails. Or heartwearming emails. Anything that is now the content of a myspace bulletin used to be a funny email. Your parents (depending on their age) or your grandparents probably take great joy in forwarding these bad boys around.

They're almost always deleted as quickly as they're opened, but I kept this one for years. Since maybe freshman year of highschool. That's eight years ago. Apparently it struck a chord with me. It's in a file called "does she do this.doc" as if I'd someday consult it before I married my wife.

So here's my first look into the past: The things your love is supposed to do for you. I'll pick it apart in a bit.

She takes the initiative to stand or sit close to you.
She compliments you frequently.
She touches you.
Her eyes sparkle when she looks at you.
She is curious to know everything about you.
She endeavors to discover what's important to you and what makes you tick, so she asks you a lot of questions about yourself, but not in an obnoxious, prying or pushy kind of way.

She gives you small gifts.
She calls you and asks you out.
She makes a big deal about your birthday.
She cooks your favorite meal at least once a month.
She builds up your ego.
She's supportive.
She's consistently loving and affectionate.
When you're sick, she is your dedicated nurse.
She often turns into a playful little girl when she's around you.
She respects your opinion.
She asks you for advice.
She's consistent and dependable.
She keeps her word.
She's never late.
She's fiercely loyal.
She backs you up when the chips are down.
She doesn't put you down in public or nag.
She doesn't compare you to other guys.
She makes you feel like a better man than you know you are.
Her knees buckle when she kisses you.
She thinks it's great that you go out with your buddies once a week.
She doesn't try to control you as much as other women do.
When football is on she knows not to talk and ask dumb questions.
Every girl in town thinks you're ugly as sin, but she thinks you look like Brad Pitt.
She thinks that your beer belly is made of muscle.
When you say, "Honey, tomorrow morning you and I are going to rob the local bank at nine o'clock." She says, "I'll be ready."

This will be easier to comment on if I post it again and slip my comments in. Hope you like to read.

She takes the initiative to stand or sit close to you.

I can see why I saved this. Sitting next to someone actually mattered when I was ...14? I guess it still matters now. I'm gonna show up late to all my classes on purpose, and scout things. Not because I am a hopeless young-at-heart romantic, but because I am a creepy pervert. But I can fake it.

She compliments you frequently.
She touches you.

Here's where guys and girls are different. I swear to god, you can compliment me as much as you like I and I will never reject you for it. A guy tells a girl that she is pretty, and she suddenly realizes she can do way better than him. A girl tells a guy he's cute and he just feels like a stud. Next time you see me, whoever you are, feel free to tell me how pretty I am if you are so inclined. I won't hold it against you. Unless "it" is my body, in which case yes, I will press it against you.

Her eyes sparkle when she looks at you.

This one's not even possible unless you're dating a cartoon girl or a stuntwoman. Sparkling eyes are generally indicators of cataracts and glaucoma.

She is curious to know everything about you.
She endeavors to discover what's important to you and what makes you tick, so she asks you a lot of questions about yourself, but not in an obnoxious, prying or pushy kind of way.

This one's actually true. They're the same thing. Why does it not work in reverse? TANGENT:

Sometimes I feel like the less I know about a girl, the more attractive she is. The negative thought behind that is that the more I get to know anyone, the more their negative features stand out and then I'm less attracted to them. This isn't necessarily true, but it is a thought.

And with the previous theme, even if I DID wanna know something about a girl I liked, it's not like I would ask her all the time, because then she might get a big head. And that big head would turn into the realization that she can do better than me. Can't have that.

END TANGENT

She gives you small gifts.
She calls you and asks you out.

HA HA HA. This will never happen. Sorry.

She makes a big deal about your birthday.

This is EVERY girl. Girls LOVE birthdays.

She cooks your favorite meal at least once a month.

Her ass tossed in thousand island dressing? Har har har.

She builds up your ego.
She's supportive.

These are nice.

She's consistently loving and affectionate.

This would get boring. Even if this is the perfect woman, if I'm not working for it a little I don't like it. I hate it when things fall into my lap. Consistently affectionate is nice, but what am I doing?

When you're sick, she is your dedicated nurse.

I'd rather she didn't catch whatever I had, I guess. Wait is this describing the perfect woman or your mom? Yuck. Girls, I don't get sick, thankfully. Im basically indestructible.

She often turns into a playful little girl when she's around you.

This is nice. I like to get stupid. Doo Doo Dumb.

She respects your opinion.
She asks you for advice.
She's consistent and dependable.
She keeps her word.
She's never late.

