The DaVinci Caffufle

So, I saw The DaVinci Code movie (having read the book about a year ago) and was quite impressed with how well it was made and how true to the book it was. Good job, Howard et al.

However, for the past week I've ashamedly watched about three hours of DaVinci Code commentary, most of it trying to "disprove" or "discredit" Dan Brown's novel. It makes me angry. You know why? Because THE DAVINCI CODE IS A WORK OF FICTION!

It is not a textbook. It is not a historical account. It is not a factual documentation. It is a work of fucking fiction. It is not something that you can argue with. You can disapprove of the novel, but you dan't disprove it, because it didn't really happen! It is a work of fiction, perhaps based on some facts, but even the characters in the novel are in dispute over the veracity of the "facts" they present.

So, what I would like everyone who has some beef with The DaVinci Code to do is this: Step back, take a deep breath, and shut the fuck up. Give Dan Brown a break. His only crime has been writing an exciting, intruiging book.

| Tags || movie |

End of (School) Days

So, amid the heavy drinking, packing, paper writing, working, driving, and job interviews over the past week, I graduated. Somewhere in there, I donned a cap and gown, shook hands with the president of the university, and actually graduated. I know; I couldn't believe it either!

The next step: Get a real job and find this so-called "real world."

| Tags || school |

God & Creation

Blake Ostler argues the classical concept of the creation of the cosmos:

1. If God possess aseity [self-existence] and exists, then he is not dependent on anything nor lacking in any conceivable manner (i.e., God is self-sufficient).
2. A self-sufficient being cannot manifest a need nor be enhanced by any action (1).
3. Every positive action requires an explanation sufficient to account for it (Criteria of Sufficient Reason).
4. Creation of the cosmos is a positive action.
5. A self-sufficient being could not manifest a reason sufficient to explain why it preferred existence of the cosmos to its nonexistence (1,2).
6. Hence, God did not create the cosmos (3,4,5). (Beckwith 8-9)

While this arguement is interesting, I think there are some gaps in its logic. I can agree completely with Assertion 1; if the nature of God is omnipotent, then he needs or wants nothing. However, Assertion 2 intends to limit God's omnipotence by saying that he "cannot manifest a need." This is the schoolyard philosopher's question "Can God make a rock so heavy even He can't move it?" If the answer is yes, then God isn't all-powerful, he can't even move a rock. If the answer is no, then God still isn't all-powerful, he can't even create a rock. Quite a conundrum.

This arguement falls into the realm of the moot, though. Being all-powerful precludes need, want, action, and enhancement. The assertion that God cannot manifest a need nor be enhanced by any action only seems to contradict omnipotence because that is the only way that limited human language can express limitless power. The arguement is mostly syntactical.

Assertion 3 seems ludicrous. There is no logical reason for why such a required explanation should exist to account for a positive action (or for a negative action, for that matter). I believe this assertion means to say that God must have had a reason for creating everything, but that, again, is projecting human reasoning onto a being of limitless power. As the Assertion 1 states, God doesn't need anything, let alone a reason for creation.

Assertion 4 is just stupid. I'll give Mr. Douglas Adams the credit for an excellent rebuttal: "In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move."

As I said for Assertion 2, the flaw of Assertion 5 is that it relies on limited human syntax to describe concepts that are limitless.

Assertion 6, while a derivative of faulty logic, is the most intriguing assertion of them all. Because if God did not create the cosmos, who did? It boggles the mind!

Works Cited

• Adams, Douglas. The Restaurant At the End of the Universe. New York: Pocket, 1982.
• Beckwith, Francis J., and Stephen E. Parrish. The Mormon Concept of God. Lewiston: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1991.

| Tags || god |

Desperate Deep-Sea Divers

I've been watching the first season of Desperate Housewives recently. It's pretty entertaining really, although a little frustrating, simply because no one ever tells the truth. When discussing the show with The Magster's roommate, she said, "That show is full of liars . . . conivers . . . scuba-divers!" I don't know what that means exactly, but it was pretty funny.

| Tags || tv |

Get Me Through the Day

The other day my coworkers and I had an interesting conversation: We were discussing what it would be like if computers and robots took over the world, enslaving the human race. Then someone asked what would happen if aliens tried to take over the world from the robots. We debated the pros and cons of each, but there seemed to be the general concensus that either would be ruthless taskmasters.

Someone posited that maybe the two would kill each other off, and humans could once again rule the earth. But then we realized that humans would probably be the first to go, as we would be grunts, expendables in the robots' army.

Then someone mentioned that they thought the aliens would win because, after all, the robots were created by humans and were no match for the advanced technology of the aliens. We all agreed and were saddened to see that the deed of our ownership would only be passed on to new hands. Humans would never be free, and we'd be treated even more cruelly by our alien masters as we toiled away to terraform our planet for them. Lamenting this, one of my coworkers spoke, "And then we'd be like, 'We want the robots back.'"

This is what gets me through the days.

| Tags || work | aliens | robots |

Useless Failings

If you're an old reader of Cynical McBastard, and you've just found this, you're probably wondering, "What happened to the UselessFlailings.com domain?" Well, due to a lack of funding, Useless Flailings has gone under. This is hopefully a temporary condition -- hopefully, both my brother (Pancake Wrangler) and I won't be steeped in credit card debt forever. But until then, Blogspot is going to be Cynical McBastard's new home. The same goes for Sticks and Stoned. So, re-bookmark these sites, and be sure to tell anyone you know who I didn't tell about the change. Thanks!

| Tags || money | website |

When Women Speak

My mother (TunaHell) told me this once and I tend to believe her. She said that unlike men, women have a minimum number of words they need to use every day, (... or else what? My guess is that they have to suffer an extra day of menstruation!) and that is why to men, women seem to babble on incessantly.

Sometimes, when I'm supposed to be listening to The Magster talking, I'm really counting her words. Sorry, kid.

| Tags || women |

It's My Birthday!

I expect all your packages and money-stuffed envelopes are in the mail, right?

| Tags || birthday |

Been Hangin' Around this Town So Long

Here's to the first Spring Break that I haven't stayed in this cramped college town working! It was excellent.

| Tags || college |

The Breasts You Save May Be Your Own

Stellar is going on a three day walk to help raise money for the fight against breast cancer. I'm giving money, not really because I'm passionate about helping women diagnosed with breast cancer, but because, statistically speaking, the more boobs there are, the better chance I have of squeezing them. Selfish, I know.

| Tags || breast | cancer |

Pic Whore

Like my brother, I have joined Consumating -- yet another pic whore site (e.g. picrave(RIP), whatthedilly, myspace, facebook). If you want you can give me a "thumbs up" (to help raise my popularity) or you can even join in on the fun yourself!

I'm not vain or that self-conscious really, so I don't know why I'm drawn to this type of website. But I'm definitely addicted. Are there any support groups for this kind of thing?

| Tags || fad | picture |

Because I'm a Trend-Whore

Please take a few moments to contribute to my Johari Window.

| Tags || psychology |

Cave Story

A mix between Castlevania and Metroid, this little sidescroller adventure game is fun and addictive. It takes me back to the glory days when my video game systems had as many bits as I was years-old. And best of all -- it's free!

P.S. Be sure to download the English language patch, unless you can read Japanese.

| Tags || video games |

Back Me Up

Some people agreed with me.

| Tags || homosexuality |

Attention Customers

I don't know what you think goes on "in the back," but it's not as mystical and magical as you must think. There is not hidden stockpile of whatever you're looking for. There is no portal to an alternate dimension where the currency is the stupid item that you insist this store must have. There is no elven workshop where they manufacture anything any customer desires. You know what's "in the back?" The same shit that's on the shelves!

The item you want is not back there. The reason any clerk goes into "in the back" is to satiate you, and possibly to take a smoke-break. Even if the item is "in the back" -- crammed between a crate of toilet paper and a cardboard display set for a romantic comedy -- they are probably not looking for your item. If, by some miracle, they do bring back whatever you were looking for from "in the back" they most likely found it by accident.

"In the back" there are stacks of boxes. There are forklifts. There are cardboard balers. There are trash compacters. There are old merchandise displays. And there are clerks talking to other clerks about how much they hate customers who sent them to "in the back" to look for a discount piece of shit that the store doesn't carry anymore.

Thank you for shopping at our store, and have a nice day!

| Tags || work | clerk |

What Other Dogs Hump

In response to a letter to the editor in the Index, the campus weekly newspaper:

I have a dog named Rudy, and he is a boy dog. He goes out and finds a pillow, stuffed animal, or a person's legs, and he falls in love. Then he humps it. Does this make my dog leg-sexual? No, it makes him a dog that likes to hump things.

The argument that homosexuality is “abnormal” or “unnatural” is poorly reasoned. First, “normality” is a construct of society, based on what the majority finds acceptable. There is no set standard for normal, and if there were, no one would fit the mold, because everyone is different in some way.

Furthermore, what is considered normal changes? What is considered abnormal one year might not cause such a fuss the next year. One hundred years ago a woman who was thirty years old, single, and held a job would definitely been considered abnormal (or more likely a prostitute). Today, that same woman could walk down the street without anyone even noticing or caring. In fact, people today balk at how ridiculously and ludicrously oppressed women of that time were. How do think people one hundred years from now will think about the current social oppression of homosexuals?

