Uncomplaint

I believe too many times we complain, and not enough do we praise. That is why I would like to thank the Drury Inn & Suites of Fenton, Missouri. I stayed at their hotel over the weekend and very much enjoyed it.

Although the woman at the counter was distracted by the pizza man when I was trying to check in, she was friendly and, most importantly, real. She wasn't just a fake smile and a "have a nice day." She was a real person who was really hungry, and I can respect that.

Although our room was dirty when we got in, when I called the front desk, they apologized, moved me to a knew room, and offered to take some money off my bill, all in the span of five minutes. The guy who came to show us to our new room didn't try to kiss my ass, either. I hate it when people are overly apologetic, but sadly that is how most businesses want their employees to act. Fortunately, this guy was simply courteous and pleasant. He even made a joke at the situation.

If you're uptight and expect everything to be perfect; if you like to complain if something isn't done right the first time; if you're a douchebag and think you're better than people with a lower salary than you, don't stay at the Drury Inn. If you like people to treat you like a person and not like a customer, give Drury Inn a try.

| Tags || hotel |

The Ongoing Adventures of Josh in a New Town

At work I've been called "Josh" twice in the last month by two separate people who have known my name for about two months. He's following me. How can so many unconnected people all independently make the same mistake so consistently?

• There is some semi-famous actor, seen and known by thousands, named Josh who looks remarkably like me.
• I have an evil twin brother named Josh. (Or maybe I am the evil twin?>
• Part of the time, unbeknownst to me, I fall into a Tyler Durden-esque alterego named Josh.
• People are named according to appearance and attitude, and I was just misnamed.
• I am falling in and out of an alternate reality, a "Bizzaro world" in which the only differene between me and my counterpart is our name.

Does anyone else have any other suggestions?

| Tags || Josh |

The Adventures of Roswell Newton

My friend, Luciano has started a new webcomic. Check it out, or we're not friends anymore!

| Tags || friend | comic |

Non Sequitur Overheard at Work

Woman 1: "I like your haircut."

Woman 2: "My husband cut down a tree yesterday!"

| Tags || arborist | fashion |

Compliment

The best compliment I have received in a long while came from my once and present roommate Justin last week. He said that when buying clothes for his new job, he used me as a point of reference, citing my style as "business casualy, but classy" and "pimp." I've never really been known for being fashionable and, outside of wearing a tuxedo, have rarely ever been complimented on my dress, so this was real flattery.

| Tags || fashion | roommate |

High-Fiving Mother Fucker

Last weekend I was sitting outside of The Beaumont Club with one of my friends, waiting for our other friends to emerge. This took longer than expected, so I decided to entertain myself to pass the time. I decided to solicate high fives from everyone trickling out of the bar. Quite a few opted to slap hands, some were reluctant, most walked on past, but one group's reaction was especially memorable.

I believe I was trying to spark up a conversation with the girl eating a burrito when two badasses walked out of the bar. You could tell they were badasses because they wore their hats backwards and walked with a strut something like that of an upright gorilla with one leg asleep and the other affected by palsey. As I had with everyone else emerging from the egress, I offered my hand in a high-five. They ignored it and walked past.

Moments later another badass exited and walked in my direction. I again offered my hand. This time, from over my shoulder I heard one of the original badasses shout a warning, "Beau, don't give that faggot a high five!" Beau glanced at his buddies, looked at my hand, and kept walking.

I was not really phased by this; I expected such reactions from passers-by. The point of what I was doing was not to get high fives, but to get reactions. This reaction, though, seemed ludicrous. I can't help but imagine what it must have been like for Beau when he caught up with the other badasses.

"Beau, did you see that faggot high-fiving people? And you almost high-fived him! I can't believe you. You almost high-fived a faggot! Do you realize what could have happened? You could have high-fived that faggot, caught the gay, and at this moment you would have faggotry and sodomy coursing through your very veins! I'm glad I said something. I'm glad I saw you in time and told you not to high-five that faggot.

"I don't know what I would have done if you had. I was scared for you, man, real scared. I'm just glad that you're safe now. Hug me, bro. Hold me. I can't believe that faggot. What was he trying to do; queer-up everyone in the whole city by high-fiving them?

"Can you feel that? I'm shaking, Beau. That's how scared I was for you. I'm still shaking! Kiss me, Beau. Let me know that you're all right. Kiss me like you mean it. I want to feel safe again, Beau. I want to feel safe in your arms, kissing you, knowing damn sure that you're not a faggot.

