Stuff you're never gonna read

This is the stuff you're never read. You're never gonna read it because you don't care, and you won't look, and I stopped writing, and if I stop writing, why should you keep reading? Well, you shouldn't, so by all means, don't read this.

Don't read it because you can't answer my questions, and don't read it because I can't answer yours. Don't read about my life, because it's not yours, and you only care about it as much as it is like yours, and my life isn't like yours, because you are confused and don't know what to do, and what you want, and where to go, and I know all of those things. I've got it all figured out. I've got all the answers. If I wanted to, I could write them all in a book, and the book would be called, "How To Do Everything Write and Never Make Mistakes", but I'm not going to, because that's not part of the plan. Writing books about living life isn't the right answer -- one down, eight jillion more to go -- figured it out yet?

So I know all the ansewrs. You don't know all the answers. Maybe you don't know any. But, if you read this, you would know one: "Don't write all the answers down in a book". But, no one reads this, so I was right -- you don't know any of the answers. Where does that leave us? Well, it leaves you with questions, and it's gonna leave me with a sick job, hot wife, a phatty sailboat to sail around the world...or is it? I can't tell you, because then I would be giving away too many answers, and I've already given away one.

I was going to reveal something else at the end of this post. Something big. A big secret, a trick I've learned. It doen't always work, but about 2 out of 3 times it will let you know what to do, and the other third, you will just have to use your judgement, which is what you should be using now. But, when I thought about it, I decided you might be happier without the trick. It will save you time, make you richer, happier, more productive, smarter, better looking, more confident and friendlier, but it's kind of like cheating, and if you do it, you'll have to live with that for the rest of your happy, perfect, successful, fulfilling life. As for me, I'm just going to keep chugging away, waiting and watching, not caring about a thing in the world, because I know all the answers and you don't know shit.

What the shit.

So, it's 9:42 in the morning on saturday and I;ve aready biked 12 miles. Unfortunately, it was in a 10 mile race. One goddam turn in the whole course and I missed it and rode 2 miles out of my way. Typical. Life's a bitch, and it's too early to deal with this kind of bullshit. Bitch, please.

I don't post much anymore - it's because i just dont care about you.

scribbs is out. way out.

no time for blogging

My world is spinning. Last night, my head was spinning, but today, my world is spinning. There is too much to do, and too little time, and there isn't enough time to blog, and there isn't enough time to watch tv, or movies, or read silly books. There is only time for reading big books, and smart books, and writing papers, and thinking about hemingway, and there's barely time for that. I hope there is time to think about hemingway, at least there will be that. There's no time for eating, and certainly no time for cooking, and im worried that there wont even be time for tennis. There's no time for apostrophes, or capitalisations, or grammar, or spell-check. i almost feel like there's no time for life. my world is spinning, spinning around and around, up and down. somewhere in the blur is life, and in ways, when i spin really fast, life gets bigger, and longer, and all spread out. the problem is, life really just gets distorted when i spin too fast, and i cant see it clearly and i dont know what life is, and i dont know what living is, and i dont know anything other than that i have no time, and i certainly dont have time to be writing this, at work, right before i lock up, and arm the alarm, and walk back, at midnight, in the moderate cold of a september night in the middle of the wheatfields.

The blog is upside down

Someone turned my blog upside down, or inside out, or maybe just turned it around, because it doesn't look the same. This blog has been my outlet from the basement. The outlet from where I spent so much time, rarely venturing out, living a pleasant, quiet, thoughtful life. I stayed in the basement, reading, leaving to bike, or eat. Sure, I occasionaly went to the city, or the bar, or the store, or blocksucker, but mainly, I just thought and blogged and read in the basement. Well, I'm not in the basement anymore, and there is no one in the basement to put what comes out of there onto the internet. So now, all you have is me - not exactly scribbs, but more of, what scribbs changed into, or even, what scribbs used to be before he went into the basement. Now I am still in a basement, but its not my basement. Actually, the basement doesn't have internet, not yet, fucking slow ass cable company, so I'm in the maxey lab. No, not maxey pad. Maxey lab. The point is, I don't know what to tell you, too much has happened, too much of nothing, and I can't tell you what it all is, and probably, you don't care. I'm in a new place, that is old, seeing the old people, who all look new. The LTLF isn't here, but she will be soon. All I want to do is jam, but no one here knows my songs... Maybe I'll be back, maybe I won't. Getting internet will help a lot, but that won't happen for a couple weeks. For now, take it easy, and keep reading. I've started The Mill on the Floss, by Georg Eliot. I'm also reading the world, but the words are too big to understand.

Gardening

People have been bitching about The Success Blog. Well, they are just going to have to keep bitching because this blog is for me, not you, and if you don't like it, then you just must not be smart enough to understand how brilliant it is. Or, you could just go see something more brilliant, like Garden State, which I saw tonight, and made me happy to be in love. Zach Braff is still the man...and I am still the reddleman. Until next time, keep on with your bitching, but don't ride in that goofy motorcycle sidecar.

The Reddleman

This post is about the reddleman, and it starts out slow; but--as is so with life--hard work and a bit of luck will hopefully churn out a worthwhile ending. The reddleman has come to me from Thomas Hardy, and from him, through me, he comes to you:

When he drew nearer he perceived it to be a spring van, ordinary in shape, but singular in colour, this being a lurid red. The driver walked beside it; and, like his van, he was completely red. One dye of that tincture covered his clothes, the cap upon his head, his boots, his face, and his hands. He was not temporarily overlaid with the colour; it permeated him.
The old man knew the meaning of this. The traveler with the cart was a reddleman--a person whose vocation it was to supply farmers with redding for their sheep. He was one of a class rapidly becoming extinct in Wessex, filling at present in the rural world the place which, during the last century, the dodo occupied in the world of animals. He is a curious, interesting, and nearly perished link between obsolete forms of life and those which generally prevail.

This is the reddleman.

During the course of Return of the Native, the reddleman is in constant motion, yet, he is unquestionably the most constant of the characters in the novel. He is a traveler and a wanderer by trade, homeless by choice. Nevertheless, he is a good man, with good morals, good intentions, good loves, and a good head. He sells reddle because he chooses to, and as soon as he chooses not to, he will cease to sell reddle and put his skills to another trade. He loves a woman, and remains in love with her throughout the novel - as he courts her, as she refuses him, as she marries another, and finally again, as she, once a widow, marries him. His love is not one of lust or greed; his allegiance is to her. His goal - her happiness. His actions - selfless. The reddleman is free. He travels where he wishes, he does what he wishes. He doesn't let other people's ideas and judgments limit his possibilities. He walks his own path, and finds it well. Parents sometimes tell their children that if they do not mind their elders, the reddleman will come to get them while they sleep, but this reddleman, despite his devilish appearance, harbors nothing at all to fear and brings nothing but help to anyone he can. The reddleman is good, admirable, strong, and smart.

Can I be like the reddleman?

But wait. There is more. The reddleman ceases to sell reddle. He becomes, slowly, white, once again. His reddle fades, but does his freedom fade with it? Can he remain the reddleman that I so admire without selling reddle? He has changed greatly, it would seem, he tells me, "You mustn't judge by folks in general...Still I dont know much what feelings are now-a-days. I have got so mixed up with business of one sort and t'other that my soft sentiments are gone off in vapor like. Yes, I am given up body and soul to the making of money. Money is all my dream." No reddleman, how wicked! But, he teases. Yes, the reddleman has dawned clean white, and fine clothes, and has endeavored to take up an "honorable" profession which yields great income, but has he truly changed? No. He has not. He tell me, "What a man has been he may be again." I think I know what he means.

What does the reddleman mean?

