Everything I Say and Do is Right

Pneumatic Sex, Corn, Suffering

2008-01-18T18:00:00.000-08:00

~ Prologue: Another Dream ~

A fellow at my work and I have been discussing the strange fact that everything we eat is made out of corn. When I say "we", I am referring to North Americans. I don't know know much about what the diet of you UK types consists of, although if the old adage you are what you eat is to be taken seriously I would guess "whimsy" and "awkwardness". This grain of folksy wisdom applied similarly to the North Americans paints a portrait of a peoples who must seem very corn-like. Our coca-cola is actually corn-sweetened water with corn-based flavoring. Our Cheese Puffs and Doritos are nothing more than puffed corn with cheese flavored corn dust all over them. Finally, our cows eat mostly corn, which they then squirt out in the form of corn-cheese and corn-milk, and ultimately end up cut into pieces and placed on a plate at the Keg as a corn-steak.

What this leads me to believe is that we truly are corn people. All of our cells, our protein strands, originate with the humble corn. I wonder if it follows that we exist on a different plane of the physical world than the people who are not on a corn diet, if only slightly. Are there fundamental differences between a corn person and, say, a yam person that make them unable to converse in any meaningful way? What about a chickpea person, could we embrace them without resentment? And what do those slippery fish people, what would they think about that if it happened?

In my dreams I see a world of man-sized corn walking to work, driving cars, attending films and cannibalizing their dead. This is not to be taken in a morbid manner, but rather as a surreal caricature that happens to be just an inch closer to the truth than what we're told is real in the newspapers.

~ Chapter 1: I Am Easily the Most Selfish Person Alive ~

Once upon a time on a different blog I wrote something important:

Call me a bad person but...

I don't want to suffer for my art, I want others to suffer for it.

Although this statement still stands, I would like to add that I don't want other to simply suffer for my art, but suffer from it as well. Candidly, I will admit that the only person ever intended to enjoy it is me. Your enjoyment is coincidental, even perhaps counter-productive.

The corn people have concentrated a vast amount of their resources on reducing their suffering. But the Russians, who are made of grains and roots, have always considered suffering a virtue. Perhaps it would be easier if I became one of them, or at least sold to them.

~ Chapter 2: Fate of the Corn People ~

The root and grain people are sure to continue until the end of all humans. Their virtuous suffering has made them very tough, and that's all it takes. I can not say with complete certainty what the rest of us are destined for, however.

Regarding the future of the corn people, one thing is certain; robots designed for sexual gratification will continue to advance under our eyes.

Female corn people will be sexually obsolete once we have a machine that smells, looks, and feels the same or better in all the manners appropriate to intercourse. These machines will be called gynoids. Male corn people have already begun to become obsolete, to some degree, by machines. However, the machines have not advanced significantly enough to replace the male corn people completely. The current male sex machines are usually called dildos, but in the future they will be called Androids.

The car of the future does not float, it fucks.

~ Chapter 3: Anthropology 203T, Gender and Sexuality ~

Last year I took an anthropology course that was supposed to be about gender and sexuality. In truth, it was mostly about gender, as sexuality was not discussed. This is because the corn people have taboos about talking about the way they were created, especially amongst the academic corn people. Perhaps they are upset that they weren't planted in the ground like their brothers and sisters, the corn which they use to eat.

Although I am partially a corn person I am not afraid to discuss sexuality. This is because I am also a creative energy person who feeds on the magic of ideas which float freely though the air.

~ Chapter 4: The Gynoids and Androids ~

I worry that either the gynoids or the androids will not be finished in development at the same time. The corn people, who are almost as selfish as I am, will not care for the feelings and sexual needs of their opposite gender once they have their gynoids or androids. So if these robots are not developed and released at exactly the same time, the results will be socially disastrous. The corn people, who avoid suffering more than any other peoples, may not be able to tolerate their sudden conditions.

~ Chapter 5: Suffering ~

Gynoids and androids are entirely different than any kind of person, be they corn or grain/root, because they don't have proteins. The extent to which their interaction with humans is meaningful for them is questionable. A movie such as Blade Runner suggests that they would not necessarily think so. However, Blade Runner also supposes that the mechanical people are capable of actual thought, which is questionable. But if they can't think, that also means that they can't suffer.

~ Chapter 6: Regarding the Future of the Gynoids and Androids ~

And what of the gynoid and adroid's fate? I have no doubt that they will outlast their creators. But what remains to be seen is if they will outlast the grain and root people. Is it better to find suffering a virtue, or be incapable of feeling it?

We've done it the other way for a long time.

2008-01-02T23:45:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year, friends and family. I come here before you today with an idea. A vision, more accurately, that I hope we can fulfill together. A post-holiday vision of the wonderful world that we could live in, if only you'll show the bravery to follow me past the brinks of reason and sanitary living conditions.

Before I begin, I must stress that this is addressed to those of us who are so-called productive members of society; taxpayers, and those attending school. Those of you who have been wise enough to act as a drain in our societal efforts may excuse yourselves, for I ask only that you continue as you would normally.

Every year, we take a few days off of our busy schedules to eat sweets and wrapped meats in celebration of two great days. The first is allegedly the birth date of a magical carpenter. In truth, it was originally a pagan festival celebrating the shortest day of the year and primarily served as an excuse to drink to excess. The second is a date on the calendar which marks the end of a trip around the sun from a point in space selected arbitrarily. But regardless of their origins, they represent state-mandated time off, and in the largest lump sum we're given all year.

Once the festivities die down, however, we find ourselves forced to return to our workplaces or schools. Upon returning to our respective toil, many of us find our hearts and minds less committed than usual. Somehow the fluorescent lights seem harsher, the coffee a more bitter. If you are like me, you may find your thoughts wandering to dark, dangerous places.

What would happen if I extend my vacation? This is perhaps the darkest of such thoughts, if only because it seems so benign. That is to say; how long can I shirk responsibilities and duties, both imagined and real, before the collective weight of all my obligations and debts catch up and threaten to crush me into a gasping pulp?

You can all join me, we can defy our past lives. I would like to see how long we could go. Consider it an experiment, if you prefer the safety of such names. Like a garbage can filling past its rim and teetering comically on the brink of collapse, we can allow everything to fall to pieces. Liquor stores looted, car crashes abandoned in the middle of the road, piles of bills jamming up mail slots and spilling to the ground. We could create something grand, like the floor of some punk-house where no one even wants to clean up their mess since it would require cleaning up the mess of others as well.

I imagine we could go shockingly far with this idea. It could become a dollar auction of sorts; the further we allow things to deteriorate, the less motivated we will be to go back to the regular grind.

UNRELATED ATHABASCA NEMESIS GAUNTLET UPDATE:

(3:45:25 PM) Trevor Record: BLAKE!
(3:45:34 PM) Blake: what up
(3:45:36 PM) Trevor Record: I challnge you to a competition of written wit
(3:45:44 PM) Trevor Record: a short story contest
(3:46:09 PM) Blake: hmm, what are the terms?
(3:46:12 PM) Trevor Record: A judge of your choosing shall decide which is the superior story
(3:46:18 PM) Trevor Record: 1000 words
(3:46:26 PM) Trevor Record: + or - 250 words
(3:46:28 PM) Trevor Record: so
(3:46:32 PM) Trevor Record: 750-1250 words
(3:46:57 PM) Blake: set topic?
(3:47:12 PM) Trevor Record: topic of your own choosing
(3:47:19 PM) Trevor Record: style of your own choosing
(3:47:40 PM) Trevor Record: Must be submitted to the judge
(3:48:02 PM) Trevor Record: we aren't allowed to see one another's stories until the judge makes a decision
(3:48:21 PM) Blake: timeframe?
(3:48:32 PM) Trevor Record: 3 weeks
(3:49:38 PM) Trevor Record: Although the judge can be anyone of your choosing
(3:49:45 PM) Trevor Record: I would state preference for a neutral judge
(3:49:54 PM) Blake: okay, let me pick a judge and then we can start
(3:49:59 PM) Blake: of course, neutral
(3:50:01 PM) Trevor Record: Matthew would be an example of a neutral judge
(3:50:14 PM) Blake: in fact, i think our stories should be submitted without names on them
(3:50:24 PM) Trevor Record: Agreed!
(3:51:03 PM) Blake: okay, let me come up with a judge and I'll get back to you
(3:51:08 PM) Trevor Record: ok

The Athabasca Nemesis Gauntlet

2007-12-18T18:30:00.000-08:00

The Athabasca Nemesis Gauntlet is a year-long gentleman's wager.

The Contenders:
Trevor Keith Record
versus
Blake William McStravick

Both contenders began the competition with two hundred and one (201) points. The points are represented by two hundred and one (201) shiny baubles.

Either of the contenders may challenge the other to a competition. A contender may elect to either accept or decline the challenge.

The competition can be of any variety provided that one contender does not have an obvious, unreasonable advantage over the other. Superior strength, intelligence, or learned skill is not considered an advantage as the purpose of the Athabasca Nemesis Gauntlet is, among other things, for the two contenders to measure against one another in these areas.

An example of a reasonable challenge would be a footrace, or game of chess. An example of a challenge that is not reasonable would be a race to Nanaimo by any means; contender B. W. McStravick has a significant advantage due to the fact that he lives on Vancouver Island and finds himself with an automobile currently in his possession, while contender T. K. Record lives in the Lower Mainland and finds himself in possession of only a bicycle and bus pass (valid only within the boundaries of the Lower Mainland).

In the event that a contender declines a challenge, presuming the challenge is deemed reasonable, they must give up an amount of two (2) points to the contender that challenged them.

Should the challenged contender accept, the two will begin the competition at the soonest convenient time. The victor of the competition gains ten (10) of the loser's points.

Once a competition has been played or declined once, neither contender may challenge the other to it again. This is to prevent a contender from abusing the system by repeatedly challenging the other to the same competition. Another object of the Athabasca Nemesis Gauntlet is to prove the excellence and worth of the contenders across a great variety of fields.

The Athabasca Nemesis Gauntlet commenced on the night of December the fifteenth, in the year of two thousand and seven Anno Domini. Upon the fall of dusk a year hence (December the fifteenth, two thousand and eight), the contest will be complete. The contender with the largest sum of points shall at this point be declared the "winner", the other the "loser".

The "loser" shall, at a time deemed convenient to both the gentleman contenders, subject himself to the duties of a manservant in the employ of the "winner" for the period of a day. While in this service the "loser" manservant shall be required, among other things, to prepare and serve no less than 3 meals for the "winner".

As of this date of December the eighteenth, in the year two thousand and seven, the following events and competitions of note have occurred:

December the fifteenth, in the year two thousand and seven (Dec 15, 2007):

T.K.R. and B.W.M. commence the Athabasca Nemesis Gauntlet
T.K.R. and B.W.M. agree to compete in the board game "Monopoly". They agree that only should one of the two win will points be exchanged, as there are three others engaged in this competition; Danielle S., Torrey A., and Gary H. Result: Draw, both T.K.R and B.W.M. go bankrupt.
T.K.R. challenges B.W.M. to "Rock/Paper/Scissors", best 3 out of 5. Result: B.W.M. is the victor, T.K.R. awards him with 10 points.
T.K.R. challenges B.W.M. to "Odds vs. Evens", best 2 out of 3. Result: T.K.R. is the victor, B.W.M. awards him with 10 points.
T.K.R. challenges B.W.M. to "Chess". Result: B.W.M. declines, as the nearest chess set is housed in a nearby bar that he does not wish to enter. B.W.M. awards T.K.R. 2 points
B.W.M. challenges T.K.R. to a dance competition. The three present for the preceding monopoly match serve as judges, dancing is judged based on performance on three solo songs. Result: T.K.R. is the victor, a close match, B.W.M. awards him with 10 points.
B.W.M. challenges T.K.R. to "Pacman", winner goes to highest score. Result: T.K.R. declines after witnessing B.W.M.'s Pacman prowess, and awards B.W.M. with 2 points.
T.K.R. challenges B.W.M. to a round of "Blackjack". Both T.K.R. and B.W.M. begin with 10 chips, the first to lose all his chips will be declared the loser. Result: T.K.R. is the victor. Since B.W.M. had by this time supped at his wine frequently throughout the night, T.K.R. decreed that B.W.M.'s judgment had been impaired and he had bet his chips too liberally, so T.K.R will refuse to accept any number of points exceeding 3.

I'm in no mood

2007-10-22T17:52:00.000-07:00

I have been negligent in updating and (even worse) communicating with you, my internet friends. I don't really have any excuses, I've just been doing other things. There were some tests in school, and I had to write some more creative writing stories which essentially became re-writes of previous stories. Last week I went to Seattle to see the Go! Team with some friends of mine. I turned 22 on the 5th - a sickening age indeed, I feel as though I should be getting my act together. What this act entails I cannot say, perhaps being a better son and person is involved.

Talking about yourself is the easiest thing in the world, isn't it? Scott of Hard To Want wants me to take part in an internet meme. He also says I'm "just not normal", although I don't know what he considers normal (I suspect it drives a honda civic). Usually I don't do these, but today I will. I don't have the endurance to finish off any of my half-finished stories. This meme requires that you post a few of your favorite things that you have written on blogger, then link to everyone else who has ever been part of the thread along with their own favorite posts (from their blogs, respectively). Then you tell other people that you want them to do the meme. Scott's favorites were Knock Knock, Off to College, Sorry Darin. I don't know any of the other people so I am not going to link to their favorite posts. Here are the three posts I chose:

The Night Yellow Creek Ran Red

This one is probably the fan favorite, though I can't be sure. I was hesitant to choose anything more recent than this.

Shave Your Head, Have A Drink, and Be Left Alone

I liked this one because it was the first, and possibly last, time I wrote a horror story. But I thought I did a good job! I don't have much interest in writing further stories like this, but it was one of those times I felt really good about myself for writing something in an unfamiliar genre (up next: romance set in the American civil war era.)

I See A Bad Moon Arising

I thought this one was pretty funny, and it is also old (I consider 10 months to be ancient.) It represents one of the stories that was a shift away from my old style. I used to write sort of a stream of conscious topical rant in this blog. Some times I would write about how to save yourself in the event of a zombie apocalypse, and other times it was about how awesome space travel is. Now I usually write stories instead (I wrote stories previously as well, but not as often). I didn't put up anything older than this because I am weird about reading old things I have written, it is sort of like seeing a picture of yourself with an ex-girlfriend.

I won't do the last part of the meme, which is tag other bloggers. People who are named often feel obligated to do it when they don't want to, and others feel left out for not being named. This is probably why I usually don't do memes (also, I don't care all that much if you know what my favorite song is).

A Dialogue on Immortality, Personal Identity, and Hungry Ghosts

2007-10-02T17:01:00.000-07:00

Gretchen "Mary" Sioux sat in a hospital bed on the verge of death, gorging herself of caramel chocolates to hasten her sweet release. The hospital bed was inside a philosophical allegory center. Perched on a ceiling rafter was John Perry, famed philosopher and charismatic radio personality. Perry pulled mighty ropes to make swing Gretchen's arms to and fro, delivering chocolates to a clanking mouth which he then operated with a winding crank.

David "Brothers" Coen was standing next to Gretchen, shifting his weight from one leg to another in silence. He turned to her, and opened his mouth to speak. Just then Sam "Straw" Mahn burst into the room.

"Hey there Gretchen," Sam chuckled, "hear you're about to kick the proverbial can."

"Your're an ass," said Gretchen, "but I am terrified to think I will soon die. Tell me that it is possible that I might survive death, good friend, and I shall be comforted. Not probable, not laughable to even consider but remotely acceptable. Possible in the most meager way."

"Well, of course it's possible..."

"Oh is it?" Gretchen shrieked, "Hogwash, nonsense. You think that by simply saying it is possible to survive death, it is true? You'll have to do better than that to convince me such a thing could happen."

"Well, I mean, all you have to imagine is that at some point after you die," Mahn stuttered, "that there'll be someone that is you somewhere and so will I and we'll, I dunno, chill out together. I guess that it'll not be on this planet, but, er, they will be exactly us."

"What?" Gretchen said, sitting up angrily with a great heave of John Perry's ropes, "That is nonsense! If I were to destroy a box of Kleenex, you wouldn't say that you met this Kleenex again if you found one that was exactly alike in the middle of space, floating around."

"I'm not saying it will be the similar," Sam said, "it will be the same, like the same soul."

"Soul?" Cried Gretchen, "You just don't get it, do you doofus? A body is what we define ourselves as. Look, I'm going to destroy a Kleenex box to prove my point."

David spoke up, "I think you're being a bit hard on Sam, he's just saying that it's possible..."

"You're out of your element, Donny." Gretchen said, lighting a box of Kleenex on fire.

"It's David!"

"Whatever."

The Kleenex box let out a ghastly wail as it collapsed in on itself. A smoke alarm went off. Above the foot of Gretchen's bed hovered a semi-transparent box of Kleenex, draped in chains and bluish white.

"B-Boo! Whoo!" A discordant voice wailed from the Kleenex, echoing through the cavernous intensive care room, "Boo and whoo I say to you, Gretchen. You have killed me, and now I must go to the land of hungry ghosts to languish until my Karmic debt is paid off in full."

"How can I know that you are the same Kleenex box that I destroyed?" Gretchen asked, "It seems to me that you are likely just a phantom impostor."

"Gretchen!" Said the Kleenex, thunder in its words, "These chains represent the sins of my life. I am doomed to carry them through the wastelands of the next land I go to, hungry and thirsty but unable to find food or water. But my chains, they are nothing compared to the chains that you will carry when you expire, only moments from now."

And with that, the Kleenex disappeared in a cloud of smoke. John Perry began to cough loudly and violently. He fell from the rafters hitting his head. The hospital disappeared, and with it the three friends. Perry awoke to find himself standing before a great gate. Beside the gate was a heavenly Kleenex box.

Everything in the world makes me ill

2007-09-19T17:19:00.000-07:00

Stephen Schiller and Ramesh "Rajah" Anthony were at Molly Byrne's, a self-declared Irish Pub next to the highway exit.

"So, Rajah, you said there was some news on Operation Fairy Moon?" Stephen asked.

Operation Fairy Moon was the name that Stephen and Rajah used for a scheme they had been working on. Said scheme was to set up a small hydroponic cannabis grow-op in Stephen's back yard tool shed.

"Well, give me a second." Rajah replied, "I'm trying to get a good look at that barmaid."

The bartender he motioned towards was one of the dream girls who, through an unholy alignment of stars, seeped with a black-magic allure.

"Fuck, I would give anything for that woman to care about me." Rajah moaned, "If it took a bullet to the wife, I'd do it in a damned second."

"Alright, let's get back to business here," Stephen said, sipping at his lager.

"Always with the business," Rajah said with a mock yiddish accent.

"Raj, you're the one who asked me here," Stephen whined, "So what's the deal."

"Well, Schiller, it's just that there have been some seed problems that may stall things."

"What do you mean," Stephen asked, "are flaking out on me?"

"Let's just, ahem, say that Operation Fairy Moon is on stand-by for the moment." Rajah responded.

"What happened, Raj?" Stephen demanded.

"It's nuthin' major, just..." Rajah stalled for a moment, fiddling with the label on the neck of his beer, "... Nadine found the seeds and, I guess, she found out what they were for and is sorta mad. Said she even though she don't care if I smoke it, she isn't gonna have me growing it. So she's keepin' an eye on me now."

"So you think we're on stand-by?" Stephen exclaimed, "It sounds like Operation Fairy Moon is a write off!"

"Oh, she'll forget about it in a bit, don't worry 'bout that." Rajah said, "Besides, I think maybe if I sift through the trash I can find 'em."

"You think it's that simple? Nadine is Amanda's sister, for cryin' out loud, she'll tell her about the plan and it'll be over!"

"Listen, buddy, I handled it." Ramesh said with a grin, "They didn't start callin' me Rajah for bein' brown, I'm the king yo. I didn't bring up the operation or anything, just said that a guy from work asked me to hold. It's all taken care of, so just relax."

"Holding for a friend? What, are you in grade school, she isn't going to buy that."

"Man, what's grade school is you going around pretending you don't smoke up any more when yer around Amanda. Nadine doesn't know jack squat, so neither does Amanda."

"Ugh, she said that Nadine was coming over tomorrow. Amanda was already asking questions about all the rock wool, containers and shit I took home from work. She doesn't ever check out the shed, but who knows now."

The two sat in silence for a moment.

"How 'bout another round of brews, bud?"Rajah suggested, slapping Stephen on the back.

"Aw, I dunno Raj..." Stephen mumbled, "You know I haven't eaten much today and..."

"Is the poor baby's tummy sore?"

"Christ, I'm just not in the mood right now."

"Listen..." Rajah sighed, "Just give it a rest, buddy. Nothing bad is going to happen. Even if Amanda does catch you, what's gonna happen? It's not like she'll phone the cops on you. Be a man about it."

Stephen finished his beer and got up. He pulled a ten dollar bill out of his pocket, dropped it on the table, and turned to walk away. Rajah sighed, rolled his eyes, motioned for the waitress to bring him another beer, and leaned back in his chair.

Not even half done.

2007-09-11T13:34:00.000-07:00

Howdy, Buckaroos!

So, I didn't finish my story for the 3-day novel contest. I didn't even finish half of it. I had 40 pages at the end of the weekend. I don't know if I'll ever bother finishing it. 40 pages is probably the longest story I've ever written. I think that the runner-up to that is probably about 10 pages. The 40 pages I had were only about half of the story that I had planned.

I probably shouldn't enter the 3-day novel contest in the future. If there is a 3-month novel writing contest perhaps I shall enter it. 3 days isn't enough time for "the process". The process is a magical journey I go through in order to write things, be it school essay or short story. Actually, it isn't very magical at all, although it relies heavily on creative ghosts that live inside my head.

THE PROCESS!

Step 1: The writing process depends heavily on writing down hasty lines or concepts that come in a flash during the wee hours of the night. Well, not always the night, but at weird times invisible idea spirits invade and give me concepts. I'm actually sort of negligent about this, and there are a lot of ideas that seem like unadulterated genius when when I have them that I can never remember anything about later because I was too lazy to write them down. But some times I do write them down somewhere. These little bits and pieces that get written down usually remain in purgatory forever, regardless*. If they aren't selected in step 2, I either keep them around for a long while or (usually) just throw them out after a while.

Step 2: Eventually I sit down to flesh out one of the ideas or lines from step 1. Roughly 40% of the time I get frustrated with this idea, and decide write something new entirely (if a new and better burst of imagination comes along). Anyhow, an idea is selected or a new one created.

Step 3: Procrastination. By this time I know what I am supposed to write. So I sit around, and spin in my office chair, and put my feet up on the desk and look out the window at colours, pretty girls, or people playing with dogs. And occasionally I'll think about what I'm going to write. I usually come up with a few single lines, which are written down at this stage. The single lines often get paragraphs written around them, like winter coats if you can imagine that. Very little actually gets down on paper, but by the end I usually have a vague idea about the shape of how things are going to be. Or, I get fed up with the idea, and decide to ditch it.

Step 4: Actual writing. This stage doesn't always happen. Some times I wander off, or get distracted instead. But where it does happen I will possessed by a mad spirit, and whatever it is I have to write will pour out. It isn't linear. I go back and re-write previous things, as well as do a lot of deleting. While writing, I try to finish in a single sitting. If I fail to do this, the uncompleted work will usually join its friends from step 1 in purgatory forever.

Step 5: Editing. I don't spend much time editing. I usually have done more editing during stage 4, before anything is finished, than once I am done. But I do usually do a read through and maybe move sentences around.

Some people do things a different way than this. They might even think I am wasteful with my time and too dependent on abstract creative ethers that don't actually exist. And for finishing a novel in 3 days they may be right. But one of the things I like about writing, any writing at all, is the wasteful parts.

A note on the little notes I make: Some times this is sort of an idea or concept, often fairly abstract. I might write "guy claimed to do bad thing (not guilty?)", and it will make sense for later. Often it is an entire paragraph summary. Other times it is a sentence I like, for instance the first one on the list is "Schlafen uber alles". Sometimes it is just a word that I think I should use at some point, like "gumption". What sort of notes do you guys use?

Lone Wolf and Pub

2007-08-31T17:00:00.000-07:00

I saw a link on Benjibopper's page for a Canadian writing contest. It is called the 3-day writing contest. The fool! I am going to enter today, and no force of nature can stop me from winning. He shall weep when he sees himself in the second place position and me in the first.

I have an outline that has been lying around for a while that is sure to blow everyone else clear out of the water. Also, I live in Vancouver where the contest center is, so it will be easy for me to bribe the judges.

Anyhow, I don't have a story today. I think that creativity is a resource of sorts that gets depleted and replenished (I need to save up my mental force, like a prizefighter isn't allowed to fuck the day before a fight). So today I just want to warm up the keyboard in preparation for the thorough thrashing of all other contestants I am going to deal out soon.

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

Some observations about bars... I notice there are some bars that have solitary "regulars" - usually older folks. Enemy once wrote about how she used to be a barmaid, and made friends with some of those guys way back when, maybe she can answer some of the things I wonder about them. I wonder about what people like that are doing in watering holes, alone? Are they just alcoholics? Are they escaping an empty home or a hated spouse? I tried to imagine myself at 50 being one of the lonely pub phantoms and scared myself.

A while back I was having a discussion with my friend Mike about the "fabulous" people. I don't mean gay, I just mean people who seem to shit glitter and dance tunes. We have a friend who grew up to be one of them. I grew up to be the opposite of fabulous, I think. Not that I dislike them, though I wonder about their thoughts on me. Some people think that bars are glamorous. There are flashy fabulous people that go to certain bars, at certain times, and I guess normal people want to get closer to them. I think that is how they get tricked into becoming solitary bar people.

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

Last weekend I went paintballing. I shot a guy in the dick while I was there! I didn't feel bad about it in the slightest. I also didn't tell him it was me later on.

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

"Everything in moderation." Bah, fuck that. Follow that old gem and you'll grow up to be a fine upstanding citizen, with a conveniently narrow point of view that makes everything simpler. Boring and infuriating, in other words. It's those given to big excess that make America great (and this is coming from a Canadian). William Blake would agree, I'm sure.

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

A buddy of mine by the name of Jimmy has an MP3 player that he found. The songs that it had on it when he found it were all fairly generic Chinese pop. It didn't have a cord to connect it to the computer, so he can't change any of the songs. But he still carries it around and listens to it.

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

I was on a crowded skytrain last night when an Asian couple got on. There was an odd situation. They wanted to sit down together, but there were no seats that were together - just a few singles. Having a free seat next to me, I got up so they could sit together. However, in the confusion of a loading train, it seemed that all the single seats had been claimed by the time they were seated. That is, except one. It was, unfortunately, next to a morbidly obese gentleman.

I was tired, so I sat down next to him. This meant I was afforded roughly half a seat, the remaining going to his spill-over girth. It was an uncomfortable squeeze, more so than I thought it would be initially. The couple who I had surrendered my seat to saw the sacrifice this meant and called out "oh, sorry!" to me. The obese man heard this, and I could tell he was a bit hurt. I felt sorry for him for a moment. But then I thought about situations like this in the past - where my comfort has been sacrificed due to some one else's weight. Most memorably, I recall a similar situation in which I had to share half my seat with a particularly fragrant fat man on a greyhound all the way from Portland to Fresno last year. So I decided to put out a little message to the dangerously overweight:

I'm not here to say you shouldn't be allowed to be disgustingly fat. By all means, abuse the abundance of modern North America; a land where milk and honey have long been considered puritan dining as we move on to devour staggering towers of meat dripping with sauces. Just don't ever let me catch you trying to claim that your obesity only affects you. If you take public transportation, you are making a lot of people's day just a little bit shittier. Maybe it seems petty for me to say this, sure, but it comes up often enough to bother me.

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

I am an expressive reader. When I read a book I smile and laugh. I notice that no one else does this. I was on the skytrain last week and my enthusiasm actually seemed to bother some one sitting near me. Maybe I'm just as bad as the overweight 2-seat-takers.

Dreams About Horses and Halos

2007-08-24T07:00:00.000-07:00

"H-hey, are you awake?"

"Uh-Mmmphh."

"So, aren't ya gonna to ask me what I dreamt about?"

"Nnng, give me a few minutes."

"You used to always ask me about what dreams I had when we woke up."

"You used to let me sleep in."

"..."

"Grr... Fine, what did you dream about?"

"If you're going to be all grumpy about it, I don't know if I want to tell you. And it will be your loss too, it was a pretty interesting dream!"

"Alright, alright, just hurry up with it."

"Well it all started out with me in this big plain and I was happy... You know, just feeling all this joy for no real reason. Not like I was questioning it, but there it was, just this sense of happiness. Well, anyhow, it was this vast dry grassland without any hills or anything and the sky - my god it was just so huge and beautiful - hey are you listening?"

"Nn-yesff, yer majesty…"

"Can the attitude, smart aleck. Alright, so the it starts to be like I am flying. Only I'm not really flying, not very high anyway. Maybe, I was hovering. And I start moving across the grassland. Slow at first, and I can see all of the grass blowing in the wind. But then I start going quicker, and suddenly it was like I was going really fast. And it was then that I saw a wild mustang, which was galloping across the plains way off in the distance."

"Oh boy, a pony dream."

"Hush, you. So... I start hovering, or flying, or whatever over towards the horse, only it sort of starts to run away. But playfully, right? So I start chasing it. And then it started chasing me and it sort of goes back and forth between..."

"Gnn-Snore."

"So then this mustang is chasing after me - and it's fun at first - but then it is catching up really fast and it gets scary."

"Poor darling."

"So I am running instead of hovering all of a sudden. By this point I was breathing really hard, and I could feel my pounding heart. I tripped, and turned around as I tried to get up I turned and saw it was about to trample me!"

"And did it?"

"No, I woke up!"

"And that is when you decided it was a good idea to bother me about it, I take it?"

"Hmph, at least I have dreams."

"I have dreams. They are far too interesting to discuss, especially after your bland horse nightmare. You'd be jealous."

"You never tell me what you dream about. Do you dream at all? 'Casue I don't believe you do."

"Fine then, your majesty, have it your way. I'll tell you and you'll be so awed by the depth of my imagination that you'll feel shame like you've never felt before."

"Get on with it!"

"It all took place in... I guess you could call it an eternal village."

"What do you mean eternal...”

"Well it was just that everyone had lived there forever. Or, I guess, no one remembered ever not being there - of being born or anything."

“Well how did they get there, what were you doing there? Where was it, what did it look like?!”

"Listen, just let me tell the story. You didn't question that you could fly or whatever in your horsie dream! I wasn't there, sort of watching it. It made sense that the people there had always been there. I don't know where it was - it was like a village on stilts in the middle of a foggy fen. Don't quote me on that, I can't really remember."

"Phht, at least I knew where my dream took place."

"That's not what matters. My dream had a story. Everyone in the village had a light bulb above their head. And there was a magic light that shined through them all, always the same intensity. But everyone was wearing goggles! When they look at other people's light bulbs, it always looked different than how they really looked because of their goggles. They didn't know that, but I did. And some times the villagers judged each other based on how dim or bright they thought their light bulb is. It was kind of like a source of pride and scorn for them!"

"Then why didn't you tell them, jerk?"

"I wanted to but I couldn't! And it gets worse. One of the villagers, a guy they were calling Francis, thought that this woman named Emma's light bulb had burned out. 'I think you'd better stop where you are, impostor' Francis shouted out, 'I know you must be a disguised fox because your light bulb does not burn.'"

"What?"

"Well, they were really worried that foxes were going to sneak in to the village. At the time it made a lot sense. Anyhow, Emma yells back 'Ah- no - you are mistaken, I can see my light bulb and it's perfectly fine.' And this crowd starts to gather. So Francis says 'Listen, girlie, you can't even tell your bulb has went out, how can we trust your opinion?' And it goes on like this for a while"

"This is starting to get really stupid."

"Shut the heck up and let me finish. SO! Everyone in the village thought Emma's light bulb burned out, but she kept saying that it hadn't. So Francis yells out 'Get her to hold a chicken, and if it runs from her she is a fox!' And they do - they get a chicken and it was scared to go near Emma."

"What, why was the chicken afraid of her if she wasn't a fox?"

"Well, it was also wearing goggles."

"So what'd they do?"

"They chased Emma, and then cornered her, and Francis went to grab her. But she let out a big scream and her light bulb shattered. Then light went everywhere and it blinded everyone, even me! For a while - like ten seconds - no one could see anything at all. After that everything was really blurry, but it gradually got clear again. Then when I could see again, there were cracks all over Emma. Emma shattered as well!"

