Riposte-Modern

I guess this is why I say I'm sorry

2012-02-13T00:18:00.000-08:00

I wrote this and then came up with the title. Italicized comments are 'post-title'.

Sometimes I say I hate hypocrites.

But then I realize that I hate people who say they hate things.

So I'm probably am a hypocrite.

This explains why I hate myself.

Also, I shouldn't hate myself.

And I recognize that I shouldn't hate myself.

But sometimes I still hate myself.

(This is fucking self-indulgent. I try not to be self-indulgent. It's annoying. Sorry.)

But maybe hypocrisy is inevitable.

And if something is inevitable, then it seems kind of silly to "hate" it.

So I shouldn't hate.

But hating something inevitable is only silly if you think that it's not silly to hate something that isn't inevitable.

So the above assumes "hate" can be justified if it leads to productive things.

But it's not so clear that hate is ever productive.

Also, there's a good chance that hate is inevitable.

So it isn't the case that I shouldn't hate.

This seems to mean the same thing as "it's okay to hate".

So the statement that "it's okay to hate" can be justified solely on the stated fact that I hate things; that some instance of hate exists.

But this stands in opposition to the idea that normative judgments are distinct from descriptive statements.

(That's a douchey turn to jargon. Sorry.)

It also doesn't make sense.

Life is mired in incomprehensible ethical shit.

Q.E.D.

(Abridged Proof: Children die from leukemia / Life is mired in incomprehensible ethical shit / Q.E.D)

FUCK. there was nothing to be demonstrated.

sorry.

(I hate that I say sorry so much. I'm sorry I say sorry so much. FUCK, again.)

Dichotomies are stupid and make people judge Lana Del Rey and Tim Tebow

2012-02-07T22:48:00.000-08:00

I do realize that with this title, you might say I'm taking the firm stance that people are stupid, as are dualism/dichotomies/black vs. white.

I don't like any of these things, except you the individual and maybe one Lana Del Rey song. In saying this, I might have confused you to the point that you don't know what I like.

Me neither, and I think that's OK.

That said, the end of this piece will be slightly depressing, mostly negative and patronizing, but partially true.

I'm sure at one point in your life, you've liked more than one boy or one girl at one time. I bet at some time you've had to choose between living in one place or another, be it a simple decision like one between an apartment with a stellar shower versus one with a laundry room. Or a larger lifestyle query, like going to school in your hometown with friends instead of venturing off into an unknown place across the country. Twizzlers or Red Vines? Ultra thin lubed or weird bumpy alien condoms?

Maybe you've make drastic life choices. For example, I've gone against what I've referred to as "selling out" by working as a bartender, server or SEO marketer (the ping pong table in the kitchen didn't sell me on it, and I think it is for the best at this point), in order to chase a career in sports writing.

I want to do something I like, somewhere I like, with people I like. Those are too many variables, and they make black and white decisions dangerous. Everything in life is like this. Duh, you say, but it's important to realize that PEOPLE, society really, influence us to make these opinions without any room for stepping into a grey area.

Don't rule life on overly-simplistic reasoning that's based off what people might think about you, what pop culture says is cool, or what contrasting subcultures say isn't. I'm looking at you Wiz, telling me to live young, wild and free. But same to the Wall Street fucks from New Jersey. And that shitty musician who sat on some dirty hippy's floor with a keyboard, whining about how his parents hated him for TOURING IN VENUES SUCH AS THE MENTIONED GRIMY TUCSON BEDROOM.

There's always too much in play. George W. Bush once said that you're either with us or against us. Kanye West once told Taylor Swift (I'm paraphrasing, and technically making the assumption) that Beyonce's video was greater than (>>>). In America, we don't like commies, let alone socialists. Grey Goose is better than Smirnoff even though all vodka sucks, but we hate commies, and the commies drink the Smirnoff while 50 Cent drinks the Goose. Hating Lady Gaga means you're not down with homosexuals.

Progressively there, I am getting more ridiculous. But everything should be challenged.

Lana Del Rey should be challenged, and she's the perfect example of how such complicated things get twisted into dichotomies by PEOPLE (here's where everything in the title comes together) who promote said dichotomies to apparently produce a sense of individual worth with an illusion of having subculture/hate of mainstream culture/hipsterness/and most importantly, an avoidance of conformity.

Del Rey is a perfect example of how we choose between two things, and two things only. Like her or not.

As an aside, I could remind you that many singers have at least one very bad performance in their careers, whether they be Hoobastank, Mick Jagger, Lady Gaga, Madonna, Amy Winehouse, Lil Wayne, The Beatles, Creed, etc. These could be due to a number of problems, including but not exclusive to sickness, drunkenness, drugs, blows to the head, eating bats, flat-out craziness, broken hearts, surprise pregnancies and tornadoes. Maybe they have to take a major shit, I don't know.

We can bitch and moan about her fake indieness, her failed SNL performance.

Assuming that Wikipedia's write-up on the recently-famous pop singer is accurate, the quick run-down is that she was a Lizzy Grant, her given name, turned to Lana Del Rey. She had some album out as Lizzy Grant, and I heard it was something of a more poppy sound. But she changed her name to Lana Del Rey, got her lips all DSL'd up, and made some deep indie music and now is called a fake.

Billboard Magazine's feature on her said the same as Complex Magazine's. Both have made the case that Del Rey wiped off the manicured character she had going for something more real. True or false, everyone jumped on her for 1) a name change 2) Botox and 3) a switch in sound despite those things being part of the characters of nearly EVERY OTHER FUCKING MUSICIAN WHO IS FAMOUS.

But maybe, we can like that one song about being "Born To Die" because we can relate to the lyrics when we're sad and she has a pretty voice. We can also be like, "dude, I am down with beer and video games, but I never got so down at video games with a chick/dude, so I can't relate and this isn't as good of a song as Born To Die."

The same goes for athletes like Tim Tebow. It's the white quarterback, who against stereotypes doesn't throw the ball well and doesn't allegedly rape chicks in bathrooms a la Ben Roethlisberger. Because we like that he likes God, or because we don't like that he likes God, we must make a decision as to whether we like him or not based on how much we hear about him (thanks ESPN).

Perhaps we can consider Tebow as a half-way decent football player, though his terrible numbers despite his wins don't give him much promise. Yet, we can also say he's an admirable human being, standing up for the word of God and the pro-life movement that he believes in -- and that shouldn't be determined by whether we believe in God or pro-life ourselves.

Turn off the TV. Turn off the radio. No. Better yet, turn on a questioning self-defense. Listen to everything and question it.

Maybe it'll lead to something. Or you'll go crazy and post on Riposte-Modern.Blogspot.com.

Music And Change

2012-01-28T01:12:00.000-08:00

Life's nostalgic value goes only as far as music. Maybe it's because my memory fails me by the minute, by the year. But there's a reason I will consider the person crazy the moment I learn they don't like music.

Very few things can do what music can -- other than video recordings of the past. Sport can have a way of defining eras within a lifetime. Not even for me, a sportswriter, does sport represent moments, feelings and defining moments as does music. I don't know personally where I was at as a human being when I reminisce about the Arizona Cardinals' Super Bowl run (I was bedridden after having and adventurous night of lemon cake, Hyper Crush, etc.). Or the Diamondbacks' World Series victory (crying). Or any painful Suns' losses (throwing drunken tantrums on the floor).

Seriously, none of those things are that bad. By personally, I mean emotionally in a static sense, not a by-the-minute one.

Like sport, fashion defines decades and eras, not moments. Tell me if you remember if you even remember if you were wearing Thursday shirt, Friday shirt, jeans, shorts or wife beaters at significant moments of your life. Let me know if you remember what you were wearing under your graduation gown after you finished high school, or what you undressed from that time you hooked up with what's her face. I don't. It was probably Abercrombie or Hot Topic, but that's a guess based on percentages.

It's incredible what song means.

Akon reminds me of high school drives with a girl I had a thing for. Rihanna and Jay-Z reminds me of when I got pissed off at her.

Eminem perpetually reminds me of not caring about either of the previous items. Eminem also reminds me a lot of summer in Tucson -- swimming pools, online poker and pretending nothing could touch me. I like Eminem a lot though, so it goes without saying that it depends on what Eminem piece we're talking about.

Hyper Crush reminds me of falling in false love, climbing on top of a motor home five times in one night, and eating lemon cake and taking a ride home in a truck bed.

Radiohead reminds me of sleep. It reminds me of being a musician myself and using creativity to express emotion. It's one of the few things I can listen to when I'm alone, wanting to fully break down every chord, every tiny bit of alteration within a systematic and similar repetition of song.

Andrew W.K. reminds me of pseudo-promises, pseudo-ideals and tattoos. It's a philosophy I continue to ride. Though it appears to be an act, hey, you can't win them all.

Matisyahu reminds me of returning from Los Angeles from a trip with Red Bull.

Explosions in the Sky reminds me of the best concert ever. System of a Down reminds me of junior high (and New Mexico, though that will be overlooked).

N.E.R.D reminds me of New York City special treatment.

Squeeze reminds me of cigarettes and mediocrity.

Music evokes periods of life. It can bring back memories that have to do with me. Sport and fashion only go so far. They each have an important piece within relevant culture, for sure, but music, man, has a way of digging out thoughts and emotions that otherwise would be lost in the depths of mental building blocks we encounter as we age.

What Kind of Cow is Mickey Mouse?

2012-01-03T15:15:00.000-08:00

“Disneyland – An American Tradition.” I saw numerous bodies sporting these shirts when I visited Disneyland with Allison a few weekends ago. I am not quite sure what it means for Disneyland to be an American tradition (what about Disneyworld and what about the Disney theme park in Japan?). But I know that the fact that people buy it means that the Disneyland experience must be contemplated, however amateurishly. This was my first time at Disneyland. I warn you that I am an iconoclast and typically resist the objects of popular devotion in America.

I had fun at Disneyland. I think rides are fun, and I especially appreciate when rides attempt to stimulate all of our senses. Pirates of the Caribbean was my favorite ride largely because I appreciated high speed puffs of air going over your head to simulate cannon balls flying between a coastal fortress and a galleon. The rides at Disneyland are not very thrilling, but they, unlike many ride parks, are devoted to having character. For those at Disneyland who have visited many times, the rides are like old friends. The excitement is in seeing what they have left behind and in what they have gained. I have always been impressed with the human ability to develop a long-term relationship with objects (especially outside of a consumerist framework, although more on this later). Disneyland for those who went to it as children is one of the best opportunities for self-reflection on the passing of time. Disneyland, like many people, has sought to conserve itself. Tomorrowland—built largely in the 1950s and 1960s—like the generations before us and ours, inevitably, cannot accept any new blueprints for the future. Tomorrowland, more than ToonTown, is a world of confusion. Visitors go there to wax nostalgic over a past vision of the future (which would be our present). I appreciate the conservation of a past future as an opportunity to reflect on the actual historical changes that have occurred. We don’t have our flying ships; space travel has become far more a thing of the past than a thing for the future. I am certainly down with getting rid of NASA.

The changes that our society has undergone in the past fifty years are more mundane and, as should be expected, based more on a practical consumerism than the clearly out-of-date American adventurism. Give us new ways to interface with the our technology so that we can ignore the world around us. Hemingway suggested that wealth dulls the senses and the appetite for adventure, despite the stereotypes about wealthy Americans traveling the world with their cosmopolitan mentalities. Maybe this is what happened to American greatness. We made too much money off of it. Disneyland is great too as an aspect of American greatness and ambition, but, like our broader society, beneath this veneer I often sensed nothing but money and a rotting infrastructure (seriously, check out this Wikipedia article on deaths at Disneyland.)

So what is it: is Disneyland a classic expression of American greatness, or a faceless money-making scheme that piggy-backs off the idea that a great man built a great pure park? Hm.

I resent that they do not sell alcohol at Disneyland. Do not assume that I can have fun in a child’s environment without reducing my mental capacity to that of a child. Nonetheless, I must admit that Disneyland was a negative experience only when I think about it. In its raw form, it was fun. Most of that is because of whom I was with, but also it was the small moments when I was away from the hordes and caught a glimpse of a different Disneyland. Primarily this was on the Disneyland train, and especially around the animatronic dinosaurs. Away from the crowds and screaming children, I looked with some degree of wonder at an attempt to re-create the deep past through the use of what was once futuristic technology, but now seems as outdated as the creatures themselves. I especially liked the dinosaur chewing on the seaweed because their mouths move in a funny horizontal motion.

Disneyland was probably the product of consumerism. The Disney “magic” is probably just a marketing gimmick. But the preservation of these stupid animatronic dinosaurs in the middle of what must be some extremely precious real estate can’t help but make me happy. They could be replaced with a Disneyland-Verizon hybrid booth or something equally nauseous. But they haven’t done that. One strike against the consumerism that always creates its own future without regard to the futures of our past? Maybe. But again, I also, in the rawest possible form, simply think that dinosaurs, especially those that have sideways chewing motions, are grand.

Kevin's Top 10 of 2011

2012-01-01T14:20:00.000-08:00

The differences between 2011 and 2012 will be great. The transition will be awkward and difficult.

Last year was pretty cool -- traveling, new experiences, etc. -- while this new year I'll probably get punched in the face by real life. Let's review 2011, because this year might suck a bit more.

Kevin's Top 10 of 2011

10. Shopping with Shane Battier

It was the day of the NBA Draft, and my bosses at Dime Magazine had to do draft things. That left me as the one to meet Shane Battier as he tried on golf clothes. It was random. Mike Dunleavy Jr. was there, too. He kind of seemed grumpy, and I later saw him in the line to The Book of Mormon with his girlfriend. I did not want to say hello.

9. Sammy Adams in NYC

I didn't know Sammy Adams is well-respected in the 16-18 year old fan demographic. But I went to a Sammy Adams concert in New York City with some 20-26 year old people and we had a blast. I've never been asked by so many desperate people to buy drinks. Also, it made me feel good that all the chicks bragging about their super awesome fake IDs thought my real ID was a fake and I was "like, I don't know, 18 or something." At least I look young.

8. Discovered The Dub

Dubs is what I like in a bar. It's like that bar in Cheers -- I think it's called Cheers -- that you always hit up after a long day of work. Cheap drinks, a chill atmosphere (most of the time) and good times.

7. Lived without Internet or TV

Just for historical record, I lived without Internet or TV for an entire semester. IN 2011!!!

6. System of a Down in Albuquerque

For one, this taught me that New Mexico is a dumpy field of dust with crappy boozing laws. Also, this was a nostalgic trip back to my childhood, except this time with more wearing of black and marijuana in the air.

5. Losing keys in the Salt River

I really, really like river trips. It's a fun time with friends, so much in fact that it's totally OK if you lose all of your keys to everything you own in the river. Or maybe what made it OK was just the booze. You will spend the next few weeks breaking into your own home through the bathroom window, crashing into the tub and knocking over shampoos at 4 in the morning.

4. Graduated

I did it! I think. Haven't gotten my diploma and skipped by graduation ceremonies to go to Suns media day. But nonetheless, this is an important part of growing up. For what it's worth, I'm unemployed, but already turned down a job in hopes that writing will actually net me some green (and you may now ask if I am on the green. Answer: No).

3. Brunches in NYC

You know what is so awesome about brunch? It is still happening when you wake up in the afternoon. It is just down the block -- any block. It combines delicious eggs, perhaps salmon, salad, what have you. But then, the best part is the drinks. Brunch involves your three major drink groups (they should make a drink pyramid based on this) of water, coffee and booze. You always feel cool when you have three different beverages in front of you. All three are necessary in getting out of that hangover funk.

2. St. Patty's day in Tulsa, 16 hours in Seattle, Boutiques

Covering the men's basketball team for the school newspaper was awesome, mostly because said basketball team was good. Not only was it awesome to cover and Elite Eight team, deal with raw emotions and crazy game atmospheres in historic venues, but that gig got me traveling.

Here's the best historic moment: I was at Pauley Pavilion when Arizona played UCLA. Pauley's history came by way of John Wooden, perhaps the most well-respected coach in any sport. It was the last game in Pauley before a massive renovation, and Wooden's great grandson, a walk-on, scored his first points in the last bucket at the venue. Crazy coincidence? Higher powers? You decide.

Personally, traveling was an experience beyond my job. I spent 16 hours in Seattle without a place to stay -- a bum woke me up when I was sleeping on the ground next to an airport baggage claim -- and I ate seafood. I woke up at 9 a.m. to neighbors having sex in a Westwood, Calif., boutique that my partner had booked for us. And I saw a dude get curb-stomped in Tulsa, which was a lot of fun on St. Patrick's day.

1. Getting cool jobs

I get to cover teams that I followed as a kid. And I get to write fun things about the NBA. Thank God it's back. It'd be sweet if these writing gigs paid, but we'll see what happens. Though writing about sports limits me socially, I swear I'm not one-dimensional.

That's what I could perhaps prove in 2012.

2011: Better than Most

2012-01-01T13:53:00.000-08:00

1. Finished thesis. Most meaningful thing I did in college, and one of my few moments of self-pride.
2. Moved in with girlfriend. Kinda love my apartment.
3. Graduated from the universities: although from my perspective graduating from a public university warrants very little praise – especially with a degree in the humanities – I do admit that the shift from school to full-time work provides a nice break. On the other hand, I feel more juvenile than ever. Making money makes drinking often and playing video games somewhat acceptable. Must keep reading books and not let my brain turn into mush.
4. Was offered full-time staff job. Enjoy my work and am happy to experience the white-collar work world before heading (hopefully) to graduate school.
5. Disneyland. An experience that was necessary to understand my people.
6. Paid $8 to attend a county fair and see Third Eye Blind. Best concert? In regards to the fair – this year I decided that embracing low culture is an important part of connecting to my country.
7. #Kevinsmove
8. Biked to work and around Tempe. Good for self and place.
9. Attended Catholic mass at San Xavier del Bac mission. Most beautiful building in Arizona?
10. Empathy continued to increase. Developing a fear of Internet and large corporations. Probably a good character shift.

The Boner Game

2011-12-31T00:36:00.000-08:00

Every dude remembers his middle school days, when puberty really hit hard. You know, getting off the bus every morning with a raging chub chub and without the experience to know how exactly to hide it (the wearing the bookbag backwards, pretending to search for the vocab assignment paper turns out to work pretty well).

Back then, you could punch yourself in the junk and it still wouldn't go away. Or you could envision that dude who would show up at the donut shop at 2 a.m. with a face full of rotting flesh and bandages. That could get the job done about 25 percent of the time.

25 percent of the time isn't good enough.

OK, what about grown man boners? Harder to achieve (pun intended). It's especially hard (soft) when you're sitting in a circle in a living room with four other dudes. This is my life.

One time my friends wanted to play The Boner Game.

Goal: Get a boner before everyone else without any boner-inspiring material and while looking other competitors -- also men, by the way -- in the eyes. Not that you had to look them in the eye, but as to win, shit-talking them usually required some form of eye contact.

Purpose: Absolutely none.

Let it be known that I never participated. I am leaving names out of this because my friends probably regret participating -- not to mention they regret telling me to post on Riposte because this is the only creative topic I could think up.

But now, we must accept this happened. And we must investigate ...

Why. Why would four adults want to compete to get a boner first. It's important to mention that, as my memory tells me, nobody ever actually finished The Boner Game.

But here is why, I think, The Boner Game was played. Via Wikipedia.

There has been a recent uptick of books, articles and research studies documenting an endocrinological (or hormone) decline in the general male population. Recent analysis shows average testosterone levels receding in men of all ages (age group 45–79 yr).^[13] In addition, average sperm quality, quantity and even testicle size has seen a marked reduction.^[14]Although many theories are presented to why this is happening, from endocrine dysruptors, to the feminist movement, to evolutionary biology,^[15] researchers ultimately concede the reason is still unknown.

I take back my refusal to play The Boner Game. If only I would have realized that you were fighting a worthy fight -- a fight for men to be men.

Men with boners, guns, muscles and whiskey. Men with disregard for fruity things, zinfandels and mani-pedis. Men with no regard for human life.

I wish I had played The Boner Game. And I am sorry.

Five Things I've Learned At Christmas Time

2011-12-23T22:41:00.000-08:00

1) Meth addict salvation army volunteers can ring the shit out of bells.

2) The prospect of coming in to work on a holiday sucks way more than the prospect of coming in to work during the regular season. I have to work on Christmas Eve (tomorrow). I don't want to work on Christmas Eve (tomorrow). The prospect fills me with a kind of restless anger, and I don't even technically "celebrate" Christmas Eve (which is tomorrow). I just kind of hang out with my parents. I can't even imagine how much life must suck if you have to go into work ON Christmas day so that you can KEEP your shitty job for the rest of the year, so that you can continue to 'get by', and pay the bills, and maybe around Christmas time buy some shitty presents for your kids. Not that I'm a pinko-commy-bastard, but the more I work this (fairly well-paying for being 'unskilled') 'unskilled' job, the more I think there's something seriously messed up about "I deserve to keep my money because I work hard(er than the person the government will give it to)" argument. But that's beside the point. Wishing someone to work on Christmas is liking wishing someone to have stomach flu. It just seems wrong. Even trust-fund beneficiary, Harvard-legacy alumnus, investment bankers shouldn't have to work on Christmas.

3) Christmas music is never going to get any better. Every year,I've enjoyed the same (maybe, being generous, thirty?) Christmas songs less and less. Unlike babyboomers, I have had no direct nostalgic attachment to these songs. They've never been good. They've just been something a little different to hear in the shopping malls at that time of year when it isn't hot as balls outside. But each year these songs are a little less different. Each year, they wear on me a little more. It's like the exact opposite of that "what's the best thing about dating 18-year old" joke.

4) I still look forward to receiving presents. Being adultish (read:over twenty-one), I feel like I shouldn't want to continue to receive Christmas presents from grandparents, aunts, and uncles. After all, they don't exchange gifts with one another. But then, the fact that I'm able to not want to continue to like to receive presents means that I do like to receive presents. Or something like that.

5) New Years may be a better 'young-20s' holiday than Christmas. If Christmas is about family and presents (and food), than it seems New Years is about friends and resolutions (and drink). Maybe it makes me morally bankrupt, but I don't think I'm going on a limb if I say that the latter celebration seems to be more in keeping with the priorities I pursue regularly throughout the year (so I'm not morally bankrupt, just 'genuine'). This means all you other bastards on this site can follow through with a resolution to post more. Please post more.

Why I Think Financial Reporting Sucks Cock

2011-08-31T22:38:00.000-07:00

I hope the catchy title makes up for a dull post. This said, I might as well get on with it. Financial reporting that directly associates an opinion to price fluctuations bothers me for the following reasons:

(1) Financial reporters aren't polling investors. If financial reporters were polling investors, then it would nice to see the data associating their opinions to the position's in the market they took (question's asked, sample size, etc.) But, they're not polling investors. There isn't any data. And as such, it's hard to see what justifies the reporters association between a price movement and a given opinion. At best, it seems the release of some 'important' piece of information can be seen to chronologically align with a substantial price fluctuation. But even then...