The reddleman tells me this, just as he tells the woman he has loved this, after her times of difficulty, after she has gained a baby and lost a husband, and would now, once more, make a perfect bride for the reddleman. He has made these changes because, while he does not care what society things, he cares for society, and society's thought is not so easy to bend as one's pursuits, which are, and ought to be, flexible, fresh, and changing. The reddleman ceases to sell reddle because it just wouldn't do to be unable to touch his bride on her wedding day for fear of smearing her wedding gown with red ochre. It simply wouldn't do for a child to be reared by a thoroughly red father. And primarily, it just wouldn't do for a family’s house to be made inside of a reddle-van. So, the reddleman takes up another trade. Yes, he has 'devoted himself to making money', but his devotion is not to money, but to love. One can hardly think that he will seek more money than such as his other devotion requires; and, because she is such a woman who, like the reddleman, lives most merrily when living modestly, the requirement is unlikely to be much. The reddleman teaches us that we are our own and do not belong to a profession. Rather, our profession belongs to us, or, at least, is one which we may possess for as long as it suits us.

Can I be a reddleman?

This may all be a bit obtuse, and, to be honest, if it is a bit difficult to follow and extract my meaning, it is because I am not entirely sure what meaning I am meaning to follow. But, something tells me there may be something the reddleman can teach me.

I am the reddleman.

A few days ago, I decided to put aside intentions of mainstream success, financial security, and the promise of something I could quite likely manage at reasonably well for something I am afraid of, both because I worry that I cannot do what it demands and because failure seems so easy and so costly. Today, NW asked me if I was still thinking about law school. I told him no. I told him I didn't want to be the person that would turn me into. But is that fair? Is that true? The reddleman is the reddleman, reddle or no. Can I not be the reddleman too, regardless of the which direction I head? Is this an option I should discount? Or is every option one worth considering? A few days ago, I was ready to put everything into learning English literature and then teaching it, and that is a commitment made without a great deal of confidence at all in my ability to succeed in such a calling. Today, I am reconsidering going to law school. I don't know why. My only comfort is that I think, if I remember him, the reddleman's lesson is that there is no trade that is inescapable, and no professional who cannot put himself above his profession. Does the reddleman deceive me? Am I deceiving myself? I promised a worthwhile ending, and hopefully, I won't disappoint, but, you will have to wait for that ending, because I don't know where it is, nor when it will come. I am without the reddleman's constancy, and I am without his confidence, but I may share a bit of his situation, I imagine that we all do.

Where is the reddleman?

I am lost. I can't very well hide it at this point, all I can do is call for help. So, from Postal Service:

Will someone please call a surgeon,
you can crack my ribs and repair this broken heart,
that you're deserting
for better company.

The "must surely be better than the last post" post

Yes, the last post sucked. And yes, Villette still sucks. But today, a new, supreme level of suck is awarded to The Denver Post. I hope you agree.

Way back when, before all this presidential nonsense and stealing of Bradbury's titles, our buddy Michael Moore made a movie about a school shooting. But, it wasn't really about the school shooting, it was more about guns. But, it wasn't really about guns either, because it was most about fear. It was about fear and the media. And to that extent, it wasn't so dissimilar from his latest debacles. I don't want to talk politics though, this post is about the Post, so MM's ideas on the media more appropriately fit my bill. His point, more or less, was that the mainstream medias focus on violence and gore and tragedy in the news fosters an atmosphere of fear which plagues America and drives us to handgun ownership, and then, to handgun use, because we are constantly afraid of everyone else in our world. I'll leave you to judge my summary as accurate or not, and frankly, it doesn't matter, this post isn't about MM, it's about the Post.

This morning in the Post, I saw this article on the front page, with the big front page photo. Blah blah, more homicide criminals are getting away, blah blah. Typical fear-inducing shit. I didn't really get upset until I opened up to 6A, where the story continued, and found myself confronted with a massive inset. Taking up more or less the entire page was a two part graphic. On top, there was a street map of the city, with 61 numbered circles scattered about on it. The 61 circles represented the 61 homicides that have occurred in Denver since January 1st. About half the circles were dark, representing "cleared" homicides, whose cases have been closed, while the other half where white, representing homicides which were still under investigation. Then, below the map, and taking about twice as much space, was a very neat and orderly chart. The chart had 4 columns. In the far left was the light or dark numbered circle which corresponded to a similar circle on the map. Following it were columns labeled, "Date", "Weapon", and "Synopsis". For example, circle 1 is followed by:

1.(dark) Jan. 1 Handgun Victim shot after argument.

Or, there is number 10, a special Valentines day homicide.

10.(dark) Feb. 14 Lamp/Hands Victim beaten to death during an altercation.

Then, of course, there are the light circles, like number 27.

27. (light) April 25 Bludgeon/cutting tool Victim beaten and stabbed, then set on fire.

61 of these delightful rows, in beautiful, spread out, roomy, attractively glory occupied page 6A of the August 10th 2004 Denver Post, begging to be read, to be absorbed, to be shocked and wondered at. This, certainly, is journalism at its finest. 61 top stories, all put into one, with a graphic so I can see which numbers happened closest where I live, or where I work. Easy to read, easy to see, easy to understand. The perfect layout, to be sure.

Then, I thought more, and I began to see all of the wonderful things I could do with such an article! With ease I can county which weapons lead to a faster resolution of the case, and which have left police stumped. Which "synopses" are the most difficult for the police to sort out? Where ought I commit my homicide on the map? It is clear that some areas lead to arrests while others lead to mysteries. Surely I would rather be the latter. So many uses.

But so many fears! So many people killed? It is a miracle it has not been me! I should be more safe. Look at all the handguns used! I should have one, what else will prevent me from becoming like number 40?

40. (Light) June 17 Handgun Victim shot for no known reason.

How terrible! There are so many things to fear! According to this alone, there are 31 killers out there running the streets right now! They will surely come to kill me.

It's an imperfect world we live in, and there will always be darkness. I cannot make these homicides go away. We can all try, but they will never completely disappear. I thought for a moment about why this is so offensive, after all, I only just watched a movie about a prostitute serial killer, and recommended it as a great movie, though not a greatly enjoyable one. Is there a difference between that and this? Both are depictions of real events. Both make me feel uneasy, both show me things which probably make me afraid. But, I think, there is a difference. Where both subjects are dark, the film's outlook, presentation, and mood, are similarly dark, sad, and frustrated while the presentation of the Post's article is no different than if they had been listing dates and places for te fair. There was no depth to this chart. No thought. There was no understanding. There were no people. Only numbers, light or dark, dates, weapons, and synopses.

Bronte is a Hussy

What have I been doing lately? Why have posts been so sparse? What will come of this post? Will it be a frivolous piece about some other odd movie I have seen, a worried, frightened, and uncomfortable post about my own life, or perhaps a new piece of work, a new song, or rhyme, or some other slight frivolty? As to the first, yes, it will likely include some mention of a recently viewed film. To the second, no, for now, my fears are somewhat lessoned, my faith somewhat restored, and my love still constant. And as for the third, perhaps a new bit of rock, I will only do as much as to direct you back here, from whence you can find a new recording if it suits you. Now, if the reader finds that my tone in this post has become unpalatable, perhaps too flitty, too pretentious, or too forced, my only advice is to weather the storm, as I am, until I finish my marathon reading of Villette. There is something in Bronte that strongly disagrees with me, and I would not be at all surprised if it finds similar discord with you. Nevertheless, it must be born, and I will do my best to bear it well.

A few nights past, I finally managed to work up the courage to watch Monster. I was not shocked, nor surprised, but, sadly, only affirmed in my expectation that watching a film in which so beautiful a woman is made to look so ugly could hardly be not both un-enjoyable and unsettling. Nevertheless, if Charlize Theron's performance can be measured by how thoroughly she replaced any glimmer of the self she has shown in other films with the persona of Aileen Wuornos, her performance was clearly one of brilliance. Due in large part to that, but also simply to the power of the true story which the movie follows as well as solid filmmaking, the movie was indeed moving, powerful, and engaging, if not pleasurable. Once all is said and done, I just want Charlize to be hot again.