Second, as far a homosexuality being “unnatural,” there is overwhelming documentation of homosexuality in all types and species of animals, from beloved canines like Buffy and Rudy to gorillas in the wild. One of the most famous cases in the U.S. is that of the two homosexual male penguins, Roy and Silo, in New York's Central Park Zoo. The couple was together for eight years – seven years longer than any of their heterosexual zoomates – and built nests, ate, socialized, and lived relatively normal penguin lives.

In his book Biological Exuberance: Animal Homosexuality and Natural Diversity, Bruce Bagemihl examines scientific documentation from the past century that includes the homosexual, bisexual, and transgender behavior of many different species of animal (mostly birds and mammals, considered the most highly evolved). So, are these animals unnatural when they have sex with others f the same sex? Does this make them “gay” geese and “lesbian” orangutans?

The thing that seems most unnatural to me about homosexuality is how it is treated in our society. For hundreds of years homosexuality had been accepted by some cultures, revered by others, or at least ignored by most. But now many in our current culture are trying to eliminate homosexuality for seemingly no reason at all, using the pathetically weak arguments that “it's unnatural” or “God doesn't like it.” When was the last time you heard a penguin refused the right to mate with whomever it chose or a gorilla killed simply because enjoyed having sexual relations with other female gorillas?

Your dog Buffy probably doesn't particularly care who or what other dogs hump. Why should you care who any other human being humps?

| Tags || homosexuality |

Valentuesday

Ah, Tuesday: the most romantic day of the week!

| Tags || romance |

00001111

the sunrise warms steel.
grass damp from morning dew sticks
to cold metal feet.

| Tags || poem | robot |

I'm No Physicist

But I think Louis Savian might be wrong about time travel.

His basic claim is that time travel is impossible. He proves this by flaunting the equation:

v = dx / dt
v = velocity
dx = change in distance
dt = change in time

Basically Velocity equals X miles per hour (or km per second, etc.).

He then "proves" that time travel is impossible with this equation:

v = dt / dt

Velocity equals hours per hour. And as we learned in middle school math, a unit of measure in both the numerator and denominator cancel each other out. So, then, Velocity would equal 1 (v = 1 / 1). "This is of course meaningless as far as velocity is concerned," Savian says. I agreed with him up to this point.

He said earlier, "When push comes to shove [proponents of time travel] will insist that physicists mean something different when they speak of motion in spacetime. Never mind that motion has always been defined as a change in position in a coordinate system. This definition of motion has not changed in millennia." I can agree that motion is defined as a "change in position." However, I believe that his assumption that motion is equal to velocity is false. To this humble layman, motion is the act of moving, while velocity is the measure of how speedy one moves. Simply, motion is a change, velocity is the rate of that change. Therefore, his equation does not disprove time travel. It only proves that a change in time cannot be measured relative to a change in time.

Let's say you get paid one dollar for every foot you walk. Your income would be measured in dollars per foot (i = d$ / dft). Now suppose someone says, "I want to measure your income in feet." (Why? Ask Mr. Savian.) So, he comes up with the equation i = dft / dft. Then he says, "It's impossible to measure your income in feet!" Duh! Because for every foot you walk, you've walked one foot. This has nothing to do with your income. Just as time travel has nothing to do with velocity.

What Mr. Savian fails to realize is that velocity is measured in dt (a change in time) because we're already time traveling (at one second per second) for whatever reason (Maybe chronologically is the only way the human mind can comprehend this "time" dimension of spacetime; but that is beyond the scope of this post.) So, in a sense, the conventional sense of time travel is actually accelerating in time (or reverse accelerating for going "back in time").

Now acceleration is probably not the best terminology because (if I remember Mr. Marley's physics class correctly) it is a function of velocity, and I've already said that velocity is not what we're measuring in time travel. However, I lack the proper terminology to deal with this concept, so I'll use "time acceleration unit" (tau) to mean the amount of time (relative to seconds) a time traveler experiences (as compared to the time that a normal, non time traveling person experiences). So, if we wanted to bring velocity back into this (a "temporal velocity" (tv)) we could say that tv = dtau / dt. A time traveler's temporal velocity equals his time acceleration units per second. So, if a time traveler wanted to experience time at five times the rate of a normal human his temporal velocity would be 5tau per second.

Therefore, time travel does not seem impossible, it just seems we lack a mathmatics for it (to my knowledge). Although, I do not agree with Savian when he says that time travel is impossible, I would say that time travel (as it is depicted in science fiction) is very improbable and impractical.

NOTE: With all that being said, am I just full of shit or what? Is there someone out there who knows a lot more about physics and mathematics than I do that could check this out. Because, while I'm confident with my own mad musings, I just kinda spouted all this b.s. out without too much thought or calculation. And I highly doubt that I could have casually thought up something that a real physicist would have over-looked.

| Tags || physics | time travel |

I Don't Have a Trash Can Anymore

Just a growing pile of trash in the corner of my room.

| Tags || room |

AIDS

There may be a cure for AIDS on the horizon. Now what are the homophobes going to blame on the gays?

| Tags || AIDS |

A Glasswater House

A friend let me know of a local band named A Glasswater House. I was reluctant to listen at first because, well, it's a band made up of townies, and I'm a prejudiced sonuvabitch.

But it turns out that they actually sound really good. You can check out a few of their songs on their Myspace account. My favorite is The Grey.

| Tags || music |

Sticks and Stoned

I've re-restarted Sticks and Stoned (formerly Nerd's Eye View). I'm going to try to update twice a week. I'm doing this mostly to piss off my brother, Pancake Wrangler, because he always says he wants to start a web comic but never does. So, I'm going to do a half-assed one and show him that it's really not that hard.

So, if you wouldn't mind, could you do me a favor? Go to Sticks and Stoned, leave a comment (even if it's just to say that my pictures are stupid and poorly drawn), and tell a friend (even if it's just to tell them about how stupid and poorly drawn the pictures are). Then, when Pancake Wrangler sees how easy it is to get people to go to a website (even if features stupid and poorly drawn pictures), he will start up his own web comic.

| Tags || webcomic | brother |

00001110

Nameless takes his first
steps and wanders out of his
laboratory womb.

| Tags || poem | robot |

00001101

what drives this robot,
a silicon chip or an
intangible soul?

| Tags || poem | robot |

00001100

a sudden movement:
jerking, Nameless sits upright
without instructions.

| Tags || poem | robot |

00001011

the robot wades through
a bog of subroutines and
coded instructions.

| Tags || poem | robot |

00001010

milliseconds seem
like millenia in the
mind of a robot.

| Tags || robot | poem |

Sin

Isn't it a bit presumptuous of us to think that by our actions we have an effect on God's temperament? That by sinning we can evoke disappointment or even wrath? This would mean that we hold a power over God, and, therefore, that he is not omnipotent. Again, it seems a bit presumptuous of a fairly insignificant creature such as humans to believe they have power over the God that created the Universe and everything in it.

| Tags || God |

00001001

the creator dies.
his nameless creations is
left alone, waiting.

| Tags || poem | robot |

Ebooks

Recently, Sony came out with an ebook reader to very little fanfare. They seem to be targeting the device to the casual reader, but, because there seems to be no advantage to buying an expensive ebook reader over buying inexpensive paper books, that are just as portable and easy-to-read, this does not seem like a smart course of action. Only a librophile who reads volumes upon volumes would be tempted to buy this device. It would save him money in the long run because, even though the reader would be a costly initial expense, he would save money on the quantity of books he bought. (Theoretically the books would be cheaper; the publishers would be able to pass along the savings from not having to print, bind, and ship along to the consumer.) However, there seems to be another market (besides the librophiles) who would benefit from the Sony Reader: public schools and college students buying textbooks.

Public schools could save large amounts of money on ebooks, even if they had to supply all their students with ebook readers (which is a cost they could feasibly pass on to parents of students). Having to replace worn or outdated books gets expensive. And public schools order literally tons of books, so any small money-saving endeavor could save a school thousands over the course of a few years. School districts could save millions in the course of ten years.

College students could also greatly benefit from this device, if coupled with certain services. I've spent hundreds of dollars on textbooks from which I only read a few chapters. Many professors have little regard for how much textbooks cost, and instead focus on the information they provide. So, they end up mixing and matching several chapters from a textbook here and a couple essays from a textbook there to construct their lesson plan for the semester. So, I might end up spending $50 on a textbook that I only read a fifth of. If given the chance, I would rather only pay a fifth of the money for the fifth that book that contains the particular information the professor wants me to read for the class. Hell, I'd probably even pay more than that, just so I don't have to buy the whole book and waste money. This is something that ebooks could do.

Sony (or a textbook publishing house, or anybody else for that matter) could set up an iTunesesque service that would allow a user to download content from textbooks. The beauty is that this service could not only sell books as a whole (as in buying a whole CD from iTunes), but they could sell the book in chapters as well (like buying one song from an album). Of course, just like iTunes, the added-up cost of buying all the chapters of a book individually could equal more that just buying the book itself, so if a person did want the whole thing, they could get it at a cheaper price. But the individual chapter prices would be inflated, and people would still be willing to pay because it's cheaper for them in the long-run.