(2) The time frame given by financial reporters is just as arbitrary as the information they choose to associate with the fluctuation during that time frame. Just because market's aren't perfect doesn't mean that someone isn't going to try to profit from privileged information. As such, any given price is going to reflect, at least to some degree, some piece of information even before it becomes public (it simply won't reflect that information 'perfectly'). By its very nature, the influence of this privileged information on price fluctuations is incredibly difficult to report on (indeed, impossible, unless the reporter is likewise him/herself privileged). However, reporters can only point to some information after it becomes public. That is, it is impossible for reporters to know how informed they are about the motives behind price movements, even in retrospect. (2.1) More importantly, after the information becomes public there is absolutely no reason for reporters to prefer that day's closing price over any other price that prevailed during that day, or that will prevail over the coming days (before the subsequent release of likewise topical information). As such, it's downright difficult, if not impossible, to associate one given price to an opinion. How often have we seen a large change in some given price (say a large increase in U.S. bond yields) at closing time on the day of some governmental agencies be followed by an opposite price movement towards some base-line then next day (here, a relative drop in bond yields)? How often do we see substantial price fluctuations in that commodity during the same day as the release of its 'pertinent information'? I mean, if the given information is 'quarterly' in nature, than what is to say that it isn't influencing market prices throughout that whole quarter rather than during some time division within that quarter? It isn't as if investors forget about forecasts after closing time the day they're released. And if investors don't forget, then how can the same piece of information be associated with both a rise and drop in bond yields over any given time period (within a day, over two days, or even over the quarter)? It can't. At least, not as an exclusive motive for both movements. It seems as if financial reporters are trying to associate a 'static' cause to something that is more 'dynamic' in nature...

(3) The one trader I know didn't pay exclusive attention to the release of statistics (e.g. financial reporting). Instead, this (fairly successful person) only seemed to pay attention to the release of statistics insofar as they might inform her of the future behavior of other people in the market. That is, it never seemed as if it was the information guiding her decisions, but rather, her opinion of how that information might influence the decisions of other market participants. Still, I have yet to read a headline stating "Greek bond yields rise as investors expect other investors will act on the expectation of an increase in Greek bond yields following the release of quarterly Greek manufacturing revisions". That makes for a bad headline. It could probably be said that the reporting-market considerations behind financial reporting tints its information even before considering that...

(4) There is some (likely substantial) recursive effect on the prices of commodities subject to reporting. As this post is running long, I will leave it at this; someone has made a fortune shorting stocks after they're given positive reviews on Mad Money.

Why every girl needs (an attractive) gay friend

2011-07-28T17:28:00.000-07:00

I was standing in the Asian-fusion grill line manned by a 20-some Hispanic man when a couple of people walked into line behind me. With my sense of sight, I could tell one was an attractive blonde girl. With my sense of sound, I could tell the other was a gay man.

Of course, any straight dude loathes the gay dude with a hot girl. We're jealous. He's allowed to touch her in any way that would get the cuffs slapped on a straight man. She's allowed to poke and prod around his nether regions without him feeling violated (or even weird for that matter). We all know these things.

But never before the Asian-fusion grill line had I realized that the hot girl with the gay dude is always with an attractive gay dude. Maybe I'm just behind. So yeah, this struck me as odd. Why was this so? Here we go.

The definition of gay dude: Gay, means he does not like girls. Dude means he has a penis and is of the sex a straight girl would normally be attracted toward. But therein lies the keys. Gay means he won't woo said straight girl. Which means he won't ever fall in love with her. Which means she knows this. Which means she knows gay dude will never break her heart. Safety.

Dude means she can still look at him. She can still see him as an attractive person who's nice to look at, she can talk to him without qualms of judgment because she's not playing a game of courtship. Whether she has daddy issues or not, this is everything that her perfect straight man should be, except without the fear of failure or the complexity.

Think of it the opposite way. Have you ever eyed a hot girl with a token gay man who is a fat piece of shit, eats Doritos on his couch while watching Lifetime all day? Hell no. And it's not that such disgusting gays do not exist. So as my theory goes, such a completely rancid human being who happens to be gay will also have an equally destestable token straight girlfriend. It's a simple formula, though one I never realized until the other day.

Ah Asian-fusion grill line, you bring me much wisdom. No shit, you say. In the end, what's it matter?

It matters because bitches be bitches, man.

Hope and Hypocrisy

2011-07-20T01:56:00.000-07:00

I'm reluctant to post this, as I don't want to bury the last post. But, fuck it, the topic is related, and this kind of shit happens (indeed, has to happen in a working blog). I didn't realize until reading it through just how similar the tone is between the two. But hey, imitation is flattery, right? Besides, I'm afraid the tone of my last posts were getting too douchey. Maybe this will prove a nice 'reset'. I promise the similarity wasn't intentional at the time time it was written. All the same, thanks Jeff. Sorry for shitting on your work.

I'm afraid I'm a hypocrite. Hipsters bother me. Venues where hipsters gather bother me. I found the 'artistic endevours' of most of the people I met in college utterly lacking in quality. By and large, people attempting to be 'cultured' strike me as ignorant. I don't like people who call other people 'ignorant'.

At the same time, I want to say that I appreciate 'culture' and 'art'. I want to be cultured. I want to live in a place where other people want to be 'cultured', and work together to produce things that are distinctively valuable for their community, and for the community at large. Many of the 'hipsters' that I've taken the time to talk to come across as good-intentioned, earnest people who want similar things. The ones who don't I rarely come across again.

I'm afraid I hate progress. I instinctively dislike ads. The idea of someone going out of their way to get me to buy a product seems manipulative. Manipulation is repulsive. The whole idea of a 'consumer society' is repulsive. If I didn't have faith in the idea that there is some aspect of humanity that doesn't boil down to consumption and reproduction, I would probably kill myself. I can't justify my faith that there is an aspect of humanity that doesn't boil down to consumption and reproduction.

At the same time, I recognize the value of consumption. Ads give people information. Viewing them, I've sometimes found that information useful. When I don't find it useful, I am usually entertained by the attempt. People buy things because they want them. It doesn't make sense to say that things which are valued aren't valuable. Value is good. Buying things allows people to make more things that are of value. Reproduction allows valuable things to stay around for other people to use and enjoy.

The tension between these beliefs is often painful. Reflecting on them leads to periods of self-doubt and angst. But doubt allows room for the growth of new beliefs. These beliefs have a communal aspect. I think there is a communal aspect to hope.

More Drink, Less Think

2011-07-18T20:32:00.001-07:00

After twenty two years in the same city I have finally become attached. I am attached to my pool, my home, and the Christmas lights shabbily hung on the back porch. Beer, cigarettes, and Christmas lights. A drunken swim and the pool distorts the lights into something even more beautiful.

I am attached to ASU. She has given me four jobs and provided me with some wonderful professors. She is unseemly during the fall and spring, like she is covered in mud--too many people. During the summer and winter she shines and I ride my bike fast past the lost incoming freshman and their parents. I am attached to my workplace, even though it offers nothing new and the other office down the hall has fresh paint, leather couches, IKEA art, and a flat screen television. Mine has forms that I made.

I am attached to my roommates. I miss the ones that are gone, and will miss the other. Too many boxes in the house.

The Vine, too, I am attached to. It has nothing special. Every place has specials. The bartender tells me about how he saw Ozzy before Randy Rhoads died. "In that plane crash, right?" I ask. "Yeah," he says. They have good wings there and cheap beer. It is too bad that some mean people keep messing with the pool table balls. The bartender does not bring us water when we ask for it, but he is not mean.

I went to Mesa. They have a "Second Friday" and I liked it a lot more than Phoenix's "First Friday." I could buy the art. I bought some of the art. I want to get drunk and paint at the art gallery that has a day for that sort of thing. A guy was dressed like a giraffe. It's something. Mesa has some neat coffee shops and even a restaurant that is affordable and not horrible. Some bands that are ok or maybe even good play at the Mesa Art Center. Good for Mesa. I never thought I would ever think of Mesa. I was born there.

Finding meaning in a place is good. I've never done it before, except for a few places for a few moments in London and Edinburgh. It's an expansion of self. I like the embrace.

Sammy Adams and the morality of banging 18-year-olds

2011-07-09T17:59:00.000-07:00

Sammy Adams is the white Soulja Boy. The skin color thing makes him less successful, but while developed through different ways, their respective careers are relevant for the same reasons. As mediocre are their talents might be, bitches love them. I did not know this.

Not until my friend bought tickets for 20 bucks. It's something to do on a Friday night, after all. The concert was at Terminal 5, which my boss told me was "fucking awesome." It is true. Terminal 5 is pretty awesome.

Quick sidenote: earlier in the day boss asked what we were doing this weekend. He was going to see Soundgarden because 14 years ago he was into grunge. Apparently, Soundgarden broke up the day he was supposed to see them in concert, so that was pretty bummer. I told him I was going to Sammy Adams and also that he probably didn't know who that was. "Of course I fucking know who Sammy Adams is," he replied.Boss also once ordered me to get the fuck out of his office when I told him my Gmail account, tankkmz@gmail, was named after my pet frog. I like this boss.

Anyway, my friends and I were getting back from a sweet Irish tavern, complete with Irish bartenders. It was a go-after-work type of place. After hanging out with working-class adults, we show up to Terminal 5 and a block-long line of, on average, 18-year-old girls. It was like Justin Beiber took a big dump inside Terminal 5 or something. When it's questionable whether girls are even of legal banging age, I turn off my dick. This could be for several reasons: 1) I am too paranoid about actually having sex and getting arrested if a girl is under 17 ... 2) I don't want to bang an underage girl because I'd feel gross ... 3) I like girls with developed boobies.

Whatever the case may be, I started pointing at chicks and asking how old they were. Pretty sure nobody I talked to were 21, though they did go out of their ways to point out their fake IDs. Many didn't believe me when I told them I was 26. I then realized that strategy wouldn't work here, though it was good to practice the lying if a more-aged situation came about. When I reverted back to my real age, bitches still didn't believe me. Apparently I look like I'm 18. Anyway, it was stupid, though one girl gave me a water bottle full of vodka. I then remembered I don't like vodka and gave it to another girl (there were no roofies in it, ask me how I know).

Finally at the front of the line, there were some poor girls handing out bracelets for the 21-plus crowd ... at least, they were trying to find people who were of age. When we saw them, my friends and I said things like, "thank baby god Jesus"and "you made my night." Seriously, it was like finding an oasis -- an oasis full of whiskey and not 18-year-old girls. Once inside, it was no more than five minutes arriving that some kid straight up asks me to buy him booze. Him! Fuck no. I was later begged by some girl to do the same, and after I refused -- I was nice enough to give her my wristband (I was done drinking) -- she came back after she had been denied. She went on to tell me she would have made out with me if I had bought her a drink. A missed opportunity.

This leads me into questions of marketing:

When a person or entity needs something, they must realize that whomever or whatever can help them will want something in return. In this case, that would include sex, money, crack or otherwise. Begging is desperate, and not offering items of exchange (like sex) gives selfish entities, or people like myself, no reason to help. At least flash me a tit or perhaps offer cash prior to the exchange. This way, I will know that you know you're bothering me, and there will be something to make up for that bother. Otherwise, you are attempting to commit social rape.

In both cases, I was offended that people could take advantage of me without even veiling that they were doing such. That pisses me off. Oh well. I didn't really want to bang either of them anyway.

I Can't Be Thinking Clearly/This is Inappropriate

2011-07-05T23:16:00.000-07:00

Next time some ego-filled bitch posts some status update about the infringement on her rights that a proposed bill limiting access to Plan B birth control poses in the house legislature (IT'S MY BODY!), think of the following:

In the circumstances for which Plan B could be effective, a 'fetus' (here understood as the full spectrum from zygote to pus-filled vaginal alien) poses no claim on a woman's body that isn't equally claimed on the male. There are two possible frameworks for evaluating what claim a 'fetus' is making on a woman's body. Either, (1), one evaluates what nutrients a fetus has taken (up to present) from the woman; in which case, for the time period for which Plan B is effective, the amount is negligible (most pregnancy tests wouldn't be able to tell, reliably, that the woman IS pregnant during this period, which is to say, in this case, if the empirical discernment is difficult, the physical effect is minimal); or, (2) one evaluates what resources a fetus has the current potential to take from the woman; in which case, the resource effect for the nine months the fetus is in the woman's body is negligible compared the lifetime of resource consumption the fetus-turned-child will take from both parents (male and female) over its lifetime.

Of course, this argument is only applicable to certain 'right to body' critiques of Plan B birth control, and is certainly not applicable to abortion, or even Plan B restriction, claims more generally. But for this window, it seems as if women can't justify access to Plan B solely on the grounds of 'right to body', but instead, must also take other rights (such as, potentially, those of the father) into account.

This said, I would be very interested in y'all's opinion of the efficacy of this argument.

Pretty much sums up my high school experience...

2011-06-26T22:42:00.002-07:00

OKCupid Diary 5: Just kidding

2011-06-26T09:19:00.000-07:00

So last night I was drunk and actually was "favorited," whatever that means, by a girl who looked pretty on OKCupid. Also it said she was a vegetarian, so that means she cannot be fat right? Anyway, here is what I drunkenly messaged her (the first word, "parallels" is referring to the parallels between our lives).

Parallels: 1) Bunnies (one time i caught a bunny and it peed on my friend before we released it into the wild). 2) Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (saw Robert D. Jr. jump over the bridge -- I think -- around the bridge but stopped watching and haven't seen the important parts for a long while) and 3) Played Pokemon and last year lived with a weiner dog named Tanzy who actually resembles Eevee a bit. Other than that, we have nothing in common :/

While typing up this post, read it for the first time since last night. Didn't realize it was that retarded. That's poor luck on the only hot girl on OKCupid :/

OkCupid Diary 4: Online dating is dumb because I can, and should, lie about myself in real life

2011-06-23T14:22:00.000-07:00

I went to a "rooftop opening" party for my friend's media company last night. It was a fairly dressy affair and it was sponsored by Heineken to boot. That means free beer, so it was going to be a pretty good time.

This place was like Club Congress except not dirty. Granted, it was a struggle to get a dance floor going despite the three floors and one DJ on each of said floors. Whatever.

Observing my new "beer only" rule following a weekend of losing everything (credit card, metro card, physical self, dignity, blood, range-of-motion on my pinkie, sense of direction, my own dorm room to a crappy roommate, etc) the night was going alright.

But with the few sips of a whiskey beverage, things got better. After my friend had already put in a good word with his coworker for me and after this 26-year-old coworker said, "How old is he? 22? Um, no," she shows up.

Being not a coward, I decide this is a good time to hear it myself. I don't know what happened really, but one of her friends tells me I am adorable or something and starts talking to me so original plan is out the window. We talk about blah, this that, works at Warner? -- I don't remember not because it was boring but because I just don't remember. It is agreed that we are leaving this fine establishment together. In the bag. Oh, except before she gives her stamp of approval, she asks, "How old are you?" Her tweet from the morning after tells all (edited for privacy, even though showing this shows how it's not private anyway, but I don't want to be that creepy) :

Yes! So fun :) RT @26yearoldfriend Had an amazing time with @girlwhothinksiamadorable last night dancing to beats by @someDJwhocouldntgetthedancefloorgoing downstairs at Hotel Chantelle!

Please note that it does not read "got laid" or have a hashtag of "#ifuckedup" on it. Which hints at how I answered the age question.

I am really dumb. Next time, I am lying, and I don't need OkCupid to help me.

Scottsdale, Revisted

2011-06-20T22:27:00.000-07:00

This much is known, she called him Lou, he her Harriet, and the last man in their presence left the Machine Room muttering about frenzied gibbons. The Collective concludes, wisely, that though their heart speaks truths, their carcass still sings a riddle. More study is needed. Enter Dr. Orphanheimer, trained in the church organ. The first session is free. Attaching suckered tubes to both subjects and self. he probes with the 30000, pokes with the 68, and sighs, discontent. There is nothing to report but the fleeting revelation of dream.

A couple walks. Their sides conjoined, they gingerly path a rocky beach. Beaten with ocean spray, skin iridescent with ten-thousand glowing drops, they sway through dawn. A violet hue. Their hands join to pierce dusk, the sun flees their glance. The cycle shakes, but is not broken. Vibrations ring the octave. As rocks are sundered to sand, they're buried in time. A sheer glass case. Specimen for Science of some future age.

The machine's revelation leaves mystery clearly defined. Days pass and Dr. Orphanheimer takes to the street. His collection's tin sounds hollow with restraint. The Collective remains uncommitted (terms were set before employment) and commoners of the Sino peninsula, unassociated with the search, wish nothing to do with the yellow, beaten man. He takes the funds from savings, returns to the room now rented.

Still the bright-eyed girl hangs a demure glance to peg the great-aunt photograph, the stretched carcass a wilted lithograph. Face sunken with reeking fumes, he's tired, body a pool of sweat, pigeons excrete flu on statuesque form. Their motion melts.

The puzzle is given with neither edge nor cover, Dr. Orphanheimer longs for completion. The Collective had read Santiego, and accordingly reserved the third. Body frail from exertion, Dr. Orphanheimer pushes regulation wayside, and risks exposure once more. Again the machines hum.

But this time MORE.

A devilish grin split down middle to reveal neon roaches scurrying from banded foot falling to the beat. Crushed carapace bursts pastel, dripping down the horizon like salt-addled water. It hums a thousand vibrant notes. Eight. Eight. Eight.

The frequencies resonate in Dr. Orhphanheimer's skull, a conclusion forewarned. Literally shaken, he lacks structure to file knowledge. The immediacy of loss is all-consuming.

When no longer seized, the ground is cleared to birth new beginning. Insight brings Dr. Orphanheimer to his knees.

He spends the rest of his days pulling shrubs for the weeds.

"Damn," the curator is heard to reply, "that's the second one we've lost this week".

OKCupi Diary No. 2: I sort of already quit OKCupid since Diary No. 1

2011-06-13T19:37:00.000-07:00

OKCupid doesn't really work unless I spent a lot of time messaging people throughout the day and late into the night. However, because my job requires me to sit at a computer from 10:00 a.m. through 5 p.m., I'm not so tempted to hop back on once I get home to the dorm. Plus, NYU hasn't figured out that fast internet is important to learning (for example, OKCupid pictures, Facebook photos, etc. don't load. Sometimes going to Google.com times out). Oh and there's no wireless, either. Side note: Don't ever go to NYU.

Back to what's important. Yeah, so I guess I am kind of quitting on an experiment that I swear I did put a little effort into. I guess I was expected to have a lot of unsolicited messages like, "Let's bang" or perhaps a joke or something. Or maybe a picture of boobies. Not so.

Instead, I will recap hitting on girls in real life. Have three short stories so far.

1.) So the other weekend I went to Brooklyn Bowl, which is like a bowling alley, but with a bar, but with a dance floor, but with a rock band (School of Seven Bells was playing that weekend, check them out they are pretty great). Anyway, I was with two friends. We were fist pumping in the front row -- everyone else was dancing for some reason -- and there was some girl who started dancing with me. I think I danced back for a bit then began talking with her about God knows what.

Anyway, out of nowhere this small angry Asian girl pulled the dancy girl away and started chastising me because dancy had a boyfriend. Later, when dancy girl started dancing with my friend, the Asian girl blindsided him and pushed him over for dancing with her (could have used Michael Orr).

2.) There was this one bug-eyed girl at an apartment party that looked pretty slutty. So I suggested we play some sort of card game (which was surprisingly received well by these people who were probably 25-26). My friend who knows her a little says she is a bad conversation because she's dumb. OK.

In response to my cards request, this girl says, "I used to play cards."

I give my friend a weird look. "Uh, you used to? Like, do you have brain damage? Drink to much?"

"No I just, forgot."

That was dumb and I left. Later she gave me a cigarette and now I realize I might've fucked up because we went out on the rooftop and "hid" from the windows because she didn't want her roommates to know she smoked. Hitting on me or just stupid? I don't know.

3.) Short story. This girl works for Nickelodeon and somehow she gave me her business card. I thought I emailed her the following: "So are are knick and night? Digital or TV side?"

I think I meant "So are you Nick at Nite?" As luck would have it, it wasn't an email, just a text sent to her business number. Thankfully it was a land line.

Scottsdale, Revisted

2011-06-07T23:59:00.001-07:00

Part II-A Brief Observation of Driving Preferences

Of the three lanes that are common on most main streets here (i.e. Shea/Frank Lloyd Wright), most people seem to prefer driving in the left-most lane. Until recently I was one of these people. On reflection, my decision to choose this lane was probably driven by the belief that I was willing to travel faster than my car-encased peers. I assume that this justification is fairly common among "third laners".

This overwhelming demand does not seem to be without consequence. Cars traveling in the third lane are frequently passed by cars traveling legal speeds on inside lanes.

Admittedly, my experience driving anywhere is severely limited. To be honest, there is no good reason for me to believe this phenomenon is unique to Scottsdale. But, being equally honest, that fact doesn't stop me from smiling every time I steadily cruise pass 10+ cars coming home from work.

OKCupid Diary No. 1: Nobody has their shit together

2011-06-06T17:31:00.000-07:00

OKCupid account has been made. It is really weird, like a wild goose chase. In shallow terms, this means that there are very few hot chicks on OKCupid. But even on a deeper level, this means that OKCupid chicks are mostly the same and mostly boring.

I get that everybody likes Hemingway, Life of Pi and sushi. Some shit is great, and it's OK that everyone likes it. After a while though, the same crap keeps popping up.

For example, nobody on OKCupid knows where they're going in life. Lots of boring things about "finding what I want to do in life because graphic designing in the NYC area isn't what I thought it'd be."

Also, lots of people openly admit that they're still struggling to understand if God exists or whether they're bisexual. This angers me because I'm busy trying to be a productive member of society (OK, I guess writing doesn't really help in that way, but I'll probably sell out and help bureaucracy in some way or another). Meanwhile, these chicks are busy LOOKING FOR JOBS but also clearly not hard enough because they have time to "wander around the city" and drink coffee and wine all day.

Another thing that bothers me: writing profiles is very difficult, apparently. Remember when English teachers used to tell us to "show and not tell?" Well, that applies to online dating profiles too. I don't need you to tell me you're honest, I need you to prove that you're honest by giving me an example.

Not that I'm the model for online dating, but as an example, I wrote that I am most likely drinking on a Friday night (OKCupid's category of what I'm doing on a typical Friday night).

Anyway, that is all for now. I've only gotten one message from some boring-looking, boring girl. She didn't even make a joke in the message. It just says, "hi!" So far, not so good. OKCupid is only reminding me that I don't like people in real life either.

More to come ...

Hello Blue Monday

2011-06-02T12:08:00.000-07:00

(Not to bump down the fine and recent contributions of Kevin and Chardon, but...)

I think that it is probable and fair to say that I live the most boring life of the Riposte contributors. I am not much of a partier, I do not have quality stories of college shenanigans, and I gave up on trying to have interesting ideas to bring up in casual conversations a while ago (replacing them with half-hearted yet whole-hearted references to jokes that were made four or more years ago).

No, I study history. Religious history. Catholic history. Catholic lay trusteeism in New York City, 1785-1815, and their efforts to make Catholicism an OK thing in America (they did, but then everyone hated the Irish and thus Catholicism a couple years later). I also work in an office. At ASU. In engineering. I process forms, enter things into databases, say hi to people and help them, and move a lot of boxes. This is boring stuff, guys.