Dude, these are important traits for EVERYONE. Men and women, girls and girlfriends, kids and adults. People just want to be acknowledged, and consistency, dependability and honesty are huge.

She's fiercely loyal.

Oh I love this. Give me a loyal girl and I will give you a dollar. Or much more than that. How much do you want for your loyal girl?

She backs you up when the chips are down.

Same thing. If I'm going down swinging, I want you to also. Unless it's literally a fight, in which case, don't fight, just call an ambulance. Thanks

She doesn't put you down in public or nag.
She doesn't compare you to other guys.

Don't ever do this. I will resent you forever.

She makes you feel like a better man than you know you are.

This is a nice thought. But any girl who made me more of an egomaniac than I already am has done the world a disservice.

Her knees buckle when she kisses you.

Oh it's usually me.

She thinks it's great that you go out with your buddies once a week.
She doesn't try to control you as much as other women do.

Har har! Yeah, right.

When football is on she knows not to talk and ask dumb questions.
Every girl in town thinks you're ugly as sin, but she thinks you look like Brad Pitt.
She thinks that your beer belly is made of muscle.

These are all silly. The dumb questions make me feel smart. Im just glad she's watching it at all. I know I look nothing like Brad Pitt. Everyone knows I look like Cuba Gooding Jr.

When you say, "Honey, tomorrow morning you and I are going to rob the local bank at nine o'clock." She says, "I'll be ready."

This one I really like. Robbing a bank is the most romantic thing you can do. Rather, running away together is the best thing you can do. I'm never getting over that notion.

so to recap....

Wow this hasn't been significant at all.


Fail.


Bail.

Jade is a gemstone too.

Can't always be diamonds.

What is this generation's "Going Off to War"? Because 'Going to War' certainly isn't it. Sixty five years ago if you were a bored young American man, there was an easy and noble option: Go to war. Suddenly you've got a job. People need you. You are REALLY IMPORTANT. You're doing something great. Something heroic. Someday they're gonna make a movie about you, kid, and everyone's gonna remember.

And it's not just the stuff you're doing that's great- it's the stuff you DON'T have to do.

Paperwork? Fuck you, I'm dodging bullets.
Traffic? Not on the ocean, pal. Not in this tank, buddy.
Girls? What do you think I'm fighting for. No I'm not ignoring you, I'm saving your life. Thank me later.

Oh man. There is no dating stress when you could die at any moment. Cause honey, I can't follow a format when there's a mortar right outside my door.

The greatest thing about going off to war is that you're only worried about your life. The same shit my dog worries about. The same stuff a three-toed sloth in a jungle somewhere is worried about. A live or die situation sounds surprisingly relaxing.

All you have to do is not die. You get a pass for just about everything else.

See back then, people excused our soldiers because everyone knew the war mattered. We had a legitimate supervillain in Hitler. We had a clear and traceable ambush to provoke us in Pearl Harbor. We got to play heroes and we actually knew who the bad guys were.

I don't talk religion or politics, so brief is sufficient: People don't believe in this war.

Because of that, "going off to war" today isn't a heroic option. You don't get to die for anything noble. It's hot and its boring and it's scary and when you get back, people aren't as much 'proud of you' as they are relieved you're alive.

So how do I go to war now?
---

We find this war in our hobbies. I want something I can tell them I'm doing so that they think I'm busy enough with something important that the fluff becomes negligible.

If I was dodging bullets 65 years ago they wouldn't care so much that I didn't always say the right thing at the right time. If I was fighting Hitler, I might be able to get away with 'chilling' on a Friday instead of going out.

There's this pressure to be so interesting, that all you can do is fake it or find some overwhelming purpose to compensate for it. Everyone knows that feverish protester who lives to raise awareness for some underrepresented endangered animal. Their whole fucking life dedicated to the Madagascar Scorpion and its rights.

This passion means its okay that they don't shower.
---

I like showers. I don't wanna stink. So I want to go to war. How do I go to war in 2007?

I have been so busy with this photography gig. It's work. It's literally work. Someone else would be making a ton of money for what I'm doing. It's WORK. It occupies my thoughts and my time and I'm busy. And this guitar has me busy. I'm just busy.

So busy that I can't go out on Tuesday, sorry, I'm shooting, and I can't hang on Friday, cause sorry, I'm practicing, and I'm exhausted on Sunday cause I was drinking (for work) on Saturday...

...

When do you get to ENJOY BEING INTERESTING!?

I'm so distracted with these interesting things that I never get to brag about it.