The only problem that I could see with this is that university bookstores would have a hissyfit because they wouldn't be able to buy back students' used books and then sell them back to them at inflated prices. But who cares; fuck the bookstores. They've been ripping off poor college kids like me for decades. I could care less.

| Tags || ebooks | Sony | college |

Dad Lost in Space

What was that show I used to watch? It was the one about the girl whose father was an astronaut lost in space. Somehow the girl had come to posses a glowing orb, a plastic ball with flashing lights inside, through which her father spoke to her. And listened. For some reason, no one was supposed to know that her father was still alive. So, his daughter was the only person the astronaut dad would talk to.

He never complained of running out of oxygen in the deep of space or the unbearable loneliness of some strange alien planet. He talked to his daughter, gave her advice, and listened to her problems. It was a ridiculous premise, of course. Who would ever want to have their father stripped of all his earthly, physical trappings and encased in a ball sitting by their bedside to converse and console only them?

Ridiculous. This was, of course, back when I was a young boy, before my own father was lost in space. I never found a glowing orb, or a way to communicate with him.

| Tags || father | tv |

00001000

a life for a life.
nothing can be gained without
something being lost.

| Tags || poem | robot |

00000111

untimely: the man
who infused metal and sparks
with new life falls dead

| Tags || poem |robot |

00000110

born into the world:
the robot is a cog in 
the cosmic machine.

| Tags || poem | robot |

00000101

the umbilical
cord is severed, leaving the
robot untethered.

| Tags || poem | robot |

Googleverse

If Robert X. Cringley's predictions are correct, Google may be poised to revolutionized the television advertising industry (and possibly take over the universe).

Cringley stops with Google used to give individually tailored advertising to tv watchers / consumers. But why stop there? Suppose that Google notices that you've been searching for "Three's Company" or "John Ritter and Joyce Dewitt". Instead of playing an infomercial or the local news, they could substitute in an episode of that zany seventies classic.

Or suppose that Google could actually receive data about the shows you're watching (via Nielsen Ratings technology), then they wouldn't just have to use data from searches you've made. They could collect information on the shows you watch consistently, the shows you catch every now-and-then, which episodes of a series you've watched (and missed), the channels you stay on, the channels you flip by, and the channels that you don't watch at all. Then, whenever you complain about there being "nothing good on tv," you could switch to a Google channel (a la Google Video) and watch reruns of your favorite shows, catch up on episodes you've missed, or watch similarly themed shows or shows with the same actors / writers / producers.

Of course all of this is a trip through my imagination and based soley on speculation. Most of it would be probably much harder and costly to execute than I think. But all of it is possible, if not plausible.

| Tags || Google | television |

Slashdotting for Dummies

Is it just me or are 75% of the people who post comments on Slashdot giant tools? Most of the comments are about as informative and insightful as posts on the Myspace forums.

| Tags || Slashdot | Myspace | blog |

00000100

whirring motors are
sustained by the power core’s
deep undulations.

| Tags || poem | robot |

00000011

servos twitch, lenses
focus, sensors gasp for a
vision of the world.

| Tags || poem | robot |

00000010

resistors resist
the temptation to transist.
circuits coil and close.

| Tags || poem | robot |

00000001

the bios kindles --
a butterfly unfolds its
wings for the first time.

| Tags || poem | robot |

00000000

the main switch is thrown. 
electrons surge through wire veins.
existence begins.

| Tags || poem | robot |

Byte Me

Because I've been reading Isaac Asimov's I, Robot, and because I've been listening to one of my favorite songs, and because of this blog post, I have started to write a series of poems (haikus to be exact) about a robot.

Yes, that is as stupid as it sounds. I've written a poem about a robot before, and it seems to fit the theme of some of the haikus I'm working on, but collectively, this series of poems is more like a narrative about the life of a robot. But don't worry, I'm not taking this whole thing too seriously.

Really, I'm just having fun writing them, and I need something to keep me busy while I'm at work. So, be prepared for the barrage of bad poetry that will ensue.

| Tags || poetry | robots |

Scott Erke

I believe it was my junior year when Scott Erke died. He killed himself. He skipped school one day and sat in his closed garage with his car running for so long that he asphyxiated, inhaling fatal amounts of carbon monoxide. Rumor has it that he turned the car off right before he died, leading some to believe that he tried to stop his slow suicide, but that it was already too late. I think he was just being courteous.

I don't know why I took Scott's death so hard. I barely knew him. I had only talked to him a few times. Actually, he didn't talk much at all, just listened and grinned out of the corner of his mouth. We had mutual friends, but never hung out with them at the same time. Both of our little sisters were best friends, but we had little else in common.

I suppose I reacted less to his death and more to the way people talked about him after he died. People pretended to care so much more about him now that he was gone, when, if they had showed even a fraction of that caring to him when he was living, he might still be alive.

I remember seeing Scott's sister, Kara, and my sister talking and crying shortly after the news got around town. They were both crying. Then Kara inhaled deeply and wiped her eyes, repeating a mantra, "I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry." That's when I felt most sorry for her. I remember other people crying, too, other people who probably didn't know him very well and just wanted to cry about something. I remember my sister talking about them with disdain and saying that they didn't deserve to cry.

I wrote a letter the day after Scott died. It wasn't to anyone; it was just a letter to vent my feelings. I wrote in the letter how I felt bad for his family. I wrote that I hated the phrases "cry for help" and "warning signs." I wrote that I knew what feeling all alone was like. I wrote that I wished I had gotten to know him better. I wrote that I was angry that those closest to him didn't somehow see it coming; they must have suspected something! I wrote that I was angry that suicide was the only way Scott could feel safe.

I wish I still had this letter to read now. I don't remember all of what it said. The only thing that I remember verbatim is how it started, "I killed Scott Erke," and how it ended, "We all killed Scott Erke." I cried after I wrote it, even though I didn't deserve to.

Grandma Mimi

I remember walking into the dining room with some toy in hand and seeing my mother sitting alone at the dining table, head bowed between her hands. I can't remember if she was crying, but I knew that she was upset. I circumnavigated the table and sat on the floor next to her chair. I began to absently play with my toy, hoping that she would comfort me. I don't know why I thought the upset one should be the one to comfort the content one. Perhaps I empathized with her emotion. Or perhaps I was just too inexperienced with the comforting process to realize that it could be transmitted both ways, from parent to child and from child to parent. Nevertheless, I knew something was wrong and I did not want to leave until it was resolved.

"What's wrong?" I looked up and asked my mother.

She didn't look at me. I remember she took a long pause (or what seems like a long pause to a four-year-old) before answering, "My mother is dead." I didn't know what that meant.

I only remember the funeral and the reception in (probably inaccurate) snippets. I don't remember whether the event with my mother in the dining room took place before or after it, though. I do remember wearing a suit or at least a tie. I remember staring at a mounted deer head. I remember a lot of adults talking to each other, and no one paying attention to me. I remember asking to look inside the casket several times, each time being told "no."

For some reason, I don't ever remember being sad.

Recap

This semester has been busy, but that is no excuse for having neglected my duty and privilege as a blogger: inundating you with worthless knowledge about my relatively insignificant life. So, here's some highlights from this semester:

• I got a new job as a kitchen employee at Hy-Vee, the local grocery store. I don't really care for the job too much. I still work at the Language & Literature Division Office. I'm working there over Winter Break, in fact.
• I dressed up as a zombie dressed up as a bunny for Halloween. I was bartender at Choose Your Poison, my fraternity's annual costume party, for a couple hours. During those couple hours I drank approximately enough "poison" to choke a donkey. Afterwards I apparently ended up tackling too many people and wouldn't stay standing up. The Magster, dressed as a hobo, made me go to bed. I puked.
• I read a couple of books that I liked: Ishmael, Possession, and a classic from my childhood A Castle in the Attic
• I put my resume online; I've begun the job search. I've already applied to a couple places, but most employers don't want me begging for a job until February or March.
• I killed a man with my bare hands.
• I participated in Tour de Franzia, drinking over a liter of boxed wine. At some in the night I remember getting into a wrestling match with a blind guy. Later, I puked.
• I decided to recap for you what you missed this semester on my blog.

I'm sure much more happened, but I can't think of anything else important right now. I'll try to start updating more regularly again, though.

I Wish I Was a Droid

"Sir, if you'll not be needing me, I think I'll shut down now."
--See-Threepio

The Internet Hates Me

Believe me, I want to post. But I don't have Internet access at the Fraternity House (Oh yeah, in case you were wondering, I don't live out of my car anymore. I have a place to live once again. (I'll tell more about that later. (*cross fingers*))) and walking to the library is such a chore. And if I did go to the library, I might accidentally start studying, and that just wouldn't be good for my 2.60 GPA. But I will be back, once the Internet stops hating me.

Jorb

Is there anybody out there that wants to pay me? For anything? If you have a job, I'll do it. I would prefer a job that allows me to write . . . stuff. But, honestly, I'll do anything. I work in a kitchen right now; I'm not above working a crappy job. All I need is enough to live on and pay off all my debts. Well, I graduate in May, so that will give you some time to think about it.