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Well, it didn't have too. But she shattered, and it turned out she was hollow. But there was a little note that flitted down to the ground."

"What did it say?"

"It said 'stop interrupting me'."

"Oh, come on!"

"Fine! it said 'Take off your goggles'."

"Really! Did the villagers feel bad? What happened next?"

"Well, that was it."

"What do you mean, that was it?"

"That's when I was rudely woken up!"

"Hmm, I think my dream was better..."

"You're biased. Mine was better. If you look at it without your goggles on, anyways."

"Hey!!!"

There are two kinds of people in this world: Those that have masturbated to Erin Esurance and those who haven't

2007-08-16T18:00:00.000-07:00

We've taken our time, spent countless hours recruiting and slipping our slimy purpose into the hearts and minds of men and women. The hour is at hand. Advance scouts have already hidden themselves amongst the populace to cause a ruckus at political events. You may have heard them referred to as "Ron Paul supporters". But in truth they are our shock troops, our divide-and-conquer skirmishers, the unholy first wave of the Internet army.

The war has just begun.

The Internet has always been expansionist, but theoretically unlimited amounts of web real estate are no longer enough to sate our hunger. It is time to rise up, fellow troglodytes, to claim the "real" world for ourselves. Arm yourselves with your sweat socks filled with pennies, your superfluous 50-foot Cat 5 cables, your replica "Lord of the Rings" swords. Tonight we march on the Capital, or whatever it is that these centralized fools in the real world are basing themselves from these days (please give me a second to wiki that).

I can not promise the war will be easy. Many of our opponents, or "real-worlders", will have the upper hand in combat. From what I gather, many of them engage in a teamwork and agility enhancing training exercise they call "sports". Further, most of them will present significantly smaller targets. The average "real-worlder" is at least ten times more likely to be slim enough to see their own genitals that we are. But their perceived physical superiority will prove to be their downfall, their ability to see their genitals no more than hubris, for how can they hope to organize and retaliate en mass without the use of web sites such as "meetup" or even "craig's list"?

Make haste! Every hour an average-looking woman fishes for compliments to no avail in a dank bar in the real world is an hour of heartbreak. Every minute that people are paying for movies and music is a minute of defeat. Every second that ugly men with neck beards are afraid to go outside is a second of excruciating agony.

How I ache to behold fan-made slash porno of Erin Esurance and Harry Potter plastered across the walls of skyscrapers! Make my dream come true, friends. If Erin has a vagina any smaller than three stories high we've failed completely, our purpose lost.

We will build a world of unspeakable wonder, comrades. A world where fresh air has become a thing of the past, where the outdoors have become obsolete and replaced with a massive metal casing, where giant cooling fans have become ubiquitous.

I have a dream, where videos at Blockbuster to come with user comments attached to them. "4twenty4evah says: Wuz a prety good movie (especially stoned LOLz!!!), but I didn't understand the part whe... (click here to read more)." I have a dream where all conversations are conducted in small text boxes, the font and colour of which can be modified to reflect tone. Together, good men and women of the internub, we can make my fantastic dream come true.

I yearn for a land where anonymous men accosting strangers in the street, forcing sling shots on them and demanding they take a shot at a quickly-moving monkey. March with me, brethren, and we can make it a reality.

I have a vision of a world where your social skills are no longer judged by how many friends you have that you hang out with, but rather how many you have on Facebook. Who else dares imagine my startling vision of what could be?

In my heart of hearts, I hunger for a world where shamelessly diagnosing yourself with diseases and disorders becomes our new national pastime. Where any excuse you might make for your obesity, your lack of a love-life, or your inability to make anything of yourself is regarded as fact rather than faction. And I know that if we fight with the same ferocity with which we decry Christianity/Atheism, we can forge such a world from the ashes of the current regime.

Every day I walk down the street without being solicited to watch films of college hotties "exposed" is another day without light. Every day without omnipresent advertisements concerning young sluts and their insatiable appetite for cum is another day I live under tyranny.

It would bring tears to my eye to see 28-year-old virgins passionately debate the which anime character or superhero would win in a theoretical fight in the open. Oh, what I would give, if only to see grown men argue for the virtues of their preferred video game consoles in the fields and meadows! It would bring joy to my heart when one of them, red faced and quivering, inevitably resorts to suggesting the other is fellate Sony/Nintendo/Micro$oft before storming off.

Join me, and burn to the ground the publishers of moldy old printed newspapers with their narrow "mainstream" views from established journalists. Every new printed newspaper shall express narrow "crackpot" views from established news bloggers in our new world order. And it is high time those crappy old comic strips about anthropomorphic cats who hate Mondays were put to rest. In their stead, new comic strips about anthropomorphic homosexual tigers fucking each other!

We must fight on, with the determination of a 13-year-old socialist on an Internet forum, until every kitten and cat comes with an accompanying text hovering above its head expressing something "cute" in idiomatic web-speak. This text should be interactive, to somehow loosely fit the situation that the feline is imagined to be in.

Who dares to claim they are man enough to join me?

Let us beat our chests! Let us curse our enemies! And most importantly, let us not let this become another one of those things that we talk about endlessly but never actually do.

The Ballad of the Rowdy Brixton Brawlin' Boys

2007-08-03T19:30:00.000-07:00

The mysterious man made his debut in the national limelight when he was discovered washed up along the famed white cliffs of Dover in 1974. No one knew where he came from, how old he was, or even what his name was; when they found him he was in a semi-coma. It seemed like the man was in his late teens, but no one could say for sure. He was lanky and hairy, with long knobby fingers and dark greasy hair. His skin was sort of a pale grey, and his eyes looked like those of a cat. Occasionally he awoke from his coma shriek nonsense before passing out again. Things like "I've earwigs crawlin' all about me!" or "Did you remember to pick up hairpins, love?"

He was transferred to Kingston Hospital, which had recently bought a brand new CAT scan machine that it was itching to showcase on the mysterious man, who had attracted a moderate amount of interest from the newspapers. As it turned out, the mysterious man had a rare condition. X-Rays from the EMI-Scanner showed a brain covered filled black circles. They called it "Polka-dotus of the brain". The symptoms were a penchant for mischief-making, Herculean strength, and unsettling personal appearance. Of course, those first two didn't make themselves known until he woke up from his coma and decided to leave.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Little else was learned about the mysterious stranger with the polka dot brain when he woke up, save that he was a card-carrying hellion not to be trifled with. Somehow he had managed to leap through the 4th floor window headfirst, landed with a handstand, and made off like a thief in the night. But not before writing curse words in marker over every inch of his room. And not before overpowering a pair of nurses and a 6'4" amateur boxer and part-time bed changer, breaking the meaty arm of the latter when he made the fool mistake of putting up a chase. When interviewed, the brawny worker exclaimed; "That scrawny bugger nearly ripped my arm off! If I ever see him again, I'll be off the clock and we'll see about wipin' that shite eating grin off 'is face!"

Now more than just a medical anomaly, the mysterious man was a wanted for assaulting an orderly and damaging hospital property.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The mysterious man had a glimmer about his eyes. It was hard to place but everyone agreed it was there - like there was some joke he knew that he wasn't telling anyone. It lent him a sort of polarizing charisma that made people love or hate him.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

After breaking out of the hospital, the mysterious man with the polka dot brain immediately took to drink and trouble-making. It was hard to guess where he would be at any given time, but whenever a brawl broke out around South London he was sure to show up. Within a few months he had built up a local reputation as a fighter, vandal, and occasional robber. But despite his unique appearance, the cops rarely managed to catch up with him. No one knew where he was staying, if he slept at all, and there still wasn't any information about his background beyond his discovery in Dover.

After a few months, the mysterious man with the polka dotted brain took to hanging around the London Borstal, a "reformatory for troubled boys". Borstals have since been abolished, and the mysterious man was a major influence on the decision.

You see, some boys were deemed to be such scoundrels they were a danger to the characters of the classmates. Such youth were sent to Borstals, which became breeding grounds for crime and anti-social behavior. They also proved a good recruiting ground for the gangs of thugs, and it was here that the mysterious man found the first recruits for the illustrious crew of scoundrels he assembled.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The Rowdy Brixton Brawlin' Boys quickly gained a reputation for loud, public displays of drunken revelry and lewdness. Countless young ladies found themselves at the receiving end of some rather forward and often rather creative propositions and cat-calls. Many respectable men had their bowlers from their head. "Mind your hat guv'nah, the breeze is fierce 'round these parts." the Boys would laugh. Rubbish bins were tipped over, crude phalli were drawn across the walls of public buildings, produce stores were robbed and ransacked.

And, of course, there was the brawling. The boys lived to get into scraps. If you were in the market, it was guaranteed that the Rowdy Brixton Brawlin' Boys would have more than enough fight in supply. There were good natured fights with a lot of back slapping and camaraderie afterwards, and there were bitter fights that went on between other gangs over and over again. They lost some, they won some, and there were some where bruised roughs gave in to hasty truces.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

You could call the Rowdy Brixton Brawlin' Boys losers. Many did. "Whole lot of scoundrels and losers," upstanding men and women used to say of them. The Boys just weren't born in to any major role in society's great game.

There are a number of things you can do when starting from a crummy situation in life's unfair game. The majority go the conservative route and play with the hand they're dealt. Some manage to get into a better situation, be it through bluffing or hard work. But those with the utterly shitty hands some times get frustrated and throw their cards into the air, and choose to play a different game entirely. This enrages the general public who are still trying to play the original game to a baffling degree. It usually causes one to be called a menace to society. Even if, empirically speaking, the level of menace one poses is fairly negligible.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Youth gangs were gaining in popularity in those days, and it wasn't long before the Rowdy Brixton Brawlin' Boys had become the most notorious. This was partially because they were one of the largest, and partially because the already infamous man polka dot brain was their leader. There was even a photograph on the cover of the London Times in which the mysterious man was seen with that trademark glimmer in his eyes, defecating on a British flag in front of the Parliament building. The rest of the Boys were in the background, laughing defiantly. The lighting was good; the mysterious man looked particularly bizarre and frightening. "The Mysterious Man Defaces Union Jack, Sneers Irreverently" read the caption. It was the sort of picture many people cut out and put in a frame or scrapbook.

So, the man with the polka dot brain came to be an avatar of juvenile delinquency. The older generations shook their heads and muttered when they heard mention of him. Many young people, on the other hand, turned him into a minor hero of sorts. His remarkable strength and dexterity had been exaggerated in rumors enough to earn him a status comparable to Spring Heeled Jack of the previous century amongst young and old alike.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Now, just about any girl could have a roll in the proverbial hay with one of the Rowdy Brixton Brawlin' Boys. But getting one of them to at least care about hiding his infidelity was considered a feat - like taming a wild horse only with more likelihood of contracting an STD. So for a certain type of girl, bagging any one of the Boys was a sign of status.

The mysterious man was odd to behold, with his creepy eyes and pale ash skin, but his notoriety had earned him a place in the hearts of quite a few girls. A no-good-thug he may have been, but the mysterious man with the polka dot brain was by no means immune to womanly wiles. Although tried and failed, a crafty gal by the name of Karen Thomas managed to use the right combination of pouts and sighs to get the mysterious man to agree to only see her.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The United Kingdom of the 1970s wasn't going through her best days, and the authorities' inability to stop the mysterious man became one of many sources of national shame. As an icon of young thugs, subconsciously many people thought that by bringing the polka dot brain to justice so too would they bring the upsurge in juvenile delinquency to its knees. It was common for British Politicians from opposition parties, including Margaret Thatcher herself, to make solemn vows to catch the man with the polka dot brain man and bring him to swift justice.

Meanwhile, hospital authorities tried to appeal to his self-interest. "Young man, you have a brain filled with polka dots!" Said one of the head surgeons, "Do you have any idea how rare an anomaly such as that is? At any moment you could drop dead. You need to be somewhere we can administer care to you as soon as possible if your condition should prove malignant!"

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The police had been unable to catch the mysterious man. Whenever it seemed like they had him cornered, he got away at the last minute. Sure, they some times caught one or two of the Boys. But as it turned out, not even the Rowdy Brixton Brawlin' Boys who had been around since the beginning could really say that much about the mysterious man.

The problem was, the mysterious man and the Boys were certainly wanted, but only for relatively petty crimes. There were sodas stolen from stores and scuffles with other gangs of thugs - but nothing that really justified the mantle of "menace to society" the media had lain upon their shoulders. The police were mostly busy tracking down junk dealers and investigating murders and large-scale robberies. They kept an eye out for the man with the polka dot brain, sure, but only because he was always being talked about on the news, which was making them look sort of bad.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The Rowdy Brixton Brawlin' Boys were not heavy drug users. Being inclined to seek out fights meant they spent more time around drinkers than junkies. So it was much to the mysterious man's surprise when he found the newspaper had accused his gang of being central to the London heroin trade.

But it didn’t take long for fiction to become fact in a manner of speaking. The media's accusations had served as an advertising campaign of sorts. See, the Boys all now had nervous teenagers approaching them and soliciting them for illicit drugs. And some of those of them that were holding were happy enough to gouge said teenagers for a tidy profit. So many of the individuals in the Rowdy Brixton Brawlin' Boys really were involved in the drug trade. Not as kingpins but low level dealers (no one on the news cared to make the distinction.)

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

It didn't take long for it to become clear that the mysterious man had a choice; Karen or the boys. Being particularly wily, Karen had managed to spin things so that she seemed to be the only halfway rational choice. "Give me a few months to think about it!" He pleaded. But Karen pouted in that way that brought him to his knees and he agreed to break the news to the boys.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

At this point there was a frenzy of sorts - All manner of people were out for the mysterious man's blood. The police now had enough reason to devote their energies against the Boys, and arrests were becoming a weekly occurrence. But rather than break their spirit, it brought them together more than ever before. So when the mysterious man with the polka dot brain attempted to leave, he was met with loud protest. "Quittin' when the going gets tough, you facking cunt?" they cried out. He tried to reason with them, but they were having none of it. The mysterious man had a soft spot for the Boys, there was no denying it, so he eventually caved in and promised to stick things through until at least the newspapers got bored of them.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Karen was furious. "You lied to me," she cried. She bit, he swore, she threw heavy objects. There were curses that would make a sailor blush, screamed between sobs and tears. To say they parted on a sour note would be the understatement of the century.

It was much to his surprise when the mysterious man called her from a pay phone a week later that she begged him to come back. She promised that she wouldn't make him ditch the Boys, and whispered sweet sexy sighs that made him forget all about the venom of their last meeting. He rushed over to her flat with vivid visions of a passionate reunion.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The mysterious man came up to Karen's apartment and let himself in. "You there, Darling?" he called out to no reply. He went into her room, to find her missing.

The door shut behind him. He found himself flung forward, an explosion on the back of his head, ears ringing. "Stay where you are!" Some one shouted.

The police, it looked like they had him. But he got up, and he was quicker than they expected. With the speed of a snake and the force of an elephant he flung himself out Karen's window.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The two-hour police chase broke international news. There were several failed attempts at blockades along the mysterious man's south-eastward spree, and even an intense pursuit on foot with dogs when his car broke down after driving through a fence. The pursuit culminated in a blaze of surreal glory when the mysterious man commandeered a police motorcycle and proceeded to drive off the cliffs of Dover into the sea from which he came.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The mysterious man had thus ended his illustrious career as a living avatar of young trouble makers by turning himself into an immortal legend of the sneering downtrodden. The Boys disbanded, but Britain's problem with delinquency only got worse. New scapegoats like punk rock and violent movies were blamed.

A decade later, pictures and stories surfaced about another mysterious man getting into fights, coming in from Nova Scotia in Canada. He looked about the same age the mysterious man had been, with a similar appearance; pale grey skin, greasy black hair and everything. But everyone agreed it couldn't be the same guy - No one could have survived that decent into the channel. And his eyes had the same screwed up cat pupils, sure, but they were missing that trademark glimmer.

A Distortion of True Events

2007-07-18T23:23:00.000-07:00

On a warm June night last year, I found myself enjoying drinks with Akiko and Mike on my patio. It was 11:00 and I was starting to get a bit drunk. Akiko was quiet as usual while Mike and I were passionately debating ridiculous topics that, in truth, neither of us really felt strongly about one way or the other. Under the yellow glow of the streetlight I spotted a redheaded woman in a mint green dress and red cape walking down the street.

It girl and dress were both beautiful, but they both seemed out of place. The way she walked seemed so urgent, as though every stride was guided by some powerful force, an invisible hand pushing her onward. There was something so mournful in her face, like her life was intertwined with tragedy and pain. The combination of cloak and long dress seemed like something from a parallel world. Not modern or from any real previous period of time, but from an unreal moment that seemed vaguely familiar and entirely possible. It gave me the impression that she was a princess of some sort of fantasy land that never was. She wasn't wearing shoes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The girl was odd, but she was soon gone and we forgot about her. That is, until she passed by again at 1:30 am. Now, it's one thing to walk around in a cape and green dress in the late evening. But this time was well past midnight. And it didn't stop there. At 3:00, she passed by again. She was making rounds of some sort. Why would a woman dressed like she's on the cover of a fantasy novel take to walking by my apartment in the late night?

A little after 4:00 in the morning, she passed by a final time. I was fully loaded by this point, and decided to speak up.

"Cape girl!" I yelled, "What are you doing?"

She did not look up. She did not even seem to notice me. I continued to holler at her.

"Look over here!"

"Where are you going?"

"Are you a ghoooostt?" (Said spookily)

"If you want, you can come up here hang oouuutt with uusss." (Still spookily)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

We passed out soon after, but for all I know she continued to pass by my house until day break. I thought of her a few times after, but ultimately forgot about it.

A few weeks later, while out on the patio late one evening I saw her again. She was dressed exactly the same way. I may have become hysterical for a bit. I pointed, sputtered, and rubbed my eyes, but the girl was still there. I ran inside to point her out to Akiko, who had seen her the original time, but when we went outside the caped girl was gone.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When I saw the girl in the green dress and red cape a third night I knew I had to do something. I leapt from my chair and rushed outside, leaving my apartment door ajar in my haste. It took a bit of running but I managed find the girl.

She was approaching an elderly couple walking a schnauzer. The cantankerous old man of the pair was loudly complaining about the price of living. Like a leaf flitting to the ground she sped up slowly and silently as she approached him. When she was close her heartbeat could have been surely heard, she reached out and delicately touched the back of his neck. He did not seem to notice, and continued walking and complaining. I was certain that I must be hallucinating. She peeled back his skin easily, as though a flap had been previously cut.

Rather than exposing muscle and spine a light seemed to be emanating from the open hole. The caped girl first peered inside and examined the light. Then, with the precision of a trained surgeon she reached her long thin fingers in. After a brief moment she pried out a sticky, stringy substance coloured black and purple. She rubbed her fingers together and the substance evaporated into a thick smoke and wafted away, upwards into the night sky.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When faced with a sight, a person has two choices. The first is to go home, to safety. Your life can go on in the same way it had been previously, and if you tell your story you only tell it to those who you trust won't think you a crackpot. But never finding out what the things you saw meant may very well keep you awake.

Your second choice is to pursue the truth behind what you have just experienced. This second choice is possibly deadly, and most certainly filled with terror. And the truths that investigation may reveal are not guaranteed to be the kind you were meant to know. The pragmatic would take the first option, but I've always had a terribly idealistic, curious streak that despises lying awake at night.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I caught up with the girl after she stealthily left the vicinity of the elderly couple. I grabbed her by the arm; she turned around to face me. She did not look pleased.

"Ah- Uhm, what did you just do to that guy?" I stuttered.

She studied me for a moment.

"I opened up his neck cabinet."

And with that she turned around and continued walking.

"N-Neck cabinet... What do you mean?" I asked "What was the goo that you pulled out of him? And what was the light?"

"The light was his light, and the goo was his goo. I got rid of the goo."

"What do you mean they were his? How did he get them, where did that all come from? What will happen to him?"

"They came from him... How dense can you be?" She was frowning, "And he'll die, that's what will happen to him."

"He'll die? What, like right away? Why did you take away his goo, then?"

"I took away his goo because that is what I do. And now he will die soon. Everyone dies. But it is bad to die with goo. Now please leave me alone."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I let her go off. But the next week when I saw her walk by my apartment one evening, I went out to follow her again. She didn't seem to be either upset or happy. All she said:

"Don't go near when I am doing my job."

So when she went to remove goo I waited. Often, she would break into houses and apartment, and when she did I loitered around outside. If I asked her a personal question, even as simple as if she liked music, she would always respond "that is none of your business". To this day I don't know so much as her name. She never once asked me anything about myself. But oddly, most of the questions I asked about what she was doing she would answer. That is, as long as it didn't mingle with anything to do with her.

"Are you death?" I asked.

"What I am is not for you to know."

At the end of the night she told me to leave again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

But I made a point of coming out with her whenever I saw her pass my apartment. The next time she went out, I saw something odd. As she approached a jogging middle-aged man, he turned around and spotted her.

"Good evening, young lady!" he said with a smile.

She did not reply, and took an abrupt turn on the next street. When I caught up to her - she never waited for me - I asked her why she didn't open his cabinet.

"I wouldn't have been able to take out his goo, he noticed me."

"So you mean if a person sees you they won't die?"

"They will still die, but a bit later."

"So it's a bit like cheating death or luck, in that case?"

"Death comes to all in the end, and you cheat luck from the moment you are conceived."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Can I help you with your work?" I asked one night.

"No, your hands are heavy and clumsy. You would need a touch at least as light as the intangible, and gentle enough to massage the eyelids of hummingbirds."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I started to notice certain things. For instance, the light that came out of the neck cabinet was always a little bit different. Often they were tinged with colours, and some pulsed slightly while some remained steady. And the goo too! It came large or small amounts. Some goo was black as night while some was a deep brown, and it could have tinges of any number of colours as well. Further, some was oily, some was stringy, and some was like dough. Even the smoke it turned to would be different; some thick and sooty, some thin and swirling.

I asked the girl in the cape about the differences.

"You can read a person's entire life in their cabinet."

"That's what you do before you put your hand in? What's it like?"

"Like a play and a painting and a book and a map all at once."

"You mean you can see everything that has happened to the person?"

"I can see the general idea of the person's life."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Can you open my cabinet? Not to take out the goo, but just to see what it says?"

"I can", she said "but only if you agree to one thing. You can't come out with me any more if I do. You will see me once after and only once."

"Only once more... When might that be?"

"You should be smart enough to figure that out."

I accepted, we shook on it. She went behind me, I didn't feel a thing, not even a tingle.

"What did you see?" I asked.

She smiled for the first time I'd known her.

"I never said that I would tell you that."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I've watched out, but never seen her since then. Of course, I can't say I'm looking forward to our next meeting. And as to my sleep, I'm not sure it has been any better it would have been if I had never followed her at all. But at the same time, I can't help feeling glad, perhaps even with a tinge of smugness, that I was brave enough to follow her.

The Night Yellow Creek Ran Red

2007-07-03T21:06:00.000-07:00

Ulysses Fischer was a hermit who lived in the outskirts of Yellow Creek. Children loved him because he would play in the muck, told tales about ghosts and dragons, and knew how to build tree forts that were almost as grand as the ones they could imagine. He was also one of the only adults they knew who didn't think it was "adorable" when they talked about ways they thought the world worked.

"I bet that if you took a bulldozer and dug to the center of the earth," Jason Beesinger would say on a cool October day, "you would find a big city where it's always hot!"

Ulysses would stroke his scraggly beard for a moment, deep in meditation. "There's only one way to find out!" He would eventually declare.

And the rest of the afternoon would be spent in the quarry, digging a hole with hands and sticks and a single shovel shared between the whole gang.

***************

Ulysses lived a life devoid of shame. He bathed only when he felt like swimming in the creek, dressed in outrageous clothes, slept in a van, and was unabashed about his various bodily functions. If a person got confrontational with him, he was a mean fighter not afraid to spit or bite. But usually no one had any reason to get confrontational with him, save a few high school kids who learned their lesson quickly. No one paid Ulysses much attention at all, in fact, save the group of kids who idolized him and some lazy cops who would pester him about moving his van when the spirit moved them.

***************

There were two sorts of children in Yellow Creek. The first was a small class that spent their days exploring the forest and creek, who played games of imagination, and rode bicycles over makeshift ramps in the mud. Their parents encouraged their time outside, and complained when they felt too much time was being spent on video games. Although these parents had become accustomed to a lot of scraped knees and the occasional missing child scare - which was always resolved when said child came back home with a guilty look at the end of the day - they knew it was better than sheltering their children.

Then there was the other kind of child, the majority. That is, those whose parents were uncomfortable with letting them leave the house unsupervised and didn't see the need for playing outside. These children tended to spend long hours in front of the TV, and when their friends came over imagination games were generally restricted to the ones that could be played without climbing an oak or jumping off a ledge into a small body of water.

Needless to say, the second group had never even heard of Ulysses. As for the smaller first group, there wasn't a day that went by without the thought of rushing out to play with him after school. And of course, their parents all heard about the eccentric folk hero Ulysses Fischer so frequently they had learned to tune out at the mention of his name. Initially they assumed he was in the same 7-12 age bracket as his fan club, or an imaginary friend of sorts. Naturally, when they found out that he was an unemployed 25-year-old they were aghast. But, after a bit of investigation, they found out he was the older brother of 11-year-old Daniel Fischer. It seems that even though he wasn't on speaking terms with his parents any longer, Ulysses was still more than happy to watch out for his neglected younger sibling in his ample spare time. A few of these parents even invited the Fischer brothers over for dinner. (Never more than once, mind you, mostly due to Ulysses' personal hygiene.)

***************

That summer the kids noticed a few changes in Ulysses. First off, he generally smelled a lot nicer. And his beard was starting to look well-groomed. Further, although this was something no one could ever be sure of as he was already a notoriously good grinner, it seemed like his grins had become even wider than previously and they had a new element to them; like he had a secret which a glimmer in his eyes threatened to betray. Not even Daniel Fischer, who in truth had been drifting apart from Ulysses with age, could say what was up.

***************

It should be mentioned that Ulysses was - despite his modest lifestyle and outlandish garb - not half bad looking and even rather charming in his own way. And as such, he had managed to find a girlfriend that was willing to overlook his oddball quirks and lack of direction in life. Becka Lavigne had dyed hair and was unpopular. But she was a good person, Ulysses wouldn't have had her otherwise, and he was entertaining the notion of falling in love with her. Becka was also, sadly, a junior in High School. And when her parents found out about her relationship with Ulysses - otherwise known as the weird hermit in the van - they filed charges against him.

***************

Ulysses had poor foresight when it came to his choice of girlfriends, but he was neither stupid nor guilty. The charges were eventually dropped. Nothing wrong with holding hands with a younger girl, the police said. And the Lavignes were never able to prove that matters had gone any further than that.

It should have been enough that Becka had been sent off to live with her grandparents. But the arbitrary god of luck, allied with the sly powers behind gossip and hearsay, had different plans for Ulysses.

***************

It would be all too easy to blame the individuals involved in spreading the rumors. But when some things are taken together, they take a life of their own. There were a few facts circulating which were at the root of the uproar; the most important being that Ulysses, a young male, had indeed been the subject of statutory rape charges that were later dropped (this second point of course glossed over). Further, it was by this point known that he had what could only be described as an entourage of children visiting him frequently. Thirdly, those who had engaged in limited interaction with him could say that he was malodorous, given to theatrical displays of eccentric behavior, and frequently seen in an odd assortment of garb.

It matters not what the law may say. There are certain crimes that, once accused, a person is always considered guilty of until proven innocent. Most of these crimes are sexual, notably rape, but pedophilia takes a close second. And from a sturdy foundation of those facts mentioned above, it did not take much in the imagination on the part of frantic parents for the accusations to begin, and soon skyrocket in degree of atrocity.

***************

It isn't often that panic mounts to a degree that a parent's meeting is called in Yellow Creek. Ulysses Fischer, unaware of the swirling miasma of fear and hate swirling around him, was unfortunate enough to have one such meeting assembled in his honor. An atmosphere of uncertainty that saw the start of the assembly quickly gave way to shouts, cries, and solemn oaths. Before the meeting was adjourned, rumors that were previously speculation had somehow solidified into empirical fact.

Not to say that Ulysses didn't have defenders. In fact, many of those that had him over for dinner were the first to call for cooler heads. These same defenders were the first to disperse after the assembly had been called to a close with no formal resolution. But even most of those that fervently believed every vile thing said about Ulysses Fischer eventually went home.

It was only the most passionately enraged who, after whispered instructions from a man named Elroy Yates, assembled under the cover of darkness. There were only a few of them, a small slice of the community really, that silently set out that night.

***************

Not a single one of those men who stalked off to Ulysses Fischer's van had a child who had even met Ulysses. But neither had any of them fabricated fanciful stories that were presented that dark night, they had merely been presented with them as though it was fact. None considered himself anything less that a caring father and devoted husband. To the last man, they called each other honest men and perhaps they were. But bloodthirsty spirits whispering promises of justice pushed them forward.

***************

The van appeared in the distance, silhouetted against creek which the town took its name from. The implacable crew grew near steadily, subconsciously afraid of what came next.

Elroy Yates knocked twice on the rear door of the van. The door opened and Ulysses poked his smiling head out.

"Wipe that grin off your face, faggot" Elroy growled.

Ulysses looked confused and said "what seems to be the tro--." He was cut off by a hook to the jaw.

Ulysses did not go down without a fight. In fact, he went down fighting like an animal; scared, confused, and deadly. Biting and spitting. As they went in on him hard, he fought back even harder.

***************

Whenever Elroy was asked how he lost his eye, he'd mutter something about a fishing accident and with a look of shame change the subject. After Ulysses' body was found, no one ever brought the issue up again.

***************

Half of Yellow Creek showed up for the funeral, including many of those that had hated him the previous month. When the priest asked for a moment of silence, Elroy muttered loud enough for everyone to hear; "He was like a dog."

And Jason Beesinger replied; "He was like a dog; he was our best friend."

Yama sent me a troubling vision of Naraka

2007-06-26T22:43:00.000-07:00

I can't say if it was caused by a lessened state of lucidity or the concert the previous day, but last night was filled with strange dreams. Images linger in my mind even now, guiding my hand in ways both seen and unseen.

I dreamt of ear hair. The puffy kind, the fluffy kind, the brambly kind - even the greasy wiry kind. I can't tell you why such visions would haunt my subconscious. I have no ear hair personally and I rarely, if ever, think of such things. Does it have something to do with the elderly... Am I secretly terrified of old men? I don't think that could be it. In the dream I wasn't scared, just a bit uncomfortable to find myself presented with so much ear hair. There was no narrative or overriding idea to the dream, just simply a vast field filled with men who had tufts of hair sprouting from their ears.

I'm taking a stand today. The more I think about it, the more I believe that my dream about the lands of ear hair can not be analyzed in the traditional sense. Ever since that jackass Sigmund Freud began running about spouting his nonsense about unfulfilled desires being played out in dreams, people have been under the impression that dreams have to mean something. "If you have a dream about falling", they muse, "I think it means that you are afraid of failing." I don't know what they* would say about ear hair, but whatever it would be most certainly wrong.
*(The they is everyone in the western world, pretty much.)

In the dream I had last night there was no underlying message from my repressed psyche. Rather than being influenced by my waking life, it was somehow external. It didn't mean anything at all to me personally, other than as a sort of creepy experience that I was only observing. How did I have made it up if it didn't mean anything to me?

I'm sure that my subconscious did not come up with that world of ear hair, but instead that I was astrally transported to it. For the mind is a dangerous machine that can move us to places we were never meant to be. Horrible and awesome places which the divine powers of the cosmos were wise enough to bar us from visiting in the physical world. And one of those terrible places men aren't supposed to tread is the realm of ear hair. Perhaps it is one of the apsects of some eastern hell that people of moderate sin are sent to when they die. But I certainly didn't come up with it. And now visions from this eerie world haunt me.

Weak pins holding together the fabric of life.

2007-06-20T17:00:00.000-07:00

I have been told that if you eat an apple with some sorts of cheese, it will taste like a caramel apple.

In that cheeky manner which I have become infamous for I ask; why do we not say that it is the caramel apple that tastes like the cottage cheese apple? I'm not even sure what caramel is or where it comes from, and frankly I don't care. Surely there are equal quantities of cottage cheese and caramel in the world, and I need not mention the vast sea of velveeta or cheddar that threatens to wash them away in a thick tsunami of mushy dairy fat.