However, what I find amazing is the human ability to shrink the world—even to a size in which the directions, say, to get signatures on a form that gives security access to students can become a thing of great interest. Do I work for an overly-complicated bureaucracy full of extreme inefficiencies? Yes. But trying to smooth out those bureaucratic wrinkles and bottlenecks can be challenging and even fun. While recognizing the absurd specialization that careerism in academia has made a necessity and recognizing the breadth of historical research (and research as a whole, when you think of it historically—before, perhaps, the 17^th or 18^th century it was possible for one person to read everything that had been written and had survived), I maintain that my research is interesting. Perhaps even interesting beyond those four historians who have written about New York City, Catholics, and lay trustees. I also gave up on almost all creative output. No more guitar and music. No more attempts at writing stories. Probably no more poetry.

Of course not everyone finds their mundane lives interesting. There is another route to find excitement and interest: vicariously through the offerings of the media. But I gave up on this a long time ago. I rarely read, insisting that what I’ve gone through suffices for the sake of my own personal experience. I watch TV sometimes, but rarely pay attention, and only do so for sports, which I find less and less interesting every game. Movies are really really crappy, especially the ones that I watch these days. Sure, I listen to a lot of music. However, my favorite bands are usually ones that emphasize the mundane disappointment of daily life (The National, for one).

I have no good conclusion to offer from all this; I remain unsure. Is my acceptance of a life interesting only to me a strong assertion of my unique, singular consciousness? Or is it just a real shitty way to make new friends? Perhaps I overreached in, err, underreaching? Or perhaps there are better things to be than to be interesting? After all, there are only so many skill points we can invest in ourselves, right?

OKCupid is OK?

2011-06-01T21:01:00.000-07:00

So I've been thinking and decided that I really cannot have a real NY experience without an OKCupid account. This one girl I met said that it's a good idea because hooking up with people in my circle of friends will cause problems, plus it's apparently socially acceptable, plus everyone in NY does it.

Granted, I'd have to take shit seriously because I think I would just fuck around and forget about it and also fuck around with people if I actually got hits (for tits?). So someone would have to monitor me and make sure I'm being nice so the karma monster doesn't run me over with a taxi.

Thoughts? I don't like commitments like this, but I think it might add some flavor to experiencing this place as a New Yorker rather than a tourist.

Scottsdale, Revisited

2011-05-28T22:21:00.000-07:00

For many Arizonans, "Scottsdale" is a predictably evocative name:

Land of plastic hags, hung up by wealth, carousing on widely paved streets in cars that could buy a house. Bald roid-rats in Affliction shirts out-douching each other at bars in an elaborate, yet transparent, attempt to sleep with their neighbor's coked-out daughter.

From personal experience, I can affirm these images are not without foundation. But on the same basis, and of the same city, I can also affirm the following:

Land called home by at least two friends of decent moral character. Place where I can easily access at least three Taco Bell's.

Prima facie undesirable, but not without merit. And so, following graduation it was with more trepidation than excitement that I decided to return home. But "no rent" is the cheapest rent rate around. And if a boy raised in 'snobbsdale' (that phrase will be used once, and only once) could turn out to be such a cheap bastard that he would return to the place he would avoid telling people he was from, then maybe impressions from a wide-eyed youth deserve to be revisited. Could Scottsdale have more to it than "not unsaveable"?

I thus turn my pseudo-intellectual squinty eyes back to that same city, in this, a highly disjointed, but still unlikely to be completed, mini-series. Part I follows:

Part I

Applied for jobs today. Saw LOT's of fake-breasted aging women driving expensive cars at Kierland. But hey, that's adverse selection... unless the same species exists in abundance waiting for their children at the local middle school. And they do.

But then who am I to assume that aging people who took measures to alter their aging bodies are vapid shells devoid of self-esteem? And what does self-esteem have to do with the presence of other human qualities? Perhaps plastic surgery is the result of the same go-get 'em attitude that powered these women to amass large fortunes and buy those cars (and/or capture their husbands to do it for them). Besides, the use of any fortune to purchase a luxury car is what drives our economy (particularly here in AZ... ain't nothing wrong with governmental reliance on a cyclical sales tax).

At least the middle-aged couple sipping cocktails while walking their beagle gave me a curt nod of acknowledgment. And I'm pretty sure the dishwashers (if no one else), at my (hopefully) soon-to-be workplace aren't tall, white, athletic-looking types (not that there's anything wrong with that). Hell, there might have even been ten or more GM cars in the parking garage, hidden in a corner far away from the Bentleys in the valet lot. Maybe better things will come of this after all.

Things I did this year

2011-05-27T20:23:00.001-07:00

I count years by school years. It's when you say goodbye to people, goodbye to the same-old lifestyle and throw away, clean up and move out. Or at least, I threw a way a lot of many paper records of my really small paychecks. So instead of actually moving my crap out of my room at good ol' 1207, I'm going make a list. Here's what I accomplished.

Lost a friend named LaDarius (a red beta fish).

Gained a friend named JaMarcus (a large Oakland wall QB).

Played Bar Golf, and woke up dazed and confused.

Covered an Elite Eight basketball team.

Learned to enjoy the company of a lazy and pregnant weiner dog.

Did not let said lazy, pregnant dog vomit, poo or have puppies on a fiesta-colored rainbow road rug.

Created formidable and lazy costumes of Mai Tai and Whiskey for a "you are what you drink" party. The Mai Tai was a tie. The whiskey was a bathroom key (wizz key).

Got a date with a creative writing major with the pickup line, "if you were half as sweet as your dreams then you must sleep like an angel."

Got an internship. In New York.

Did not get a tattoo.

Lost all my keys in a river.

Cited myself in a final paper.

Got two 82%s on first two tests before deciding to drink and not study before the third test. Got over 100%.

Went to Albuquerque for a System of a Down concert.

Got a gun pulled on me.

Didn't die.

Leading up to getting a gun pulled on me, awesomely smeared my hand dripping with blood on some dude's white button-up shirt.

Had a pet bunny for a day, made it wear a party cup as a hat. Then he peed all over and we let him go.

Had a pet bird for a morning, after it fell into the fireplace.

Had a bloodied dog get into the house and bleed all over before cowering in a corner.

Really liked smoothies. Can't remember buying one, however.

Was a rally monkey on numerous occasions.

Went to see my friends in the hospital on numerous occasions.

Spent less than 24 hours in Seattle, Wash. Watched basketball and slept on an airport floor.

Grew a potato in the backyard.

Became a blogger. For pay.

Showed up to a work party in a van of screaming drunk people. Don't remember what was said to professors there. Only remember a shirt, which apparently I said was very "green and crisp."

Learned to enjoy whiskey.

Did not punch any holes in any doors.

Kept the bathroom pretty damn clean.

Spent St. Patrick's day in Tulsa, Okla., saw a curb stomp and Craig Sager drink beer.

Frequently did not wear shirts while wallowing in hungoverness.

Managed an internship interview without vomiting on the shoes of the interviewer. Sat outside the building in a chair with my head down for 20 minutes to hold myself together following said interview.

Enjoyed made up words: such included were "realio," "bartendress," and "deadly cock."

Had serious conversations about adulthood at a party.

Anytime I needed a knife while eating at home, turned to a rainbow-colored Kershaw switchblade.

Decorated with Christmas lights for the first time.

Misread the words "sweat suits" as "sweet sweets."

Things I like that slutty girls do not

2011-05-02T22:47:00.000-07:00

I tend to think of myself as someone who dabbles in many things. I like rap music and sometimes System of a Down concerts, whiskey and sometimes really sugary chick drinks. I enjoy Circle K coffee with cigarettes, but I feel like I have a good sense of what is really fucking good coffee. I also think wine sucks. I enjoy alternative cinema, but at the same time, Fast 5 was pretty fucking sick.

And so while I might like some things you like and dislike others, I generally don't make judgments. But I greatly value a number of things that slutty, blonde, California-esque chicks -- trying not to use the phrase "sorority girls" -- absolutely hate. Thus, I think they're stupid.

Pants

Pants are pretty fun. They are both stylish and useful. Pants have these things called pockets, which you can place any small items (pepper spray, make-up, chapstick, etc.). While I understand chicks have purses, this could be useful. Slutty girls don't like pants. Sometimes they wear dresses, and that's cool. But lots of times they wear leggings or nothing with or without dresses. Leggings are risky because of this thing called camel toe, which can still happen if you're wearing rigid underpants. Not classy.

Also, pants can be sexy. "But wait," you say, "how can you be sexy if you cover up your assets?"

Because mystery makes you even more likely to hook up with a bro who didn't realize how flabby, fugly, oddly-shaped you truly are.

Literacy

I thought that the tests in high school were to make dumb people more literate. Turns out they just calculate whether people can read and then tell the school/teachers they can't read. Then the schools/teachers don't do anything about it because the illiterate girls have graduated.

I feel like girls especially can get by in this regard because they have nice tits, whereas their illiterate male counterparts simply resign themselves to dropping out of college and/or not going in the first place. Slutty girls can get places because they're slutty, but that becomes annoying in my classes where girls, for example, can't use context clues like "multi" and "media" to understand the definition of multimedia. Also, the fact that said girl had no qualms in admitting she didn't know expressly pointed out that she didn't know how stupid she is, which means she is even more stupid.

That said, illiterate girls aren't smart enough to fuck you over in a divorce.

Neon colors

What the hell is up with neon colors? I remember once in first grade I bought a neon pink water bottle cooler. I consciously knew at the time it could be misconstrued as being feminine or even gay (at least, I think I knew what gay was at that point) but I wanted to like something other than blue (for those wondering, I soon changed to green, which apparently nobody likes). Like most straights, gays, and females, I grew out of the neon pink shit. But no, apparently this is a symbol of party, Kanye, LMFAO and party-rock-rap genres. So why is it adopted by sorority and fraternities?

I don't know. I sometimes feel like I'll get cataracts if I hang around you fucks anymore. Really, the bright green/pink plastic sunglasses were so 14 years ago. Your tank top that is black or white with neon lettering is hard to read visually, let alone figure out what the stupid Greek words really mean when it comes down to symbolizing the percentage of a chance you will put out/have put out in the next/past 24-hour period.

I can't keep up with that stuff. Why can't you start a sorority with a cool name? "Fucks only classy guys" versus "We like to pretend to be good at school but are still dumb; also ugly." Maybe "I'll give BJs and not sex" versus the "Cocaine addicts," I don't know. Point of my bitching is this: just be more open and you'll see better results.

Or are you going neon so you have a varied wardrobe for the 15 neon parties (because you can't think of any other themes) that you throw each year?

This Summer:

2011-05-02T11:15:00.001-07:00

Riposte returns?

Also if anyone is up to the task of finding a better banner, go for it. As anyone who has seen Transformers knows, aesthetics matter.

Uniform Choice

2011-04-11T22:02:00.000-07:00

The uniform may be able to give any manchild a vague semblance of authority, but does it always connote power? I certainly don't respect the authority of Best Buy employees or mall security guards, but I definitely wouldn't fuck with our casually dressed Ivorian friends in the last picture. The Ivorian rebels look the least professional out of these examples. I doubt any of them filled out job applications or had interviews to get where they are. I think I am most afraid and respectful of the authority of the Ivorian rebels above normal uniformed figures in our society because their uniforms represent an abuse of power. They didn't have to run any gauntlet to get the uniform, they just hijacked it and used it to their own ends. They play by their own rules, and express with their dress that they have more power than you and are aware of it. They don't have chivalry or a code of honor like marines. They don't have a store manager who will write them up if they mess up. Their uniforms don't represent an idea or a greater organization so much as a loose network of people who will take what they can in a chaotic situation. There are no logos, just a mess of camo colors. They represent armed conflict and war profiteering above anything else.

For all those who feel like their uniform does not evoke fear and respect, you need to play dirtier. Give the people who get in your way the impression that you are a loose cannon, that you will do some fucked up things if you have to and don't care if the chief will have your ass for it. I don't suggest actually doing something fucked up, but just appear like someone who is capable of abusing power, because that is the kind of uniformed figure that gets fear and respect. Be Darth Vader. Be an African Rebel.

Star Wars and Parenting

2011-04-03T15:24:00.000-07:00

In this following text, I will evaluate the parenting styles of the two adoptive families of the Skywalkers in the Star Wars saga. Granted, the prequels have fucked up the continuity and how much the Skywalker-Lars-Organa kinship makes sense, but I think in evaluating these families, you can find an unintended message in Star Wars (because there is no way that George Lucas intentionally puts deep stuff in there) about nature and nurture and how to not be a shitty parent.

Owen and Beru Lars: Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru do have good intentions in looking after their foster child, Luke's well being. However, I think their overbearing protectiveness has its faults. For one thing, it seems that they told Luke at some point in his life that he was adopted. It's cool that they were honest with him about that detail, but completely dishonest about his parentage. Luke grows up thinking that his father was a navigator on a spice freighter, which is probably the Star Wars equivalent of being a trucker. I have no idea how Owen explained the death of Anakin Skywalker and Luke's mother, but I wouldn't be surprised if it involved death sticks and a public restroom on Nar Shaddaa. I don't know why they didn't just completely lie to him if they were so concerned with protecting him. Having him keep the Skywalker family name has to be a huge risk. I imagine this is part of the reason why Owen is reluctant to let Luke apply for the Academy, which might as well be called Emperor Palpatine University as a diploma from there leads to a career in Imperial service (see http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Imperial_Academy). It's also weird that Beru doesn't see the harm in him enrolling in the Academy to be with his other desperate Tatooine friends. Owen deals with Luke wanting to join the Empire simply by putting it off, saying he needs Luke for just one more harvest. This is seriously all he can think of to stop his adopted son from going out into the galaxy and potentially destroying it. How come he never got an advisor from Anchorhead Tech or some other educational institution that doesn't produce stormtroopers and TIE Fighter pilots to come over to the homestead and talk to Luke about a degree in moisture vaporator engineering or something? The Lars' clearly didn't come up with a plan for what to do when Luke became an adult and come off as miserable, fun hating parents because of it.

Bail Organa: Bail and whatever his dialouge free wife is named have a different parenting strategy than the Lars' in that they give their daughter much more freedom in becoming her own person. She benefits from taking the last name Organa and being a member of Alderaanian royalty. This does make her a public figure, but since she doesn't have the last name Skywalker, she doesn't have to worry about attracting heat by merely opening a bank account or applying for a driver's license. I am uncertain if Bail and his wife have disclosed to Leia that she is adopted, but she is viewed as a legitimate member of the Organa clan seeing as she takes on the last name and royal title. When she refers to her father in the "Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi" holovid, she is referring to Bail. Being an Organa is probably the Star Wars equivalent of being a Kardashian, and I do not think anyone in Leia's family and peer group can delude her into thinking that she is incapable of doing great things. Compare this to Luke, who views himself as the progeny of losers who has been adopted by another group of losers. The difference in self-confidence between the two siblings is immense. While Luke is hopelessly farming moisture and taking his landspeeder on joy rides to nowhere, Leia is holding public office as a senator for her planet and is overtly and covertly trying to stop galaxy wide oppression. From the beginning of Episode IV, we see that Leia has already crossed a point of no return in acting upon her convictions; the mission to deliver the Death Star plans is a dangerous one that carries the risk of death or capture for her if it fails. Seeing as she actually kills a person to defend these plans in the first few minutes of the film, we can see that she is aware of the deadly seriousness of her task and has chosen to follow it to completion. This is a contrast to Luke who is initially reluctant to join the rebellion, citing that he has work to do and can't leave his home. It is only when his home is destroyed that he embarks on what his uncle would call a "damn fool idealistic crusade". I think the difference in this decision making has to do with moral education. The Organas probably brought up Leia to not be a dark mistress of the Sith by teaching her to protect justice and combat injustice. The Lars' simply kept Luke unaware of all the moral conundrums in the world, and taught him to be wary of people who follow their convictions. It is possible that Luke never really understood that there was suffering in the world until the Empire murdered his Aunt and Uncle and that thus became the impetus for him to fight injustice in the galaxy. Leia's home, by contrast, is destroyed after she decides to live a life of fighting injustice, suggesting that the idea of injustice happening in the galaxy at all bothered her more than how she had personally been affected by it. Alderaan was a peaceful planet with no weapons, after all; being a resistance fighter is probably an uncommon career choice there. It seems like the Organas did the best to protect their daughter by teaching her to protect herself and come off as the better adoptive parents of the Skywalker twins.

Up Next: Darth Vader and baby-daddy syndrome.

Confused Review of Lady Gaga's Monster Ball Tour

2011-03-29T16:25:00.000-07:00

Due to rather lucky and bizarre circumstances, I was able to attend Lady Gaga's concert last weekend for the price of two corn dogs and hot chocolate--that's what I bought for my friend, who invited me to the concert and gave me his extra $180 ticket for free (I warned him beforehand that I couldn't pay him back). I think I owe him dinner or something.

I've never gone to a concert in an arena before, and I'm not sure there are many bands, artists, or celebrities who could get me to go to one again (unless it was free?). The U.S. Airways Center is great for basketball (besides the fact that the Suns play there), but bad for listening to dancey music. I made sure that I kept my movement limited so as not to accidentally touch the guy next to me and make him feel even more uncomfortable--he was one of the many men who seemed unwilling to be in the center of Gaytopia, but who were dragged along by girlfriends. Gaytopia seems to be what Gaga specifically hopes the Monster Ball tour to be. However, the crowd was incredibly diverse. I saw old men and women, 30-something couples who would look more appropriate at Macayo's or some shitty restaurant that lame people think is cool, little girls, a dude sporting a Rockstar energy drink jersey with the number 69, and some 400-pound guy wearing a skirt and encroaching on ladies' private space.

Gaga confused me. "Phoenix! The freaks aren't in here," Gaga shrieked, "they're out there!" I guess she meant every single person in Phoenix who did not want to go to her concert, or those who cannot afford to. At times it seemed that she either wants you to be a Little Monster, or not a part of Gaga's fanbase at all. She criticized those who didn't dressed up (oops! twas' I!), and also those "rich motherfuckers" who were sitting down in the front row (not I). I thought this was about inclusiveness and feeling comfortable with whoever you are? Leave the lazy rich people alone, I say. Also don't charge a billion dollars for tickets (Gaga has claimed in the past that her shows are as inexpensive as possible) and then get upset that rich people are there.

By the way, if you didn't know it, Lady Gaga is really an amazing singer and performer. But the Monster Ball for me is too much of an attempt to create a musical out of unconnected pop songs. The rough plot of the show is that a group heading to the Monster's Ball (meta, right?) get lost, but with the aid of whoever the hell Lady Gaga's character is (herself?) they make it to the Ball. I don't really remember what the ball is once they're there, but whatever. More impressive and sensible than the awkward plot is when she plays the piano with her high-heels.

Lady Gaga put on her serious yet childish persona: "I'm don't want to be a celebrity, I want to be an artist." I am not sure I buy it. In fact I am left confused on what to think about Lady Gaga as a whole. Her affirmation of the beauty of everyone at times seemed insincere. When a barbie was thrown on stage, she bit off its head, commenting on the negative effects such toys have on young girls. However, her crew of dancers and musicians were fairly homogenous in their body type. NFC/D on Gaga's tour. Apparently the decapitation was not spontaneous, but instead a regular occurrence. I can't stand when artists try to make a concert speech or gimmick or whatever seem spontaneous when it's really an old shtick.

I hope that Gaga understands that she won't be able to survive by repeating the same ostentatious shows--she was in Phoenix with a similar show last year. She should also take out the video in which she gets thrown up on. On the plus side, the vomited liquid definitely looked like Baja Blast. I wouldn't be surprised if it was, as this show was corporate to the max. Technically I went to the Virgin Mobile Presents Monster Ball Tour Starring Lady Gaga. With all the advertisements, I would've hoped that tickets would have been a bit cheaper.

Oh and Scissor Sisters opened up for her. Watch their awesome music video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4H5I6y1Qvz0.

When Newspapers Were Cool

2011-03-18T14:50:00.000-07:00

So I've been going through this old New York City newspaper, "The Shamrock, or Hibernian Chronicle" from 1810 to 1813 looking to find some material for my thesis. 18th- and 19th-century newspapers had weird stuff like bad poetry, jokes, and advertisements disguised as news (or is this not that much of a surprise?).

Anyways here is a joke (I presume) from the February 16th, 1811 issue:

About two months ago a lady purchased a puppy in the street, from a woman who was exposing it to sale, which was admired by every person that saw it, for the peculiar beauty of its hair, and the fineness of its texture. A few days since poor Phillis was taken ill, and declined her food, all the female friends and old maids in the parish were constant in their enquiries after the health of the animal. After much suffering the cause of the illness was discovered. As she grew larger, he pains increased, when at length she was completely cured, as she burst from an artificial skin of a dead dog, which had been sewn on her, and the beautiful Phillis now appears in her proper person, one of the ugliest and most neglected curs [sic?] in the city!

Well then. This came an issue or two after the editor acknowledged recent complaints about how the paper did not have enough jokes. Looks like he stepped it up.

There are other interesting comic tales that would take too much time to transcribe. There are copies of the folkloric "John and massa" stories in which slaves tricked their masters with their cunning. The one that I came across had a slave whose punishment for disobedience was to count the pebbles of the owner's yard. The owner, coming out to check on the progress, refuses to believe that the slave had completed his task. There are 15,000 pebbles, the slave claims, count them yourself.

Impressed with his wit, the master shares a drink with his slave.

Hammer or Get Hammered?

2011-03-10T09:44:00.001-08:00

Things to fix between now and the end of summer:

Repair my relationship with Arby's, which has spoiled about as much as their food. Still, their new three-cheese bacon sandwich looks delicious and I have coupons for it...
Learn to not hate literature.
Fix car alarm settings so that when the the valet switch breaks (almost there) I can still use my vehicle.
Re-learn to enjoy alcohol that isn't beer.
Latin. French.
Inability to make level tea.

Do not fix:

Poor eating habits.

God of Whine?

2011-03-03T14:26:00.000-08:00

All the Third Eye Blind I have been listening to lately makes me want to hang out in New York City and smoke cigarettes.

Maybe I'll get lucky.

Why being a writer sucks

2011-03-01T00:21:00.000-08:00

Writers are a lot like hopeful musicians or actors (or actresses if you're a female).

You judge success by fame.

Say you, an actor/tress, get a chance to play a passerby in a low-budget, local flick. You, an actor/tress, would be pretty stoked, I think.

Same goes with becoming a "lead blogger." The word "lead" means you are in charge. That's good, right? Being a boss means you're more powerful than at least five other people on this Earth, and that's good enough to make you feel important.

Not so much when you forget that you aren't getting paid to manage these other people, who you feel are incompetent, worthless, REGULAR "bloggers." Funny how much more important that first word makes you feel.

And what about that second word?"Blogger" means you're writing what comes off the top of your head (or out your ass), without any semblance of objectivity or rationality. Being right doesn't matter so much as pissing off someone enough to post a comment that says you're a dumbass under your original post.

Comments feel good, don't get me wrong. At least people pay attention. But generally, comments avoid what I'd call creative discussion, and instead lean toward insult and stupidity. It's all good though. You'd get people to give you more hits, more clicks and more web-traffic than people who wished they hadn't wasted their time -- you're getting more of these than the next guy. And believe me, if you suck a lot, this next guy sucks bags of dick.

Your livelihood revolves around SEO headlines and ticking people off.

Is it good? Hey, you get attention. Is it bad? Hey, your content sucks.

However, the ultimate question is whether it will lead to greater endeavors, better opportunities. Ah, the Blogs.

"I'm a lead blogger," you say to some girl in a short skirt at the bar.