Paladin

| Superhero | Part 7 |

At age 32 Alex found himself single, independently wealthy, wanting nothing, bored, and lonely. And, like other young men in his particular predicament, he decided to find a hobby. However, instead of turning to drinking, drugs, or womanizing, he decided to pick up crime-fighting as his pass-time.

Naming himself Paladin and dressing in several shades of dark blue, Alex hit the streets at night, looking to right wrongs and defend the defenseless. Masked and covered in body armor, Alex felt invincible.

He spent his first few nights riding his motorcycle, listening to the garbled police blotter through his headphones, arriving at crimes already stopped, and generally looking ridiculous.

He decided to ditch the bike and creep to and fro in the shadows of alleys and rooftops in what was considered by most to be "the worst part of town." This is when things got exciting for him.

Alex peered out from the alley between The Busty Boutique and Garvey's Liquor and Tobacco. Even at three in the morning there was still much activity in the street. He'd been jumping from rooftop to rooftop and sneaking about for hours without seeing so much as a mugging. He needed a break.

He casually walked deep into the recesses of the alley, where shadow and the odd scent of decaying garbage concealed him. He removed his gloves, gauntlets, spandex shirt, and elbow and shoulder pads. He undid his flak jacket and threw it into the pile. His body was dripping with sweat. I'll have to bring some water next time, he thought. He removed his mask and ran his hands through his wet hair, sitting down on a stack of several old tires. He sighed and reflected on the practicality of his new-found hobby.

Behind him, a side door to Garvey's Liquor flew open. Alex stood up and spun around to see a scared middle-aged man being pushed through the doorway. "Get on your knees, chink!" said a skinny man in a hooded sweatshirt behind him. Alex watched as the man he assumed was the store clerk slowly bent down, hands behind his head. The hooded man pointed a pistol at the back of the clerk's head. Alex's heart raced. He knew what he had to do, but could he?

The man with the gun leaned down to talk into the clerks ear. "I'm only gonna ask you one more Goddamned time! What's the combination to the safe?" The clerk replied that he didn't know between sobs. "Wrong answer, chink." The man cocked the gun.

Alex took a step forward and shouted, "Stop!" It was just like out of a movie. Alex stood bare-chested barely visible in the scant light cast from the open door, his face still concealed. The clerk's assailant looked up and made an exclamation of confusion. There was a moment of silence. Alex began, "I'm Paladin, defender of light, and you, sir, are committing...." The man with the gun turned it on Alex and pulled the trigger three times quickly. Alex stood for a moment, then crumpled to the ground.

I Need a New Name Badge

My new boss called me Josh the other day out of no where. He didn't even know he'd done it, and I didn't correct him.

Vertebrate

I don't technically live anywhere. I have most of my stuff in the basement of an apartment that my friends live in. I had some clothes at the Magster's place, but I've since taken that out and deposited it into my car. When I'm not sleeping over at Magster, I sleep on people's couches or in my fraternity's party barn. I ask people to take showers at their place. Sometimes I go to the library just to hang out.

I want my house to hurry up and get finished. It's still supposed to be two weeks.

I haven't been dealing with this very well: Yesterday, I just didn't go to work. I could have, I just didn't. I knew the consequences of not going to work. I could probably get fired. I just didn't care.

When faced with adversity, I tend to curl up like a caterpillar that's been poked. Take, for instance, the time my car's battery died this past summer. I went and cried to my mommy. And then there's the time at the end of last semester where I just didn't go to classes for a couple week because I was "too stressed." If my father were around he would say something like, "Stand up straight; show some backbone." But it's not that I'm invertebrate. My spine is just so used to curling up that every time I have a little bit of stress, I ball up into the fetal position.

I'm such a pussy.

Scolding

While driving through town to find some fast food, as I'm often apt to doing, I came upon the vehicle containing some of my friends. As is the custom of rude, young ruffians such as myself, I flipped my friends the bird. In return they flipped me off. Flipping the middle finger is the friendly wave of my generation.

The driver pulled over into a nearby parking lot and I followed suit. He threw a book at me that I had left with him, and we exchanged pleasantries.

From nowhere a minivan pulled up next to me; it was piloted by an upset middle-aged woman. "Did we do something to upset you?" she asked me. I was confused not only by her non sequitur question, but also by her use of "we" as there appeared to be no one else in the van with her. She could see the confusion on my face and added, "Why did you flip me off back there?"

embarrassed I confessed, "Oh, sorry. I was actually flipping them off," pointing to the carful of my companions parked next to mine.

"Why would you do that? I have children with me." I saw shadows moving through the tinted windows in the back of the minivan.

I apologized again. My comrades in the other car began to giggle.

"Are you in college?" she inquired.

"Yes," I replied. I could sense a talking-to was coming.

"Don't you think that's a little immature?" she said more as a statement. "Don't you think you're too old for that?" I had not heard about an age-limit on flipping people off or a general rule regarding ribbing of friends.

I did, however, think that I was a little too old to be talked down to thusly. But in order to avoid a confrontation, I figured that I would take my lumps and apologize. "Yeah, probably. I'm sorry." There. I had apologized three times. I had been satisfactorily sincere, and the woman and I could part ways. I turned to talk to my friends in the other car, but apparently the conversation was not over.

"I mean, c'mon!" she said passionately. I turned back to look at her. "When I saw that, it made me want to cry."

I am not a rude person. Sometimes I am gruff and I don't always smile at strangers. I don't particularly care for every random person that I come across, but I try to treat everyone with the respect that I would expect from them.

I was rude to this woman. "Well, you can go ahead and cry, ma'am," I said as I shooed her away with my hand. I didn't particularly feel like being scolded and belittle or given a morality lesson by some woman who obviously thought that my mother had done an insufficient job in raising me. I had politely apologized, and if that wasn't enough, well, that's too bad. I wanted to be done with this conversation.

flabbergasted. That's what her face was. She didn't look flabbergasted; her face was the actual word "flabbergasted." It was Plato's perfect Form of Flabbergastation. Her face was the epitome of confusion, disgust, disbelief, anger, and bewilderment: flabbergasted. Undaunted by my audacity, she continued, wild-eyed, to shake her proverbial finger at me. "Why would you do that? Why would you flip someone off?! It's ... it's ..."

I didn't let her finish, "Because I think it's funny."

She repeated her questions. I repeated my answer. She could see that she was not making her point. She changed tactics: "That is not part of home-town Kirksville values. I live in Kirksville. I have a family here."

"I live here, too, ma'am. I've lived here for five years." A little exaggeration. I've only had a permanent residence in this town for two years. But I have slept and eaten and breathed and shopped and et cetera in Kirksville for going on five years now.

"I live here," she repeated as if to say that her state of "living here" was somehow superior to mine. "Those are not part of Kirksville's home-town values." She liked to repeat herself.

I wanted to tell her that I came from a town smaller and more "home-town values" that Kirksville, and that I had flipped off plenty of people in that town, some not so playfully. I couldn't think of a way to say it very succinctly.

"People live here," she continued on with her point that somehow the fact that this is my town, too, it did not belong to me. As if I dropped from the sky every evening, driving around in my car, flipping off random families, only to return to the sky without apologies or explanation. "You can go back to where ever you come from and do that all you want, but don't do it in Kirksville." I repeated the fact that I live in Kirksville. I don't like repeating myself.

The novelty of this confrontation had worn off, and my friends in the other car took off.

Seeing a fraternity sticker on the back of my friend's car she asked, "Are you in a fraternity?"

I could see where this was going. In Kirksville, as in other small college towns I'm sure, despite the fact that college students support the economy of the town (making up nearly a third of it's population when school is in session) by bringing in their parents' money from out of town and spending it here, there is an anti-college-student sentiment among the aborigines of the town. This goes doubly for the Greek system (generally the students with enough extra cash to spend that they can pay dues). They view us as a nuisance, a pest, a weed that has infested their fair town (when in fact, we're more like a cash crop, a ripe fruit dripping with nectar, just waiting to be plucked). The university is probably the only thing that keeps Adair county from being the poorest county in the state (right now it's ranked 3rd poorest). The residents of this area should get down on their knees and praise their various gods that we exist. Instead, they look down their noses and scoff in disgust.

And this royally pisses me off.

"No," I replied to her question. The answer wasn't relevant to our discussion. "Look, ma'am, I'm don't want to discuss this with you anymore."

"Do you even know what that means, giving the middle finger?"

"Yes, it means 'fuck you,'" I almost smiled devilishly because I had just said "fuck you" to a middle-aged woman with kids.

"It means a special union between a man and a woman. And you're cheapening it."

I wasn't really following her line of logic so I said again, "I don't want to discuss this with you."

"I want you to say that you'll never do that in home-town Kirksville again." She really liked the phrase "home-town Kirksville." I refused. She asked this time, "Can you tell me that you'll never do that again in Kirksville?"

"I could but it would be a lie." We danced around this for a few more exchanges. I was getting tired and hungry, so I gave in, and I gave her an obviously, and horribly insincere "I'll never do that again in Kirksville."