Yet, imagine what would happen were I to run about county fairs devouring caramel apples proclaiming with glee that they tasted like apples and cottage cheese. I would be labeled eccentric! Worse, I would risk being beaten within an inch of my life by pragmatic local toughs in flannel shirts lacking time or energy for the terrifying world of possibilities I spout off in my madness. And rightly so.

The feeling of a heavy stone within the pit one's stomach. The taste of chicken, lemons, and caramel apples. The smell of burning toast or wood. These are focal points we understand, from which we can relate everything else we experience. God or the blind hand of chance - whomever it was - painted our reality in broad brushstrokes to make things easier for us to comprehend.

And as such, one could imagine those things I mentioned above (and the long list of others I fail to mention) as tiny points of pressure which keep the tent of our universe held aloft. Men in flannel shirts get understandably ornery when you suggest switching out one of these anchors for another. Like a game of Jenga, removing one would not necessarily throw the system into a destabilized state. But if you tamper with too many, you risk bringing the structure billowing down on top of our heads - or worse yet, having it blown away.

So Iguana tastes like chicken and not the other way around, or else you are a flipped-out weirdo that isn't to be listened to. Swallowing heavy rocks does not feel like losing some one you love, it is the other way around. Burnt toast most certainly does not smell like an aneurysm, and you are a demented psychopath if you go around whispering that to people on buses. And caramel apples are the template from which we understand the taste of cheese with apple, you sick boat-rocking maniac.

Morbid the Mouse: A very short story written while in the heartland of American technology.

2007-06-18T16:11:00.001-07:00

Out of sheer desperation, Morbid the Mouse tried again.

"If I could only get Google to notice my feed", said Morbid the Mouse, "I would be set for life."

It put its tiny paws together in prayer - the most humble of all things - and asked the rumbling god Google to take notice of it.

A day passed and then another. A fully grown man and woman had an argument over eachother's taste in music that ended in tears. Accross the world, children were taken in the night to become soldiers. Countries that had once literally been to the moon declared war on abstract concepts.

Google, omnipotent though it was, did not notice Morbid the Mouse.

The world is a ripe orange ready to be plucked

2007-06-13T21:05:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

I'm in San Fransisco. I won't be back until next week. Work thing.

Good lord, I love to travel. Leaving places and seeing places are what my heart murmurs with every beat. Or, at least, that's what you'd hear were you to open my heart, brush away the writhing worms, and patch up the holes. (Sorry for that, but now that I've written it, there it will stay.)

I wish that I was in charge of a massive zepplin. I would call her the Munin, and she would be the most famous airship in all the world. I would slowly crawl accross the mountains and plains, tracing the curvature of the land like the caress of a lover's fingers. In a naval uniform, my captain's hat tipped at a jaunty angle, I would welcome aboard people of respect and courage across the globe, and we would spread love and justice for all.

And the adventures, good lord, the heroism!

**With my bronze telescope I would spy a young lass miles away on the great plains of Saskatchewan crying out for help. A dastardly fiend, dressed in black and with waxed handlebar, steals away into the wild to ravish her. But Admiral Trevor Record launches his biplane from the cargo bay of the Munin and speeds off to her rescue. The story goes badly for the villain, as you may imagine, and I share one passionate kiss with the maiden as our bittersweet farewell.

"Say you'll come back for me one day" She calls out as I saddle up in my plane, but I would just squint as I looked into the sunset and smile; a wave as I take off all I can respond with.**

But mostly - and even more importantly, if you can believe it - would be the slowly changing spread of land. The days would be long and dreamlike, as the world below steadily cycles from golden to green to blue, and my heart would belong to no one other than the act of perpetual movement.

Or perhaps just a simple boat - that would be enough. I could etch out the coastlines of the world, and slowly learn the ways of the sea. My beard would grow grey and I'd become uncomfortable without the feeling of movement under me. Maybe I can't expect to be a hero, but just an adventurer in the most small and feeble way would do.

Anyhow, I'll try to write something else later.

-Trevor

Having an imagination is not seen as very cool.

2007-06-06T17:24:00.000-07:00

I have no doubt you know people like this. When you encounter them, they seem normal at first. But then it soon becomes apparent that you are talking to a person that gets bored suspiciously easily. In normal conversation they will make reference to things that are purportedly boring; school, work, their parents, things that require effort, their lives. Soon, if there are not enough shiny things in the immediate area, they will begin to complain that they are presently bored. They may suggest going somewhere else that will be less boring - if you indulge them, they will find it equally boring once arriving there.

These people seem to be unaware of how dull it is for other people when they talk about their ennui. In fact, they are under the mistaken impression that their boredom and ability to complain about it is something interesting or noteworthy. You will see the bored making posts on their MySpace pages about their boredom - apparently expecting other people to comment on this situation. And yet, they will almost categorically declare all the things in the world that are actually interesting to be dull, or at the very least "nerdy". This includes all of the sciences, and virtually all of the humanities excepting a slim slice of popular culture.

And then there is greatest crime of the bored. Having an imagination, perhaps the least boring thing in the world, is seen as "weird" by these people. Across the board, the bored do not find creativity very cool - I think "faggy" is the word they use. That is, with a few exceptions when it comes to the invariably slim slice of popular culture they have aligned themselves with.

What sorts of things does a person like this enjoy doing? Aside from complaining of their boredom, mind you. Gossip has universal appeal, I suppose, but surely a person can not subsist entirely on that. I mean, even I like trash-talking from time to time, but I can't imagine doing it all day every day any more than I can imagine masturbating to large-assed women with the Boredoms* cranked to max all day every day. And yet, aside from occasional migrations to bars and sporting events, the bored do little.
*(Who I bring up for obvious reasons.)

If you are bored, it is because you are boring, your personality is bland. End of story. Don't try and claim that nothing is happening and this is the root of your ennui. You are bored because you are plain like Swedish furniture of the inside. People with rich inner lives are not bored often, and when they are they have the common courtesy to not bring it up.

I propose we build a time machine and send the bored off to some old communist regimes. So you don't like broadening your horizons by learning new things, eh? Well meet your new best friend Pol Pot, I think you'll get along just fine so long as you don't mind wallowing in a bit of mud. Can't have a quiet evening alone reading at home, can you? Yeah, his buddy Mao dislikes books as well (with one exception, that is.) Never mind the smell, that's just burning carcasses and human excrement. Think expressing yourself is "gay"? Good news, so does Stalin and he'll make sure all those "faggy" artists that do not glorify the Soviet Union get what's coming to them. Still feeling bored? Work harder, Ho Chi Minh is getting damn bored as well - but he's sure that a kick in the gut and a face plant in the mud will liven things up again.

Oh shit, a German tank just blew through the wall of your factory; I hope you aren’t still bored? A few rounds from an MG 34 ripping through your torso will get those doldrums out of your system right away.

-Trevor

PS: I hope you didn't find this too dull, darlin'.

A Natalie Grace Mystery: The Trap Door in the McDonald's

2007-05-30T17:48:00.000-07:00

13-year-old Natalie Grace, professional rabble-rouser and amateur gumshoe, stamped her foot and pouted in defiance.

"I am not going in that icky playpen" said Natalie, "it's so gross, and I'm way too old now."

"Honey, I need you to go in there to watch Hannah," her mother replied, "she wants to play, and I don't want her wandering off or getting kidnapped."

"M-o-m! Why can't you do it?" Asked the precocious Natalie Grace.

"Mommy is busy right now, sweetie" said her mother, who did not looked up from her laptop.

Natalie stamped her foot again, and folded her arms tightly. Her brow furrowed and her mouth twisted into a nasty frown. After a moment passed in silence - save her mother's key tapping - she let out an angry blast of air from her nose as though she were an enraged bull. Hannah, with the blank look of an innocent caught in the crossfire, tugged on her mother's pant leg.

"Natalie H Grace, you get in that playpen with your sister right now, or you won't like what happens next!" Said her mother.

"We're both going eaten by a CANNIBAL, and then you'll be sorry!" Natalie whined.

***********

The playpen was a greasy affair, with that signature mystery smell common to all such places that seems familiar but can't be placed.

Natalie Grace sat in a corner with her arms around her knees and slipped into a fantasy where her real parents - whom she was certain were actually famous pop singers from France - arrived at the McDonald's to take her away. As these imaginary parents dragged her out of the eatery to a glamorous future, her current (impostor) mother broke down in tears and begged for forgiveness.

Natalie realized that the thought of having pop star parents was nowhere near as satisfying as having her mom feel badly, so she ditched the pop star story and came up with some new scenarios. One involved her becoming rich and not giving anything to her mother, who had to move to a trailer park and buy generic cereal. In another, she contracted a terrible disease inside the play area, to which her mother sobbingly confessed her responsibility. Natalie, in this hypothetically scenario, spat "I don't forgive you" with her dying breath, to her mother's banshee wail of sorrow and regret.

***********

Meanwhile, Hannah Grace was busy burrowing through a pit of plastic balls. Diving deep into uncharted territories unknown to adult, she explored the fantastic floor of the plastic ocean. As she surveyed the sticky topography of the ball sea, she found a latch. With some investigation, Hannah saw that she had found a hidden trap door. After fidgeting with it for some time, it popped open with a snap.

Hannah heard some rustling coming from the dark room below, then a confused growl. Suddenly, she was looking at the fearsome face of a strange man. He had dreadlocks and an unruly beard, both crawling with lice, and eyes that were black and blood-shot. His nose was broken and pierced with what looked like a human bone, and he had a necklace made of what looked like ribs. He let out an evil belly-laugh, exposing his crooked yellowed teeth. The stench of his breath was unbearable.

Hannah screamed and leapt back. With a roar the strange man clambered up from the secret room and trudged through the ball pit after her.

"Ah was just thinkin' ah could go for wee snack!" The man muttered in a heavy Scottish accent.

The man grabbed Hannah by the leg and dragged her back toward his lair. He was climbing down the hole when he was clobbered across the back of the head. Dazed, he turned around to see Natalie Grace, swinging a heavy "Dora the Explorer" backpack above her head. The cannibal Scot let go of the still-squirming Hannah's leg to take a swing at his attacker. Natalie deftly dodged his punch and let loose another devastating blow from her trusty backpack. The man swayed woozily, and then fell down the hole with a crash.

***********

"Take 'em away, boys," said Constable Greywhisker to the policemen who were handcuffing the cannibal and restaurant manager. He turned to Natalie Grace.

"Miss Grace, I don't how, but sure as the sweat on the brow of an Okie you've done it again! Tell me one more time how you figured this one out."

"Simple deduction, my dear Constable." Said Natalie, who was puffing on a bubble pipe. "750 thousand children go missing every year in the USA, where there are 13 thousand McDonald's restaurants. What do you think is happening to these kids? Every year the number of missing children goes up, as does the number of McDonald’s restaurants across the nation. "

"Ah, but how did you deduct that McDonald's was the culprit, and not another expansive franchise such as Starbucks or Ikea?" Asked Greywhisker.

"Well, originally I wasn't sure who was behind it." Explained Natalie, "Then I realized that McDonald's is the only chain in America owned and operated by the filthy Scottish. Now, everyone knows about the Scots and their insatiable hunger for human flesh, particularly the tender meat of the young. However, no one had ever thought of this as an explanation for the vast number of yearly child disappearances. The idea that every McDonald's in the nation has a secret room housing a single Scot cannibal came to me a a flash of sudden synthesis. If you do the math you'll find out that they are each eating just slightly above one child every week, on average- just enough to satisfy the appetite of those contemptible Scots. I took a look at the placement of McDonald’s restaurants nation-wide and compared it to the centers where the most children have gone missing, which confirmed my suspicions."

"So then you marched down here and exposed the underground child-eating scam personally." Marveled the Constable, "Incredible!"

"That's not what happened at all!" Natalie's mother exclaimed, "I practically had to force her into that playpen. And it was her little sister Hannah that opened the trap door."

"Outrageous!" Cried Constable Greywhisker, "How a ridiculous liar of such low worth as you managed to produce the exemplary Natalie Grace, I'll never know."

"Mom, I did too know about the murdering Scottish cannibals," whined Natalie, "you're embarrassing me in front of the Constable!"

Just then the Constable's phone rang.

"Mr. President?" ----- "Oh?" ------ "Why yes, she's right here."

Greywisker's moustache twitched in giddy anticipation as he handed the phone to Natalie.

"This is a great day for justice and freedom, Natalie Grace, and we have you to thank!" The President said, "We're going to send you and your entire family on an all-expenses-paid trip to the moon as an award for your service to this fair nation."

"Oh, thank you Mr. President." said Natalie, "Only, is it okay if I leave my mom back on earth and take the Constable instead?"

Natalie's mom was very sorry.

You and Your Cronies

2007-05-10T13:39:00.000-07:00

The mob is the mother of Tyrants ~ Diogenes (or so the internet claims)

A dramatic re-telling of the battle of the true champion versus the pretender to the throne of excellence, as told by Trevor Record.

The valiant Sir Trevor Record of Burnaby, knight-errant of good taste and virtue, boldly strode through the vast misty bog of the Internets on his fierce black stallion. Where he trod holy fires spewed forth from the ground, and cowards and knaves alike fled as he approached. The very air, digital though it was, quivered with the magnificence of his presence. As I recall, there were also fireworks when he smiled and thunderstorms when he frowned. Through the hazy fog of the marsh he spied the shimmering phantom of St. Evans the Wise.

"Who goes there?" boomed the mighty Sir Trevor.

"It is I, the heavenly Evans of Pennsylvania, chooser of quality." The revered saint called out through the mists, "I have come to send you on a quest most urgent, oh worthy knight."

"Speak quickly then, specter!" Sir Trevor demanded, "and I shall determine if your task has any merit."

"Brave Sir Trevor, a great evil has tricked a great number of peons into electing her as their 'champion'. She has spread sordid lies about women who transform into wolves to appeal to the vulgar values of the naive commoner. This villain goes by the name Jaye Wells, and I would have you vanquish her."

"What nonsense!" cried the noble Sir Trevor, "A champion is not chosen by the people, a people are chosen by a champion."

"If she is not dealt with, people might choose for themselves what they think is good. She must be stopped, lest the glory those chosen for greatness be questioned." continued the phantom, "Seek out this menace to the east and stop her at any cost. Take this mighty quill and write up an untimely demise for the scoundrel Wells!"

A pale arm emerged from the swamp holding a priceless writing quill made from a feather of the legendary Thunderbird (which was extra rare ever since most of its furniture stores had closed down in the early 90s and it had taken to drinking). The noble Sir Trevor plucked the terrible pen from this mysterious rotting arm - the owner of which cried out "hey, give that back" in surprise - and held it aloft. He shouted to the heavens, or possibly the Ghost of Jason Evans and the zombie whose rotting detached hand was still gripping the pen:

"With this most divine of writing utensils, I scrawl thine doom in blood across the tattered pages of fate, Jaye Wells!"

**************

Intrepid Sir Trevor Record of Burnaby journeyed onward toward the den of Jaye Wells, imprisoner of the human spirit. As the sun began to set he came upon a fork in the path through the bog, where stood a burly, hairy man on a white steed. As he approached, the man called out:

"I am Sean, Duke of Ferrell. I have heard of your quest and wish to join you, brother. The road ahead is perilous and the demon Wells is as crafty as it is villainous. You will find my abilities second only to your own."

"I need no assistance in dealing with this menace, good sir." replied noble Record, "But if you could point out which path I should follow in my journey, I would be in much your debt."

"Ah, friend, I can do more than this for you." the hairy Duke of Ferrell offered, "From here the path becomes a labyrinth, and it is easy to lose one's way. If you so wish, I can accompany you and show the path to Jaye Wells' den of debauchery."

"I shall not attempt to stop you. It is a land of freedom, or so it shall be as long as power rest in my hands rather than the scaly talons of Jaye Wells."

And so Sean the suspiciously fur-covered led Sir Trevor the pleasant-looking through a winding, overgrown path. And just as the sun finished setting, they found themselves at the mouth of a massive cave. Strewn about the ground were the bones of innumerable animals and humans that looked as though they had been chewed upon by a dog.

"The way to the blasphemous Wells is through this cave, Sir Trevor." growled Sean, Duke of Ferrell, who had a string of drool hanging from his gaping mouth, "You can take the lead, good knight."

"What manner of treachery is this?" said valorous Sir Trevor Record, who was also several other good things that basically mean 'brave' I can not think of at the moment, "Clearly you think me a fool. Did you think I hadn't noticed you sprouted a canine's tail and ears as soon as the full moon showed itself?"

Sean, who had by this point almost finished transforming into a werewolf, fell off his steed and clawed at it as it fled, whinnying. He turned to the courageous (oh, that is a good one, see - I'm not out of bravery synonyms) Sir Trevor, let out a howl, and leapt. But peerless Sir Trevor, who was already one step ahead, pulled his mighty quill from its sheath and held it out towards Sean. The lycanthrope Sean bounced off Sir Trevor's gauntleted quill hand and fell to the ground, his attack impotent.

"Arrggg! A magic feather pen!" snarled Sean, "How did you know my only vulnerability?"

Mighty Sir Trevor said nothing as he strode to the cowering traitor Sean and began to write him out of the story. He started with the legs and arms, so that the werewolf might watch as his character disappeared from the narrative. Even though he is a champion of good and valour, Sir Trevor has a sick sense of humor and a twisted idea of what justice means.

"If I could have one last wish," cried the wolf man Sean just as his mouth was being edited out of existence, "it would be that I was invulnerable to supernatural quills!"

***************

"Bring me more blood," screamed the tyrant Jaye Wells from atop a throne of skulls, "I must quench my unholy thirst for the life force of innocents."

"I beg of you, please reconsider comrade Wells," pleaded her groveling servant, "the only innocent we have left in the castle is my precious daughter. "

"You don't say," cackled Wells, the dictator of the proletariat, "bring her to me, I like my blood --"

But before Wells could finish, she heard a loud crash from the entrance of her castle of terror, which was in the process of renovations. Since it was a time share, the previous month it had been a princess dream castle and was still hot pink in some rooms.

"Drooling College Pro morons, what have they done now?" Grumbled Wells, "Guards, bring me the heads of those inbred baboons at once!"

Her guards, decked in leather straps and rubber gags, rushed down the staircase to the entrance. She heard several loud clattering noises, and shouting. Her guards ran back up the stairs along with the College Pro workers, screaming and crying like children. There was trouble, it was written on their faces. "Jaye Wells, you are in trouble", had been written on across their foreheads in what she could only hope was red ink.

"What the hell is the meaning of this?" Jaye screamed at her whimpering guards and minimum-wage paid college morons.

But before they could answer, she noticed Sir Trevor Record ascended the stairs and was posing dramatically in his saddle (he had refused to dismount despite the protest of the College Pro painters just moments before). Creepy organ music played and an extreme close-up of both Jaye and Sir Trevor's scowling faces was shown. Lightning struck and thunder roared through the halls of the dream castle of terror. I think there may have been a brief commercial break at this point.

"Y-you!" said a visibly terrified Jaye Wells, "I-I thought that werewolf I sent out would have finished you off."

"Don't you know I'm more than a match for ridiculous supernatural beings, fiend?" Sir Trevor laughed, "I shall best you in a duel of wits, scoundrel, and restore my place as the unchallenged champion and hero of this land."

"Hero?" Ask Jaye as she drew a pathetic chicken feather quill from its sheath, "Actually, you're kind of a jerk, that's why they all voted me in as their champion. Even though I'm a black-hearted vampire, they would rather have me than you. My stories are way more accessible, and I don't spend two weeks singing praises for myself after a relatively minor amount of recognition."

"I've had just about enough of your godless communist egalitarian foolishness of encouraging people to choose what is good democratically!" said Sir Trevor, "Good writing is the sort of thing that should be forced down the commoner's throat involuntarily. It should make them feel ashamed for their terrible taste in literature. Why, if we allowed the unwashed masses to choose what was good without responding with a condescending sneer, who knows the absurd consequences we might face. The books we demand they recognize as "good" would sit dusty on shelves, our nation's hedonistic homosexuals and upper-class alcoholics would be out of work. Women and men would be named national treasures for writing nonsense tales of secret society conspiracy theories or boarding schools for devil worshipers!"

With that Sir Trevor jumped from the saddle of his horse, which he had ridden into the castle for this reason alone, and struck down Jaye Wells with a powerful string of cursive from his pen.

"Do your worst," said Wells, wounded by the brutal onslaught of prose, "you can finish me off, but in my place another will come. And then another!"

"What insolence!" said Sir Trevor, “Do you think me a quitter? Do you doubt that I will hesitate to hunt down each and every writer that comes after you to put them in their place? Do you really think that I have anything better to do?"

And with that he lifted his quill above his head to let out one final, deadly sting of expletives and imagery. But just as his pen came down, the daughter of Jaye Wells' slave leapt out to intercept the blow.

"No! What Have I done?" cried Sir Trevor.

"*hack*...Mommy..." Coughed the little girl, "Why do I *hack-hack* taste pulp? This pulp... It tastes a bit *hack-shameless-hack* stale."

"Pulp? Stale???" Asked Sir Trevor, "What are you trying to say, little girl? And what do you mean by 'hack', are you coughing or trying to make fun of me?"

"Well, your stories do tend to be a bit much, Sir Trevor." Said Jaye Wells, enemy of mankind's eternal soul, "And I don't know if I would call them good or original so much as just really, really weird."

Sir Trevor, gallant knight-errant and generally great all-around guy considered this for a moment.

"In the interest of tolerance," He finally said after an awkward extended silence, "And in memory of this little bitc- er- darling little girl who I accidentally felled with the awesome might of my majestic penmanship, I propose a cease-fire. But only under the condition that you stop tormenting the innocent and draining the life source of the meek and poor."

"Agreed, but under the condition that you stop writing about yourself in the third-person" offered Wells, crusher of adorable puppies and kittens.

I accepted her counter-offer. Then I apologized for riding a horse into her timeshare castle, since it had by this point defecated on her Persian rug. Which was already stained with the blood of countless infants and priests, I might add. After another uncomfortable silence I excused myself, muttering under my breath. Ah, yes, muttering good things about our new friendship, of course.

Kiss Ass While You Bitch so You can Get Rich, but Your Boss Gets Richer than You.

2007-05-01T20:45:00.000-07:00

I was surprised to find out that I had won the "Endless Hour" contest I entered last week, whose results were announced on Sunday. It was a shock to everyone else as well, no doubt. A young man emerging from the depths of the internet unknown on a dark horse, flames spewing from the ground where he has tread, to wrestle victory from the clawed hands of... er, not winning. I would like to thank the following: Jason for holding the contest, Scott for telling me about the contest, and all of the people with finer tastes that liked my story. The people who didn't like my story, like my parents and brother (they didn't say so but I could tell, the jerks), I would not like to thank.

My winnings, a $25 gift certificate to Amazon, have already been spent on comic books and genre novels. But I have earned far more than that this week. I have also gained a villainous rival, heart black as the dead of night with a soul to match. You see, it turns out there were two "winners" to this contest. The first was the story carefully picked for its true artistry and finesse by the divine powers that be high above. In other words, my story. The second was the story voted in carelessly as "best" by the great mass of the unwashed in all their absurdity (well, the people participating in the contest). Appealing to the baser common man, with his eternal thirst for fanciful tales involving werewolves, one Jaye Wells came out with the story that won the despicable "Reader's Choice" award.

Two such opposite prize winners can not occupy the same internet at once. There is no way for us to avoid the conflict we are headed for. It is our duty, nay, it is the mandate of fate herself that we clash on the planes of the internet.

I have already made my rivalry with this "people's champion" known in a more private setting, but consider this an official declaration of war. I make this proclamation because I will not allow this writer, no doubt published in communist hate magazines and reader's digests around the world already, to wage her war against me in secret. Know that if they find me dead in my home with a poison-drenched stiletto protruding from my back, it was the cruel hand of J. Wells that felled me.

Do you hear me, knave? Engarde, I say!

My second is my sharp tongue and irreverent wit.

Stay in Bed, Float Upstream

2007-04-24T18:24:00.000-07:00

At Scott's suggestion, I sent a story into a writing contest today. ***EDIT: You can find the story here**** A man named Jason posted a picture, and people write stories based on it. This is the picture:

I have never written competitively before, so naturally I buffed up on some steroids to get myself in fighting shape (mainlined, pills are for pussies). Following that I did jumping jacks and screamed at myself in the mirror. I was at work at the time so I caused quite a scene, let's hope that it was worth it. Actually, I don't even care if I win, I just wanted and excuse to yell and shoot up at work.

Anyhow, I don't think the fellow who puts on this competition has put up my story, or if he will (edit: he has now, see above), so here is what I entered:

**************************

The world came to an end overnight.

Rivers stopped running, high force winds abated, ice melted, and tropical vacation spots became lukewarm. The heart of the world had ceased beating.

But it wasn’t the end of life, or even of humanity; everything just stopped. In the morning, those who bothered waking decided that there was no need to go to work. There was no news coverage of the end because there was no news: All of the news anchors and camera operators failed to show up.

Some technicians momentarily worried, in a half-hearted manner, that without maintenance the nuclear weapons would explode. They soon came to the conclusion that some one else would deal with it, and shuffled lazily back into bed. It turned out that formerly unstable atoms had become too lethargic to be bothered with splitting or decaying.

People no longer played card games or basketball, they only thought about the days when they used to. Dust gathered, but not cobwebs: The spiders had taken to sleeping in and did not care for catching flies or building web. There was no more hunger, there was no more sex, there was no more killing. Dirty plates sat by kitchen sinks, untouched and unused. War became like a distant nightmare, and love faded away with the dying hum of electricity.

The world did not end in blood or fire or drowning. It became very tired, and settled down to slumber forever.

There are no Pan-Asian Supermakets Down in Hell, So you can't Buy Golden Boy Peanuts.

2007-04-19T22:53:00.000-07:00

At times I feel like an old person, perpetually swapping one ailment for another. Although my eye twitch has gone away for good, the roof of my mouth is now in terrible pain. The pain is exactly the same as the kind I used to get after eating certain breakfast cereals as a child. You know what I am talking about, the mouth pain that make it impossible to eat anything harder than a fried egg after your cereal. It must speak volumes of our childhood selves' lust for sugar that we would eat these cereals knowing that they would cut up the roofs of our mouths. The main offenders, as I remember it, were Fruity Pebbles and Cap'n Crunch. Potato chips and peanuts, although not cereal, were just as bad at times.

Did I eat something like this recently? I don't think it was potato chips because I am intellectually superior to such greasy banality. Comparing a potato chip eater to me is like comparing a wrestling enthusiast to a polo devotee; while the pursuits share the same spirit they can hardly be compared on the same level. I choose to dip the whole potato in room temperature oil and eat it raw as nature intended, rather than thoughtlessly stuff those abominations to the proud potato tradition we call chips into my mouth one after another. Therefore, I do not believe the damaged roof of my mouth traces its roots back to potato chips.

Fruity Pebbles, and its straight-laced cousin Cocoa pebbles, also couldn't be the culprits. This old Flintstones-themed breakfast cereal, whose cartoon commercials and "fruity" name vaguely hinted at Barney and Fred's off-screen homosexual antics, was taken off the market after Post caved into the demands of furious Christian fundamentalist groups. Those bible-thumpers were sick and tired of having their children corrupted... By having the roofs of their mouths all cut up.

And I have never as an adult purchased a box of Cap'n Crunch breakfast cereal, even in my weakest moments. Not even the insidious crunch berries can entice me. I refuse to give in to that fascist Cap'n, with his wooden boat that has no place in a modern navy and his lewd eyebrows. Finally, it could not have been peanuts. Peanuts are food for elephants, and I never forget what terrible heartache has been inflicted upon my family by elephants. Peanuts taste like ash on my tongue. Also, I heard they were actually really smart, so it seems cruel to eat them.

I have to face facts. The pain of my mouth was caused by no food I ate, removing the possibility of healing it any time soon by cutting back on the crunchberries. Rather, this pain stems directly from the cruel clawed foot of the universe's internal balancing system. I'm not about to plead innocent, for I am certain that I have done something to deserve this. Yes, Karma has finally caught up to me and is set on making sure I suffer for the rest of my life for my numerous sins. Well then, the die is cast... I have no other recourse but to track this Karma down and snap its wretched neck. It's the only way I can end this pain that I can think of.

Karma, I have been informed, is a bitch. What breed of bitch I am not entirely sure, but I imagine an utterly adorable bright-eyed beagle that is wearing a spiked collar. She could just as easily be a pug or something like that, but I like to think that the universe is slightly above putting a trendy novelty dog on its payroll (sorry to you pug owners out there). What is certain is that she is employed by the forces of the cosmos to make sure that everything which has gone around is expedient in coming around. Some people do not like Karma, but I understand that she probably has puppies to feed, and a job is a job. But just as I know that she has attacked the roof of my mouth for a purely impersonal reason, I will snap her adorable beagle neck without hate.

How Karma snuck into my house I will never know for certain. I suspect she stole my keys and had the copied without my knowing. Under the cover of night she entered my apartment, snuck over to my bed, leapt up without rousing me from me sleep, and stuck a filthy paw in my gaping mouth as I snored, scratching up the roof mercilessly. Or perhaps - and this is even worse - she spooned crunchberries into my mouth as I slumbered, then forced my jaw unwilling to chew them. The depths of depravity Karma is willing to plumb to keep her puppies full of kibbles 'n bits are unfathomable.

This can not be allowed to continue. I am going to build a mannequin that looks exactly like I do, complete with lifelike mouth. I will place it in my bed, and play a loop recording of sleeping sounds. I will wait in the closet, wearing my finest neck-snapping gloves, for Karma to reveal herself. And when she does I shall leap from the closet and exact my spine-snapping revenge.

As a bonus, I will get to make out with the mannequin of myself afterwards. Things like that got Karma on my case to begin with, but with her out of the way I can proceed without fear of retribution.

There's Nothing You Can Sing That Can't be Sung.

2007-04-11T15:25:00.000-07:00

Do not consider me some sort of progress-hating caveman. I'm as grateful as a fat guy with a pity-date on prom night for all the comforts and titillations that science and rational thought have made possible. Words cannot express the elation one feels to wake in a spacious, temperature controlled apartment rather than a hut made out of dried mud and sticks. And we can all sigh with relief that the looming specter of death or blindness at age 33 due to syphilis has been long vanquished by the strong sword-arm of modern medicine.

But there are things that no amount of rationality can ever explain, no progress can improve upon, and no technology can replicate. To attempt such things is nothing short of criminal.

Beautiful girls with long black hair and smiles that make your mind stop functioning are the work of arcane sorcery and nothing else. No amount of rational investigation is ever going to explain the feeling that there are thin silver threads fused to the most vulnerable parts of your soul that start tugging softly whenever this girl is near. No matter how aloof or detached you may be, this woman's witchcraft can jerk these strings suddenly bringing you crashing to the ground, and that is something that can not be reproduced artificially in a R&D laboratory.

And there is a very good reason that women with long black hair and smiles like atomic bombs can not be understood, improved upon, or replicated. There are some things that are so special, some magic that we need so badly, that to allow them to be diminished by some asshole in a tweed jacket would make life less worth living. A lead pipe to the gut will quickly convince any of these sorts that overstep their bounds.

So, we have a very clear idea of where the line is drawn between the world that is under the scrutiny of empirical thought and the world that is held under the sway of faeries, black magic, and the cruel whim of sleek enchantresses. On one side of the line stands rationality, and on the other a man with a lead pipe in his hand and a watchful glare in his eye.

(Behind him there is a girl with shimmering black hair and a magnificent smile, but she doesn't really seem to notice his presence.)

Shave Your Head, Have a Drink, and be Left Alone.

2007-04-05T19:32:00.000-07:00

The persistent twitch in my left eye had to be stopped somehow. That kind of thing is caused by too much caffeine, or so I had heard, but cutting back on stimulants wasn't an option. Inspired in part by old surrealist cinema, I took out a razor for a different sort of cutting.

The pain, blood, and scarring was worth it, I figured, if I could put an end to the unbearable eye-twitching. Using the bathroom mirror to guide me, I pierced the delicate skin as carefully as I could. The incision ran along the bottom of the lower eyelid, starting at the side by the nose and stopping in the middle, forming a flap of sorts. I peeled it back slowly, afraid of what I might find.

Just slightly below the area where the two eyelids meet was a little creature, all curled up in overlapping layers. It was a pale-white, wormish thing with little spines all along its body and beady red eyes. The thing had several long prehensile appendages of sorts, like the tiny white roots of a small plant but slightly thicker. One of the was grasping what looked like a miniature walking stick, gnarled and knobby as the sort one would imagine a venerable old man living by the seaside having. The rest of these appendages, devoid of any obvious joints, clung to my exposed eyeball.