At the beginning of this post, the reader surely assumed that some explanation or excuse for such sparse posts was on the way, and, as of yet, that thirst remained unquenched. Do not accuse me of misdirection and falsity, however, for the explanation and excuse is on it's way. I made a decision - or, not so much made a decision, but have come to a conclusion - or, not so much came to a conclusion as had a realization - as to what I should like to do with the next several years of the life, if all my wishes were granted. I've done some research, and a bit of thinking, and have set my sights on Graduate study after all. No law school, no work, no tech school, no China - well, maybe China, if my first intentions fail. No, I think I should be most content if I could secure a place as a doctoral student in a well-known and respected English Literature graduate program. The realization that if I can manage to be accepted into a reasonably reputable program, finances are likely, and in some cases, guaranteed to take care of themselves, in addition to the finally clear belief that I truly do want to spend the rest of my life in school, learning and teaching, have been heavy influences in this quest. I suppose, that in hindsight, such a path has been that which I have truly wished to follow since before I even began High School, and perhaps, all the other things I have contemplated have been mere distractions, enticing me with their ease, their wealth, and variety.

The point is, with this newfound direction comes newfound pressure. And reader, let me assure you, shit is hitting the fan. In the coming weeks, I need to read about a thousand pages of Victorian Lit, read a similar amount of 20th century American Lit, read a lesser amount of Medieval Lit, and decide upon, begin to research, and prepare a proposal for a Thesis which will need to be finished by September 20th. On top of that, I will need to find such programs as I want to be in and will possibly accept me as well as some that will want to accept me and I will possibly want to be in. Finally, I will have to switch gears from my very light studying for the LSAT, for which I was both excited and confident, to more vigorous studying for the GRE, but mainly, the GRE subject test in Literature, which seems surprisingly daunting, particularly given my inability to remember names for the life of me. Even more sickening that all of this, however, is that I am blogging about it, and surely, the reader would not give even a shilling for such dry and worthless commentary. Thus, I change direction to focus on a different, and similarly uninteresting aspect of myself.

I am a concept person, not a fact person. I remember ideas, explanations, moods, stories, whatnot, all fine. But names, numbers, dates, facts, titles, words, and any other manner of thing that I can't reason out, escapes me entirely. My mind is one chopstick short of an efficient utensil for retaining such knowledge. If I can stab the thing at hand, and pierce it's surface and thereby obtain a grip of its inner workings, I may manage to pick it up. But if I must rely on scooping and gleaning and thus, remembering, I am quite a failure.

While I am in the neighborhood of failures, I cannot help but mention Villette, which is yet more painful that Jane Eyre, and has had the awful effect of affecting my writing and making it as you have seen it. The entire matter leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and I can think of no suitable alternative than to simply put an end to the silly matter at once by thus concluding the most Victorian, and the most awful post ever. For such writing I will earn naught but a firm reprimand and the loss of what few readers my modest work presently has. Nevertheless, I take my wages to my pillow, will pass the night counting them.

Scribbs Doesn't Know

So pretty much all I've been doing lately is reading Villette and watching movies. It's an odd way to go through life, and as, for some reason, I get ever tireder and begin to take so many naps that the day and night blend into one Bronte-drenched sleepstate, I feel a bit as though I myself am going through one of those Victorian era fever-stages that, when I finally awake from it, unable to remember the past several months, my life will have changed, and Part the Second will have begun.

Tonight's flick was Eurotrip. I wanted Say Anything, but it wasn't there, and I still can't work up the courage to see Monster. Thus, my night was filled with mediocre writing, mediocre acting, mediocre entertainment, and a lot of boobs. Now, to be fair, it had it's moments, and actually, it had quite a few of them, and they were quite funny, and, on the other side of things, the boobs, while plentiful, weren't that plentiful, and it was certainly no Mulholland Drive, which I still can't make heads or tails, beyond the fact that I'm certain there were two chicks goin' at it during the coarse of the otherwise incredibly confusing plot. Anyway, the point is, the most brilliant performance was that of none other than Matt Damon, whose role, though quite limited, rocked. You go Matt, that second bourne movie wasn't anything to sing and dance about, but you'll find glory again soon enough, im sure.

The truth is, however, that there is more going on in my life than movies and Victorian novels. There is love. And recently, my love has gone on a eurotrip of her own, and, quite frankly, I wish I was eurotriping with her, for a number of reasons. Sure, I would love to see new places, do new things, and meet new people, not to mention how I could stand to make a few of the dollars she is making over there (hers is an all-expenses paid eurotrip, plus wages for work), but really, I wish I was there so I could be with her. Again, there are a million reasons I want to be with her, but I can't deny that among them is a desire fed by jealousy, worry, fear, and anxiety. It's not exactly that I'm worried that Matt Damon will soon be singing about all the things Scribbs doesn't know. I trust her, and I think, and hope, that that trust is well placed. The thing is, when that certain thing that the person you're in love with is gone, it's just not a good feeling - and the farther away they go, the worse the feeling gets. I feel helpless, alone, and vulnerable, sitting here, at my computer, while she is drunk, dancing, meeting people, and flirting. Am I wrong to feel uncomfortable? Am I wrong to be jealous of some European guy who is out to get his kicks by dancing with and buying drinks for my girl? Am I being too possessive? Should I just kick back and relax and not worry?

Well, maybe I should. And, to be honest, I've been doing my best. And when she calls, and tells me things that make the whole world seem a shade brighter, it's easy to do. It's easy to say to myself, self, it's gonna be ok, you are in love with a beautiful girl, and she loves you back, and soon, she will be in your arms, and then, you wll be back in control of your world, and you can make sure nothing happens to her. But then, things go awry. Maybe I'm being too picky, too sensitive, and too overprotective, but there are some things that I don't like to hear, particularly when half of my life, half of me, is a bazillion miles away. Among those things are emails that assure me of her appearing "unavailable" to other guys because she spends all of her time with one - a real nice one, or phone calls of drunken dancing which had to be interrupted by a friend, or being told that I'm still missed, but not as much. Is that enough for me to be hurt? I can tell you, it is. Should it be? Scribbs doesn't know. I read the letter she wrote before she left, after putting the home-made puzzle pieces upon which she wrote it back together, and it melts me. It melts me to tears. But then, I read other things, and seem so cold, and my response is cold, because as quickly as she can melt me, I am frozen again twice as fast. Do I have a right to complain? Do I have a right to respond to cold with cold? Must my response always be to continue with the epic, and seemingly un-winnable battle that is to make her know how much she is to me? I want to be a teacher, but is that piece of knowledge one which I will be forever unable to impart? I know it, for myself. But for whatever, reason, my lecture, though endlessly repeated seems never to be absorbed. Is this my failing? It surely must be, yet again, Scribbs doesn't know.

In the end, I will endure whatever coldness comes, as weather - but, can this weather never be changed? I will endure because to me, it is worth it. A million cold emails could never overpower the warmth of a puzzle-letter. And one smile is worth a thousand frowns. Nevertheless, I wish I didn't have these fears and worries, just as I wish I could impart the seriousness, the sincerity, and indeed, the severity, of my love. But, as for what to do, Scribbs doesn't know.

Rockin' with the Cusacks

Everyone knows the Cusacks are the shit, and if they don't, they should. From John back in High Fidelity and Pushing Tin all the way up to Joan in School of Rock, the two kids have been throwing down for quite a while. My latest two Cusak moments have been in the recent Grisham flick, Runaway Jury, which proved to be solidly stimulating, if not earthshattering, and a re-aquaintance with Grosse Pointe Blank, which, if I might say so, is simply one of the more brilliant films ever made. John plays hitman, Joan plays hitman's secretary. What more does a movie need?