She suddenly seemed satisfied with that. I've never understood people who accept insincere concessions and apologies and such. For some reason just saying the words without meaning is worth something to them. Anyway, the conflict had apparently been solved. And that's when the wierdest thing happened. She apologized to me. She said, "I'm sorry for being so pushy."

What. The. Fuck. ?.

I still don't understand it.

Laughing

I couldn't help but laugh. At you. At me. At every beautifully ugly thing in this world. I laughed with snot dripping out of my nose and pain running down my face. I laughed from somewhere deeper than my lungs, from my soul. I laughed from beyond the selfish, cynical, down-trodden, whiney, pseudo-intellectual organs in the center of me, from below my aching diaphram, from between my wheezing liver and churning stomach, from without my knotted intestines. The laughter grew like a tumor, and I could see the pain from this unfamiliar feeling in me reflecting in your confused eyes.

You weren't alone in not understanding this experience. Maybe it was a moment of clarity. Or maybe it was a moment of absolute insanity. But I laughed like I finally got the joke that I've been mulling over for the past twenty-two years. Of course, I probably didn't get it, or all of it. And even if I did, I've forgotten the punchline.

But that doesn't matter now. I still have the memory of holding when you said, "Let me go; I hate you." I still remember tackling you in the grass, cars passing by. I remember laughing and laughing and laughing and crying and not knowing why and not caring, and only caring about you for that moment, and not even caring if you didn't care about me, and just being thankful that I got laugh insanely with / at / next to / for / because of you.

Dear Tom C. Hunley,

I just stole and read your book of poems My Life as a Minor Character which I have been eyeing for two days now. Someone carelessly abandoned a copy in the faculty workroom next to the copy machine and I have no qualms with stealing things that don't belong to me. The reason it caught my eye is because I've been trying to write a poem about being a minor character in my own autobiography, but now I don't want to write it because I'd feel unoriginal, like I was stealing your idea. So, I guess I lied about not having any problems with stealing. Anyway, while I was reading, I found that I had already written all your poems. In fact, I'm pretty sure that they were my poems because they were all my ideas in the first place. You had apparently been taking dictation for me without my knowledge. I appreciate your enthusiasm; I'm sure you were just trying to help, but next time let me know before publishing a book of my poems under your name.

Recipe for Dying Lungs and Liver

Take the excitement of finally having friends back in town, peal off the responsibility of classes, and stir in the nuisance of several bills and two minimum-wage jobs that never seem to pay enough. Sprinkle in feelings of awkwardness and discomfort from living with a girlfriend and her roommate for a few weeks. Then slowly pour cheap beer and even cheaper whiskey. Blend ingredients until the mixture turns into a blurry haze. Let cool before serving. Serves one.

Potato

"I like potatoes because they look like boobies."
--Mr. McBastard to The Magster

Is Josh There?

Someone just called my cell phone (wrong number) and asked for Josh. I almost said, "Speaking."

Boy on a Stick and Slither

True Love

Suggestion

| Superhero | Part 6 |

"So, you can disappear and turn things invisible and stuff?" Miranda walked alongside Thomas, nearly trotting to keep up with Thomas' long, quick gate. She looked up at him, and he watched the ground as he walked. She didn't know where they were going, but Thomas seemed to. Actually, she wasn't sure if they were going anywhere. She had a feeling that if she slowed down or stopped Thomas would not wait up for her. He seemed uncomfortable to say the least. "I mean if you don't mind me asking." She shot him her best smile, but he didn't notice.

"Uh, I don't mind, I guess," he replied shyly. Thomas was still unsure of this girl's motives. Why does she want to know about me? Is she just curious, or is it something else? "It's not as cool as turning invisible, though," he said.

"How do you do it?" Miranda pressed.

Thomas had never talked about his ability with anyone before, not even his friends. He had always imagined telling someone, not anyone in particular, just someone. But he'd never really gotten the opportunity, until now. "Well, I kinda just suggest an idea to a person."

Miranda was confused. "What do mean?"

Thomas had had this conversation one thousand times in his head. He was always eloquent as he explained in detail the minutiae of his ability to some eager listener. They would listened wide-eyed and laugh as he told anecdotes about his experiences with his ability: The time he had scared a bully so much that the bully had pissed his pants on the playground; the time he used his ability to hide in his sister's room when she was having a slumber party and watched the girls change; the time he stole an entire couch from a furniture store. The listener would marvel at his power and be in awe of Thomas, and Thomas would smile and shrug. "It's just something I can do," he would say in humble summary. But now Thomas was hardly eloquent. "I kinda just put an idea into someone's mind, and they, like, make up the rest." This sounded much better in my head, he thought.

"I don't follow."

"It's like this," he began before pulling his head off his neck. He held is detached head out in front of the two of them, facing back, looking at Miranda.

She was stupefied. "That's awesome!"

"See, all I did was suggest to you that you see me pull my head off and hold it in my hand. It's up to you if you see blood dripping from my neck, or if my eyes glaze over, or if you hear the voice coming from my head's mouth or the stump of my neck."

She looked up at his neck. She knew his head was on top of it. It had to be. But she just couldn't see it. "Even though I know this is just a trick, I still can't see your head where it really is. Why?"

"I don't know," Thomas said as he replaced his head. "Your mind had already taken my suggestion and decided on what it was seeing. Even if it's wrong, why would your mind want change it's mind now?" He chuckled at what he had just said, and looked at Miranda. She was still staring at him.

"What happens if someone doesn't take the suggestion?"

"It happens every so often. People are easy to manipulate when they're distracted or emotional, but when they're calm or centered or zen or whatever you want to call it, they're harder to convince. Also, the more detailed one of my suggestions is, the less likely it is that they'll believe it. And the simpler my suggestion, the more the person can use their own imagination to expound upon it." Miranda was smiling and nodding her head. She was indeed a wide-eyed listener. "So, why do you want to know about this?" Thomas slowed his pace and looked into Miranda face. who is this girl? What does she want?

Miranda leaned in to tell a secret. Her face was serious, but somehow still smiling. She spoke in a hushed voice, "I have a super power, too."

Disappear

| Superhero | Part 5 |

Plaid Shirt was fifty paces ahead of Miranda, walking lazily with long strides. He was tapping his pack of cigarettes against the butt of his hand. He ripped off the packaging and threw it into an alley as he passed. Miranda shook her head in disappointment. Without warning Plaid Shirt stopped and began to turn. Caught off guard and suddenly ashamed for stalking this man, Miranda conspicuously turned and inspected the stoop of the building next to her. Miranda's indiscreet action caught the eye of Plaid Shirt, and he inspected her for a few seconds before lifting a lighter to the cigarette dangling out of his mouth, shielding the flame from the breeze. His gaze stayed on Miranda for a few more seconds as he took the first drag off his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke. He turned back and continued on his way. Miranda sighed and shook her head again. What am I doing? she thought. Nevertheless, she continued her pursuit.

Over the next block, Miranda slowly closed the gap, all the time trying to come up with a rational reason for following this guy. She kept thinking about what Alex had told her about their kind of people and the energy that bound them all together. It had sounded a little crazy to her then, but it she thought that it might be starting to make sense. Miranda was so close behind the man in the plaid shirt now that she could smell his cigarette smoke.

Plaid Shirt flicked his cigarette butt into the street and gave a sly look over his shoulder. As he expected, Miranda was still following him, only closer than expected. Miranda noticed his backward glance and thought, I'd better come up with something to say before he gets anxious about be following him. But what do you say to in a situation like this? 'Hey, I know you've got powers; I saw you use them on people. That's pretty cool.'

Miranda blinked and he was gone. She stopped. Her eyes were wide in disbelief. The man in the plaid shirt, who had been not more than five feet in front of her, had vanished. Miranda looked around to see if she had just missed him duck into a doorway or cross the street. But that's impossible, she thought, I was staring at his back one second, and the next second he just wasn't there. What's going on?

A voice from behind her spoke, “Quit following me.” Miranda spun around but no one was there except for an elderly man twenty feet away, inching his way up the sidewalk.

Miranda knew the voice belonged to the man in the plaid shirt. She wanted to see him, to talk to him. She wanted to tell him that she knew had a secret, that she did, too, and that he shouldn't be ashamed of it or scared of other people. She wanted to tell him something reassuring and eloquent. All she managed to squeeze out was a frightened “Hello?”

“Quit following me,” repeated the disembodied voice, a little more stern this time, and from the other direction. Miranda spun again. There was no one near her.

“I . . . I . . . saw what you did,” stuttered Miranda. There was no response. “Hello?” Still nothing. Miranda stood for a while listening while people walked by. Miranda sighed. I messed this one up. I should have just said something. “Sorry I creeped you out,” she said mostly to herself. She turned to walk back. Where was I even going before all this? she wondered.

“What do you want?” asked the man in the plaid shirt, suddenly standng next to Miranda. His face was serious, and his eyes were fixed on hers.

She yelped, stumbled sideways, and fell on her backside. “Holy shit! You scared me.” Even this reaction was somehow fairly nonchalant, given the circumstances.

A charmingly devilish grin spread across Plaid Shirt's face at Miranda's startled but calm composure, then it disappeared as quickly as he had. He returned to wearing a scowl. “No one will believe you if you told them. I didn't rob him anyway,” he stated.