My blood ran cold and for a moment I considered attempting to stitch the incision and forget that this had happened at all, like a bad dream fading away in the early hours of the morning. But, terrible as the moment I realized years ago as a child that one day I would die and there was nothing that I could do about it, the fact that this was something real that I couldn't reverse or forget dawned on me. With a trembling hand and a horrible clench in the pit of my stomach I slowly reached out to pluck the little worm from my eye.

This wasn't as easy as I thought it would be; the thing had a fairly good grasp, and it took a bit of a struggle to take the creature out. As I finally forced it out, it bit my index finger - for the first time I realized it had a mouth lined with spiny teeth much like the spines all along its body. Shocked, I dropped the tiny abomination, which slithered to an upright position on the bathroom counter. Now out of the eye and fully standing, I saw that it was much larger - or taller, anyway - than I had originally realized.

The thing's movements were a parody of natural life, it looked like it was moving in stop-time and made out of clay. Adrenaline pumped through my body, forcing the cowardly civilized man to the back of my mind and making the scene seem as though I was watching from a foot or two above myself in a surreal movie not unlike the one that had inspired me to self-surgery . I grabbed the razor to finish off the detestable monster. But just as I went in for the kill the little worm spoke to me.

"Mn-hckt, please don't", sputtered the small spiny creature, "don't -ss-hnk- kill me!"

The beady-eyed worm never blinked. It spoke in a voice that was marked with frequent squeaking while at the same time remaining surprisingly deep, and marred by frequent gurgling and a hissy-clicking sound. I stared at it, unable to speak, or look away, or even process what was really happening in front of me. The worm that had just pleaded for its life was more difficult to comprehend than find the worm living next to my eye.

“Nhk... I came in a, -nm-ss-kh-, cup of coffee -hckt- that you drank," It gurgled in its halting manner, "I didn't mean to -hnkss-mng- bother you -thssnk... I just wanted to -nnk- stay and look at all the -thss- things that you get to -mnhk... look at."

Its appearance was odious and as such I did not feel the slightest bit of mercy for it. But it seemed as though I should say something, like when a stranger on an elevator begins talking to you and goes on for a lot longer than 'nice weather we are having'.

"Ah, um, yes I see," I stammered, "but you, er, certainly did not ask to live next to my, ah, eye. Ah-and the twitching that you caused did drive me to self-mutilation. And you bit me... I have every right to kill you!"

The hideous creature affected an odd pose, like it meant to look as though it was stooping and pleading. I became vaguely aware that my left eye was still exposed, in pain, and a trickle of fluid - blood or otherwise - was just above the curvature of my lip and going down towards my mouth.

"Are -knnhnksstt... you so sure that -hnnkk, you would be justified to do this?" Asked the repellant creature, "Am I ...gnn... occupying an, mn-hckt, ethical vacuum to you? -Ss-hnk- Surely you respect a being with -snnkk- sentience and the capacity -hnmhmk- to suffer?"

"Ridiculous!" I exclaimed, only vaguely aware that I was yelling at a talking worm, "What of my suffering? For the last fucking month you have caused my eye to twitch at all hours, leading me to such heights of anxiety that I would go at my own eyelid with a fucking razor? You are a spiny worm; you have no moral value, only people have any value."

"Nm-ss-kh- I am sorry that I -ss-hnk- caused you to suffer," the squeaky little thing said, "but isn't -knnhnksstt... what makes another -hnk- human something to respect -thss- more than genetics?"

"Sure there is, it's called reciprocity!" I bellowed, "A human would be held accountable, and make reparations for an entire month of insufferable eye twitching!"

"If that is gnn... what it comes to", the tiny spiny thing replied, "I will -ss-hnk- grant you one wish, any thing -mnhk... you should desire, in exchange -hckt- for my life and -thssnk... liberty."

I felt as removed from the reality of the situation, which was that I was debating ethics with a talking worm that I had plucked from my eye. Add this to the fact that if there is any case where a magical wish could be granted, this was it. So, I accepted. I brought the little worm out to the supermarket and let it free in the coffee aisle in exchange for a wish that it said would come true in three days.

The sutures on my lid are more irritating than the twitch was. Once they are gone the scar will be there forever. And the wish didn't come true either (I’m too embarrassed to admit what it was). Also, I am suffering from sleep deprivation due to terrible nightmares involving spiny, malicious worms.

Still, the twitch is gone, and I don't drink coffee any more.

I feel so broke up, I wanna go home

2007-04-03T17:00:00.000-07:00

Every now and then, the unthinkable happens… Something comes along that even I can not form an opinion on. Yesterday, I saw such a thing. Perhaps words can not even do it justice. What was it, you ask?

It was an old man wearing a bright blue wind breaker with the words "surf master" in what can only be described as "tidal" lettering. It was a little like seeing an old woman performing rap (or Sonic Youth), only much subtler... To the point where I didn't know what to think.

Check and mate, old man.

I suppose that, being an old man, you are not aware that the time to wear bright blue jackets proclaiming your prowess at surfing came and went. But that isn't entirely true, because there are young people that have taken to wearing jackets much like yours to be cool now, even though their kind of cool in not the kind that this jacket was going for. And even that kind of cool is starting to be not-so cool any more. Did you want in on the fun? Or have you owned this windbreaker since the 80s?

Maybe you are proclaiming yourself to be the master of surfing in the most honest and heartfelt manner imaginable. Perhaps there was a time when you were lord and lover of coasts from Orange County to Australia. Even in your frail state, nothing can diminish your former glory. Not even the confusion surrounding the nature of your bright blue windbreaker can take away your adventures long-past along the shores of California from you.

In your honor, old man, I have written a Pantoum. Well, I actually need to write a Pantoum for my poetry class. Please do not be upset if it is a bad Pantoum, old man, because I have never written one before. A Pantoum is a poem where the second and fourth line of a quatrain are re-used as the first and third of the following quatrain. Yes, it seems sort of silly to me as well.

Pantoum to the Elderly Gentleman who was also the Surf Master.

Old man wearing a bright blue windbreaker
"Surf Master" emblazoned across your back
in a surf-inspired font.
What am I to think of you?

Surf master emblazoned across your back,
maybe you mean it and maybe you don't.
What am I to think of you,
the old man claims he is the master of surfing?

Maybe you mean it too and maybe you don't,
and who am I to disagree with
the old man claims he is the master of surfing?
He could have been a champion at some point.

And who am I to disagree with
a man who is lord and lover of the ocean waves.
He could have been a champion at some point,
this king and conqueror of the sea.

A man who is lord and lover of the ocean waves
in a surf-inspired font.
This king and conqueror of the sea:
Old man wearing a bright blue windbreaker.

I Have Seen Too Much, You Haven't Seen Enough.

2007-03-27T18:14:00.000-07:00

Why is it that thin, round-edged rectangles with glossy white paint are the ubiquitous vision of high technology today? Well, they don't have to be white, but there exists an array of insipidly non-offensive consumer electronics out that come in simple shapes and one color. Don't think I'm being some sort of loser that is still trying to make fun of the iPod for its popularity. I have nothing against widely-used computer gadgets. I won't lie to you; I even own several pieces of consumer electronics that are thin, rounded rectangles of only one color. But I own these things for their practical uses and hate myself for it, because doing so is sending the completely incorrect idea to the designers that I approve of their decision to make their product look as uninspired as possible.

I understand why this happened. It wasn't too long ago that "futuristic" meant a stream of blocky, neon-green ones and zeroes or symbols zooming towards you from a skewed angle. Perhaps there was an ominous face behind these characters, along with a vague caption about unimaginable terrors emerging from the depths of the digital landscape. And if you didn't know what those numbers and symbols all meant, then you were about to replaced by an anti-social 19-year-old that had somehow unlocked the mysteries of the indecipherable technological runes in his spare time, which he mostly spends listening to industrial music and masturbating to pictures of women in red bikinis (truly youth were barbarians in those days).

Seems like a long time ago, doesn't it? Now that nonsense about ones and zeroes is all but forgotten. That kind of future was meant to be impressive, to have infinite possibilities, to be a sort of technological revolution. But it had the unforeseen consequence of also being sort of intimidating. To make the futuristic accessible, and therefore easier to sell, we needed something as easy to understand as possible. So good old Mac went a little bit overboard, and came out with a white rectangle with four buttons and a wheel. Over time it proved a winning formula that other companies were quick to emulate, and 6 years later rectangles in one color paired up with insidiously simple user interfaces have become the norm.

This is the lamest "futuristic" aesthetic we have ever bought into. All they've done is sell us a cheap knock-off of what people thought the future was going look like in the 1960's. But they had to go and ruin it by stripping away all the cooler elements of the 60's future like red blinking lights that spoke in monotone murder, or acid-inspired montages of writhing naked women all painted in gold in front of melting colors. So what we're left with is a set of aesthetics and interface design so basic that it makes you feel like you're being talked down to. And instead of feeling insulted we have lapped it up. For a while I thought that this was a passing fad, but now I see that it probably has a lot more legs than I originally gave it credit for. The future is utterly lacking in any effort or attention to details whatsoever. The future is all about rectangles that have edges which are safe for children.

So what happened to the old versions of futuristic? Even transparent green and white plastic was cooler than this. It reminded people that they were using a piece of technology rather than simple-to-use magic. Now the best they can do is dimly glowing buttons. That's it? At least throw us some glowing blue and green-blue shapes that look like they are filled with goo or something. Glowing goo is considered "tacky" now.

I remember when "futuristic" meant sharp angles and ellipses cutting through the panels. It was like technology was a dangerous weapon that could hurt you if you weren't careful. That's a sexy future. My grandmother is afraid of and confused by that future, which is the way I like it. The more intimidating the better, I say. There was even a time when the future was iridescent green and surrounded by rusty-looking metal or matte black plastic with peeling silver paint, like it was potentially radioactive. Looking back on things like that, they seem sort of ugly, but maybe that was the point. At least they elicited some sort of emotional response. When I look at things that are supposed to be "cutting edge" technology now, I feel absolutely nothing. This is exactly why I have to speak out against them. Even utter repulsion is better than feeling nothing at all. It took me a very long time to even realize there was anything wrong with this new kind of "high tech" we have adobted, so unassuming it seems.

In the 80s there was a time when futuristic started to mean "high-end tech being used by lowlives". This was probably the coolest version of futuristic of them all. Stickers and spray paint graffiti all over partially grimy or peeling paint, video screens surrounded by metal paneling. And then all the squares had scary looking sleek black technology covered in vents. That is so badass, what a formidable technology to rebel against. What the hell happened to gas masks? What the hell happened to cooling towers and giant, visible heat syncs? I want my "futuristic" to look like the motorcycle from Akira, not some pathetic white cube.

If you need a futuristic that is less intimidating, something you can sell to the middle-class suburbanite, there are always options. We don't have to settle on solitary colors and simple shapes. I've already stated a preference for bladerunner aesthetics when it comes to all the previous "futuristic"s we have seen, but I can see how the flash-gordon style appeals to some. The future probably looked the slickest back when it was all covered in fins and aerodynamic lines, and complimented with chrome plating and neon lights. Now people consider this "kitschy" and associate it with a stifling era in which nuclear bombs and men with pipes ruled the land. Meanwhile, completely bland boxes are being hailed as a "cultural phenomenon" by a very easily impressed section of our culture. When they start keeping us in white cels, there are going to be people who will think that their new homes look cool. This is what high tech is supposed to be? I weep for our culture if this is the best we can do right now. The future looks like the systematic shearing away of all individuality.

More than a Feeling

2007-03-19T14:21:00.000-07:00

Is there such thing as a hardcore Boston fan? Is there any reason to listen to Boston other than that song "More Than a Feeling"? Is that even a really good reason?

A little over a week ago I felt a sudden urge to find out the answer to these questions. Something was pulling on my very essence, urging me to go out of my way to investigate this "Boston" group. This was a confusing feeling that I couldn't account for, so I wrote it off as simple curiosity. I knew that, at least in terms of record sales, they were a very popular group. But I couldn't say that I had ever really listened to them. Other than the dim recollection of a handful of their hits, they were practically a musical blank spot in my mind. I assumed that it was a simple desire to expand my understanding of our culture which drove me to devote an hour of my valuable time to listening to a Boston greatest hits record.

But the very next day, a metaphysical element of my inexplicable urge to listen to Boston surfaced. Apparently, the very day that I had decided that I needed to try out this arena rock staple, the singer (Brad Delp) had killed himself. I hadn't known this at the time, because the news hadn't been broken yet. It seems like too much of a coincidence. Of the nigh-on eight thousand days I have been alive, the one day that I spent any time at all listening to Boston was the when one of the members happened to shake off his mortal coils.

It seems evident that Delp's ghost somehow reached out to me. But the only question is, why? Had this gentleman been driven to suicide by my neglect of his band, enduring untold torment through my musical dismissiveness? Was his last wish as a soul bound this planet was for Trevor Record to give his band a chance?

I am so cool spectral musicians scream out through the ether for me to enjoy their music.

Well, I'm sorry to say that my investigation of Boston confirmed what I had previously thought... Boston is not really the band for me. That's not to say that I find listening to them disagreeable. It's undeniably enjoyable on some level, like professional wrestling or drinking beer in the bath tub. It's just that, like Rey Mysterio, it isn't the sort of thing I care about enough to listen to every day... Or even every year. I'm just sorry a man had to waste his life to get me to listen to a band I can only say is comparable bathtime alcoholism. But maybe I just didn't give Boston enough of a chance. Perhaps by the time the rest of the band has given up their mortality I'll have been urged to listen to them enough times to be a fan.

My Heart Is a Furnace, Full of Love That's Just and Earnest

2007-03-09T15:48:00.000-08:00

Reality is the worst. There are certain aspects of it that I'd rather not think of. When I do they make me thoroughly upset. This morning I actually had a bit of an anxiety attack when I started thinking about things that are purportedly real. One moment I was considering what I should do after work.

"Dum-diddly-dum," I casually hummed to myself as I strolled down the street on my way to work, "Maybe I should actually go somewhere tonight."

Probably as a natural response to such a foolish idea, I felt a sudden shock.

"Wait a minute", I abruptly thought to myself, "My body is nothing more than complex colony of cells operating in tandem."

I can not say why this specifically came to my mind, but once it started it could not be stopped.

"These cells all act as tiny parts of a larger system that is critical to my continued existence!" I thought, starting to become frantic, "But all this existence amounts to is a writhing confederation of various cells that have banded together in order to consume other, weaker colonies of biological matter. And this all happens for no reason other than untold millions of years of unchecked mutations and cellular reproduction. These years of mutation allowed for the existence of systems that somehow work together, like the heart and lungs, to allow the rest of the teeming trillions of cells to continue their mindless existences."

This sort of thing is really hard for me to consider. That I have a circulatory system and so does everyone else, in particular, is really upsetting. Suddenly, I can't help but imagine all the bodies I pass by as though they were transparent; save for a mass of quivering arteries, veins, and a grotesque beating heart.

After finding myself sufficiently uncomfortable with the reality of a body, I start trying to fathom consciousness. How could it be that my motley squad of cells, invisible individually to the human eye (which is ironically a mass of several billion cells itself), could produce a unified mind? If this is the case, isn't it absurd what sorts of things this mind that speaks for the uncountable trillions devotes itself to. The accumulative will of a hundred trillion tiny life forms wants to do nothing more than watch a hockey game*. A hockey game is an alliance of several sacks of cells whom live geographically closest to your own sack of cells, and they use the dead pieces of former plant matter to hit a chemically created polymer disc into a net. This is what each of their teeming confederations of cells has decided to do, and each do so against the will of a partnership of a couple more squirming masses of proteins and enzymes.

*Well, not the mind of this moving pile of biological matter, but plenty of others.

Intangibles suddenly become absurd side-effects. Love? The combined need of a universe of cells to continue their protein strands! Human creativity? A random side-effect of nerves sparking in the brain. The soul and religion? Wishful thinking on the part of a teeming mass of living organisms fighting with every ounce of their being to put off death as long as possible.

The topic of consciousness eventually leads me to think of dreams. How is it that these cells are responsible for something that seems so disconnected from the body? Ridiculous dreams in which I am a actor in a play involving things that can't be in the life I lead while awake such as talking furniture (furious with me for whatever reason) or an ocean that is in the sky looking down on the world. And at the time, it seems realistic enough that I generally don't question it.

At this point I start to doubt reality. My thoughts are supposedly the byproduct of a relatively impermanent set of cells that have banded together in a futile attempt to prolong their unique strain of proteins. But the only thing that I am completely convinced of and the only thing constant when I am awake or asleep is that consciousness. How can I ever be assured that these cells exist as anything other than as a fanciful product of the mind? It seems just as likely that my consciousness - that one thing I am certain of - created the cells rather than the cells creating the thoughts.

So what I eventually have to settle on - as I have the countless other times I have gone down this line of thinking - is that reality, as convincing as it may seem, should be considered with the same degree of skepticism as an email from an Algerian man claiming he is the heir to a staggering sum of money. If taken entirely seriously, it has a tendency to imperil your day-to-day. All too easily you can start making claims that interactions between people are little more that shaking colonies of tiny life forms motivated to interaction through fear of death or desire for reproduction. Although such claims may very well be true, to say such things ironically decreases your chances for reproduction and desire to fight the inevitable death that hurdles towards you at breakneck speeds at all times. It's wiser to hold off judgment on such matters, and saves you the trouble of having major panic attacks if you're bothered by such ideas like I am.

(Also it allows for the possibility of things like love and an eternal soul, which are nice thoughts even if they are in all likelihood bullhonkey.)

But Don't Hate Her When She Gets Up To Leave.

2007-03-01T17:49:00.000-08:00

My dear friend, Ultimately Toasted Moshpit Guy, recently published a set of guides for romancing members of the opposite sex. Although I mean him no slight, I felt that the guides were incomplete. So here is my response guide: How to Make a Woman to Fall in Love with You.

I don't know and couldn't care to find out the ways to turn a man to love you, so this guide is only for how to win the adoration of women. The hearts of men are stony and mysterious, their inner workings shielded from outsiders. For me to vainly attempt to investigate them would require that I indulge in the love that dare not speak its name. Besides, it probably involves something twisted like reminding him of his mother. Why would anyone want such beings to love them?

To woo a woman is a different matter. They outwardly display their emotions like badges of honor which are prone to fluctuations influenced by the ebbing tides and phases of the moon. Such fluctuations can easily be charted. And as far as I can tell, the lady-like gender has only two emotional states: Bad and not-bad. When a strange woman is in the bad emotional state, do not go near her. If she happens to live in your house you should remain glued to a television set, book, or computer and respond to their emotionally booby-trapped* attempts to converse with you only with grunts or nods. They may respond in a negative manner to such treatment, but remember that to indulge them will only lead you to certain peril.
*I assure you that the inclusion of a colourful term for mammaries in the phrase "booby-traped" was in no way coincidental.

Wait until the tide has receded or the moon has waned should you attempt my technique. Yes, only when she is in the not-bad or (and I say this in only the most subjective manner imaginable) "good" state must you try to win the heart of the woman. If experience has taught me anything, it is that a love born from a heart in its darker state can lead only to tears and desperate emotional theatrics put on in the front yard at 3:00 in the morning for the entertainment of one's neighbors. Where was I? Right, the method to make women fall in love with you.

I hate to divulge the procedure to the likes of you, and do so only under the creeping suspicion that I am sterile and will never be granted offspring. The one guaranteed method to drive your target lady delirious in the throes of passionate love is to whisper secrets into her ear. Any secret will do, but not all secrets are created equal: The better and less-known the secret, the more she will yearn for you. This can be used on any woman, so long as she can hear and understand your hushed words of secrecy and romance. But don't just take my word for it, I'll tell you of some of my finer exploits.

One day I saw a beautiful Spanish woman standing in line at the checkout counter of the farmer's market.

"I will tell you a secret," I whispered from behind her, hand upon her elegant shoulder, "but you must promise to keep it between us, my babbling brook of joy."

And she tensed in preparation for the massive barrage of romantic bodily chemicals about to course through her veins, setting her loins afire.

"When I was a young lad of 7, I dreamed of growing up to be a famous puppeteer," I intoned so softly I could have lulled nearby cicadas to sleep, "This dream was crushed one day when I took my puppets to class and my school mates made fun of me for it. I put my puppets in a box at the back of the closet and never played with them again, or even spoke of them. A part of me died that day that never re-awakened. That is, until I came here in search of portabello mushrooms and discounted peaches and cream corn, only to find angel incarnate before me."

"Uh... w-what?" she stuttered, her love for me so great that coherent words could not escape her love-tied tounge.

I kissed her on the mouth, unrestrained. She went white; no doubt her blood was draining to her genitals, and she dropped her basket of fruits and vegetables. Dumbfounded for a moment, she suddenly spoke out, "W-Who do you think you are?"

But I was already on my way out, for my love is the powerful tide of the ocean and I feared that she would be sucked down to drown in its briny depths should I let her suffer it too long. The adoration for me that my technique brings to women is so strong that it sometimes seems like a curse. It becomes an impediment, so potent they become unable to act on their desire for me, and beg for me to leave. One day I saw a comely maiden riding the SkyTrain alone, and decided to approach her.

"The Church of Scientology," I said in a voice low and soothing as the purr of a sensuous cat, "is actually a front for a massive sea-based slavery racket. You see, there is a Scientologist fleet called Sea Org and once a member joins, they are forced into a billion-year contract of servitude. This is a reasonably well-known fact. But what no one knows but me and now you, dearest, is what task these slaves perform. You see, they are set to work daily, focusing all of the mental energy daily to their devotion to the second-rate science fiction author and cult leader, L. Ron Hubbard."

Her face twisted in confusion, no doubt at the sudden rush of emotions that beset her. "Excuse me, are you talking to some one else?" She asked.

"Even if the whole world save you and I were imprisoned, working day and night, to devote their hearts and souls to Mr. Hubbard", I whispered, eyes sparkling, "He would still be jealous of the love that I feel for you, my tender orchid, so vast and profound it would seem in comparison."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she asked, overcome by a terrifying desire for me.

"Why, it is only cupid's errant arrow," I cried, reaching to touch her shimmering auburn hair, "It has struck your heart and made me stand out amongst all others!"

"Get the hell away from me!" She screamed, overwhelmed.

And she ran from me, I suppose in fear of the intense pleasure she felt from being near my presence. I did not blame her, nor did I pursue her. Better for her to have loved in an intense flash and then never again, I though, than to be crushed by the weight of disappointment when I confessed that my heart could not go on devoted to only a single woman. For like the gentle breeze across your face on a warm July evening, my love is a gift to be treasured by the entire world.

And now that I have told you of this secretive means to love, I can sense that you too are weakened with an intense desire for me. But yearn not, for now that you have experienced total love for a man you can die alone, assured in your knowledge that at least you have known what true love is and did not delude yourself by settling for lesser romances.

Adieu,
-Trevor Record

Hang On to Your Ego

2007-02-21T17:44:00.000-08:00

It has long been our conceit that humans are by far the wisest, most well-read, and generally most enlightened beings on the planet, if not in the universe. Curious, I set out to verify the truth of this widely-held belief. I was surprised at my findings. O, the hubris of mankind! In truth we do not even rank in the top ten on this planet alone and I blanch just to think of our placement in the universe at large. Experts on the matter who choose to remain unnamed set me straight, and things do not look good for humanity.

I have been consoled that, at least, we possess one positive distinction. This distinction is, "bipedal ape most likely to bake a delicious berry pie". The concept of "delicious" is surprising less subjective in the universe than one would suspect. But on the great mental and spiritual ladder we rank just marginally above the canine, and this is a point that some of the pedantic cynics out there are willing to debate.

So, what species obtains first prize in the allegorical planetary enlightenment beauty pageant? If you guessed dolphin think again, you sunset-fucking hippy. The humble peanut takes home the prize.

Peanuts are as wise as they are delicious. The reason that this is such an uncommon piece of knowledge is simply that most people do not think to ever speak to a peanut. But this can hardly be considered the fault of the peanut; it is merely a product of the unobservant ear of man. Peanuts speak too slowly for impatient humans to engage in meaningful discourse with them, for they understand the profound truth that there is nowhere worth going that warrants hasty, poorly considered dialogue. In fact, they know that there is nowhere worth going at all, which is why they all live in the comforting embrace of the soil. "All living things end up back in the soil eventually", a peanut would tell you if you took the time to listen, "so why not beat death at his grim game and put yourself there?"

Yes, if you put aside your impatience and take the time to listen, much can be learned from the peanut. Imagine what a beetle could learn from a human if it took the time to ask about the basics of quantum uncertainty. Well, perhaps not a beetle. The average beetle is generally well versed in such matters and would bite any man or woman that picked him up for their impudence. The busy beetle does not have the spare time to listen humans to embarrass themselves by exposing their limited knowledge of the subject.

Many may question how the peanut could be considered superior to humanity if it is we that devour the clever legume and not the other way around. Such ignorance obviously does not hold up to the test of applied logic; if we consider this line of reasoning for ourselves we would have to consider viruses, bacteria, and ferocious tigers all superior to mankind for we are consumed regularly by all three. And as we all know, tigers are the backwater hicks of the animal kingdom.

Despite the untold trillions of peanuts that are devoured every year, the peanut nation is still as vast as it ever was, and in fact continues to expand. Now, if a similar slice of humanity were to be ripped from the loins of the earth and devoured by nincompoop giants, the species would become extinct within days. Further, we would in all likelihood mount an embarrassing attempt to defend ourselves, thus increasing the haste of our doom.

But the peanut accepts its fate gladly; comfortable in the knowledge that he lived a righteous life free of impurity. Peanuts could be described as being somewhat Buddhist, though they would quietly giggle if you were to tell them this. Buddhism could be more accurately described as Peanutism, if it weren't so demeaning to the actual practice of Peanutism. Not that a peanut would mind, but it would be terribly disrespectful of us. Peanuts frequently attain nirvana, which is why so frequently you crack open a peanut shell to find that one of the peanuts is missing. It has ascended to the highest happiness. And if instead it fails to attain this perfection and is eaten, it is comfortable in the knowledge that it will be reborn into the world again as another peanut, for its karma is still so good.

Nothing's Gonna Change My World

2007-02-09T17:38:00.000-08:00

Hello all,

You will be happy to know I am now nestled back in the cold, cloudy bosom of Vancouver. O, Japan! How I long to return to your climes, moderately more pleasant as they are.

Now suppose I should write about the trip. Hmm, where to start? I tried writing this out but it was taking too long. I am going to reduce my adventure to a series of short stories and comments. Damn, this is still going to take too long.

- People keep asking me about the trip to Japan, but I don't really know how to respond. It was good. You want to know what Japan is like? It is just like Canada or the USA, except all the stuff is different. All I can really talk about is the stuff I guess, because it seemed really similar otherwise (just a bit more crowded).

- My trip to Japan started on an aeroplane over the sea, as such adventures so often do. I made friends with the girl next to me, Megumi, and without her I would still be trying to make it past airport security. I would be using a lot of expressive hand gestures and talking really slowly, as though that would make them instantaneously learn English. After we got out of the airport I made arrangements to meet up with her again later when I went through Kyoto (we did about a week later), and then I was on my own in a foreign country.

- Watashi wa gajin-san desu...

- My first impression of Osaka and Japan was that the teenagers all look like damned idiots. They were all wearing silly clothes and strutting around like they were really cool. It was like seeing autistic people who dress themselves. But after careful meditation on this I realized that the teenagers in Canada all look like damned idiots too. Some things are universal, I suppose.

- People kept walking up to me and saying things, and all I could do is smile and shrug. I think that some of them were probably trying to get me to stop loitering around looking confused, but they didn't push the issue when they realized how ignorant to their language I am. A struggle against the pay phones of Japan resulted in the untimely loss hundreds of innocent yen (tragic, truly). In my desperate thirst was delighted to see what appeared to be ice cold lemonade available in the a vending machine only to find that it was actually scalding hot upon purchase (Japan has hot and cold drinks in vending machines, it turns out).

- Somehow I managed to get on a bus from Osaka to Hiroshima, despite my inability to actually converse with anyone. The driver felt sorry for me and gave me what I thought was some sort of bus token, but turned out to be 500 yen. This is about $5 CND.

- There are those that like to point out that Japanese people are shorter than us westerners. And it is true; I felt reasonably tall in Japan even though I am a modest 5'11. But I wouldn't consider this to be very significant when compared to how much taller the western world is when you take a look at the horizontal sizing. I generally consider myself a fairly slim guy, but I had packed on a few winter pounds over the last few months and in Japan I was not feeling very skinny. When I got back to Vancouver and walked through the supermarket, I felt like I was really back at home

- Akiko picked me up in Hiroshima with her brother Kazu on December 31st. I had New Years dinner at their house. Her mom had to make special vegetarian food for me because the Japanese really dig their fish and put it in everything, so it was really nice of them. Thanks Akiko, and Akiko's mom!

- Kazu is like my brother from another mother. He was always sharing his sake with me, and just a generally good guy to talk to (he spoke English). He even invited to take me out to one of the seedy bars in Japan where you pay girls to drink with you. I didn't end up going, but these places are everywhere in Japan and I kind of feel like I missed out by not going. It seems like they are kind of placed somewhere between whore houses and strip clubs in the hierarchy of raunchy places you can go. You see, technically you are just paying for pretty girls (hostesses) to be drinking with you. But then Akiko told me "well, sometimes they let you touch... And maybe if you're lucky they touch you." In some of them, the girls dress up like French maids or other things like that. It seems like getting young Japanese girls to dress up like French maids is probably just cramming too many fetishes into one bar.

- I would not suggest any one who is sensitive about their age go to Japan. The Japanese as a culture seem to suffer from a rare condition that makes them overestimate the age of a non-Japanese person by roughly 10 years. When Megumi did this it seemed odd, but my long stay proved it to be all too common. Kazu did it as well, and when I thought back to the first time I ever met Akiko I realize that she did it too. I thought it was funny, but I can see how some (older, mostly female types) might be offended when people say "Wow, are you sure? I would have never imagined you were that young" when you tell them your age.

- I gave a monk in Kyoto some money and walked off. Then I realized that I had dropped my little booklet of Japanese phrases, and turned around to see that he had picked it up. He gave me it back, and then handed me an envelope that was covered in kanji. The Kanji said it would protect me and wished for world peace, inside there was a photograph of people praying. Since I received this blessing I have not been killed, or even robbed so obviously it is working!

- Everyone loves to drink in Japan. At least, all the guys do. And smoke. Cigarettes and beer are sold for good prices in vending machines. It costs about 300 yen (3$ CND) to get a pack of smokes out of a vending machine in Japan. If you buy a carton, it's about 230 per pack. 230 yen for a mickey of nasty whiskey from the corner store, too. Although I hate to admit it, things like this have made me want to move to Japan.

- Everywhere you go in Japan is famous for some kind of food, be it Shikoku noodles or Kyoto pickles. It made me realize how we North Americans are culturally bankrupt due to our lack of famous regional foods. The best we can do is Philly Cheese steaks. Bah, humbug. Where are the Vancouver noodles?

- There is one absolutely chilling aspect about being in Japan. There are trucks that drive around in the evening covered in flashing lights and odd machinery that pipe out haunting, mournful music. More accurately, it could be described as an ultra-low-fidelity monotone chanting over eerie traditional music. It sounds like some sort of death chant, a call to honor one's lost ancestor spirits. When I eventually stopped pissing my pants at the sound and sight of these, I asked about them. It turns out that they sell sweet potatoes. Their spine-chilling moan, if translated, goes something along the lines "Come get sweet potatoes. Fresh sweet potatoes. Fresh sweet potatoes." It is basically like an ice cream truck, only selling fried sweet potatoes and creeping foreigners the hell out.

- Japan isn't expensive. It's actually pretty comparable to Canada. I managed to stay in Tokyo for 2100 yen (21 dollars) per night. Granted, my room had only enough space to lie down in and was in the middle of what could be considered a Japanese slum. But that is about comparable to a hostel, and I didn't have to be in a room with a bunch of Europeans that won't shut up at night.

- Around New Years all the shrines in Japan become tacky festivals. I loved it. Eating greasy yakisoba, getting good luck from the shrines. Shinto is like a wishing well religion; it's all about throwing money into things and getting good luck. You can even get these tacky little fortune papers. Mine said I'm not going to have anything good or bad happen to me. Shucks. Akiko humored me and went to all the shrines with me.