"Oh my gawwwd, what do you write about?" she asks.

You should be honest in this sentence.

"I write about sports," you respond.

You should lie in the next two sentences.

"It's more of a hobby," you say. "I'm almost done with Med school."

A Non-Complaint About Tuition Increases?

2011-02-18T09:44:00.000-08:00

http://economix.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/02/18/why-does-college-cost-so-much/?hp.

Don't worry, it is much better than the same kind of article would be in our college papers. Particularly interesting was this line: "State universities are beginning to emulate their private brethren by raising tuition and setting aside a good portion of their tuition increases for price discounts to less wealthy families. In these situations, prices can rise for affluent students without rising for many poorer students. A major constraint on doing this, however, is the reluctance of state legislatures to allow sufficiently high increases in the list-price tuition that wealthier families would have to pay."

Tuition increases as covert redistribution? Maybe. I am not sure about tuition "discounts," but based on what evidence I have seen, it does seem as if ASU has been offering more financial aid the past two years, even as the state has decreased funding and the wrecked economy has limited outside aid (or so I assume). So although all will complain about these rises, those who can pay for it will continue to pay for it, while those who cannot will receive aid to make up for the increases. From my point of view, this works well in theory.

I like this system. The problem is more the difficulty of actually judging a student's real need (the article argues that the problem is the complexity of the financial aid system and that it requires an early start that disqualifies low income families who can't imagine college in the future). But how to judge a student's actual need is actually pretty difficult, as anyone who has filled out the FAFSA knows. The primary number that FAFSA generates is how much aid a student will receive from parent(s). It is only a guess at how much the parents can spare for their kid and I bet it is often either way too high or way too low.

A similar strategy of this "covert redistribution" is used in the world of academic publishing. The profit made off of exorbitant textbook prices not only feeds the pockets of publishers (certainly not the professors who wrote them), but it also is used to subsidize the smaller publications of academia that will not sell well--for me it is works such as "The Holy Household: Women and Morals in Reformation Augsburg" that simply cannot make a profit.

I see a lot of problems with our universities (and those who attend them), but I do not feel as if people are treating the rise in tuition fairly. The low-cost of college in the past few decades was really amazing, but it was simply not sustainable, especially with the mentality that everyone should get a college degree. A quick Google check suggests that financial aid has risen quite a bit that past couple of years--federal aid certainly has. These factors should maybs be taken into account.

There's probably a lot that people can disagree with here. Let me know how you feel.

An Ill-Defined Language Game

2011-02-09T23:29:00.000-08:00

Bored in class? Consider the following...

Speaker __: You know I like that

Speaker __:What are you referring to

Speaker __:That

Speaker __:What are you referring to

Speaker __:That’s vague

Speaker __:What are you referring to

Speaker __:Exactly

What the hell is this, you might ask? Why, nothing, I might respond. Or I might respond that it's the next best thing to Mad Libs and 'Choose Your Destiny' Goosebumps books. What's this, you could respond? And that's the point at which I frantically gesture with my words to the following words:

MAKE YOUR OWN STORY. SIMPLY INSERT SCENE, SPEAKER, AND DIRECTIONS

EXAMPLE: Take Speakers 1, 2, and 3 to be on the couch in front of Television with class notes

Speaker 1: pointing to television You know, I like that!

Speaker 2: flipping through class notes, muttering to self What are you referring to?

Speaker 3: points at television, turning to speaker 1 That?

Speaker 2: interrupting 3, still flipping notes, now with frustration What are you referring to!?!

Speaker 3: continuing from interruption That’s vague

Speaker 2: angered at notes WHAT ARE YOU REFERRING TO?

Speaker 1: turning to 3 Exactly

OR- take same speakers and objects

Speaker 1: commenting on massage from speaker 2 You know, I like that.

Speaker 2: with shocked innocence What are you referring to?

Speaker 1: moans with pleasure that

Speaker 2: continued innocence What are you referring to?

Speaker 3: points at notes and mutters to self that’s vague

Speaker 2: turning to Speaker 3 what are you referring to

Speaker 2: …exactly?

And so on… How many dialogues can be made with the same objects? speakers? lines? What kind of lines maximize the number of possible dialogues? What kind of lines produce dialogue with the most divergent content? If you're still bored, you can try to find out.

In no time, you might find that you have sufficiently bored yourself with this useless exercise to find your marginally less useless class marginally less boring.

Engineering, McJobs, Class Conflict, etc

2011-01-28T22:10:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WiJczH3cr48

New social theory: the engineer is just a more educated and higher paid equivalent of the guy who works a shitty retail job forty hours a week so he can play Xbox 360 on his HD TV in his free time. The same worship of money, complicity with faceless corporations, and lack of highbrow culture is there. This guy is going to be so fucked if a Butlerian Jihad or proletarian revolution happens in America. But that probably won't happen, so he'll probably just have a more financially stable future than me. I don't know about people who want to be engineers in the future, however. There is a glut of people like this and only so many jobs. The engineering degree might be as useless as every other degree in a decade.

Just so you know

2011-01-17T13:30:00.000-08:00

I just rolled out of bed and it's 2:30 p.m. While you all might believe this has been an uneventful day, I'm here to say otherwise.

Realizing I needed to shower, brush my teeth, pee, put in my contacts, etc., I combined the brushing teeth with the peeing. While it may appear that I'm ambidextrous, I'm nothing of the sort. It's kind of weird, but I genuinely feel I needed to tell someone of this feat.

Also, I did not pee on the seat.

Facebook Judgements: Realizing You're Better Than Everyone Else Via Social Media

2011-01-07T14:23:00.000-08:00

Roaming Facebook galleries today, I found myself disgusted with people. We college-aged and recent grads all notice them. Past acquaintances, separated by time, space and lifestyle. You know, the kids from high school, middle school -- the kids that you once had something in common with, but are now strewn out (physically and mentally) in this complex world. When you come across these people in your Facebook feed, do you get nostalgic? Probably a bit. But usually, most of my thought process lies in how much better I am.

Smart pretty girl who turned into a slut/dates meth addicts (see above, maybe?)

Every school had one; the pretty girl who also happened to have some brains. Every dude, from prep to jock to nerd to bandie, hell, to other chicks and gay dudes, wanted to marry this girl. Sometimes they turn into Miss Fill-in-the-blank-here. But often, they lose themselves to meth-addict boyfriends (dudes with lots of gauges in his ears, tattoos, thin jaw lines, veins popping out everywhere and are 5-foot-10 but only 110 pounds) or turn into general slutbags. They become less pretty because they wear more make-up than that cockroach guy from Men In Black. And, they love to post Facebook photos of how not big their tits have become, squeezing them together and justifying their actions by tagging the album "Jersey Shore Party."

Pregnant

The most obvious case of Facebook judgement. I mean, c'mon, you're 21 years old with a 2-year-old kid? Sure, little guy is cute and the "love of your life," but here's to betting that you also said that about Junior's daddy, who dumped you a year after the pregnancy and three months after the marriage. He bolted for Miami with your the least favorite bridesmaid (not least favorite because he took her, but least favorite because you only invited her to the wedding because she had a CEO daddy who was willing to help out with the costs of it. Unfortunately, CEO daddy also paid for her fake tits, the main reason why your ex left you.) Don't lie and say you're happy with yourself.*

Married Christian

These people are hard to figure out. In high school they were quiet, slightly socially awkward, yet a little immature. And for some reason, they're getting all boo-beared up. They start posting Facebook and Twitter statuses with verses of the Gospel or something, citing God for helping them find their soulmate. Uh, duh, you found your soulmate because you both made a conscious decision to attend, coincidentally, the same church. Whatever. Honestly, I do have some jealousy toward these people, minus the wholesome Christian part of it. Marriage seems pretty cool, especially when the wedding has an open bar. **

Quiet girl in late goth rebirth

Similar to above, the shy, immature nice people in high school can take a different path. Such path includes FINALLY -- after dressing like your 50-year-old parents for your entire life -- finds some subculture or rebellious group to join. Usually, it really means nothing emotionally and they just start dressing like goths or something, wearing lots of makeup or skinny jeans; however, they're still the same kind person they were in high school. It's just kind of awkward because they should have stopped wearing checkered belts after they turned 18, yet they're just starting.

Fat girl who got skinny; too skinny

I might be an asshole, but I seriously feel bad for these sad cases. Look, it's probably good news you lost some weight. I mean, seriously, had you kept up the eating habits of an NFL offensive lineman you'd probably end up bedridden by the age of 50. Now that that's out of the way, just because you got skinny didn't mean your self esteem is any better. Like you didn't (and maybe still do) have some eating disorder to lose that 100 pounds ... and my name is Andrew Jackson (it's not). I mean losing weight is one thing, but going from fat to sickly skinny essentially improves your chances of getting some and that's about it.

The ambitious kid who might make it

Usually musicians or artists, these people are sure going through life guns ablazin'. Not to say that all of them will make it, but they damn sure try hard and that can be respected. Don't get me wrong though; it doesn't mean they have talent, but these people at least have a way with getting what they want and for that they should deserve credit. An easy example of this person is Soulja Boy Tellem, a talentless individual with a good eye for taking dumb peoples' money. I'm not even going to check the spelling of his name because it's a stupid name, but I can't hate the player. I'll hate the game.

The ambitious kid who doesn't realize they suck

Being the objective person I am, I'll probably fall into this category. Writer who think he's good because he worked his ass off at a crappy student newspaper (I'd like to think it's not crappy, but let's play devil's advocate) and has a few blog jobs on the side -- whoop-dee-doo. Both blogs have cool names with puns and shit in them, but his friends made them up, not he. This category of people is ignorant not about what they love in life, but what about they're good at. I.. they suck at what they love doing. But then comes the saying of "ignorance is bliss" which is why I'll say this category of people is probably the best one.

*Mormons not included in this analysis
** Include Mormons

Kanye West Audiosurf Album Evaluation

2011-01-02T21:15:00.000-08:00

When something happens that I do not understand, I try not to lash out against it. This is the mentality of children and commentators on Fox News. Instead, I try to put things in perspective in whatever way is easiest for me. The most recent event in popular culture that I do not understand is the #1 spot of the Pitchfork end of a year list being occupied by the recent Kanye West album My Beautiful Dark and Twisted Fantasy. Being on the list itself is something that is no mystery to me; indie hipsterdom has been reaching it's tendrils out at mainstream Hip-Hop for years. Part of the indie appeal of liking a mainstream rapper is that mainstream rap is still obscure in an indie context. While it won't impress some 13 year old girl who wears PINK sweaters who is all about that stuff, for indie people hip hop is still like a mysterious other planet, possibly, in the words of Chuck D, a black one to be feared. Discuss seriously going to a Hip-Hop show with some people in college who listen to Naysayer or Animal Collective and see how soon someone brings up a concern that something violent might happen. Hip-Hop is something that a hipster can like from a distance without any full immersion and at the same time use it to distinguish himself from his hipster peers. The fact that someone like Kanye or Lil' Wayne is on a major label is of no concern to indie music fans who usually look down on this because the genre itself is mysterious enough for them and there is a pretended idea that all people in Hip-Hop are self-made moguls like Jay-Z, tying it in with the DIY ethic.

Again, what I do not understand is why the album itself was placed at number one. I would think that only the die hard of the 13 year old PINK wearing demographic would take the position that this album was better than the rest of the music that came out this year. I knew that an attempt at understanding would involve actually listening to this album and in the hipster spirit, I listened to it in a way that would make me stand out from my peers: I played it as a video game.

The computer game “Audiosurf” is one of the premier titles in the burgeoning genre of “synaesthetic rhythm games”. Think of this as a combination of DDR and those fractal displays on windows media player. Audiosurf is a game in which you “ride your music” driving a little car on a level that is procedurally generated from the mp3 it is based on. Fast parts in a song will go downhill, slow parts will go uphill. You collect various colored blocks that correspond with beats, and avoid getting gray blocks which serve as obstacles. Cool looking stuff like fireworks happen in the background at appropriate parts. Every song is different, and if you compose music, you are technically a level designer.

This experiment really didn't lead to a complete understanding about Kanye West's place on the Pitchfork list, but it was fun. I essentially drove through the entire album, taking notes of what I thought was good and what I thought was bad. Kanye may be a believer that a man is only as good as the company he keeps because he keeps pretty good company on this album. What this translates to in the game are the most interesting parts, making it feel like a tour of Kanye's personal circle of creative colleagues as given by Kanye more than any expression of Kanye himself as an artist.

The associative nature of this album may be part of its hipster appeal, in that Kanye West uses other people to form his identity in the same way that hipsters are prone to do not just with people, but with art movements and inanimate objects. Kanye comes off like the dude in a cool indie band who plays triangle or something else completely useless because he's bros with one of the talented people in the band and wants to leech off that talent. This is kind of weird because it is his own album that he is doing this on. Anyway, I sort of get it, Pitchfork. Most of the quips on the list were tests on seeing how much one could write about the personal life and affiliations of a musician before writing anything about the album. On the virtue of irrelevant things alone, Kanye wins because he does crazy stuff in the public eye all the time and associates with more interesting people than someone like Bradford Cox, who is just a skinny dude who makes music. Seriously, here is the blurb:

“Bearing witness to Kanye West's very public 2010 has featured many joys, none greater than watching everyone unspool his myriad updates, achievements, and indiscretions into piles of meaning. His persona went to cataclysmic places this year-- there were times when he deserved his own cable news ticker. But, somehow, West managed to transcend the preposterous talk show appearances, the too-good-to-be-true Twitter account, the live breakdowns, the Horus chain, the free-MP3 stunt(ing), the press blitz, the breakups, the make-ups, the dick pics, the furniture pornography, the Rosewood movement, the NO NEGATIVE BLOG VIEWING, the living paintings, the short film, and the rest of the lot. Through all that noise, we obsessed first and most deeply over the eye of the storm: the album.” --Sean Fennessey

Mr. Fennessey spent one two-word clause out of all that talking about the album itself. I know that they did a full on review earlier, but this is the piece of writing that is supposed to be the argument of why it is better than all the other albums this year. Mr. Fennessey, if you read this and think I have beef, I don't. I am just trying to find out what your methods are. Anyway, here are my notes from this virtual drive through the latest Kanye West album:

“Dark Fantasy”: The “can we get much higher” parts have a tendency to go uphill at a relaxing pace with not a lot of obstacles to avoid. The verses have a rhythmic bumpiness and require playful zigzagging to get through. Really fun track.

“Who Will Survive in America”: spoken word sample. The beat is heavy at first and produces this downhill motion with very big drops. The bongo drums kick in and it slows down and becomes more relaxing.

“Gorgeous”: intro, guest rapper, and outro part are all fun. Kanye part gets repetitive. Feels like driving on a dirt road in Indiana or rural Mexico, really.

“Power”: the intro and the bridges to this song are really cool. They create these slow calm blue banking turns and then kick up with fast drum beats at the end. Like the other songs, the verses get repetitive. The part where he talks about wanting to kill himself is kind of fun, though.

Interlude: quick downhill thing. Nothing special.

“All of the Lights”: awesome verse build up into chorus. As soon as you hear “ghetto university” it goes downhill and has a ton of drum rolls that you can score points off of. The bridge is drawn out and builds up at a good pace. Possibly the best Audiosurf song on the album. It is also about domestic violence.

“Monster”: this song is really fun. The Nicki Minaj part is really cool. So is the chorus.

“So Appalled”: This goes up and down pretty regularly. I like the RZA part.

“Devil in a New Dress”: kind of boring during the Kanye part, but then has a really sweet guitar solo slowdown and then the Rick Ross part has a fast downhill motion. I don't know how the Rick Ross part ties in with the Kanye part. I think Kanye is talking about getting laid while Rick Ross is talking about dealing drugs and acquiring wealth.

“Runaway”: Good intro that creates this slow driving sense of trepidation, like you aren't sure of what you are getting into. Good beat throughout. The auto-tune hum solo probably annoys listeners of the record, but it's fun to drive a video game car through it.

“Hell of a Life”: “Fuck with the lights on” part is cool. The “mmm mmm” part at the end wasn't as great as I thought it would be. I got the high score out of everyone who played this song, taking the spot from a guy called “nut buster elite”.

“Blame Game”: the crashing noise fills in this song get you tons of points. The Chris Rock sample at the end makes me wonder how anyone could have given this a 10.

“Lost in the World”: this is really diverse and fun. Speeds up as more elements get added to it. Good finale for sure.

Overall: a fun trip with a few interesting diversions. Parts of it drag, but you end up somewhere really cool in the end. I can't think of any real world drive to compare it to. Maybe driving along the California coast, heading inland into the Nevada desert but stopping at roadside UFO related attractions and those salt flats where they test supersonic rocket cars before ending up in Vegas for a party of these proportions.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_g_7rdL6jmY

English Major Pain

2011-01-02T15:47:00.000-08:00

Being an English major is a wonderful idea--for the first two or so years of college. An English major's unique view of the world (every major has a distinct one) is enriching. It typically forces one to confront other cultures (if not geographically, then at least chronologically); learn how to read and write to at least some extent; and most importantly, it gives rise to the power of empathy. I don't mean the ability to empathize with, say, the life of a slave--that should hopefully come naturally enough through high school or through the essential commentary of American society. I mean more the ability to empathize with, say, the slaveholder; it's the ability to embody the character of someone whose being is wholly foreign to your own. To understand the totality of their world and the justifications that they hold for their beliefs and actions.

However, the later years of the English major experience for me have been often vapid and we (or at least myself and a number of other students whom I have observed) suffer through the recycling of analytical tools learned in the first two years. Consider one of the following "tricks" that English undergrads love and that make me dismiss a decent amount of literary scholarship:

The surface of the examined work is a guise, covering up the true message of the author (which is usually the complete opposite than the ostensible). This trick has been around at least since the Jewish philosopher Maimonides' "The Guide for the Perplexed," in which the reality (or real reality?) is buried deep, as Maimonides himself claims. To put it one way: Maimonides is not handicap accessible, and one has to work hard to correctly interpret his work. A work might say one thing, but it means something else which can only be accessed with some serious mental effort and dismissal of other evidence. As a loyal subscriber to America (the country), with its belief in clear writing, this is difficult to deal with. Also the most common employment of this tactic is arguing that a character (or author) is homosexual, and I am suspicious of political/ethical motives behind many of these analyses. Don't worry, there is plenty of historical evidence of dudes liking dudes since, like, ever. And no doubt: Shakespeare was gay, so you don't need to argue that Dr. Frankenstein was "clearly" homosexual.

While Maimonides created that dichotomy in his work, many undergraduates apply it without restriction. Here is an example from a recent course I took:

The argument was that perhaps Goblin Market is not an Edenic allegory with an emphasis on sisterhood, but instead lesbian erotica. This argument pits a part (which, to a modern audience, has one passage that has sexual overtones) against the whole (that is...every other part of the work) and it is hard to stomach. Digging too far down or exploding sections can subvert the truth of a work. By the way, that "lesbian" scene which was republished in Playboy in the 1960s and has a woman ask her sister to "Eat me, drink me, love me; / Laura, make much of me," is a re-enactment of the Eucharist, not sisters lezzin' out. It is acceptable for English undergraduates to take small passages or submerged logical connections and then apply them to re-interpret the whole. But not every work is "The Guide for the Perplexed"...

I just don't buy a lot of what is taught and discussed in literature courses. With a standard interpretation already present for the classic works, I believe that students and professors (hint: the corrupting influence of careerism in academia) too often have to over-work to bring up something new. In the end I just don't believe most of it, including some of my own arguments. With the ability to say pretty much anything, these courses have been exercises in futility, sometimes even ruining great works. This past semester might have ruined Keats for me after all of the arguments I have listened to.

Admittedly other English majors (of which we have a few here) might object to all of this. They might argue that literature is fun to read (I disagree) or that literary analysis does not have to be based off of discovering authorial intention, but rather examining the world of the work on its own terms, which might entail creating connections not intended.

Why do you guys hate English majors?

How to ensure you won't get a second date

2011-01-02T15:31:00.000-08:00

I recently went on a date, something that I never do because I hate small-talk (and people). Not with a girl I knew, but with some girl, Megan, whose phone number I got by doing the following (it should be noted that I was pretty drunk and it was pretty dark, so in the morning I didn't remember exactly what she looked like, but I knew she was a redhead):

*Eye contact*

*Walk over*

"Hey, if you were half as sweet in your dreams, then you must sleep like an angel."

"Uh, that's really confusing. You would be better off if you had just said, 'You are beautiful.'"

"Naaahhh. Anyway, you are beautiful, can I have your phone number?"

This somehow led to a coffee date. I know, I was impressed, too. I had to show up like half an hour early as to make her seek me out and not vice versa, as that could have led me to ask some other redhead girl, "What's up, Megan?" Luckily, that worked and she was, as I expected, less attractive than I remembered. Not overweight, she was a butterface of the Tri-Delt variety, apparently the sorority with the least attractive members. But again, she was not overweight.

So at this coffee date, we obviously had time to talk. Somehow the next two hours went as follows: I asked her what her schtick is. Everyone has a schtick; you know, like foot fetish videos, sculpting, acting, writing, sports. She said she didn't know. First red flag. I get out of her that she's a writer, like me, and she likes to travel. Her best adventures she cannot tell because she is too boring, though I get out of her that she is going to England next semester and home to Cali in four days. Prospect of at least getting any is quickly going down the drain. I keep my composure. Of her writing, she says her grandmother was an author and inspires her (gag me with a spoon) yet she can't tell me what she writes about because it's something she keeps to herself.

"Well, how do you think you can be a successful writer if you don't share you work?" I ask.

"Well, I have a business minor," she replies.

Red flag No. 2. Her only two interests she does not seem too enthusiastic about. Honestly, I went into this date pretty confident considering some girl would go for it without any courting and with a lameass pickup line. I think I was a little too over the top, because I don't think she enjoyed me questioning why she had no schtick and obviously hadn't thought out the whole point of being a creative writing major. Anyway, summary of what happened for the rest of the deal is in this brief back-and-forth.

Her: "I think you're, like, the most sarcastic person I know."

Me: "Thanks!"

Her: "That wasn't really a compliment."

Anyway, here are other ways to ensure yourself no second date, let alone a bj (most of these apply to men, but some are bisexual ... errh, yeah):

Ask her to write down her full name because you want to make sure your next tattoo isn't misspelled. Explain the differences in alcohol content between Listerine and NyQuil, preferrably using percentages specific to the tenth of a unit. Brag about how you've aquired a handicap parking permit because of an exaggerated meniscus tear in your knee. When on a date with a musician, eh fuck it; no matter who you're on a date with, brag about how you make MIDI ringtones on your keyboard and sell them for 99 cents on an obscure ringtone website. Announce that you are a feminist and don't believe in chivalry, and she should pay for her own goddamn movie/food/whatever. Tell her that in being a feminist, that doesn't mean you believe the man must go down on the woman in the relationship equally as much as the woman must go down on the man. Anytime you catch yourself saying something stupid, just say it, then say "fuck" and mention that you should have another drink, implying that you are reliant on alcohol to become more elloquent. Use the C-word. Talk about your shaving habits, not including your face. Repeatedly compare your date's personality and physical traits to your old elementary school teacher that you, admittedly, found "hot as fuck." Sneeze and cough, but obviously throw in some words each time; such quick shots could include "aaaahhhurabitch!" "caahuuudabeenhotter" and of course, the C-word. When your date is rattling off boring "likes" that might appear on her MySpace and you could care less about (i.e. favorite movie is Braveheart, don't knock the Twilight series, I like music, I hate drama) just enthusiastically say, "I call bullshit!" and wholeheartedly defend the statement when she questions how you wouldn't believe these not-made-up traits of hers. And if she actually has a MySpace that she updates daily, well, just get up and leave; this will either let her know how much better you are than her or reduce the risk of the police finding out that she as a high school student, has snuck out of school to go on a date with you.