"Beau, could you slip a finger in my butt?"

| Tags || high-five | faggot |

Little-Known Facts about Cloning

In addition to these "facts" about cloning, here are some more truths about cloning:

1. Clones retain the memory and thoughts of the original, lacking only the original's conscience and sense of morality
2. The only way to tell the clone from the original is that the clone will not have birthmarks or scars, and will, of course, have a menacing goatee
3. Someone can clone you simply by stealing some of your hair, fingernail clippings, toothbrush, discarded q-tips, fingerprints, stool samples, library card, or even by taking a picture of you
4. Clone flatulence smells of sulfur
5. In 2005, 17 people died from cloning or of clone-related causes in the U.S.
6. Clones have no souls and can't go to Heaven (or Hell for that matter!)
7. Michael Jackson never underwent plastic surgery; he is actually a 5th generation clone
8. Clones hate oatmeal
9. If a clone mates with another clone or (God forbid) an original, its offspring will be sterile
10. All clones are lactose intolerant
11. Militant Islamic extremists invented cloning in the early '90s to destroy America
12. Don't feed clones after midnight

Please, don't believe everything you read.

| Tags || cloning |

Dear Kansas City Drivers

Did you know that you can go just as fast as the car in front of you without riding three feet from its back bumper? I've known this little tidbit for years, but I thought I'd pass along the secret to everyone else. Happy driving!

| Tags || kansas city | driving |

Make the Poor Poorer

People with bad credit scores are obviously going to be bad employees. Don't hire them.

| Tags || economics |

Good Friends Die Hard

I haven't really made any new friends here in KC. That's not a bad thing. But when I would fantasize about what my future here would be like a few months ago, I imagined working with a bunch of young people my age who I'd have a drink with after work, or seeing people that lived around me out at the bars -- becoming friends with my neighbors and coworkers. So far, I've only been around my roommates and the people from KC that I already knew. Again, that's not a bad thing, just different from what I expected.

I'm glad it turned out this way, though. Because as much as I like being alone sometimes, I really hate being lonely.

| Tags || friends |

Expense Control Clerk

I started my new job two weeks ago. When I got there, my desk was bare -- not because I was only a new employee, but because the week before, while my supervisor was on vacation, other people from the accounting office raided my desk. Thank god they left the computer and roll of tape (sans tape dispenser). My supervisor scrounged around for some pens, and then pulled a brand new 10-key (Yes, I actually have to use it.) and electronic staple out of storage, I guess because she felt sorry for me. I got my magnetic key card last week and should be getting my photo ID badge sometime this week.

As far as the work goes, it's not hard. I receive checks from various places, put them in a box, send forms to other various places, and wait for the forms to come back and tell me what to do with the checks in the box. It's a mystical process, the details of which I'm still trying to figure out. Aside from that, part of my job is to show confusing forms or checks to my boss, have her say, "Oh, I'll show you how to do that later," and wait at my desk for her to never come over. I also check my email, which I'm not sure if that is kosher yet, but I do it anyway.

I take brakes with Donna, the woman with the desk next to mine. She's pretty nice. She helps me with questions, and we dance in our chairs together when we hear a loud cell phone ringtone from out in the field of cubicles. We takes me to lunch with her and her friend from Accounting, because I don't have any friends of my own yet, unless you count her.

So, I do some sort of work, and the company gives me a paycheck. This process is not foreign to me, but is somehow different than my previous jobs. Before I would always produce a tangible product or perform a visible service for a customer as the main focus of my job. Here I am a middleman between several different departments, passing along information that could be gained through direct contact between those departments.

I'm not sure what I do or why I keep doing it, but for the time being, doing this will do me just fine.

| Tags || job |

Found Poem (from a Spam Email)

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glasses wouldnt dig phone out. reading snow wasnt finding address. As wishing

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wine Web apps ideas keep around.

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covers

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close it.Wish lots money/to richEasy Stop walk into counting

| Tags || poetry |

New Therapy

• Superhero
• Part 10

“Good job!” Sandy told her daughter with a wide smile and strained enthusiasm. “That was a good ride, huh?” Sandy cheered on her daughter and stepped toward the horse.

“Yeah, I guess,” the thirteen-year-old girl said from atop an old brown mare. “Can you get me down now?” she sighed.

Sandy looked up at her daughter with bright eyes and a grin, but this façade was starting to show a few cracks. “Sure, honey.” With the help of the side-walker, the adolescent strained to swing one leg over the horse’s back and slid down the other side into her mother’s arms. Sandy handed the girl her cane, an ugly bare-metal crook with a four-pronged bottom. As the girl tried to hobble away, her mother yanked on the girl’s cumbersome back brace, trying to readjust it into its proper position. The daughter scolded her mother in embarrassment and struggled to get away. Sandy released her grip. The skinny girl wobbled, still unsteady on two legs and a cane. Despite her back brace, she still seemed to slouch, and her shoulders hunched over.

“That was a good job, Miranda,” said a man standing by the gate to the arena. To Miranda, he sounded just as insincere as her mother had.

