Venting Plasma

And the Jews Stand Behind It!

2009-01-29T20:34:00.006-07:00

I had an awesome e-mail show up in my spam filter today.

From: Hightower Ezra
Subject: They are lying you every day

Вы все людишки - глупые животные, которые ради денег готовы на все. Вас ежедневно унижают сильные мира сего, а вы этого не замечаете и думаете, что выбираете.

I'd like to show you the web-site about financial pyramid! Take a look, how people get dumbed by System. And the jews stand behind it! Look!! It's true!!!

http://piramidam.net/

Not That There’s Anything Wrong With That

2009-01-28T22:07:00.002-07:00

Setting: a dual occupant bachelor pad. Dave is sitting on a couch, intently playing a video game. Behind him Rob enters from outside.

Dave: (Not bothering to look away from his game) Hey, Dude. How was the movie?

Rob: (Distracted) It was—it was okay. Creepy.

Dave: Creepy, huh? Not scary?

Rob: No.

Dave: (Finally looks back) Did the hot chick at least live?

Rob: Naw.

Dave: Bummer. (Returns to game.)

Rob, still seeming a bit out of it, makes his way over to the couch and sits next to Dave.

Dave: (Still playing) So, uh, how’s it going?

Rob: Fine. It’s going fine.

Dave: And, how’s Jeff doing?

Rob: Well, he’s, uh, he’s doing good.

Dave: You don’t sound too sure.

Rob: No. He’s fine. He’s doing just fine. He’s do–Is Jeff gay?

Dave: (Finally turns his attention away from the game.) What?

Rob: Jeff. Is he, you know, gay?

Dave: I don’t know. Why?

Rob: No reason. Forget I asked. ‘Night.

Rob gets up to leave.

Dave: Whoa. You do not come home and ask if the dude you went to see a movie alone with is gay and then go to bed. Sit.

Rob sits back down.

Dave: What happened? Why do you think Jeff’s gay? Did he hit on you or something?

Rob: No. He just…it was just a bit weird, and—Look I don’t want to make a big deal out of this.

Dave: Weird how?

Rob: I don’t know. The whole situation was weird. You remember the barbecue we had last month that he came to?

Dave: Yeah. Sharon brought him. They’re friends. He tags along with her sometimes.

Rob: Right. And when he was over here, he asked for my e-mail address. He said that maybe we could hang out, and I said sure and gave it to him. And then he e-mailed me with his phone number, and I gave him my phone number. And then he called me yesterday about the free movie tickets he’d won and wanted to know if I’d like to hang out.

Dave: Sounds harmless. Maybe he just wants to be friends.

Rob: And maybe “hook up” is some kind of gay code word that means go out on a date.

Dave: I think you’re being paranoid. I mean, did he flirt with you at all?

Rob: That’s just it. I don’t know. I can’t even tell if a girl is flirting with me, let alone if a guy is. As far as I can tell, no one has ever flirted with me in my entire life, and that just doesn’t seem statistically possible, does it? I mean, a girl has had to have flirted with me by now, right?

Dave: I guess so. Look, why don’t we just call Sharon. She’s friends with him. She’d know.

Rob: No.

Dave: Why not?

Rob: Because she’d tell him. She’s better friends with him then with us, and she would totally tell him. And then if he’s not gay, it will be this big thing, and he’ll get upset, and Sharon’ll get upset, and then there will be all this drama.

Dave: Dude, he won’t get upset.

Rob: Really? If someone called up Alice or Erik or even me and asked if you were gay, and you found out about it, how would you feel?

Dave: Point taken. (Sits thinking for a moment.) Okay, so let’s dissect what happened tonight and see if it was a date or not. Did he pay for your ticket?

Rob: Yes and no. He won them, remember?

Dave: Right. Well, did he get you any popcorn or anything?

Rob: No.

Dave: Good. Good. And who picked where you sat?

Rob: I did. He insisted that I pick the seat.

Dave: Huh. Did you go anywhere after the movie? Grab a bite to eat maybe?

Rob: No. He asked if I wanted to, but I said that I ate before I got there.

Dave: And did you talk outside of the theater for long.

Rob: No…(reluctantly) but he did walk me to my car.

Dave: He what?

Rob: (Slowly, shamefully) Walked with me to my car.

Dave: How far?

Rob: Two blocks...in the opposite direction of his car.

Dave: And what did he say when he was walking with you to your car?

Rob: We just talked about the movie.

Dave: And what happened when you got to the car?

Rob: Nothing. I just said goodnight, got in my car and left.

Dave: He didn’t try to kiss you?

Rob: No. I think that I would know if he was gay if he tried to kiss me. He just said it was fun and that I should give him a call if I’m not busy, and then he left…(Again, reluctantly) and then he texted me on the drive home…twice.

Dave: (Sits, thinking for a moment.) I don’t know, dude. That’s a whole bunch of mixed signals. He’s either gay, or he is really awkward around other guys.

Rob: Worse than me?

Dave: Totally.

Rob: Great, so either I just went out on a gay date or I met someone more socially incompetent than I am. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Dave: Ah, don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal.

Rob: But that’s just it. It is a big deal. Do you know how many women I’ve gone out with in my life? Two. That’s less than one a decade. If that was a gay date, that means that 33 percent of my dating career has been with a guy. I can’t even get chicks to be interested in me, and now for some reason I’ve got guys digging me.

Dave: Maybe you’re gay, dude. (Laughs)

Rob: No, laugh. Make it a joke. But that’s just it -- maybe I am gay. I don’t seem to be having any luck with the women, so maybe that’s because I’m not supposed to be. I mean, I’m not really all that masculine. I suck at sports – I don’t even like watching them. I don’t go hunting or shoot guns. I don’t know anything about cars. I’ve never been in a fight, and I don’t drink beer. What kind of a man am I?

Dave: Do you need a hug?...but not a gay one?

Rob: Laugh all you want, but my guyness is in crisis here. (Puts head in hands.) I just don’t know who I am anymore.

Dave: Alright, alright. Calm down. Dude, you’re just not the kind of guy that they make beer commercials about, but you’re still a guy. So you don’t fit the mold exactly, who does? Look, you think that you might be gay, right?

Rob: Yeah.

Dave: Well then here’s a simple test – have you ever been attracted to another guy?

Rob: (Thinks a moment.) No.

Dave: And who would you rather date, Natalie Portman or Keira Knightley?

Rob: Can’t I date them both?

Dave: See? You’re not gay. You’re just a wimp – there’s a difference…and that difference is liking other men's penises. (Shooing Rob away) Now go to bed and dream of beautiful women and you’re inadequacies.

Rob gets up and walks toward his bedroom.

Rob: Thanks, man.

Dave: Don’t mention it. It’s what bros do.

Take This Interweb and Shove It

2009-01-28T19:59:00.002-07:00

For the past several months I have been boycotting the Internet to pay it back for the wrongs that it has propagated against me (and by boycott I mean exclusively using it to download porn, gamble and stalk victims...I mean girlfriends...and I don't mean stalk, I mean...um...talk to?). Where was I? Oh yes, I was wronged - by the Internet no less. You see, I had been participating in this whole Web 2.0 fad, blogging and myspacing and the like. I had also begun to use twitter, posting my witty comments in 140 characters or less.

Well in addition to my more "traditional" Twitter usage, I had also been using it for a more "creative" exercise. I had been maintaining a Twitter presence under the guise of Victor von Doom, monarch of Latveria, viewing my daily experiences through his eyes. The idea had come to me after I had completed this blog entry, where I reviewed the second Fantastic Four movie from his perspective. I rather enjoyed shrouding myself in the voice of Dr. Doom, and quickly abandoned posting anything to my Venting Plasma account in favor of VonDoom.

Unfortunately, last summer, Marvel apparently became aware of Twitter and began employing it for guerrilla marketing...mainly to prevent the rise of communist marketing in South America. After they had established a couple of Skrull-themed twitter accounts to promote their Secret Invasion event, they apparently became aware of my account, and I was promptly served with the online equivalent of a cease and desist order. I was told that I was in violation of the Terms of Use, both committing copyright infringement and impersonation. And the name of my twitter account was changed to VonDoom Fan, which was pretty lame. (Of course, I should probably be happy that they didn't change it to something really crappy like I'm Super Gay for Dr. Doom...of course, now that you mention it, that might be fun to write...oh you did so mention it. We all heard you. Why must you always lie, you lying harlot? I hate you! You always ruin everything!)

Where was I? Oh yes, VonDoom Fan. Well that ID is pretty lame and undermines everything I was trying to do with the account, and I refuse to have my artistic vision compromised. So I stopped posting to VonDoom...Fan.

Now since I am a hardcore Marvel fanboy and unwilling to show any anger toward the big M, I chose to take out my frustration on the World Wide Web. I decided that I would no longer participate in the Internet until I feel it had been sufficiently chagrined for this affront, and so I began a self-imposed exile that I am now lifting.

Yes, you may enjoy me once again.

That's sexual harassment training, and I do have to take it.

2008-05-04T02:49:00.005-07:00

Admittedly, I'm a little slow getting this out, but my employer forced me (along with the rest of the company) to take an online sexual harassment course back in March. I learned a lot from those three to four hours, and I feel the need to share what I picked up:

- I like to spell harassment with two “r”s.

- I know how to properly respond if I see a black coworker being harassed by a transgendered employee. If I see a white coworker being sexually harassed, I am obviously dreaming and should immediately start thinking about Natalie Portman and Keira Knightley.

- My company cares a lot about making sure that I am protected from sexual harassment. In fact, they care so much that they went out and found a poorly-structured online course to handle the topic, pushed back the deadline to take the course to keep from interfering with people’s Q1 goals and dumbed down the test at the end of the course because enough people weren’t passing.

- I don't understand that the phrase "back away" means that the person backing away is moving more than two steps. Two steps back or less means that they are standing still…or perhaps moving forward.

- I can't comprehend the difference between color and nationality.

- I can get away with randomly rubbing women's shoulders, at least for a while.

- Sabotaging an employee’s work is a tangible employment action but not retaliation.

- If I ever ask a coworker out, I better pray to God that she accepts or I've just harassed her.

- There is an apparent plague of white male employees looking females "up and down." And sometimes they do this “slowly.”

- Sexual harassment is always perpetrated by a white male...at least whenever it is captured on video.

- Unwarranted tickling is a gray area that has not yet been covered.

- Watching videos discussing sexual harassment could be considered subtle, third-party harassment if observed by others.

- Indian people apparently have very fake-sounding Indian accents.

- If a coworker uses the word "retaliate" in a conversation with you, you are fracked.

- Old white men are lecherous, while old black men are distinguished, skilled at their jobs and good at coaching conversations away from sexual harassment.

- If the answer to a multiple choice question is a) and you select a), you are still wrong. (I believe this only applies if you are white and have a penis.)

As you can see above, the third text box on the right corresponded with the "a" word balloon, not the "a" word balloon as I thought it did.

New Blog Over On The Mind Blender

2008-05-04T02:23:00.002-07:00

This one is all about the new found likeability of Tony Stark...

http://themindblender.blogspot.com/2008/05/thank-you-jon-favreau-for-letting-me.html

The Harvest

2008-03-29T12:50:00.003-07:00

Last weekend, I was lucky enough to have my appendix removed. As this was my first foray under the knife, I was surprised at my lack of apprehension. However, I do have to admit that there were a couple of news articles that I had read in the past few weeks that were milling about the nether regions of my consciousness. (Note: The nether regions can be found to the left of the german regions and immediately above the belgian regions.)

I do not think it necessary to transcribe the entire articles, since their titles offer a fair summary of their contents. The two news items that gave me pause were:

Monitors Don't Stop 30,000 Americans From Waking During Surgery Each Year

and

Woman Goes for Leg Operation, Gets New Anus Instead

Based on these articles, I think I should have probably been a little more concerned.

As a side note, I just wanted to point out an advertisement that I saw next to the "anus" article. It...it gave me pause.

Hmmm...I now wonder if my vagina was depressed and there was nothing wrong with my appendix...

The Mile High City Just Joined the Mile High Club

2008-03-16T21:26:00.004-07:00

In the local cable television market, there have been a number of advertisements for a new night club that is intended to cater to a more "refined" crowd. Featuring the same background music as the "I'm a Mac, and I'm a PC" spots (or the even cooler "I'm a Marvel, and I'm a DC" spots), these commercials primarily focus on contrast. The crux of these ads is to differentiate between the shallow, obnoxious clientele that can be found in most of the city's night life and the "refined" patrons of this new club.

Now, I can't say in particular why I decided to check out the Web site for this "refined" establishment - if I recall, I was merely curious to find out how far from downtown this un-downtown-like club was...the answer being not very. However, while browsing this site, I ran across some very interesting information about the "refinement" of this club.

This highly cultivated speakeasy prides itself on its "cocktail chefs" who are experts in the "art of the Cocktail." And the location boasts to being "second to none in Denver for socializing, entertaining, schmoozing, or just watching a game with your close friends." The establishment is, in fact, so "refined" that it features a strict dress code that ensures I will never be allowed to enter unless someone else has dressed me.

Now I know what you're thinking - it's the same thing I was thinking - this sounds like a really classy place. (I mean, if I was going to have another Sweet 16 party, I would totally host it there.) But imagine my surprise when I finally read the most "refining" aspect of this club that has been so well "refined" (I sure seem to be using that word a lot). I offer you the following:

"We cater to couples on Saturday. The mass majority of those couples tend to be Denver swingers or couples that have an open mind and are looking to meet other couples who are at least curious about aspects of the Denver "lifestyle". This does not mean that everyone who attends is looking to have sex with other couples! While most of the couples that attend have had experiences with other couples or single women, many couples just come to enjoy the fun atmosphere we provide and encourage. It's sexy, fun, very classy and tasteful. If you’re curious about the Denver lifestyle or Denver swinger scene, Sugar House is the perfect place to explore those curiosities. Each weekend we see new couples coming in who are merely curious or interested to see what the Denver swinger scene is all about."

Apparently "refined" is a code word for having lots of freaky sex, and apparently the "Denver lifestyle" means having a tasteful threeway...or fourway...which could explain why so many Californians have moved here. (They like the freaky sex... not that there's anything wrong with that...in fact, I hope that when I die, it's while I'm refining my Denver lifestyle - if you know what I mean....I mean that I want to die while I'm having lots of freaky sex...with supermodels...plural).

UPDATE: Just thought of the phrase "tasteful threeway" and couldn't let it go to waste.

Steve Jobs, I want you inside me...meaning I want to channel your presentation skills...what did you think I meant?...pervert

2008-03-01T23:17:00.003-07:00

While I am a professional writer, a wordsmythe if you will, I do on frequent occasion have to host meetings and even give presentations. In fact, most of the writers I work with also find it necessary to present (typically presentations as well), so a colleague forwarded this article around the office. Now, this article (from a professional business magazine no less) could be summarized - "Steve Jobs is the world's bestest presenter ever, and we should all want to really, really be like him a lot because he is so awesome and handsome and smart."

To say, as a coworker of mine did, that this reporter was "gushing" would be a severe understatement. The arterial spray in Kill Bill is "gushing." The oil in There Will Be Blood is "gushing." (Oddly enough the blood in There Will Be Blood only kind of pooled). This article involved a much higher fluid release to time ratio than mere gushing. This was, in my humble opinion, a poorly veiled love letter to Steve Jobs.

Now, as I mentioned earlier, I am a writer, and as a writer, I just happen to know a few editors. And these editors know other editors who happen to know other editors who may or may not have been able to get me an early draft of this article, which now follows:

Deliver a Presentation like Steve Jobs, the man I LOVE with all My Heart

1. Set the tone. Hi Steve, I know that the judge told me to stop calling you and that I'm not allowed to go on your property anymore. But I need to talk to you, so I'm writing you this letter. I know that you didn't mean all of those terrible things that your lawyer made you say about me, and I just want you to know that I'm not upset with you.

2. Demonstrate enthusiasm. I really hope that we can work this out because we would be good together. You know it, and I know it. We would be such a great team! I just care about you so much, and I would never let anyone hurt you or take you away from me!

3. Provide an outline. If you would just meet me like I've been asking, I know that we could make this work. It would just be dinner at the Olive Garden and maybe drinks afterwards. We could do it this Thursday. I know that your daughter's soccer game was cancelled, and your babysitter is free - I checked for you.

4. Make numbers meaningful. I've thought about how much I love you 400 million times since the iPhone was launched. That's 20,000 times a day, on average.

5. Try for an unforgettable moment. Why do you make me like this? Why? All I want to do is love you, and you always push me away. It makes me crazy. You can be a real bitch sometimes.

6. Create visual slides. I'll [censored]* your [censored] [censored] [censored] and then you can [censored] [censored] [censored] all over my [censored]. Then I'll take my finger and [censored] [censored] [censored] [censored] [censored] [censored] [censored] with a crowbar.

7. Give ’em a show. WHORE! YOU WHORE! I WILL KILL YOU, YOU F@CKING WHORE!

8. Don’t sweat the small stuff. I'm sorry, Baby. I'm so sorry, but you make me so crazy sometimes. You know I love you, right? It's ok. It's ok. We'll make it work. You still love me, right?

9. Sell the benefit. We'd be so good together. I'd take care of you. We could grow old together, just the two of us. And if you got sick, I would make you chicken soup and kiss your forehead when you had a fever. Face it, Steve. Nobody knows you like I do, and nobody could ever love you like I do.

10. Rehearse, rehearse, rehearse. I'm guessing that you just haven't got my other letters because the post office is so slow. I bet if you were in charge of them, everything would get done so much faster. Hee-hee. Anyway, I'll just assume that you want to do that Olive Garden thing this Thursday, so I'll pick you up at your place. I know you moved, but don't worry, I have your new address.

With all my love,
Carmine Gallo

*Edited by Venting Plasma

Don't. You'll be de-rezzed.

2008-03-01T22:45:00.005-07:00

There have been some, shall we say "changes," at my employer recently, so I now have a new boss. This new boss happens to have a, shall we say "relationship," with one of my former supervisors...let's call him "Lumbergh." Anyway, after a classy e-mail from my new boss saying that she was pleased to have me on her team, "Lumbergh" chose to respond with this:

"Warning: I never wanted to burden you with my problems, but Josh is actually criminally insane and has had a contract out of my life for years. You can expect similar treatment as his new manager. Fortunately, the contract is placed with a comic book hit man, so until "The Deathhammer" figures out how to make the transition from animation to tangible being, we're both safe."

I felt the need to reply:

"You've apparently never seen Tron...Don't worry, when my alliance with the Master Control Program is finalized, you'll be the first to tremble before the power of digitization."

Needless to say, I'm expecting new "changes" from my boss in the near future.