I'm online. I'm blogged, wired, websited, facebooked, myspaced, AIMed, business carded, partied and played and worked and busy and TIRED.
---

My roommate and I are watching Braveheart.
"Do you think he'd do well with girls these days?"
what do you mean?
"I mean I doubt he's got a sense of humor. He's so intense. Do you think a girl would wanna be around a guy like that these days?"
hmm I dunno.




---he doesn't have to be interesting or funny or charming or caring, because he's too busy worrying about his life and yours.

I just wanna relax. I'd love to fight for your life as long as it mattered. But this filler, this pressure, these hobbies... this distraction. It's boring.

I wanna go to school. I want my whole life to bank on whether or not the girl in my class sits next to me and smiles and stuff... la la la highschool.

I digress.




I've been spending so much time on myself, I guess I just forgot how much fun it is to spend time on other people.

man you can't go gambling with your last arm

this ain't vegas. these ain't chips. that's your ARM, man.


Something I'm going to be doing (if not now than later) is I'm going to dig up some old writing I've done and examine it. See where I'm at now, compared to where I was at then.


--break


i just took 30 minutes and flipped through past stuff. Its different. Way different.

maybe it's a bad idea.

run for your life.

run for your damned life. the future is here. it is.


I batted so badly on drunk dials tonight. Only the reliable ones answered. You have my everlasting gratitude.


want something poetic? Here. This is what I've got. This is what they've done to me.
---
[don't read too much into this.]


He wasn't a bad kisser. Not bad in the sense that you wouldn't want to kiss him again. She was startled, though, by the voracious desperation that he displayed any time his lips met hers.

Like he needed to kiss her to save his life. The kind of frantic, passionate desperation someone exhibits when they jam an epi-pen into their own thigh. The clenched, tooth-grinding desperation heard rattling like pills when someone's heart stops beating and the medicine lid is child-proof.

His obsession and her sadness were like poison.

He kisses her like her tongue had the antidote.


Like her breath would make him live forever, if he took in enough of it.










One kiss and he's building castles in her name.




---
five syllables in
and we're still so hopelessly
inevitable.


---

there's another line on the end but it's zero syllables. Sometimes it goes without saying.


----

here's good advice. Pick something and do it. While you're trying to figure out what to do, the world's not waiting up for you.

two heartbeats in and you know what's coming.

This is going to be disastrous. Hooray!

tbc.

aequitas/veritas

This isn't my own. For once.

Nation To Ken Griffey Jr.: 'We Wish It Were You Hitting 756 Home Runs'
May 31, 2007


CINCINNATI—Overcome with a mixture of distaste at the almost certain future and a wistful sense at the way things could and should have been, baseball fans across America took time to address veteran Reds superstar Ken Griffey Jr. yesterday in order to let him know that they sincerely wish that Griffey, and not Barry Bonds, was on the verge of hitting his record-breaking 756th home run.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Mr. Griffey, because the last thing we as a nation want is for you to think you've disappointed us by not breaking this record," the country's message, which was read to a quiet and humble Griffey by retired Seattle, WA–area mechanical engineer and lifelong baseball fan Robert Colgrave, began. "America knows you did everything you could, and we couldn't be more proud of you. In fact, that's the whole point—we think you're a man who is actually worthy of this record."

"Believe us, if life was as fair as baseball, you'd have 760 homers right now," said Colgrave, pausing as if momentarily overcome. "More, even. And you'd still be chalking them up. You're a natural talent. God's gift to the baseball diamond. It's just… Damn bad luck, is all. Bad luck and trouble."

The likeable but injury-plagued Griffey currently stands eighth on the all-time home-run list with 574, only nine back from Mark McGwire in seventh. However, America insists that without the bizarre injuries that plagued his career, Griffey would have had a legitimate shot at hitting 756.

"I mean, when a guy misses out on the Rookie of the Year because he slips and hurts his wrist in the shower… Where's the sense in that?" America said. "Being denied the single-season home run record in 1994 because of the baseball strike? Not fair. It's amazing that with every bad hand you've been dealt that you haven't packed it in and called it a day. Frankly, you're an inspiration—unlike some players this nation could name."

The nation then went out of its way to praise Griffey for the many great moments and high points of Griffey's career, claiming it had "always meant to do so but never seemed to find the right moment." Special attention was paid to Griffey's decision to play for his father's old team, wearing his father's No. 30, in the city of his youth; his decision to wear Jackie Robinson's No. 42 on Jackie Robinson Day, and to encourage other players to do so; and his appearance on The Fresh Prince Of Bel-Air.