“Dr. Kammerich, what are you doing here?” asked Sandy.

The doctor smiled and looked into the perpetually uncertain face of the young girl. “I need to talk to you about something. Something that might turn out to be very good news,” he addressed them both.

Miranda was tired of adults pretending to be happy around her. “Are you going to give me robot legs?” The two adults ignored her with more fake smiles and laughs. As she galloped like a snail beside them, they exchanged small talk about her progress with her equine therapy. Her mother told an embarrassing story about her first ride when she had nearly fallen off. Miranda rolled her eyes. The three reached the car and stopped. Dr. Kammerich laughed lightly. “Well, what I’ve got to tell you may change that. I’d like to start Miranda on a new therapy.”

“A new one?" Sandy was nervous. She knew how much stress these therapies were on her daughter. She hoped her already frustrated child wouldn't become even more upset. "This therapeutic riding seems to really be working, right Miranda?” Sandy said, gently tugging on her daughter’s ponytail.

“It’s better than the water therapy,” the girl said dryly. “I almost drowned, like, a thousand times.” Miranda laughed and snorted. Her mother smiled.

“Well, this therapy isn’t like that. It’s more medicinal.”

“We’re already doing the steroids once a week. And the supplements…” Sandy trailed off.

“It’s a new therapy that would preclude all the other ones.” He looked to Miranda. “You wouldn’t have to swim or ride horses or get steroids anymore.”

“That’d be cool,” Miranda said unconvinced.

“What kind of therapy is it? Why didn’t you tell us about it before?” asked Sandy. She was becoming suspicious.

“It’s a new therapy. It’s,” Dr. Kammerich hesitated, “experimental.” He knew he’d chosen the wrong word as soon as he said it.

“How experimental?”

The doctor looked from mother to child. “Miranda would be the first.”

Sandy looked down at her daughter, a thin frame leaning up against the family station wagon. Her overenthusiastic veneer fell from her face. She took Dr. Kammerich by the arm and pulled him off to the side. “I don’t want Miranda to be some guinea pig, having scientists and doctors poking and prodding her more than they already do. I don’t want her to be any more unhappy than she already is.”

“I understand your concern;” Dr. Kammerich continued, choosing his words carefully, “however, this might not just be a therapy. It could be a cure.”

“There is no cure for muscular dystrophy,” Sandy said.

Dr. Kammerich smiled. “Not yet.”

• Tags
• serial
• superhero

Bad Things, Good People

Bad things never happen to good people. Things happen to people, and then we decide which people and things are good and which are bad. And for some reason this matters, this goodness and badness. We can never just accept that things happen.

| Tags || pseudo-philosophy |

Ununemployed

I finally got a job! I start working the seventh of August at Farmers Insurance as a Expense Control Clerk.

| Tags || work |

Interview

• Superhero
• Part 9

Miranda disembarked from the elevator and looked around. To her right was the humming of office work: keyboards clacking, papers shuffling, people talking, and the occasional phone ringing. To her left was a high counter with two women behind it – one busy signing for a delivery and assuring someone over the phone that she had indeed scheduled the meeting for the next day, the other hardly moving, staring through thick-rimmed glasses at a computer screen. Miranda approached the latter. “Hello, my name is Miranda. I have an appointment with Mr. Sunder ... at two ....” She stopped. The woman with glasses didn’t even look up.

“What do you need, hon?” the other woman asked, cradling the phone in her neck and handing a clipboard back to the delivery man. “Yes, I sent him the file as an attachment last week,” she said into the phone.

“I’m here to see Mr. Sunder.”

“You have to unzip the file first before you can open it,” the reception said, then without missing a beat, “He’s down the hall on your left. Take another left at the water fountain. You’ll see a whole bunch of conference rooms on the right; his office is right across from those.”

“Not anymore,” the secretary with glasses finally spoke in a nasal east-side accent.

“What?” the other woman said, perhaps into the phone or perhaps to the secretary with glasses.

“Not anymore,” the woman with glasses said without looking up from her computer. “He moved to the fifteenth floor two weeks ago. They finally finished his office up there. It’s supposed to be real nice. Marie – Marie-from-HR Marie – she got the job as his new receptionist. She said it’s the easiest job in world. She said he’s not even in most days, and when he is in, he’s only there for a few hours, has one meeting and then goes home. She’s so lucky. I wish I had nothing to do.”

“I’m telling you, I sent the right file. It is just in zip format. You have to unzip it!” The other secretary had shifted attention to a fax machine that wouldn’t relinquish an apparently important document.

The woman with glasses finally looked up, saw Miranda still patiently waiting at the counter, and said with a fake pleasantness, “Fifteenth floor. Can’t miss it.”