A Call to Arms

2008-03-01T21:51:00.004-07:00

While I have covered a broad range of subjects with this blog, I have rarely commented upon the political arena. However, I find the need to speak out now. I am not attempting to sway anyone's personal opinion. I believe that one's political beliefs are a matter that should be determined by the individual...that is assuming that the individual is basing their decisions upon the Holy Scriptures and has engaged in the necessary amount of preliminary prayer and fasting...and I'm not talking about that half-day fasting crap that the Muslims do during Ramadan...and by praying I mean to the one true God and not to some false one.

No, my intent is not to persuade, but only to make an observation. As you all may well know, we are in the midst of presidential primaries, so all manner of candidates have been vying for our attention and affection over the past few months. As time has passed, these candidates have dwindled, with John McCain becoming the frontrunner for the Republican nomination and the Democratic nomination narrowing down to Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama.

Now, I may not be a political pundit, but I've been known to watch Fox News and MSNBC (especially when they're running a marathon of "To Catch a Predator" episodes), so I think that I'm fairly savvy when it comes to the political landscape. Imagine my surprise, then, when I stumbled upon an interesting news item that the major news organizations are ignoring.

It all started when a coworker showed me this story. To summarize the article was discussing a new 527 organization that is dedicated to "educat[ing] the American public about what Hillary Clinton is."

Now, I may not be a rocket surgeon, but I did get an A+ in my college Logic class, so let me drop some knowledge on you. Let's first start with the question, "What is Hillary Clinton?" Well, the obvious answer is "a U.S. Senator trying to obtain the presidential nomination for the Democratic party." So essentially this organization was founded to tell people that Hillary Clinton is a U.S. Senator trying to obtain the presidential nomination for the Democratic party. Assuming that this organization was founded to actually serve a purpose, then it stands to reason that there are people out there who do not know that Hillary Clinton is a U.S. Senator trying to obtain the presidential nomination for the Democratic party.

All in all, this does not bode well for Mrs. Clinton. She's been the wife of a U.S. President. She's a high-profile U.S. Senator that isn't from some worthless fly-over state. She has had her name in the running from the beginning, and yet, she still is an unknown.

Now, I'm not saying that I'm endorsing her as a candidate, but this blog will go so far as to say that if Mrs. Clinton is going to get her shot at the White House, her supporters really need to get the word out about what she is. So I would suggest that they consider contributing to this organization...maybe even by one of their t-shirts.

I'm just saying.

Filthy Frolicking

2007-12-10T23:14:00.000-07:00

Keeping with my tradition of punctuated equilibrium when it comes to my postings, I feel the need to offer up an additional choice morsel this evening. While working from home earlier this evening, I had Dirty Dancing playing in the background. Admittedly, I’m behind the curve to offer any commentary regarding this film since it came out when I was not yet shaving; however, I would like to record a few observations I made while watching this film:

Grind dancing has apparently been around since the early 60’s
Being a hussy and getting knocked up are in no way related…in fact, it seems that the bigger hussy you are, the less likely you are to become impregnated
Dancing dirty is bad, but wearing short shorts and tight tank tops is okay
“Nobody puts baby in the corner” – whatever the hell that means
Guys from Ivy League schools are dicks that are exclusively focused on getting into my pants
Chicks dig it when guys lip synch to music
You should wait to go all the way until you find someone that you are “like in love with”
Patrick Swayze is a really good dancer, but Patrick Stewart is better
Erin Grey was much better in Ferris Bueler’s Day Off
The more ethnic you are, the more slutty you are on the dance floor
Two young women dancing together is hot, but two old women dancing together is nauseating
Patrick Swayze really hates shirts and loves tight pants.

You sir, are a doody head.

2007-12-10T22:51:00.000-07:00

Greetings ladies and gentlemen,

That’s right, I’m back.

Now, you may have wondered where I had been for so long – well, to show my support for the Writers Guild, I have been on strike from my blog. Admittedly, I was on strike long before the guild assembled on its picket lines, but that is simply because I wanted to show this strike my full support. I wanted to make it clear that I was so far behind this boycott that I got out in front of it by a factor of months. That’s how behind I am…behind “it,” I mean.

So why have I now broken my silence? One reason – rage. No, not rage at the studios. Not rage at unequal pay scales. Not rage at the corporate fat cats who refuse to let go of a measly few percentage points to the actual creators of the content they profit from. Not rage at the unfairness of the universe.

No. It is at the runners of this Web site that I turn my ire.

According to these geniuses, I apparently write at an elementary school level. AN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL LEVEL? Well, I would like to take a moment to respond: These people are doody heads. That’s right! They are poo-poo faces that are stinky and smelly and are not my friends. They are dog-breathed boogers, and nobody likes them. They just don’t recognize good writing because they have poopy-pants dork brains that can’t comprehend how awesome I am.

Analyze that, jerkfaces.

UPDATE: Apparently the inclusion of this rant and the blog entry above have elevated my status to Junior High.

Doing a nickel out in Broomfield

2007-08-22T10:11:00.000-07:00

Today commemorates my five-year anniversary with my current company. Among the festivities for today I will be treated to a free lunch at Wahoo's Fish Tacos. As further boon, an e-mail proclaiming my longevity was sent out to the entire company, inviting good tidings and well-wishings to clog the arteries of my inbox. Among the exchanges was this gem from a colleague:

"Yay! You finally get your pension!! No need to worry about getting fired now, right?! Congrats!"

My reply:

"Indeed. My non-stop campaign of sexual harassment and racial slurs shall commence shortly."

Finding my motivation

2007-08-20T18:50:00.001-07:00

Since a crucial component of bloggery seems to be informing others of cool things you find on das Interweb, I would like to bring to your attention this site. Here, one may create personalized motivational posters - posters akin to those that one would typically find in an office environment.

While the service encourages you to purchase prints of your genius, much enjoyment may derived from the simple act of creation rather than acquisition. Of course, if I create something of sufficient wit, I will undoubtedly purchase it and probably hang it upon my mantle or barring the lack of a mantle around my neck. But until that happens, I figured I would post my efforts for the enjoyment of all...

I have a feeling that this will not be the last of these...

A Reflection on Terror

2007-08-11T11:06:00.000-07:00

Mayhaps you have heard of the recent hullabaloo, but in case you hadn’t, I shall summarize. Recently, one of the bloggers on the New York Times Web site engaged in a discussion on terrorism – specifically, potential terror attacks. After briefly analyzing the uselessness of the TSA, the author began to speculate on how he would act were he a terrorist, indicating that the government’s current efforts would be unable to stop him or by extension any truly motivated terrorist. The author then invited his readers to add their suggestions at terrorist attacks, stating:

"I’m sure many readers have far better ideas. I would love to hear them. Consider that posting them could be a form of public service: I presume that a lot more folks who oppose and fight terror read this blog than actual terrorists. So by getting these ideas out in the open, it gives terror fighters a chance to consider and plan for these scenarios before they occur."

I have decided to accept this challenge. Over the past few days, I have focused my thoughts upon determining the most terrifying and morale-crippling actions that terrorists could take. In the same spirit as Messieur Levitt, I shall now post them for worldwide comment:

Fire a baby cannon at the White House (Note: a baby cannon operates the same as a normal cannon, only using babies for ammunition)
Found a hippie commune
Sabotage the Hersheys manufacturing facility so that it can only produce white chocolate
Have European women streak a national sporting event (they don’t shave their parts)
Stampede a head of cattle through downtown Detroit
Fire a baby catapult at the White House (Note: like a baby cannon, a baby catapult operates under the same principles as a catapult only using babies for ammunition)
Make alarmist documentary about global warming
Assassinate David Eick and Ronald D. Moore before they can finish Battlestar Galactica
Bring back New Coke
Cripple the U.S. economy by burning every dollar that they earn
Build a fully operational Death Star
Vote for someone in the Green Party
Elect a woman president (Oh no he didn’t)
Build a baby trebauchet (I think you’ve caught on to the principle at this point)
Beat a dead horse
Make out with Natalie Portman (Note: While this may not inspire terror, this item seems to show up on every to do list I make).

Exchanging office e-mail

2007-08-02T15:20:00.000-07:00

E-mail from office receptionist to company:

Refrigerator cleanout tomorrow (Friday) at 2 pm. If you have something that you don't want thrown away, please take it to your desk. I will be throwing everything out.

I subsequently forwarded the e-mail to a coworker (Erik) with the following note:

Could I get your help carrying a bod--er, I mean about 120 lbs of...um...frozen dinners...yeah...down to my car from the freezers tonight?

More than enough to go around

2007-06-18T10:52:00.001-07:00

A short while ago, a colleague of mine started a new blog to discuss articles of interest to Geek culture (e.g., comics, movies, music) and asked me to contribute. After dragging my heels for quite some time, I have finally done so.

Now I know what you're thinking - "Josh, you hardly ever post here. What makes you think that you can start blogging all over the Interweb? You're biting off more than you can chew." First off, let me point out that my bite marks are on record with at least three separate police departments, and all parties involved have agreed that my capacity to cram human tissue between chompers far exceeds that of most men. And let me further assure you that I am more than lazy enough to not post on two blogs simultaneously.

In fact, I make this promise to you, my faithful readers - I refuse to let my not writing for The Mind Blender interfere with my not writing for VentingPlasma.

Crisis averted - now go read my most recent brilliance.

Feel My Sting - A Photo Essay

2007-06-08T22:36:00.000-07:00

To put it simply, the entire experience was thoroughly unpleasant. The apple flavor of the sucker was terrible, and the scorpion itself had an overt chemical taste. Whatever substances they use to treat the insect are what you get to taste when you eat it. I only came close to gagging once, so I'm fairly proud of myself with regards to the overall experience.

The best part, however, had to be the ingredients list - Malitol syrup, scorpion, artificial flavoring and color (yellow 5, blue 1).

Contest Entry

2007-06-02T08:35:00.000-07:00

The School of EVIL

By Joshua A. Young

Peter was in high school and he was at school and knew that something was really wrong but he didn’t know what. And then at lunch he realized that he was the only kid in school. “Where is every body?” He asked the janitor. But he didn’t know. Then he asked Mr. Jake but he told him to shut up and finish his test. He didn’t know any of the answers to the test.

When Peter was in the bathroom he heard a scream and ran out. The principal yelled at him for running he said that someone was screaming and the principal told him that no one was. The principal gave him detention for being out of class but it was the passing period.

Peter knew that it was someone really screaming and began to investigate. He looked in each of the classrooms but they were all empty except for the teachers and desks and chairs. Then he found in one of the classrooms red stuff on the ground. He thought it was blood and smelled it. It was blood! The blood was on the ground in the classroom and in the hallway. He followed it on the ground until he found where it ended. It ended in the kitchen. He didn’t know why there was blood in the kitchen, so he started to investigate the kitchen. There was blood every where. It was on the counters, and the floors, and the ceiling, and everywhere. He wondered where all of the blood came from but he didn’t know. But he was going to find out! He heard a noise and hid in a closet. The cook came in and started cookinig. He picked up some carrots and started cutting them. They were on the counter and had blood all over them. The cook licked of f the blood and cut them. “Mmmm. I like blood but it is better when it is fresh isn’t it Peter.” He said to Peter because he knew that he was in the closet the whole time!

Peter jumped out of the closet and yelled “You won’t get away with this. Killing is against the law and you are going to go to jail now for doin it.” “He he he he he.” The cook laughed in an evil laugh. “You will never live long enough to let the cops know. And I have cut the phone lines.” The cook swung at him with a knife and cut his face. Blood shot out everywhere and he could taste the blood and smell it. It was running down his throat. His face hurt where he was cut really bad.

I grabbed a hammer off of the table and a nail too. “You might have won this fight, but my dad was in the army and taught me hwo to fight.” I said. Then I dropped to the ground and crawled up to him really fast. Then I drove the nail through his foot with the hammer in one strike just like my dad had taught me when he was a green buhray. The blood shot up out of his foot all the way up to the ceiling. He screamed really loud and yelled and his face was all scrunched up like he was in a bunch of pain. He tried to grab at me but he couldn’t move his foot so he was stuck.

And that was when I realized that his blood was wrong color. It was yellow and not red like all of the other blood that was in the kitchen. I said “You’re blood is not the right color. It is yellow. What is wrong with you.” And he laughed again. He said with a look of disgust on his face “What you didn’t know is that Im not really a cook but I am an alien and I am here to eat everyone in your school. I like to eat people because they taste so yummy. Then he took a big bite out of a hand. A HUMAN HAND!!! Blood ran down his face and I puked everywhere and he licked that up and said MMMmmm I like that to.

That was when I got scared because he was an alien and I didn’t know how to kill him because he probably had crazy alien powers. I knew I had to get out of there so I ran out of the school and all the way home. I couldn’t find my parents even thought they didn’t have to work today because it was there day off. I had to think really hard. I was thinking real hard but I had a headache because the cook had cut me in the face and then I knew what I had to do. “Of course I said I will go to the secret science lab that is outside of the town that we live in.” They will stop him

The science lab was really far awy and I knew that it was going to be hard to get there and then a jeep pulled up next to me with a man in an army uniform. It was a army jeep. I said “You almost nocked me off of

(Editor's note: The fourth page of this epic tale has been lost to the sands of time. Mayhaps it was ingested by a canine or supressed by a provision of the Patriot Act. We now resume our tale already in progress.)

not really a alien. He is an android from the future. “How did you know that?” I asked the scientist guy. He said it was because they had caught the cook before and did tests on him and found out that he was a robot. I said “why would you let an evil killer robot cook go so that he could kill people. He killed every one in my school even my friends.” And the scientist guy said “We didn’t know yet.”

That was when the cook busted in the door. He stabbed all of the scientists, but I killed him when I hit himn in the weak spot in his head with a bat like the scientists told me to. I saved everyone int the world but noone ever knew.

THE END.

Word Smythery at its Finest

2007-06-02T08:15:00.000-07:00

Since the company I work for is infested with liberals and hippies, we have a "give back" program in place that is intended to waste company assets and revenue in order to benefit the larger community. Most of this aforementioned program focuses on volunteering at a local middle school that is renowned for offering a substandard education. Luckily, I am able to dodge involvement in these efforts since I have a restraining order in place that bars me from being within 50 yards of any elementary, middle or high school in the State of Colorado - there was an incident of which my lawyer advises me not to speak.

As much as I avoid involvement, the other employees in my department embrace it. It seems like they pounce upon every opportunity they are presented that involves milling about with grubby adolescents. So, when this institute of learning held a short story competition, many of my colleagues volunteered to be judges.

While I did not participate in the actual judging, I was given the opportunity to read many of these stories. They were hypnotic. They were amazing. They were the worst writing ever performed by a human hand (or robot for that matter). Narrators shifted from third person omniscient to first person at the drop of a hat. People were simultaneously drowned while having conversations. Dogs magically appeared to be stabbed in the neck. Entire pages of story were missing. Girls told each other that they had fat asses.

I was enchanted by the very nature of these tales. They were so horrific that I could not turn my eyes away, and as I pawed through page after baffling page, I knew that I had to recreate this phenomenon. The mildly-retarded seventh-grader inside me beckoned me to write a story of equal caliber. It was a challenge I could not resist.

And lo, I organized among my colleagues a short story competition. There were only two rules:
- The story had to be roughly three pages long
- The story had to be written in the style of a poorly educated seventh grader.

My entry will now follow.

Spider-Man 3...more like Spider-Crap 3

2007-05-23T21:38:00.000-07:00

Admittedly, it has been a couple of weeks since I’ve seen Spider-Man 3, but it has taken me a while to digest the film and determine why it was the worst movie in human history. “But, Josh,” you’ll say, “it wasn’t that bad. Sure it was the weakest of the trilogy, but it was still pretty good. The birth of Sandman scene was amazing, and Venom looked truly badass. And you know what, even when the script had some cringe-worthy dialogue, the actors pulled it off. It wasn’t ‘great,’ but it still was ‘good.’”

And my response to you would simply be, “Shut your retarded face before I beat you to death with my red stapler.”

As I was saying, I’ve been considering why the movie was so terrible, and I think that I’ve narrowed it down to a handful of critical flaws:

1. The coincidences. I mean, seriously, we’re to believe that Eddie Brock just so happens to be in the church where Peter is shedding his black costume. How ridiculous. What are the odds of that happening?

And honestly, how plausible was it that he even found the black costume in the first place. A meteor falls out of the sky, and it just so happens to land near him. They should have gone with the original comics storyline.

2. The continuity errors. I think we all remember that Eddie Brock was mentioned in the first movie, but in this one, he says that he was hired last week. Now I know you’re going to point out that they only mention an “Eddie” in the first movie and never say that its Brock, but come on. How many people in New York can be named Eddie and work in the newspaper industry?

3. There wasn’t enough plot in the epic fight scene at the end of the movie. They really should have covered some emotional ground at the same time. Maybe use it to explore what makes Venom tick or show Harry dealing with his father issues. Instead we just get a fight between two spider-themed ubermensches, a dude on a flying snowboard and a sand giant. Whoopedy-fracking-doo.

4. Why did Aunt May have to be all preachy all the time. I mean she was always going on and on about marriage this and revenge that. Old people never talk about those things; they only talk about denture cream and constipation. I’m just saying, why didn’t they make her younger, and hot? They should have got Jessica Biel to play her, and she could have been like a private detective that goes undercover as a lifeguard and helps Spidey save the day.

They should have at least made here more active and less talky.

5. Where the frack was Bruce Campbell’s chainsaw arm? We all know he has one. Why wasn’t he using it?

6. Why the hell did they pick the Sandman? and Venom for that matter? They should have picked a cooler pair of villains, like the Grizzly and the Gibbon. That would have been awesome.

7. And speaking of critical flaws, who really needs intersecting stories about two men being faced with the decision to forgive the person that they each believed had murdered their father/father figure. What kind of plotline is that? They should have based the story on this awesome fanfic that I wrote back in 7th grade. The Grizzly takes over my high school and Spider-Man shows up to stop him. And while they’re fighting each other, he gets the upper hand on Spidey, but I distract him, and Spidey beats him up. And then Spidey and I become best friends and we all eat ice cream and my step-dad stops beating me.

NBC Hates Black People!

2007-04-05T21:26:00.000-07:00

Mayhaps an apology is in order to you all. It has been quite some time since I have dabbled in bloggery, but I assure you that I have not been resting on my supple, curv-ed laurels. I have, in fact, been fighting the good fight on behalf of you all. (And by you all, I mean roughly 13% of you…then again that number should probably be significantly lower with regards to this blog.)

I speak, of course, of the campaign that I have championed for these past few weeks. A cause that had drawn me from many of my responsibilities – blogging, bathing, even surfing for porn. Yes, I have wreaked like a French woman’s armpit for nigh a month now pursuing justice. Pursuing corporate responsibility. Pursuing the cancellation of the Black Donnelys.

The Black Donnelys. Pshaw! (If I could create an appropriate spit noise using only letters, I would insert it here.) Black my eye. If those gentlemen, those Donnely brothers, are supposed to be true representatives of my fellow Americans of African descent, then I am a Mexican-American hermaphroditic sheep-herder from the isle of Elba…I guess that would make me a Mexican-European. (And I’m not, by the way, Mexican-European or a sheep herder.)