I've been doing more than just watching Cusack movies lately though. I finally finished Great Expectations, and to be honest, I had expected greater. Well, no, that's not quite accurate. I could expect no greater from the work, Dickens is a genious, it always shows, and the book was great. Nevertheless, the ending, perfect as it may be, left me feeling a bit empty, and a bit down. I was sad, and I don't like being sad. My remedy for that situation brings me back to the Cusacks, which I've already covered. In any case, I've now started Villette, another Victorian barn-burner by none other than the ugliest Bronte sister, Charlotte. All this reading and riding is getting in the way of blogging, which has also taken a back seat to rocking, which is at once envigorating and devastating. I propose that the only solution is to watch more Cusack movies, so I see Say Anything in my near future. The only other solution is for you lazy bums to speak up and holla back. Just because I'm writing to an audience of none doesn't mean I should have to feel that way. For now, in a manner only a bit like John in GPB, I slip back into bed with nought but a lumpy pillow, a baseball bat for any manner of crawling pest, and Charlotte.

What's going on...

So yesterday, I woke up at 2:15 in the morning to be on the Long's Peak trail by 3:00 with KJ and her dad. We hiked for 12 hours and came back, still without having bagged the summit. Ice on the gaper route and not a living soul or a clue exactly which sketchy trough to go down after getting to the 'loft' between Longs and Meeker made the summit not happen. It's ok though, it was a good climb, with good views, and a good time.

Today, I went to a BBQ for people from my high school IB class. It was kinda sketch. The old cooridinator got drunk, and my old history teacher asked if I was a campus republican. Wha? I really have no idea where that came from. But, this post isn't about politics.

In fact, it's not about much of anything. I've been spending all my energy rocking, and there's nothing left. I pour my heart out, and it just evaporates.

Oh, and the Blog-nazi recently wrote the worst post ever, and if can rip off other people's words, so can I.

I heard a love story

I heard a love story,
It’s in a song.
It’s about a boy and a girl, but
It doesn’t have to be.
Love’s something you’re born with and their story starts at birth,
Two kids two thousand miles apart.
They don’t know it, but as they grow up, they’re falling in love,
Falling for each other.

It takes a long, long, time before they ever meet,
She knows other boys, he knows other things,
They’ve been waiting, they know not what for,
Just looking for a little bit more.

Coffee shop downtown, sittin’ on a park bench waiting for the bus while I’m waiting for you,
Are you waiting for me too?
I saw you in the lunchroom, you saw me on the third floor, girl, just tell me what you got in store for me. Can’t you see that
This is a love story,
It’s been told before,
But just this once lets pretend that the girl is you,
And the boy is me.

I met you at school, but
It seems like we fell in love in a movie,
Because, girl, you make me believe,
In things I used to think were only make believe.

Some stories end in tears,
Some last for hours and others for many years.
Don’t ask me where we’re going because I don’t know,
But I don’t need a road map to tell me that I’m on the right road.
So girl, it’s time you heard the truth,
That the day I was born, somebody stole something from me and put it in you.
My whole life I’ve been trying to get it back,
And now that I’ve got it there’s no way I’m giving it back.

This story isn’t over yet, we’re just caught in-between,
Love has already begun , but we both know that growing up can change everything.
Sure, we might get married, you might have a baby, we might get a little white house on the street where you lived, and a big backyard,
Love will make us cry, but not all tears are happy, though they all have a story,
And our story is bound to have many tears.
What if I do something mean to you? What if you say something you didn’t mean to?
What if it all falls down?

I could stop it all right now,
We could out before we get in too deep,
We could try to go back to before there was you and me,
Could we just go back and pretend that that would make us free?

But that’s not how this story ends,
You don’t have that much control,
You cant reclaim what you lost, without keeping what you found,
And the girl’s always gonna be around.
You won’t regret the things you said as much as the things you didn’t say,
So say to her what you want to say today.
You can’t wash her away, wash your memory by getting rid of the gifts she gave, because she lingers, her smell lingers.
So you better see it though, through to the end of the story…
…see what end this story holds for you.

Two words: Barrack Obama

The democratic national convention is going down - two days over, two to come. I haven't watched it all, but I was begining to think I'd seen enough. I saw the news personalities talk about how the democrats would be trying to find a nice, strong, effective, one-sentence statement that could 'sum up' their entire campaign. I saw more politicians than I care to mention talk about how John Kerry is for a "strong America", and none of them told me if John Kerry is strong enough for America. I even saw Howard Dean recieve an inspiringly rousing ovation, only to follow it with an empty, lack-luster speach, that did little to rouse my quickly deflating hopes for American politics. I did see Ralph Nader interviewed briefly by a news channel, but while he brought the facts, the intelligence, the idealism, and even his new book, he can't bring the charm, and he'll never bring in any votes. In his dreary speech, Dean managed to confound the press with raising the issue of being unashamed to be a Democrat? Were the Democrats ashamed? Were they supposed to be? I'm not sure it ever occured to me to be ashamed before, but Howie, now that you mention it... The more I watched, the more they talked. The more they talked, the less they said. The less they said, the more I knew that my vote for the democrats was to be one of desperation. I do not want John Kerry to be President, kind of like I don't want Peter Forsberg to go play hockey in Sweeden, but a re-election in 2004 isn't a matter of preference, it's more along the lines of losing both thumbs, or getting developing a case of interminable, lifelong indegestion. As the convention went down, so did my belief that they had answers, and with that, my hope that we might be able to turn this political gong-show around. To be honest, I was ready to vote for Nader, not because I want him to be the next president, but because I'm just frustrated as hell with my other choices. Then came Barrack Obama.

As he walked to the stage while the news personalities finished their idle banter and the flashy on-screen graphics identified him as a a current state senator in Illinois, candidate for the U.S. Senate from the same state, a black guy with a clearly african name, and the keynote speaker on the second night of the Democratic National Convention, a position held last night by Bill Clinton, things didn't seem to add up. Who is Barrack Obama, why is he the keynote speaker, and how the hell do you say his name. Before he ever got around to mentioning John Kerry, those had been quite definitively answered. If you can find the video (dictatoblog found one, check it out now, before you read any more) of his speech anywhere, watch it, because the transcript really doesn't do him justice.

Toward the end of one of the more powerful, logical, well-written, and well-delivered political speeches I've seen in a long, long time, Obama put into words just the kind of hope for the future I wanted to have, but just couldn't find amoung the coercive language and empty promises made by both parties:

"It's the hope of slaves sitting around a fire singing freedom songs; the hope of immigrants setting out for distant shores; the hope of a young naval lieutenant bravely patrolling the Mekong Delta; the hope of a mill worker's son who dares to defy the odds; the hope of a skinny kid with a funny name who believes that America has a place for him, too."

I won't pretend that the appeal of Obama's speech wasn't primarily emotional. I won't try to tell you he even scratched the surface of an actual discussion of the issues at play in this election, and in the future, he didn't. What he did do, was deliver a damn fine speech - a speech that wouldn't make me wince to know the world was watching. When we elect a president, or political figure, we elect, to a certian extent, just that, a figure. We elect a representitave, that will speak, act, think, and represent us. Based on one speech, given by one man, on one night, I am prepared to say that there must surely be at least one man in Washington (or rather, still aiming for Washington), that I would be both unashamed and glad to have represent me in the senate, the white house, or the world. Even if his ideas and beliefs were not my own, my values not his, and our opinions oposed, we could at least have a, a public speaker who could speak, and leader who could lead, and a representative who could downwrite REPRESENT. Barrack Obama, you got my vote tonight, for whatever you run for.

George, don't tell me to be optomistic, give me something to be optomistic about. Howie, don't tell to be unashamed to be a democrat, give me something to be unashamed about. The rest of you, don't tell me to vote, give me something to vote for. Tonight, a skinny black kid from Illinois moved me. Bloody brilliant, I say.

Bear witness to the illness.