Don't Worry, It's Not Quite Poetry

2010-06-25T15:44:00.000-07:00

Joking itself becomes a reference to the past, joining Linkin Park and Will Smith movies and Taco Bell runs. Friendship becomes a little bit less valuable, but its value is more recognizable. I truly did wish for a return of high school days, or, more appropriately, those high school nights. Now I don’t, and instead I only fondly remember them. That’s fine. The jokes about not finding a career with my major become a little bit less funny and we, if I am a good representation of a group, and perhaps I am not, have come into some new age.

I hope you guys are having a good time. I'll see you somewhat soon.

NARRATED BY TONY HAWK

2009-06-07T02:36:00.000-07:00

I hate how listening to Blink 182 now reminds me of how old I am. It used to remind me that I was young and this shit was being sold specifically for my age bracket and vaguely rebellious mindset. What's weird is that as I get older, the Blink 182 gets younger in lyrical content. If you look at earlier Blink records, the lyrics are still about relationships, but they seem to be more oriented towards adult relationships. "Apple Shampoo" off of Dude Ranch is a good example, the lyrics have to deal with maintaining a committed relationship in light of changes in the lives of both people involved. If you exclude the lyrics "she's so important and I'm so retarded", it's a fairly well written song (if you keep those lyrics and remember that it is a pop punk song written in 1997, it's probably even more awesome). There are some juvenile tracks on that album: 3 attempts at writing "funny songs" and a "serious" song about being grounded, but the rest is oddly mature for Blink 182 when you compare it to Take Off Your Pants and Jacket.

Released in 2001, TOYP&J has songs that are mostly catered towards youth. The first track describes rules for teenagers as being "fucked and boring". There are songs about ditching school, first dates and meeting girls at rock shows (this can happen with adults, it's just the line "can't wait til her parents are out of town" that makes it juvenile). "The Story of a Lonely Guy" is about feeling sad on prom night. I would not really question this songwriting if Blink 182 had always written songs like this, or were of the age to be experiencing these things while writing music, but neither of those were true. Blink 182 was composed of dudes in their early thirties who had previously written about comparatively more grown up things.

So what happened? Was this just pragmatic economics? Did someone at their major label tell them that they could make a shit ton more money if they wrote songs catered towards the teenage demographic? Was it just a concept? Was it satire? Or did Blink 182 go through some kind of midlife crisis and needed to find something that would make them feel young and alive again? Maybe they wished that instead of paying taxes and having kids, they could be ditching school and hanging out at rock shows (I think they actually do that as a job, though, but they are getting drunk behind the stage at the arena rather than the club). I hope that if I ever try to act younger than I should be, it's only for the purpose of making millions of dollars and not out of some need to revisit glory days that weren't so glorious to begin with.

Blink 182 is only on my mind because of this new documentary coming out called "One Nine Nine Four" which sounds like some stupid revisionist history about the "90s punk explosion". Growing up in the 90s, it seemed like everyone listened to Seal, Boys 2 Men, and Rob Zombie, but that's just my view on things.

Carl Olson: A Bug(man)'s Life

2009-05-08T22:17:00.000-07:00

Carl Olson has an abundance of passion for his job and admittedly blithe opinions – searching his name in the University of Arizona address book proved both of those traits.

His chosen email – bugman@ag.arizona.edu – characterizes his upfront style, not to mention his love for the bug world and those traits are why Olson has become the guy to call when anyone has a question about perhaps the world's most misrepresented creatures.

“Unfortunately, now my phone and my email are well known throughout the state,” the entomologist said sarcastically. “People are always calling up, 'What's this bug, what can I do?'”

And his responses always try to change the concerned public's fear about the bug world into one of understanding. Whether he's educating at the Desert Museum, talking at botanical gardens or giving an interview to a newspaper reporter, Olson hopes to make people view insects with awe, not with “ew”.

“Insects beyond everything else, always impact our lives,” he said. “I try to make it so that they impact it in a positive way. There's always fear mongering about bugs, and they don't really do that much to people.”

Now, his popularity has made him the go-to guy when it comes to problems with honey bee swarms (swarms – opposed to hives – are bees full of food and are too stuffed to attack, similar to how one feels on Thanksgiving, he explained) or bug nuisances at a government building in Douglas, Arizona (the insects turned out to be breeding in confiscated Marijuana cashes).

Sometimes due to his popularity, the Bug Man's reputation bugs him. He's often deals with off-kilter people, such as those who believe bugs are burrowing into their skin.

“I had a guy who took a pen knife one day, sat right there on the floor,” Olson said, pointing at his small office floor, “Dug into his leg and pulled out tissue.”

But how did he become so popular?

Patience.

Olson moved to the UA in 1975 – a move he says makes his colleagues jealous – and was immediately immersed into the best place for “bug diversity.”

He's been here ever since, but before he made his trek to the desert, his lifestyle was the opposite of decided or settled.

Olson grew up in a village close to Dayton, Ohio, a place where his bug-loving heart developed.

“I got totally turned on to rearing caterpillars and so I'd run around my neighborhood, raising those big silk moths,” he said. “I had jars and jars of caterpillars in the garage.”

His high school biology teacher implemented a competitive bug-collecting scheme that taught Olson and his classmates much about the insect world, but Olson entered college at Miami (Ohio) University as a math major.

While at Miami, he met an entomologist through fraternity friends and thus, failed to escape from his bug phase. He graduated with a zoology degree and to avoid the Vietnam draft, became a graduate student of biology, joining his former high school biology teacher at Marshall University.

Afterwards, Olson took a job in Riverside, Calif., working for a bio-control outlet. That job included growing housefly parasitoids for chicken farms.

“When you have a lot of shit, you have a lot of flies,” he explained.

He briefly moved to Santa Monica, Calif., to work in optics, but the bug world again pulled him back and he moved to Tucson, first teaching a class about his specialty, aquatic insects.

Now, he has an assortment of duties, ranging from talks to filling out the UA's bug database to preaching about the ill effects of pesticide use.

“The job is just growing with me. I came as a class five staff, what was I, who knows?” Olson said. “Titles were insignificant, still are.”

His opinions about job titles, the detrimental use of pesticides and morality all go back to his honest personality. If he truly believes in a cause, he's not afraid to express it.

“What people have done with this overuse of pesticides has dastardly affected the planet,” he said. “People are, 'Well, it's no big deal to kill a bug,' but it's a living organism and we do it so casually.

“I think that casual attitude then starts building up and well, that's why we have Columbine or have all these other things,” he added. “It may have some affect because life has become real cheap.”

Sometimes he said, such comments get him into trouble.

“I've gotten in trouble with a few of the TV stations, because I get pissed when they do a stupid story and never use anything I've told them,” said Olson, explaining how the media can skew stories to their liking. “I don't like that, because they try to end on a 'gee-wizz' type of a thing instead of the real story.”

But the delusional characters who come into his office and the occasional ignorant misrepresentations by the media are overshadowed by the astonishing findings in the bug world.

“You keep seeing these incredible behaviors that are going on, but people sell bugs so short in what they can do,” he said.

Spreading his knowledge about the incredible bug world is perhaps the most gratifying part of what Olson does. One collecting trip near Naco, Ariz., was a testament to how he can place his enthusiasm for bugs into other people.

“I show (these) geologists all these different insects out there,” he said. “The next day, they go out on their own, and they come back that evening and they're cussing because all they can do is look at bugs.

“That's always fun when you turn more people on to nature and to the ways that I see.”

The Last Dinosaur

2009-05-08T14:08:00.000-07:00

INT. APARTMENT

JAKE is on the couch with his eyes glazed over. SAM is in the kitchen, bustling about.

SAM: Today's the day! Rise and shine Jake!

Jake turns to Sam slowly.

JAKE: Am I shining yet?

SAM: You definitely have a glossy sheen. Like a swamp person. But no. Not what I'm looking for.

JAKE: Right then. Let me harness my chi.

Jake sinks further into the sofa.

SAM: Jake! No time. There's places to go, scenes to shoot, money to earn. Come on, aren't you ready to make history?

JAKE: History?... I don't know Sam. What's so great about history?

SAM: Is that a serious question? Do I need to drag you into a voting booth and kick your ass?

JAKE: No, man. It's not like that. It's just that people in history are always catching tuberculosis. Or getting attacked by Mongolians...

SAM: Sometimes when you make an omelet you have to catch a little tuberculosis. Sometimes when you make an omelet Mongolians raid your spice rack. But you know what Jake?

Sam walks over from the kitchen with two plates, each decorated with a melty omelet.

SAM: I love omelets.

JAKE: Thanks dog. But if you want history so bad you can go get it. I'll just stay here and play around on the internet, and if my history gets too raunchy I can just delete it.

SAM: Jake. Do you remember what we said in high school?

JAKE: History blows?

SAM: No, the other thing.

JAKE: Rollerblades are the future?

SAM: No Jake. "Keep dreams warm." When you moved in with me, you ate, slept, breathed screenwriting. We talked about our movie every day.

JAKE: Yeah. Well.

Jake pauses.

JAKE: What's so special about today?

SAM: Ethan's got a contact. You know what that means.

JAKE: Yeah, I know what it means. It means we're going to be shooting another commercial for another divorce lawyer, another burger dump, another mattress outlet that moonlights as a hotel for the homeless. Ethan's not a miracle-worker, Sam. He's a washed-up actor. And if we keep small-pickin we'll never make it off the ground!

SAM: Listen. I have a feeling about this one. Trust me. This could be your big break. Besides, you can't just sit there and watch America's Funniest Home Videos all day.

JAKE: Actually, I can. Because there's a marathon. Also, they're playing the spontaneous combustion episode.

SAM: That's my favorite one!

Sam perches himself on the arm of the couch. We hear a woof of flame coming from the TV set, accompanied by a gut-wrenching scream.

SAM: Yikes, I sure hope he wins the $1000 prize.

JAKE: Yeah, I don't think Fire Insurance covers that part of your body.

We hear a knocking at the door. Jake looks around, and then decides he would rather not get up.

SAM: Come in! Unless its the cops!

ETHAN walks into the room briskly.

ETHAN: Tell me Sam. When you close your eyes, what do you see?

SAM: Well you've got me there Ethan. Usually it's just ... darkness. But sometimes if I press my palms into my eye sockets I get something that I can only describe as a magic jellyfish.

ETHAN: Don't play dumb with me Sam. You know exactly what I mean. Power. Women. Internet cred. You want it all. And I can give it to you. Or like a dandelion made of anthrax, I can blow it all in your face!

Ethan makes an obscene blowing sound.

SAM: Ethan, you're drunk. Don't tell me you just came back from your meeting.

ETHAN: I told you, I can't go to AA. They don't let movie stars in. Movie stars aren't anonymous.

SAM: Your interview, Ethan. With our contact.

ETHAN: Oh. Your contact.

SAM: Things becoming clearer?

ETHAN: First things first!

SAM: What is it?

ETHAN: I want a trampoline.

SAM: What?

ETHAN: Everyone has a trampoline but me. I'm tired of not having a trampoline. I need it. Now.

SAM: Ethan, why on earth do you need a trampoline? You certainly don't need help bouncing your checks.

ETHAN: Funny Sam. But my cause is of a loftier order. I am taking revenge on the Crabtrees.

SAM: You mean the sweet old couple upstairs?

ETHAN: Sweet old couple my ass! Every night I lay awake while they go at it. It's awful. It's loud. It's like the Pearly Gates are creaking open and shut, open and shut, over and over and over and over.

SAM: So hold on a minute Ethan, how exactly does the trampoline play into all of this?

ETHAN: Well, it's simple Sam. Next time I get my bone on, I'm making sure I touch the ceiling. Mmmf! Mmmf!

Ethan pounds his hand into his fist.

SAM: There's an image.

ETHAN: Either way, I have an offer you can't pass up.

SAM: Hit me.

ETHAN: Trampoline first, offer second.

SAM: Deal. Deal. Sounds great.

ETHAN: No wait! Make that a tramp-o-line. Like, a "lean" for "tramps."

SAM: Alright. Got it. Good. Just tell me the damn news.

ETHAN: I hooked you up with a producer.

SAM: For real?

ETHAN: More real than you could imagine. This guy is top shelf. His wallet is a burlap sack with a dollar sign on it. He puts ten large on the table before I even walk in the room. He's got his feet up on his desk, and he's smoking a roll of quarters like a cuban cigar.

SAM: Ay caramba!

JAKE: Does he have a name?

ETHAN: Bob Bickerman.

JAKE: Wait, Bob Bickerman?

ETHAN: That's what I said.

JAKE: As in ... Bob Bickerman's used RV?

ETHAN: Exactly.

JAKE: You mean the guy who can't pronounce the word "integrity" without making it sound like a racial slur?

ETHAN: He's looking for a new commercial, and he's paying out the nose.

SAM: And how big is that nose Ethan?

ETHAN: Big enough to funnel half the GDP of Columbia. The guy could snort through a damn silly straw.

SAM: Well that settles it!

JAKE: Wait a second, what kind of commercial is this? Do we have a script?

ETHAN: "Leave the tape on my desk by noon tomorrow. And make it good." That's all I was told.

JAKE: Well ... it's no movie. But it does give me some room to work.

SAM: And the money!

JAKE: And the money. All right. I'll do it!

SAM: Now let's not jump the gun on this thing. We need scenery! We need actors!

ETHAN: And the Lord hath provided.

Ethan bows histrionically.

SAM: That's great Ethan, but Bob Bickerman's not going to want to see you all by yourself. That's just gay.

ETHAN: Excuse me?

JAKE: He's right Ethan. One dude in an RV ain't much of a party, unless you're into rolling dice and painting wizards. What we need is girls. Ladies. Muchachas.

SAM: But where are we going to find an actress before tomorrow noon?

We hear a knock on the door. They all turn.

SAM: Come in! Especially muchachas!

Enter NANCY. She beams around.

NANCY: Hello everyone!

SAM: Hello stranger. What can I do you for?

NANCY: I'm Nancy, Nancy Day!

ETHAN: Let me guess. You want to borrow a cup of sugar? The first day is a grace period, but after that interest climbs to 20%. Signatures are required in blood I'm afraid, but I have a collection of syringes for you to choose from--

NANCY: Oh no, it's nothing like that. I just moved in next door. I wanted to meet the neighbors!

SAM: Well it's a pleasure to meet you Nancy. I'm Sam Parker, this is Jake Moodey.

JAKE: Howdy.

SAM: And this piece of work here is Ethan Olivier.

NANCY: Wait, Ethan Olivier? You mean the Ethan Olivier?

SAM: You know him?

NANCY: Of course I know him! His work on dramatic nature documentaries was what inspired me to be an actress!

ETHAN: Ah, you mean "The Groundhog's Shadow"?

NANCY: Yes! The way you screamed when those groundhogs wrecked your cabin. So raw. So full of emotion. And when you sank into that pit of groundhogs at the end ... I really thought you had died!

ETHAN: There was an extensive period of recovery, but eventually I regained the use of my legs.

NANCY: Fascinating. Could you ... could you do the line?

Ethan's face becomes a grim icon.

ETHAN: "Looks like winter's not over yet."

NANCY: Wow! I don't know how you do it, Mr.... Olivier.

ETHAN: Ethan is fine. I'm glad you appreciate my work. But that production actually got me blacklisted from Paramount pictures. I was the reason they had to take off that little disclaimer that said "No animals were harmed in the making of this film."

NANCY: You poor thing!

SAM: Now hold on a minute! Nancy, did you say you were an actress?

NANCY: Yes I did!

SAM: How would you like a chance to work with Ethan on a ... um ... "commercial" production?

NANCY: Why, not in my wildest dreams ... of course, of course I'll do it! When can we start?

SAM: Meet back here at three o clock. We'll have everything ready to go.

NANCY: Great! Thank you so much! You won't be sorry. Oh I have to go get freshened up. Can't show up on the silver screen looking like Wynona Rider. See you all soon!

Nancy exits.

SAM: Today is the day. I just know it.

EXT. Municipal Park

Sam and Jake are readying the camera equipment on the grass. Nancy and Ethan are rehearsing their lines.

JAKE: I don't know Sam. Do you really think a murder mystery is the best direction for a 45-second commercial shoot?

SAM: Jake, I don't think. I just know.

JAKE: But murder mysteries are all about suspense, and drama. You can't build all that up in between re-runs of Saved by the Bell.

SAM: Nonsense. Listen. When you think about RV's, what comes to mind?

JAKE: Catching a disease. Catching diseases. Getting kidnapped...

SAM: I'll tell you what you think. You think camping. And what's camping all about? Campfires! Spooky Stories! Mystery! A man with a hook for a hand! People eat it up Jake!

JAKE: If you say so, Sam.

SAM: It'll be great. Just wait and see. Ethan, Nancy, are you good to go?

NANCY: Ready Sam!

SAM: Alright then. Lights, camera, aaaaaand action!

NANCY: Help! Help! Oh someone please help me!

ETHAN: What seems to be the matter Miss?

NANCY: Oh I'm so glad you're here. My husband's been murdered! By a man with a hook for a hand!

ETHAN: Say it isn't so!

NANCY: Oh it is so! And he's after me too! No place is safe. I can't go home. What if he's waiting there?... hanging in my closet, just waiting?

ETHAN: Well ma'am. If you can't go home, why not take your home with you?

NANCY: How ever do you mean?

ETHAN: Why, head on down to Bob Bickerman's used RV and you can pick up your new rig, no money down. Let's see the Joneses keep up with you when you're driving your new home at 60 miles per hour!

NANCY: Wow! I could park it right on their herb garden!

ETHAN: That's right. And if you make it down before Sunday we'll even throw in a free tampon.

NANCY: Did you say a free tampon?

ETHAN: Yes, a sturdy tampon, 100% free, for the independent "on the go" woman!

NANCY: Why, that sounds just perfect. Thank you stranger! Thank you!

ETHAN: The pleasure is all mine. All mine.

Ethan turns to face the camera and brings his finger to his lips, revealing a coat hanger which protrudes from his sleeve. He winks enormously.

ETHAN: Bob Bickerman's Used RV's! Because you can't drive a house!

SAM: Cut! Cut! That's a wrap people. Good work!

JAKE: That's it? That's all? What about my script? What about the sheriff? What about the angry mob and the torches?

SAM: It was too long Jake. I had to make some cuts.

JAKE: Well why didn't I get a say in it?

SAM: Executive decision Jake. Take it or leave it.

JAKE: Fine! I'll leave it. All of it. And I am taking my name of this travesty altogether. I quit!

Jake storms off into the underbrush.

SAM: Jake! Jake! It's dangerous out there! If you see a hook, just run!

INT. Apartment

Sam is sitting at the kitchen table, resting his chin on his palm. Ethan walks in nonchalantly.

ETHAN: Why so glum, cumface?

SAM: For all your talents Ethan, you could really work on your greetings.

ETHAN: Hey, all I'm saying is that nobody I know uses hair gel on their eyebrows.

SAM: Well I do! Ok? I'm Romanian! I come from a long line of shepherds. I can't help that we got it thick on the brows!

ETHAN: Oh ... well you've got a glob there--

SAM: I know I have a glob--

Sam quickly wipes the glob.

SAM: Jesus Christ.

ETHAN: You're really torn up about Jake aren't you?

SAM: He's taken a vow of silence. And by a vow of silence, I mean he's been blasting Depeche Mode songs in his room since yesterday.

ETHAN: Sounds terrible.

SAM: Tell me about it. What did Bickerman say?

ETHAN: I set the tape on his desk, and he says "when I know, you'll know."

SAM: So when will we know?

ETHAN: You'll just know Sam.

From outside we hear a car-horn beep "O Canada." Sam runs to the window.

SAM: Ethan! Take a look at this!

ETHAN: What is it?

SAM: There's an RV parked below our window!

ETHAN: Sam, that could be anyone's RV.

SAM: It's parked on the grass Ethan! Who does that?

ETHAN: I don't know. Maybe the guy's retarded?

SAM: A retarded person driving an RV? Yeah right, Ethan. This isn't any RV. It's OUR-V. Bob Bickerman must have liked our commercial so much that he shelled out for a free sample!

ETHAN: So what are you going to do with it? Drive it to work? Pick up bitches down at the "Gold Tooth"?

SAM: I know exactly what I'm going to do with it.

Sam walks over to Jake's door and pounds, but not too roughly. The music from inside begins to fade, and we hear Jake's voice through the door.

JAKE: Yeah, what is it?

SAM: Jake, could I have a word.

JAKE: Go ahead. Use all the words you want. Not that I have any words... any words of my own...

SAM: Look Jake, I'm sorry about yesterday. I screwed up bad. I want to make it up to you.

Jake opens the door and stands cross-armed.

JAKE: Continue.

SAM: What would you say to a trip to the lake? Today. Just you and me, there and back, a couple of rods. Like high school days. What do you say Jake?

JAKE: I don't know Sam. I'm tired.

SAM: Well I'll fix that. Come downstairs, I've got a surprise for you.

Sam and Jake exit the room and go downstairs to the RV, leaving Ethan. Ethan walks over to the sofa and turns on the TV set.

ETHAN: America's Funniest Home Videos? Hey, is this the genital mutilation episode? No way! I thought this got banned!

Enter MRS. CRABTREE, a wizened old lady.

MRS. CRABTREE: Ethan? Ethan? Are you in here? What are you watching on the TV? Is that an Arby's commercial? Oh I do love that Arby's Roast Beef.

ETHAN: It's nothing! Nothing at all. Why are you traipsing through my apartment you old bat?

MRS. CRABTREE: I just wanted to borrow a cup of sugar dear.

ETHAN: Well I would love to dole out sugar for every vagabond that passes my door, but you are five weeks behind on your last payment--

MRS. CRABTREE: Oh, but Ethan. I need it. Earl and I are driving our new Winnebago up into the mountains. And we've got lots of high-altitude baking in store!

ETHAN: If that is code for some demented sex act then you can leave me out of it, harlot. Now, if you want a cup of sugar, I'm going to need some cold, hard collateral. Let me see that watch. Stop fiddling with the clasp, just tear at it--

Ethan pauses.

ETHAN: Did you say Winnebago?

MRS. CRABTREE: That's right. I left the engine running so Earl could get some air in there. He finds the bathroom a tad stifling. Quickly, quickly now dear. Hand over that sugar. I wouldn't want some wicked octoroon making off with my husband. He's only got one good arm you know. Lost the other one in the war.

We hear the roar of an engine as it switches to reverse, then first gear, and then takes off down the street. Mrs. Crabtree looks bewildered. She stares silently at Ethan.

ETHAN: Mrs. Crabtree ... has anyone told you the story of the man with a hook for a hand?

INT. Winnebago

Sam and Jake are rolling down the highway, oblivious to their situation. Sam drives, Jake sits. They are singing the chorus of Judas Priest's "Breaking the Law" to the radio. Sam is drumming the dashboard with his right hand. Jake turns down the volume.