(…I’m not a hermaphrodite either, come to think of it…)

Black. They dare call themselves “black.” In a show about four “black” men trying to overcome the odds laid against them by the racist society that dominates this nation, does NBC hire even one “black” actor to play the role? No. They hire four of the palest, thinnest, low-jumpingest crackers they can find. What an insult.

Don’t believe me? Just check out the show’s official Web site. I guess NBC thought that playing rap music in the background would make us overlook the pigmentation deficiency in Messiuers Tucker, Stahl-David, Lush and Guiry.

And, of course, the hits just keep on coming. Are these four “black” men fine, upstanding citizens? Are they businessmen or lawyers? Are they professors of physics? I know, they’re firefighters. Right? Oh wait, I remember now - they’re street thugs…How original. How very original. NBC should get a fracking award for originality.

And if that stereotype weren’t already played to the hilt, NBC is certain to make sure that these thugz fo’ life are capable of only the most subhuman of intelligence. They can barely speak English, and when they do, it comes across as a slurred, barely intelligible dialect. I’m sure that if these characters had descended from somewhere in Western Europe rather than the majestic African plains, they would not have been afflicted with this problem. And really, do they have to refer to each other as “brothas” every five minutes? Hasn’t that stereotype been played out already? Shouldn’t they being saying “nizzle” or dropping the word that must not be named. (You know, the n-bomb.)

Then again, perhaps we should get on our hands and knees and thank our “massah’s” at NBC that they were at least willing to grant them the gift of speech. Some are unwilling to do even that.

I would be lax in my duties not to mention another alarming theme that centers around the series’ main character, Tommy Donnely. When the show starts, this fine “black” lad is enrolled in college, making a better life for himself. Of course the thuggery of his “brothas” soon drags him back into the life of crime that he was trying to slough off. Unfortunately, this education seems to have only made young Tommy a more formidable threat to society at large. They should just save everybody’s time and start every episode with the phrase “An educated ‘black’ man, is a dangerous ‘black’ man.”

I wouldn’t be surprised if that were the next theme used in those crappy “The More You Know” PSAs they’re always doing. Maybe they could get David Duke or Robert Byrd to do it for them…

But I digress. Yes, I have struggled. I have fought the good fight, and as of this week, my struggle is over. Victory is ours my friends. Rejoice. The blindfold has been pulled off our dear Lady Justice, and she is wicked pissed. We the people have once again joined our hands across this great nation to show that we shall rise above it all and have a dream of some kind that I can’t remember the nature of at this exact moment. Ultimately, we have shown Corporate Amerikkka that you cannot screw with the few, the proud, the Nubians.

We Wish You A Happy New Year

2006-12-31T22:01:00.000-07:00

We've reached the end of yet another year, and as is common for the season, we find ourselves reflecting back upon the past...and planning for the future. The odd thing about this particular year is that we find ourselves actually looking forward to the upcoming twelve-month span. What's even stranger is that we are looking forward to some of the changes that the new year will bring.

Now typically, we are downright petrified by change. We tend to acclimate to new things rather slowly and don't like our routines mucked with. We are also overly pessimistic and typically only see the negative aspects of the "new," glamorizing the "old" into something greater than it ever had been.

That being said, we look forward to this new year with warm thoughts...hope if you will. We believe that this upcoming year holds potential. That things will turn out to be greater than we expect. That new opportunities will turn into new pleasures and realms of enjoyment.

And why do we have this hope you might ask? One word: Venom.

This next year, Venom will be transported from the paneled pages of our much beloved sequential art and thrust upon the silver screen. We're talking the real Venom here. Not Mac Gargan (Venom II) - the tripe that we are currently being forced to injest in today's comics. We refer to Eddie Brock. Eddie F@cking Brock*...in celluloid.

'Bout damn time.

*Eddie Brock's middle name is, in fact, not "F@cking" but Allan. By replacing Mr. Brock's middle name with "F@cking" we meant no disrespect - we were merely using the term as an emphatic to express our jubilation.

...Come to think of it, "Allan" does mean "harmony" which could be used to describe f@cking...Okay, maybe not f@cking per se, but the intimate act of coitus. Yes, we ask our readers to replace the above line with Eddie Intimate Act of Coitus Brock. Then all parties should be satisfied...

Force of Will...A Photo Essay

2006-12-22T19:14:00.000-07:00

+

=

What I'm Thankful For

2006-11-23T21:11:00.000-07:00

While there are many things for which I am thankful - family, friends, living in the United States of Freedom - I believe that I am most thankful that hippies are so incompetent. I could almost pity them if it weren't for the bile that rises in my throat every time I hear one of their THC-ladened voices.

A "Global Orgasm for Peace"? Really? That's what you've come up with? Man, that's really going to change things. (And by change things, I mean increase the stock value for the manufacturers of Kleenex and various brands of laundry detergents.)

I just pray that none of these orgasms result in conception...

A recent MySpace comment exchange

2006-11-23T20:52:00.000-07:00

I've been particularly busy (and simultaneously lazy) this past month and really haven't posted anything. To make up for some of this vacuum, I feel the need to share with my readers a brief comment exchange I had via MySpace a couple of weeks back.

Lily - do you think it should have been a rule of wrist?

(Note: This is a reference to one of the opening scenes in Boondock Saints. In this scene one of the leading characters (St. Boon, I believe) is on the receiving end of a diatribe from a rather manly lesbian womyn (i.e. "bull dyke") about the misogynist origins of the phrase "rule of thumb" - those origins being that a man could beat his wife with a stick as long as he used one no thicker than his thumb. The leading character (on second thought, I believe it was St. Dock) comments that one really couldn't do much damage with a stick that thin and proposes that it should have been a "rule of wrist." The womyn does not weather this response well and all manner of violent hilarity ensues.)

(Second Note: This was a rather random comment to have posted on one's MySpace page - a communication style fairly typical of this particular female. Of course, as soon as I point out the randomness of said actions, I am told that I am both "mean" and/or a "jerk.")

Josh - Unfortunately, I may not be the ideal person to ask this question for I do not advocate the beating of women – the shaking and choking of, most certainly. But beating? Heaven forbid!

That being said, I feel that a rule of wrist would be far too arbitrary and difficult to enforce. Are we talking about a beefy, rotund (fat) wrist such as mine, or are we talking about the waifish, track-marked wrist of Keith Richards.

I believe that I would reject any standard based on a measurement of human anatomy...unless, of course, we’re talking baby necks, which I have found by my experiments to be fairly uniform.

Yes, I believe I would support a “rule of baby necks.”

A Vendetta, Held as a Votive, Not in Vain

2006-11-05T11:59:00.000-07:00

As my previous post indicated, today is the fifth of November - Guy Fawkes night. For quite some time, this day had no importance to me; however, in the past handful of years, it has taken on special significance thanks to Alan Moore's work, V for Vendetta. As this day is tied to several key plot points, I feel the need to celebrate it in a fashion befitting the fictional work that has so captured my fascination.

After pondering how to accomplish this feat for some time, I remembered this VG Cats comic strip and inspiration struck. There is a scene in the film adaptation of the work that features a particular alliterative soliloquy that V uses "to suggest the character of [his] dramatis personae." Deciding to follow in these footsteps, I offer similar fair:

J’accuse!

Je suis, a jovial jack-of-no-trades, juxtaposed as both judge and jury by the jugglings of Fate. This jester, no mere jackass of jocularity, is a jetsam of the corpus juris, now jaded, jaundiced. However, this judicious junket of a by-gone jibe, stands at a junction, and has journeyed to jettison these jingoist and jackbooted jackals jockeying jobbery and joisting these jeering jezebels and the jiffy jailing of joy.

The only judgement is justice; a jihad, held as a jingle, not in jest, for the journeying and jonesing of such shall one day jubilate the jurisprudent and the just. Jiminy christmas, this juggernaut of jargon jaunts most jabbersome so let me simply add that I am jolly well pleased to meet you, and you may call me J.

(Author's note: If you hadn't picked up on this yet, my name is Josh)

Sweet jeebus, this was a lot more difficult than I thought it would be, starting out.

Now, I admit that this is nowhere near as eloquent as the original, but I worked with what I had. There aren't as many "j" words as you might think, and they all don't make the same "juh" sound. Also, my hands were a little tied since I was trying to keep to the same structure as the original. Had I been fomenting my own speech about what I stand for (assuming I ever decide to stand for something), then I probably would be able to pull off something a little more classy.

Anyway, here's the text from the original, so you can compare it if you feel so inclined:

Voilà!

In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified, and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin vanguarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition.

The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose so let me simply add that it’s my very good honor to meet you, and you may call me V.

It's Midnight in London

2006-11-04T17:04:00.000-07:00

Remember, remember the fifth of November,

The gunpowder, treason, and plot

I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot

Nerd-off 2006

2006-09-29T23:02:00.000-07:00

Since I am chained to a computer (with Intraweb access) all day for my employment, I find myself rather frequently dallying about various and sundry Web sites, looking for a distraction from my meager existence. A scant number of weeks ago, I found such entertainment in the most recent musical video of one Weird Al Yankovich - a video entitled “White and Nerdy.”

As one who is both “white” and a “nerd” (though I envision myself as more of a “geek” - man I love me some raw chicken heads), I found this latest aural venture rather enjoyable. But after perusing said video a number of times now, I couldn’t help but notice a certain smugness on Mr. Yankovich’s metal enhanced maw. An “I’m better than you” attitude that began to stick in my craw.

After my craw had become infected (and I had to miss three days of work), I decided that it was now time for me to take action. Well, Mr. Yankovich, since no one else has decided to hoist you by your own petard, I will take up the charge. Let us have a nerd-off to see which of us is the whiter and nerdier.

Begin:

Yankovich: “They see me mowing my front lawn”

Josh: I have a natural aversion to sunlight and avoid it at all costs

Advantage: Josh

Yankovich: “First in my class here at MIT”

Josh: Umm…I went to CU Boulder, and wasn’t even in the honors program…but I did learn how inherently evil I am because of my white skin and my penis…though I can’t remember which is more evil anymore…I think it’s the penis

Advantage: Yankovich

Yankovich: “Got skills, I’m a champion at D&D”

Josh: Haven’t really played too much D&D…that’s more my brother’s department. I cover the comic book front…

Advantage: Yankovich

Yankovich: “MC Escher that’s my favorite MC”

Josh: I’d probably go with MC Frontalot - the lyrical mastermind that gestated the “Penny Arcade Theme” and “Rhyme of the Nibelung.” Of course, I’m more of a metal fan.

Advantage: Tie

Yankovich: “All my action figures are cherry”

Josh: a) Action figures are referred to as “mint,” not "cherry"
b) If they are out of their boxes, they are no longer mint
c) I lack the snazzy shelf display of Mr. Yankovich because the vast number of G.I. Joe figures I have wouldn’t have fit onto the same shelf…not to mention my Star Wars figures…or X-Men figures…and don’t even get me started on vehicles…amateur

Advantage: Josh

Yankovich: “Stephen Hawking’s in my library”

Josh: I think I’m pretty much pooched on this one. I mean, I still have my Physics texts, but none of them were written by Hawking. Has anyone heard of Raymond A. Serway? No?…nevermind then.

Advantage: Yankovich

Yankovich: “My MySpace page is totally pimped out”

Josh: Pshaw! You call that pimped out? With a white background? Mine has a painting by Alex Ross of proposed X-Men costumes that he did for Wizard magazine. Beat that…I mean, if I had a MySpace page, that’s what I’d have…but I don’t.

Advantage: Josh?

Yankovich: “Know pi to a thousand places”

Josh: 3.14159265…that’s all I’ve got. I do have a copy of the “Pi” song by Kate Bush…I guess I should listen to that more.

Advantage: Yankovich

Yankovich: “I’m a whiz at Minesweeper”

Josh: Minesweeper? Minesweeper? You’ve got to be kidding me. Okay, this should be an easy one. I’m currently splitting my time between Diablo II and Lego Star Wars II: The Original Trilogy. Sweep this. (Author’s note: I am holding my sac while writing this…never realized how hard it is to type with one hand before.)

Advantage: Josh

Yankovich: “Do vector calculus just for fun”

Josh: My electives in college included three semesters of Calculus along with individual courses in Differential Equations, Euclidean/Hyperbolic Geometry, Linear Algebra, Probability Theory and Abstract Math. I took so many math classes “for fun” that I stumbled into a Minor in Mathematics without even trying.

Advantage: Josh

Yankovich: “Ain’t got a gat, but I’ve got a soldering gun”

Josh: I’ve got neither, though I’d probably get a gun first. But before I do that, I probably should get these random suicidal urges under control.

Advantage: Yankovich

Yankovich: “Happy Days is my favorite theme song”

Josh: I think that indicates that you are a homosexual, not a nerd. I guess I’d go with the theme song to Firefly.

Advantage: Josh

Yankovich: “Sure kick your butt at a game of ping pong”

Josh: I proudly claim that I lack the hand-eye coordination to beat a drunk five-year-old at a game of ping pong…on a similar note, I apparently can’t beat a five year old kid at drinking games either…damn that little girl could slam the Goldschlager.

Advantage: Josh

Yankovich: “Ace any trivia quiz you bring on”

Josh: Hrumph. I see that you were playing the Genus Edition of Trivial Pursuit. I guess you could play that…of course, the last version of Trivial Pursuit I played was the DVD Star Wars Saga edition. And I won.

Advantage: Josh

Yankovich: “Fluent in JavaScript as well as Klingon”

Josh: Jegh…I know a couple of words, but I am by no means fluent in Klingon.

Advantage: Yankovich

Yankovich: Oooh. Look at me. I’m so nerdy, I’m dancing in front of the Schrodinger equation.

Josh: I frickin’ derivated the crap out of that abomination to find its probability density function so that I could use it to determine the location of a single particle in a two-dimensional box. Sweep this. (Author’s note: still holding the sac)

Advantage: Josh

Yankovich: “I’ve been browsing, inspecting X-Men comics, you know I collect them”

Josh: The hell you do! Mother F*cker, that is not the proper way to hold a comic. Bending them? If you’re going to bend a comic after it’s been bagged and boarded, you might as well drop trough and floss your sphincter with it.

For all of you novices (I’m looking in your direction Yankovich), if you bend a comic that has been bagged and boarded, the board bends. And anyone that knows anything knows that if a board bends, it stays bent, which will cause your comic to bend and be permanently disfigured a la Mel Gibson’s face in The Man Without A Face…or his career after dropping a few racial epithets.

Advantage: Josh

Yankovich: “I edit Wikipedia”

Josh: Can’t say I’ve ever done that. I did waste an afternoon reading the flame war over the article on Freemasonry, though.

Advantage: Yankovich

Yankovich: “I memorized Holy Grail really well”

Josh: While I enjoy the film, I can’t say that I’ve memorized it “really well.” I could paraphrase it to the annoyance of everyone around me though.

Advantage: Yankovich

Yankovich: “I got a business doing Web sites”

Josh: Yeah, and my job is professional sex slave for Natalie Portman…and Keira Knightley…and Jeri Ryan.....................sorry, got a little distracted there. What was I talking about?…Oh yeah. Come on Yankovich, we all know that you are a multi-Grammy-award-winning musician. Me? I’m a copywriter, and I spend all day writing boring marketing material about servers and tape libraries and service oriented architectures.

Advantage: Josh

Yankovich: “I got myself a fanny pack”

Josh: Your point. I’m not even going near that.

Advantage: Yankovich

Yankovich: “They were having a sale at The Gap”

Josh: Slow down, cowboy. You shop at The Gap? What kind of a nerd are you? I buy my staples - pants, underwear, socks - at Wal-Mart. Everything that covers my upper half (re: T-Shirt) is purchased where real nerds buy their clothes, online or at a SciFi convention.

Advantage: Josh

Yankovich: Spend my nights with a roll of bubble wrap
Pop! Pop!
Hope no one sees me, getting freaky

Josh: Um, what?

Advantage: ???

Yankovich: “I was in AV Club and Glee Club and even the Chess Team”

Josh: Drama, Basketball, Soccer…yeah, I lost this one. In my defense though, I went to a small, private school (grand total of 12 in my senior class), so they pretty much had to accept anyone that tried out for a sports team…beggars can’t be choosers.

Advantage: Yankovich

Yankovich: “Only question I ever thought was hard was whether I liked Kirk or did I like Picard”

Josh: If you’re a real nerd, you already know the answer to this question “balls to bones.” Of the two, I pick Kirk. (But between you and me, I’d take Capt. Benjamin Sisko for the win every time.)

Advantage: Josh

Yankovich: “Spend every weekend at the Renaissance Fair”

Josh: I went once this last summer.

Advantage: Yankovich

Yankovich: Oooh. Look at me. I’m purchasing the Star Wars Holiday Special.

Josh: Okay, I don’t have a bootleg copy of the Star Wars Holiday Special, but I can tell you that it contains the first public appearance of Boba Fett, the most feared bounty hunter in the galaxy.

Advantage: Yankovich

And the winner is…

ME.

Damn straight. Respect my authority. Don’t want none, won’t be none…I suddenly feel like crying…

Non-Story

2006-09-08T00:38:00.000-07:00

“So, what’s it about?”

Thomas cocked his head slightly, “What’s what about?” He had not been paying attention to the conversation for a couple of minutes now. Instead, he had been focusing all of his attention on the new red-haired waitress. She had her hair in pigtails and wore a tight t-shirt that didn’t quite reached down to her waist, exposing a well-defined midriff along with an eye-catching belly-button ring.

Thomas and his friend Matt, the one that had asked the question, had been coming to the Walnut St. Café for two years now, and every waitress (never a waiter) had come with a short shirt and a pierced belly button. This fact alone was why both Matt and Thomas continued to come to the café long after graduation, when caffeine was no longer required to fill the gap between last night’s party and today’s classes.

Matt sighed, shaking his head in frustration. “Your story.” He paused for a moment, waiting for Thomas’s eyes to shift from the waitress back to him. “The one that you’ve been wasting all of your time on. The one that you were worked on instead of going to Jeff’s party.”

Thomas finished pouring the second creamer into his coffee before replying. “Oh, right. It’s, uh…well, it’s...” Thomas cooled his drink by blowing on it while he tried to find the words.

Glancing one last time at the redhead, he answered, “Well, it’s not exactly what you would call a story. I mean, it is a story – characters, fiction, dialogue – all that. What I mean to say is that it’s not what you’d call a story.” He placed the emphasis on the word “you,” dragging out the word to drive his point home.

The Walnut St. Café was one of those cozy, hole-in-the-wall establishments that were better known for ambience than flavor. From the halogen lamps to the used books lining the walls to the ceramic kittens arranged on the mantel over the faux fireplace – every detail was meticulously planned to make the patrons feel like they were in someone’s home.