“What?” Miranda tried to calm her fluttering heart.

“I didn't rob that guy in the store, he gave me the money. I didn't use a gun or even threaten him.”

“I didn't mean that.” Miranda looked up. “Can you help me up?” she asked, still shaken by the disappearing/reappearing act.

Plaid Shirt cautiously offered his hand to Miranda. She grabbed it, and he began to hoist her up. She weighed a lot more than he had expected. She held on to his hand even after she was up and the began to shake it, “My name's Miranda, by the way.”

“My name's, uh, Thomas,” he said suddenly looking much less angry and much more nervous. Thomas couldn't tell whether this girl was a threat or not. Her politeness and amazingly relative calm about his invisibilty stunt made him want ot lower his defences. But doubtful thoughts entered his mind, Why was she folling me? What does she want? He looked at her face and suddenly realized how pretty she was. His eyes couldn't hold her gaze, and he looked down at her shoes. She has cute shoes. Miranda smiled in her eyes and let go of his hand.

I Haven't Forgotten

I thought that I would just let my faithful readers (if there are any) know that I haven't been completely neglecting to post, I've been working on a couple posts, but they are still in draft form. I'll try getting one, if not both, of them polished and ready to post by tonight.

Rainbow Basin

I held you as close as the heavens hold
the earth, but I was envious
of the sky,
blushing with anticipation,
as it caressed the hills
with cloud-soft strokes,
until finally sliding the sun slowly
down into the waiting ground.
Beauty imbued the horizon in hues
of darkened orange and reddened blues,
unseen before, but somehow so familiar.
The earth whispered
through the wind and gasped,
while the sun delved deeper still
into crimsons and purples
until it pushed, finally, far
beyond our view.
And there was in the atmosphere
an incredible energy
growing with panting breezes,
the leaves shivering with
excitement on the trees.
Unable to sustain itself,
the sky collapsed into black.
We were left with wonder on our faces
as the view was made more beautiful
by it's passing.  We got up to
pass the time
until another evening faded.

Stay Together for the Kids (A Sob Story)

I guess I had it pretty easy. Not quite as easy as my baby sister, but easier than my older brother at least. He was old enough to know what was going on. I was only three years old when my parents divorced and four when my mom got remarried. I wasn't too conscience of what was going on; the only thing I can recall about it is a fleeting memory of standing in the bed of what I assume was my step-dad's truck "helping" to move our stuff out of my father's condo.

In our new house I remember playing in the dirt with my dog Boober and getting up early in the morning to watch "Gilligan's Island" reruns with my brother, completely unaffected by the radical change that was just made in my family. I knew that we didn't live with our father anymore, and that a new guy with a funny mustache had moved in, but I never really gave it a second thought. For the most part, this new guy didn't bother me, so I didn't bother him (or so I thought). For all I knew, this was how all families worked. All kids spent the week with their moms and the weekends with their dads, didn't they? I continued on, naive, not knowing that anything was amiss. I never really had any complaints, until she came along.

I can recall one weekend visit, riding in the back seat with my brother and sister. My father said that we were going to pick someone up. I'm sure my eight-year-old mind wished that we were going to pick up Donatello the Ninja Turtle, or maybe Teddy Ruxpin. We didn't.

"Guys," my father said, "this is Deborah," talking about the woman who had just gotten in the car. She turned to look at the three of us. At that instant I saw beyond her large glasses and saccharine smile, and I knew that for some reason I was not going to like her. I couldn't put my finger on it then, but soon she would give me several very tangible reasons not to like her. Where I was used to being trusted and smiled upon, she was used to skepticism and a raised eyebrow. And where I was used to patience and positive reinforcement, she was used to reproach and invective. My father married her a year or two later. I cried at the wedding, because I was pissed. How could my father marry someone like her?

She had three daughters who I tried to like, but ultimately grew to loathe. They were simply extensions of Deborah, slimy tentacles reaching places that they didn't belong. Their omnipresence and periodic reports to their mother about the actions and whereabouts of my brother, sister, and I made us all feel uncomfortable visiting my father. It was like living in the novel 1984, constantly being watched and fearing the wrath of Big Brother. Our only safe haven was our father. No one dare fuck with us when he was in the room, not even his wife. Unfortunately, he was rarely home, and when he was, he was usually resting in his bedroom or holed up in his den organizing his card collection. He was seldom there to save us, and I slowly began to resent him.

About the time my father remarried, my mom and step-dad moved us hours away. Weekend visits to my father's became holidays and summer stays with his new family. This is when the strain of divorce began to affect me. As time passed I watched my father change from a goofy, smiling superhero into a bitter, petty man. I watched my step-mother turn as fat and ugly as she was on the inside. I watched my mother hate those two, and I was confused as I tried to emulate her while staying loyal to both parents. I watched my step-dad's seemingly infinite patience with me, and I was annoyed at him for being a better dad than my biological one.

My step-sisters and -mother I tolerated, but my faith in my father was waning. When we did visit, we saw less and less of my father, and visiting step-relatives that you don't care for, isn't a very pleasant way to spend a summer. Over the years the summer stays got shorter, and we visited my father fewer holidays. I'm not sure why. And the child support checks arrived later and later, and sometimes not at all. Again, I'm not sure why.

His wife openly complained about how expensive we were, but I didn't realize how much they viewed us as a financial burden, a monetary nuisance, until my freshman year of high school. My brother, a senior, was looking to go to college, and my mom asked my father if he would help pay. He didn't want to. She hired a lawyer to make him pay the state-set "minimum" of child support. He hired a better lawyer that said he didn't have to. At his lawyer's request, his interest in us kids was suddenly renewed. He wanted to see us for every available holiday and all through the summer -- I'm assuming so it wouldn't look so bad that he had thusfar financed very little of our lives. I don't think my brother and sister were, but for a while I was fooled into actually believing that he cared. Then I went to visit him for one last summer, and nothing had changed. None of us went back to him again after that.

Well, that's not entirely true. I think my sister saw him once when she went to visit our grandparents. My brother visited him once or twice, maybe because he felt sorry for our father. But I think for the most part, none of us really cared for him too much anymore. I haven't been back at all. The realization that this / we / family was all just a matter of dollar signs to him hit me pretty hard. Someone putting a pricetag on their love for you makes you feel pretty worthless.

I haven't seen my father in a long time, about seven years, almost a third of my life. And except for a few hastily written emails that I received on my 19th birthday, I haven't heard from him either. Sometimes I feel bad that I miss that asshole. But then again, maybe I shouldn't feel bad. After all, he wasn't a bad man, just bad at loving me.

More than Meets the Eye

Who would win in a fight between Optimus Prime and Voltron? I guess we'll find out in a couple years when they both hit theaters. It'll be "Robots in Disguise" versus "The Defenders of the Universe." Personally, my money's on the Transformers!

Saving Light One Day at a Time

I'm all for making Daylight Savings Time longer. How 'bout you?

Nerd Alert!

I got a new project to keep me busy at work yesterday afternoon. I'm supposed to revamp part of the Language & Literature website (the Language Learning Center pages). For me, this is exciting. Not just because I actually have something to do, but because I love tinkering with websites. I'm not so good with the graphics and design, but I love all the inner-workings.

Luckily, I get to recycle most of the old graphics, so I don't have to worry about that. Tomorrow I'll have to work on updating the content, which will be kinda boring. But today I redesigned the whole back end of the website -- cleaning up the HTML and JavaScript, and adding a splash of PHP (I *heart* PHP!). I just wish that the server the website was on had MySQL. I want to fiddle around with a database using PHP so that I can become better acquainted with how to do all that stuff.

On a side note, Microsoft FrontPage kinda sucks. I'm using it to help with editing the site. It adds a LOT of unnecessary and dirty HTML. I'd rather do it all by hand and have it look nice than use the stupid WYSIWYG editor. The only good thing FrontPage does is help to keep all the files organized.

For the Internet-Savvy Adulterer

This appalled me, both the fact that the website exists, and that it has enough demand to keep it in business.

Chicago

I'm leaving today for Chicago. I'm going to be visiting Stellar and Nic-O for the weekend. I think we might be going to a Renaissance Fair and then some big party that Stellar told me about. It should be a fun vacation.

Wrong Place

This article from Slashdot sounds like it belongs in The Onion.

Imaginary

| Superhero | Part 4 |

She saw him in crowd. She didn't know why her eye was drawn to him. In his plaid button-down shirt and worn blue jeans, he did not stick out of the crowd. He wasn't attractive. Not to say that he was ugly, but his long nose and mouth slacking open didn't exactly rev Miranda's engine. Nevertheless, she stood on the street corner among the crowd, waiting to follow the rest of the flock into the crosswalk. She noticed his poor posture and awkward gait as he walked toward her in the adjacent crosswalk. He seemed like a thousand other people she had seen in this city, but there was still something about him that made her continue to stare.