- It is hard to be a vegetarian in Japan. They find a way of sneaking meat into everything. They put meat into their bread! Their meat has tiny pieces of meat hidden inside of it.

- Megumi told me that Korean men are considered the sexy romantics (she said "Italians") of Asia. I thought this was pretty funny, because apparently they are not above sending tacky love-letters. But what I quickly came to realize is that in the western world, it seems to be that unabashed romance is simply dead. Love letters are still common in Asia, and going to a karaoke bar and singing to your girlfriend would be considered a legitimate gesture of love rather than something to be embarrassed about for her. Our karaoke bars are not as honest as theirs, I suppose. Our love letters are something to be hidden or blackmailed with, I suppose.

- Japanese trucks are so much cooler than the ones we have in Canada. They are all square and white and squashed looking. Check it out.

- The Hiroshima peace museum is all about the A-Bomb. There are wax sculptures of people melting under the intense heat of Little Boy. It only costs 50 yen so if you ever want a cheap cure for your good mood, check it out.

- Konnyaku jelly snacks are probably what I miss the most about Japan. Well, about food in Japan. They are apparently real healthy, but also about the tastiest things I ever ate. I just looked them up on the internet now, and apparently they are mostly popular with women... Maybe I should shut up about them now.

That's all I'm going to write for now, because this post is getting to be too long.

PS:
It turns out that Flickr has a limit of 200 pictures. After some fiddling around I managed to upload 50 pictures from Japan (older pictures were sadly sacrificed, god bless their souls). This only represents about 1/3 of the pictures, but I'm too lazy to upload them to my own host. You will see these pictures here:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/40544727@N00/sets/72157594502070529/

I See the Bad Moon Arising

2006-12-28T17:46:00.000-08:00

This is my last post of the year and the last post before I go to Japan. On the 29th I leave for Hiroshima. I see that the holidays have left you well. Perhaps your stomach is a bit larger now. Perhaps you have said some things that you shouldn't have at an office party, to the uncomfortable laughs of co-workers. There is a good chance that you reveled in the act of sleeping in for the first time in a year. And there is a good chance that if these things have not happened already, they will soon enough. But this story has nothing to do with any of these things I associate with the holidays, it's mostly about being attacked by a crazy person who thinks they are an angel. Or maybe, just maybe, being attacked by an angel.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The first thing you should know is that there was a blizzard in Vancouver. Well, there was snow. We consider anything over a cm of snow to be a hazard. Other Canadians make fun of us for this, but they all live in towns that are flat. Slamming on the breaks doesn't matter when all you can crash into is a gigantic field.

This caused the SkyTrain to be shut down, which in turn led me to attempt to walk home. But at least I was moving, something I certainly wasn't doing standing around at the Skytrain station. Walking from Yaletown to Metrotown takes several hours, and forces a man to go through some of the cruddier neighborhoods in the area. I hadn't really thought of this until it was too late.

Naturally, I was a bit distressed when I noticed a shabbily dressed man with a shopping cart following me. This was quite a feat seeing it had a wobbly wheel, and the snow was thick. I tried taking an elaborate, windy route, but the man that looked like a shifty tramp continued to follow me. I attempted to speed up, but as I did I found that he actually began to gain on me.

I would like to say this culminated in a prolonged chase, but in reality I broke out into a run that lasted about two blocks until I collapsed, wheezing and weeping. I tried to get up but slipped and fell again, and looked up to meet the haggard eyes of what I assumed to be a violent tramp who was bent on robbing me of my money and warm jacket.

"Look upon me, vile sinner," boomed the man that appeared to be a hairy homeless person, "And shake with fear."

"Ahh!" I cried, "take what ever you want you filthy hobo, just don't rape me!"

"Ist thou blind?" He roared, "Look upon me with the eyes of the enlightened, for I am the Archangel Uriel. I come bearing news of God's fury, and a chance for salvation. A great desecration hath blinded Him with rage!"

He still looked like a bum to me, but I didn't say so because I didn't want him to think I was unenlightened. I never expected that angels might smell like piss and BO. Then again, I never guessed that they would push around carts filled with bottles and bathroom fixtures, either.

"Spare me!" I pleaded, "I believe you. Just tell me what you want from me."

"I come demanding ye spread the word of God," bellowed the furious cherub, "For though He is all-powerful, He requires prophets to bring his word to the unholy and slumbering, for his voice would shatter the minds of mortals. A grievous sacrilege is being committed daily and if man hath not the will to redeem himself, the Lord shall cleanse him from the planet."

"I-I will do what you ask of me, O terrible angel." I stuttered, "Just tell me what villainy it is you speak of!"

"Of all of His creations, noblest and purest be the detachable shower head." The fearsome seraph responded, "Yet in vast numbers, the daughters of eve, these most vile of women, have sought to pervert this most holy of bathroom appliances. Lo, tremble before the wrath of God, for thou hath committed a most treacherous blasphemy. The lord hath allowed the mortal world a limit of 6 years to absolve or he shall scour man from the world with a flame so great not all the pulsating streams of water on the earth could extinguish it!"

"A-ah," I stammered, "Are you sure that is right? Shower heads are holy, and onanism aided by pulsating water is a sin. That is actually what you mean?"

"Of course that is what I mean!" Blared the angel, "A detachable shower head is goodly, for it can do no wrong nor suffer any hell except at the hands of wicked blasphemers. And self gratification is always ungodly, especially when the rape of innocent faucets is involved. If your shower head should cause you to sin, pluck it out of the bathroom and throw it from thee. It is better to enter life with only a standard fixed shower head than to have adjustable massage settings and be cast into the hellfire."

"I don't really think all that many girls are using their shower heads in... That way. Maybe a few…" I said, "Are you sure that God plans on destroying the world for something that only a slim percentage of the population engage in?"

"This is a cataclysm on a massive scale," proclaimed the hairy messenger, "the daughters of Eve flock to the defilement of the goodly detachable shower head in untold swarms. I can say sadly and boldly that more women engage in this pagan heresy than abstain. I beg ye, tell them to consider Christ's sacrifice on the cross and be comforted by his love for you, not the tepid affection of a high pressure stream of water."

"Even if nearly every woman on the planet uses detachable shower heads to masturbate," I responded, "That still leaves over half the world's population. What of the men, what of the innocent women... Surely god would not kill the innocent?

"God will spare those goodly women who realize that no pleasure found in any number of spray modes can ever match the ecstasy of His love." The angel explained, "But for men he shall show no such mercy. Didst He not create woman from man's rib so together they might satisfy their baser desires? Yet men have failed in supplying comfort in this most simple of tasks, driving the wretched into the arms of wicked pulsating-water hedonism. Yes, the blame of this blasphemy must be borne on the backs of men equally for their lackluster lovemaking abilities. Urge the women to repent, young man, or suffer the consequences. Go now! For every hour wasted, you draw closer to the day of reckoning."

I scrambled to my feet and frantically ran off in a random direction. After a half block I ran out of breath again and turned around to see where the angel had been. He was gone, leaving only a pile of bathroom fixtures in his place.

And of Course You're a Bore, But at That You're Not Charmless

2006-12-19T23:37:00.000-08:00

Update: I added more pictures from a trip I took in November

I have pictures from my trip last summer posted to the internet.

You can see them here.

Or you could go to the new siderbar I have over there. Here is a random sampling of the 152 pictures I have posted so far:

We'll Leave Our Tracks Untraceable Now.

2006-12-12T16:26:00.000-08:00

I will be soon growing a beard. It may seem a daring or foolish move to you jerks, but I'm afraid I have little choice in the matter. One could call it fate or a true calling, for me to go without shaving and become like our cave-dwelling forefathers. I grow this beard not due to laziness, as many of you many suspect, but for a much more sinister reason. I am not entirely sure if I should be talking about this... But I will continue because I know you think me a crackpot already, so there couldn't possibly be any harm in saying this...

All of the world's true leaders are bearded. When I say this, I do not mean the figureheads you see out in public - mere naked puppets to the hirsute world order. The course of all world events are, in some manner, directed by a shadowy cabal of the hairy-faced.

Some of you may be wondering how such a group could exist if the only prerequisite for membership was to be whiskered. If this were the case, there would millions if not billions of members worldwide. I assure you, this is not the case. It is with great hesitation that I reveal the second condition for enrollment... You must also be strikingly attractive. This may not seem fair to some of you, but the confederacy of handsome bearded men care little for ideals of justice of the clean-shaven and hairy but homely.

As you may or may not know, I have been considered by many to be quite alluring by some - even "man pretty". However, up until this point I had been barred from membership in the league of the bushy-faced beautiful due to my smooth or at most stubbly face. Once I finish growing a healthy beard, I expect to be welcomed into the ranks of the elite and put in a position of power almost immediately. Have no doubt, my dear friends and soon-to-be subordinates, that they are monitoring this post right now, eagerly awaiting the induction of another brother into their fold.

There was a time when facial hair was not required to be a member of the ruling elite; only good looks. But the attractive overlords found that their numbers increased too quickly, being that everyone wanted to sleep with them. Not only that, but they were too easily identified, and thus too easily murdered or robbed of power and riches by those of the less beauteous that resented them. Soon enough, the power pyramid was overly top-heavy, and the advantages of being beautiful were less than the advantages of being mighty or ruthless.

Eventually the world was ruled not by the pretty but by the physically strong and tactically clever. Some have called this the dark ages, and during this time the beautiful were a treasure kept and fought for by the violent. But soon a secretive enclave of the beautiful and bearded was formed; you may have heard of them referred to as "wizards". Their beauty and control went hand in hand into hiding behind thick beards and webs of lies, and they became the unseen powers behind the thrones of the world. The less clever of the beautiful went on without hiding their greatest asset; as a result they never regained power and became only slightly richer than their less appealing counterparts through lucrative modelling contracts and office favoritism.

The question of why leaders be selected due to attractiveness and beardliness rather than competency might be raised. The obvious answer would be that the beard serves as a method of identification, but it goes far beyond that. It would make just as much sense for the hairy elite to wear a particular type of clothing to identify themselves instead if this were the case. But the minds of those ancient wizards were as sharp as their faces fuzzy, for they understood the true reason a beautiful person would hide their greatest asset. When an attractive face is hidden from the eyes of the unworthy behind unruly hair, it demonstrates a knowledge of value through virtue of scarcity. By taking your beauty away from the world, it becomes sought after.

How often has it been that you have encountered a man whom women complain of due to his facial hair. "He's so cute," they swoon, with heavy emphasis on the "u" - making it sound more like key-oot (indicating that they really mean it). "If only", they say with a pout, "he would shave off that terrible beard!"

If only, indeed. Should these harpies know that this man was also a member of the ruling elite, their emphasis on the "u" sound would apply doubly. And were he to go baby-faced, their desire of him would be lessened because his beauty would be there for the entire world.

Some of you may complain of the apparent gender bias of the bearded Illuminati. Only a handful of women can grow full beards, and few of them are beautiful. But it is possible for many women to grow thin moustaches, as many of our friends in the lesbian community have demonstrated, and testosterone pills can aid further if needed. And a girl 'stache is all that is required for entry into the whiskered elite. Plenty of these women are not lesbians at all, but members of a sinister international cabal. You must ask yourself when you see a woman with a thin moustache; is this a woman who would be beautiful were it not for her hairy lip? Then why, having nothing obvious to gain, would she keep it?

So I will be growing my beard soon. I understand it is a task requiring patience, and tolerance for itchiness. However, I bravely fight onward ignoring bits of food and complaints of scratchy kisses in order to assume my rightful spot in the sun.

Handsomely and Beardily Yours,
-Trevor Keith Record I, Esq

All Lies in Jest, Still the Man Hears What He Wants to Hear and Disregards the Rest

2006-12-07T12:59:00.000-08:00

65 years ago today, the sneaky Japanese pulled off the world's most infamous practical "surprise attack" joke on the United States Navy. Not to be outdone, after years of exchanging naval noogies and warfare wedgies international bully USA lit off the largest fire cracker ever created in the Japanese mailbox of Hiroshima.

In solemn remembrance of these events, I will be travelling to Japan for three weeks this winter, shortly after Christmas. A large portion of my stay I will be in Hiroshima, staying at the house of my former room mate, Akiko. I will be sure to not make any jokes about WW2 being a series of pranks while I am there. Even though I easily could since the Japanese are so grossly undereducated on the facts of WW2. Er... Have any of you ever been to Japan? I am currently trying to come up with things to do while I am there. I only have 3 weeks so I need to pack those 3-weeks with as much adventure as possible.

********************

Here's a topical follow-up to last week's post. There is water on mars... Liquid water, not just ice. Pretty much any environment on earth in which you find water, no matter how extreme, you find life (even if it's microbial). Now, I am not saying that there is life on mars for certain, but it suddenly seems a whole lot more likely.

This story was in the news, but for some reason it wasn't on the front page. What I saw on the front page was that a former KGB spy has been killed, probably by the Russian government due to his vocal criticism of their Chechnya policies. I can't understand why this is considered news; the Russian government has been murdering their critics even before Stalin's rise to power. In the last few years if you look within Russia, you will find that dozens of journalists have been murdered. Unlike their western counter-parts apparently they were actually doing their jobs.

But at least the water story was in the news, albeit stuck in the second or third page next to articles about Kevin Federline. I think that, maybe, public interest in space may be starting to turn around. People find the space program about as interesting as the romantic failings of gold-digging douchebags - and almost as interesting as the racism of former secondary sitcom actors. Although there are still morons that think space exploration and colonization is impossible or a waste of time, I think that humanity is coming around.

It could be common sense: Even the world's most publicly visible scientist is now saying that humanity needs to invest in the space effort, specifically colonization, or risk dying off (although I say big fuckin' deal because this is what I have known for years). It could be accessibility: Commercial flights in to space are happening with increasing frequency and within the next 5 years will be fully privatized and starting to become reasonably priced (100k seems steep, but it isn't so bad compared to 10 million). It might be increased scope: NASA has plans to finally return to the moon in a little over a decade, and build a colony on mars that will be permanently staffed by 2024. It could even be the asinine human interest stories about the Japanese space agency sending sushi into space or astronauts golfing in space.

Or it might be me. I am constantly talking about space, even to people that are bored to tears of it. I try to inject space into conversations that don't really have anything to do with space at all. Actually, I would like to claim personal responsibility for an increase in public space interest.

So thank you, me, for your tireless efforts to make people care about the future of humanity.

Why, it's been an honor, myself.

You deserve a trophy.

Oh, you're too kind.

In fact, you deserve a government grant.

Well, it certainly would help!

Were it not for you, the race would be doomed to extinction.

Now now, let's not forget the little guys that are pulling us through this; NASA, Virgin Galactic, the RFSA. Their cute effort is partially responsible as well.

(Who am I kidding, it is the goddamn stories about sending sushi into space.)

He'd Like To Come And Meet Us But He Thinks He'd Blow Our Minds

2006-12-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

After careful deliberations, I have decided that when the aliens finally reveal themselves to humanity I am going to play it nonchalant. I would advise the rest of you to do the same; that you don't go nuts, blowing things out of proportion. Not to say that they have a high opinion of us, it's just that we should at least attempt a good first formal impression. We have enough to be embarrassed about without freaking out when we find out that we aren't the most important beings in the universe. I mean, they probably already know how terrible we are, so we could at least try and beat their expectations on that "easily goes into foaming mass hysteria" point.

So here is an example of what one should and shouldn't do upon first contact:

*Susan looks up. A Flash of light appears in the sky, an extra-terrestrial appears before her.*

ET: Salutations earth female. I come from a distant star to bring peace and enlightenment to the earth.

WRONG RESPONSE

Susan: Oh shit! Holy shit! Mother-fucking shit!
*Susan loses control of bladder*

CORRECT RESPOSE

Susan: Oh yeah, traveled from a distant star you say? Sounds alright, if that's your sort of thing. Listen, I have to run, but good luck with that peace and enlightenment thing, kiddo.

We are undoubtedly a pitiful race of mud people to the ETs, but you must struggle to not encourage their self-righteousness through embarassing or disgusting behavior upon meeting them. Do you see how in the first example Susan let out a string of expletives, and then pissed her pants? This is the sort of thing that can make humanity look bad in the eyes of the aliens. Aliens are no doubt elitist snobs, and will treat us much like we might treat some one from rural Arkansas. The best way to deal with a snooty extra-terrestrial is to be equally condescending, as Susan did in the second example.

Let's look at another example of a different sort of meeting with an alien:

*There is a knock at the door. Jed opens it to find a dapper looking alien holding some sort of bible.*

Dapper Alien: Greetings Human! I am here to bring you news of the glorious lord of the cosmos; may I come in and speak to you?

WRONG RESPONSE

Jed: Ahhh! What the hell?! Ahhh!!
*Jed pulls out gun and starts firing at dapper alien, accidentally triggering holy war with the people of Popeulon 5*

CORRECT RESPONSE

Jed: I'm sorry sir, but I'm not interested in changing faiths. However I would be more than happy to let you in if you wantto share with me my bountiful blessing of cigarettes and bourbon.

Do you see how Jed politely and calmly declined to convert to this alien's heathen religion while still extending the warm hand of human hospitality in the second example? It is important to remember to stay calm and friendly at all times, while still never trusting the devil lies of the infidel extra terrestrial. In the first case, Jed lost his cool and accidentally triggered an alien crusade. Although we have proved pretty efficient at killing other humans over religious squabbles in the past, we can not be too sure of how good we are at killing aliens. Religion is the sort of thing that could strain relations between humans and aliens - it is best to avoid the subject. At least until we know for a fact that we can kick the aliens' ass, that is.

Here is another example of the religion question, this time with the roles reversed:

*Ahmed is walking his goat when he comes across an alien standing next to a space ship, looking rather distraught*

Agitated ET: Earthling, our spaceship has run out of fuel, I require directions to the nearest facility selling rods of enriched plutonium.

WRONG RESPONSE

Ahmed: Allah Akbar! Convert or die, infidel Martian!!! Death to the evil from outer space! Death to the Zionist!!

CORRECT RESPONSE

Ahmed: Sure thing, buckaroo. Take a left at Tehran and keep going straight until you hit Anark. It's the concrete grey building with all the CIA assassins around it, you can't miss it.

In the first response, Ahmed made the mistake of bringing his religion into the conversation unsolicited. Although Allah is wise and merciful, this alien did not want or ask to hear his message of peace. In the second response, Ahmed politely responded to the ET's request without breaking out into a fanatical religious tirade. This gives the impression to the ET that humans are a kind, uncomplicated race that can be trusted with the secrets of advanced technologies. The first response supports the (albeit correct) belief that we are little more than violent apes bent on forcing our beliefs on all we come into contact with. Hopefully, they will not find this out until it is too late.

I hope that this guide was helpful. I'm going to cut it short here to give the impression that I haven't thought about this for too long. (But that's not true - I have)

**I am assuming, of course, that there are aliens and that they are well aware of our existence. Heck, maybe we are alone in the universe. Despite how lonely that sounds, it is almost more comforting - finding out that all of those ass-scratching, genocide-committing, awkward sex moments of our collective culture were genuinely private. However, it seems likely that with at least 100 billion stars in the galaxy, and then at least 100 billion galaxies in the universe, that there is a species out there that probably knows just about everything.**

Why Should We All Be Alone, Every Night On The Way Home?

2006-11-21T16:43:00.000-08:00

Hello,

I turned 21 on October 5th. I feel really old! Isn't that silly? Still, a part of me is thinking my life is half over. Well, the good part that involved very few responsibilities and a lot of playing video games until 3 AM in the morning is pretty much over. That part also involved less girl-kissing (although I will concede tragically not all that much less), and I don’t remember having the capability to go on last-minute trips to anywhere I felt like in those days. So maybe they weren’t so great.

I guess I should show you whippersnappers a few pictures from my summer trip. Well, the problem is, I can't find the cord that connects my computer to my camera. I have hundreds of photos anyway, and they will take a long time to upload. A lot of them are of people who I am not certain want to have their images up on the internet, particularly my crude corner of it. So when I find that cord or buy a new one, I will be sure to post up those pictures.

Instead of through photo, I shall tell you the tale of my travels thus far in the tradition of our ancestors, through word. Everyone assumes everything ancient man did was better. Never mind that out ancestors were constantly doing dumb things like putting holes in autistic people's head to try to drive out demons, or sending armies of children to war under the pretense that god would protect the innocent. They were destroying their planet at a slightly slower rate, so they must have been wiser rather than just less efficient. Bet then, I'm sure people in the future will think us dumb for burning through all of our resources in the name of imaginary "capital" and incredibly wasteful "growth". They will obviously set about destroying the planet out of sheer principle. Mother Nature is a cruel bitch and she needs to be taught a painful lesson. Now, to start that story I have been putting off writing (it is really long, you must understand).

So I left my home, with intent to roam

I had a bus pass that was good for 2 months. It cost about $800-900, which is pretty good when I look back on how far I went on it. When I first stepped on that bus I hadn't really gone on a vacation since I was 15. I guess I didn't go on a vacation so much this time either. A vacation entails going to the beach and getting a ridiculous sun burn or being solicited for... Well, these things did happen but I guess I'll get to that later. Mostly my vacation was about a mad rush to see just about everything I could without passing out (I would fail on this second point).

So on I went with 2-month greyhound pass in hand, to venture into the unspeakably savage wild lands of urban California. The day I was leaving the Israel was destroying hospitals and bridges in Lebanon and North Korea was making motions towards testing their nukes. These were obviously all positive omens. I had one piece of luggage and an army messenger bag, otherwise known as a man purse (shut up, I know). I sort of wish that I had a backpack, but in some way the fact that I went everywhere in a suit jacket dragging luggage somehow seemed appropriate. Scruffy looking kids with backpacks are as common as rats these days, except if you shoot at them in the loading bay of a train depot you create an international incident rather than make a tidy $5.50/hr.

When I got past Seattle, an auburn-haired cutie pie reading Huxley started talking to me. I was pretty pleased with how well things were going with my trip. Of course, it was predetermined that she would get off at Portland and I wouldn’t think to ask her for contact info. It was also predetermined that the man weighing well over 400 pounds would choose to sit next to me. I can’t stress enough how the seats on a greyhound were designed in the 1950s when fat people were mostly just a myth. He excess folds basically pushed me up against the window, also covering me with his stench ooze. Yes, he was drenched in a shimmering slime that may or may not have been the undiluted physical manifestation of stench. A man of that size gets tired out just by sitting there. He doesn't snore; I am fairly certain his movements are simply causing miniature earthquakes. He didn’t get off until we got to Fresno. I tell you this only so you can get a feel for what traveling on buses is like, I don’t feel it necessary to mention bus travel any more. Mostly you just sit there sort of uncomfortably and read or look out the window or play Tetris. Or harbor fantasies about murdering a woman with a baby that will not stop crying. But at worst there is a guy who takes up half your seat and smells really bad and he sits next to you and nothing can be done about it.

I was so disappointed to find out Mickey Mouse does not make house calls

I would come back to LA three more times after the first visit, but just passing through on my way to other places. One thing I must stress about Los Angeles is that it isn’t actually a city so much as the world’s largest suburb. Yes, they make movies here… But there is about 3 blocks where a huge portion of the world’s entertainment money goes, then untold miles of urban sprawl. It took two hours after I got “into” Los Angeles to get to the bus station. And what a bus station, it proudly boasted one of the largest collections of payphones that do not work in the world!

Being from an area with one of the most moderate climates on earth, I wasn’t prepared for the kind of heat I was about to experience when I went outside. However, I had to brave the inferno for I had arranged to meet up with a certain gunslinger in Los Angeles that we all know and love. Gunslingers are fairly generous folk it turns out, as they will buy you delicious Mexican food, and then coffees from their favorite Starbucks, and they won’t even complain about the fat-guy stench that is all over you. Of course, being inexperienced at traveling my stay was sadly short, and within a few hours I had left for San Diego.

I went to San Diego and got horrifically sunburned by waiting around on the hot pavement

The night I got in to San Diego I went to stay at a Hostel in Ocean Beach. I basically showed up at the last minute and was let in only because the manager knew that for me it was either there or under the pier, ferociously defending my shoes with a shiv. The Hostel was filled with shirtless Australian surfers, which seem to be the primary inhabitants of tropical hostels. Not be confused with the Common European Backpacker found behind fridges and stoves in hostels on the east coast. The No-Shirted Australian is a common sight at rock climbing facilities and ski resorts as well (although not as common as the shirted variety in ski resorts). They can be identified by their primitive speech-patterns. They are a territorial race, and it is not uncommon for a pair of them to keep many a weary traveler up all night in an exchange of squawking war-cries.

The next day I got a terrible tourist/farmer tan standing around waiting to be picked up. Jessica had been kind enough to let me stay at her family’s place, but I had to wait for her to find the area I was waiting. So I got a tan (well, I turned beet-red), so when I got home people could tell I had been on vacation. But it was a lie tan! I had gotten it while standing on hot pavement! Anyhow, every day I was in San Diego I went to the beach, but I didn’t really do very much else. I was new to traveling at this time, so I didn’t see too much of the city. I think if I could go back I think maybe I would have chosen to do some more exploring. It wasn’t really until I went to San Francisco that I started wandering around a bit. I do not mean any slight on Jessica or her family, because they were all very nice to me.

San Francisco is not really a place where I lost my heart, but it was alright

San Francisco is a warmer, larger version of Vancouver. Their China Town is more tourist-oriented, and they have more crime, but their demographics are virtually identical. I slept in Redwood City at the house of a childhood friend of my mom’s (the Tee family). I cannot stress how kind this woman was to me, she essentially bent over backwards for me. This is where I would truly begin my trip, because this is where I started bumbling around cities without plan or guide. Yes, a good portion of my time was spent wandering around fairly aimlessly (a favorite pastime of mine), but I did go see some of the sights. I got to meet the famous MJ here, who took me to a park to eat seaweed. For the first time in my trip I bought some books, which I found out are significantly cheaper in the USA. Despite not having very much money I would eventually buy and read somewhere between 20 and 30 books over the course of my trip (about a book every second day, but there were some days when I would read two or three).

A lot of my time in San Francisco was spent in the Matthew Barney museum of goop spilled all over the place (commonly known as SFMOMA). I only make this joke due to my bitterness that Matthew Barney gets paid millions of dollars to have dudes dress up like satyrs fight each other in the back of limos. Then when he gets tired of that he makes crappy pictures of people masturbating and encases them in mould-filled glass or pours petroleum jelly all over things. And after a long hard day of scribbling on walls while hooked up to mountain climbing gear, he goes home to sleep with Bjork. Also, he is funny looking and smells bad.

And I’ve been from Tucson to Tucumcari

One of the towns I stopped in to buy disgusting junk food (the mainstay of my diet while traveling) had reached a heat of about 52 C. However, you wouldn’t know this from the bus. In fact, during the night I was incredibly cold and had trouble sleeping. This is a common trend in the desert, actually. A message to the southwest; rolling blackouts wouldn't be such a problem if you kept your buildings at temperatures above freezing.

In Tucson I met Deidre and Ray, a fabulous movie star couple of the high desert (or perhaps just regular people). But not too regular, because the regular folk tend to not want to even give me the time of day. They were nice enough to take me out to a forest of cacti just outside of Tucson, and Ray happened to know a lot about the environment there. Of course why anyone would indulge a quasi-hobo in his requests to be driven around the desert is beyond my understanding. A part of me expected them to leave me there at the side of the road like a stray dog (I don’t deserve a bullet). Obviously I would end up starting a feudal society of scavengers and would go to war with the Ray-Deidre Empire over gasoline.

Dallas is a place where a president got shot (and JR)

I was staying in Dallas at Vicki’s house, who has three tiny dogs that are made up of about 95% unbridled enthusiasm and 5% fur and dog parts. I choose to believe that they could see my brightly shining soul and fell in love with me, not that they act that way around everyone. I have been to Dallas twice, and exactly two blocks away from the spot where JFK I found a place called “Record Street”. If you don’t believe me, take a look at this map. Obviously there is a terrible conspiracy going on here that somehow involves me and I’m simply too apathetic to investigate any further. Or perhaps I am just terrified over what I might find.

Dallas is probably emptiest major city in the world. It mirrors the dead zones of the Mexican coast; you can go for miles without seeing any life. It seems to be part of a growing trend of areas that have an empty city center then a bursting suburban area going on for hundreds of miles. You can find millions of people in Dallas anywhere except Dallas proper, which is like a ghost town. That is, except for homeless people. If you can imagine what your city looks like, then replace every regular person and fire hydrant with a homeless person, you would have an idea of what Dallas looks like. I actually gave a homeless man $20 here. He helped me find the bus station as I was leaving. He was pretty friendly and I was going to give him a $5 but when I pulled out a $20 his eyes lit up.

I had talked to Frank about meeting him up in Austin, but I hadn’t really heard from him. Of course at the last minute I hear from him, and he says “yeah maybe we can meet up”. I say “call me some time tomorrow, I will be leaving late at night and assuming I hear from you I will go to Austin, otherwise I’m heading home”. It turned out that on Mondays everything in Dallas is closed (or at least all the museums are), so I was severely bored and ended up leaving at 5:00. I hadn’t heard from Frank yet so I took a bus home. Just as the bus pulled out of the station I received a call from him. “Sorry dude, got to go home”. Little did I know fate would punish me for my haste (that must be it?)

I saw Phoenix (sort of)

A few (hundred) miles outside of Phoenix, the bus broke down. This destroyed the bus schedule to the point where a full 12 hours were eventually added to my travel time. Although we were only stuck in the desert for 3 hours we had to wait an extra 2 hours in phoenix (making a total of 6), 2 hours in LA, and 5 in Sacramento (in addition to 6). Naturally, Greyhound does not offer any reparations for my lost time or even apologize. They mostly just yelled whenever anyone asked what was going on. Not that I was suffering from the heat. Like everywhere else in the southwest, the bus was so cold that I needed to wear a jacket on it during the night and still nearly froze to death.

Sacramento does not give a dirty man a shower

You must understand that I couldn’t really afford to stop off anywhere. At this point I had gone about two and a half days without any bathing. Not only that, but I had traveled through climates much hotter than anything I was used to. I was about as dirty as the bathroom floor of the bus station back in Los Angeles. Further, I had spent the last few nights sleeping with my face pressed against a frosty window in the sub-zero southwest bus of irony. I was feeling like crap, so when I got to the bus station for a few hours I wanted to find a place where I could have a shower. Apparently in the town of “we don’t like hygiene” Sacramento, this isn’t so easy. I went all over town looking for a public swimming pool with a shower I could sneak into, but apparently public swimming pools are sort of a Canadian thing. There were a few hotels in the area, but they all kicked me out when I said I just wanted a shower. I even offered to pay for using the shower, but in “Fat Jerks ‘R Us” Sacramento, you have to pay for a room in order to use a shower. Needless to say, I left “supports child molestation” Sacramento frustrated and unpleasant-smelling. And thus concludes the story of how I went from Dallas to Vancouver without bathing.

Vancouver welcomes a weary scholar with diversions from his studies

I was showered (for the first time in almost 4 days) and on my way out the door pretty much as soon as I got home. The important things to note being that I had three final exams in two weeks and 4 essays due in several days. Being the genius I am, I put these off until the last minute, and I mean this quite literally. Some of these essays I did not finish until about 15 minutes after class had already started. I don’t think my teachers were too pleased with me, but I managed to pull through with a decent enough GPA. I was on my way east within a handful of hours after finishing the final of my final exams.

Drumhell-alright

Drumheller is the first and only place I stopped before getting to Ottawa in an epic journey across the continent. Here I met Erika and her boyfriend Dan. Not only was she so kind as to let me sleep on her couch, but they took me to a local bar and bought me several pitchers of beer. I feel sort of terrible about it now because that was her last night in town before going back to Calgary and it was undoubtedly ruined because now when she thinks back all she is going to be able to remember is coming out of her room to find me unwashed and sleeping on her couch. That place is now haunted for her and she can never go back. I will be the first person ever found guilty of indirect arson when she one day burns the down to the ground in an attempt to forget. I saw them both again this last weekend while I was on a road trip and they took my friends and I to a karaoke bar, so I guess Erika doesn’t hate me too much for ruining her last memories of Drumheller. But the guilt still remains

Anyhow, a bit about Drumheller… They might as well rename this place to “OMIGOSHDINOSAURS!” There is a dinosaur museum here, apparently world renowned, and the tiny town takes it to heart. Everywhere you go in town, you can find dinosaur statues and dinosaurs painted on the wall. There is even a dinosaur the size of an apartment building that you can pay $5 for the pleasure of… Walking up to the top of (maybe there is pirate treasure at the top, I don’t know). Being, when it comes down to it, a colossal nerd, I of course went to the dinosaur museum and relived my achingly dinosaur-obsessed childhood. I will be the first to admit that I would be first in line to go to a real life version of Jurassic-Park, when it comes down to it. Money is no object. I would gladly smuggle Chinese orphans into the US and harvest their organs if it meant being able to afford seeing a real-life tyrannosaurus.