SAM: Woah, young rock-olyte. Whyfore hast thou waned yon volume so?

JAKE: Ain't a deal man. Just getting up. I got to piss.

SAM: Ah. Must be all that piss we been drinking.

JAKE: I think you're mistaken Sam. This can says "keystone light."

SAM: Oh, my bad. You see, "keystone light" is what you piss out after you drink piss.

JAKE: Crazy! So what do you piss when you drink "keystone light"?

SAM: "Keystone select."

JAKE: Alright Baron von Bullshit. I'm heading to the can. Just don't drive towards anything that moves. Or anything that doesn't move.

SAM: But everything is moving Jake. Whirling and tilting and--

JAKE: Alright. New rule. Just drive away from everything that screams.

SAM: Aye aye matey.

Jake stumbles back through the RV, towards the bathroom (off-stage). We hear Jake scream, and then we hear another man scream, followed by a scuffling sound. Sam heaves on the pedal and the RV kicks into high gear.

SAM: Jake! We got a screamer! What was that?

JAKE: You're not going to believe this Sam!

SAM: What? What? What's going on back there?

JAKE: The man. He's in our RV!

SAM: What man?

JAKE: The man with a hook for a hand!

SAM: What!? What did you do with him? Did you get him with the lysol?

JAKE: No dog, he's in the bathroom. I jammed the handle. Oh my god, he's reaching with the hook. He's trying to unlock it. Sam, you've got to stop the RV.

Sam swerves the RV onto a dark dirt road in the middle of the country. Mr. Crabtree moans through the rickety polyethylene door.

MR. CRABTREE: Unnngghhh ... Belinda. Belindaaa.

JAKE: What's he calling?

SAM: Belinda. Probably his demon lover.

MR. CRABTREE: Belinda! How do you open these chinese doors? They go inside out?

JAKE: He's getting through. We have to make a break for it.

SAM: What? Are you out of your mind? We can't just ditch the RV!

JAKE: Then what do you propose we do?

SAM: Clearly, we have to kill him.

MR. CRABTREE: Belinda! Belinda I'm crappin! Can you hear me!?

JAKE: Sam. I can't swim. I can't ride a bike. I've never had my first kiss. I can't just go "illmatic." I can't just cold glock a man the instant things go south.

SAM: You know, maybe you're right Jake. Maybe we should just run.

JAKE: Of course we should--wait, you really mean it?

SAM: Really mean what?

JAKE: You're ... taking my stage directions?

SAM: Lead the way buddy.

JAKE: Alright ... alright, grab the gear. We'll hitchhike it home from here.

Sam and Jake exit the vehicle.

MR. CRABTREE: Where's my national geographic? Belinda, you let those damn Italians in here again?

We hear police sirens, followed by the voices of multiple officers congealing around the RV, pounding on the hatch, issuing threats. The chief of police enters with his deputies and surrounds the bathroom door.

CHIEF OF POLICE: Kidnappers! Come out with your hands up or I will recourse to lethal force!

MR. CRABTREE: Come and get me you slimy Italians. I trounced you back in '42, and I still know all the old ways to make those knees shake. You can take my National Geographic, but I'll be damned if you take my fighting spirit! I've got this claw to prove it!

DEPUTY: He's got a claw! Watch out!

The police rush the bathroom, and we hear a violent struggle ensue.

INT. APARTMENT

Sam is in the kitchen, stooped over the oven. Nancy and Jake are seated at an adjacent table. The kitchen timer goes off and Sam whips open the oven door. He reaches in and removes a pizza, all wavy in the heat.

SAM: Bon appetit!

Sam drops the pizza onto the table with a flourish.

NANCY: Wow! I can't believe you actually got it to look like Abraham Lincoln.

SAM: Family secret. I used mango for the cheekbones, olive for the eyes, and pepperoni for the nipples.

JAKE: Perfect. Now I'm going to start having nightmares again.

SAM: Jake, Sea World gives you nightmares.

JAKE: Leave the whales out of it, man. And honestly, do you have to cook the great emancipator every time a girl comes over? There has to be some sort of law against this.

NANCY: Oh relax, he looks perfectly delicious.

SAM: Yes, savory like freedom. But also salty. Like a man.

NANCY: The bullet wound is a nice touch. I don't think I've ever seen anyone do that with a boiled tomato. Who else can you do?

SAM: Oh, just the basics. Hemingway, Malcolm X, Andy Warhol ... this all goes back to our documentary days. We were exploring our horizons, working on a little project we called America: A History in Pizza.

JAKE: Probably not our best known effort.

SAM: It was controversial.

JAKE: Yeah, the whole trans-fat scare was going on around that time I think...

SAM: It was that last scene man. The one where Oprah's head is swallowing up the pizza-verse, all the little people are screaming as they fly into the void. That's when the children started to cry.

JAKE: For the record, the children didn't cry until Oprah swallowed the camera. I told you to cut that part.

SAM: But that was the central message of the movie!

JAKE: No, the central message of the movie was that pizza is a superior artistic medium because--

NANCY: Guys, guys. The pizza's getting cold. Who wants the first slice?

JAKE: No way! Slicing up Lincoln's face? Girl, that's how you get haunted.

SAM: You wouldn't seriously think about cutting the president's face, would you Nancy?

NANCY: It depends. Like if we're playing a game of basketball and he tries to hustle me, yeah I might cut his face a little, to see if he's tough.

Ethan walks in. He has a television remote in his hand and he turns on the tv as he steps into the room.

ETHAN: Behold. The seeds of my discord have grown into the heinous corn of revenge.

JAKE: Did you just walk in the house with the television remote?

ETHAN: Hush, fool. Just watch.

NANCY: Hey! America's Funniest Home Videos! I love this show!

TV: Are those tears of laughter? Or is it just the tear gas? Do you think Rodney King was worth the riot? Or do you think he is one? Tonight, there's no question about it. We're proud to bring you America's Funniest Home Videos: The Best of Police Brutality!

SAM: Oh my god. This is awesome!

TV: And tonight's $1000 grand prize goes to "Playing Hooky" sent in by one E. Olivier of Burbank California. Let's see that footage again.

JAKE: That looks ... startlingly familiar.

SAM: That looks just like the inside of a '95 Winnebago.

Sam and Jake gaze in horror first at the screen and then at each other.

JAKE: Is that ...

JAKE & SAM: Mr. Crabtree?

ETHAN: Yes it is. And that is vengeance. And this is $1000! Have fun with your pizza.

Ethan tosses the money all over the floor.

ETHAN: Like I give a shit.

Ethan walks to his room and turns around.

ETHAN: Oh. And Bickerman called back. He said that in light of current events your commercial was "inflammatory and highly inappropriate." Maybe next time.

Ethan shuts the door. Everyone looks disappointed.

SAM: Don't give me those faces. if Bickerman didn't like our direction, we just need a new direction. That's all. Something the old folks can get into. Something ... historical. More than historical ...

JAKE: But what's more historical than history?

NANCY: Hold that thought. I have an idea.

EXT. Commercial

We are engaged in a commercial. It is dark. Sam is narrating. The camera pans across glades, outcroppings, mountains, etc. Classical music plays.

SAM: Before smooth jazz, before Shakespeare, before stones were small. Before the pteradactyl sprouted feathers bright like blood. Before fingers. Before toes. There lived a land of monolithic beasts.

The camera cuts to an eclectic sampling of dinosaurs, feeding on hillsides.

SAM: They were cumbersome. Dangerous. They frequently broke down when exposed to mud. But above all these beasts, one ruled ... and it ruled with an iron fist--

Cut to footage of a Tyrannosaurus Rex fighting something in the rain. It is unclear what he is battling, but it is clear he is losing.

SAM: --And a aluminum chassis. Standard equipped with a Hemi V8, 100,000 mile powertrain warranty. 0% APR till financing.

Cut to footage of an RV toppling a Tyrannosaurus Rex. And then erupting a magnificent war horn.

SAM: Bob Bickerman's Used RV presents:

Winnebago.

The Last Dinosaur.

~FIN~

Miner's Daughter

2009-04-23T15:45:00.000-07:00

INT. Tunnel.
Two men stand shiftlessly in the halflight. The first gesticulates rapidly, while the other nods in a pensive stupor.

Hank: And so I says to her, "Dammit woman, I don't have enough for the Snickers. I need this quarter for the bus fare back to West Maitland." And she says "A real man would provide for his woman! You'se nothing but a tramp and a horse thief." But I was ready for this. I said "No Donna, I ain't no horse thief. I'm an honest man. And I aim to make an honest woman out of you," and that's when I did it.

Clyde: That's when you proposed to her?

Hank: Darn tootin'. Knelt down right there on the floor of the 7-11, no one else bearin' witness 'cept the Lord and the rollin' hot dogs and the clerk with the flamin' snake tattooed on his forehead.

Clyde: You've got the heart of a romantic Hank. I for one ain't trust women further than the length of a roof rat's hind whisker.

Hank: I reckon that's pretty short, Clyde.

Clyde: About the size of a Georgia pickle, Hank.

[Enter Steve, the father, and Alice, his daughter]

Steve: And this is tunnel nine! I spend most of my day here. Over here we have the dynamite, and here we've got the hardhats, and over here we keep the rock pile!

Alice: Wow! Can I touch it?

Steve: No, no. Don't touch anything. You might get cooties.

Alice: Cooties?

Steve: Don't tell me you don't know what cooties are. What are they teaching you kids in school anyways?

Alice: I'm learning my numbers! I can count to a hundred and ten!

Steve: Math, huh? I guess you haven't gotten to biology yet. You see, cooties are invisible germs that you catch from touching moist things, like if you breathe over a dead lizard, or if you touch a boy and forget to wash your hands.

Alice: Gross!

Steve: That's right! So remember, if a boy asks you to touch him, just say "no thanks, I haven't had my cootie shot!"

Alice: Why don't I have my cootie shot daddy?

Steve: Because daddy can't afford health insurance honey. Now come over here, I want you to meet my co-workers. Hank! Clyde! This is my daughter Alice.

Hank: Much obliged Alice.

Clyde: Morning to y'.

Alice: You look like my grandpa! He's really old!

Hank: Cute kid.

[Clyde pulls Steve aside and whispers to him]

Clyde: Bringing women into the mine? Steve, you know that's bad luck.

Steve: I know Clyde, I know. But it's "Bring Your Daughter to Work Day." Alice woke up early just for the occasion. I can't just dump her off at the gift shop. She'd be so disappointed.

Clyde: Must I remind you what happened last time we let a woman loose in here?

Steve: Come on Clyde, that was half a century ago.

Clyde: That mine cart killed thirty-eight people, Steve. I don't know about you, but I don't want any blood on my hands.

Steve: Listen Clyde, I'll keep her in my sight at all times. Everything will be fine. Besides, Alice isn't a woman. She's a six year old girl.

Clyde: Yeah, I see what you mean. She does look a bit different from the girls down at the Cider-Hole. Smaller. Like an elf almost... [He hesitates] Alright, I'll let it fly. This time. But I don't like it one bit.

Hank: Now Clyde, why you got to be an antelope's ass? We're miners. She's a minor. Why can't we all get along? [He lets out a horrible, wheezing cackle.]

Steve: [Pulling his daughter in close] That's a great question Hank. I'll make a mental note. Anyways, it was nice chatting with you all, but there's plenty else to see down here ... like that canary. Isn't that a pretty bird? Come, look at the pretty bird, Alice.

Alice: Why is the birdie lying down daddy?

Hank: Oh, he's just taking a nap. He never does anything fun.

Clyde: Dammit Hank, you been feeding him Jack-in-the-Box again? I told you, it's like pouring Jim Beam in the engine bay of your F-150. You're just burning up the gears son.

Hank: No, no, he's fine. In fact, he's looking mighty spry today if I do say so myself. Look at that glossy coat! Hey little lady, if'n you lean in close and listen real careful, you might even get to hear him cough!

[There is a moment of silence, and then a deafening explosion rocks the room.]

Alice: That didn't sound like a cough! That sounded like a landslide!

Steve: Nonsense! That's just ... a birthday party! Mr. Logan is celebrating his birthday today up in tunnel three. Can't you hear the kazoos? Can't you hear the laughter?

[We hear moans from far-off miners, followed by a piercing scream.]

Steve: Oh! Sounds like someone just got the piñata! How fun!

[Steve grabs Hank by the lapel and pulls him in close.]

Steve: What in the hell was that?

Hank: I don't know Steve, but it sounds bad. [He whirls around to face Clyde.] Clyde we've got a code Brown Bear. I repeat, code Brown Bear. Check to see if the tunnel's clear!

Clyde: It's sealed shut! Tighter'n a toilet stall on taco night! I done told you it was bad luck bringing a woman down here! Now we're trapped! We're all trapped, and the blood is on her hands!

Alice: Oh no! Daddy there's blood on my hands! Is it the black lung? Is it tuberculosis? Is it cooties?!

Steve: Honey pie, your hands are beautiful and clean. Just put them together now, and pray. Pray for Mama, and little Betsy Lou, and even the Gator Brothers next door...

Alice: Daddy, you're acting weird. What's going on? Is everything ok?

Steve: Everything is fine honey! The grown-ups are just having a little grown-up fight.

Alice: A grown-up fight? You mean like when mommy found that pair of underwear in your truck?

Steve: Yes, just like that dear. Clyde left his underwear sitting in my truck, and I am very upset with him.

Alice: He's getting his cooties all over the seat!

Steve: Exactly.

Alice: No wonder it smells like dog cheese in there!

Steve: That's why I need to tell him my feelings. Now Alice, why don't you sit still for a minute and play with this little radio. The grown-ups need to talk. Maybe you can find some fun songs, huh?

Alice: Ok...

[Alice begins to fiddle with a petit radio. We hear it chatter as she turns through stations. Steve walks from Alice and towards the two men.]

Clyde: The lights are going out! It's all over!

Hank: Clyde, keep a head on soldier! There's no need to get all your spaghetti in a western. We've been through this before. You just have to know your surroundings. Think like a rock. Breathe like a rock.

Clyde: I ... I can't! I don't know how! The walls are closing in on me!

Steve: Clyde, keep quiet. If you keep ranting and raving and carrying on like that you're going to scare my daughter to death. Let's sit down like men, and let's think this out together. First order of business: we're going to need refreshments. Hank, you want to crack open that case of Natty Ice?

Hank: [Groans] Yeah, with an icepick. Ha ha! Hey Clyde, you want one?

[He tosses a drink to Clyde, who catches it absentmindedly.]

Steve: Now for some man talk. I know what you're all thinking. Who are we going to eat first? We can probably survive on shoelaces for the first few days, and then saliva for the next few days. After that things are going to get ugly.

Clyde: Onetwothree not it!

Steve: Oh no Clyde, you're not getting off that easy. We're doing this the old-fashioned way.

Hank: Old-fashioned way? There's got to be a better way, Steve.

Steve: It's the only way Hank. You want to keep your humanity and your manhood? Then you better play by my rules. [He cracks his knuckles] Eenie meenie ... miney ... moe.

Alice: Daddy?

Steve: Honey, not now. Daddy has some urgent business to take care of ... catch a tiger by his toe...

Alice: But daddy! It's important!

Steve: Adult business Alice. If you need to go to the bathroom, go behind the rock pile and tell me if anything bites you. Now, where were we?

Hank: Wait a cotton-picking minute Steve! What about the radio?

Steve: The radio?

Hank: That's what I said, cow-dick! The radio! We can use the radio to contact any other transmitters in the area. Tell 'em tunnel nine is still breathing!

Steve: That's just crazy enough to work! Alice! Alice! Come over here!

Alice: Yes daddy?

Steve: Alice for God's sake, what did you do with the radio?

Alice: I was talking to someone. But then I remembered I'm not supposed to talk to strangers. So I dropped it.

Steve: Yes Alice, but where is the radio?

Alice: I don't knooooow...

Hank: Come on little lady. Tell us what happened.

Alice: It... broke open. It went all fizzly. [She frowns.]

Clyde: Doomed ... doomed ... We're all doomed!

Steve: Ok Alice. It's all right. Everything is going to be ok. I just need you to tell me exactly what you told the man on the radio.

Alice: First I said "Hi!" And then he started yelling and cussing. He sounded very angry. He asked me what all the noise was about, so I told him. I told him it was Mr. Logan's birthday party. And I told him that he shouldn't be mad, even if he didn't get invited, cause I wasn't invited either.

Steve: Is that it? Is that all you told him?

Alice: Nope, there's one more thing.

Steve: What is it?

Alice: I told him...

[She runs over and hugs her dad.]

Alice: I told him I had the best "Bring Your Daughter to Work Day" ever!

Lights down.

When sexism masquerades as kindness

2009-03-25T23:03:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year. Yes, the birds are chirping and the crickets are coming out in full force. This, I am very excited about. But what has me more excited is the sustainability movement growing here on campus. Green hour is coming, baby, and I'm a methadone addict coming back to the streets to spread the gospel.

[Reading's not a passive activity, asshole. You don't need me to tell you how sustainability could be kinda cool. Make up your own fucking paragraph. I'm not your mother. His.]

Yeah, that's right- his- I haven't seen one environmental advocacy movement that hasn't been mired in sexism.

Just the other day, I was returning from campus when I saw a young lady valiantly throw her CORE salad container on my dorm's floor. A young man passing by saw her testimony and thoughtlessly tossed it into the nearest waste receptacle, trashing her ideological assertion of identity. Let me ask you this, gals: does he mean to say that a woman is incapable of picking up her own refuse? Ockham's razor, for one, certainly points to this apodictic certainty.

The path of least resistance is to follow our cultural norms, and pick up trash when someone leaves it behind. But as we all know all too well, the path of least resistance is the path of most oppression. Six million Jews. Dead.

Thinking out loud here, but what should the girl have done in this situation? I would obviously love your thoughts.

guess I'm going to use this as a personal blogging media

2009-03-09T18:18:00.000-07:00

Through Anthony's amazing(ly creepy) computerz abilities, I have been thrown under the covers of unnamed peoples' lives. This has made me realize one of two things: either I'm a cold and heartless bastard who finds joy in others' self-magnified problems or I'm overlooking what is important in life (i.e. love, relationships, conflict in those loves/relationships).

Obviously, I'm going to say the former is what is goin' down. And choosing the former proves it IS the former, because I think most things like love/relationships are too silly to consider important to me.

I'd rather live in a numb ignorance and write about people getting the flu, cancer patients, rec center construction and softball; things that I actually give a shit about. I guess that makes me a fitting journalism major.

Sure, people are having babies and getting married. I'm not ashamed to say I'll take that "growing up" with a grain of salt. I could haul off and marry a Vietnamese hooker, but would that make me grown up?

I'd rather use my parents money to support myself while learning about anything and everything in school. I'd rather work for $17 a story to teach myself things that girlfriends, turmoil or marriage could never teach me.

Ok, I am a cocky bastard who thinks he is doing everything right in life. But fuck (not buttfuck), at least I KNOW this and until something shows me that what I'm doing is wrong - such as if I fall into a real depression for who knows what reasons - then maybe I'll rethink my claims.

If there was anything close to a vampire, I would be it. I feed off of others pathetic complaints. Life is "hard," relatively. But I'm an American damnit!

How much I despise sad human beings: A graph

2009-02-24T17:25:00.000-08:00

Jokes of Journalism

2009-02-09T20:47:00.000-08:00

- You know that picture of Jordan with his arms spread, balls palmed in each hand? That's epic. I want a picture of me doing that, but replace the balls with two recorders and of course, I'd have to be recording somebody.

- I don't know whether I got fired from my freelancing job with the Star. I also don't know if it's called being fired or just not being assigned any assignments...

- Being a journalist is good for when scumbags walk around school and start asking you about Jesus, abortion, or the Baghavad Gita. I can easily respond with, "I'm a journalist, I must be unbiased." It theoretically doesn't make sense but it confuses them enough for me to slither away.

- Speaking of people who bother random students walking by... I specifically prey on those people whenever I need a random student opinion because I know that they a) aren't really doing anything important, b) will be too confused by my requests to talk to them to actually say no, and c) are usually opinionated, talkative people.

- I have become very efficient at stalking people. If you are a any person of importance, I will find your phone number and call you.

- I've become all too used to ending conversations awkwardly. *silence* WELL! I think you've answered all the questions I needed. Thank you for your time!

Syllabus for JKZ 352 (Summer 2009)

2009-01-18T19:27:00.000-08:00

Professor Anthony Velázquez, Ph.D. (Contact at handmaidmay42@notmale.com)

Professor Jeffrey, Ph.D. (Contact at In-N-Out, 2790 W. Chandler)

Office Hours:

Building: Languages and Obscure Learning Zone (LOLZ) Room: 69, 2:30-3:00 M, W or by appointment (contact either of us through email or talk to us after class)

The goal of this class is to teach you not only how to critically analyze and discuss jokez, but also how to make jokez and not be a typical Youtube-referencing lame-o. We expect you to attend class and participate. You will be expected to laugh at our jokez, because if you do not then it shows that you do not have a good understanding of humor and are not keeping up with the class work. As you are used to by now, cell phones and electronic devices will not be tolerated unless you have a funny ringtone that is used at the appropriate time (e.g. Professor Jeffrey enters the room with a stack of pop quizzes over last night’s readings and your electronic device plays the beginning of Beethoven’s 5^th symphony). This would by ++ funnies and ++ in the grade book!

Week One

Defining jokez: what do most people think of when they think of jokez? Jokez in our society: how many people are capable of jokez of quality?

Week Two

The Philosophy of Jokez—read Hubengraffer’s “Towards a Marxist Jokeology: Jokez as Extensions of Labor” and Nietzche’s “Beyond Joke and Non-Joke” and “Ecce homo. Wie man wird, was man ist” (“Icky Homo: How a Joke Becomes a Gay Joke”).

Week Three

History of Jokez. (Extra credit: find the two jokes in the Bible). What civilization do you think made the best jokez? Which civilization is the best for being the target of jokez? Is there a relation between these two?

Week Four

We will both be giving lectures at the South Western Conference for Advancement of Jokez, so no class this week!

Week Five

Special guest: Christ Crocker, the famous creator of “Leave Britney Alone,” will discuss the intersection of jokez and Youtube.

Week Six

Organization week! No class, but you should use this week to prepare your materials to be studied.

Week Seven

Reading week! No class, but use the prepared materials (see week six) to study for the final.

Week Eight

Re-reading week! Make sure you are ready for the big final.

Week Nine

Finals week! Your final will be given in two parts. Your first task is to identify, categorize, and explain at least five jokes found on this syllabus. Your second task will be to come to our office and tell us one original joke (times will be negotiated during week seven). Be sure that your work is original as we will be cross-checking Youtube, Family Guy, and South Park to make sure that you have not plagiarized. If you have then you will be charged with theft and might end up spending up to 20 (TWENTY) years in prison. (HAHA, JUST KIDDING!)

Good luck!

HEY HEY HEY

2009-01-14T23:44:00.001-08:00

Looking at my dashboards, I can see that Riposte-Modern has 1 "follower." I don't know who it is, does anyone else?

Also, I don't know why anyone would follow this, but thanks follower.
I am currently single and am 5-8 in height and...JUST KIDDING.

We should throw a party...online...

Sometimes

2008-12-29T01:54:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you gotta cut your losses, rid yourself of the things in your life that make you miserable -- let them go.