Throughout the address, the nation emphasized the humility, grace, and joy with which Griffey embraced the national pastime. They talked about buying his batting gloves and signature baseball cleats as children, imitating his stance and perfect home-run swing in batting cages, and how they would ask their father's to hit long fly balls so they could make "Griffey-esque" catches in centerfield. They talked about his 1989 Upper Deck rookie card, and how, instead of going down in value with every hamstring injury, it should have skyrocketed in price with his 800th, maybe 900th home run. They talked about the guy who made wearing baseball caps backwards cool. And they talked about the elation they felt when Griffey became the first one to ever hit the Camden Yards Warehouse during a monstrous shot in 1993's Home Run Derby.
"I would be proud to have Ken Griffey Jr. break my home-run record," current record-holder and Hall of Fame legend Hank Aaron said upon being told of the nation's statement. "I would most certainly attend any game in which he had a chance of doing so. And I would come down from the stands and hug him fiercely after he crossed the plate and had been congratulated by his teammates. I really don't think I'd be able to help myself."

"Hell, I'll probably attend the game he's playing in when my record is broken in any case," Aaron added.

Baseball commissioner Bud Selig, responding to overwhelming demand, has confirmed that an asterisk will be placed next to Griffey's name in the record books in order to indicate that, in a perfect world where dignity is always rewarded, cheaters never triumph, and people always get what they really deserve, Griffey would have hit one more home run than Barry Bonds' career total.

his Airness' esteemed resolve part one: l parenthesis a

l(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness



take a moment to appreceate the ridiculousness of the Michael Jordan comparison. Thanks.

In any case, biorhythms or whatever cyclical emotional rollercoasters I'm on have determined that it's John time. Straight up.

A bit of advice went like this: "Don't define yourself by someone else." More or les. Here's the idea: You've only got a limited amount of adjectives and descriptors to define yourself with- "The guy who likes that girl" shouldn't be part of it.

Refined, here's the idea again: I'm putting myself first for a while. I'm buying myself things, and I'm giving the magnum face and I'm focused on me.

Me Me Me Me Me.

Typing that out, I realize that it doesn't really change much. I guess I'm already sort of living for myself. I bought that guitar. Back in the gym. Eh.

Still though. It's funny; I'm doing a photoshoot on Friday and was told to bring something that describes myself. My friend Matt is bringing his camera. He's an artist. A creator.

I asked if I could bring a beer and a hot chick.


What's wrong there?

John no longer on drugs; new song sounds drug induced.

You've seen it all.

All Choked Up, in all of it's iterations, resonating clear and emo across my songscape.

Well here's another one.

go here...

and download the sonly song in there. This is a sneak preview.

"Summarize the song in a sentence."

How about a title?

Our Hero Regretfully Chokes to Death on "I Love You".


This one is special, because I used an autotuner on it. The same shit that makes Cher sound like a lunatic on 1998's 'Believe.' (Do you believe in life after love after love after lurve after lerve?)

Let's get back into a paragraph format here. I don't know why the ideas get separated like that, but sometimes they do. And all of a sudden I'm writing sonnets instead of blog posts. My 'studio' is growing every day. I'm going to buy a Les Paul copy this week, I think.


What do you think of this one? Black on black. Agile has the second best reviewed Les Paul. Gibson's is number one, but Agile is number two. That's ahead of Epiphone's, for whatever it's worth. The price is right as well.


So I've got my three existing guitars, but this one would compliment the collection nicely. I can also jack in to my most recent purchase- my Lexicon audio interface. That allows me to record directly into Sonar, which is my production software. That's also why you hear crystal clear keyboarding on the above version of A.C.U.

In addition to the audio interface, the software that allows me to create the "Cher Effect" is called Antares AutoTune. It's apparently famous in the vocals industry for turning crap into robotic crap. But if you're a decent singer to begin with, you can get some nice effects out of it.

The best would be if I got a legitimate drum kit. Even an electronic one. That's something all my songs could use. I don't like the keyboard's drums.



Is reading a frustrating story as frustrating as living it? I imagine it is. Because of that, I will refrain from typing out the optometrist story. Fate doesn't want me to have blue eyes. Apparently neither do the good folks at the offices of Dr. Gary Sneag and Lenscrafters. It's been one horrible mishap after another. I was literally blind for a second because my middle eastern attendant insisted I try a contact on that was inside out. Thanks Massoud.

Nochés de Passion con Señor Solis.

Léon is a good movie. It reminds me of Sin City. And V for Vendetta.

It reminds me a LOT of V for Vendetta.


however-

There is not nearly enough flatulence/genital related humor.


** 2 stars out of 5