I be rockin' up in here, and you all are going to be the first to hear it. So buckle your danger-belts and prepare to be rockjucated. But - audblog is retarded, because you have to do it over the phone, and that is just lame and shitty sounding, and you are worth more than that. So, while this is a little more of a pain in the ass, I know, check out what happened when I rocked to the lyrics I wrote back in this post. You can get "MK Gets Smoked" here, and you can also grab the hamburger song, and, in future, maybe more rock.

Listen, and then come back here and rant. This blog needs Q&A. I have answers for everything. My answer for most things, this week anyway, is more rock.

On another note, kaiser de blog pointed me toward this guy, who writes about being a lawyer. Read if you like, but the part I liked best was when he responded to the question, "Q. Would you go go law school and take a job with your firm if you had it to do over?" with, "Knowing what I know now, I'd probably spend more time practicing the guitar". I hear you, usedtoberockerturnedlawyerwhoisslowlywitnessingthedeathofhissoul, I hear you.

Love Stories

I've heard a lot of love stories lately. I've read them, listened to them, seen them in a movie, and watched them unfold. The soundtrack to all of this has been the three volume set of 69 Love Songs by The Magnetic Fields, an ambitious project in it's own right. Last night, I watched State and Main, a movie about love, purity, and second chances. Today, I got a package from the girl I love. Inside was a present wrapped in Christmas paper. Inside that was a white shirt from the GAP, a picture, a receipt, and wrinkled piece of computer paper written on with green magic marker. I liked the wrapping paper, the shirt, the picture, and even the receipt. But the thing I loved was the way the green writing got bigger as it went, and ended with the same lopsided heart that's makes its way onto whatever she touches. But this post isn't about me. Nor is it about love. It's about love stories.

I talked with MK today, about crying at movies. Maybe not crying, but just, you know, tearing up a bit, as he put it.  Weeping like a baby, as I put it. Why do we cry at love stories? Why do we cry at stories at all? Do we cry because we are so sad or happy for the characters we follow on-screen or on the page? We may. But then why is it that we can go years, seeing the most touching emotional movies, not shedding a tear, and then, for some reason, a certain moment, or song, or look, or word, can wet those long-dry cheeks? Do we really cry for the characters' story, or do we cry for ours? Do we want what they have? Do we remember what we had? Do we imagine that someday, in some place, with someone, and some time, we will be there, with that song, and that feeling, and it will be that perfect? Or, do we just imagine that - only to then realize its impossibility. We are not them, their story is not ours; so we cannot have their perfect moment. Is that why we cry? I like to believe that we cry when we see a story that we want to be ours, and it gives us hope, and that makes us happy, and we cry. Not all tears are that kind though, and not all stories have happy endings. Some tears are not happy, but all tears have stories.

I wrote a love story; it's in a song. It's about a boy and a girl - but it doesn't have to be. The story has a beginning, when they are born, a middle, when everything happens, and an ending, when they die. In between, many things happen - there is pain, joy, pleasure, excitement, and anger. I've tried to live the story, but I keep losing my place. I've tried to sing the story, but it doesn't have any words. It only has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Right now is the middle. It is easy to dwell on the ending and wish for a new beginning, but, Margaret says, "true connoisseurs, however, are known to favor the stretch in between, since it's the hardest to do anything with".

Watching movies

You know what's crap? When people do other things while watching a movie, that's what. Particularily when they are watching a movie they haven't seen before. Even more particularily when I, who have seen the movie before, am NOT doing anything else and am trying to concentrate on the movie, and want them to concentrate on the movie so when it's over, I don't have to explain everything. And finaly, it is especially crap when we could have been watching a different movie, that I hadn't seen before, and the multi-tasker had seen before, and would clearly have been the more logical option since the movie was a clear second priority for said multi-tasker anyway, and the only reason we were watching what we were watching was because said mult-tasker wanted to see it - only to multi-task through it. Crap. All crap.

Nevertheless, even for the second time, The Butterfly Effect is a suprisingly good and interesting flick, and I enjoyed it, despite all of the crap steaming from the direction of said multi-tasker.

Oh, and another thing that is crap is people who, for some reason unbeknownst to me, don't like either About a Boy or Love Actually - both of which are increadible flicks, the former of which is made even better by a soundtrack that can easily be considered a simply outstanding stand-alone album, and the latter of which has one of the most brilliant and beautiful scenes in film, involving one of the most brilliant and beautiful woman in film. The crap only gets crappier when someone doesn't like these films because they don't like movies with brittish accents. I mean, holy crap.Just because a beautiful girl with a brittish accent reaches a level of sexy american girls just can't muster and a smart guy with a brittish accent just sounds smarter, doesn't mean you shouldn't like brilliant movies. In fact, not liking brilliant movies is crap.

I may sound pissed, but I'm not. Despite all of the crap I encountered tonight, I can still rest assured that the three movies I have discussed are NOT crap, which lets me sleep well at night. All this craptalk is just craptastic, but I think if this post went on any longer it would be the biggest crap of all, so until tomorrow when I get up at 7:30 to fix my car and watch the burliest time trial on earth, scribbs...is out.

Blog-nazi strikes again...

Blog-nazi blitzkrieged, but before he takes over all euroblog, he better read this. The rest of you should to, as it has something to do with some of my recent posts about my blog's complicationing.

I'm not prepared to say whether or not I agree, but to be honest, where does this lady get off calling herself Miss Manners and writing column about how people ought to behave at or with various things? Nevertheless, it seems like most people could use a bit of advice since their common sense seems to be lacking. Whatever, blogging has slowed down to make room for rocking. Recording is the next step. Maybe I should audblog my rough ideas, using the telephone. Curious. Stay tuned for more blog, more rock, and more success.

I Wanna Rock

I missed Jack Black's flick in the theatres, but I did just watch it in my basement with the speakers lights down and the speakers up, and to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I've ever seen a better movie. Different movies, yes. Movies just as good, yes. Better movies, no. Jack black, and the whole cast, includig the kick ass 10 year-old musicians who make up the band, were all fantastic. Jack Black deserves an Oscar. I've never seen one be so crucial to a movie as he was. Nor have I ever seen an actor play a part that would be so clearly impossible for anyone but him. Jack rocked. The movie rocked. The kids rocked. Ned, the whipped roommate rocked. The principal rocked. Everything and everyone rocked...except Ned the whipped roomate's uberbitch of a girlfriend, who did the opposite of rock (bp), but, the fact that her "success" and "stability" clearly went hand in hand with her bitchiness and that all of this culminated in her being the grinch who stole rock, rocked. I'm not even going to try to explain all of the things that rocked in this movie, because it would take forever, and result in a blog that most certainly, would NOT rock.

Instead, I am going to talk about how much I rock.  Or, rather, how much I WANT to rock, after seeing School of Rock. I dusted off the guitar, unwound the powercord, fired up the fuzzbox, and started rocking. I rocked to old songs, I rocked to new songs, I wrocked to my own songs. I even rocked to the words I wrote here, and that, let me tell you, rocked hard. The movie made me feel alive again. It was like an anthem for The Success Blog, a shining beacon of light that leads the way to the real success - not one of riches and glamour and status, but of expression, feeling, and truth - just like the real rock. Jack Black, just like his character, was born to rock. In a way, I think, or at leats, I hope, that each of us, perhaps less literaly, is also born to rock. Unfortunately, most of us "outgrow" our rocking habbits and dreams and desires and wind up with no hopes and no life. That is truly unrock. I say, pick up a guitar and write a song, pick up a keyboard and write either a song or a blog, and pick up a pen and write a declaration of rock independence (not to be confused with indy-rock dependence), and stick it to the man until he's done good and stuck, and then, find the new man, and stick it to him.