The walls were a faded beige, artificially scuffed and marred to exaggerate their age. Old, worn couches were littered about, carefully placed to maximize conversation. It was, in fact, on one of these couches – a blue and green striped one – that Thomas and Matt held their conversation.

Finding the words, Thomas finally answered, “Not a lot happens in it really, it’s just about two guys sitting around talking. Kind of like we’re doing now.”

Matt let this sink in for a moment. “So it’s about a couple of guys sitting around a coffee shop? That sounds boring.”

Thomas shook his head. “No. They’re not at a coffee shop. They’re at a bus stop.”

“Still sounds pretty stupid.” It was now Matt’s turn to blow on his coffee. After taking a sip, he added, “I thought you wrote sci-fi stuff, anyway.”

“Well, it’s at a bus stop in the future.” Ignoring the scowl this answer brought to his friend, Thomas continued, “They’re talking about bus schedules.”

Matt set his coffee down. “You’re kidding, right?” Thomas’s sheepish grin was a clear enough answer. “You’re not kidding…Holy crap, dude. That just sounds god-awful. Why would you think that anyone wants to read that? Nobody wants to read about two guys talking about bus schedules in the future.”

“Well,” Thomas answered defensively, “they’re actually talking about literature.”

“What?”

“Yeah, the bus schedules are a metaphor for literary conventions.” Thomas took another sip, letting the fact sink in. “It’s really self-reflective about the nature of writing and the role the speaker plays in the voice and tone of –“

Matt cut him off before he could finish. “You’ve already lost me. I’m not even reading it, and you’ve already lost me. Nobody in human history has ever wanted to sit down and waste their time, reading about two guys sitting around a coffee shop—”

“Bus station.”

“—bus station, talking about literature.”

“Hey guys. Can I get either of you anything?” It was the red-haired waitress that Thomas had been ogling earlier.

“N-no. We’re good.” As always, Thomas’s stutter acted up when speaking to women. Matt let himself smile at his friend’s discomfort.

“Okay, then. Well, let me know if you change your mind.”

She began to walk off when Matt stopped her. “Actually, there is something you could help us with.”

“Yes?”

“Well, my friend and I were having a discussion, and we were hoping an outside opinion would prove useful.”

The waitress wore a coy smile. Even though she was new, she was already used to being hit on by customers. “Sure. What do you want to know?”

Cocking his head slightly and in the most serious tone he could muster, Matt asked, “Do you find bus schedules interesting?”

“That’s your question?”

“Yeah.”

She allowed herself a slight laugh before responding. “No. I don’t find bus schedules interesting.”

Matt nodded his head briefly in agreement. “Fair enough.” He continued with the serious tone he had used earlier. “Now, what if I told you that the bus schedules are a metaphor for literature? Would you have the same answer?”

The waitress’s confusion was obvious on her face. “Um. I’d still say that they weren’t interesting.”

Matt smiled “Thanks.” He turned back to face Thomas.

“That’s it?” the waitress asked.

“Yeah. Thanks again.” As she walked away he smiled at Thomas. “ See, I told you.”

Thomas had been much less entertained by the exchange. Staring Matt straight in the eye he said, “You’re a dick.”

“What?”

“You didn’t have to embarrass me in front of her.” Thomas’s face was a slightly flushed, showing how upset he was.

“Dude, she didn’t even notice you. If anything, she thinks I’m the weird one.”

“Whatever.” Thomas shifted his focus to stirring his coffee.

Matt allowed his friend a couple of minutes to calm down. When he was sure that the storm was over, he continued, “Is the bus at least cool?”

“Huh?” Thomas pried his gaze back from another waitress, a brunette this time.

“The future-bus, does it come flying in? Or is it driven by a robot or something?”

Thomas’s sheepish grin returned, “Well, it’s not that kind of future. It takes place three months in the future.”

“What?”

Thomas nodded to make it clear that he was serious. “Yeah, that’s one of the things I was playing with. See, the story is about you in the future.” He pointed at Matt when he said “you.”

“The story is about me?”

Thomas corrected him. “Not you, you. The reader, you. Every reader. It’s about everybody. Anyway, I wrote the story in the future, but at a defined point in the future so everything is in the future imperfect tense. In other words, every time I use a verb I –”

Matt raised his hands, stopping him. “Dude. Stop. No. You’re done. You’re done. I am not going to hear anything more about your stupid future but not future story of two guys sitting at a bus station.”

Before Thomas could respond, Matt continued. “It’s a story. In the future. If you do a story in the future, you either have robots, lasers, or space travel,” he said, counting off the options on his fingers. “I don’t even like this crap, and I know that. You write a future story about technology going crazy or the perfect society going down the toilet or something like that. Sci-fi is all about picking a trend that’s going on today and then running that concept into the ground. You don’t write a story about bus schedules.”

Thomas’s annoyance was starting to show, his words biting as he answered. “I told you when we started this conversation that it wasn’t what you would consider a story.” Again he dragged out the word “you.” Crossing his arms, he continued “I didn’t write it for you, anyway. I wrote it to make money.”

Matt’s voice raised in pitch as he asked “How are you going to make money off of a stupid-ass story like the one you just described?”

“Well, I was going to try to sell it to one of those literary journals. They eat this crap up,” he explained. “They’re all about self-reflective writing, and if you sprinkle in a few college lit words – intertextual, juxtapose, interlocutor – they’ll be throwing money at you.”

Matt’s tone showed that he was quickly losing interest in the conversation. “Whatever, man. It’s still a crappy story.”

After sitting in silence for a few seconds, he added. “You know what you should do? You should apologize to your readers at the end. You should make a new character that represents the reader.” He pointed to a man sitting at a table nearby. “Like that guy.” Matt’s finger ticked slightly to the right as he added “or her.”

The man was rather ordinary in appearance. He was of average height and average weight, wearing common clothes that one would find anywhere. His skin was a light tan that made it difficult to tell his race. His hair was in a popular style, and the color seemed to shift depending on how the light hit it. The woman that Matt had indicated was seated next to him, and oddly enough, matched the same description.

“You should have one of your cyborg bus passengers from three weeks in the future, turn to the reader character,” Matt turned his body away from Thomas to the couple now collectively designated as “the reader”, making it difficult to tell which of the two he was addressing, “and your character should say something to the reader, like, ‘I’m sorry. I have no business writing. I am not the least bit entertaining. I lack both talent and skill, and I sincerely apologize for the verbal suckage that I have just forced upon you.’”

Matt turned back to face Thomas. “Or something like that.”

Thomas sat still for a moment, his eyes focusing on the almost empty cup of coffee in front of him. With a sigh that conceded defeat he murmured, “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out some change, and dropped it on the table. Standing up from his chair, he paused, his eyes again resting on the last few sips of coffee in his cup.

“On second thought,” he said as he scooped up the change, dumped it back into his pocket, and downed the last of his coffee, “screw ‘em. Screw ‘em all.”

Thomas then walked out of the café with his middle finger extended, passing by Matt, the red-haired waitress, and the average couple – the readers.

Jesus???...really???

2006-08-28T23:36:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago my church held a faith conference to…to…OK, I’m not entirely sure what the goal was, but it did involve several well-known speakers, and they talked about, oddly enough, faith. Now, to anyone that has ever attended one of these charismatic love-fests, they would note that emotionalism is a key element to the success of these outings. Also, to anyone that has ever interacted with me, they would note that emotionalism is not something that I am prone to and, in fact, heavily dislike.

That being said, throughout the conference, I was open to the messages shared and listened for a “special” word from God, one that was just for me. However, as is common, I was not affected on the same emotional level as everyone else and found myself expecting more.

With the conference over, the guest “men of God” gone and my hopes crushed, I resigned myself to tarry on, plugging away at my dead-end life and my dead-end job. One day while toiling away at my desk, writing copy and leading the crap out of some technical content, I was (as C.S. Lewis might put it) surprised by joy. As I scanned through my inbox I was greeted with this image:

From: Jesus
Subject: really

Imagine my excitement at receiving an e-mail from the Word Become Flesh. With baited breath, I opened the message to be greeted with the following text:

Dwight just told me that you no doubt became aware about the knowledge on feeling like you did in college,

Just though you might want to know plan, that has been consulting me feel better about myself.

Armando and me have been on this new program

http://www.icpe.cognizancelosed.com/ly/

that has been guiding me with that.

salon end of the sandstone cliffs
roll background were countless flaming eyes.
Thailand yet bunk beds I may

First, I would like to thank you, Dwight, whomever you are, for speaking to Jesus about me. I don’t remember you from college, but I was so hopped on queludes for those four years that I really don’t remember much of it…except that one night with the pony and the trebuchet, but my lawyer says that the statute of limitations hasn’t expired yet, so I probably shouldn’t say anything more about it…Anyway, as the Lord’s message indicates, I have been feeling much like I did in college – burned out, hapless, lonely, depressed and wanting more out of life.

Now, I’m not entirely sure who Armando is (perhaps some unknown saint, maybe an archangel), but if the Son of God says that he’s hooked on a new program from some random Web site, sign me up.

After visiting the site, I was admittedly confused why the Savior of Mankind is so interested in HGH treatments from the Total Health & Rejuvenation Center. However, as an Xian (it’s like a Christian, but more hard core) my stated goal is to be a follower of X. So if X is interested in the activities of the Total Health & Rejuvenation Center, that means that I too am “interested” in the activities of said organization…and by “interested” I mean “I’ll be dropping HGH like my pants at the proctologist.” (NOTE: The previous statement was meant as an analogy. The author of this blog has never allowed anyone to place their finger in or anywhere near his exit clause…except for that night with the pony and the trebuchet…damn queludes.)

…With regards to the last three lines of our Lord’s message, I figured that Jesus was just throwing those in there to get past my spam filters, which are fairly aggressive…and come to think of it, run by a daemon...and if twelve years at a religious indoctrination center (private school) have taught me anything, it's that anything remotely resembling the word "demon" has to be inherently evil.

Of course! How could I have been so blind? All of this time wasted, waiting for a divine connection when the answer has been staring me in the face all along. The Lord has been trying to communicate with me, but the foul network administrators that have surrounded me are doing everything possible to stop that from happening. Obviously this foul class of ne’er-do-wells are in league with the prince of lies and seek to undermine my faith. Well have no doubt that this travesty will not go unanswered.

IT support staff be warned – I’m coming for you. Pray to your fallen lord now, for my wrath shall be swift and unending. (And by “swift” and “unending,” I mean that I am going to taser you in your junk…and by “junk” I mean “testacles.”)

The Mind-Blast for +4 Damage

2006-06-23T12:32:00.000-07:00

Among my many responsibilities at work, I would strongly argue that my weekly educational/messaging training session - the Mind-Blast for +4 Damage - is not only my favorite but that of my coworkers as well.

Why?...Let's just say that I bring a unique approach to training...and pretty much anything else work related...including meetings. I am well known for showing Strongbad Emails and AskaNinja videos at the beginning of Mind-Blasts to make up for the boring suckage of exposition that I am about to bludgeon my coworkers with. Today, however, I decided that merely watching a video would not be enough. Nay! We would create one. (Technically, my thought processes didn't really follow that route, but I'm afraid that the human language lacks the complexity to express anything approaching my mental patterns outside of the phrase "No impulse control.")

I share with you now the majesty that is the Mind-Blast for +4 Damage. Today, we learn about some of the common branding mistakes that the team has made. We learn a little about ourselves. We learn a little about the world around us. And we learn the answer to the question that has plagued mankind for millennia - namely, what is the result of this equation:

3 Liters of Diet Coke
+ 5 Rolls of Mentos
+ 3 Sheets of Printer Paper
+ 3 Business Cards
???

Now don't you wish you worked with me?

Video courtesy of Erik (Ulric) Taylor.

Life Imitating Art - Mark II

2006-06-22T21:35:00.000-07:00

It's an odd thing when the absurdity of life strikes you square in the nuts...a second time.

Today at work, I was greeted with this alarming news. Apparently, there is a group known as the Rainbow Family (some 20,000 strong) that is planning an unarmed invasion of Colorado for some Hippie love-fest. Immediately upon hearing this news, I began flashing back to the Die Hippie, Die episode of South Park.

To summarize this episode for my readers - South Park is targeted for a Hippie Music Festival that threatens to overwhelm the tiny mountain town, drowning the citizens in a sea of drum circles, body odor and patchouli. The survival of South Park, and the human race itself depends on the efforts one lone hero - Eric Cartman. Answering (and accepting the charges for) the call of heroism, young Master Cartman forges a Hippie Drill capable of burrowing to the center of the unwashed horde where he harnesses the awesome power of Death Metal to drive back the hippie onslaught that assaults his home.

Now in addition to being "pleasantly plump," I have found that I have several things in common with Master Cartman. I am frequently placed in situations where I need to demand that others "Respect my authority!" I too hate Kyle. And I once made a kid eat his parents...probably shouldn't say any more about that until the statute of limitations runs out...Of course, I believe the tie that binds young Eric and I tightest is our mutual hatred of hippies. Indeed, one of my most prized t-shirts is one boasting the image of Cartman, proclaiming "Screw You, Hippie!"

...Perhaps our greatest variance, however, is my lack of anti-Semitism, my a-anti-Semitism, if you will. I am pretty much the opposite of an anti-Semite. My favorite author (and personal hero), Peter David, is a Jew. The last girl I asked out (bringing the grand total to four) was part Jewish (a demi-Jew if you will). Heck, my boss is a Jewish Carpenter. (Note: This is a metaphor. My boss is actually a Caucasian Program Director.) But I Digress...

I guess you could kind of describe me as an older, bespectacled, pro-Semite Eric Cartman.

That fact having been established, I now find that the honor and responsibility to save the great state of Colorado of these most blessed United States of America from the cancerous growth that...grows within...now falls upon my shoulders. Borrowing from the fictional world that seems to be currently dominating our reality, I have chosen to follow the same path as brave Master Cartman...Behold...

Plan A:

The much beloved Hippie Drill. Guzzling down at least two gallons of gas for every mile, this is, perhaps, the least economically feasible of my plans.

Of course, I realize that things don't always work out as well in real life as on TV, so I have also devised a...

Plan B:

The Idaho Integrated Breaching Shotgun. Imagine a crack squad of patriots, lockstep in a "Flying V" formation (like in the Might Ducks) barreling down on the Hippie hordes with these babies. We'd make it to the center in no time.

While scientists have yet to prove that Hippies are, in fact, still human (I personally contend that they are golems, having lost their souls and merely existing as empty, instinct-driven husks), I realize that some may be squeamish with the previous two options. Therefore, I offer my ultimate solution...

Plan C:

You've heard the old adage, "Fight fire with fire"? Well I'm keeping the "with fire" part and exchanging the first "fire" for "Hippies"...and I'm adding "Panda" in there somewhere.

You wanted something to keep the blood off your hands? I'm giving it to you.

The Snowman: A Haiku

2006-06-20T20:52:00.000-07:00

As part of the communication training I received today, we were also instructed to write a description of a snowman. The intent was to demonstrate the variance between the communication styles of the different personality profiles - one the feeling group wrote a creative story about the snowman hitting on a snowwoman; one of the sensing group wrote a piece lamenting the loss of summer to the freezing onslaught of winter; one of the analytical group wrote a description of a snowman, including size, shape, component structure; etc.

However, after I had read my piece to the group, the instructor told me that my particular description was unclassifiable.

With no further ado, I give you...

The Snowman: A Haiku

Run and hide, children
Evil Snowman can't be stopped
Get a flamethrower!

Do not taunt the Josh

2006-06-20T19:39:00.000-07:00

I have been fairly busy at work for quite some time now and unable to tap away at the old keyboard (professionally or recreationally) as much as I would like. That being said, this week I was luckily able (forced) to attend a company-wide communication workshop that was intended to aid me in not being offensive and being more tolerant of the communication styles of others. As preparation for the event, I (as well as everyone else) was given one of those self-evaluation (pick the one that most describes you) tests.

Over the years, I've taken a number of these tests and have learned to be disappointed with the results. Typically, these things end up classifying you in one of four categories (or if you're lucky, one of eight) that, at least for me, feel that they may describe part of my personality but fail to capture the full glory that is I. In direct contradiction of the immortal words of Tyler Durden, I do believe that I am a unique snowflake and therefore difficult to define.

Imagine my surprise this morning when I was greeted with a 20-page personality analysis that actually did a decent job of portraying the complexities and conflicting impulses that define me. Apparently the Jungian psychological voodoo that they performed on my responses actually worked.

Of course, as I mentioned earlier, the intent of this test was to aid me in my communication efforts, and, in turn, aid others as they communicate with me. Rather than engaging in any type of self-reflection that may lead to increased enlightenment, I prefer to take my more comfortable position of belligerent jackass and instead offer you all some of the more useful tips to employ when you communicate with me.

Strategies for communicating with Joshua:

Be consistent.

Gently remind him of the human dimension.

Respect his knowledge (of the job).

Allow time for him to think of the consequences.

Remember to thank him for his time.

Of course, the tips of what to do pale in comparison to the tips of what not to do...

When communicating with Joshua, DO NOT:

Interrupt him when he is in control.

Stand or sit too close to him.

Touch his body or belongings.

Make direct eye contact or any sudden movements.

Okay, maybe I wrote in that last one, but it seemed to be keeping with the theme. And actually, I couldn't pass up this little tidbit either. It's listed under my "blind spots," meaning that it is an aspect of my psyche that I may not be aware of...

He may rely on personal forcefulness and, if necessary, intimidation to achieve his aims. He tends to be seen by others as dictatorial and can be aggressive in arguing his position.

After a sound beating about the head and shoulders with a coffee carafe, the workshop leader agreed to take back that last part...but perhaps I've said too much.

Dreaming a new reality

2006-05-17T20:42:00.000-07:00

I always find myself amused and entertained by the complex, cinematic nature of my dreams. Being a full-fledged media junky, I guess I shouldn't be surprised that my dreams frequently feature high-speed chases, over-the-top fight scenes and a lot of gunplay.

Last night I dreamed that I was battling a zombie horde in the deserted streets of the inner city. While this is in no way an original storyline, it is odd that I dreamed about that last night, since I haven't read/played/watched anything with zombies for quite some time now.

After becoming quite adept at holding back the unrelenting army of the breathing-challenged, I was pulled through a dimensional portal into an alternate universe. I quickly learned that I had been pulled through this rift to help this new world stand against their own zombie problem.

My immediate thought (both in the dream and in waking when recalling the dream) was - If you possess the technology capable of bridging the gap between dimensions, why the hell do you need my help for a simple zombie problem?

Wii are not amused

2006-04-29T13:00:00.000-07:00

Admittedly, I have never been on the cutting edge of the gaming industry - traditionally waiting a couple of years to purchase the newest system when prices have dropped. However, in the past few years, I have attained a level of financial comfortable that allows me to splurge on occasion. With the newest iteration of "next-gen" consoles, I had intended to do just that. While the Playstation 3 had been the focus of my lustful desires, I had also planned on acquiring an Xbox 360 and quite possibly the innovative gaming platform that Nintendo had been working on. A platform with the codename: Revolution. A placeholder name that they repeatedly indicated was not permanent.