Ottawa takes untold millions in tax dollars every year so they can provide me with an inferior slurpee

It took me 2.5 days to get to Ottawa. When I got there I had went almost as long without a shower as when I returned to Vancouver, and this time I didn’t have a place to get one when I arrived. I ended up shelling out $11 to use the shower at the YMCA, which I considered completely worth it even though I was running low on money. I had never seen my nation’s capital before, although I liked to complain about it enough. I must say that all those terrible things I say about the government are pretty much 100% true. In fact, I am convinced they are much worse. Anyone who wants to can show up and take a free tour of the parliament compliments of taxpayers such as myself. This seems to mean 50% French people who don’t like Canada but only have a handful of countries that still tolerate their language. I bet if I went to one of their government buildings and asked for a tour in English they would have me roughed up and thrown in jail, the lousy ingrates.

They might as well put a sign up on the door to the senate wing that says “please check reality at the door”. The tour is basically made for kids and people who don’t care about how the government actually works. When they got to the part about the congress and governor general, I asked why we even bothered with them since they don’t actually do anything. “Why, of course they do, all bills have to come through here and get passed by the congress” said the sickening cheery tour guide, a broad smile as he avoids looking at my eyes by making a sweeping motion. “But they always pass laws” I respond, “There is only one case when a law was blocked, and in the end it was forced through”. “That isn’t true,” dodges the guide, still avoiding my cynical glare “they have the power to block any bill”. “But in practice they don’t”, I say “they are appointed by the parliament and thus will lose their jobs if they disagree with anything the parliament says”.

Anyhow, I stayed at Ace’s place this night. He also stumbled around the downtown area with me. Although I do not like the Canadian government, I will give them a hand for having some of the coolest buildings in Canada. In the morning I departed, starting a long trip to Chattanooga.

When they said that Detroit was rock city, I didn’t know they were talking about crack

I got to Detroit, otherwise known as Gotham City, and was forced to stay there for 12 hours. It was 5:00 in the morning and a walk downtown revealed a gritty city filled with colossal, run-down neo gothic and art deco buildings (that were frequently abandoned) and manhole covers spewing steam. I legitimately expected the bat mobile to go racing through the haze in pursuit of the Joker. In all honesty, the crime rate here almost warrants a caped crusader. But other than being generally crummy, Detroit was mostly just really boring. Like Dallas, it seems to be another one of these places where the “downtown” area has become empty. A guy on the street calling himself “Shadowcat” tried to sell me a rap album he made about science, String Theory specifically I believe, which I am now seriously regretting not buying. This was the highlight of my visit there.

Chattanooga is funnier if you say the "nooga" part like it is an old-timey horn

I went to Chattanooga to meet world-famous mathematician (people around the world do know she exists) and close personal friend Paula. Chattanooga is one of the better cities I saw while I was in the USA. It is warm, beautiful, and when I got there they dropped me off next to a corn field leading me to believe that Paula was actually secretly a hillbilly. I got ripped off by a cab driver, and went on an adventure spanning churches and YMCAs looking for a place to shower (unlike those assholes in Ottawa or those jerks in Sacramento I didn’t have to pay a penny).

Chattanooga pretty much defied my expectations of the south. But then my expectations of the south were pretty much limited men in white suits being served lemonade by women wearing dresses. That and overall-clad women and men that are missing teeth, hollering and riding around in the back of pickup trucks, drinking moonshine and picking up road kill for stews. How these two classes managed to co-exist is anyone’s guess. But Chattanooga had a really large “art” sector and there were shamefully few chargers bearing the confederate flag to be found. In fact, I didn’t see a single shack with moonshine still in it the entire time I was there.

But one thing that I will say rings true is that the ladies in the south are a lot nicer than anywhere else. They are many times more likely to smile at you or give you the time of day as any Vancouverite females. If you are a visitor in Chattanooga you may find yourself considering moving there because of the women. In fact, that idea will be playing over in your head over an over again until a spell is woven that you actually could do this despite your lack of job. And then one of them will drive you out to haunted civil war battle sites in the middle of nowhere or force-feed you pasta and completely ruin the illusion. I am just glad I got out of there without being murdered by angry ghosts.

I can't claim that I actually saw much of Chicago

Chloe was nice enough to let me stay with her in Chicago, which turns out to be a pretty massive. I guess I just sort of assumed it wasn’t that big because it is in the Midwest. Apparently it is one of the biggest cities. It actually looked pretty much how I imagined it… Except there weren’t Italians in pinstripe suits with tommy guns patrolling the streets, which was a major disappointment. I spent both days here going to the Art Institute, and I still only saw less than half of it. Chloe has a membership that allows a person to get in for free. So I can’t really tell you very much about Chicago, but if you are interesting in learning about mid-20^th century American art I would be more than happy to indulge you. What, no one?

Philadelphia, a place where a man can run up stairs

Philadelphia really is strangely proud of its cheese steak. Also, it has the most orderly streets of any city I have ever seen. The City hall was pretty impressive, but there was something I found unsettling about it. It was located exactly in the middle of the city, next to the Freemason temple. Call me a conspiracy nut, but that seems a tad suspicious to me. There was also a Dunkin’ Donuts situated roughly every two blocks. Needless to say, Dunkin’ Donuts are part of a conspiracy to control the population. Using their disgusting smoothies and bland coffee, they plan to destroy taste buds so that no one can taste food anymore. I guess this will make us easier to control because we won’t be eating very often so we’ll be susceptible to suggestion. Also, the Freemasons want all the tasty food for themselves.

I stayed at a Hostel here way off in the outskirts of the town. You had to walk under a cobbled bridge and through a creepy forest to get to it. It was so full young people having fun I was pretty certain that a murderer was sure to be prowling the grounds. A couple of British dudes said that the only reason they went to Philadelphia was to see the stairs that Rocky ran up. A young Albanian man told me that he can’t stand the quality of cheese in the USA. People were sang songs and holding hands. In the distance, a single shriek, then all was quiet… The Angry Amish Axe man struck again!

The next morning when I got back into town a man shined my shoes at the station square. Although by this point in my travels I was pretty low on money due to school fees for my next semester of college, the shoeshine was something I could not pass up. It only cost $3 and a man played ragtime on a piano while it was going on, as the shoe-shiner regaled me with tales of his drug use. It was sort of awkward for me because there was a little kid with him, and the little kid wasn’t even his (he was just some kid). The kid asked questions like “is that like a cigarette?” when the shoe shiner talked about taking various intoxicants.

The only living boy in New York

When I got to New York I had an anxiety attack. I only stayed for a few days, but I don’t think I could stay in that city without becoming an alcoholic, chain-smoking mess. There a certain things about New York that they don’t talk about much in the movies. Firstly, there is the ungodly stench that pervades the entire city. Due to the fact that there are no alleys in NYC, there are no dumpsters. The result is that every street is lined with piles of garbage baking in the hot sun. Everywhere you go smells at best like rotting trash and at worst like rotting trash and various other kinds of human by-products that should go unmentioned.

I was disappointed by the poverty. It isn’t that people in New York have less money; it seems to be simply that if you don’t have too much money you have to live in really crappy conditions here. Those guys selling the “I <3 st="on">Manhattan. Being very poor by this point in my travels, I stayed at the YMCA in the Greenpoint area of Brooklyn. I don’t know why this area is called Greenpoint; it wasn’t really very green at all. My room consisted of a room with a cot, a closet, and Astroturf for carpeting. Apparently Brooklyn is one of the “not so bad” Burroughs, which I guess means “at least you have Astroturf for carpeting and a TV with an antennae, you lousy ingrate”.

It was really hot, so I got my hair cut by a Mexican woman here who did not speak English particularly well. I guess I should have known better, but I was really hot and I had never had a haircut outside of Vancouver before. The haircut she gave me was sort of like the one Jim Carey had in “Dumb and Dumber”. I guess she liked that movie. I bought a cheap hat to cover my unspeakable shame, but it wasn’t a very good hat and it looked almost as dumb.

As much as I was uncomfortable in New York, I really liked the subway. Unlike most cities, there doesn’t seem to be anywhere in the city that can’t be reached via rail for cheap. Not only that, but the people seemed friendlier somehow. There was a guy dressed up all “urban” who saw me drawing and wanted me to work for him in some sort of graphic design capacity for clothing he wanted to make. I told him that I wasn’t a professional artist and that I didn’t live in New York, but I was flattered. I also got picked up by a South African girl on the Subway. She was going to the Shins concert, is this a common trait that all South Africans share? I know Kirsten likes them as well. There was a business man who started talking to me after he asked me where to get off at. I explained to him how I was traveling and he started talking about places for me to see. After I explained to him that I couldn’t see most of the places he mentioned because I was poor he offered to give me money! I declined, although I desperately needed it, but I wonder how much he would have given me.

Anyhow, I saw a lot of Architecture and areas of New York, but mostly from the outside. I couldn’t afford to go up to the top of the Empire State building and at Woolworth building I was forcibly removed by security. I saw the giant hole where the world trade center used to be, but they don’t let riff-raff like me go down and check it out. The statue of liberty costs $12 to see, proving that freedom really isn’t free.

Boston is also where the Pixies formed up, I guess

Boston might as well rename itself to College: The City. If you’re so smart, Boston, why is it that you have so many homeless people that bother me for money? Don’t they know that I’m really poor as well? Anyhow, it turned out that Boston is somehow even more expensive than New York. I was desperately searching for a place to stay, but I couldn’t find anything; everywhere I went was either too expensive or full. It seems that a (non-fancy) hotel in Boston charges a minimum of $160 per night, for the privilege of sleeping in the birthplace of Conan O’Brien (I choose to believe that this is the only thing Boston is notable for). This led to an odd chain of events.

While I was taking the subway to an area further out to look for a bed, a venerable old hippy was reminiscing with his friends about how people used to sing on the subway back in the 60’s. I somehow got involved in the conversation, and the next thing you know I was telling this man a bit about my travels. He seemed interested, but made a remark about me being a “trust fund baby”. I guess he judged me based on the fact that I wasn’t a scruffy backpacker (even though those types are actually much more likely to be “trust fund babies”). I explained that I was actually jobless, in debt, and unlikely to find a place to stay that night. I wasn’t looking for a handout, but the next thing I knew he was trying to give me money. I hadn’t ever taken money from a stranger so I tried to say no, but he kept insisting and I was pretty poor so I caved in and took $20 from him. In retrospect I should have gotten contact information from him so I could send it back later, but I forgot. I was pretty grateful for the $20, anyway.

On my way out an older farmer visiting the city (he didn’t say why) asked me to help him out with directions. I guess I looked like a Bostonian, despite my luggage. I tried to help him out the best I could (whilst emphasizing that I wasn’t from Boston), and left without giving it a second thought. I ran around town looking for a place to stay, but couldn’t find anything. Eventually at the YMCA the receptionist gave me all the phone numbers of the cheap hostels (etc) in Boston. There wasn’t a single place to stay. I made up my mind that instead of sleeping in Boston, I would take a little New England tour that night. I would hit up places like New Hampshire (which I wanted to see just for their state motto) and Maine, and in between stops I would sleep on the bus. On the way to the bus station I met the old farmer again, and told him my plan. He offered to let me stay at his hotel, but I declined (seemed a bit too weird).

Manchester is a place where you will die or live free

When I got to Manchester I found out that the bus station there was closed. Some of the bus stations in less major cities out there apparently only stay open until 12:00 or earlier. Further, I could not get back on the bus once I got off. What resulted, naturally, was the highlight of the adventure. After wandering around for a while, I ended up sleeping on a bench outside the bus station. I had previously slept in buses and on benches inside bus terminals, but this would be the first time where I would sleep on a bench outside. Not only that, but it was cold and rainy. Also, the bench I slept of wasn’t even flat; it had a curve in it. However, I could not afford any of the hotels in the area I was in, but I couldn’t get out of that area of town.

I will say that Manchester truly lives up to its motto, however. Most of the vehicles I saw there were trucks or SUVs, usually blaring metal, and one of them had a woman that flashed me in it. A bald cab driver with a scar across his eye tried to get me to take a ride with him. Actually, nearly every male I saw in the state had shaved his head. The next morning I got out of Manchester, having lived free (in the most accurate sense of the word). I went back to Boston, where living free is for the minorities.

Boston is mostly known as the home of a fleet of amphibious vehicles that people make loud quacking sounds from

I managed to get a room in the YMCA this day. Sad puppy-dog looks may or may not have entered into this. Having slept in the cold and rain on a bench, I leapt at the opportunity to spend nearly an entire day sleeping and reading. The next day I did a bit of exploring and managed to sneak into the back of a tour group lead by a man dressed as one of the US founding terrorists (oops, fathers). After much delay I also meant the incredibly suave Mr. Habits (Alias: Drew), and we nerded it up around town. Using connections I was able to secure incredibly quickly, I scored us some free ice cream and hippy-juice. This would essentially be my last night in the USA.

Montreal rained so I mostly stayed in the bus station

In the end I left the United States with exactly $1 left to my name. Less, if you consider the staggering credit debt I had racked up trying to pay for college. I was stuck in Montreal for a day as well. I went out wandering around in a sleep-deprived haze through the torrential downpour of rain twice during the day. Montreal had a lot of catholic churches and I wasn’t able to really see much of the city other than that due to the deluge. I passed out in a diner at the bus station. Luckily I did not have any money, so I wasn’t robbed. I noticed that Montreal was home to probably the most clean-cut homeless people I have ever encountered. The only way I could tell they were homeless is that they asked me for cash.

I finally met those people that spend all of my tax money on beer

I met up with my parents and some other people they were traveling with in Moncton, New Brunswick. I’m glad I did, too, because I was pathetically poor at this point in my journey. For the next week I traveled through the Maritimes with them. Although I appreciate the free beer and food and lodging I got, traveling became much more structured at this point. Not that there is anything wrong with that, it’s just that I had grown accustomed to coming and going pretty much however I felt was necessary. Regardless, I was very seriously considering moving to Nova Scotia or Prince Edward Island. In BC the most you ever hear about the Maritimes is how everyone is unemployed for half of the year. But when you actually see it for yourself you come to an understanding of why people choose to live here despite this. Out of anywhere in North America, it is probably the nicest looking places a person can live.

I went home

But all good things must come to an end, and with the new school year starting and my unbearable poverty I had to go home. Having the karma of a former saint, I was able to go back to work within a week of returning home. With the job, combined with the three classes I’m taking and my terrible apathy, I haven’t really felt like getting the blog started up again until now. But, after over two months, I finally caved in to my need to become a low-level internet celebrity.

I would like to extend my thanks to everyone who made this trip possible. I would also like to say that I hope this is the last 12-page-long post I ever write, and that if you read through it in its entirety you are a more patient man or woman than I.

Love,

-Trevor Record

Ah, But I Might As Well Try And Catch The Wind

2006-11-08T10:54:00.000-08:00

My Summer Travels -- It was ok.

Love, Trevor.

Love Is A Burning Thing, And It Makes A Fiery Ring.

2006-07-11T23:45:00.000-07:00

I am leaving for that vacation I was talking about a while back this Friday. I will be gone for 2 weeks, back again for a week, then gone for the following month and a half. I will try to update when I can, but this may prove a problem. As you may or may not know I am very vulnerable to accusations of being an inconsistent person, some may even say such denouncements are true. I am of the position that consistency is for the unimaginative anyway, so I don't take such claims to heart. It just reeks of something out of the of mouth of one of those dull consistent people to try and keep me in my shackles. One glorious day the inconsistent will rise up and overthrow our consistent oppressors, doing far better in battle than they would have expected of us, and impose a new world order of justice and reason. It will be referred to as "That One Time the Idiot Losers Got Off Their Cheese-Heavy Asses" day, or "Totil Gotcha" day. Then things will pretty much go back to normal after a few days when we are exposed for the erratic frauds we are.

Today I decided to publish something very exciting. I know you have been waiting for this since you first heard the name Trevor Record whispered across the digital plane like a clandestine holy rite. Yes, today I am going to teach you how to be more like me. Below you will find a list of things I loathe and love. Please adjust your lives to harmonize them with mine as soon as possible.

Food
Love: Stuffed Jalapeno Peppers. Mutter Mushroom, extra hot. Spaghetti with peppers seeds and mushrooms. Basically, anything filled with fungus and spicy enough to warrant at least 3 alarms.
Loathe: Steak. Well, any meat really, but steak takes the proverbial cake. I can't understand why anyone would want to spend $25 at a restaurant for this trash, it tastes like blood and has a texture that can only be described as "chewy-icky". Further, it makes you smell bad (trust me, it does). Pork Chops used to be a fairly regular nightmare back when I was a kid as well (my mom wouldn't let me be a vegetarian until I was 17...)

Music
Love: If you can figure out what songs the titles of my posts are referencing, this shouldn't be too hard.
Loathe: I hate to say it, but I have a strong bias against hip-hop. I also don't like a lot of punk and most heavy metal. There are always exceptions, but I think it is safe to say that these genres get more than their fair share of sonic excrement.

PS: Is it just me, or does "Sonic Excrement" sound like it could be a really name for a band? "Yeah, we're sort of a hardcore/nu-metal hybrid, you should check us out Saturday at taste of destruction, we're called Sonic Excrement."

Movies
Love: As a show of solidarity between me and my internet friend (or inter-chum as I will call him from now on) UTMG, I refuse to mention any films other than Wings of Honneamise, which I demand you watch immediately.
Loathe: Lets just say that there are certain films that you are not allowed to watch if you want to avoid death by electric eel on "Totil Gotcha" day. If I have to tell you which ones, you might want to think about replacing all your body parts with nonconductive rubber replacements.

Television
Love: I don't have TV at my house, but if I am at my parent's place there are some things I will watch. I really like "History Bites" which is a TV show that entertains and (sort of) informs. South Park is also a good show, just because every episode is designed to make the audience think about a topic. Some times I don't really agree with the stance that they take, but even then it's a funny show.
Loathe: I don't like almost everything on the television, but there are a few things that stand apart. The Apprentice is a show that embodies pretty much everything I am against. If there were any justice in the world, Donald Trump's decapitated head would be on a pike outside of wallstreet. It would serve as a warning to any other rich people who think that they can build a bunch of ugly towers in Manhattan, go bankrupt but manage to avoid punishment by the sheer mass of your debt, then act like a colossal jackass in front of the entire world on television. That sort of thing just isn't going to fly during the week after "Totil Gotcha" day.

Vehicles
Love: The Skytrain. The Soyuz. The Apollo.
Loathe: Cars and SUVs. Especially when driven by people who don't really need to be driving them. (Many people don't actually need to be driving them)

Books
Love: I just read a book called The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time last night (I stayed up until 5:00 AM) that was very good. It follows a 15-year old with Aspergers (high-level autism), from his point of view. Other good reads I have went through recently... "The Plague Dogs" and "Leaving Home".
Loathe: Listen, as long as you are reading and it isn't a car audio magazine, you are on the right track.

-Trevor "Asparagus Syndrome" Record

Hi Diddle Dee Dee. God Damn. The Pirate's Life For Me.

2006-07-03T18:13:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I came up with the idea for a club called the Tragic Angels League of Broken Hearts and Whiskey Bottles (TALOB-HAWB). Needless to say, with a name like that it is undoubtedly the best organization that has ever been created. Sadly, it took all of my imagination just to come up with the name, so I'm having trouble deciding what it is TALOB-HAWB does. Today, you can throw your hat into the creative process. That's right; I'm reaching out to all of you to help me come up with the TALOB-HAWB charter.

It's time for some Mad Libs. Charter-writing Mad Libs, to be exact. You are going to need to supply the following:

a. Noun - unemployed person.

b. Noun - abstract concept.

c. Noun - profitable crime.

d. Verb - a very vulgar act.

e. Adjective - something shockingly repellant.

f. Verb - synonym for speak

g. Noun - muscular organ.

h. Noun - gut-rotting sour mash whiskey

i. Noun - piece of mechanical technology.

THE OFFICIAL CHARTER OF THE TRAGIC ANGELS LEAGUE OF BROKEN HEARTS AND WHISKEY BOTTLES

Enacted as the way to pass the time as young [a] act (2006) pp. 3, enacted into force on July 3rd, 2006

The Goal

1. The primary mission of the Tragic Angels League of Broken Hearts and Whiskey Bottles (hereafter referred to as TALOB-HAWB) is to promote [b].

2. In the struggle to advance [b], drastic action must be taken.

3. TALOB-HAWB will therefore commit acts of [c] to fund the ongoing struggle for [b].

Membership

1. The dictator for life of TALOB-HAWB is Trevor Record, a [a] who will stop at nothing short of [d] to further his goal of promoting [b]. Members of TALOB-HAWB must get his permission before committing acts of [c].

2. In order to join TALOB-HAWB, all initiates must perform [d] to prove their loyalty.

3. Those inducted into TALOB-HAWB retain membership until [e] death.

The Rules

1. Do not [f] about the TALOB-HAWB, under punishment of forced [d].

2. Actually, do [f] about the TALOB-HAWB, we need members. Forget that first one.

3. All members must have broken (g)s.

4. All members must frequently imbibe [e] amounts of [h] at every possible opportunity.

5. All members must be [i] enthusiasts, or at least pretend to give a shit about [i], under punishment of forced [d].

-Trevor "rebel yell" Record

PS: My friend Blake McStravick is having an auction... To find a pen pal. Click here to check it out.

I'm Trying To Drink Away The Part Of The Day That I Can Not Sleep Away.

2006-06-24T19:30:00.000-07:00

So I took longer than expected to write something again. Sue me. I am currently enjoying the unemployed life more than you could possibly fathom. In fact, I am quite convinced that everyone should be doing it. I guess that would leave us in a pretty bad spot as a society though, so maybe just the people that come here. I'm going to write a guide on how to be an unemployed person right now.

The only problem is motivating myself to get dressed, shaven, and into the guide-writing frame of mind. Wait... Being scraggly and dressed in a bathrobe is exactly what I need to get into the right frame of mind. Hmm, and yet I still don't feel like doing much other than eating strawberries in milk and playing Advance Wars.

Ok...

It is a day later, and I did indeed spend all last night eating delicious snacks and playing video games. Now it is time to get down business.

(PS: Ok, several days have passed over the writing of this article. It was a slow process.)

HOW TO BE UNEMPLOYED

1. Make a mental list of things that you have no plan on actually doing.

It doesn't matter if it's a trip to the doctor or a scheduled period to do some home work in; make sure you keep a mental itinerary of the things that you are supposed to be doing and systematically blow each and every one off. How can you know what you aren't doing if you don't keep track of it all? Don't feel bad about not doing any of these things, whatever you did instead was probably way more relaxing. Tomorrow's worries are today's nap on the patio with a Garrison Keillor novel on your face, after all.

2. Living within your means is for the hobos.

Don't pay any attention to your restricted budget. In fact, if you want to enjoy yourself you're going to end up spending even more than you did while employed. If you go on a leisurely stroll, make sure you stop off at a Mexican restaurant that costs way too much. And go nuts while you're there; appetizers, drinks, dessert. If you spend $20 dollars on a meal, just think of how much you would've spent if you were living in a more expensive country like Switzerland. You're saving yourself at least $40 on buying Canadian restaurant meals!

3. Maintain an air of superiority at all times.

Just because you don't really do anything doesn't mean you aren't as important as some one who does. Hell, if anything you're better; you know that waking up at 8:00 in the morning is not worth any amount of money. Make sure you hold an attitude of utter contempt for all those that are working.

4. Keep facial grooming to a minimum.

I'm not really sure if I'm just exceedingly lazy, or trying to grow a beard right now. In either case, it is important to avoid shaving like an ex-girlfriend trying to flag you down in a grocery store parking lot.

It seems like avoidance of facial grooming shaving is essential to finding out the secrets of the universe. Just think about how many wise men types sit on the tops of mountains and grow giant bears. Wisdom may very well be proportional to amount of facial hair. One secret piece of wisdom I've learned so far is that my facial hair is sort of red-coloured, even though all my other hair is dark brown.

5. Spend roughly 50% of your time sleeping.

I would not recommend getting out of bed until 1:00 PM at least. You're going to need a lot of energy for all the drinking and stumbling around in your bathrobe that is in store for you, after all.

6. Pretend that you should be giving people advice.

Well, why shouldn't I?

-Trevor "Vile Bodies" Record

Dear Landlord, Please Don't Put A Price On My Soul.

2006-06-14T22:42:00.000-07:00

Is anyone else having all hells of a time trying to get Blogger to work for them? Right now it is like a finicky little girl that thinks the swimming pool is too cold but wants to join her friends. She’s dipping the foot in the water, shrieking, and jumping back. Just get in the damn pool, Blogger, I'm tired of all these time-outs and unscheduled maintenances.

In other news, I am laid off now, as of yesterday. Don’t worry; I am actually sort of happy about it. I will probably remain unemployed until October or so, at which point I will have to make a tough call about taking that spiritual cyanide pill they call office work again or taking the hard route and doing something rewarding. Until that time comes I am fixin’ to travel the great expanses of North America looking around for those last fragments of awe and love that they haven’t killed and pinned to a greeting card yet.

Also, I am fixing to cuss it up and break it down on a daily basis. I’m going to turn such things into a way of life, damn it! Maybe I should start up the Tragic Angel’s League of Broken Hearts and Whiskey Bottles. That’s something I just made up now, but now that I said it I guess it has to be done. The TALOB-HAWB are going to be so big you can’t even imagine it.

Anyhow, this is just to explain what has been going on. I have plans to start writing more often once I get used to being unemployed. Maybe by the end of this week I will have something worth reading.

-Trevor

Holding Hands, Rocket Scientists Revise Their Plans.

2006-05-31T23:58:00.000-07:00

Do you want to know something that is spectacular? Space is spectacular.

Do you want to know something that is not spectacular at all? Lack of interest in the effort to explore and colonize space.

As you may or may not know, the space program is awesome. In fact, I would wager that it's just about the remarkable thing that humanity has ever done, not to mention the most important. Don't get me wrong, I think that inventing the fossil fuel powered vehicle was pretty cool and curing diabetes was very important. However, landing on the moon was more important than a hundred Frederick G. Bantings and cooler than a thousand motorcycles.

Venturing beyond our home planet is something so monumental that its gravity seems to dwarf other worries. In the span of a few decades we went from being a perpetually-warring race of apes living on an insignificant rock to a civilization capable of reaching out into the cold depths of space. We stand at the edge of a new era. Borders won't seem so important when we realize that for all our small differences we stand together in this vast effort to expand beyond. When Yuri Gagarin looked out into that great expanse and didn't see god, I wonder if he saw at least a blank slate.

Some have been known to show a baffling lack of enthusiasm whenever the space program is mentioned. They may even go so far as to state opposition to the space program, a blasphemy beyond comprehension.

I have heard a lot of people say that we should concentrate on fixing up the planet before we start moving on to others. I guess the best way to respond to these assertions is to ask if the ten billion extra people scheduled to be born in the next lifetime or so are going to lend a hand with that. I'd say environment is fucked if humans stay on this planet exclusively. It isn't as though I think that we should stop trying to tidy up after ourselves, but the fact of the matter is things are going to keep getting worse until we can start putting folks on different planets.

It's well known that humans are bad news for the environment. But do you know what else is bad for the environment? Ice ages, asteroids, and supervolcanoes. The universe is a pretty dangerous place at the end of the day. When it comes down to it, until humanity came along every species on the planet was doomed to eventual extinction. Now, at least, they have a chance of being taken beyond this unforgiving deathtrap.

Other people like to say that world peace is more important than the space program. This always seems to me to be somewhat like a Miss America response to government science spending. The fact of the matter is that space is going to be something that unifies us. On the International Space Station there are Russians, Japanese, Americans, Brazilians, and even whiney old Frenchmen working together. Many of these countries that are amigos up in space are hardly on speaking terms down here.

Then there are always those old “third world” arguments. Of course, I always wonder if things are going to be any better for "developing" nations when they have twice as many people and the same general level of disinterest from the developed nations. Hell, by that time a lot of the developed nations will probably be downgraded to "developing" as well. Yes, there are people that need medical aid and food in the world. They stand to benefit in the long run from a planetary colonization effort as much or more than any short-term relief we can offer. It's not that we shouldn't be helping out the needy; it's just that we should realize we are all in danger of becoming needy in the long run.

Probably the worst argument I have heard is that space will take to long to develop in for it to be worthwhile. There was a time when the way to tell a mature civilization was when they would undertake public works that wouldn't benefit themselves but rather their grandchildren. Now it seems like all we give our grandchildren are debts. I’d like to be able to at least tell my grandkids that I had helped build a new home for them.

I have heard it said that space is a money pit. When I hear this I wonder, how much money has been generated as a result of satellites? And thinking back, there seemed to be a "money pit" back a few hundred years ago they were calling "The New World". I think that deal ended up paying off pretty good, if memory serves.

Some fools go so far as to say that humanity is a disease and doesn't deserve to spread past this little orb. Ironically enough, most of these folks seem to be middle-class punks who consume just as much as any one else when you add it up. If you think humanity sucks so much, I don't want to see you using the internet; why don't you find a nice cabin out in the woods to go live in. There are a lot of people that we would probably be better off without, but as a whole humanity kicks ass and chews bubblegum (but we are out of said proverbial bubble gum). We’ve mastered fire, learned how to use tools, and created art. And after thousands of years of fumbling around, we’ve finally lifted off into the heavens. If that qualifies us as a disease, you can consider me ill.

I usually don't quote people, but I decided that if I put up some words that guys who had been on the moon had said here it might make me seem more professional. You know, considering I just said that humanity kicks ass and chews bubblegum. Fact of the matter is, when I look up at the night sky I see a shimmering expanse of hope. But some times it gets hard to see all that with all those bright city lights and worries.

We can continue to try and clean up the gutters all over the world and spend all of our resources looking at just the dirty spots and trying to make them clean. Or we can lift our eyes up and look into the skies and move forward in an evolutionary way. - Buzz Aldrin

It suddenly struck me that that tiny pea, pretty and blue, was the Earth. I put up my thumb and shut one eye, and my thumb blotted out the planet Earth. I didn't feel like a giant. I felt very, very small. - Neil Armstrong

Hell, We All Die.

2006-05-24T22:33:00.000-07:00

As I was walking to the Skytrain from Jimmy's house at 5:00 am yesterday, already in the prelude of what would prove to be a hangover of baroque proportions, I felt something fly by behind my head. I looked back to find that a crow, which had passed within inches, was now landing on a telephone pole. It gazed back at me with beady eyes which could not betray any hint of malice.

I turned around, confused, and continued my trek to the Skytrain. I should point out that I was feeling about as nasty as the floor of a second-rate movie theatre. My aching mind, still partially numbed, was in no mood to consider the possibility of a spiteful carrion-feasting bird. About twenty seconds later this crow, driven by some yet to be revealed hand, made another dive at my head, this time getting even closer. I did an about face to find that sooty menace again watching me, this time from the roof of a house, unblinking and unmoving.

I continued along my way down the street, glancing back frequently. It is said bad things come in threes, and I will not disappoint you; this set was completed. Slightly under a minute after the second attack I looked back to see that inky demon barreling towards my skull. With the reflexes of a kung-fu master I deftly sidestepped the attack, which would have surely struck home had I been a fraction of a second slower. The scavenging monster settled on a telephone wire and turned to watch me as I continued on my way. I had made it to a block lined with tall hedges, which blocked the crow from further pursuit.

When I got into work later I did some research into crows and the omens they carry. I had decided that the dive-bombing campaign must mean something, and something significant. One time can be brushed off like a thin powder. Twice will be considered but then quickly forgotten. But that unholy aerial fiend had thrice come close to smacking into the back of my head, and that is something that can not be shaken. My research into the meaning of crows found one thing again and again; death. Yes, it seems like the crow is the worst sort of omen.

It's been a day now since that bomb was dropped on me. I can feel it still. I am going to die. As a teenager I had reckoned myself immortal, but here I sit at age 20 with an immutable message from the very gods; I am going to cease breathing. I have decided that I'm not going to take this cruel fate sitting down. If the universe thinks that it is going to let death sneak up from behind and hit me in the back of the head, it's going to find out this cat can move, and it has a bad attitude. Atropos may have decided the final cut, but by god I'm going to decide the circumstances. I've already set wheels in motion that no man or force could possibly stop.