Nothing Is Simple

Blogspot just did a bit of an update and now it is easier to format your posts without using html, but don't let this "convenience" confuse you - blogging is getting complicated.  Secrets have escaped, relationships tested, rivalries fought, and feelings hurt.  In my dreams, my blog was never an instrument of harm; but, as is so often the case with the modern wonders of man, even the most peaceful can prove the most potent and destructive.  For the demons I have released, and the damage I have done, I apologize - I knew not what I did.  However, with time comes experience, and with experience wisdom, and with that, come words.  Thus, I'm forced to return to a topic of old that I left not so long ago, and begin to explain my blog, my thoughts, and myself.  
 
First, though I may be the "administrator", or, as I prefer, "orchestrator" of The Success Blog, I am not its creator.  It is created by what I read, what I see, where I go, and who I talk to.  Nothing here is truly original, and that's the way I like it.  The blog is a reflection of my daily influences - often with very little filtering at all.  Unfortunately, as the warm waters of my daily influences meet the cold waters of the very blog they influence, the ocean begins to rumble.  This, is the problem.
 
Some have chosen to get around this problem by hiding their blog, trying to separate the influences from their product.  This may work, for a while, or even forever - but it may not.  I've chosen not to take that route.  A blog is open to everyone, so my blog is open to anyone.  Come one, come all.  If you don't like it, don't stay.  In ways, this puts limits on what I can and can't say.  I would like to be able to draw an infallible line between my blog and my life, and thus suffer no "life" consequences for "blog" actions.  Unfortunately, I've already learned that that is, however ideal, impossible.  In ways, this may seem to limit my freedom.  Perhaps only a truly hidden, and therefore, truly isolated blog could afford complete honesty and sovereignty.  Maybe, but for me, I think I can come very close to absolute freedom without such annonimity.  I've said what I've said because, for some reason, it cought my eye.  It captured my mind or sparked a tiny little something inside that wanted to explore it and share it with others. 
 
I will admit, that for a while, I probably made assumptions about who would read the blog and who wouldn't.  That was a mistake, but as I look back, I don't think I would have changed anything.  I have never written anything I wasn't comfortable with anyone reading, and to be honest, that is a relieving feeling.  The problem is, I am bound to cause problems.  Talking about things that affect the people reading them always causes problems.  I don't want to cause problems.  I especially don't want to cause problems for other people.  At the very least, if I must truly accept the blurring of the lines between blog, its author, and me, then let me, the author of this blog, hear your concerns.  In fact, that brings me to another point.  There should be more comments to read.  A blog without comments is like a singer without backup, and while some people can pull that off, I'm just not that good at singing.  All I'm trying to do is just take notice of things, maybe think about them a little bit, and share them.  It's just all getting too complicated.  I want to blog more, about other things, like the several movies I've seen recently, but now I'm just too stressed out.  Tonight I go to sleep, tomorrow I hike, and then, perhaps, I can begin to try to tell you how hard School of Rock rocks.

Oh, and about Avril, I couldn't tell you a damn thing, other than that the name of her album is evidently Complicated just like this nonsensebusybitchingpicturestealingliferuining
painintheasstimeconsumingsleeptakingsoulstealingpissingeveryoneoff BLOG.

The Hair Guy

I can't lose my hair. Before we get into that though, some background. I don't normally consider myself a very vain person, or someone at all "up" on the latest styles and fashions - hell, throughout high school, kicked white socks under my Tevas and it didn't bother me a bit. Until I met JZ I was an uberdork with uberbad style. Now, I'm an uberdork with uberbad style in a JCrew shirt. The point is, however, that none of that matters. Not to me, because I, am a hair guy.

Mine is blond. It used to be white, like, really white, now, some say it's getting to be "dirty" blonde, or even "light brown". Well, that's crap. It's blonde - beautiful, shiny, brilliant, blonde. If you try to knock it, it clearly means you are jealous and for that, I'm sorry. I'd let you into the club if I could, but then we're back to the problem of letting everyone in and losing the club's coolness, and we just can't have that. So for now, I will be blonde, and if you aren't, you will just be sorry.

The thing is, I have a problem. I mean, sure, I sound confident, perhaps even cocky, up front, but behind this beautiful head of hair is a bald head - and that's just not cool. What if I lose it? I think it's receding. I can't tell for sure. But on the right, just above my right eye, it seems to go way back. Did it go back that far before? Then, I got sunburned on the top of my head the other day, though, I think, that always happens if your hair is short, even when I was a kid. Didn't it? I've been over the whole father's mother or mother's father or monkey's uncle thing before, and they're all bald, so that doesn't seem to bode well. But, do blondes go bald? No, they don't. Do they? When was the last time you saw a blonde bald guy. How can you tell, if he's bald? Shit. Fuck. i don't want to go bald. I don't want to be kicked out of the club, I don't want my shiny white head to be naked for all to see. I want my hair. I need my hair. But what can I do? Rogaine? Surgery? Do I even have a problem? Maybe everything is ok. Maybe my hair will stay, and with it, my swerve, and with that, my confidence, and with that, my success, and with that, my life. But what if the hair goes? No! Won't all the rest go with it? Will it? Yes. It can't. it might. It won't. It will. No. I can't lose my hair. I will just have to keep my hair. Please hair, please?

There's more. It's not all about me. Well, actually, it is all about me, but it's not always about MY hair. It's also about other people's hair - girls' hair. There are two kinds of hair for girls: long hair, and bad hair. Now, I don't mean really long, like those sketch people who never cut it and trip over their own hair, that's nothing but gross. I mean long as opposed to short. Shoulders is fine. Anything less - not fine. I'm not saying women can't cut their hair short. I'm just saying women can't cut their hair short and still be beautiful. With an incredible body, they might be able to eek out "hot", and maybe, with the right look, maybe even squeeze out a weak "cute", but beauty is the whole package, and it takes long hair to get it. JZ's got it, and it's good. Natalie Portman used to have it, and it was good. Now she looks like a prepubescent boy, and is off the list. Short hair, short relationship - it's over. Simple as that. You don't think that's fair? Not my problem; go whine about it over a bucket of ice cream with your girlfriends.

Hair is key. Someone ran across a girl who must have been an old secret admirer. She knew everything about me; I've never heard of her. A year younger, a grade behind. "She's cute, and nice," they said. "Hair?" I said. "Short," they said. Bitch, please. Look, I'm not trying to be some sort of chauvinist, judging girls based on their bodies - in many ways, that's just plain wrong. Hell, I'm not even judging girls on hair color; I know not everyone can have my hair, and that's fine. In fact, I'd like to refrain from passing judgment on anything that is out of someone's control, because that's just not fair. Hair, however, IS within someone's control, and don't tell me your hair is short because you have a naturally low metabolism. I'm not going to think you are a bad person, or think less of you, or anything like that - you just won't be a hottie. If you are ok with that, then so am I.

I realize, at the end of this post, which has become a bit more judgmental and course than I had at first hoped, that you may try to point out that wouldn't it be perfectly fair, by my own rules, to judge me and "downgrade" me if I were to say, lose my hair? Well, yes. It would be perfectly fair, and seeing as my hair is all I've got, I'd be downgraded to the gutter. The Sultan of Suck, the Emperor of Ugly. Thus, as you must surely realize, the point remains, I can't lose my hair.

Lakers' 21 Run

Tonight was Lakers' b'day. Not the Shaq-less, Phil-less, Coach K-less Lakers, but rather just another girl from L-town whom I'll call Lakers. So really, this is just another post that has nothing to do with the picture. We went to downtown. It was pretty down, but to be honest, that was nice and relaxing compared to my last couple town experiences which were either far too drunk or far to crowded. Anyway, I've recently read about worlds colliding. I can't say where, but I have, and tonight, in a way, I had two worlds collide. Not in the same way, but in a new, odd way, that I'm not sure what to make of.