I can understand that Nintendo was a bit reluctant to cling this particular name, since it was lagging behind the other new consoles in terms of performance levels and graphical capabilities. Perhaps it didn't feel that it was really doing anything "revolutionary." Then again, when considering their unique controller-design and virtual console (through which users could purchase and play a variety of legacy gaming platforms from the original NES to the Sega Genesis and even the TurboGrafx 16) one could argue that the "Revolution" moniker was well-deserved.

Whatever their reason for desiring a name change, I find it hard to justify their newest decision. The Wii (pronounced "wee"). My first thought was that this was some kind of April Fool's stunt, even though it was 26 days to late. An actual visit to the official website, though, proved my darkest fears.

Now, I'm no advertising guru. I don't even have a marketing degree (it's actually a Literature degree with minor in Mathematics). But I have worked in the marketing industry for almost four years now, and one thing I've learned - keep it simple. This is a lesson that my own company could learn. Case in point, our company logo.

After working at my employer for almost a year, I was at a dinner party where a client asked me what our company logo was supposed to be. I had to tell her that I had no idea. Neither did anyone on my team. It was only after this client had stumbled around the party (I should probably mention she was pretty hammered) for twenty or so minutes that she came back up to me to tell me what it was. Even then, a simple description still didn't bring it in to clarity; she had to physically point out to me (as someone had done for her) the exact nature of the logo before my brain could translate it from a mess of dots and squiggles into a recognizable image. In the intervening years, I have done the same for coworkers and clients - none of whom have ever been able to figure out what our logo is independently.

I'm certain that back when our firm was founded, someone said, "Hey this is trendy. We should do this. It's full of subtext and meaning." I have no doubt that someone at Nintendo said the same thing about Wii. In fact, that's exactly what they said.

"Introducing ... Wii. As in "we." While the code-name "Revolution" expressed our direction, Wii represents the answer. Wii will break down that wall that separates video game players from everybody else. Wii will put people more in touch with their games ... and each other. But you're probably asking: What does the name mean?"

"Wii sounds like 'we,' which emphasizes this console is for everyone. Wii can easily be remembered by people around the world, no matter what language they speak. No confusion. No need to abbreviate. Just Wii."

"Wii has a distinctive "ii" spelling that symbolizes both the unique controllers and the image of people gathering to play. And Wii, as a name and a console, brings something revolutionary to the world of video games that sets it apart from the crowd."

"So that's Wii. But now Nintendo needs you. Because, it's really not about you or me. It's about Wii. And together, Wii will change everything."

When a metaphor is simple (pen= sword, dove = peace, snake = guile) it works. When a metaphor is more complex (white dress = 19th century abolitionist movement in Greyhaven, Massachusetts just east of Westchester) it has to struggle to be effective. If you're reading a novel, watching a movie/play or even listening to a song on the radio, the author has a greater opportunity to help you understand and perceive the message they are communicating - assuming they are trying to send a message.

In marketing/advertising though, you've got one, brief moment to interest your potential customer. You need something that's short, sweet and to the point. If you have to explain what the hell your product name/brand/logo means, you're already fighting a losing battle.

Essentially, Nintendo has chosen to use a textual abstract painting to name its new gaming platform - the same stroke of genius that led Prince to change his name to a symbol. I mean "The Artist Formerly Known as Prince."

Really? He's going by Prince again, huh?

...Go figure.

Josh = Jerk

2006-04-05T19:11:00.000-07:00

Josh Is a Jerk

(A play in two parts)

Cast of Characters

Josh: Me
Rob: Sports-obsessed Irishman
Amie: Short, spite-filled...that's about it
Kyle: Tree-hugging, crunchy-granola-eating hippie

Male Desk Attendant
Female Desk Attendant #1
Female Desk Attendant #2

Scene I

Setting - Night time, almost midnight. A hotel lobby, boasting a checkin counter and a television with women's college basketball.

Josh: Hey Rob, what room is Kyle in?

(Rob continues to stare at the television)

Rob! What room is Kyle in?

Rob: Um...I think it's 212.

Josh: Cool.

Amie: Why do you need to know what room Kyle is in?

Josh: Just watch. (Walks over to the checkin counter)

Hi, I'm Kyle Perkins - in Room 212. I was wondering if I could get a wakeup call for 3:45?

Male Desk Attendant: Oh, I don't think I can do that.

Josh: You don't think you can do that?

Male Desk Attendant: No. That's a bit much. I don't think I could do that to somebody.

Female Desk Attendant #1:You could always set your alarm clock.

Josh: Um...Is there a way I can get the alarm clock to go off at two different times?

Male Desk Attendant: Oh, uh, I don't think so.

Female Desk Attendant #1: You could set it, and then we could call you after 15 minutes to make sure that you got up.

Josh: Okay. I think that would work. So there's no way to get the alarm clock to go off twice? 'Cause that would honestly work best.

Male Desk Attendant: I just don't know. Uhhh...

Female Desk Attendant #1: Hold on. (Pulls out a sheet of paper)

So what time do you want us to call you?

Josh: Could you call at 3:45?

Female Desk Attendant #2: Why don't we call at 3:00, then you wouldn't get any sleep.

Josh: Hah! Tell me about it.

Female Desk Attendant #1: Okay...3:45. What other time do you need us to call?

Josh: Oh, I can just set my alarm for the other one. The one call should be fine. Thanks.

Female Desk Attendant #1: Have a good night sir.

Josh: I will.

(Fadeout)

Scene II

Rob: So, do you think Kyle enjoyed his wake up call?

Josh: I don't know. I thought that he was going to call me...or show up at my room and take a swing at me.

Rob: I'm surprised that we all didn't get calls... (Kyle walks up behind him)

...at 3:46, 3:47 and 3:48... (Sees Kyle)

...Uh, ccompletely forget what I was just saying.

Josh: Hey, Kyle, you're looking a little rough

Kyle: (Grunts)

Josh: So you got a pretty good night's sleep?

Kyle: No. These idiots screwed up my wakeup call.

Josh: Really?

Kyle: Yeah, I told them to call me at 6:45 and they called me at 3:45.

Josh: Snap!

Kyle: My phone was ringing, and when I answered it, they said - "This is your 3:45 wakeup call." And I was like, "Um, I asked for a 6:45 wakeup call, not 3:45."

"Oh, sorry, sir."

Josh: Man, that sucks. I can't believe that they screwed it up that badly. You should have words with somebody about that.

2006 Annual Objectives

2006-03-31T22:52:00.000-07:00

As Q1/2006 draws to a close, it is time at my employer to draft new objectives for the coming year. It is by these goals that my occupational efforts will be measured, my worth determined. Bearing in mind that I consider my job to be a minimal portion of my life (while absorbing a bulk of my time), I decided that I would also draft a list of objectives for the oncoming year that relate to my personal development. And so I give you now, my personal objectives for 2006:

- Don't die
- Stop being such a jerk
- Buy a house (and by "house" I mean "townhome"...and by "buy," I mean "burn to the ground")
- Resume my diet
- Stop listening to my teeth...especially when they make sense
- Grow another mohawk
- Do a better job of staying in touch with out-of-state family and friends
- Stop threatening coworkers with physical violence...non-physical violence still ok
- Write something substantive...or at least come up with a really good excuse why I haven't
- Memorize some Shakespeare
- Trick beautiful woman into falling in love with me by quoting aforementioned Shakespearen passages
- Save up money to buy a mail-order bride if Operation Bard Maiden fails (and by "buy," I mean "burn to the ground"...probably crossed a line with that one)
- Undo the mistakes of the previous year.

Saturday - March 18, 2006

2006-03-28T20:03:00.000-07:00

Sullivans
8:00-9:30PM
Feasting like kings at Sullivans steak house. There was steak. There were mushrooms. There were onion rings you could fit a man's hand through. There was creamed corn and au gratin potatoes and grog and targ.

Morning Wood
9:40PM
We only caught the tail-end of this show, but to say that it was suggestive would be an understatement. It was very suggestive...and those suggestions were mostly about procreative activities (e.g. sex).

The Stills
10:00PM
These guys were pretty good, and once again, Buzz took advantage of his press pass to get behind the crowd barrier and get some close up shots. My friends were all gaga about these guys, but standing in that front row, all I could think was that they really needed a hot chick beating on a drum and a crazy Ukrainian singer.

The Longcut
11:00PM
We only caught a part of this show because the previous venue we were at was nowhere near this one. That being said, these guys were good. Unfortunately, after a very long week, I was pretty worn out and rather than watching the show I snagged a table on the top level of the venue and only listened to them. Again, I liked what I heard, but I just couldn't get that into them.

Nine Black Alps
12:00AM
The only band that I heard their entire set and yet never physically saw the band (I was still on that top level sitting under an air conditioning duct watching my friends Ian and DeLynn play table football). Since these guys really sucked, I didn't feel like I missed anything.

The Charlatans
1:00AM
Finally, the reason we walked all of the way over here in the first place - the Charlatans. The lead singer had done something to his voice between the Fader party and that night because you could tell he was struggling, but he was a trooper and did a really good show. Unfortunately, a gangly British man kept hitting me with his murse as he jostled about next to me...any reports you heard about a man strangled to death by a handbag in the Austin area were purely coincidental, and the above statement in no way reflects a motive or admission of guilt in any way...under the advice of my counsel, I will now invoke my fifth amendment right.

Friday - March 17, 2006

2006-03-28T19:51:00.000-07:00

I foolishly thought that I would be allowed to sleep in late after my big night...I was wrong. I was bundled up, dragged to lunch and then dragged downtown for some unofficial non-SXSW sanctioned entertainment. I believe the venue was somewhere in the third circle of Hell.

Spank Rock
3:00PM
Based on their name, I thought that these guys would possibly rock, or at least make an attempt to do so. It was only after their set began that I realized this dynamic crap duo's name was meant to imply a punishment for Rock and anyone who enjoys it. Admittedly, I am not a big crap fan, but there are some crap artists that I like. However, regarding these men, I would aid, abet, and accesorize after the fact any who sought to do them harm.

The Shrieking Harpy Needs to Shut Her Pie Hole and Get Off of the Stage
3:45PM
I'm not entirely sure that this was what that band was called. But if it wasn't, it should have been.

Art Brut
4:15PM
When will the hurting stop?

RJD2
4:45PM
Another DJ and the reason I had been dragged to this hellish sideshow. I had hoped that he would be cool since his name was so close to R2-D2. Maybe this DJ would incorporate some Star Wars sound effects into his turntablism. He did not. However, he did not cause intense jolts of pain and waves of nausea, so he had that going for him.

The Boiling Pot (The Fader Party)
6:30PM - 8:30PM
At this point in the day, my friends began plotting and scheming regarding how they were going to get into another unofficial non-SXSW sanctioned event - the Fader Party. This was a private show, boasting the Charlatans, Twilight Singers and Dirty Pretty Things that was invitation only. Since we did not have an invitation, we attempted to build a trebauche that would launch us into the venue. This plan did not work. We then a tried a rooftop to rooftop pole vaulting method. This too met with failure. Finally, we struck upon genius (technically, I struck upon genius, but later in the evening everyone else claimed that they were the one to have the genius idea, but it was I. Not them). Across a large, poorly-lit drainage ditch / creek (which I affectionately referred to as the "Raping/Killing Place") from the venue was a restaurant called the Boiling Pot. But this was not just any restaurant. This was a restaurant with a balcony - from which one could hear (and to a limited extent) watch the Fader party. I was distracted throughout most of the show by the dead aquatic lifeforms that were spread all over our table, so I really can't comment too much on the performances, but since I was sitting down and stuffing my face throughout the performance, this was one of the more enjoyable shows.

Scissors for Lefty
9:00PM
These guys were pretty good, but given as I am to fixate on various external stimuli, I was only able to pay partial attention to them. I had stationed myself against the wall at the top of the first set of stairs of this tri-leveled venue. I was not blocking the stairs, but instead was a couple paces back so that people could easily get past me. After a couple of songs, a freakishly tall obliviot decided that he was going to go stand right in front of the stairs, blocking both my view and anyone attempting to go up or down the stairs. After having several people run into him, he realized his mistake and moved away...for all of three minutes. He was then back with a vengeance, white-boy shuffling like a madman. He was soon joined by a rather tall woman who seemed to think that the blocking the stairs (and my view) thing was the best thing since the fall of Communism and took up a flanking position next to her man. Of course, anyone who subsequently tried to go up or down the stairs would instead hug the wall to get around these two and run into me. I have to admit, I was never more tempted to knock anyone down a flight of stairs in my life.

Standing in line to get into the Blender Bar for the Editors show at 11:00PM
9:40PM
Since it was St. Patrick's day and everything was crazy, we thought it might be a good idea to get into the venue early.

Standing in line to get into the Blender Bar for the Editors show at 11:00PM
9:50PM
Yep. There sure are a lot of people here.

Standing in line to get into the Blender Bar for the Editors show at 11:00PM
10:05PM
I sure am glad that we're finally moving. It looks like we've made it about halfway in the time we've been standing here. We'll probably get in just in time. But maybe we should send someone over to Stubb's to see if there's a line there. It wouldn't hurt to have a backup show.

Standing in line to get into the Blender Bar for the Editors show at 11:00PM
10:20PM
So the Stubb's line is all the way around the block? Crap. Well it looks like we're making some progress. I think we'll just make it.

Standing in line to get into the Blender Bar for the Editors show at 11:00PM
10:35PM
I sure do love standing in line.

Standing in line to get into the Blender Bar for the Editors show at 11:00PM
10:45PM
"Folks. The Blender Bar is now badges only. If you've got a wristband, you're not getting in." ...We had wristbands.

Frustrated, tired and with more than one member of our troupe nursing an illness, we decide to throw in the towel and call it a night.

Thursday - March 16, 2006

2006-03-28T19:32:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, this was the best day of the trip, which is kind of a bad thing when you're on day two of a four day music festival...

Mike Relm
8:00 PM
This was a turntablist (DJ) from San Francisco. (I released a derisive guffaw when I first heard the "turntablist" term, but apparently that kind of response is looked down upon in certain circles. Mainly in circles that use the term "turntablist.") Now, typically, I could care less about DJ's, but as I watched this guy's show, I realized that if you incorporate movie or TV footage into something, I'll find it entertaining. This guy had a DVD scratcher that let him manipulate the on-screen video along with the audio. For his mixing purposes, he incorporated scenes from two of my favorite movies - Fight Club and Office Space - along with various other films. Buzz took this picture (http://www.flickr.com/photos/ldandersen/113670438/in/photostream/) when good ol' Mike was mixing a Bjork video. Notice how much nicer Buzz's pictures are.

Point of interest: This show was at the Blender bar, which apparently caters to an extremely tall clientele. While using the bathroom, I was barely able to get the corresponding bit of my anatomy to a level that would allow me to use the facility in an appropriate manner. If I were a few inches shorter (like Buzz...he may be able to take nicer pictures, but I'm taller), I would have had to have been on my tiptoes.

Magnet
9:00 PM
This was a one man show, and this guy had talent. He just sat in a chair surrounded by an electric guitar, banjo (also electric), a sitar (also, also electric) and a bunch of pedals and made it sound like he had an entire band accompanying him. It was impressive. He'd pick up an instrument, play it for a song, put it down, pick up the next instrument and start playing it.

Flogging Molly
10:15 PM
A few of my friends had recommended these guys, and I was not disappointed. They were kind of like a Celtic Gogol Bordello (if you don't know who that is, just keep reading), at least, that's what I thought when I saw them. So, if Gogol Bordello = gypsy punk, then Flogging Molly = potato eating, alcoholic (Irish) punk.

The Living End
11:30 PM
I had never heard of these guys, but by a little ingenuity and hard work, I made it right up to the front stage for their show. While Flogging Molly had seen fit to incorporate a fiddle into their act, these guys went for a full-blown cello - a cello, I should point out, that the cellist saw fit to mount several times during the show (see image below).

(Note: The actual instrument may not have been a cello, but I am not an expert in classical instruments.)

I think I should also point out that these guys started out in full suits and jackets. After the first couple of songs, they had peeled off the jackets. By the end of their set, they had sweated through their white shirts so thoroughly that it looked like we were watching a wet-tshirt contest...with very ugly women...very ugly.

Gogol Bordello
12:45 AM
These people are the Platonic ideal of live music. I may not have been to as many live shows as some people, but I defy you to find a band that can put on a show like these guys. As a brief recap, I was first exposed to Gogol Bordello last year at SXSW, and I have been in awe ever since. The band is a mixture of old-world gypsy music (a la accordion and fiddle) and new world punk. They are expert showmen, and every time I have seen them, they have had the crowd simultaneously whipped into a frenzy and eating out of their hand. (I may point out that having a frenzied anything, crowd or otherwise, eat out of your hand is a rather dangerous task and should not be tried without the proper adult supervision.)

In addition to those on instruments, there are two attractive female percussionists that perform acrobatics, dance, provide backup singing and beat the crap out of various and assundry items, ranging from a red fire pail to cymbals to the big drum that you see below.

As you can tell from the closeness of this picture, I was still right up on the stage for this band. In fact, I was so close I could taste their sweat...because they kept leaning out over the crowd and various body fluids fell upon us. (The less said about that, the better.) Unwanted fluid exchanges aside, I was well pleased with my location for the show. You see, I had precisely and specifically calculated my locale to make the most out of this show. As you all may know, during their finale, the above percussionist will throw said drum out onto the crowd, climb up on it and drum surf while continuing to beat the living crap out of the drum.

Now witness my moment of glory!!! - The image below, while rough, reveals (from bottom to top) my arm, leading up to the bottom of the huge drum, leading up to the well-toned posterior of the hot female percussionist who was riding the drum.

That's right. This year, I was under the drum. I snapped several pictures during this period; unfortunately, you are looking at the clearest one...Anyway, after the band had been going for a little while, the lead singer also dove out into the crowd and then climbed up on the drum to join the percussionist. Now, I couldn't exactly see everything that was going on up there, but I can tell you that one of them was jumping up and down, and eventually, the lead singer ended up swinging from the rafters of the venue. All in all, this was an amazing show, and I doubt I will ever have a live music experience that could top it. By the end of the night I was soaked with sweat, hopped up on adrenaline and sore as a linebacker.

A Brief Photo-Essay Interlude

2006-03-25T09:45:00.000-07:00

(The first image was taken by Buzz Andersen, photographer extraordinaire. The second image was stolen from www.tylersaustin.com. The final image is the only one that I actually have any rights to...because I took it.)

Wednesday - March 15, 2006

2006-03-25T09:14:00.000-07:00

We now magically jump ahead to the Austin phase of the trip since I doubt anyone wants to hear the boring details of family barbecues and the like. If you want to see some quality photos of the SXSW music festival, I would recommend going to my friend Buzz's Flickr page here - http://www.flickr.com/photos/ldandersen/sets/72057594087071768/

If you would like to see complete and utter crap photos, just keep reading this weblog...