Sometimes it's hard to do, because loyalty is one of your proudest traits.

And sometimes, the struggle to let go of all those people who you thought were your friends will make you a happy person with no regrets.

This is where we brainstorm winter break activities

2008-12-05T18:16:00.000-08:00

PROPOSALS:

1. Christmas party

A Christmas party is where you dress in ugly sweaters and exchange gifts of various quality depending on the cheapness of the person giving it and the hate of the giver towards the receiver. We make Anthony cook. Or we order pizza. Whatever. Note that a Christmas party is not likely going to be on Christmas. This is a great idea, let's do it.

2. ZooLights (as suggested by Remy)

ZooLights is where you go to pay money to go to a zoo but do not see any animals. I actually hate ZooLights (as it should be since I don't have a girlfriend nor a girl whom I'd like to take to this stupid nonsense). The zoo is bad enough with the animals, now it has even more families and children and NO animals. There is, however, that one time Kevin discovered Chocolately Delicious Treats at ZooLights. Therefore, we should go to ZooLights.

3. Hiking

Hiking is where you pretend that the city is like poison and you have to escape to nature to spiritually heal yourself. Then you step on a dead raccoon and wish you could check your Facebook. We should definitely go hiking and step on some dead raccoons.

4. Sporting event

A sporting event is where you go to make yourself feel better by being in tune with a group of 20,000 other fanatics who desperately hope that the opposing team be killed. Literally. But don't worry they totally deserve it, they are cheap. I'm all for a sporting event.

5. Arts and crafts day

Arts and crafts day is a day in which you go to Michaels and buy a bunch of stupid stuff (paint, clay, paper, glitter, etc.) to fulfill your artistic needs. You do this so you can later impress people that you, not an art major, spent a day with his friends painting clay bunnies and doing symbolic sketches of celebrities and politicians. Poetry is allowed as well. We can make hot chocolate. I urge you to consider the possibilities of arts and crafts day.

Thank you for reading this friends and potential employers. I now urge YOU to come up with ideas for winter break fun, or at least provide your thoughts on these five proposals. Only you can prevent us (Remy) from spending the holiday season playing Half-life 2.

A semester of the professor

2008-12-03T19:50:00.001-08:00

"You made me drink ma piss, Rock!" -- Bauschatz immitating Rocky's trainer guy because he looks like Cato the Elder and Cato had something to do with saying cabbage in piss is good for your health.

"They did not like the joke. It was not funny." -- JJ Reid on El Turco leading the Spaniards to supposed gold. They killed el turco

"A saber tooth tiger? Just imagine one wandering around campus, feasting on little undergrads like sausage." -- JJ Reid

"Today we're talking about dating. You undergrads might want to pay attention to dating. Mr. Gabler (the TA), you may leave...He's married, he doesn't need to learn about dating." --JJ Reid

"Never watch laws or sausage being made." -- JJ Reid

"Life is a bitch if you are one." -- Dr. Kemper

"It's never your job to kiss the government's ass." -- Dr. Kemper

"Nam poa not nan ohpoa." -- Dr. Kemper, be a wild animal not a domesticated one...have balls

Amber is the Color of Your Energy

2008-11-29T22:49:00.000-08:00

I'm making a mixtape entitled "Bros and Hos" which is going to be composed half of music commonly associated with males in the 18-24 age range who wear pink polo shirts, drive raised trucks, and have anger issues, while the other half will consist of music associated with female empowerment. I'm having trouble on finding music for the bro half of the tape, so I googled "liquid misogyny" to see if I could find any inspiration that would flow to me, or at least some cool new energy drink. I found this and thought it was interesting.

http://fckedup.blogspot.com/2008/06/miso-soup-on-liquid-misogyny-media.html

Official College Counters, UA Edition

2008-11-23T16:08:00.000-08:00

Number of times an African American woman not standing in line has declared her service at coffee shop is poor due to the color of her skin = 1

Number of Godzilla references during Classical Traditions class = 20

Number of times conservative girl has said that a Carob Tree smells like semen = 1

Times people have assumed I am gay because of out of context comments = 5

Official college counters, ASU edition

2008-11-21T20:18:00.000-08:00

Students overheard talking about urinating on a person = 2

Professors who have cried over a poem in class = 2

Times I have gotten stuck in the library elevator as it goes back and forth in between the first two levels = 2 (After a minute or so it took me back to the main level, which is where I had entered it.)

Pornographic poems read = 6

Childish Activities

2008-11-20T10:58:00.000-08:00

I don't understand some of these activities that social groups around campus, namely residence hall and christian groups, take part in.

Hey, let's set up tarps and then blind fold someone who will then attempt pouring chocolate syrup into the mouths of the person laying on the tarp. HOW FUN!

Hey, let's pretend to be doing something worthwhile and dress up like professionals. Then we'll go to a conference about making people happy in order to lower suicide rates in our dorm halls. WE ARE MAKING THE DORMS MORE FUN FOR THE RESIDENTS!

Great, I get that you're "team bonding" or whatever. How about you go out into the real world, which is what college is about, and actually make a difference. Or selfishly please yourself in one way or another. I don't care.

But give up the childish shit that accomplishes nothing for yourself. You may think it's fun, and that's your opinion, but in the end, college kids are not going to listen to you. Their emotions are going to depend on the party they go and get wasted at. Save your time; be selfish or actually help someone.

If you're willing to admit you're part of these groups because it's just fun, then fine. But I'm sure most of you bastards are in these organizations for that little blip on your resume that reads, "I'M A LEADER."

What that should truly say to future employers is, "I LIKE TO SHORTCUT WORK FOR FUN."

Requirements to Be an Adult

2008-11-06T19:18:00.000-08:00

You must HAVE:

-a total mistake count at or above 150

-at least one pregnancy scare (or if homosexual, one crisis with loved ones about one's sexuality)

-a fun count lower than or equal to 5 funs a week

-a concern about physical health that never manifests itself into any action

-a concern about marriage and its role in your future

You may NOT:

-enjoy satire or keep satirical blogs; reality is too real to deal with satire, dog

-have been on an online dating site in the past year UNLESS there to find an actual date

-be in college

Feel free to add your own requirements!

Dorm

2008-10-10T13:10:00.000-07:00

"Mitch is the best at EVERYTHING" ----> "Mitch is the best at sucking cock"

This is a sign in my hall. The word "everything" was crossed out and replaced with "sucking cock."

Mitch is the fellow who was drinking in the hallway and had the cops called on him. He was curious as to why someone would specify one thing that he is good at- sucking cock- when he is good at EVERYTHING. He then explained that he is the best at getting evicted and also at obtaining the burger in his hands. I can't really disagree with him.

Point is, living in not Babcock is always entertaining.

Beefs with God and Katy Perry

2008-10-09T16:50:00.000-07:00

If I ever write a book, it will include two things: my distaste for God and my disagreements about Katy Perry's music.

Katy Perry bitches about being a tomboy that isn't included with the girls. Sometimes she makes fun of the girls for being scared of spiders.

First of all, I can come up with 3 different definitions of gender. 1) biological gender 2) what I like to call "who you wanna fuck" gender (i.e. do you wants dudes or chicks) and finally 3) how one displays themselves gender.

Katy's bitchings, I think, lie under category 3. I'm under the impression category 3 should not even exist as being "gender." Why? Because it isn't black and white, nor is it close to. It's a completely grey area in which I don't care about. Tomboys are a good example...a tomboy is biological gender FEMALE while still wanting to hook up with the highschool football quarterback (cat. 2) yet dressing like a BOY. The dressing like a boy aspect makes her category 3 gender not matter, because category 3 is based on the image of 1 and 2...it does not necessarily make up 1 and 2.

Anywho, Katy's song lyrics describe men and being blah blah and women as being tah tah. Uh, she labels men and women. FALSE DICHOTOMY! While she thinks she's destroying gender stereotypes, she's actually upholding them because she creates men and women and then says that despite having a vagina, she can move between both genders.

This is all based on my category 3 and thus, does not matter to the human race. A good try Katy. Your music is catchy and poppy and all good, and I'm sure it fools little junior high girls (as do 40 year old men with delicious soda aka booze in tow) but that does not mean you're right.

Insane

2008-09-13T00:56:00.001-07:00

This is what I've done the past 24 hours. And this doesn't even include the Tuesday Squeeze concert.

Have you recently...

-Lost a phone, only to find that buying a bottom of the barrel replacement will costs 200 dollars?
-Gotten completely smashed thinking its funny how you have to begin and finish an essay on Greek Culture based on the Iliad by 10 in the morning, only to later realize this is a bad idea?
-Finished that essay in 3 hours under the most extreme intoxication levels?
-Woken up in the morning to proof the essay, only to find that it is quite solid as is?
-Gone to class, then headed straight for the Verizon store and had a fat guy (who reminds you of the fat kid in Superbad) try to sell you some old lady's used phone under the table?
-Driven to ten miles from the Mexico border to watch an American football game tucked into beautiful green mountains?
-Listened to a Rio Rico band play the National Anthem, only that the trumpets sounded like Mariaches?
-After the game, driven around a small town in the dark while refreshing your laptop every ten seconds to pick up a WIFI signal?
-Found the only WIFI signal outside a crowded bar, and surprised officers when asking them for a coffee shop or place with WIFI. "There's no coffee shops around here, man."
-Typed in the dark
-On the way back from almost-mexico, the Border Patrol checkpoint thoroughly checks the Chevy Silverado in front of you. Apparently, that guy didn't say he was an American citizen, because that seemed to be the key for them to not give a shit about your car.

No, you haven't

Mistakes

2008-09-12T02:30:00.000-07:00

1. Oh, squeeze? Squeeze are great!
2. Drinking heavily on the last night one has to finish an essay about ancient Greek society, using the Iliad as a guide.

Sometimes we make them. Mistakes...not babies.

Blogging here...

2008-09-08T14:05:00.000-07:00

is as common of an occurance as an aboriginal woman giving birth to a double tongued sea serpent!! yarg!

Hakunama-ta-tas.

2008-08-27T08:29:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of tits on campus. More of them are hanging out than usual, thanks to sorority rush. This inspired the preceding pun--a description of the state of the campus. Thank you.

Harness the Emotion

2008-08-06T03:47:00.000-07:00

My room is pitch black, if it weren't for the light pollution. Only this computer screen illuminates, the clock reads 3:50.

Here again, I'm awake not because I have something to do, not because I'm not tired, and not because I'm too tired to sleep. Sometimes this happens, where I lay in bed for hours on end, mind racing.

Ok, so these random thought process's (as you can tell by this post being repetitive and illogically ordered in topic) are usually triggered by too much sleep combined with nastalgic occurances during the daytime. Today's event occured during work, which I realized would soon come to an end... leaving me with a few problems: 1) I'm going to miss some of the crazy people at work 2) I'm not going to race for free anymore and 3) I'm going to have to go back to school and use brains not braun to succeed.

Anywho, wikipedia describes mania as is a severe medical condition characterized by extremely elevated mood, energy, unusual thought patterns and sometimes psychosis. There are several possible causes for mania, but it is most often associated with bipolar disorder, where episodes of mania may cyclically alternate with episodes of major depression.

This does not sound good. My mind races... feelings, thoughts, emotions, and memories shoot through my head, one after another. Not only is it annoying because I can't sleep, but I also realize how stupid it is.

Eyes closed. I feel alone, helpless. Eyes open. This is stupid why am I thinking about these things? Eyes closed. Think about your future, how much it blows. Eyes open. You can do it!
Eyes closed. Memories of the past. Eyes open. You're a different person now, no need to relive the past. Negative, Positive.

Hardly Branching Out

2008-08-04T02:17:00.001-07:00

http://fatchickordude.blogspot.com/

A Contest, For Gentlemen and Scholars

2008-07-31T11:42:00.000-07:00

A prize will be awarded to whoever can think of the funniest thing this person could be saying.

Just leave it as a comment.

LazyPost

2008-07-20T03:50:00.001-07:00

The Day the Pizza Died

2008-07-16T20:40:00.000-07:00

Pizzam has been closed down.

They did not pay their rent.

We will go on. It's what Pizzam would want us to do.

Yeah, i'm a little bit of a tool

2008-07-16T14:38:00.001-07:00

http://www.hotelcongress.com/2008/07/07/ratatat/

Pick Up Lines: Good and Bad

2008-07-12T16:55:00.000-07:00

Good: Your eyes are like the sun, as both bring brightness upon my day.

Bad: Call me, so I can make it juicey for ya.

Good: Your blue eyes resemble a flowing creek in a lush forest.

Bad: When I get up all in ya, we can hear the angels call for us...WEEOOWEEOOWEE...Like, a cop car.

Good: Your flowing blonde hair is more beautiful than that of an angel.

Bad: I'm that birdman junior you ain't know and don't give me that silly bullshit about you ain't hoe.

Good: Have I mentioned how beautiful you are?

Bad: Girl you are so fine...I wish I could get you over here girl...tonight...so I....can get my grown man on with you.

The Nasty Guide to Humor

2008-07-10T18:48:00.000-07:00

Number one reason why people should pay attention to the presidential election: jokes. In fact, that's the only reason. The comedy of this year's race easily leaps over any film starring Owen Wilson, Vince Vaughn, Will Ferrell, or Steve Carell.

I have provided an example.

Republican presidential candidate John McCain was asked about an Associated Press report that $158 million in cigarettes have been shipped to Iran during George W. Bush's presidency despite restrictions on U.S. exports to that country.

"Maybe that's a way of killing them," McCain told reporters, smiling as he waited for a cheesesteak sandwich at the Primanti Brothers restaurant. His wife, sitting next to him at the counter, poked his back without looking up.

"I meant that as a joke," McCain quickly explained. "As a person who hasn't had a cigarette in 28 years," he began to say, when his wife corrected him: 29 years.

Taking a more serious tone, McCain said, "I'd like to look into" details of exports to Iran. "This is the first that I've heard about it," he said. (AP article)

McNasty also had this to say in a recent interview with Jon Ralston when asked why he snubbed Gov. Jim Gibbons, who is going through a turbulent and painfully public divorce, for a chairman position in his campaign.

McNasty: I didn’t mean to snub him, I've known the lieutenant governor for 15 years and we've been good friends….I didn't intend to snub him. There are other states where the governor is not the chairman.

Ralston: Maybe it's the governor's approval rating and you are running from him like you are from the president?

McNasty: (Chuckling) And I stopped beating my wife just a couple of weeks ago…. (Transcript)

I don't mean to pick on McNasty, but when Obama says something stupid it is unfortunately rarely funny. I suppose that time when Obama went onto that late-night Jimmy Kimmel show was funny, but only because that was the point from which I could never take any politics seriously again. A little late to the party, I know, but better late than never. Right?

Linked from Last Plane to Jakarta

2008-07-06T23:52:00.000-07:00

http://mcsweeneys.net/2008/6/16joseph.html

We didn't land on Plymouth rock...

2008-07-06T23:24:00.000-07:00

I got this when I was watching Nas videos on youtube.

Don't click it though, unless you want some dope Nas ringtones and computer viruses.

Precious Moments

2008-07-04T15:13:00.000-07:00

Remy Albillar: USA! USA! USA!
xxazmikexx: This is Mike's Dad playing chess against his computer.
Remy Albillar: please enjoy, Mr. Bogumill. Happy 4th of July
xxazmikexx: Tanks

In-n-Out (of Her Spleen)

2008-07-03T15:08:00.000-07:00

She kept thinking, “Jeff jokes around all the time. This can’t be real.” Her expression was one of complete faith. It was a face that reminded you how strong love is.

But the gun’s safety gave a mechanical click, sending little French fry scented air molecules towards Alice’s face. A warning shot. Now, her expression was one of complete horror. It was a face that reminded you how strong lead is.

*******

Jeff looked down at his vibrating phone. Remy’s face looked back at him.

“Fuck.”

He was going to a movie tonight. Remy would want to tag along.

“Hello?”

Remy responded and asked how he was doing, but he didn’t bother to listen. Instead he was wondering why people even bother to say hello as a question anymore. It’s not like the phone doesn’t just tell–

“Jeff? What’re you doing tonight?”

He’d have to use his stock excuse to get out of hanging out with one of his friends: babies. No one in his family even has fucking babies. None of his friends had ever seen these babies hanging out around his house. But still, when you tell someone that you gotta hang out with some babies, they (a) leave you alone and (b) feel bad for you.

“Sorry, I can’t do anything tonight. My mom wants me to play with babies.”
“Oh…I’m sorry dude…”

Once again, success. It was gonna be a good night.

********

“Jeff, what’s going on?”
“Shut the fuck up!”

Jeff’s expression was one of complete craze, an animal styled maniacal glare. It was the kind of face that would’ve made even Kevin say, “Oh shit piss. Balls.”

The gun vibrated in his hand with a driving force of either rage or anxiety, none of the bystanders really knew. But everyone was curious. After all, their lives were blended into this bullshit-flavored milkshake.

*********

Jeff rushed out of the car towards the theater. Naptime ran a little long today. He quickly looked around to make sure he had everything. Girl friend: check. Cell phone: check. Monies: check. Handgun? Oh, fuck.

It was a recent development. Kevin finally got that handgun his dad promised, but since drunk plus gun equals no fun for Brian, Jeff confiscated it. Keeping the gun with him was probably a bad idea, but the cost of not having a concealed weapon license was far outweighed by the benefit of libertarian gun nut jokes. All for the lolz, as usual.

He meant to leave it at home tonight. Oh well. The gun would probably be useful during The Love Guru anyway.

*********

“So, what do you wanna do now?”

It was a clear suggestion. As she said it, Alice looked up at Jeff with glistening eyes. He didn’t notice.

“Get my burg on!”
“…What?”
“CHEEZE-BUR-GERZ, idiot.”
“Oh…”

He led the way to the car, and they drove to that crowded cesspool of social cliques called In-n-Out. When they walked in, they were greeted by loud laughter. Chad just described to that sick party where he gave it to Shannon “animal style.” Chad's Kappa Alpha bros couldn't contain themselves. In the next booth, however, two girls and one boy all wearing “The Academy Is…” shirts were not amused.

Alice suggested that she buy the food while Jeff found a table. After a half-hearted protest, Jeff said okay and found himself sitting in the corner next to a semi-abstract painting of an In-n-Out and a truck. Jeff thought the artist, a Californian heroin addict that sold his dignity and his art for drugs, was a genius.

She came back with two red food vessels that only hours ago were used to refuel a child molester sporting a Hawaiian button down and a handle bar moustache. In-n-Out is such a nice place. She put one vessel in front of him and left to go get ketchup.

Then, something in Jeff snapped.

He rose, walked over to the ketchup dispensers, pulled out Kevin’s gun, clicked off the safety, told Alice to shut the fuck up, and fired three times. Once for the lettuce. Once for the FDA approved tomatoes. And once for the onions.

Stupid bitch. Didn’t she know he was a plain cheeseburger?

As Alice’s insides exploded out of her midsection, Jeff carefully put some salt on his fries and tasted one.

Perfect. It was a pretty good night after all.

FARC This

2008-07-03T01:48:00.000-07:00

My elation for the successful rescue of Ingrid Betancourt after years of capture by Colombian rebels (I don't care about the other hostages released; their pictures weren't constantly in the news and they probably don't look as nice and happy as Ms. Betancourt) would require quite a sour news story to be disturbed.

But it was.

Earl Simmons, the rap artist known as DMX, was taken from us.

I can imagine God, with his giant abacus, sliding over a bead to the right. This was Betancourt being freed. But he then saw how "uneven" the world was—how much happiness there could now be—and he took that away. He slid the bead back to the left side. DMX was arrested.

I read the news, mouthing the words—could it be April Fools? Surely not DMX! Anybody but DMX. Then again, the word "arrested," not counting the footnotes, can be found 14 times on his Wikipedia page. And to be fair, I suppose both of them, along with God's poor sense of balance, have had some fault in their captures: DMX not showing up in court for drug charges and Ingrid Betancourt being a politician in Colombia.

And so now we can only look to the future.

I hope that DMX will be pardoned by the president (perhaps if Obama wins) due to an understanding of his importance in America's cultural scene. And give him a Purple Heart. I am sure he has been shot or stabbed or something, and I'll be damned if you can tell me that DMX was not serving his country.

I hope that Ms. Betancourt never goes to Colombia again.

Band, aka The Project, aka

2008-06-30T11:11:00.000-07:00

So Jeff and I decided that a single band name fails to capture our .:~*artistic intent*~:. Rather, we plan to use a different name for each show, and a unique band-name for each individual copy of each album (which, in turn, will bear a different title). Of course, this implies that our songs don't mean anything (explicitly), and I for one approve of that message. Here, look at this list (feel free to contribute by editing this post):

Band Names:
Chivalry Timbres
Rubber Barons
The Heresiarchs of Uqbar
Michael Jackson Chameleon
C3rb3rus
Ringtailed-Lemur, My Favorite Animal
Rainbow Slicks
K.M. Zimmerman
The Scorpion King

The Nicholas Cajuns
The Master Balls

Anonymous Onanist

Album Titles:
I Thought I Was in Love But It Was Only a Tapeworm
Monetary Jack
Beep Boops
Burgers at Midnight (abbrv. b12)
Jelly Belly

Everything Post 9/11
Not A Joke
The Ghosts, the Ghosts

I Don't Do Nano-Walls

George Hashington vs. Eggs Benedict Arnold

Also, our logo will be a bumper sticker of Calvin peeing on Calvin peeing on Calvin peeing on Calvin, and so on, regressing to infinity.

Sometimes, There are Jokes that Are Not Funny

2008-06-29T01:22:00.000-07:00

Burger-monium

2008-06-28T01:19:00.000-07:00

Welcome to good burger home of the good burger may I take your order?

What's up? It's just the novelized sequel to good burger.

Apparently, Good Burger Inc. has strongarmed the secret recipe for Krabby Patties.

sometimes there are funny things that aren't jokes

2008-06-27T21:05:00.000-07:00

This is one of them:

Note the "Climax" bar.

Movies Can Be Sad; Sounds Can Be Silly

2008-06-27T00:43:00.000-07:00

(Spoilers for Turtles Can Fly, just in case anybody cares.)

So I was watching the movie Turtles Can Fly in my cold and dark room while nibbling on cookies and chocolate goodies. It's a good movie, even though it has not one joke. Serious movies only suck if they aren't foreign I have decided, and this was certainly a serious movie. One especially moving scene has the little Kurdish girl getting raped by soldiers as her armless brother tries futilely to stop them. Indeed, quite a moving scene...until in the middle of it iTunes informs me that my Carla Bruni albums have finally been converted to .acc format:

"BLOOP BLOOP BLOOP," the iTunes gaily announces.

"Movie ruined," I mournfully cry.

I can imagine—in a pre-9/11 world and a world which uses email seriously—the celebrity AOL voices that were available for a limited time (that is, the rest of AOL's profitable existence) having a similar effect. Take this celebrity voice featuring improvised lines from comic genius Mike Meyers.

"YOU'VE GOT MAIL, BABY! YEAAAAH."

Dear Mr. Mannering,

I regret to inform you that on 6/16/97 (5:46 A.M.), the bodies of your parents, Robert and Rachel Mannering, were found in Central Park. Your sister, Sarah Jennings, is believed to have been with them, but is currently missing. An investigation will begin immediately.

My Condolences,
George Holden of the New York Police Department

"MAIL DELETED. GET. IN. MA. BELLY."