Tonight, at a place that sounded strangely like the "whore house", the real world met a part of what was, until now, only part of the blog world. It wasn't nearly the same kind of earth-shaking event that's been gracing the blog-nazi's blog, but nevertheless, it was a little strange as I sat there in a group that included what had been, to me, only an acronym. What troubles me, is that in some way, that I don't really like or feel comfortable with, I didn't like it. It was like seeing a movie made from a book you really like - it just never comes out the way you expect. Worse, it sort of takes away from your own freedom to create a character the way you see them. To be honest though, I don't really mind, and actually, it adds a nice personal touch to reading a blog. My biggest issue is that I can't very well call someone an acronym. Particularly one that they don't know (I don't think) they are being called. Which brings me to my next point...

Inside blogtalk? What happens when there are hidden blogs? Anonymous blogs? What happens when those blogs become unhidden, but only to a few? Well, inside blogtalk happens. Like an inside joke, but not really telling a joke. Sometimes, funny, but without a joke. Kind of like Bush - sometimes funny, but because he told a joke. Anyway, tonight, there was inside blogtalk. It's a bit like talking about a story in front of the very characters that are in the story, but they don't know they're in it...if that made any sense. It's all very strange, and it's all still worlds colliding, I like that. I suppose it comes down to the simple childhood fun of being in a club. I would say that everyone should be in the club, but then, the club wouldn’t be any fun, so consider yourself lucky, for you, are in the club.

I've joined another club lately too - a new, trendy, and I believe, good, club The Livestrong Bracelet club. For just a dollar you can get one of these cool and stylish rubber bracelets and then you will be in the club too. There are certain things that line up with other things in life and because of it, they can take on a much greater meaning than they ever would alone. For me, this yellow strip of made-in-china silicon happens to be one of those things, and it's a club I'm glad to be in. I've got JZ to thank for initiating me, and I really do love the girl...even if I can kick her ass at soccer.

The Monday Night Blues

there is a spider?!
wait, no question mark
there IS A spider
christ
fuck i need to kill the spider
i don't know
but its in a corner
i dont have a good shot
you dont know?
ill be back
i have a mission!?

right
Godspeed
.
.
.
.
.
fuuuuuuck!
i opened up the closet door
to get a weapon!
and thre was another one !!!
egad!
holy shit
im under attack
i killed that one though
but ive still got the one hiding i the corner
im going to try a ski pole
but i dont want it to get away
there is a crack
christ
i think tahts where it might ahve come fomr
ok
here we go
not good
NOT GOOD

close
with the ski pokle
i struke
i thought i hit
Wadobut miss
it moved
but only a bit
i thought it was hurt
i thought i had him
i struck again
a quick, fierce jab
perhaps too firce
fierce?
i missed
it ran

it ran toward me!
fast!
i ran
i lept down the stairs

it was at the top
i cleared 6 steps
turned around
here it came
lightening fast

[The last message was not sent because you are over the rate limit. Please wait until sending is re-enabled and send the message again.]

right
i went over the rate limit. fuck.
anyawy

it ran, but i had only the ski pole!! how could i hit it on the move~!?
it ducked through the banister
dow the wall
to the corner!
with teh saxophone!
behind it~!
behind lots of stuff!
i put on shoes
held a big plastic bat
and started moving the instruments
but no spider
its not there
but its somewhere
where~!>?!!1
ive got to find it
got to keep looking
.
.
.
alright
well
while you're doing that
i'm gonna go to bed
gotta get on a plane tomorrow
so
ah
good luck
with the whole spider thing

Correction

So I screwed up my last post. MK brought to my attention the fact that the guy in the picture, with the hottie, actually IS the fat, older, Brazilian Ronaldo. The younger, Portuguese one is the guy in this picture above. Well, shit. I thought about changing it, but really, that just didn't seem right, so just pretend that the guy in the armani is actually the younger, smaller, bring-more-funk-ier, Cristiano Ronaldo who plays for Man U. The second picture, by the way, really is the right Ronaldo, wearing his Man U jersey.

In an attempt to make this post slightly more than just a correction, here's some ideas I'm toying with for future posts, just to keep you interested:

1. Lance "I got too popular for my wife, but I am still the most badass and inspiring athlete around today" Armstrong.
2. Pete "Selling beer is like being a senator" Coors
3. Why hockey is better than baseball, football, basketball, and soccer.
4. My hair
5. Me not having a job, then thinking I was going to have a job, then not having a job
6. Halo
7. My thoughts on what to do about starting a blog that may have information which must be kept from certain eyes, and why it shouldn't keep someone from blogging.
8. Fondue restaurants

Let me know what you would like to hear about, and rest assured that your comments will likely have no bearing oncesoever on what I finally write. Peace, y'all.

Scribbs = Footballa'

Yes, I am a foot-baller, but we will get to that in a minute - after we discuss another footballa'. The guy wearing Armani on the left is Ronaldo - not the overweight Brazilian Ronaldo, but the 19 year-old, Portuguese, teen heart-throb, throwing down mad funk Ronaldo. The girl on his right is some hot model. All of this brings me to my most recent football success - one complete with Ronaldo-like funk.

Now, as I have mentioned before in a mess of introspection, I've recently taken up soccer. It's not entirely fair to say "taken up", as I did play rec soccer as a kid nearly a decade, but seeing as I was unquestionably the worst kid on every team (aside from the mentally handicapped kid on my 5th and 6th grade teams), I think it's fair to say that I'm starting from scratch. My motivation for such a foolish undertaking can seen here, but that aside, I'm really getting into it.

Thus motivated, and getting ever better at juggling, I went to the park with JZ for a little kick-around the other day. She played soccer at her crazy athletic high school, and though skirtedly admits that she played a speed and aggression game, not exactly a skill one, talks the talk pretty big about having played soccer competitively and this and that - all of which was meant to intimidate yours truly. Well, I wanted to see what she had. We kicked it around a bit, tried some juggling, made some passes, pretty rudimentary stuff. Then, I decided it was time for a little one on one. I drive - slow, controlled, alert. Deek left...deek right...back left...he's free! Incredible! "FOUL!" Wha? "You just through me off the ball with your arm! Foul. My turn." Well, yes, there was some contact, but what is this girls' soccer? Anyway, I played the good sport, said it didn't count, and lined up for defense. She comes in, step-over, another step-over, step-back-over. Oh, come on. Finally she makes her move, tries to go between the legs, I read it perfectly, blocked, ball bounces back, hits her leg, back to me, right shin, her, left foot, ball squirts free, she chases, gets there, I'm right on her.."Hahahahaha! I won!" Wha? You won? But I'm still here! And even if you do say you got by, look how messy it was? "I won, haha. See?" (a little dance ensues) Wow. Now it's on. There I was, with the ball, ready to go, the pressure on. My pride, my honor, my very manhood on the line. The pressure was intense. I go. Come in slow, pick up speed, quick jog, right foot steps over, right foot brings it back with the outside, heading hard right, , left foot comes in to bring it harder right, she bites, but no! No wait! Left foot doesn't make contact! It steps in front! Ball is hidden protected by the left leg! Right foot sweeps in finds the ball just behind the left leg, bring it under back to the LEFT! She's committed to the right, I sprint left, and I'm gone! Long gone! No contact, no chance! So clean! Incredible! How does the most reliable sweeper on the team look now? That's what I thought! No one can handle the funk from Scribbs!

A moment of joy, of athletic brilliance, of true artistry. I reveled.

Then, she tried to steal it from me. She said she didn't try. She said she wasn't REALLY playing. She said I had no skills! Bitch please. Don't take this from me. I beat someone, fair and square, and it wasn't even the retarded kid. I mean, look, my moment of brilliance might not qualify me to be Ronaldo, skinny or fat, but can't I at least have the small victory which I deserve? You know I love you JZ, but this time, I'm taking my moment, and I'm going to continue to revel, because there is no other term for what I threw down on that field, on that day, other than mad, mad, funk - brilliant, creative, and beautiful. Best thing in life: JZ. Fine. But the NEXT best thing in life: smokin' JZ with true footballa' skills. Hot damn.