A burly man in a brown business suit walking the opposite direction smashed into a long-haired twenty-something hippie-looking chick in front of the long-nosed man in the plaid shirt. The burly man bowled right over the long-haired girl, spinning only slightly from the impact, and shouted something angrily at the young woman, who was knocked to her knees by the much larger man. The guy in the plaid shirt stopped behind her and looked over his shoulder at the man in the brown business suit. Without an explanation the man in the brown business suit dropped his suitcase and began screaming. He batted at some invisible attacker on his shirt and pulled at his tie which only served to choke him. The man flailed wildly and pulled at the tightening tie on his neck. The others in the crosswalk tried their best to avoid him; irritated faces began to appear in the crowd. The burly man continued his hysterics until he stumbled into an even burlier man who grabbed him by the collar and threw him down onto the ground. The man in the brown business suit immediately stopped his screaming. He lay on the ground wide-eyed and bewildered, breathing heavily.

Miranda looked back to the man in the plaid shirt. He had apparently been watching the man in the brown suit as well. He turned back to the young woman in front of him, who was collecting the contents of her hemp tote bag that had been spilled onto the street. He reached down, picking up a small box of some sort. As he was about to offer it to its owner, she snatched it out of his hands and quickly shoved her possession back into her bag. She stood up, gripped her bag tightly, and quickly resumed crossing the street. The man in the plaid shirt stood still for a second watching the long-haired girl walk away, until he was nudged from behind by another pedestrian. He continued through the crosswalk.

The crowd waiting with Miranda on her corner began to cross the street, but Miranda followed the man in the plaid shirt with her eyes. Closer up, he looked much younger than she had first thought, and Miranda saw sadness in his eyes. As he passed only a few feet from him, she had the urge to follow him. She gave in to her urge.

She followed him into a corner store, watching him from the magazine rack. He lazily walked to the cooler, picked up a quart of milk and a shrink-wrapped sandwich. On his way up to the counter, he picked up a can of Li'l Smokies. I hope that's not his dinner. Her stomach felt empathetic for his.

At the counter, Plaid Shirt asked the clerk for a pack of cigarettes. The clerk rang up the total. Plaid Shirt opened his wallet, dug around, and pulled out nothing and set it on the counter. Plaid Shirt shrugged with embarrassment. Miranda moved over to the candy rack to get a better view.

The clerk gave Plaid Shirt a brief look of disdain, picked up the imaginary tender and punched some buttons on his register. The drawer sprung open and the clerk counted out nearly eighty-five dollars in change and handed it to Plaid Shirt.

Miranda was confused. She grabbed a pack of Skittles and stepped up next to Plaid Shirt at the counter. She looked back and forth from the man in the plaid shirt to the clerk. As he finished organizing his money in his wallet, he noticed Miranda's sideways glances. He quickly shoved his items into his pockets and walked out of the store.

Miranda was staring after Plaid shirt, when the man behind the counter asked, "Hey, you gonna buy something or what?" Miranda looked up at him, put her candy on the counter, reached into her purse, pulled out nothing and set in onto the counter. The clerk looked at her with disbelief. Miranda stood her ground, looking from where she had set her money back up to the clerk. Finally, with a sigh the clerk said, "Sorry, lady, we don't take imaginary money here, only real cash."

She squinted her eyes and looked at him. "Nevermind, I don't want it." Miranda quickly walked out the door.

The clerk shook his head, "I hate working here."

Pissed Off

I guess you can only piss on your friends so long before they tell you to piss off.

Getting a Good Education, Duh!

As I was walking into the building about half-an-hour ago, getting back from my lunch break, a fairly good-sized rodent (I'm guessing about 10 lbs. or so) ran by me and into the bushes. I think it was a woodchuck. What the fuck is a woodchuck doing on campus?

Online Onslaught III

Come witness the carnage at Online Onslaught III. Vote off your least favorite bloggers until only one remains. I already got kicked off for unsportsmanlike conduct, but it should still be a good time.

It's a Lie

Found while perusing my cell phone's notepad function:

"It's A Lie Until I Believe It ...joe"

I'm assuming "...joe" is Pancake Wrangler, because that sounds like something he would say.

God Hates Fags

This makes my heart scowl. But this makes my heart giggle.

something

Sometimes i dont want o be me ,and sometimes i want to be normal, but i wonder if norml is better than an emotionless, drunken bastard. At least i've got character.

Easy 'A'

I found a picture from my senior year of high school, taken during my "independent study" in Mrs. Meneely's art class. This picture is of us trying to look like we're actually doing something, but I'm pretty sure we're not. Basically, Brian (left), Justin (back turned) and I just jacked off the entire hour, completing approximately 5 crappy projects each over the course of an entire school year. Ah, the good ol' days!

Flowers

| Superhero | Part 3 |

The delivery man knocked on the door and looked down at the slip of paper to confirm the address. Yup, Room 425. As he waited for an answer, he eyed the two policemen standing one door down, at 423. They knocked on the door and it opened within seconds. "Ma'am, we're here about a noise complaint," said the taller officer.

"Thank god you're here, officers," said the old woman from inside 423. "It's the man next door. He was screaming and making such a ruckus.

"Thank you, we'll check it out," the shorter officer assured her. "Please, stay in your apartment, ma'am." The old woman kept her head poked out of her doorway while the two officers turned towards the delivery man. Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, the delivery man looked away and knocked on 425's door again.

The two policemen approached and the taller one said, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm just delivering these flowers for a...," he looked at the slip again, "...a Brandon Collins." He offered his slip from the flower shop as proof.

The shorter officer gave it a cursory inspection and then handed it back. "Please, stand aside."

The taller officer pounded on the door and shouted, "Mr. Collins, this is the police. We've had a report of screams coming from your apartment. Please, open the door." There was no response.

The delivery guy asked the shorter cop somewhat excited, "Is this dude in trouble?"

"Please, stand back sir."

"Mr. Collins, this is the police. If you do not let us in, we will be forced to enter your apartment."

Smiling at the prospect of some excitement in his otherwise boring day, the delivery man said, "Sweet, this is going to be awesome!"

The old woman from 423 piped up, "Officers, I think he might be hurt, he was screaming bloody murder."

The door from 428 opened and a balding man with a mustache stepped out into the hall and inquired, "'Ey, what's goin' on out here?"

The delivery man turned and said with enthusiasm, "The cops are gonna break down this dude's door!"

The shorter officer, annoyed at the growing audience, spoke, "Everyone stay inside your apartments." Turning to the flower delivery man, he said, "I'm going to need you to take a few steps back." As if he hadn't spoken at all, no one moved.

"Mr. Collins, this is your last warning. If you do not open the door in five seconds, I will be forced to kick it in!"

"What'd this guy do?" asked the mustachioed man.

"Fuck if I know," replied the delivery man.

"Mr. Collins, we're entering your apartment now." The taller officer tried the door. It was locked. He took a step back and kicked in the door. He looked back at his partner and said, "I'll look around, you take care of these guys." His partner nodded. The taller officer removed unbuttoned his holster, placed his hand on the handle, and cautiously walked through the door.

The delivery man tried to look over the shorter officer's shoulder into the apartment, "Do you think he's still in there?" The shorter officer didn't say a word, but listened for his partner.

Ten seconds later he heard a gasp. "Holy shit!"

"How's it going in there?" the shorter officer said over his shoulder.

"Carl, keep everyone out. I'll call an ambulance. My God, there's so much blood!"

Pictures of Shorelines

If you insist on pictures of shorelines
then I insist on pages of your lines
meant for me,
to be sent to me.
Remember watching the storms from the lifeguard stand.
Remember feeling the tingling in my fingertips
when I touched your lips.
And I recall how you sat on the same side of me,
it always seemed that you'd always be on my side.
You're my best side.

And it's early June, so the sand's still dry,
and you have got the boldest eyes,
and I can't help but think it's right,
that inside you it's me I'm finding.
And I'm still waiting.
And it's early June, so the sand's still dry,
and the storm off shore is not far behind.
And I'm still waiting.

And sometimes you don't say a thing for a long while.
And the ships off shore hold stories that we'd make.
And sometimes we are held at bay by these miles.
But less of you is more than I can take.

And the moments that we've shared could last a lifetime.
And the faith I have in us will keep you near.
And several of these miles placed in between us
mean several of these words being sent by mail.
I hope this letter finds you well.

--Further Seems Forever

Regret Later

I'll have later in life to regret not regretting right now.

Gospel of Thomas

I ran across The Gospel of Thomas the other day. And here's a little info. on what it actually is. It's a pretty interesting / confusing read, but here are my favorite verses:

28 Jesus said, "I took my stand in the midst of the world, and in flesh I appeared to them. I found them all drunk, and I did not find any of them thirsty. My soul ached for the children of humanity, because they are blind in their hearts and do not see, for they came into the world empty, and they also seek to depart from the world empty.

But meanwhile they are drunk. When they shake off their wine, then they will change their ways."

113 His disciples said to him, "When will the kingdom come?"

"It will not come by watching for it. It will not be said, 'Look, here!' or 'Look, there!' Rather, the Father's kingdom is spread out upon the earth, and people don't see it."

Visual Aid

I finally scanned my favorite picture of Stellar. She's the one getting kissed by Sean, sticking her tongue out. I'm in the background looking like a tool.

Force 52

My friend Luke is starting a web comic. Check it out . . .

. . . OR ELSE!

Run While You Still Can

Mr. McBastard: I never thought that I'd be excited about office supplies.