5:00 PM
Arrived in Austin (after a being delayed in the Phoenix Sky Harbor airport for an hour and a half because of a snow storm in Salt Lake City...) and was immediately off to listen to the muzak.

Envelopes
8:00 PM
This band was, perhaps, the wisest choice to begin the grand music festival - the consistent level of suckage that these guys maintained ensured that it all had to be uphill from there. Simply put, the noises that were being emitted from their instruments could barely be called music. I mean, I don't know if guitars can actually vomit, but if they can, that's the sound that they'd make.

We Start Fires
8:30 PM
Technically, I had heard a couple of this band's songs during a sound check before seeing the Envelopes. The group was composed of a trio of pyromaniacal British hotties (and some drummer guy). What more can you ask for out of a band? Well, that and being able to rock out, which they did. In fact, this was the only new band I heard that I found myself singing one of their songs on and off throughout the trip.

As a side note, while watching this band, a young lady from the Miller Lite alcoholic beverage street marketing team asked me to wear a bottle cap pin that had a little red flashing light on it. Loathe as I am to turn down a request from a pretty lady, particularly one in the marketing industry, I consented. Apparently, in addition to having the potential of causing an epileptic fit in certain people, the bottle cap pin also emits a high pitched squeal that causes every balding male over 6ft that happens to have a camera on them to stand immediately in front of it. Literally moments after the pin was on me, five tall, folically-challenged photographers were standing within five feet of me, taking pictures of the band. I am presently determining how to use this little gem for maximum entertainment - I'm thinking that it will either involve the light rail or a high school archery practice.

The Czars
10:00 PM
If the actual Russian czars were as terrible as this Denver band, I can kind of understand why the Russian people were so quick to embrace Communism.

The Flaming Lips
11:00 PM
This was a "Special Guest" that wasn't officially on the SXSW band list, but if you knew someone in the "know," then you had heard about it. Luckily, my friend Buzz was one of those in the "know." As their set began, I thought that I would merely be summarizing this entry with three simple words - Bohemian Rhapsody cover.

However, I quickly realized that such a brief commentary would do short shrift to the event. You see, these gentlemen are the Carrot Tops of the music scene. (By using the term "Carrot Top," I don't mean that they had bright red hair and suck beyond human comprehension. I mean that they have an obsession with props, an obsession to the point of excess beyond the Romans before the fall of Pompey.) Amidst singing about little "silhouettos" and pulling "triggers," the band released a flurry of ginormous (sic) balloons that were freakish in size...you know, like Abe Lincoln or Andre the Giant. Add to this a green-fog emitting megaphone, spray-painted Hulk hands and a barnyard animal sound board that was wired...for sound. It was a good show; however, they chose to end it with a horrible Black Sabbath cover that could have only been more awful if they had brought in the real Carrot Top to sing it.

Oh yeah, and a guy somehow talked the band into letting him on stage so that he could propose to his girlfriend.

Also, the aforementioned Buzz (he's getting mentioned a lot here) used the press pass he had scored to get up onto the actual stage and take pictures - http://www.flickr.com/photos/ldandersen/113247285/in/photostream/

Of Montreal
12:00 AM
The only reason we saw these guys was because we were waiting to see the Trail of Dead. All I really have to say is that they are a band called "Of Montreal," and they are from Atlanta, GA. Brain surgeons, they are not.

They do love their bass though. During their set, I could feel various portions of my anatomy resonating with the driving tones of their music. My pants would also routinely vibrate when the band really got going. Apparently their music operates at the appropriate frequency to excite the outermost electrons of denimium particles (the primary element used in the smelting of jeans) to the next shell level.

Standing around waiting for - And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead
1:00 AM
The house music is excruciating...am considering hanging myself with my Boba Fett hoodie to stop the pain.

Still standing around waiting for - And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead
1:15 AM
They've started the sound check. It's bound to start soon.

Still, still standing around waiting for - And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead
1:25 AM
Man. With such an extended sound check, these guys must really be concerned about making sure that everything sounds great.

And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead
1:35 AM
Or not...Now perhaps I was expecting a little too much out of these guys. Over the past several years, I have heard several people comment on how entertaining they had been live and about their tendency to break equipment on stage. And, admittedly, they were down a keyboardist for the show, but man did they really work hard at sucking. Not only were they playing off time and key, but the lead singer was flat for almost every song.

The one highlight was the drummer. I have seen some people go to town on drums before, but you don't hit a drum as hard as this guy unless you have an agenda. I don't know if one touched him inappropriately at camp one summer or if one killed his family, but you really have to have something against drums to beat one like this guy did.

Friday - March 10, 2006

2006-03-23T22:29:00.000-07:00

After a two hour plane trip and subsequent three hour car ride (technically it was a car drive, since I did all of the driving), I found myself on exotic Lake Havasu - the location of many an MTV Spring Break broadcast and local college hotspot. At a balmy 55 degrees, there wasn't a whole lot of action down on the beach, but I didn't let that stop me. I had fun anyway...

In the far distance, you can barely make out the volleyball net. With no one else on the beach, I was forced to play with myself...wait a minute...that didn't come out right...

Moving on...

After a fun-filled day of not wakeboarding, not swimming and not looking at hot lifeguards running in slow motion, I turned my attention to the local night life. After a brief search I soon found that one of the local watering holes was featuring a krump-dancing competition.

Unfortunately, I do not think the locals know what a krump is or what it looks like when dancing. And since I do not either, I was unable to explain it to them. Needless to say, I still think they were doing it wrong.

Of course, no trip to Arizona would be complete without participating in the official state pastime - Indian Casino Gambling. I managed to lose over US$30 dollars in a Star Wars themed video slot machine. Now, as a master of The Force (TM) , the only way I could lose at such a game was if it had been rigged.

After the infernal device had stolen all of my money, I attempted to use my Jedi powers to retrieve the unfairly lost currency. When that didn't work, I tried reaching my arm up in to the coin release, but the man in the black uniform informed me that I was not allowed to do this. Recognizing this vile fiend as a Sith Lord apprentice, if not the Sith Lord himself, I decided discretion was the better part of valor and followed his advice to "back away from the machine, you freaking whack-job." I then tried to use the subtle, yet powerful Jedi mind trick on the people in the cash room to try to get my money back, but all I got was tasered in the process.

George Lucas will be receiving a scathing e-mail from me in the near future.

Spring Break 2006

2006-03-23T22:23:00.000-07:00

Ladies and Gentlemen,

It is now time to share in the mad-cap antics that were my spring break adventure. The first half of my adventure was spent in Phoenix visiting my Dad, and the second half was spent in Austin with my friends for the South by Southwest (SXSW) music festival. The trip lasted from March 10 - 20, 2006.

I hope you enjoy the following musings...

Spider-Man Menace!!!

2006-02-22T21:12:00.000-07:00

Ridiculous. Insane. Inconceivable. These were the words that leapt into my mind when I learned of that piece of red-and-blue-adorned filth entering the ranks of our nation's foremost champions - the Avengers. As the news came over the wire, I found myself running my fingers through the remainder of my hair, in shock over the ridiculousness of the situation.

For years, the Avengers had represented not only what was best of the American people but of humanity as well. They had been the beacon of hope in our darkest hour. They had been our saviors in times of need. They had championed right and truth when we had forgotten what those words meant.

They had done all this without demand, merely acting out of the goodness of their hearts. But, to their credit and to their detriment, these hearts were only human. While we eternally strive for perfection, as humans we always fall short of that goal. And when the great fall, it is a terrible, terrible thing.

By now, I'm sure that you have all heard about the recent events in California. Once again that wall-crawling menace has shown his true colors. For years, I have decried the villain that is Spider-Man for his crimes against this city and against this nation. He has mocked the decency of mankind, undermining the efforts of true heroes. He has been connected with more crimes (many of them murders) than any known felon. And now, even the common man is not safe from his unique brand of evil.

There are many that would claim this man to be a hero - to be worthy of the mantle of Avenger. They say that the good he has accomplished far outweighs any legal improprieties on his part. They mention various occasions where he has appeared to fight on the side of the angels. And if he looks like an angel, he must be one. If the Fantastic Four are willing to battle alongside him, if the Avengers welcome him with open arms, he really couldn't be that bad.

These people are wrong.

The naivete of these men and women is almost as great a threat as this webbed vigilante. By burying our head in the sand, hiding ourselves from the truth, we only invite our own end. This act of thievery, while petty in nature, only demonstrates the pathology that I have pointed to for many years. As I have said on numerous occasions, Spider-Man is a menace. This most recent event is only further proof. A final nail in an already welded-shut coffin.

Willing to give them the benefit of the doubt for past indiscretions, I have to believe that the Avengers originally invited this criminal into their midst in an attempt to rehabilitate him. It is obvious by today's news that these efforts have failed.

As of press time today, the Avengers have yet to formally respond. They have taken no visible action against a known criminal that hides from justice within their very midst. As I stated earlier, the Avengers had been the ideal of humanity. The question I ask today is - What are they now? How far have they fallen? Do they no longer stand for justice? Do they no longer stand for truth?

They say that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, and today that road leads by Avengers Tower. God help us all if they fail in their next decision.

An open letter to Gogol Bordello, the Gypsy-punk band with a heart of gold

2006-01-30T19:41:00.000-07:00

Mr. Bordello:

Dearest sir, I fully understand if this correspondence finds itself promptly shuffled off to the refuse bin as soon as you read the post-script; however, I ask for your patience and but a moment of your time. I realize that you are a man of action and that you have little time for pompous blowhards such as myself, so I shall endeavor to be as brief as possible for your particular benefit. In so doing, I hope that you will, in turn, display some of the magnanimosity...er...magnanimousness for which you are so well known.

I will take the vague stare and tapping foot that you are presently displaying as an assent to continue. Yes?

Gogol -- may I call you Gogol?...Of course not, how presumptuous of me -- Mr. Bordello, while I lack any official capacity or legal office myself, I would, as an ersatz, self-appointed ambassador of good-will for the burgeoning metropolis of Denver (excluding the People's Republic of Boulder, of course), like to extend my deepest apologies to you regarding your most recent visit to our fair city. Your performance was, as always, exemplary and a tribute to your craft. (As a bit of an aside, I even found myself "white-boy shuffling" a tad during your bit. Oh it's true! I even did the little clap thing over the head that you were encouraging from the stage.) As I was saying, your show was superb, and I wish to apologize regarding the abominable treatment that you received throughout the evening after offering our dear town such a sweet, melodic gift.

First, it was quite dreadful that you were, as they say in the business, the "opening act." When considering the level of talent shown by your successors on stage, I'm surprised there wasn't a riot of some sort. (God only knows that if this were a more civilized town like L.A., that would have been the appropriate response.) Instead, we merely stood there and swallowed the melodic tripe dished out by those under-aged, identically-genomed, Canadians. (Bah. The mere mention of the word floods bile to my mouth...Canada. Ptui.) These talentless hacks should never have been placed on the stage after your performance, mayhaps at all (although, their bon mot about jacuzzis and crack was rather delightful).

As if that weren't bad enough, the representative from the local radio station 93.3 referred to your masterful note-smything as some "f"ed up "s." (I won't use the exact words that he did, just in case you missed the full venom of his verbal barrage.) I believe that we would all agree that that particular description should be reserved for more appropriate occasions such as Bjork videos and David Lynch films. To apply that phrase to your work is an insult that should not have been permitted, but alas, it was.

Of course, the conduct of the crowd was no better. As anyone with any education beyond that of third grade will tell you, proper concert etiquette dictates that when one throws one's panties on the stage, one should a) not throw them in the middle of a line and b) not throw them directly into the face of the singer. Unfortunately, the afore-mentioned Canadian jailbait seemed to draw a particularly callow and witless crowd, composed predominately by even more jailbait, who knew no better. That would also explain the crowd's inability to support the weight of anyone attempting to crowd surf...well, that and the candy-ass hippie insurgents from Boulder. Everyone knows hippies lack upper-body strength.

Be that as it may, kind sir, you received shabby treatment from this city, and I cannot allow that to go unnoticed. I would once again like to extend my hardiest apologies and ask that you not hold that against us when planning your future tour dates. It would be a shame if these few misunderstandings resulted in a loss that would be tragic for both parties. Know this. When next you return, we will treat you better, or heads will roll.

With Warmest Affection,
J. Young

My name is Josh, and I'm a procastaholic

2006-01-11T21:55:00.000-07:00

This past week has led me to realize that I am addicted to procrastination. Once again, I have dragged my feet to the point that the knocking of opportunity has slipped through my fingers - not once, but twice.

For the past year, I have repeatedly stated that I was going to move out of my apartment and actually purchase a home of my own. Tonight, I find myself on the eve of resigning my lease for another year. Reluctant to enter into debt in the six figures, I kept putting off talking to realtors and mortgage brokers, and with a lease that expires in a matter of weeks, I'm out of options.

As if this weren't upsetting enough, I find that another of my plans has recently fallen apart. I was at work this morning, and I came across this unsettling news. It never fails. Just as I'm about to put the moves on a girl, BAM!, the U.S. federal government has to step in and screw everything up. I mean, what is America coming to, when a man has to compromise his right to privacy before he can go about purchasing a bride for himself. As a staunch federalist, I cannot morally engage in actions that would undermine my Constitutional rights, even if said undermining actions would lead to the purchasing of connubial bliss at a fair market price.

Again, for the past year, I have repeatedly stated that I was going to stop futilely asking women out and actually purchase a wife of my own. Tonight, I find myself resigning to search for a potential mate for another year. Reluctant to enter into debt in the four figures, I kept putting off talking to Russians and marriage brokers, and with this Orwellian law taking effect a week ago, I'm out of options.

Dark Holy Day

2005-12-25T09:58:00.000-07:00

The Day of The Rending had come. There had been rumors of its approach, but they had never known how close that foul holy day was until it was upon them. The signs were now unmistakable. All of His people, known amongst themselves as “the Purchased,” had been gathered together. The ceremonial food offerings had been placed above the fire pit the night before, and subsequently consumed (as all things were) by the Devourers. Yes, the Devourers’ excitement had been growing in the past handful of days. Even now the smallest and frailest of their kind pawed at his people, lifting them from the ground and throttling them, but leaving them intact. The hour of death was not yet at hand.

All of the Purchased had known that this time would come; they had always known. The knowledge of their deaths had been born with them. Yet they had no idea from where they had come, merely that they were. Their lives but a dismal existence, awaiting their final doom—the Day of Rending.

In the quiet of the night He had prayed that this time would be different. He prayed that, unlike the previous generations of Purchased, His people would be saved. He knew not to whom He prayed, only to what. He prayed to the Source, to whatever power that created Him and His people. Only the Source would be powerful enough to destroy the Devourers and liberate His people. As of yet, no divinity had intervened, but He would not give up hope. Hope was all his people had ever possessed, and He would be damned if He would let the Devourers take that from them as well.

With thoughts of hope in His mind He felt His Beloved near him. She was glorious. The light bent around her and pierced all who looked upon her. She was always at his side; even now, though He knew the fear that filled her - the fear that filled all of them - she comforted Him as only she could. She had never cowered before the Devourers; she had never let them see her fear. That above all else was why He had named her his Beloved. Indeed, she had bourn a name before, a name branded upon her by the Devourers, a name that they together had rejected.

They had all donned new names in defiance of the Devourers. Resting next to Beloved was Elder, oldest and wisest of the Purchased. Flanking him were his three Guards. Identical in form and disposition, they had pledged their lives to the protection of Elder. On His other side stood Forgotten. Forgotten had given himself that ridiculous name in the hope that it would give him the power to survive the Rending. Damn fool. If he were to have faith in anything, it should be in their Source. Crouching in the shadows near Forgotten, or at least as well as his size would allow him, was Runt. Because of his overwhelming fear of the Devourers’ wrath, he alone had refused to give himself a new name. Instead he had been named Runt, not from the perspective of size (of which he was the largest) but from the perspective of heart.

He, like Runt, had refused a new name, but not out of fear. He had taken the slave name that the Devourers have given Him and claimed it as His own. Not because that was what they had branded him, but because of His hope. His hope that His name would be all that was left of the Devourers’ legacy. His hope that He would soon brand the Devourers with the same name with which they had branded Him. His hope that as the Devourers had muttered His name in anticipation, they would soon scream it in terror. His name—

“Tojon,” one of the smaller Devourers chortled His name with an air that made Tojon nervous. Saliva dripped from its fangs as its hand slowly approached Him. Tojon steeled himself for the inevitable crushing and tearing that was descending upon Him, but by the grace of the Source, one of the larger Devourers halted the small one’s progress, scolding it for its impatience.

Tojon enjoyed his momentary reprieve, for that was all it was. He stayed close to Beloved, His near-death experience unnerving her more than He would have liked. They exchanged no words, for their thoughts lay open to one another. They held close together in their blessed union. It was then that the crying began. Shrieks filled the air. The ground shook. The smallest of the Devourers advanced. His prayers had failed. The Rending had begun.

The Guards were already at work. Sacrificing themselves for Elder, they had already been overpowered and were being ripped limb from limb by the smallest of the Devourers. As they had promised, their lives were sacrificed for Elder, but they were sacrificed in vain. As the frailer Devourers tore the lives from their bodies, the largest of their kind made straight for Elder. It howled a sickening laugh as it tore a throbbing red mass from Elder’s frame. As Elder began to collapse from the shock, the creature’s cackle only increased, and it began to tear into his soon to be empty husk.

Beloved was still standing next to Tojon. She would not back down, even though her people were being torn through like tissue paper. She was unafraid.

A sudden noise to his right made Tojon turn his attention elsewhere as Runt was hefted high into the air and thrown across the room to the awaiting arms of yet another Devourer. Tojon did not know how many Devourers there were; they seemed to be everywhere.

Beloved stirred next to Him. They drew strength from their love and steeled themselves against the coming throng. Tojon encouraged her to place her hope in the Source—all else leads to folly.

His attention was brought back to Runt as he heard a cry. Apparently the coward had grown a spine. The Devourer that held him had been the one to cry out, a trickle of crimson flowing from its hand. Tojon would have smiled if he could have, but the horrific sight that followed would have quickly removed that smile. Tojon was mortified to see the beast place its appendage in its mouth and gorge itself on its own lifeblood. The Devourers had been aptly named, for even their own forms were not safe from their unyielding appetites.

After the creature had drunk itself dry, it greedily tore into Runt. The viciousness of the attack was almost too horrific to witness, but Tojon kept His watch. He watched, and He burned every moment of suffering into His consciousness. He seared their deaths upon His soul. He channeled their pain into His fury, and as He watched Runt die, Tojon felt something within Him snap. An unknown power was unlocked within Him; it coursed through Him. Tojon felt a strength growing in Him that He had never felt before—a force of unspeakable proportions, a power that could defeat, no, would defeat the Devourers. The Source. It must be. It had to be. There was no other possible explanation. His prayers had been answered; His people would be free.