Alex sat in his rolling office chair behind a large wooden desk in an ornately furnished fifteenth floor office. It was the only office on the fifteenth floor but was small enough to make room for his conference room, washroom, gym, dining room, napping room, and the fifteenth floor’s lobby that housed his secretary.

A voice sprang from the intercom. “Your two o’clock is here to see you, Mr. Sunder.”

“Thank you Marie. Send her in.” Marie showed the shy, young woman into the office. Miranda shook Alex’s hand and took a seat in one of the big leather chairs facing the desk. “Thank you, Marie. Could you bring us some bottled water? Thanks.”

Alex looked over the young girl sitting before him. She was shorter than he expected, and younger. She seems shy and unsure of herself. Alex had immediate reservations. Still she had interest enough to answer the ad and guts enough to actually show up. “Where are you from?”

Miranda cleared her throat and said, “I’m living in an apartment on the east side, down on 101st.”

Alex smiled. “Where’s that accent from?”

“Oh, well, I grew up in the Midwest.”

Grew up? Alex thought, This girl is still growing up. “Any place I’d know?”

“A small town in the middle of nowhere.” Miranda shrugged.

“Well, let’s get down to it. Why do you want to be a sidekick to a superhero?”

Miranda looked around nervously. “Because I have a power?”

“A superpower?”

“I guess.”

Alex leaned in, interested. “Oh do you now?”

• Tags
• serial
• superhero

Confession

Unless I'm in a hurry, I sit down to pee. You know why? Because it's comfortable and because I can. If that makes me less of a man, then so be it; I'm less of a man who takes comfortable pisses.

| Tags || gender | piss |

Ghost Stripper

Have you ever wanted to see a ghost stripper? I did, once. How foolish and naive I was back then.

| Tags || ghost |

The Pledge of Allegiance

I never knew that the Pledge of Allegiance was such a young tradition. I had always figured that it was as old as the flag itself.

| Tags || history |

00010011

life and death are an
existential datastream
of ones and zeros.

| Tags || robot | poem |

36%

"Zach is 36% gay!

Loosen up my straight mate! These days women like a man with some softer edges to grab onto."

Results from the Gay-O-Meter test.

| Tags || sexuality | quiz |

Help Wanted

• Superhero
• Part 8

The phone rang. Alex was sitting on the couch watching Batman reruns. He eyed the phone suspiciously and hesitated before standing up, picking up the receiver, and answering. The voice on the line was female and shy. She said, “I’m calling about the want ad in the paper.” Alex waited for her to continue. “Is it … is it serious?” she asked. For the fourth time that morning Alex regretted ever putting the job post in the Help Wanted section of the New City Herald. The ad read:

Superhero seeks sidekick. Must be a self-starter and able to take direction. Powers a plus. Some typing required. Serious applicants only. Call 555-5576 for more information. EOE

“Yes, it’s serious,” Alex replied with a sigh. The last person to call had just started laughing at this point. Alex mentally braced himself for a barrage of taunting.

“Well, uh, how do I, like, apply?”

It was Alex’s turn to ask, “Are you serious?”

There was a moment of silence, then the female voice said, “Well, yeah, if … you are.” Alex stammered an assurance. He was amazed, and a little skeptical, that someone was finally taking his want ad seriously. Is it just someone playing along to get a good laugh at my expense? Or is this one real? Despite his reservations, Alex suggested a time and place for an interview the next day. The voice on the other end agreed.

Alex set the receiver back in the cradle and sat back into the couch. Batman and Robin were battling henchmen with Bam! and Pow! springing from their landed punches. The two ended up back-to-back. They ducked in unison and let two villains punch each other over their heads. A smile slowly spread across Alex’s face.

• Tags
• serial
• superhero

Hire Me

Gimme a job!

| Tags || career |

00010010

the butterfly lands,
is smashed in a metal hand.
what is its function?

| Tags || poem |robot |

00010001

butterflies flutter.
the robot extends an arm
to catch an insect.

| Tags || robot | poem |

00010000

life moves around it.
what does all this data mean?
the robot wonders.

| Tags || poem | robot |

Diploma

I got my diploma in the mail today!

Now if only I could get a job in the mail.

| Tags || school | job |

Caveat Emptor

I went camping and canoeing over this Memorial Day Weekend on the Little Niangua. It was pretty fun; however, if I had to do it over again, I would not rent canoes from Maggard's Canoe.

They tacked on hidden fees and charged us inflated rates not mentioned in their brochure or on their website. By the end of it, we paid nearly double what we had originally calculated.

Besides that, though, they were also rude and inhospitable. I didn't expect them to treat us like we were at a fancy resort in Aspen, but common courtesy would have been nice.

So, if you're ever going canoeing in the Missouri Ozark area, do not rent canoes from Maggard's Canoe. They are a bunch of thieving, angry hillbillies who don't deserve your money.

| Tags || memorial day | canoeing |

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.