Marie: He's turning into us, Joyce.

Joyce: You're too young!

Taste in Friends

I have good taste in friends. But my friends obviously don't have good taste in friends, because they're friends with me.

I Hate Stairs

I haven't lifted weights (or done any physically taxing activity, for that matter) for about two years.

For the past two days after work, Pfaff and I have been going to the Rec Center. I did squats the first day. My legs were a little sore the next day. Yesterday I did dead lifts. Today my legs are indeed dead. I can't run, it hurts to sit down / stand up, and it takes me about half-an-hour to walk down a flight of stairs.

The rest of me is sore, but my legs are fucking killing me.

Crappy Photos of Paradise (and Asses)

I made a slideshow of pictures from my awesome trip to Florida. It only has about a fourth of the pictures taken. Check back in a week or so, and I should have all the rest up and ready to gaze upon in wonder (at why there are only two pictures of the beach and the rest of us putting our asses on each other in the hotel room).

Bloodletting

| Superhero | Part 2 |

The phone rang. Brandon lay stretched out on his bed. His entire body was swollen. His skin was flushed, bright red. He was so uncomfortably hot that he lay naked on top of the sheets.

The phone rang. It had been a week since he had been to the doctor, two weeks since his first visit. After a week of still pissing blood, he had gone back to get a different perscription. This one wasn't working either.

The phone rang. He did not have a urinary tract infection. He didn't know what he had, but he knew that something much worse was wrong with his body. He woke up every morning with blood stains on his pillow. And a few days ago he had started to shit blood. Just blood. He hadn't been eating much; he didn't have the energy. His muscles ached. His joints were stiff. His whole body was puffy and burning. Even his penis was erect and swollen, even though sex was the furthest thing from his mind. His head throbbed.

The phone rang. He had had a headache for a week and a half. His head pounded. Brandon felt like his brain was going to crack through his skull and leak out onto his bed. Every miniscule movement he made, every tilt of the head, made him feel like his head was being bludgeoned, and tears would well up in his eyes. He wished the pounding would stop, or that he would die.

The phone rang. The answering machine picked it up. A voice flooded into his apartment.

"Hey, Brandon, Bran-done! It's Tom. Where ya been, man? You've missed almost two weeks of work. Everybody's asking about you. Are you still down and out with that UTI bullshit? C'mon, man, who are you trying to fool? Anyway, the boss said that he's been trying to get ahold of you, but you haven't been returning his calls. You need to call him back, man. I think he's getting pissed." With much effort, Brandon lifted himself up and sat at the edge of his bed. He panted and moaned. A sledgehammer firmly tapped his head like a metronome.

"You missed a hell of a time at the bars last weekend! We saw Kelly out at Swashbucklers. She was looking as skanky as ever. Oh, and Lindsey, Lindsey from Payroll, she was out that night, too. I hope you don't mind, but I gave her your address. I think she's going to send you flowers or some shit. Man, as soon as you are feeling even a little bit better, I would not hesitate to call her up and tap that shit! She wants your rod, man. Anyway, call me sometime and let me know what's going on. See ya."

Brandon slowly made his way to the bathroom. Every step was a train wreck in his head. He stepped through the doorway and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. They were almost completely red. And tears of blood trickled down his rosy cheeks.

Brandon looked at his face. The pain had to stop. It was puffy and red, as if the blood was just sloshing beneath the surface, searching for a leak to spring forth from. The pain had to stop. Brandon wanted to let it out. The pain had to stop. He opened the medicine cabinet and searched for something sharp. The pain had to stop. His eyes fell on a small pair of cuticle scissors.

The pain had to stop. It had to stop. It had to stop. It had to. It had to stop. The pain had to stop. The pain would not stop.

With all the skill of a drunken surgeon, Brandon plunged the scissors into his temple. He screamed and closed his eyes. He forced the scissors shut, making a half-inch incision in the skin. Brandon dropped the scissors and fell to his knees. He screamed again, and vomited. Blood.

Blood flooded down the side of his head. It came in waves matching his heartbeat and coated his right shoulder.

The pain that was in his head, the pain that was his head did not go away.

Brandon picked up the blood-covered scissors and made a mirror-image incision, accompanied by more screams. He wearily stood up. In the mirror it looked like he was wearing a vest of blood. He calmly stood gazing at himself, at his wounds. The cuts on either side of his head bubbled like geysers with every beat of his heart. They showed no signs of stopping. As he looked, he noticed that his face was becoming less swollen.

Maybe I just have too much blood. His grip on the scissors tightened.

Screaming, he cut himself down each wrist and watched the blood spring out in small, unicolor rainbows. Screaming, he watched the blood spread down his legs and run between his toes. Soon his screaming turned into a sickening, pain-wracked laughter.

Suddenly he noticed that the pain in his head was gone. He looked in the mirror and blinked. There was nothing. His mind was empty. His head was numb. He smiled. And then he wretched at the sight of himself, covered almost completely in his own blood. He looked like something from a horror movie. He threw up in the sink. Blood.

Brandon looked around his bathroom. Almost every inch of his white tile floor was now red. How can one person bleed this much? His wounds showed no sign of stopping. Brandon felt the numbness in his head turn into a faintness. He finally began to panic.

Text Message from Stellar

I took more i tried. I'm not with him when when go home now.

12:53A Sun Jun05

Nerd's Eye View

I'm trying something (not quit) new (or original).

Pissing Blood

| Superhero | Part 1 |

Brandon stepped up to the urinal, unzipped his pants, and gently tugged his penis out of his underwear. He looked up at the ceiling and sighed as he felt urine coursing through his urethra.

As the flow decreased, he looked down into the urinal, only to notice his piss was oddly colored, swirling down the drain like pink lemonade. "What the fuck?" he mumbled. The man several urinals down gave him a curious sideways glance. Brandon's stream wound down and got darker, until a few drops of blood trickled from his penis. "Shit," said a little louder. The other man zipped up and quickly shuffled out of the restroom.

"There's blood in my urine," he said in hushed tones over the phone. He stood up and looked over the walls of his cubicle. His doctor asked him if he felt any pain, any discomfort or stinging when it happened. "No. Is that a good sign?" His doctor reassured him and told him to come in the following morning. Brandon gently set the phone in its cradle and sat back in his office chair. It was a bit hard for him to concentrate the rest of the day.

Brandon impatiently sat in the waiting room at his doctor's office. He looked up as the receptionist came into the room. She looked over at him, then at a mother and small boy in the opposite corner. "Conner, Dr. Tyler is ready to see you now." The mother stood up with her son and led him into the back. As she was leaving, the receptionist said to Brandon, "It will only be a minute, and Dr. Tyler will be with you." Brandon nodded OK but thought to himself, This kid better have fucking stigmata and not the sniffles; I'm fucking bleeding internally here. He was sweating and wiped his forehead with his palm. When he removed his hand it was a bit pink.

"So, Brandon, how have you been?" Dr. Taylor idly chatted as he took Brandon's pulse.

"I've been pissing blood. How do you think I've been?"

"And you said there was no pain or discomfort?" the doctor continued.

"No. It just feels like regular pee," he explained.

Dr. Taylor stopped and look Brandon in the eye as if this was significant, but only replied, "Hmm," before opening Brandon's file.

Like an uncomfortable first date the two sat in silence. The doctor read Brandon's medical history, and Brandon waited anxiously for the doctor to say something, anything. Finally, Dr. Taylor stood up and walked to the door. As he was about to step out he turned to Brandon and, almost as an afterthought, said, "It's probably just a urinary tract infection, Brandon. We'll take a urine sample and draw some blood, just in case. More than likely some amoxicillin will clear that right up in a couple of days. The nurse will be right with you."

Brandon took the rest of the day off work. He ate some cereal, drank some cranberry juice, watched cartoons, and pissed more blood.

Brandon awoke early the next morning, coughing. He tried to open his eyes, but they were sealed shut. He felt them with his fingers and found a thin layer encrusting them closed. He scraped at them frantically, until he could see. Through a haze of confusion and discomfort, Brandon stumbled to the bathroom, wheezing and choking. At the sink, he coughed up a throat-full of phlegm. It was dark red, almost black. He looked in the mirror and saw his eyes ringed in dried blood.

Some Quiz

Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence

You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well. An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly. You are also good at remembering information and convicing someone of your point of view. A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary. You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.

What Kind of Intelligence Do You Have?

At Work

Sometimes I get bored at work -- my cushy sinecure at the Language & Literature Division Office on campus -- because usually by the time my bosses go to lunch I've finished all of the mini-projects that they had planned for me that day. So, after lunch I mull around the office looking for something to organize or label.

Is it weird that I'm waiting for the day when my bosses tell me to reorganize the files in the back room? I've already done it once before, last summer, and it was a long and dull task, but it kept me busy for a week. And this past winter break I organized the supply closet, but I really wouldn't mind doing that again. Anything to keep me from sitting at a desk, staring at the wall.

Or maybe I should just take longer on the tasks that my bosses give to me. They're always amazed at the speed at which I complete them. The next time they ask me to type something up, it should take me all day.

There was really not point to any of this. It was just something to do to pass the time. This is going to be a long summer.