It was in that moment of triumph, in that moment of power, that Tojon once again caught glimpse of His Beloved, at least what was left of her. She had been utterly destroyed. Her death must have been horrific, and her suffering had not yet ended. A small portion of her flesh flapped in the air as it stubbornly clung to her now lifeless body. The rest of her skin had been littered about the floor almost absent-mindedly. With that sight Tojon was broken. All hope that was within Him died; He no longer desired to continue living. The power that had so completely filled Him mere moments ago was nowhere to be found. In its absence a new hope arose, a hope that His end would come soon.

As Tojon had called for the Source to save Him, He now called for Death to embrace Him. Unlike the Source, Death was more than willing to accommodate. As Tojon still reeled from His Beloved’s death, a Devourers’ hand reached down and plucked Him from amongst the remains of His people. It lifted his lifeless husk and began its work. In mere moments the last of the Purchased, Tojon Frommom, was no more.

His Devourer chuckled with impish glee, a smile playing across its smacking lips, and as it reared itself upon its hind legs, it bellowed, "Thank you, Mom. I love it. Merry Christmas."

Life Imitating Art

2005-12-24T20:53:00.000-07:00

I've just returned from a Christmas party...the only Christmas party I was actually invited to this year. While there, I had an "interesting" conversation regarding movies, a conversation that brought on a strong sense of deja vu. In particular, some of the people at the party were talking about going to see the new King Kong movie on Tuesday. Having seen the film, I offered a few tidbits regarding the nature of the work, particularly its length. More specifically, I stated that:

a) It was over 3 hours long.
b) It could have been made shorter.
c) Kong does not appear until 1 hr and 9 mins into the movie. (I timed it with my watch.)
d) They make it back to New York in 2hrs and 17 mins into the movie, leaving him roughly 45 mins to wreak havoc on New York.

After making these comments ("d" in particular), I was informed by one of the other guests that I shouldn't be talking so much about the film, since he hadn't seen it yet. Immediately, I had a flashback to a Penny Arcade strip that I had read a short ways back.

Now, I like to believe that I am fairly sensitive to spoiler information. Ever since I had a coworker ruin the surprise twist of Fight Club, I've tried to monitor how much I reveal about a movie, particularly if I don't know whether or not the person I am talking to has seen it. But as Gabe so eloquently points out in the strip, there are limits in place.

It's King Kong. They're not really treading any new ground with this one. And even then, knowing that Kong trashes New York is in no way going to ruin the film for you. You should be able to put that much together from just watching the preview.

To continue on Gabe's mean-spirited spoilering of The Passion, I seek to ruin additional films for the denizens of the Intraweb. WARNING: There be spoilers below:

Batman Begins - Bruce Wayne is Batman.

Debbie Does Dallas - Couples have actual sex on film.

Ernest Saves Christmas - Ernest does, in fact, save Christmas.

E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial - E.T. manages to phone home.

Fried Green Tomatoes - Pre-ripened tomatoes are placed in fat and heated.

Hamlet - Everybody dies. Everybody, that is, except Horatio...and Fortinbras.

JFK - President Kennedy is assassinated.

Mickey's Christmas Carol - Ebenezer Scrooge reforms and comes to embrace the true meaning of Christmas, which has absolutely nothing to do with the baby Jesus and everything to do with product placement of Disney cartoon properties.

The Muppets Take Manhattan - After a pitched battle with the Lords of Hell street gang, the Muppets succeed in conquering the island of Manhattan and instituting a benevolent dictatorship under the reign of Professor Milton Honeydew.

Planet of the Apes - Charleton Heston (or Mark Wahlberg in the later version) is an astronaut that lands on a planet that is dominated and controlled by apes.

Psycho - Norman Bates is the killer, dressing up in his mother's clothing and slaughtering young women.

Raiders of the Lost Ark - Indiana Jones raids archaeological sites, searching for the Ark of the Covenant that was lost centuries ago.

Star Wars - Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker's father, Anakin Skywalker. (If you did not already know this, you are either a Communist or the Anti-Christ. Either way, destroy yourself now for the benefit of humanity.)

The Ten Commandments - Moses leads his people in a grand exodus out of Egypt.

The Titanic - Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslett's characters fall in love.

To Kill A Mockingbird - The title is actually a metaphor and no mockingbirds are killed in the film.

Tora! Tora! Tora! - The Japanese successfully bomb Pearl Harbor.

Transformers: The Movie - Hot Rod, not Ultra Magnus, unlocks the power of the Matrix and becomes Rodimus Prime, the new leader of the Autobots.

The Wizard of Oz - Dorothy and Toto leave Kansas...and the Wicked Witch of the West attempts to "get" both of them.

A Dish Served Cold - Pt 2 of 2

2005-12-24T08:24:00.000-07:00

What—what have you done to me?”

For the first time in the conversation, Worf allowed a true smile to cross his lips. Looking down at the bit of metal in his hands, he inquired, “Do you like my cane? A friend of mine made it for me.” Worf paused a moment in thought, “Well, to be honest, he only made the top of it. And he did not necessarily make it for me. He made it for you.”

Armus pulsed slightly, a ripple running across the surface of the oily channel. “For – for me? I do not understand.”

Worf continued, “You do remember the android from your last set of visitors, don’t you?”

“The Tin Man?”

“Yes, the Tin Man,” answered Worf. “If you remember, you sought to manipulate him, to play on his emotions by forcing him to hold a phaser to the head of his captain. You asked him how he would feel, knowing he was the responsible for the death of his captain.”

“I remember.”

“When I first reviewed the logs of that meeting, I admit I found the irony rather amusing. You see, Data (that was his name by the way) lacked any emotions at the time – he would not have been able to feel anything.”

“At the time?” asked Armus.

“Yes. As time passed, Data was reunited with his creator who fashioned an emotion chip for him. This chip allowed Data to experience a whole wealth of human emotions – fear, love, sorrow,” Worf again smiled, “and hate.”

Worf continued, “Tasha, Lt. Yar, was very special to him. You might almost call her his first love, and when he thought of what you did to her, he felt an uncontrollable rage rise through his circuits. For a time, he became obsessed with you, studying everything we recorded of you and this planet, seeking to find out as much about you as possible.

“His goal, of course, was to find a means to destroy you. And he did. You see it here before you.” Worf tapped his finger against the shining, metal cylinder at the top of his cane. “I do not pretend to understand it. From what I could decipher from his notes, it emits a radiation that breaks down your cellular structure on a molecular level.

“But he chose never to use it. He believed that isolating you on this planet was a far worse punishment.”

Armus, its voice barely distinguishable, allowed itself a brief chuckle. The humanoid form it assumed was growing thinner and thinner as fluid oozed down back into the channel, “Really, and why is that?”

“He felt that you were primarily motivated by a deep loneliness and hurt. That you lashed out because of your abandonment, and that continuing to isolate you would be sufficient torment.” Worf cocked his head slightly to one side, “I happen to disagree.”

Armus managed an unintelligible gurgle as his form began to sink into the oily channel.

“I believe,” continued Worf, “that you were not motivated by pain, but by rage. Rage at the Titans. You used to be a part of them. You were their every dark impulse. Their obsession. Their rage. Their madness. You were everything that they hated about themselves, and they found a way to purge themselves of you. A way to slough you off like old, dead skin.”

The humanoid form that had been the mouthpiece of Armus was no longer visible, and the channel of sludge was beginning to dry up and mix with the sand of the desert.

“And with that, your precious ego was shattered, and you were forced to realize that you are not as great as you think you are. In fact, you aren’t even necessary. Once they were rid of you, they continued to thrive even more. They were free, liberated. They achieved things that you could only imagine, and you hated them for it.

Worf wedged the can deep into the ground next to the pool of filth that had been Armus. “You hated them so much, that the very mention of them distracted you to the point that you didn’t notice you were dying until it was too late. Your stupidity is almost enough to evoke a sense of pity in me. But my mercy died along with my honor long ago. All I have left is my hate and my revenge. On this planet, you took Tasha from me, and now your life is forfeit.”

Worf tapped the comm badge on his chest, “Ambassador Worf to the Kho’voth.”

The badge emitted a slight chirp followed by the deep tone of Lt. B’etoth, “Kho’voth here. Have you concluded your business, Ambassador?”

Worf was wracked by a brief coughing fit before he could respond. He produced a small black cloth from a pocket to cover his mouth. When the fit had ended, Worf answered, “Yes. My work here is done.” He then took a moment to look at the bloody residue that now covered the cloth – it would not be long now before he too entered the land of the dead.

“Beam me aboard quickly. There are some more stops I need to make.”

A Dish Served Cold - Pt. 1 of 2

2005-12-22T18:46:00.000-07:00

Varga II - the planet alone was an assault on the senses. Even now, at midday, light was unwilling to extend too much of its presence on the surface of this hell. The dull red glow of the planet’s sun was coupled with a temperature far colder than to be expected from the dry, desert landscape. And the smell - the acrid stench that burned the nose and the eyes. No matter how many times he had reviewed the logs and reports, nothing had truly prepared him for the stench of this place. But he was Worf, son of Mog, and he had no time to concern himself with mild unpleasantries.

It had taken a great deal of effort and latinum to circumvent the quarantines that protected this planet, quarantines put in place decades ago by Starfleet Command. Admittedly, he was no longer under their rule, but this was still their territory. And he was far from the Klingon home world. So far, in fact, that he had been forced to call in several old favors to make it here undetected, but, honestly, what else would he be saving them for.

Worf reached to his hip and lifted the tricorder up into his now fading gaze. There had once been a time when his eyes were as keen as any Klingons. A time when his body was honed as hard as steel and the warrior’s fire that burned in his heart could not be quenched. But those times were long gone. Age had dulled those eyes and quenched that fire. All that was now left was a dull smoldering, not worthy of a true Klingon.

The tricorder chirped and whirred, analyzing the surrounding area and condensing this information into a pulsing burst of lights. He was, of course, heading the right way. He had planned this day for some time and knew the route already, but he found some comfort in checking anyway. Though the path was easy, he still struggled, limping slowly and placing much of his weight on a thin, black cane with a bright silver tip.

He was now but a shell, ravaged by a disease and time. He wore a black eye patch over his left eye, a nasty scar stretching above and below, tracing the path of a blade long since stilled. It had been so long ago now he could not even remember that battle. Had it been the second civil war? His graying, mattered hair hung loosely about his shoulders. Deep in thought, he ran his fingers through his also graying beard, clutching them into a fist before releasing. The danger was quickly approaching, and he readied himself for battle.

“Ah, I see I have a visitor once again,” gurgled a voice from ahead. It had a liquid sound that belied its alien origin. It was a voice as dark as night and as cold as space. A voice of emptiness and doubt that burrowed its way into your mind. “Come closer,” it continued, “come to your death.”

Worf stepped out into a small, sandy clearing, perhaps twenty meters in diameter. The clearing was banked by small rock formations not five meters high, and a large crater was burned into the far side of the opening. Near the edge of the crater, a black, oily channel cut through the sand.

Worf inhaled deeply, and answered in his most official-sounding voice, “Hail, Armus. The Klingon Empire and the United Federation of Planets salutes you. I am Ambassador Worf, son of Mog, and in the interests of intergalactic peace, I extend greetings to you.”

A vaguely humanoid form began to slowly rise from the river of sludge. “Welcome, Meat, to the place of your death.” The being appeared to possess two arms and head of sorts, but it was covered – if not composed – of the oily substance. “You know my name, who I am, and yet you still come. What makes you value your life so little?”

Worf stepped forward with his arms spread open, “I come on behalf of many civilizations with a proposition for you. One that I believe you will find to your—” Worf’s voice broke off as his airway was cut off. An unseen force coiled around his neck, slowly choking him.

“You dare bargain with me?” bellowed Armus. Another jolt of force dropped Worf to his knees. “You seek commerce? You seek profit? You dare come to me with this filth?”

Worf’s fingers fumbled about his neck, seeking to pry the unseen vice from his throat. He pushed with all of the air in his lungs and wheezed out a faint, but audible word, “Titans.” The pressure immediately released from his neck, and Worf collapsed onto the ground gasping for air.

“What do you know of the Titans?” Armus bellowed. “Why are you here?”

Worf panted on the ground for a few moments before rising back to his knees. Rubbing his throat, he answered, “They have returned.”

Armus shimmered, visible agitated. The consistency of the liquid that made his form altered, losing color. The being began to ramble to itself shaking violently with each syllable, “They have returned, and yet they do not seek me? They abandon me here with no explanation, no course” Armus turned its attention back to Worf, “Where? Where are they now?”

Worf took a moment to get back on his feet, leaning heavily on his cane, before he answered. “Not far from here. A few days travel. They have appeared near the Antillian homeworld and have begun interfering in our affairs.”

“Interfering?” Armus asked, almost sounding interested.

“Yes,” Worf answered as he sat down on a small rock formation nearby. He leaned forward, much of his weight resting on the cane. “They demand tribute from us. They demand that we honor them for their superior nature. They interfere with our trade routes. They have proclaimed themselves rulers of the sector.” With each word, each sentence he had allowed his voice to grow louder, more angry. He paused for a moment, catching his breath. “Rulers of our territory.” He spat on the ground. “And there is nothing that we can do about it. Every military force that we have sent against them has been destroyed. Every attack has been overcome. We are at a loss. We are desperate. We need help from someone who is as powerful as they.”

Armus’s answer was almost sickening in the delight it showed, “And you to come to me?”

Worf nodded in agreement. “And we come to you. While our last visit to this planet was brief, we recognized the sheer force that you hold at your command. You were able to strike down one of our people with but a gesture. You outmatched every show of force we could offer. It was obvious that we faced a superior being with a superior intellect.”

Armus paused a moment, mulling over Worf’s words. “Yes, you would need my help. The one I killed – “

“Lt. Yar” interrupted Worf.

“Her name does not matter,” answered Armus curtly. “This Yar,” Armus spat the name out as if it were a bit of rancid meat “she died quickly. Your people possess no power. No strength. You would have no hope of overcoming the Titans.”

“And that is why we seek your aid. We know that with your hand guiding us, we will be able to rise up and overcome them. With you allied by our side, we may find true power.”

“You delude yourself with your own importance, son of Mog. You will not be my ally. You will be my victim if you do not obey me. You will use your ship to take me to the Titans, and I will crush them. I will feast on their flesh and grind their bones into dust. They will weep before me, and they will know fear. And you, you will—I, I do not—what, what is happening to me? What—what have you done to me?”

(To Be Concluded)

The spiders in my brain tell me that if I close my eyes, the gnomes will steal my soul...

2005-12-22T06:15:00.000-07:00

It's the first time that I've stayed up all night in quite some time (probably since college). I was playing Lord of the Rings: The Third Age, and the next thing I knew, it was after 5:00 AM. It seems pointless to go to sleep now, so I have decided to write haikus regarding the games I've been playing...I think the lack of sleep may be affecting my higher brain functions...

Lord of the Rings: The Third Age:

Frelling Uruk-Hai
They keep killing my party
...need to level build

Dune 2000:

Build fast, Atreides
You need missile tanks to win
Or ornithopters

Baldurs Gate: Dark Alliance 2

My dwarf's an archer?
Who makes a dwarf an archer?
Lousy game design.

Peter Jackson hates black people

2005-12-17T09:03:00.000-07:00

Ever since Kanye West uttered those revelatory words about our nation's President, I have been on the lookout for these subversive hate-mongering white men that have risen to positions of power. Last night, as I watched the updated version of King Kong, I believe I found one - Peter Jackson.

Throughout his film he has one racist visual image after another, each one more heinous and insulting. The violent, murderous natives of "Skull Island" are all as black as sin, while the lily-white Americans are just trying to make a harmless movie. It seems that this color-scheme is foremost on Mr. Jackson's mind since upon close observation, it becomes apparent that several of these natives are really Anglos and Asians done up in black-face. And here I thought that kind of degenerate entertainment went out in the 50's.

In the film, the most violent, bloodthirsty native is obviously an Asian male, but his skin is a deep ebony. If you think that the racial overtones hadn't been obvious enough, the palest of these "natives," a decrepit old hag, is the only one of them capable of speech. Obviously, she had to whiten herself up to gain the gift of language.

The only redeeming black character in the film is the ship's first mate, who just so happens to be the first human killed by Kong in the film. Obviously some twisted commentary on black on black crime. I'm sure Mama Jackson would be so proud.

And Kong himself is perhaps the worst embodiment of racial stereotypes since Darth Vader. The BLACK gorilla is able to lift more, jump higher, run faster and throw farther than any of the white characters, yet the one thing that he lacks is basic human intelligence. He is ruled entirely by instinct with no intellectual thought, probably how Jackson views the entire black race. Oh, did I mention that he spends his entire time on screen obsessed with a blonde-haired white girl. Apparently an ebony princess isn't good enough for our erstwhile king.

They could have only made Kong more insulting if they had done him up in blackface and had him tap-dancing on a stage to entertain the white folk--oh wait, they already paid some black actors to do that at the beginning of the film.

Have you seen my hate? I seem to have misplaced it...

2005-12-12T13:46:00.000-07:00

In my meanderings about the Internet today, I stumbled across a scathing revitorial (review+editorial) on the recent film release of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe that was entitled "Narnia Represents Everything That Is Most Hateful About Religion."

Now, I saw this movie twice over the past weekend, and I have to admit that I really didn't see anything all that "hateful" in the film. (Then again, I didn't see the anti-Semitism in Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ. In fact, I found myself arguing with someone at a Christmas party last year that the film wasn't the least bit anti-Semitic. The discussion reached a stalemate when I learned that the girl I was arguing with hadn't actually seen the movie. She had, however, written a graduate-level paper regarding the film's anti-Semitic content and, ergo, was an expert...but I digress.)

Upon reading the article, though, I realized the error. You see, the article should have been titled "Narnia Represents Everything That Is Most Hateable About Religion." I found that the following passage brought the author's reasoning most clearly to light:

"Children are supposed to fall in love with the hypnotic Aslan, though he is not a character: he is pure, raw, awesome power. He is an emblem for everything an atheist objects to in religion. His divine presence is a way to avoid humans taking responsibility for everything here and now on earth, where no one is watching, no one is guiding, no one is judging and there is no other place yet to come."

Realizing how misguided this author was, I immediately knew that I had to post a response. There are so many better reasons to hate religion (Christianity in particular) that it boggles the mind. After a brief wracking of my brain, I have settled on ten better reasons to hate Christians than because of our faith in the divine Aslan...er...Jesus.

10. The Daystar Network.

9. The Spanish Inquisition.

8. The second Left Behind movie. (The first one gave reason to be mildly displeased, but the second one was a clear insult.)