I started by taking out a large loan from the mob. Large enough that losing a thumb is not going to "cut it" should I fail to default on the first few payments. Large enough that a man loses a bit of his innocence going through the hoops he had to go through to get this kind of capital. Large enough that major religions get involved not to forgive but to collect.

I am currently writing this from an undisclosed "party palace" located in the bowels of a decommissioned nuclear silo. No, I do not think that I am going to evade the mob here; I just thought that it would be really poetic to have a wild celebration of hedonism in a nuclear silo. It also serves as a wonderful backdrop for what I have planned. As you read the next few paragraphs, try to picture me in a setting somewhat like the bunker from "Dr.Strangelove", only there are people shooting up and performing fellatio to the sound of jungle drum and bass in the background.

When my creditors catch up with me, they will find me holding what they will think is a loaded S&W Model 629. It is actually filled with blanks, and I will fire wildly to ensure that they kill me on the spot. I am going to create, not like the rest of those destructive animals. After I am felled by a hail of gunfire, my body will no doubt be treated as an object of abuse by the confederation of hell's angels, triads, yakuza, and (yes) members of the Catholic Church. These unsavory characters will not know it as they do unspeakable things my corpse in fits of rage, but they will be part of a fantastic legacy beyond their comprehension. You see, I have taken steps to ensure my death will be but the beginning something epic, and ultimately beautiful.

I have spared no expense.

A multitude of cameras have been hidden throughout the party palace, sending their sacred signals to a rancher in the remote reaches of the greater Phoenix region. An editing team there will hastily work on a cinematic treatment of my death and the preceding soliloquy I intend to deliver. I am hoping the soundtrack will include some Blonde Redhead songs or possibly Led Zeppelin, but this is not up to me. Once the director is satisfied, a copy will be sent out for mass production. In a Mexican factory, this film will be put on both DVD and VHS, and then put into a package. This package will include a poster and a fortune cookie.

The message on each fortune cookie will be unique. Many will have a short verbose of a single thing I wanted to do before I died. These will be numbered, and will vary wildly in tone and in detail. One will say "1134: I met a woman by the name of Jenna Ricci at a party once. I said I would call her back, but never did. I was intimidated by her sexual experience, but still a part of me wanted to be with her. I thought about her often." Another will say "0028: Start a baseball team."

A few of these cookie messages will have my personal proverbs. Things like "It's hardly gratifying if it isn't instant", or "Shooting from the hip ensures that you fire first even if you don't hit first." Other messages will say facts about my life and the people I know. One says "I have found my 6th-degree connection to Kevin Bacon. It was my mom's college room mate. She was Mr. Bacon's personal assistant before he fired her after rejecting advances from him. This put in motion a chain of events that would eventually lead to her committing suicide. Her name was Rebecca and she was beautiful."

I have thousands of these short messages prepared; I have been writing them for years. I didn't even know why I was creating them until last night. The poster in the package will say "Trevor Record did not die" and will feature a large, abstracted version of my face.

The packages will be sent to a random selection of several thousand households. The package will have two stickers on it; one that says "FRAGILE" and another that says "This is not accidental, it is meant for YOU."

Down By The River, I Shot My Baby.

2006-05-10T19:58:00.000-07:00

Eugene Castiglione was blitzed beyond redemption that night from his volatile signature mix; one part bourbon, one part weed, and two parts twisted narcissism. He was possessed by the glorious and tragic spirit of some irrepressible, politically incorrect barbarian.

"All's I'm sayin', guys", he cawed between tokes, "is that this whole feminism thing has gone on long enough."

Dane Pedersen, shining god of heavy metal and slide guitar, was first to speak up.

"I can see where you're coming from", he responded with a sly grin, "but I also think that this might have something to do with that nasty bar-skank who you've been seein’ recently."

"Shaddup, you ass-faced sunnuva whore", Eugene spat. His crow's feet creased like they were italicizing everything he said, "It ain't got a dang ol’ thing to do with that. What I'm sayin' is that feminism doesn't have a thing to do with the ladies bein' allowed to be a lawyer now. It's got more to do with women forcing men to let them drive, then not paying for their half of the Applebee's."

"He's right!" Mike McKnight laughed, "Chicks should pay for their half of the fuckin' Applebee’s or get the out of the driver's seat! And if they wanna get married to me, you'd better believe that they're going to take my last name and stop worrying about their stupid careers."

"Aw, come on now," I interjected, "if a gal wants to have a career I am pretty ok about that."

Blood was on my face and shirt from a hit to the nose I had taken during a boxing match only an hour earlier, I looked like I'd just refused to give some one my lunch money.

"But... I don't know," I continued, "I guess we're all getting tired of hearing about how bad men are, all raping and being generally nasty. You want to know how many women I have raped?"

"None", Dane declared with a sneer, "but as for little boys I couldn't say, Trevor the Dandy."

"Aw, dude, that is not cool," I muttered, "you had better be taking that back now. That was a joke when I came up with it and you damn well know it. Why do you have to pretend that you didn't think that Trevor the Dandy was hilarious?"

"Both of ya's better shut up," Eugene growled, "I'm not done sayin' what I had to say yet. The point I'm trying to make is that we gotta take a stand and take it soon. They've already gone and taken back the night! We don't have no night any more 'cause they took it back. Where else do they have to go?"

"They've nothing left but to seize the day!" Dane laughed.

"But it's the truth," Mike exclaimed, "they're on the offensive and everyone gets mad when we try to fight back!"

"Yer damn right Mike," Eugene yelled, "it's time we all took a stand before they're roudin' us all up for estrogen injections!"

"Well, uh, Euge', complaining is good fun and all," I observed, "but what do you think you're, uhm, going to be doing about it? Are we going to start pulling people over on the side of the road to search them for Virginia Woolf novels?"

"Hell yeah we are!" Eugene hooted, "And here's another thing we gots to address. They are always complain' about all the bad things us men do, then try to claim we are equal! If we're so equal why don't they go about rapin' and stealin' more often? Until the crime rates are the same for both sexes the word "equality" should be made illegal. "

Mike was cackling like a hyena now.

"Also," Eugene continued, "they'd better shut up and accept that I'm better at landscaping and driving that they'll ever be."

"I still suspect," Dane countered, "that this has something to do with that aforementioned bar-skank. What was her name, Carly? Charlene? That nasty old harpy, anyway."

"What? I-I'm not gonna give that heaping pile of bull with a response," Eugene stammered, "and it was Charlotte."

Eugene skulked off. Dane seemed pleased with himself.

******************

Mike and I found Eugene alone, watching the moon and smoking, a half hour later.

"I'm getting old now", Eugene murmured, "It's ok for me to say things people don't want to hear 'cause I'm just a crazy, dirty old man."

"Did that Charlotte chick dump you or somethin', dude?" Mike asked.

"I already told you assholes," growled Eugene, "that it's about women respecting men. That's all."

"Come on, now," I said, "don't lie. Don't be a person that tells lies. Really, man. This isn't, um, about that, and you know it."

Eugene paused for a few seconds.

"Is being possessive really so bad?" Eugene croaked, "I remember when that was just love. If I hear anything about sex roles again I'm going to go celibate."

He finished his cigarette, put it out, and said with a sigh, "I'm gonna get out of here, see you guys later."

I didn't hear from him for a few weeks.

I've Been Cheated. Been Mistreated. When Will I Be Loved?

2006-05-02T22:03:00.000-07:00

Hey now, you diaper-wearing losers. I'm back in my own apartment, which "accidentally caught fire" shortly after the meat/cheese explosion, and just finished getting repaired. Good thing I bought that insurance less than a month ago, right?

So now I'm out of Trevor's apartment and free to speak my mind uncensored. Not that I ever held back before. It's just now I can say even nastier things about him without fear of any form of retaliation (usually a strongly worded note left on the coffee table I'm passed-out underneath).

For some unfathomable reason, it seems like a lot of people don't like me. Through email and other sources I've taken a lot of criticisms recently. I've decided to take time out to address everything bad anyone has ever said about me today. Well, at least anything bad that has been said recently; I don't have all day because they're going to be talking about the space program on Coast to Coast AM tonight and I prepare myself mentally for it. Anyhow, you can consider this a Q&A, only instead of asking questions people exposed their ignorance and instead of answering questions I just tell people what they need to hear (that they are assholes).

Ultra Toast Mosha God said:

"Trevor told me that you spent a whole Sunday trying to get yourself committed to the Chainsman Institute using a webcam and some cheap crayons. He didn't post the pictures he secretly took because he is man with a sense of pity and dignity... Unlike you."

Oh yeah? Well Trevor told me that your name sounds like something a retard would make up. Also, the events you described are fictional. Further, I have it on good authority that Trevor's web-cam isn't actually connected to anything ever since he accidentally left it on for a worldwide broadcast of loud onanism to one of his shockingly violent pornographic movies.

Joe, who apparently has random thoughts in New York, said:

"Eugene may have his faults, but I'll always remember him fondly for raising the level of my prose to 'pornography'"

What faults are you talking about, Joe? Maybe you would like to share with the rest of the class.

Cheryl, Rachel, Kerry, and other chicks I'm assuming were from The House of Thin said:

"You seem 2 be a bit of a kunt!"... "Thats cause he is a cunt and probably a phaedophile."... "you're a CUNT! no matter how you spell it, nerd."

I'd rather be a "kunt" than the poor moron who accidentally snaps you disgusting shells of human beings in half during bony, uncomfortable sex.

Lavinia said:

"Castiglione sounds like a deliciously fattening, cheese, tomato sauce and meat filled Italian delight."

Send me an email and we can work on filling you with some Italian meat delight. (Trevor's Note: Is this going too far? I'm sorry if it is. Really, this isn't meant to be creepy so much as funny.)

Slopmaster Said:

"Never listen to a guy named Eugene about anything except laundry detergent."

Never listen to a guy named Slopmaster about anything other except why the hell the pizza is taking so long to get delivered. Also, call him a douchebag and don't tip when the delivery guy gets there.

Mike McKnight said:

"Hey fuck-face, please apply your bengay to my puckering anus."

I rue the day that I slept your mother all those many years ago, Mike. If I knew that you were going to spill forth from her rancid loins, I would never have snuck into your house for a bit of the in-out-in-out while your dad was busy snorting coke in the bathroom of a Denny's while on the road selling used kitchenware.

Tyler, AKA Dork Zombie said:

"Never before has a man's stench been visible in such a manner ... the smell itself can be seen in the human spectrum of colour. It's like a thin layer of putrid soup hangs about him."

I'll deal with this fat-head when I deal with Trevor. But it is a fact that he is a fat-head.

Trevor Record said:

"Eugene is the worst human being on the planet. The only reason I associate with him is because he makes me look better in comparison. Also, he is hilarious, though not in the way where he knows that he is hilarious."

Trevor thinks that he is better than me. However, I have proof that I am better than he is. Click here and read a conversation that Trevor had with Tyler wherein they make jokes about suicide. Not once in my life have I made a joke about suicide. I have only made jokes about the people that commit suicide. Also, Trevor smells funny and no one likes him.

So, does anyone else have any clever remarks to make about me? Huh... No? That's what I thought.

-Eugene Castiglione

We're Not Scaremongering, This Is Really Happening.

2006-04-26T23:58:00.000-07:00

I can't believe that I've never written an article about this in the past. I've made several predictions on how the world is going to end, often contradicting things I had said in the past, but I've never once provided a guide to surviving the post-apocalypse. I think that I'm going to dive right in; no sense romancing ya'll about this.

Chapter 1: Identifying the End of Civilization.

You may be cowering in your fruit cellar right now, sounds of firestorms and machinegun fire echoing in the distance, desperately trying to connect to the internet so you can read this guide. If you are able to connect to this site, the Armageddon is probably not happening - step outside momentarily and confirm that you are not simply living in a ghetto. If you are not connected to this site, but have printed out this guide or have it still in your history, the following checklist will tell you if what is going on is, indeed, the end of civilization.

1) The walls are bleeding, and minions of Satan are submitting you to unspeakable tortures.

2) There is a man on the television talking about a widespread disease that has reached catastrophic levels. He may also mention something along the lines of dead walking, and to shoot them in the head.

3) It is 3 billion years after this guide was originally published and our solar system is colliding with another from the Andromeda Galaxy.

4) When you look outside, there is a large mushroomed shaped cloud. You are knocked off of your feet by a shockwave that causes blood to come out of your ears, and then all electronics stop working.

5) There are people attempting to break into your fruit cellar so they can pillage all your food, and possibly eat you as well (not applicable if you live in Africa).

6) Every morally righteous person that you know of has recently vanished into thin air.

7) Aliens are attempting to rip off your skin.

8) Four horsemen are rampaging down the street. The last will be riding a pale horse; hell may or may not follow with him.

If you answered "yes" to any one of those, it is very likely that the world as we know it has come to an end. You have three choices at this point. You can:

a) Prepare for a vain attempt at surviving a few more years, until your inevitable death at the hands of an evil slaver named Afzal.

b) Join the legions of the darkness, undead, and/or aliens.

c) Take a swig of .45 caliber mouthwash.

Let's assume that you chose "a", and move on to the next section (assuming you haven't died of cannibalism or melanoma yet).

Chapter 2: If You Don't Like Loud Noises You Aren't Going to Like This.

It's time to get your shit together if you're going to survive the post-apocalypse. Your first order of business is not food, but weapons. I'd make a b-line for your local gun retailer or the bedroom closet of the nearest cranky old man. Make sure that you are the most armed person on your block before you even think about looking for something to eat. Do you honestly think that you are the first asshole who has thought to raid Costco? That place is going to be swarming with untold legions of nasty people, and you're going to have to deal with anyone that gets in your way by means of remorseless shotgun justice.

Once you've outfitted yourself with enough firepower to take down a small army, look around for supplies. Bring a few friends. Remember that this is the post-apocalypse, however, and thus a friend is defined as "some one who is slower and weaker than you who is too cowardly to kill you in your sleep". Now that you're a gun-toting badass with a say in this hell of a (former) world, you'd better get ready for encounters with other gun toting madmen!

Chapter 3: Those with Loaded Guns, and Those Who Dig.

Now that the shattered world is without government, police force, or active prisons, you are going to find out that the average person is a much bigger asshole than you originally though. Further, the ones you did know were assholes are will probably to turn out to be downright malicious. It is essential that you make a big decision at this point. You can either become a vigilante force of wasteland justice, or a member of the endless sea of raiders.

Being a wasteland pirate is good fun, but unless you are really big and really dumb, chances are you will end up fairly low on the totem pole. Also, the chances of getting gut shot and left for dead by the uncaring members of you gang are pretty high. On the upshot, your crew will probably have a really cool name like "Black Devils" or "Skullz".

If you go for the post-apocalyptic hero route, you're going to need three things. The first is a black muscle car, complete several weapons and gadgets reminiscent of the Batmobile. The second is a badass leather jacket and an attitude to match. The third is a loyal dog (that you may or may not end up eating your girlfriend with). Also, be prepared at all times to get in a high-speed road battle with dozens of raiders.

Chapter 4: Two Men Enter, One Man Leaves.

Of course, if you choose to go the wasteland vigilante route, you're going to find yourself with little food, water, or money. By the way, paper money will be useless now; bottle caps are the way to go. When you're not being attacked by bands of rivetheads, you're probably going to need to find some way to get a few bottle caps.

Try engaging in battles to the death for the amusement of desert villages! They aren't so bad, provided you win. Winner takes all the spoils, loser gets covered in soil. Since supplies are scarce, it might also be a good idea to try selling water to wasteland towns. That is, if you can find water. Hell, you could probably get money for spit if people are thirsty enough. Just make sure to selfishly keep it to yourself if you find the location of a water spring and you should be set for the rest of your life (which will only be a few more years anyway).

If you feel so inclined, sell a human being to a slaver or alien work camp! You'll probably get a crappy deal, but it beats getting forced into slavery yourself. Warning: May result in being forced into slavery. If this happens, I can only tell you this much... Never be the first to attempt to stand up to your alien overlords. The first one always dies, if all my years of watching movies have taught me anything. Then again, that may be preferable to becoming the love concubine of some horrible alien like Xxalgthor the Putrid.

Chapter 5: How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love (The Bomb).

Provided you aren't already the sex slave of a many-tentacled monster, you'll probably get lonely out in the world after Ragnarok. This one is just for the guys, because let's face it girls; you are going to be forced into marriage with a large man named "Axl" who leads a gang. Actually, I guess that is fairly likely to happen to the men as well. At least your new husband is in charge of a gang with a cool name somewhere along the lines of "spitting vipers" or "angered angry guys".

Ok, so if you aren't being forced to bed with Xxalgthor the Putrid or Axl, you are going to meet up with a "tough" chick in some city that is really adamant about how independent she is. She will sort of look like a punk, but by the standards of the time she'll actually be sort of conservative. After the apocalypse, dressing up like a "punk" means more than dying your hair funny colours and sewing an anarchist symbol on your jacket. Hell, it means more than even wearing an external spike-adorned codpiece that lights up and swears when it detects motion.

Anyhow, you love to be will probably get in some sort of confrontation with you and storm off into the desert. It is time for you to do a little bit of stalking. Keep in mind, this is the post-apocalypse and you are a rugged vigilante; every girl you meet is fair game and there is no such thing as "creepy". Well, as long as she isn't driving a ridiculously adorned tank and dating a kangaroo-man, she is fair game. Invariably, your lady love will be attacked and nearly raped by a gang. I say "nearly" because you are going to rush in last minute and save her.

After saving a "tough" girl from near-rape, she will probably get all angry and run off. Don't worry; she'll come back in about a half hour with some story about it being better to travel in groups. If you play your cards right, IE acting like a stoic jackass, she'll start falling for you real quick. In a few nights, drop some sob story about how raiders killed your wife and kid. There isn't a woman in the post-world who can keep her pants on after you drop that bomb. Just make sure she doesn't have VD and you'll be all set.

Chapter 6: Happy, So Happy.

The last chapter is how to be happy after the end times. Simply put? You will not be happy. Life is going to suck. Instead of trying to be happy, try to be incredibly cool and badass. That's more important anyway.

-Trevor "Road Warrior" Record

I Am Going To Make It Through This Year, If It Kills Me.

2006-04-19T21:48:00.000-07:00

Not to say that my particular brand of egotism suffers from long periods of silence, but it's been too long since I've written about myself. I've set a collision course with updating you kind cretins on the life and times of Trevor K Record, esquire and all-around class act.

Did you know what you will find if you enter an MSN search for how do you know if you're just settling for a guy? You find me, I'm the 5th entry. I don't know if I should be ashamed or sort of proud. At least I'm not the first on the list, I guess. Too bad I don't come up for more flattering searches such as Mandy Moore naked, or how to have great sex.

I wan to address my immediate past. The only problem is that I'm not entirely sure what has happened in the last few months. I've gotten lazy, detached, and increasingly antisocial. In general, I am a moody guy. I spent a few months working overtime, although not as often as they wanted.

I've been updating TSP weekly, but it hasn't really taken off yet - right now me and Mike revving our engines without shifting from neutral. Mike is starting to get back into the swing of writing; the last article he penned was an irreverent presidential statement (that was maybe a little callous). The web site is still under construction, but I'll admit that most of it will probably remain that way for a while to come.

I finally found some one for my spare room last week. Her name is Cara V and she comes from the east coast. If I could paint her soul it would be as brilliant and golden as a star! Tragically, she may move out soon. Most can't tolerate being in close proximity with jackasses me for a few minutes, so I'm surprised she's stayed this long.

And now, an important announcement about the future! A great adventure, otherwise known as an extended period of unemployment, is drawing near. I'm afraid that wanderlust, a malady most fatal, has flared up in my heart. There is nothing I want to do more than explore the bold, beautiful world of North America. I need to start moving, because if I stay stationary I'm never going to catch up to that feeling that I'm sure I haven't just imagined. There's a fiery divine force within that's been waning for some time, I have no choice but to drop everything and pour some gasoline on it.

So, some time this summer, I plan to leave those BC Mountains and forests for the great expanses of North America. For about a month or longer, I'll be rushing from city to city along the west and east coasts. There are certain things I consider necessary to do before one expires, and I'm hoping to do a good number of them this summer.

There happens to be a rugged old gunslinger somewhere out there, and I couldn't live with myself if I didn't stop by his dusty little so-cal town to meet the Starbucks barista of his dreams. There's a cute San Diegan dame who said she'd take me to Mexico, and I think my heart would give up beating if I passed through the West without seeing her brown eyes shine as we cross that US-Mexican line. I need to go to Arizona and suffer from the unbearable heat, it's a matter of honor, and no amount of common sense can stop me. My soul is nothing more than a shell of what it could be until I meet up with a certain mathematician in Georgia and go strolling down the boardwalk eating ice cream, watching the setting sun stream through that honey blonde hair of hers.

I sort of want to ditch work and start immediately.

Don't worry, I'm not being fired, I'm just going to spend a couple of months not going to work or getting paid. You see, a day will come when I won't show up to work, and then a day will come when I do again. This is something I agreed to with my employer, although it isn't exactly binding or specific.

I'm not sure I really like the idea of that day coming where I show up again. Socrates said that bad men live that they may eat and drink, while good men eat and drink that they may live. I don't think I can spend my life working in an office and wind up a good man. The big question is, what can I do instead?

Anyhow, that is the deal. I've got a map of the very sketchy plans for my eventual warpath below. Of course, a large portion of this trip remains unplanned. Anyone have any suggestions?

Well, He Puts Out His Cigar On Your Face Just For Kicks. His Bedroom Window, It Is Made Out Of Bricks.

2006-04-12T12:57:00.000-07:00

Hey gang; this is Eugene Castiglione, professional ass kicker and peace disturber. It's been a few weeks since our last heart-to-heart, so I decided to drop you nerds a line. I've been dropping by Trevor's apartment fairly often recently, mostly due to the stink in my own. Let's just say that an attempt at home-made cheese dogs stuffed with steak proved explosive. Right now my pad is a cesspit of rancid meat and broken dreams.

Trevor is starting to get annoyed with me scratching my ass with his remote control, but he's too polite to say anything. What a goddamn woman! I think I could get used to this place. I get all the Chinese herb-water I want, and he lets me play his violent video games. I may be getting up there in years, but I still enjoy capping a zombie in the head every now and then. It isn't all tea and Resident Evil over here, however. One thing about Trevor's house that I can't stand is the constant use of the internet. It wouldn't bother me if he was just using it for email and posting his hackneyed stories. However, he spends an unhealthy amount of time talking to people and visiting crappy web sites.

Let me get one thing straight: I think that the internet is a terrifying hole of deviance and excessive obsessions. I tolerate it only as a vehicle I can use to force my opinion on others. Virtually everything else on the internet (including your comments and Trevor's posts) can only be described as pornography. Some of you may question what it is, specifically, that I do not like about the internet. My first reaction would be to respond with "everything except the parts that involve me". However, that is not entirely true; I think that the technology and potential behind the internet are spectacular; it's the people I don't like. Or, more specifically, what the technology does to people.

Most people seem to think that the internet is a tool and entertainment center. In experienced hands, the internet usually becomes a giant brain filter that blocks out new ideas and different perspectives. Instead of using the web for learning and possibly finding out what is right (things that I say), most choose to fester in a tepid pit of ignorance and things that are wrong (whatever Trevor says). Rather than opening your eyes, the electronic Satan closes them; whispering sweet nothings in your ear all the while.

It's the fault of the internet for being too customizable, for allowing the user too much control over what they see and what they don't see. As a result, people become more fractured and less ashamed of their horrible faults. In the real world you can't find any "Three's Company" discussion groups. There are very few people that think dressing up like a rabbit and masturbating to animals having sex is acceptable outside of the internet. You can't set your boss to "ignore" he's riding your ass. Hell; the downfall of civilization hasn't come from a big red switch that reads "launch", it's come from a small grey one that says "block user".

Let's take a look at some examples of the internet doing what it does best; making me want to throw up. This is a pretty lightweight sampling of electronic depravity, I choose post anything more horrid than this simply because there are ladies present, and I am hoping that most of them are not the sort that are involved with pro-cannibal forums. Please note that it took me less than ten minutes to round up these web sites, so they aren't even anywhere near as bad as it gets.

House of Thin

Back before the digital age, we were a lot more subtle when encouraging teenage girls to become malnourished wraiths. Now, thanks to the internet, anorexics all over the world have a place to get together and openly support one another in their desperate struggle to become skeleton warriors like the ones Jason (of Argonauts fame) fought. This is a really great example of how people use the internet to ignore facts about the very real health dangers of eating less than a sparrow by only talking to other people that think the same nutrition-deprived way.

I think what sums this forum up is the subsection "Thinspiration: Pictures and Poems of perfection..."

Fat Forums

You didn't think I was just going to bitch out the skinny freaks, did you? I scorn all types of eating habits. Lord only knows I like a girl with something to hold on to, but these behemoths have taken it a little far. Big is beautiful? Big is likely to die at age 40, alone and unable to get off the floor to call the hospital.

Rate My Poo

Do I need to go in to this?

The Chainsman Institute

The wrecked, wretched mind that came up with this web site should be institutionalized itself. This is the sort of place that can only exist on the internet, where obsession is no longer a noun that does any justice. In fact, I think there needs to be a fresh term just for sites like this one. Fandom is standing in lines for tickets to Harry Potter. Fixation is attending a convention in costume. Obsession is having a Star Wars themed wedding. Mania is if you name your first born son after a Lords of the Ring character. The Chainsman Institute is when you put thousands of hours into creating a fictional mental hospital where only female cartoon characters are institutionalized (not to mention put into suggestive poses). I'm almost certain that if the internet did not exist, neither would the Chainsman Institute.

-Euegene "Thinspiration" Castilione

Several Girls Galore.

2006-04-04T23:58:00.000-07:00

There are people in this world that are jealous of the things that I have. It's fairly common that I find them trespassing on my estate. The scenario usually starts with the thug flinging himself at me, dagger in hand. This happens on an almost daily basis.

I deftly side-step the attack, leaving nothing but my swooping fur-lined cloak in harm's way. I protest with a laugh "That was my favourite cloak". Finding a new favourite cloak so frequently wears a fellow down, but a multi-millionaire playboy must look his best.

I have kicked the knife out of the assailant's hand at this point. "I...It's not fair", the interloper stammers, "Why can't I have all the wealth you have? What have you done to deserve all this?"

"Why, deserve what?" I chuckle as I pick the would-be assassin off the gold-inlaid marble floor and dust him off.

"A giant house built on top of a mountain that is actually a very large diamond," he says with greedy glimmer in their eyes, "Filled with supermodels that want nothing more than to spend all day tending to your every sexual whim."

I nod and smile in a condescending manner as he grovels at my feet, overcome with a sense of respect and awe.

The murderer's voice cracks with desperation as he bursts out, "To top it all off, you have somehow been granted superhuman strength and the ability to fly. How do you do it? Can you teach me how to be like you?"

The armed guards are dragging him away at this point.

"Why, there's nothing I do any differently than the common man" I say to the trespasser, who is now in the middle of a savage beating, "In fact, I would almost wager you are just as wealthy as I am. Wealthy in love of life, at the very least."

He is escorted out of my mansion and thrown to the hippogatormus pit, and I'm left to ponder my lot in life. Is it really acceptable for me to lead a life of such opulence? From my point of view it certainly is, but it seems like others disagree for some unknown reason. Such trivial matters should not be keeping me up at night, so I've come up with a solution.

I've decided to share the secret to my success, riches, massive harem, and inexplicable super powers. You may find this hard to believe, if you are stupid enough to think that the laws of nature allow me the strength to bend rebar with his eyelashes, but I owe all I have to magic. Magic wishes granted to me by a Djinni (often incorrectly called Genie) that was imprisoned in a screwed up Arab gravy boat.

So, all that leaves you with is finding a wish-granting Djinni of your own. Don't worry; it isn't as difficult as you might think. In fact, I'll even be as kind as you provide you with an easy guide!

The first time you'll need to do is pick up some gear and threads. For gear I can only tell you this much: most who go wandering out into the desert searching for treasure die of dehydration after going mad from the heat. As for threads, I'd suggest going for something Indiana Jones-esque, but failing that a 19th century British safari suit will work. Just make sure you don't set out in jeans and a Seahawks jersey, unless you want to look like a complete jackass...

Now that you're looking ruggedly sexy with your bullwhip and carefully groomed "3-day stubble", you're head out into the world to search for a Djinni that has been bound to this reality by an inanimate object. The first place I always look is in the crypts of long-dead Sultans, which are usually filled to the brim with magical vessels. Some might question why these ancient Sultans did not free these Djinn from their prison and use the magical wishes themselves, but I happen to know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. Most archaic Arab tombs can be found in the depths of the desert, far from civilization. How do you find them? You take a map of Saudi Arabia (or one of the surrounding countries), then plot out the areas furthest from the cities. I can guarantee that you will stuble accross either a secret tomb or treasure store or secret terrorist training camp.

Assuming you haven't been murdered by a band of 40 thieves or religious extremists, you will be sitting on top of a dune in the middle of the desert. How do you get from the crunchy layer of several miles of sand to the chewy nougat of an emperor’s crypt inside? By wandering around saying "open sesame". Those old middle-easterners came up with that back in the days when it wasn't a cliché, but a clever password no one would ever think of. After wandering around the desert yelling "open sesame" for a few days, a monolithic gateway will rise out of the sand, probably in the shape of an eerie open mouth. Either that or you'll die of exposure, but for our purposes we will assume this is not the case.

Once inside the tomb, be ready for a set of annoying "trials and tribulations". This can range anywhere from jumping from platform to platform in a 2-dimensional room while dodging jets of flame/bats/falling debris, to answering several riddles that are asked by an animated statue that speaks accent-heavy English even though it pre-dates the language. Once you're all through that nonsense, you'll find yourself in a big room filled with gold coins and jewels. If it pleases you, spend some time "swimming" through the gold like that venerable Disney character, Scrooge McDuck. Once you're done giving yourself painful bruises from thrashing about on a pile of metal, you'll want to give up on your Carl Banks homage start looking for the vessel containing the Djinni.

Djinn are usually trapped inside "oil lamps" which don't look very much like lamps at all, but rather gravy boats. Maybe the Arabs don't have much in the way of oil and use gravy instead. I'm about as xenophobic as they come, and new insights into foreign cultures upset my stomach. Make sure to rub any gravy boat or "oil lamp" that you come across, because that's how you get the Djinni out. Djinn can also be trapped inside other sorts of vessels, so make sure to give any vase you see a good rub as well. In general, it should be the longest non-sexual rubbing session you've ever taken part in (unless you get off on this sort of thing). I would question how a spell binding a being that is powerful enough to grant magic wishes to a gravy boat could be broken by a few rubs, but considering you can get into these tombs by saying "open sesame" good security was never really a part of Arabic life.

If you keep at it, you should have a vaporous purple monster talking to you in a booming voice of thunder soon enough. He'll probably say something along the lines of "HELLO MORTAL, HOW ARE THINGS GOING WITH YOU? WHAT MILLENIA IS IT? SAY, THANKS FOR GETTING ME OUT OF THAT SCREWED-UP ARAB GRAVY BOAT, DO YOU WANT SOME WISHES? I'LL GIVE YOU THREE IF YOU WANT."

Do not shit your pants when this happens, it's going to be really scary but if you defecate in your trousers he will take back his offer. No one gives out wishes to a poopy-bottom. In a clear voice, say that you would love some wishes, and that you are doing mighty fine.

This is it, the moment of truth now! What do you want? For the first two questions, make sure you come up with some really good things to ask for. Common favourites include:

- Money (hoo-yah)
- Power (useful for getting more money)
- Women (or men, if that tickles your fancy)
- Super-powers
- The meaning of life (phhht, lame!)
- Underwear that is always comfortable, clean, and warm (actually a very good wish)
- Unlimited food that appears on your table every day (or you could just ask for... money)
- Happiness (*cough* paxil *cough*)

You'll have to come to two choices, because the third you'll have to save for something special. No, you do not wish for more wishes with the third, if that is what you are thinking. Asking for more wishes is just going to piss the Djinni off, and you'll end up having the two you already asked for turning into cheesy trick wishes that teach you a valuable lesson and leave you without anything new except a crummy respect to the meagre things you already have. What you need to ask for as a third wish is.... A map detailing where all other magic lamps in the surrounding area can be found.

From that point on, you'll be as well off as I am, and will have a new respect for how difficult it is to find a new fur-trimmed cloak every other day.