Daily Horoscopes

2008-06-26T17:52:00.000-07:00

Aries
You are charged with boundless positive energy today! (Keep an eye out for power lines.)

Taurus
A tendency to blurt out personal thoughts can cause tension among coworkers and friends. Screaming into a pillow is a great alternative to announcing your latent homosexuality.

Gemini
Mars, the "trickster", decays into its third orbital this week, which may induce a crippling erection at an inopportune moment. Maintain a distance of three feet from unfamiliar children and animals over 40 lbs.

Cancer
Pesky lunar activities may put the stopper on romantic endeavors. Don't be afraid to make the first move (Your "Joe Cool" varsity jacket alone may not cut it). Details may get in the way of your true feelings; double check any messages you send (does that rat-tail say "Jedi" or "Padawan"? Think about it).

Leo
Listen man, don't touch the Zamboni. Just don't do it.

Virgo
Today, you need to focus on your family -- or close friends, possibly. Your ability to tune in to those closest to you is peaking and that could make the difference between understanding and confusion (in bed!)

Scorpio
The appearance of a secret star could signal financial disaster. When the going gets rough, remember that masturbating with charmin is not beneath you.

Sagittarius
The ghost of Don Knotts is active in your energy field. An episode of the Andy Griffith Show may provide a startling revelation! Entice the apparition by placing milk and gin on the mantelpiece. Be wary: this spirit is susceptible to vacuums/most housecats.

Capricorn
Not even a real animal. Not worth my time.

Aquarius
Expect highs in the low 80's, with sporatic rainfall continuing throughout the day. A cold front brings mixed anxiety along with a smattering of existential woe, but later in the day you will find solace in the antics of a vietnam veteran and his dog, "Shotgun Mouth" (who, incidentally, isn't really a dog, but a man with a leopardskin bandana draped over his face, and he doesn't move very much, but he moans in a way that sounds kind of like a Charles Mingus song and that's alright . . .)

Pisces
Due to popular demand, the "Pisces" sign has been changed to "Mufasa". Again, that is "Mufasa".

P.S. I think I am in love with these shoes:

Spice World

2008-06-26T11:46:00.000-07:00

Sexism, like all other prejudices, is pretty dumb and based on a lot of ignorance. It's the last socially acceptable form of prejudice in this country in that if you make a public statement about how a woman's place in society is to provide a man with daily meals and head or something similarly stupid, you won't get into too much trouble. Sure, some feminist groups will call you out on it, but the mainstream just thinks feminists are women letting the inherent craziness that comes with their gender get the best of them, and generally doesn't take them seriously. One of the most common sexist arguments, though, is the "a woman can't be president" argument. The usual rationalization for this argument is either that a woman in power in her monthly premenstrual rage will pick up the red telephone and give NORAD the launch codes to obliterate any nation that has gotten on her bad side; or that, given that all women are frail and emotionally unstable, she would break down and cry at even the slightest inflation/unemployment/diplomatic crisis as if she was watching Beaches for the first time. This argument is a very American one; there has never been a woman president in this country and stereotypically American geographical shortsightedness makes it seem as if there has never been a female head of state anywhere. While I won't explain stuff like Hatshepsut and Catherine the Great, I will give examples of current female heads of state and government and, in the spirit of American chauvinism, rate them on their attractiveness. Please note that I'm not a complete retard and that I do realize that attractiveness bears no influence on leadership abilities. I'm just trying to educate people while satirizing the Maxim generation, Maxim being a magazine that annually rates high profile women on their attractiveness, not a word meaning a wise saying.

Yulia Tymoshenko - Prime Minister of Ukraine

The heroine of the Orange Revolution, Tymoshenko probably maintains her youthful appearance by keeping the outdated politics of Moscow out of the parliament in Kiev. Also, the logo for the political party she leads looks like the flyer to a s weet Eastern European Rave that is undoubtedly full of arms dealers and lesbian schoolgirls. Or an advertisement for a new Bjork record:

I can feel the good vibes already.

Cristina Elisabet Fernández de Kirchner - Presiden t of Argentina

Interesting fact that wasn't procured from Michael Moore's "Sicko": In Argentina, socialized medicine even covers plastic surgery. This is pretty obvious when looking at presidente Kirchner. However, she does look better than Laura Bush, and she has an allegedly slutty daughter who we can only hope will go into politics or release a techno record or something.

Mary McAleese - President of Ireland

Unlike the other two, most female leaders in the world look like women who teach high school level English. Mary McAleese fits that description in the lowest degree. To find out more about what I'm talking about, research the heads of state in Chile and Finland, Michelle Bachelet and Tarja Halonen.

I hope we all learned something from this.

B.K.K.C.

2008-06-26T05:13:00.001-07:00

But none of them did drugs.

2008-06-26T04:37:00.001-07:00

Camera centers on Nick and Wendy; they embrace each other and stare into one another’s eyes, standing at the end of the “Ol’ Pier”. Wendy is crying softly to herself. The sun is setting.

WENDY: I just don't know what to think about the whole thing, Nick. I’m just…so confused.

NICK: I know it’s hard, Wendy, but that’s we have to be strong…for the rest of the gang. That’s what Dizzy would have wanted.

Greenday’s “Good Riddance" begins to play in the backround

WENDY: That’s just it Nick. I don’t know what he would have wanted anymore.

NICK: I know it doesn’t make any sense. Life doesn’t make any sense! Don’t you get it, Wendy? That’s what the Dizz was trying to tell us by overdosing on cocaine and dying. Sure, drugs seem like a lot of fun and are usually pretty harmless, but sometimes THEY ARE NOT! That’s why Dizzy did so much cocaine that night. So he could die. So he could teach us that.

WENDY: Oh, Nick. I love you.

NICK: I love you, too, Wendy. Let’s go to college.

Scene fades to black. Fade into pictures of the gang (First Nick, then Wendy, etc)

Genesis

2008-06-26T01:39:00.000-07:00

Claude Lefébvre sat out side the Aux Villes Du Nord slowly sipping his warm drink. Coffee. Black. One sugar. He watched as the early risers began to poke their heads out on the street, heralding the break of another day in this wonderful city. Claude loved everything about Paris; the hustle and bustle, the important people, even the tourists. He drank it all in, thriving on the pulse of the heart of France. Today seemed to be as busy a day as any other, bringing the promise of endless spectacles that would parade themselves before his front row seat to one of the greatest arenas of people watching on the planet. In a matter of minutes, the streets had begun to slowly fill with people hurrying off to their jobs and appointments. He sighed. One day, the rest of the world was going to have to learn to relax like him, but for now he was happy that he could sit back and watch the masses trip by. He raised his cup again. And then he jumped up in surprise, for something had happened that had never happened before. He had spilled his coffee. Never in his life had Claude wasted a drop of his rich beverage. He had always considered it a sacred elixir, giving an air of culture to even the most unrefined moments. And yet now he sat with a lap full of burning black Beyers quickly running through one of his finest pairs of pants. But Claude didn't seem to notice this, did not even blink at the people throwing him shifty eyed glances for his outburst. What had caused Claude to spill his coffee and what now distracted him from this appalling fact was the most profound sense of chilly dread that was running through his body. It rippled up his spine, sending electric pulses to the farthest reaches of every limb. His heart was beating so rapidly it seemed to be vibrating, sending oscillations all the way up into his brain, churning his thoughts around like so much fine butter. A cold sweat ran down the nape of his neck as he began to shiver. And then, as suddenly as it had gripped him, it was gone. It had only taken a brief second, like a wave passing over his beloved Paris, dousing it's bubbly warmth in an icy, death-like breaker. He could also see the wave moving off into the distance. A new kind of fear was creeping into the mind of poor Claude. Surely this was the sign of some evil that was about to befall the world. He could not for an instant think that he had imagined the whole thing, it was far to real. But what did it mean? And who could he tell? Surely no one would believe that an entire nation was in danger because of the panic felt by one man. But there was just no shaking the feeling that some unknown horror lurked on the horizon. He signaled the waiter for another coffee, this time with brandy in it. He was going to need it.

Five-thousand four-hundred seventy-two miles away, outside the quite restaurant of Wild Flower, the high five between Anthony, Jeff, Kevin, and Sean finished. They all felt rejuvenated by the symbolic gesture, as though a wave of energy has passed through them all. It represented a new frontier of adventure and excitement. In the wake of the moment, Sean looked around at his friends. Kevin was grinning maniacally, Anthony seemed to be making a list of potential Euro babes in his phone, and Jeff just sat calmly humming The Star Spangled Banner.

“Yeah, I think we can do a month in Europe...”

New School Cool

2008-06-25T21:22:00.000-07:00

Headlines

2008-06-25T09:37:00.000-07:00

"Actor Jason Bateman undergoes intensive plastic surgery for upcoming 'Bill and Ted' remake"

"Ex Indian covert operative Ramesh and Rani the bear are the only thing that stands between the Evil Pervez Musharraff and the fate of an entire subcontinent in KARMAGEDDON: Ganesh's Game"

Cool, dude.

2008-06-25T05:30:00.000-07:00

So the other day, I realized that wearing sunglasses does not make anyone look cooler. They are just awkward looking spectacles that serve a pretty reasonable function in my mind. But I've grown up to be taught that sunglasses are an essential part of the "cool" aesthetic. Half of this comes from movies and TV and the other half comes from patronizing public outreach like DARE and McGruff that I was exposed to in the 90s to be convinced that it was "cool" to not do drugs or join gangs or play with random syringes I found on the ground. Inspired by this duality, I wrote two songs, both called "Cool Dude with Sunglasses". Here they are:

"Cool Dude with Sunglasses" (cool version)
Gelling up my hair and then I'm ready to go
put my shades on just to let em show
moving so slick as I groove down the street
shaking to the rhythm, never missing a beat

Cus I'm a cool dude with sunglasses

Steppin' up the front porch, gonna pick up my girl
going to the fall formal, gonna give her whirl
gonna dance all night with shades on my face
all the girls know I'm the coolest cat in the place

Cus I'm a cool dude with sunglasses

"Cool Dude with Sunglasses" (90s PSA version)

I'm a cool kid I do chores not drugs
I'm into getting As and collecting bugs
My criminal record is as clean as my room
I'm gonna brush my teeth before I watch Zoom

Cus I'm a cool dude with sunglasses

My super cool shades never come off
I'm just as cool as David Hasslehoff
OK, I take them off when I read
Cus I'd rather get Goosebumps than mad weed

Cus I'm a cool dude with sunglasses

I'm also not sure if sunglasses were as much part of the "cool kid who doesn't do bad things aesthetic". It all depended on the material. I'm sure some books, in a post NWA world, implied that kids with sunglasses were sketchy. More research may follow.

Equality

2008-06-23T23:44:00.000-07:00

heart = <3 = love = sex = do = action

I've Grown Up...Not Really

2008-06-23T19:42:00.000-07:00

From Kevin's 10th grade perspective...

A long time ago in a galaxy really far away, or as Mr. Dayoob would say, "a mind boggling distance," their was a war...in the stars.....or something. Just kidding, well I wish I was a professional actor. I would totally love to play Han Solo and Leia's kid. I think i would fit the part except i dont even look dangerous and im short as hell. Hilary Duff would be cast as my sister. You will see the point of Hilary Duff later. (I would have liked to use Mary-Kate Olson, but unfortunately, she seems to be having some bone disease...or maybe its a drug addiction, but either way she is much to thin to get a nice Jedi pounding...did i just give my plan away...) READ ON! I have a great plot to add to the already amazing saga.

Basically, the empire is dead so whats a jedi to do? Act as a faggot cop and enforce dumbass rules. I mean, tagging, "Fuck the Twi'leks," on the side of a cantina on tatooine really doesn't hurt anyone does it? (By the way excuse any misspellings or false data; im not much of a star wars nut but i enjoy writing this shit.) So basically, the whole galaxy is getting tired of the Jedis acting like they have gaderffii (the mace that the tuskin raiders use- yeah i looked that one up) up their asses. But I, Anakin um....Solo.... am a smart boy and I dont care to find myself involved in this conflict. Through the movie, I will convince my sister, Hilary Duff, that the Jedi are not using their powers for good. Instead we run away, to find conflict that we can solve with our powers. But as we do this, a strange attraction has become evident to both of us. And i dont mean an attraction from the force. I mean an attraction....like...i want to bang my....sister....attraction...

Actually this is just a subplot to my master-plan. As it turns out, my sister doesn't want to have that kind of relationship. "You are like my brother," she will say. I know that line. That means "yes you are a very good friend but i will never fuck you." Psh, whatever. I'm sure things like this are said in the alternate universes. That's complete bullshit. I mean its not like I would actually be her brother...oh...yeah...its kinda like that (Sierra MIST!!)...well, then i will make a clone...of hilary duff, or two, or three. Is it really wrong to love a sibling. Luke and Leia would have fucked. Obi Won didn't tell luke that Leia was his sister for nothing. HE DIDNT WANT THEM FUCKING. Although, that fwouldn't be such a bad idea. Their kid would have a strong sense of the force. So strong it would be falling out his or her ass. Hell, ill just make a whole clone army with her. I'll make those fags on that sad ass planet make them for me. Then you have an army that is very versatile. The army could a) solve your sex problem b) get you a drink or c) beat the shit out of men. Or maybe just make fun of Lindsay Lohan. And just like in the austin powers series, they will have blasters in their breasts. Tittie fucking would be out of the question....but you have to make sacrifices sometimes. Have you ever screwed a girl with cold hard breasts? I haven't. I haven't had sex with anyone... but still, doing that isn't topping my life goals list.

The Story Continues...

2008-06-21T03:18:00.000-07:00

Pack Your Bags

2008-06-20T10:37:00.000-07:00

we're moving to mars (where they have ice).

Breakfast, All-Day (Pt. I)

2008-06-20T10:07:00.000-07:00

"It's. Well, it's a good look for you," she echoes gently, dragging a butterknife flat-handed from the tabletop. Presses it flush to her thigh. To the left, one lime-green thumbnail bobs gingerly, crawling spiderlike from a mouth that smells a bit like turpentine. Always performing these little sleights of hand, taught her by nobody. And see here, underneath the plywood, how she's squirming out of her heels. All covert fidgeting -- no footsies, not a hairline crack in that poker face. Auburn snowbanks curtsying down the bridge of her nose to jangle tiptoed across downcast lashes. If we look closely, she's fluttering inside those peepers, trying to catalogue this encounter: casual, feral, enemy. Officially, accidental.

She recalls suddenly their fling in Brazil. Zingo-and-she, partners-in-arms, his beard (the monthly novelty) curling like babyfingers between her claws. There are no stars when they stroll, down the pitchblende cobblestones and catered parkbenches of Rio St. Cerdo St. (River Saint Pig Street). Painfully tourist-made. But the fog billows in cold and real, and in the morning they shrug, kick on their birkenstocks, shuffle out to the pink beach (playa sub rosa) for an afternoon of never-quite-waking-up. Zingo . . . or what was he going by now? Denny?

Fungus-beige LCD, 9:37 AM. She taps once, twice . . . (not tapping out yet), blinks about-face to scrutinize the polystyrene jungle-fern to her 5. Bird-bones clicking clock-wise like an egg-timer. Minimal creaks and groans -- maybe she is getting old, but who's counting? 12, 14, 16 candles, arrayed symmetrically in virgin-white icing. Year after year. Each one stone-flickering, jetwax, inelastic. Wishes burning in effigy. Annually, they cast-off their spooksmoke. Sulfurous creases frost across the dining room table, AC-whistled into the kitchen, toward the time-scrolled Garfield calender (1994 ed.), taped to her freezer like an old skin; dim, monastic birthday parties; forty-something "shindigs"; the Gregorian chanting ("how old are you now? / how old are you now?"); this inquisition fraying presently into the rambunctious sloshing-of-cups and, inevitably, the braiding-of-wrists; jewelry giggling, clasped like necking swans as they rustle the petunias out-back; backs boiling with goosebumps; back in the liver-pink guestroom, finally, where they whine through the nylon sheets. The comforter all rushing-in like surf. Then, maybe, the wheel and fetters can come back out. But until then. . . . she stuffs the candles into a water-frailed Wimco matchbox: for vague, mother-goose reasons, who knows? Perhaps -- as she bends into her final years -- she will burn the wicks at both ends. God knows, he has. At this junction, he's burnt out entirely: blazed on Devil-knows-what, fuse three millimeters long, ticking. . . . But when did she get so wound up? All this talk about egg-timers, gears, springs, years, friction. The entire time perforating her cream skirt with that grinning knife. She has shred a thin ray of the angora to a texture between "wedding dress" and "piñata". Not noticeable, she-hopes, among all the hostile details. Overdressed, for instance. Who, exactly is she embarassing? Then there's her mouth, doodling "you" three times to the rise of sunshine and coffee cups; muffled, revving, first gear, sputtering. . . . "You look . . . spectacular."

Spectacular? Clearly. . . . a Morse lie encoded in that pause. But it's true, he thinks as he snorts coffeefumes like a morning horse, and above them the ceiling fans rip viciously into ovals. White wasp blades, guaranteed to chill, sucking the air into corporate weather systems high above the ionosphere. Deep into starburnt space. The room decompresses into idle chatter. Her throat rasps shut. Rolling in: big, pebble-mouthed sobs. He can see them coming and going: thinly-veiled, syrup hiccups. Why now? After all these months . . .

"Sunny side up, as always . . ." he fumbles absently with a dogeared notepad. By this point he's sitting down. "Karen. And speaking of, how would you like to try our monthly specialt-"

"Thank you," voice like threadbare fishnet stockings.

"-limited time offer" he's lost in her dough-eyes, (soft, felt-cut, but not above kaching!-ing into dollar-$ign$ at the mention of a souvenir.) "our 'Tribe of Ham, Egg, n' Chee-"

"I meant it. Thank you. But no."

A Faux Pas. On his part, maybe the words "monthly", "limited time offer" were uncalled for. . . . Likewise, she probably shouldn't have thanked him. Enter Waiter 2 stage right. I've got it, Charlie. Exeunt, Waiter 2, one empty glass (shirley temple), another glass (water, lipstick marks, fluted, a contiguous circle around the rim). Cold hashbrown compost drooling on her platter. Whatever toy cobras they'd pushed down all these years now corkscrew from their cans, fanning hoods like torn tires. There are tiny springs pumping inside.

"Listen up, 'hunny-bun'. My sweat and blood go into these meals. They are fuck-ing delectable. If you're going to sit here and torment me . . ."

"Oh, Zingo, I-"

"There is no ZINGO at this booth!" he hisses, chemically. Two angry yellow eyes stare her down, dress her down. They poach, they simmer. They rain like summer. Flecks of grease popping like fingernail clippings onto the laminated menus. The springs shudder in pure resonance beneath the membrane. That simple harmonic motion cackles now to slivers, and a wide-eyed silence blows through the rafters. The duo muted in blue; aquarium-tank-anxious. "Zingo" is dead. Three months gone. Buried under tectonic layers of medical records, insurance forms, term papers crispy with age. There is only Denny now.

A click in the dark and the chamber plinks into scratchy fluorescence. "GRAND SLAM BREAKFAST, NOW ONLY $6.95!" He roars, wringing the faucet handle. There is only Denny now. Quarter 'til six, Karen must be screeching into Toronto. No doubt crashing at her sister's for the night. What did he think would happen? Liver spots scum the dimpled mosaic of restroom tiles. A surplus of penises. Penises scrawled into the casket-grey stall panels. Gung-ho, cocks clacking like foils, arranged teepee style all-for-one and one-for-all. (Bathroom stalls: society's dregs or society's mirror? scratched below in sans humilitas, choice font of the college glitterati.) During his fits of rage, Denny hugs and haunts these little nooks. Brooding, playing the monster-come-hero in one of those awful Android Lloyd Weber ordeals (not that he likes that sort of thing.) Public restrooms, subway stations, hospitals; hallowed cells of his entropy-death. He wheels into a stall, seals the door, takes a drag of something rank. She'd left as soon as she saw him (well, what's left of him, that is . . .) And this time he doesn't blame her, taking potshot glances into the chrome facade of the toilethandle. This is what he sees (literally): two egg yolks splashed over his eyes; a strip of raw bacon glued to his upper lip, pancakes stacked on his crown like a gentleman's topper. And then there are the transfigurations that make no sense at all; the slow, peripheral changes: his skin rotted to the grainy pallor of undercooked ham, the nostrils upturned, his eyes blinking terribly inside the translucent egg-tempera, the hash-brown stubble in his hollow cheeks. Worst of all, the cannibal urges. It begs the question: how? Better yet, why? Why Denny?

Squatting in the public catacomb, he remembers it all . . .

To be continued . . .

Riposte-Modern

I guess this is why I say I'm sorry

Dichotomies are stupid and make people judge Lana Del Rey and Tim Tebow

Music And Change

What Kind of Cow is Mickey Mouse?

Kevin's Top 10 of 2011

2011: Better than Most

The Boner Game

Five Things I've Learned At Christmas Time

Why I Think Financial Reporting Sucks Cock

Why every girl needs (an attractive) gay friend

Hope and Hypocrisy

More Drink, Less Think

Sammy Adams and the morality of banging 18-year-olds

I Can't Be Thinking Clearly/This is Inappropriate

Pretty much sums up my high school experience...

OKCupid Diary 5: Just kidding

OkCupid Diary 4: Online dating is dumb because I can, and should, lie about myself in real life

Scottsdale, Revisted

OKCupi Diary No. 2: I sort of already quit OKCupid since Diary No. 1

Scottsdale, Revisted

OKCupid Diary No. 1: Nobody has their shit together

Hello Blue Monday

OKCupid is OK?

Scottsdale, Revisited

Things I did this year

Things I like that slutty girls do not

This Summer:

Uniform Choice

Star Wars and Parenting

Confused Review of Lady Gaga's Monster Ball Tour

When Newspapers Were Cool

Hammer or Get Hammered?

God of Whine?

Why being a writer sucks

A Non-Complaint About Tuition Increases?

An Ill-Defined Language Game

Engineering, McJobs, Class Conflict, etc

Just so you know

Facebook Judgements: Realizing You're Better Than Everyone Else Via Social Media

Kanye West Audiosurf Album Evaluation

English Major Pain

How to ensure you won't get a second date

Don't Worry, It's Not Quite Poetry

NARRATED BY *TONY HAWK*

Carl Olson: A Bug(man)'s Life

The Last Dinosaur

Miner's Daughter

When sexism masquerades as kindness

guess I'm going to use this as a personal blogging media

How much I despise sad human beings: A graph

Jokes of Journalism

Syllabus for JKZ 352 (Summer 2009)

HEY HEY HEY

Sometimes

This is where we brainstorm winter break activities

A semester of the professor

Amber is the Color of Your Energy

Official College Counters, UA Edition

Official college counters, ASU edition

Childish Activities

Requirements to Be an Adult

Dorm

Beefs with God and Katy Perry

Insane

Mistakes

Blogging here...

Hakunama-ta-tas.

Harness the Emotion

Hardly Branching Out

A Contest, For Gentlemen and Scholars

LazyPost

The Day the Pizza Died

Yeah, i'm a little bit of a tool

Pick Up Lines: Good and Bad

The Nasty Guide to Humor

Linked from Last Plane to Jakarta

We didn't land on Plymouth rock...

Precious Moments

In-n-Out (of Her Spleen)

NARRATED BY TONY HAWK