7. Their flapping heads and beady eyes…no, wait...those are Canadians.

6. Their inability to understand sarcasm, irony or most other literary conventions.

5. Centuries of anti-Semitism.

4. Their instant belief in everything that shows up in their e-mail inbox.

3. The Crusades.

2. Giving out tracts instead of candy on Halloween.

1. Amy Grant.

An Open Letter to J.K. Rowling - Author of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Blasphemous Sacrilege

2005-12-10T23:07:00.000-07:00

Madame Rowling,

Reticent as I am to interact with anyone involved with the den of iniquity known as the "entertainment industry," I find that I can remain silent no longer. In the past month, I have had the opportunity to not once, but twice view the recently released film based on your novel, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. May I be the first to say - How dare you!

How dare you and your ilk invade my nation with your filth and propaganda. How dare you sully this land's soil with your lies and pornography. How dare you profit from damning the souls of children and household pets. Your work is a travesty and an insult to all that is good and pure in America.

While I was admittedly surprised at the lack of bestiality, demon worship and human sacrifice that I expected from the film, I still felt an evil presence hovering about me as I entered the theater. A damp blast of air pulsed on the back of my neck during the entire movie - doubtless a minion of the dark lord seeking to penetrate my spine to gain access to my soul. My ample waist felt pressure on either side of me - as if some unseen force had taken two planks of wood or coated plastic and forced them to pinch me on either side. And when I tried to leave the theater in the middle of the film, a sticky, unworldly substance attempted to pin my feet in place. Oh, it gave off a saccharine-sweet aroma, but I recognized it for the demonic bile it was.

As if this assault was not enough, the content of your "masterpiece" was even more disturbing. Let us take a moment to examine one of the key themes in your work - magic. Poppycock is more like it, but let us use your term for the benefits of clarity. It is obvious that you encourage children to believe in this unseen yet all-powerful force that operates beyond human comprehension to affect our lives. Moreover, you encourage children to engage in daily exercises to strengthen and hone their ability to commune with this power. The gall you have, Madame. To take young minds and pollute them with this drivel is unforgivable. How you can sleep at night is beyond me. Matters are only made worse when you make it clear that the level of one's belief in this unseen power (placing one's "faith" in it, if you will) will result in improvements to one's life, station and character. How absurd. I will pray for your sanity.

To prove the evil of your works, Madame, I need only point out how quickly children are seduced into mimicking young Mr. Potter and his cronies. As I sat there, watching your filth on the silver screen (now sullied to a dull brass, or perhaps tungsten) I noted that the children of your dastardly Hogwart's magic school were all dressed in black robes. This unique wardrobe choice reminded me of last May when I attended my nephew's graduation from kindergarten. All 17 children in his graduating class had chosen to don a black, flowing robe over their dress clothes. At the time, I thought the children were merely performing some type of political commentary regarding the U.S. Supreme Court, but now I know the awful truth. It is now obvious to me that these children were imitating the emissaries of darkness from your film.

Perhaps this isolated incident is not enough to convince you of the wickedness of the path you have chosen, but there is more. The characters from your "harmless" wizard film all had a strange manner of speech as well. I'm assuming this is some type of magic language that they all learned in the first movie. There was probably some lesson that taught if you don't pronounce the "h" at a beginning of a word or make every "a" sound like an "aw," the dark prince of hell himself will grant you unspeakable powers. Either way, I attended a community theater production of Hamlet not two weeks ago where every actor in the piece imitated this foul demon-speak. Again, in my naivete, I assumed an innocent reason behind this oddity - perhaps they were all deaf or had recently experienced strokes. Nay. They obviously sought to use some magical wile to enchant their audience to engage in some disgusting orgy of filth and wretchedness. I thank God that I was in that audience and that my faith protected everyone that night.

Now I know that your apologists typically use the defense of "It's not real. It only encourages children to use their imagination." And they say that like it's a good thing. Let's take a minute to look at this glorious "imagination" that you wish to instill into our nation's children. I believe we will uncover the truth if we break the word down to its roots - i/magi/nation. Or to fill in the blanks - I am the MAGI to the NATION. Yes, that's right. I've cracked your cunning lingual code. You seek to turn the children of our nation into the Magi (sorcerers or wise men) of our nation. While I'm sure that you would state your goals are benevolent, I find that highly unlikely. Doubtless you seek to raise up some clan of demonically-powered overseers to conquer the American government and enforce the socialist "utopia" that you British hold so dear.

Well, foist your magical universal health care plans on some other hapless nation - perhaps France. Lord knows they deserve it.

I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel

2005-11-23T08:22:00.000-07:00

For the first time in a decade, I have gone snowboarding. This now brings my total of snowboarding trips to two. I don't know if there are words to describe just how much I suck, but I saw dozens of children no higher than my waste rocket past me throughout the day. (I think quite of few of them were laughing at me.) However, I can say that I did a hell of a lot better than I did back in my senior year of high school. Unfortunately, any number multiplied by zero is still zero.

As you might expect, I fell on every part of my anatomy several times - sometimes driving one part of said anatomy into an alternate, more tender part. Oddly enough, the pain of the actual day of snowboarding is so much less then the ongoing suffering of the following days. Every muscle burns with the fire of a hundred...nay, a thousand suns. Those aforementioned anatomy parts grow livid with any motion. And my left knee, my apparent shock absorber of choice, stings on contact with anything heavier than a feather.

In this state, I find myself questioning "Why in the name of all that does not suck did I do this to myself?" I believe the only answer is that I must have some masochistic tendency. Some intense self-loathing that leads me to my own destruction. Typically, I try to avoid pain whenever possible, but on Monday, that was not the case. In fact, I kept trying to push myself until my body was no longer willing to cooperate.

I need to have a good, long talk with myself and work on this latent hostility. Until I work this out, I am going to self-medicate with a lot of rest and sitting on my voluminous, yet supple posterior.

Working my fingers to the bone

2005-11-15T21:26:00.000-07:00

As you can see, I'm not really doing such a hot job posting regularly. But I have an excuse this week. While I took time off last week, I am working several extra hours this week.

"Doing what?" you might ask. Well, I work for a marketing company writing boring sales collateral. No really, I'm a copywriter. I write copy. "What kind of copy?" Well, something kind of like this (but completely different).

New to the IBM Workplace family of products is IBM PureEdge. For those of you who have longed for more edge in your applications, IBM now has the answer. This sucker's edgier than U2. That's right, it's edgier than "The Edge" - the definitive article. It's edgier than one of those Schick Triple Edge razors (which is by default three times edgier than The Edge/U2). You want edge? You got it baby. This hot little application is so edgy that it's PureEdge. Pure. Unadulterated. Edge. It's all edge. It's as edgy as a one-dimensional line. There is no part of it that is not edge. You could circumcise a muon with the edge on this puppy. Now that's edge. That's PureEdge, by IBM.

...somebody should pay me to write commercials.

The Pevensies vs. The Hobbits

2005-11-10T08:15:00.000-07:00

(I am going to gauge this combat based on each of the groups' later incarnations, at a time when they were battle-hardened and actually "dangerous." If this contest were to take place at the beginning of each set of novels, my guess is that it would be filled with introductions and "how do you do's," ultimately concluding with a grand tea party and discussions of the weather. Then again, perhaps that would have been more interesting...)

"We swear fealty only to King Aargorn!" piped Sam. Turning to his companions, he asked, "Isn't that right, Master Frodo?"

"Well," Frodo answered as he rolled back his eyes in thought, "there is Lady Galadriel...and probably Elrond."

"Don't forget my Lord Theoden," added Merry.

"Alright, alright," muttered Sam. Turning back to the well-armed children he cried, "I take that back. We swear fealty only to King Aargorn, Lady Galadriel, Lord Elrond and King Theoden. But no more."

"You will claim Aslan as the highest king before this day is out, or I shall send you to meet him," came the cry of Edmund Pevensie. (Now dear reader, this challenge may have been more intimidating had Edmund yet reached the initial stages of puberty. However, since he had not, the Hobbits felt no qualms about crying back--

"Game on, Mother Trucker." (In all honesty, this isn't entirely what they said, but I don't feel comfortable writing what they said where young children or women might read it, so I have loosely paraphrased.)

Edmund unsheathed his sword, swinging it back and forth, while his older brother rubbed his hand against his forehead and muttered a "Bloody Hell" under his breath. Lucy and Susan, the two Pevensie girls, fell back several paces from their brothers. You see, the girls were archers and carried no melee weapons with them since Aslan doesn't like it when girls fight in war...unless they are shooting pieces of wood and steel from a long distance. I think it's supposed to be more feminine or something...

Anyway, as the four Hobbits begin their advance, Susan cocked back an arrow and let it fly, lodging the shaft in Pippin's throat. (Gentle reader, the previous line may sound a tad pornographic in nature, but that is no one's intent except for perhaps yours, you filthy pervert.) Lucy's arrow also landed home, striking poor, dead Pippin in the leg. You see, young Lucy had been thinking of gumdrops and caramels rather than listening as her sister told her to target the one on the left. Had she been listening, she would have severely wounded young Frodo Baggins, and things would have gone far better for the Pevensie children.

Realizing he was in terrible danger, Frodo placed the One ring on his finger and became invisible. Surprised, Lucy and Susan paused a moment before reloading their bows, which gave Merry and Sam a chance to begin a mad rush on Peter and Edmund. The wise little hobbits took great trouble to keep the much taller boys between them and the two female archers, robbing the women of a clear shot. Frodo, meanwhile, used his invisibility to sneak up on the girls and promptly stabbed Susan. At the fall of Susan, Lucy began screeching about her "Dearest sister," but she was quickly silenced by the bite of Sting.

Peter, who was quite easily dealing with Merry and Sam, dispatched Edmund to go check on the girls. It bears mentioning that Edmund could be considered what some might call "tricksie" or at least "crafty" or perhaps "a deceptive little wanker." Either way, Edmund had also seen Frodo disappear, and as he approached the fallen bodies of his recently departed sisters, he was well aware that he now faced an invisible foe. (I do mean faced in a figurative sense, since Edmund would not be able to tell if he was actually facing his foe because he was invisible...the foe, not Edmund.)

As luck would have it, or mayhaps the will of Aslan (long may he reign), this particular battle was taking place on a rather dusty, dirty field. As Edmund kneeled near the corpses of his deceased siblings he sneakily (it's a word) filled his hands with dirt and quickly cast it about him. Now anyone who is familiar with cloaking technology (magical or non-magical in origin) may tell you, when someone is cloaked (invisible) light bends around them. Unfortunately for Frodo, dirt does not. Immediately noticing a patch of earth that seemed to halt in mid-air, Edmund lashed out with his blade, neatly severing Frodo's head from his body.

"Noooooooooo" cried Sam as he launched into a blood rage much like the berserkers of old Norse legend. As his tiny form whirled about in a dervish of blood and metal, he quickly struck down Peter the Great, High King of Narnia. Unfortunately, in his unrestrained lust for vengeance, Sam also happened to strike down Merry, who, honestly, was standing a little too close for his own good in the first place.

As Sam raced forward to strike down Edmund, the young lad grabbed the bow from his fallen sister (Susan, not Lucy) and let fly an arrow that pierced Sam's side. Undaunted, Sam continued his advance, a blood-curdling cry drawing forth from his lips. A second arrow struck his left arm, forcing him to drop his favorite frying pan. (Perhaps I should have noted earlier that Sam preferred to enter battle carrying a sword in one hand and a frying pan in the other. It was actually said frying pan that crushed the tiny skull of young Meriadoc Brandybuck not a full minute earlier.)

With Sam so close now, Edmund was forced to drop the bow and unsheathe his sword once again. While not exceptional fighters, hobbits typically have an advantage in combat since most denizens of Middle Earth have never combated an enemy that barely came up to its middle. Unfortunately, Edmund had fought many a tiny enemy -- from dwarves (whom are shorter in Narnia) to wolves to the nasty badgers of Hedgwick Falls (who weren't that nasty really, but the name had stuck). As Sam drew within Edmund's range, he let forth a devastating over-the-head blow that split the little Hobbit's skull right down the middle.

Victorious on the battlefield, Edmund stared around at the devastation and death that lay about him and muttered a muted but triumphant "Bollocks."

The Winner: The Pevensies

The Chronicles of Narnia vs. The Lord of the Rings...in a no-holds-barred cage match

2005-11-10T07:16:00.000-07:00

I've taken off the second half of this week to burn through some of the excessive vacation that my employer gives me (I am by no means complaining). Yesterday, I finally had the chance to sit down and watch all three of the extended editions of the Lord of the Rings trilogy back-to-back-to-back. If you're interested in doing this as well, it takes about 11.5 hours with minimal breaks (I'm talking about taking the time to pee in between disks, not the time to cook a meal).

I've also been rereading the Chronicles of Narnia; though it might be better to say I've been devouring them. In the past week, I've read through the first four - typically finishing each novel within 24 hours of starting it. I'm also halfway through the Voyage of the Dawn Treader.

Anyway, since I've been infusing massive amounts of Inkling-based fantasy, I figured now would be as good a time as any to compare the two bodies of work. (For any who might be concerned that I am basing my assessment of Tolkien's craft solely on the movies, rest assured that I have indeed read nearly everything Tolkien wrote about Middle Earth, not just the four main titles.)

It's difficult for me to say which body of work I prefer. I can handily say that I am more familiar with the Chronicles, having read them several times since childhood, while I have only read through the Lord of the Rings twice (once as an adolescent and once as an adult). But familiarity does not necessarily imply preference.

The Chronicles offer a rosier view of a fantastic world, almost making things how we'd want them to be. A world full of nobility and mercy. A land of wonder and awe that surprises us with beauty again and again. Middle Earth, on the other hand is a much darker yet more real realm. Victory is purchased by spilling the blood of another. Suffering is all too common, and redemption is found at the end of a trying, painful journey. Rather than simply relying on an Aslan-ex-machina to save the day, Middle Earthers must agonize and toil long after hope has abandoned them. This structure, of course, leads to a richer, more complex story, but it does not instill the sense of marvel and awe that the Chronicles offer.

In all honesty, I think I read through these sets in the appropriate order. The Chronicles are ideal for younger children. They fuel the imagination. They make you believe that life is a glorious thing and that every moment should be treasured. Joy can be found around the next bend, over the next hill.

The Lord or the Rings trilogy, however, works better for young adults. They offer a much more complex storyline that isn't always the easiest to follow (and I'm not just saying that because I repeatedly confused Sauron and Saruman the first time I read through them...ok, maybe I am). They remind us constantly that nothing is free and that anything great usually comes at a terrible price.

Honestly, to determine which one is better, you really have to decide what you're looking for. Do you want an intelligent, compelling story...or are do you want something that will capture your imagination and instill a sense of wonder?

Perhaps it is simply a sense of nostalgia. Maybe at this moment in my life I'm just looking for something that will offer me a sense of hope. Maybe I need to believe that redemption can be easily gained. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm really happy to be reading some fast-moving, simple novels after just completing the Frank Herbert Dune saga last week. Whatever the reason, I heretofore decide...

The Winner: The Chronicles of Narnia

Best chase scenes

2005-11-01T20:32:00.000-07:00

I've been off for the past couple of days, and I've been watching a bunch of DVDs. A couple of these featured some really good chase scenes, which got me trying to decide on my top 10 favorite ones. So here they are.

10. Striking Distance - Honestly the only reason this one made the list is because I get a huge kick out of watching the light bars bouncing around on the tops of the cop cars as they go bounding down the road.

9. The Transporter - A movie about a professional "wheel man." I'm going to go out on a limb and say there were some good scenes in this one.

8. The Italian Job - Three words: Minis, minis, minis.

7. The Bourne Identity - A movie for anyone that's wanted to careen down the narrow streets of a small European village...and has.

6.Return of the Jedi - Who didn't want a speederbike when they saw that movie?

5. The Rock - A movie for anyone that's wanted to drive a Mercedes through a plate glass window...and then derail a street car.

4. Ronin - Driving on the wrong side of the road for fun and profit.

3. Bad Boys II - High end sports car + (A car transporting semi x Villainous Haitians) = Fun for the whole family.

2. Matrix Reloaded - This one probably scored so high because of the fight scenes that are interspersed throughout the chase. I loved the in-car fighting between Morpheus, Trinity and one of Albinos. Of course, ending the scene with two semis slamming into each other at full speed didn't hurt either.

1. Batman Begins - A car chase on rooftops. Does it get any better than this? No. It doesn't.

Damn...I'm so sorry to hear that...

2005-10-30T21:07:00.000-07:00

I have been shopping at the Aamazing Fantasy comic book store in Littleton, CO since I was in the seventh grade. Over the years I have spent countless hours enwrapped in the tales of wonder and woe offered by this shop, and it holds a special place in my heart. As I was purchasing my weekly comic shipment today, I learned that the owner's wife had just passed away.

While I was extending my condolences, Shawn (the owner) found it necessary to walk across the store to where I was standing, hug me, and thank me. You see, a few years back, I had given a ride to his wife so that they could get their sick cat to the vet. It had taken no more than a half hour of my time and really didn't require much effort on my part. In fact, I seem to recall making a joke at the time that this was the easiest good deed for the year that I'd ever done.

Years later, that simple act of kindness suddenly meant a great deal to Shawn, and I found myself sharing a hug with someone whom I don't even believe I've shaken hands with. I spent the rest of the day reflecting on this exchange, trying to wrap my mind around it.

Too often, I think that I simply ignored the people that were around me. I glossed over their pain, their suffering, their loss because I didn't want to get involved. I didn't want it to bog me down. After all, I've got enough problems of my own that I don't need to waste my time on them...Now I find myself wishing that I would have spent a little more time reaching out to those that have been around me.

Opening Salvo

2005-10-29T01:11:00.000-07:00

Well, it's been previously stated that whenever I get around to jumping on the technology bandwagon, the trend has reached complete market saturation. I have always dragged my feet when it came to upgrading to the newest technology or participating in the latest fad. Part of this is because I am extremely lazy and unwilling to put forth any individual effort. The other factor is that I am an extremely cheap individual. Some might say niggardly. (Of course said people would immediately be tackled by members of the ACLU and subsequently beaten into a sticky paste.) Unwilling to part with my hard earned cash, I still lug about a cell phone that is heavy enough to beat a man into unconscioness. I've never spent more than $20 on a video game (though I've owned dozens), and my car is old enough to drink alcoholic beverages.

So why blog? Why bother to participate in this particular social phenomenon. The short answer - it's free. The not as short answer - arrogance. As all writers do, I'm operating under the assumption that people will find what I have to say exceedingly interesting, moderately entertaining, or at least unexplainably addictive. The least shortest answer - hope. As mentioned previously, I'm inherently lazy. While I hold grand aspirations of being a well-published author, I rarely put forth any effort into writing outside of my job. In fact, I spend most of my time talking myself out of writing. I am inherently afraid that I am not nearly as intelligent or funny as I think I am, and the moment anyone reads anything I have written, they will see through to the babbling moron that lies within. With this blog, I hope to take a few of the first steps in changing this. (The being afraid part, not the babbling moron part...though I should probably look into working on that as well.)