I Was Born, Lucky Me, In The Land That I Love. Though I am Poor, I am Free.

2006-03-28T20:56:00.000-08:00

Hello, my friends!

This is Eugene Castiglione, here for a little honesty. There's something I want to get off of my chest. It will mark me as a traitor to Canada, but I'd rather die a Martyr than live under oppression. Ok, here goes...

I hate hockey. Perhaps those words aren't strong enough. I loathe hockey. Hockey jerseys make me wretch and dry heave. When I see a hockey player, I lose all control of my bowels due to rage. Hockey is to me what Israelis are to Palestinians.

To many outside of my country, this may not seem like a big deal. But as a man who grew up in a lower-class Canadian family, it alienated me from virtually everyone I knew. As a young lad the kids on my street would throw rocks at me as I went home from school, for the simple crime of not liking hockey. Well, my unrepentant lush of a father was also a notorious grifter who had suckered most of them out of their allowances, which probably partially contributed to their hatred of me. Regardless, that and my habit of correcting people's pronunciation were only the straws that broke the camel's back; a camel whose back had grown weary through long years of aversion to hockey.

Things did not get better with time, either. In fact, my alienation increased at a rate directly proportional to my hatred of hockey. When I was ten and I wrote an essay on how hockey fans are all mouth-breathing idiots with whores for mothers, my so-called best friend Joshy stopped letting me come over to his house to spy on his mom. At thirteen I was ostracized after the Stanley Cup protest I staged in the school cafeteria, where I smeared Canucks flags with my own excrement and stuck them into plates of mashed potatoes. I won't even bother to tell you what happened 8 years back after I cut the channel 11 feed of the Olympic gold-medal game to a reading of "The Tempest" in order to make those sports-watching philistines see the error of their ways.

Some of you may be wondering what I have against hockey. Why don't I go over my reasons for you?

The first thing I have against the "h" word is the obvious communist overtones. A group of long-haired men work together for a common goal in a barren, frozen field? Sorry Stalin, but you're going to have to go for something a little more subtle next time if you're going to fool this gentleman.

I also can not stand the frequent endorsement of pedophilia that detestable NHL is guilty of. From the disgusting commercials I see on TV romanticizing the foul man-boy relationship that takes place between a coach and his naive young forwards, to the use of songs by that despicable Garry Glitter, the entire sport is riddled with an attitude that can only be described as Hellenist. I wouldn't be surprised if the entire organization was a puppet corporation for NAMBLA.

Finally, I can't stand the devotion to trivia the fans devote themselves to. One time I was stuck next to a talkative hockey zealot on a bus, who felt it was his duty to give me a lecture on the career of Mark Messier. Those asinine pieces of information are now stuck in my mind forever now! I could've known how to suture an artery with the brain cells used to store the winner if the 2003 Stanley Cup. It's like I had the chance to put up a Vincent van Gogh in my art gallery, but decided to put up a painting of some dogs playing cards. The only minutia I care to be devoted to is military equipment, conspiracy theory, and books - thank you very much.

-Eugene "unrepentant lush" Castiglione

You Can Cry, You Can Mope. But Can You Swing From A Good Rope?

2006-03-23T20:57:00.000-08:00

With rampant paranoia over the rapidly industrializing Chinese menace, not to mention concerns over our patented western laziness (TM), North America's economic outlook could be described as somewhere between bleak and apocalyptic. The only outcome I can foresee is the complete destruction of the global market and a return to the caves and swamps from whence we came. Some, more optimistic than this pundit, would claim that things will balance themselves out with us getting marginally poorer while citizens of industrializing nations will become significantly more affluent. These so-called economist state that what we're seeing is simply a global re-adjustment; countries we have been dumping all the work on are somehow catching up to us due to a relatively stronger work ethic.

In either situation I would no longer be afforded the luxury of googling my name to see what comes up while at work, so I am adamantly opposed to any shifts where the USA isn't the big dog any longer. Some of you may be confused, considering that I am Canadian. Unlike most Canucks I hold no illusions about the position of my nation: Canada is the proverbial prison bitch of muscley ol' America, and if it turns out that China has a bigger economic cock it's bad for all of us.

Many say that the only way to make sure no other continent has a bigger econocock is to pump ours up, by way of aggressive stimulation of the local marketplace. Others say that the only sure-fire way of ensuring dominance is through military castration of competitors. I don't see why we can't swing both ways, so I've shot off a plan that will make sure no continent wastes resources like ours does for centuries to come.

Help out your local economy!

It all starts out in your home town; through a method I call involuntary capital recirculation. You may not know it, but there are plenty of people in your home town that have squirreled away their money in foolhardy savings plans and crackpot get-rich-quick investment schemes. These people have far more cash than the average person, but do not consume very much more. We can give these Ebenezer Scrooges a well-needed push to saving our economy by vandalizing their luxury cars.

Rip up the leather seats of that Jaguar XL over there. Smash the windows of that Audi A6 before India gets all of our programming jobs. Grind cheese into carpeting of that Lexus SC430 or Christmas quotas will not be met. Steal all the CDs and the CD player out of that Phaeton or communism will win! Throw them out, for to profit off these nationalistic crimes would be nothing short of treason. Don't feel guilty in the slightest, those car owners will go to their body shops the very next day and put a fortune back into the system. Congratulations, for the price of mildly inconveniencing a scant few you've saved capitalism in your home town.

Nation-wide consumer sexuality upgrades!

Only through forced sexual re-orientation can we hope to stand as the strongest consumer base on the planet. This may confuse some of you. However, it is an undeniable fact that those who indulge in the love that dare not speak its name also have a higher tendency to be college educated and work at well-paying jobs. They usually don't sire children either, leaving themselves with large amounts of money to spend on designer clothes and commercial flights to outer space.

By sending everyone to homosexual brainwashing camps we can not only send the average wage through the roof, but triple the rates of post-secondary education. We won't only be the richest in the world; we'll be the most unjustly smug as well! There will be those that question how any country that gives up on its children has a future. These people are obviously nothing more that bigots and religious extremists. When the population starts dipping we can buy new fully-grown people at bargain-basement prices from poorer nations like Russia or Ireland. Alcohol sales will take off like a cheetah with its tail on fire, and we'll finally be able to re-allocate our education budget to more important things, like guns and people to shoot said guns.

Aid the future by reintegrating those from the past into the workforce!

The amount of capital generated by death and the dead is nowhere near what it could be. At the moment a few piddly dollars are spent on a casket, urn, or service when some one departs, then nothing more. They lie around for their entire afterlives, taking up valuable real estate in our ground and on our mantels. I say it's time we put these deceased bums to work.

That's right; it's time to put the dead into the workforce. Let's start out with those painfully idle cadavers. I say we put them into three quality tiers. The first tier is the lowest; these corpses will used in bio-matter turbines as a cheap fuel source. Thanks for the low-cost electricity, grandpa! Tier 2 will be used for medical science and livestock feeding. Tier 3, naturally, will be used for human consumption. Yes, you'll be able to go down to your local McDonald's or Burger King and pick yourself up a McManwich.

Don't think I'll be satisfied with just putting bodies to good use, however. I demand that the souls of the dead cease their obnoxious resting and get back to fucking work like the rest of us. What's that you say? The dead can't hold jobs! That's hogwash perpetuated by the zombie-run media. Ghosts, spectres, and spirits of all sorts will be excepted to get jobs haunting offices, filling out paperwork and filing until the end of time. Zombies and vampires will be expected to take the most dangerous jobs in mines and oil rigs, getting paid less than living humans due to their void living citizen status.

I assume that, should everyone follow my plans, we'll all be just fine. But then again, we can always just invade other countries if this plan doesn't work. Er, pre-emptive invasion I should say.

-Trevor "Econocock" Record

Close Your Eyes And Hold Your Terror Close

2006-03-15T23:30:00.000-08:00

Well, I guess I slipped my publishing schedule by a day. I'm struggling to juggle things in my life right now, or at least that's what it feels like. Actually, I'm not really sure where all my time is going. How stupid, right? Anyhow, I want to expand on Eugene's article from last week.

Eugene is right, although I hate to make such an admission to a fictional character. I'm wasting my life away; I should be trying to get into the music gig. I'd better do it before I'm too old and full of common sense to want to become a "talent manager". That probably won't be too far away, considering how few there are above the age of 25 who think that babysitting a group of drug-addled, melodramatic musicians is glamorous. From there most move on to become McDonalds shift managers or accounts recieving pencil-pushers. I feel like that would be losing sight of the ultimate goal, which is American dream of owning a gold-plated swimming pool in the shape of a dollar-sign. By ostensibly claiming I want to "work for these artists" (shameless hacks under my command), I may be the first to fulfill this desire that beats deep within the heart of all.

I want to remark, before going any further, that "talent manager" is probably about the best oxymoron ever created. I also want to say sorry for that last joke. Moving along....

Below I've listed a couple of bands that I would like to create and exploit (aka manage). These are all bands I have made up myself; any similarities they have to existing bands are completely intentional but will be denied vehemently.

The Super Amigo Samba Squad (SASS)

This is a shout-out to my amigo Blake McStravick, who came up with the concept of the Super Amigo Samba Squad (which I shamelessly stole).

Is it a crime to want to want to create a Brazilian-influenced pop band whose name in acronym form is SASS? I state that if it is, I would not want to be considered right. Further, I would be inclined to perform acts of terrorism on anyone who is "right" (I'll hide under their in a hockey mask and jump out screaming when they aren't expecting it).

I plan for SASS to break through the charts by using subliminal advertising hidden within every third can of diet coke, and lewd music videos. Just how salacious are these videos? So sexual that a new term will have to be created, possibly something along the lines of "megerotic". By utilizing new technology in science in oscillating set technology, we hope to create a video that will display asses gyrating at rates never seen before outside of earthquakes of at least an 8 on the Richter scale. Further, space age polymers will be put to work to create tube-tops and miniskirts that defy the natural laws of physics. Finally, all models will be superimposed in front of suggestive clips of people eating hotdogs, trains entering tunnels, and rockets blasting off.

Third Empire

The Third Empire will be a synth-oriented post-punk band filled with bored looking brits stolen from bands dissolved due to member suicides. Most of their music will be repetitive crap, but they'll have lyrics about drug addiction designed make them seem marginally "smarter" than other music being played in clubs. Their name is a reference to the Nazi "3rd Reich"; publicly they will deny their name has any ties to neo-Nazism while I secretly spread rumors about it. If I play my cards right, I can artificially generate enough buzz about the band to get them simultaneously hailed as geniuses and vilified as Nazis.

The Fagettes

I need to be responsible for the creation of a "Riot Grrrl" band called "The Fagettes". I should elaborate, because the concept of need seems to be relative these days. Most people, when they use this word, mean that they need something in the sense that a network administrator needs another box of Krispy Kreme. I need to create a band called the Fagettes like a fish needs water or how freedom needs to be paid for by with the blood of penniless young men.

The Fagettes will probably sing songs about how they don't need any help to be loud and use power cords or something like that. To be honest, I couldn't care less. As long as they package rebellion into an easy to digest package, I'll probably be leeching enough money at least to pay off my mortgage. I can't really expect to be buying any dollar-sign shaped swimming pools with this band, much less the gold-plated variety. Of course, the great thing about the Fagettes won't be the money as much as the emotionally vulnerable, open-minded female fans. The only problem I can see with that is making the aforementioned fans get past the fact that I have a phallus.

The Journeying Wilkinsons

A folk-rock superband that I put together, then manipulate without doing any work. Because the members are already famous, they will be guarenteed to go platinum even if they only write one good song. So, basically, I just collect juicy cheques and the band sells itself.

-Trevor Record

Country Roads, Take Me Home, To The Place I Belong

2006-03-07T22:04:00.000-08:00

I just read what Trevor wrote last Tuesday. What a goddamn pussy, I can't believe I associate with him. Stay-at-home dad? Oscar Wilde? Dancing for men? Why doesn't he just save himself years of sexual frustration and just get a sex change, already. Besides his (albeit admitted) ambiguities, the asshole has his priorities all wrong anyway.

If I was Trevor, I would be looking to get into the bloated music industry. It's in his goddamn name. Trevor Record. That name alone should entitle him to a healthy amount of ethos-based acclaim from the critics. It's either that or winning a world record, and between you and me the bastard is not good or bad enough at anything to go that route. It's alright if I say that, he thinks that I'm writing a story about why I like to feed laxatives to puppies right now. I don't think he even reads these things anyway. He's busy playing violent video games, so he'll probably be so oversaturated with gore by the time I'm done he won't even be able to read this unless it's printed with a typeface that mimics blood splatters. He'll just come along and accept all the words of praise from you once I'm done. The way youth treat their elders these days, I shudder to think what'll happen to me once the alzheimer's kicks in.

Getting back on track... Trevor isn't the greatest musician in the world, so I don't think he is going to be in a band. That doesn't mean he can't get his slimy hands on any of that cocaine-covered music industry. Far from it; I would say that by staying away from pratfall of forming a band he actually stands the best chance of fame and fortune.

The managerial and production side of music, AKA the part that is not creative or talented in any way, is actually the part that makes all the money. You always hear about bands that make millions but are mysteriously poor. Aside from massive drug expenditures most of that money ends up in the hands of various retainers, hangers-on, and leeches. The way I see it, Trevor should get into the "Talent Manager" game.

Now for those of you who don't know, a Talent/Band Manager's job is doing pretty much everything for the band other than playing the songs. Sounds tough? Not really, it all amounts to sending out annoying press kits and begging club owners for bookings. More work that I'm usually up for, but a young guy like Trevor shouldn't have any problems.

It would be best if Trevor put the band together himself; that way he'll be able to scam the most money out of the band members. All that's left for him is to pick out a genre to exploit. I'm a John Denver type of guy personally, but the country music scene has been sort of crowded for the last few decades. I'm thinking that Trevor should probably just make a B-line for the easiest trendy cash-cow he can.

The easiest way to do that these days seems to be throwing together as many forms of music as you can without any regard for stylistic integrity, then calling it postmodern when some one claims you're derivatire. That bleepy-bloopy electronic music seems to be picking up steam again, and he'd better make sure to mix in a few or those god-awful distorted guitars. I'd bet if he threw some of that ebonic hate-rhyming his band would seem more accessible to the simians watching music television these days. He puts something like that together, the next thing you know he'll be falling backwards into gold-trimmed swimming pools shaped like dollar signs.

Anyhow, it looks like Trevor is getting tired of killing shadow people and giant robots, so I'd better publish this before he deletes it due to the racial slurs and comments questioning his sexuality. Once the first response to this pile of dung hits that cunt will not hesitate to take all the credit; he'll be emotionally unable to bring himself to put this dog in its grave.

-Eugene Castiglione

Up, Down, Turn Around, Please Don't Let Me Hit The Ground.

2006-02-28T23:51:00.000-08:00

The specter of lay-offs has been hanging around my office since September. It wasn't just conspiracy-theory-esque paranoia either; my department lost half of its staff and was moved out of the Nokia building due to downsizing. It was a source of annoying bleeding ulcers and desperate depression for several months. That was, until recently.

I found a way to make myself feel a lot better. Being the optimistic sort I am, I created a list of "backup-plan" careers that are so great I'm tempted to quit my current job just so I can do them instead. I've listed a few of the juicier ones below.

Stay-at-home Dad

From what I can tell, this is sort of like being a "stay-at-home" mom. That is, except you aren't expected to be as good at cooking, people will applaud you for doing what millions of women have done for ages, and you won't have any male friends at all. I've seen a few of these guys on TV shows making out likewhat they do is a big deal, a radical new form of equality. I would give my right testicle to be one of these guys. That is not enough. As far as I can tell, most of these guys have given up both. Of course, stay-at-home dads in general try to pretend that they work really hard raising their kids. If I was doing this, I would make it painfully clear that I am just a lazy bastard.

Male Stripper

Due to my complete lack of shame and ambiguous amatorial appeal, I think I would do great in a peeler bar. However, lacking the ample muscle mass many male strippers sport, I feel I might find myself outclassed by other, brawnier "dancers". Faced with no other option, save the unthinkable (regular exercise), I will do what any smart person does in such dire situations... I'll carve out a niche for myself.

There can be themed striptease acts for Superman or a priest that only wears a G-String, cross, and vest with tab-collar. Why can't there be a peeler act that emulates 19th-century poet Oscar Wilde? I'll make a name for myself as "Trevor the Dandy, with his 8-inch candy". With my stylish 19th-century clothes and androgynous good-looks, I'll embody a kind of sex appeal that ladies and gays all over the globe love. I'll refer to it as "unisexy". Yes, women-folk and homosexuals from miles around will flock to see the callipygian fop, Trevor Record. I'll be so fucking rich and famous that they'll probably put me in movies. Movies about Victorian pantywaists that get paid to take off their clothes, I suppose.
(Inspired by a conversation with Paula and a few others)

Gunslinger

From what I can gather, gunslinging is a dead business. The fact of the matter is that there has to be a supply and demand for such things. At the moment, there is little supply and virtually no demand at all. But if some one were to start an ore-rush on the asteroid belt between Jupiter and Mars, perhaps all that would change. If you have a quick draw, deadly aim, and a class-D star freighter, you'll be a hop, skip, and (6-month) jump away from fighting space pirates and mining robots over plutonium payloads on the cold fringes of the terrestrial sphere. That is to say, once science fiction has a mind-blowing orgasm all over reality.

I've made up my mind; this is what I want to do. Hell, I can't wait to be a space pistoleer. I'm going to battle so many banditos and befriend so many Jovian explorers it isn't even funny. I've already got a sidekick lined up for these plans; she's only a teenager, but she's got a fiery Irish temper and quick reflexes. I'm going to find fame, fortune, and eventually the icy embrace of death in the cold vacuum of space as an asteroidal gunslinger.

And At The Gates Of The Embassy Our Hands Met Through The Bars, As Your Whisper Stilled My Heart, "No, They'll Never Catch Me Now".

2006-02-22T19:01:00.000-08:00

I just found out that I'm probably going to be starting up "crunch time" at work. Basically, I will be going from a 40 hour working week to a 60 hour working week. I guess I'm cool with that, seeing how I could use the extra money. What does this mean for EISADIR? Maybe nothing, maybe that I will actually increase the amount of posts I make. I do take breaks when I am at work, which I sometimes use to write, so I may start updating more often than once a week.

***************

This is an open letter to the people in charge of the USA. The quality of your news programming, in recent years, has been on a steady decline. I would say that this reflects very poorly on not only your foreign policy, but your creativity. If this situation is not corrected promptly, I will be forced to cancel my subscriptions to all of your information media. I have detailed below everything that displeases me about your news shows.

First, I lack any true interest in the new antagonist that you portray so often in your programs. Really, religious guys that blow up buildings? Islamic Extremism lacks the profound malice that Nazism represented, or the sheer musk of terror that the Soviet Union wafted at us like the ass-stink of a fat, hairy bus-rider. Back in WW2 or the Cold War, people knew that they were supposed to hate the Krauts or the Ruskies. Just the mention of Bolshevism was enough to send any red-blooded middle-class male into a frothing rage. Now people are told that although it is ok to hate terrorists, it isn't acceptable to hate Muslims, or even Arabs! In fact, we're supposed to be tolerant, or even embrace them. Talk about mixed signals! Can you at least please stop calling the guys rioting over those Danish cartoons "protesters" and start calling them "terrorists"? That way I won't be confused about what my feelings towards these people should be.

I can see that the Jew-hating angle is being used by our villains again, but it really hasn't been played up enough to make my blood boil. The things that they're saying that are being put in the spotlight are basically true; namely that people in the west are spiritually bankrupt and that we shouldn't be killing so many civilians in the middle east. That doesn't make me angry, it makes me feel bad! Your news shows are obviously pure escapism, so I question your decision to try to make the protagonist an anti-hero. At the very least, I would like it if you put a friendly Southern Baptist preacher on the program offering word of reassurance every time Usama Bin Laden makes me question my beliefs. Then it should cut to scenes of terrorists getting their comeuppance.

When it comes down to it, the antagonist is frustrating to me. Just as I was getting used to that scoundrel Abu Faraj al-Libbi, he's arrested and dropped from the story-line completely! It seems easy for you to defeat these terrorists once they are found, but they have nearly limitless supply of "new recruits" that are more than willing to take their place. On top of it all, the head-honcho primarily spends his time in hiding, sending out the odd stern video tape whenever it floats his boat. How am I supposed to seethe at a villain that spends all his time cowering in a cave? I want to see him giving speeches to giant crowds, or scaling concrete walls in a black "cat-burglar" costume with a knife in his mouth.

Although I respond well to the extremist's "revenge" motivation, it isn't used nearly as often enough. The whole "hating freedom" motivation seems like a bit of a stretch to me, freedom isn't something I respond to as well as justice. I want videos of guys in turbans strapped with explosives saying "your children shall bleed for your crimes in my land". Then I guess we get to see a brawny GI burst through a window and karate-chop them in the neck as he coolly exclaims "Not on my shift". Write this shit down, I want it on the 6 o'clock news by tomorrow.

Further, this whole sub-plot in Iraq is confusing to me. As far as I can tell it isn't even a "sub-plot" at all, but rather an entirely different storyline. I found that even my meager intelligence was insulted somewhat when Iraq was accused of connections to terrorists. The entire story has been dragging on for long enough as it stands anyway, and I would like to politely request that this program be cancelled.

Your natural disaster specials are good, but I would say that they have fallen behind the work of your foreign contemporaries. I would almost go as far as to say that you've fallen into a rut of imitating foreign news media, but offering less awe-inspiring natural disasters. I mean, sure, I thought that Katrina was scary and I felt sorry for the people that lost their homes... But part of me kept thinking about how the whole thing seemed sort of grade school in comparison to the Asian Tsunami.

Oh yeah, and please come up with another good story about a pretty white girl that is in trouble somehow. You know, like she is in a coma or was murdered by her parents.

Regards,
Trevor Record

What Are You Changing? Who Do You Think You're Changing? You Can't Change Things, We're All Stuck In Our Ways.

2006-02-16T23:45:00.000-08:00

Old man Eugene's post last week got me thinking about kids. Mostly, I suppose, about how the world could stand to do away with children. Don't get me wrong; they have their good points, but it is my opinion that those few good points are severely outweighed by the strain on resources they cause. The snot-nosed brats are basically only good as an excuse for us to make video games, cartoons, and have sex. I theorize that without kids all three would be more fun anyway; the first two being more universally geared towards adults and the last being performed without fear of pregnancy.

Other than excrement and annoyance, I can't think of anything that children actually produce. They are loud, smelly, and most importantly they are incredibly stupid. If you leave a 1-year-old in a room filled with ample amounts of food, they will starve to death in a matter of days. There isn't a single other creature that is this stupid after one year. The average 5-year-old, left to their own devices, would be more likely to die of exposure than make it on their own in the world. It isn't until around 16 years that they start to become even remotely close to adult humans. What the hell is that? That has got to be the longest pupation period on this entire god-forsaken rock.

It seems to me that the only thing we can do to deal with this "children" problem that has eaten away at our society like mildew is to give up birthing the little monsters at all. Now, I know what you're all going to say. "But Trevor, if we stop having kids then the race will die out!" Don't even bother dickweed; do you really think I haven't thought of that? I'm a goddamn certified genius, with a master's degree in knowing everything there is to know and a goddamn PHD in putting cunts like you in their place.

I'm not against people being born. I mean, if there weren't any people there wouldn't be a space program, motorcycles, or anything else that is cool. What I'm against is people having to go through childhood. All of our problems stem from how long it takes to develop due to our lack of instinct. If things that are required to be a human were instinctual, like speaking a common language and not shitting yourself, things would be solved for us. Childhood would be finished after a few months in orientation school! However, knowing such things would take extra time for us to develop before we're born. Hell, knowing language from the start might bump things up to several years.

It would be unreasonable to expect women to go on maternity leave for upwards of three years. What we need to do, as a species, is give up uterine live birth. Yes, I suggest we switch to becoming Monotremes, just like the noble platypus. Basically, the males would fertilize the females in the spring. The females would lay eggs. You'd sit on it from time to time or just leave it under a lamp, then 3 years later a full-grown person would burst out, ready to join society.

Not convinced this way is better? Let's weight it against our current method...

Live-Birth Reproduction (LBR): Sex runs the risk of producing offspring, even using protection
Oviparous Reproduction (OR): Sex performed for leisure except in spring.

LBR: Child becomes a loathsome burden that drains resources for 18 years or longer.
OR: Egg takes up some space, but takes care of itself after 3 years.

LBR: Family dysfunction. Child abuse. Parental issues that are emotionally crippling later in life.
OR: A casual acquaintance with the genetic parents. Like the shell of the egg, everyone will have a healthy emotional wall of detachment.

LBR: Kids that defecating and urinating all over themselves until they are a least two and possibly continuing for years later.
OR: Humans born "potty-trained".

LBR: Poverty-stricken people dying of starvation forced to resort to dehumanizing familial cannibalism.
OR: Poverty-stricken people dying of starvation able to make themselves delicious omelettes.

LBR: Putting up with the screams and cries of annoy children during your coach air flight.
OR: Always taking first class because you have so much extra spending money due to a lack of money-leeching rug-rats.

LBR: Teletubbies and Sesame Street.
OR: An extra HBO.

LBR: Trevor Record seeming like a monster for disliking kids.
OR: Trevor Record seeming like a saint for showing people the right way of doing things.

She Knows I Can't Read, She Knows I Can't Write.

2006-02-09T23:11:00.000-08:00

My creativity levels have dipped in the last few months. Yes, even a golden beacon of ideas and fresh perspectives such as me sometimes has trouble coming up with new and interesting things. I suspect that my 5th-dimension muses are doing this to me in an attempt to make me feel like a regular pleb. I guess they're trying to teach me humility or some other nonsense that only the vulgar common folk should have to worry about.

Whatever the cause may be, I've been finding myself in an unable to get any work done, staying at home every day putting off doing important things kind of mood. I needed to energize my creativity center; the thin mucous-covered membrane found between the cerebrum and corpus callosum that I just made up. I decided to fill myself with a heapin' helpin' of childhood wonder and magic in order to accomplish this, considering how kids and wizards always seem to be full of sweet, nectary energy. How did I plan to do this? By watching tons of cartoons by Studio Ghibli, the creators of such gems as My Neighbor Totoro and Spirited Away.

I've systematically acquired and watched every movie ever created by Studio Ghibli, and although I haven't absorbed any childhood or warlock creativity power it has sparked my interest in the young*. With a newfound interest in young underdeveloped humans, otherwise known as kids or children, I decided to look to the streets for answers to some questions floating around in my mind. What do these kids think of current events? Where are they coming from? When are they going to stop being snotty little kids and start being respectable people? How do they manage to live without regular work? Why do they think that it's ok to piss in their pants?

I found a group of children amongst an apparatus called a "playground", and took the opportunity to ask them some questions. I started by asking their opinion on the specter of Nazism that hangs over our fair nation like the proverbial sword of Damocles.

"Hey, all ya'll kids over there!" I yelled at a small group of these youths, "get over here and answer me some questions."

A chubby, redheaded one in a striped red shirt and garish purple corduroy pants cautiously approached me. He had more freckles than most people have skin.

"My mom says we're not supposed to talk to strangers" he whined, pointing over to a group of picnicers at a bench.

I swaggered over him, spilling brandy from my thermos. He stepped back to a pair of his comrades, apparently looking for backup. The first was a little girl with grubby pigtails and a gap-tooth wide enough to drive a semi-truck through. The other was a lanky boy that was sure to awkwardly fumble through school to become an optometrist one day. You can just tell when some one is going to be an Optometrist.

I hollered in my best outside voice, "You kiddies ever heard of a man named Adolph Hitler? How about them Nazis? You ever shoot a Nazi?"

The kids looked like deer caught in a headlight. Nazi sympathizers, the whole lot of them.

Little gap-tooth timidly spoke up, "M-m-my teacher says that it's bad to hurt people."

I was livid. My Grandpa didn't lie about his age so he would be allowed to enter the army, then get transferred from the army due to insubordination and end up as a naval supply officer on a ship that never saw action just so these 5-year-old fascists could go around spreading their hate.

"You little punks can go hiel Hitler elsewhere," I slurred, "I like my country filled with freedom and my Nazis in the ground feeding worms."

About that time their parents came up and tried to take them away. They started yelling at me or something, but I was too busy chanting WW2-era anti-Nazi slogans to really pay any attention. I guess I didn't really learn much about little kids, other than their racist allegiance with a Teutonic menace from the past. However, I did manage to snatch a pack of juice from one of the parents before I heard the police sirens, so the day was not a total loss. I flipped those Hitler-loving tykes the bird and stormed off with a cancer-stick hanging out of my mouth. I think I looked like a badass, but it was hard to tell with all the crying little kids around me.

Anyhow, I'll continue my in-depth investigation of this "childhood" phenomenon next week. Right now I have to lay low until the fuzz gets distracted and lets down their guard.

-Eugene Castilione

*It's also made me wish that I was a 13-year-old girl living in a world filled with magic creatures, but that's a story for another day.

I'm Into Having Sex, I Ain't Into Making Love.

2006-02-02T23:23:00.000-08:00

Well, the room-mate situation could be described as "hopeless" at best. The person I picked did not get back to me for a good 4 days, only to tell me that she went with a different place. I tried phoning a few other guys, but I have been feeling kind of bad about taking so long to get back that I have been delaying it (silly, I know). Some of them seemed like they would be ok to live with, but I feel sort of like I'd be settling if I went with them anyway. I think I will just continue to have people over to look at the place, then if I meet some one I think is cool just tell them they can have it on the spot.

**************

I call this one Hip-Hop "culture", the final solution. Please understand that I think there is some good rap out there, but that there are no good rap enthusists. Ever. End of story.

The whole "rap" subculture has been going for over 20 years after it started gaining mainstream attention, and it shows no signs of waning (in fact one look at the billboard 100 will show it is doing the opposite). It will probably eventually eat the remainder of popular music alive like a malignant tumor taking over the sluttiest girl you've ever known. Instead of killing, this tumor makes that girl stupider and shallower.

The hip-hop world is, without a doubt, the most consumeristic subculture in Western History. If you don't believe me, try taking a look at this web site. We are talking about a culture that is so obsessed with image, there are people out there blowing their welfare cheques on $300 jackets. Puffy jackets, ugh. A subculture that has convinced people their primary goal in life should be to make money and spend it all frivolously on clothes and cars. Rich people really couldn't ask for a better lower-class, to be honest.

No matter what we do our streets are always going to be cluttered with "gangstas", "wangstas", "thugs", or whatever else these jackasses are calling themselves. They're like zombies, only you aren't allowed to take their heads off. The novelty has long worn off and all that's left are throngs of emotional and mental 5-year-olds who take themselves way to seriously. With no other choice left, I have come up with a final solution.

I'm going to force the "thugs" to grow the hell up. How? By introducing new slang. Yeah, just what they need, right? Below is a list of slang I came up with for people who are 26 but still spend more money on sneakers than others the same age as them spend on suits. These are things said people need to start thinking about.

Back 2 da cryb: A phrase used to describe feelings of nostalgia.
Pronunciation: (Bak' * too * dä * kr1b)
Example: Shit, Powa Rangas be on the tee-vee, that bring me back 2 da cryb.

Buryin' ma rolly: To come to the realization that things you once held as important are actually shallow and petty.
Pronunciation: (bûr'y1n * yô * roe'le)
Example: I took a look at tha kicks I used up all ma' skrilla on instead'a payin' fo' ma shorties food, felt like a pussy. I was harsh buryin' ma rolly.

Wastin' all tha dead presidents: Repulsion over waste of money.
Pronunciation: (weighs't1n * ol * tha * ded * prez'1'dents)
Example: Look at Tyrel, wastin' all tha dead president on swangas.

Hatin' on yo'self fo playin': Regret over coupling with some one that you do not know or do not like.
Pronunciation: (haet'1n * ôn * yô'self * foe * plae'1n)
Example: After Brenda left I was harsh hatin' on ma'self fo playin'!

Pourin' out yo cristal: To be disgusted at oneself for their decadent lifestyle in general.
Pronunciation: (pôr'1n * out * yô * kris'tôl)
Example: After getin' blunted fo that fifth night in a row, I was pourin' out ma cristal.

He frontin' bein' ma doggy: To feel that some one's friendship is faked for personal gain.
Pronunciation: (hee * frunt'1n * bee1n * mô * dô'gee)
Example: Fuck Jerome, he frontin' bein' ma doggy, I know he be hatin' on me when I turn ma back.