Too long with no blogging...

JZ left today, and I'm sad to see her go. I miss her already and will now have to wait until September to see her again. So it goes.

Now, as life settles back to its previous slow drone, and I find myself in quite a different situation than that which had burdened me in the earlier weeks of lazy summer. With a week of much action and little blogging, the idea jar is long past full and I simply have far more to blog than either I care to write, or you care to read. Thus, in this edition of the Success Blog, I truly will try to cut myself short.

First of all, I watched In America. Well, actually, I watched it some time ago, but I didn't have anything to say about it then, and I do now, so here it is. At one point, the dad in the movie, tries to win a little stuffed animal for his daughter at the fair. The goal is to get 7 balls through a hole in the wall. You pay your 4 bucks and get your 7 balls and go. The thing, is, no one makes all 7 balls - instead, you have to buy extra balls to finish off your 7. Each extra ball is twice the cost of the last ball - starting at 4 bones. Well, the Popa Irish does pretty well. He gets 5 out of the first 7 in. 4 Dollars. Another ball. Miss. 8 Dollars. Another ball. Miss. 16. Ball. Miss. 32. Ball. Hit! Ok, so you and me both are thinking this guy is nuts, the damn doll isn't worth this much money anyway. Well, there's an incentive to keep going. If you make your 7, you don't just get the ball - you get all your money back too. Shit. So dad-Irish is 64 bucks in the whole, has made 6 out of 7 balls, the next ball costs another 64, and the only money they've got left is the rent money. Just one more tense, gripping moment in a solid flick.

Anyway, the point of all this, is that when I first saw the movie, I thought the Dad was just being dumb. Number one rule at amusement parks: Don't play the money games for prizes. I went here, and played this, and 25 bones later, I had nadda to show for it. But, despite how badly I wanted to pull out every last bit of cash on me (including JZ's) I walked away after 25. It felt like shit. Terrible. Absolutely terrible. I wanted to kill the little punk-ass kid who kept showing me how easy it was. How long did it take you to master it? Oh? Just 4 or 5 times? Super! My 25 bills bought me 11 'almosts' and if you say one more thing kid, it might by you something too. If I had one once, I would have gotten a stuffed "Nemo" the size of me, and if I had managed to win twice, I could have scored an X-box. I realized though, that I didn't care about the prize. Maybe at the beginning. Maybe before I started I thought that surely I could win twice in 8 tries, and when I did, I would have a 20 dollar X-box. But after the first 5 bucks, I knew I wouldn't win twice, I just wanted one, and not for the Nemo-whale. I just wanted to win and show this little shit that he's not really that special after all. I wanted it sooooo bad. But, no dice. And in the end, I just feel like one more schmuck who wasted his money trying to win at dumb, impossible games. But, do I regret it? No. Sometime when I have some money, I'm going to go back and win - no matter the cost. Just to win. Maybe by that time, if I have that much money, I will also have a house big enough to fit that ginormous stuffed fish.

I had a plan when I started the game, and it didn't work - kind of like my plan when I started this post. I had intended to be short and brief, bringing you through the whirlwind week that has only just ended, instead, you got a big long blog about an amusement parks, Irish families, and big fish. Well, that just goes to show that the author is like a shitty fast-food employee. You just never know what you are going to get...

...and you damn well didn't know you were going to get anything quite that dumb to end this blog...or did you?

Blogs, Books, and Bookstores

It's been a popular trend in literature to follow mankind's steady acceleration. Science fiction traces our technical advances, historical novels remind us of the slower times of long ago, and socially critical novels often point directly to the tragic effects of our newfound speed its resulting isolation, insensitivity, and creativity.

An older, wiser, Fahrenheit-titled critique, for example, paints a ridiculous picture of cars so speedy that roadside signs must be hundreds of yards long with enormously wide letters, so that we can read them as we fly by at speeds which deny any attention to any surroundings not similarly augmented. For Bradbury, the acceleration of travel came hand in hand with the acceleration of life - the result being a world entirely too fast (among other things), for books.

Well, here we are in 2004, and though we still have books, they too, like our cars and our modems, have sped up. We devoured the Dan Brown books, with their 2-page chapters and constant cliffhangers. We make more and more books into movies; condensing, changing, and often castrating. Blogs themselves are a sign of our new speed. They are written without a great deal of time and care, and read much the same way. We want immediacy. I stop writing for a few days to climb mountains with JZ and you all stop reading. I don't blame you; it's a fierce world with fierce competition. If I don't provide that immediate fix, someone else will.

I wonder if even John Grisham will be able to keep up with the rapid-fire output of the blogging community. Will a new book every 6 months be enough? What if other authors just decide to blog their books, for a subscription, or worse yet, for free. That way, we can read it mere minutes after they write it. What an adventure, for both author and reader - neither knowing exactly where the story will go, both waiting with baited breath. Victorians would wait each month for the new chapter in the latest Dickens novel, relishing each word, even though each chapter had what would now be considered an action-to-word ratio entirely too small. Dan Brown writes a page and the main character has traveled hal-way around the world, cracked a code, been shot at, and flirted with a beautiful woman. A page of Great Expectations gets you half-way into the simple fears of a boy named Pip. I'll let you decide which you'd rather read.

With the speed of the books, so increases the speed of our choosing them. Amazon, Borders, Barnes and Noble. Buy books online. No need to sit down and feel it, to read the first chapter, to smell it - we have reviews! And stars! 5 stars. Good review. 76 positive reviews and only 13 negative. It's a buy. Oprah's book club. Buy. People who bought this book also bought that book. Buy. One more book to get free shipping. Buy. Wait, why am I getting all these books that I will have to read. DVDs. Buy. Buy. Buy. Is this good? It's cheaper, certainly. I bought a whole list of books online. Shipped for Free. I needed them, no choice - saved a lot of money. Was that good?

I went to a bookstore today - a real bookstore. It was old, a little messy, and it had a funny smell. Strange people worked in the bookstore, and strange people sat in its chair reading strange books. The people were like the chairs which were like the building which were like the books - old, new, unmatched, individual, quirky, all different, each looking for something or someone different. I was able to pick up a book, sit down for a while, and really read it. Read the cover, the back, the preface, the introduction, the first chapter, the dedication. Then, I picked up a new one and did the same. I could just walk around, waiting for a book to catch me, to call me over, to say pick me up. I didn't need to know what I was looking for - I didn't want to know. I was free - and it was good.

In the end though, I didn't buy a book. I had one. I liked it. I wanted to read it. But I didn't by it. Was it because I have so much else to read already in the coming months? Was it because I could just try to check it out at my local library? Or, was it because I knew that if I wanted, I could go home, hop online, and order the very same book for less money? I don't know exactly why I didn't buy it. I hope it wasn't the last reason. I don't intend to order it online; I would hope that I would be willing to spend a couple extra bucks to thank my local bookstore for the wonderful opportunity it affords me and the chance to find books the way books are meant to be found. I regret not buying the book, but there will be other days, and other bookstores, and other books.

In the end, however, I believe that it's important to remember that often times, the best thing about speeding everything up is being able to slow it back down. Thoreau understood this best, and the things he learned by just slowing down are available to all of us. They are not difficult to see, or to understand, but to the distracted, the busy, and the overly-focused, they are all but invisible. Go to a bookstore, a real one, walk around, take the books off the shelf, sit down and read them, feel them out and let them feel you out, and if you find one that fits, buy it. That amount of money will likely be easy to save, and in doing so, you will probably free up some time for reading or some other healthier activity than whatever it was that would have cost you that money. Now, if I could just follow my own damn advice...

Two kinds of people

So there's two kinds of people - lyric people, and music people. There may be a third kind - that listens to neither lyrics nor music, and doesn't see "listening to music" as a viable stand-alone activity - but for my purposes, I really just don't care what those people think.

Anyway, back to music lovers, and their listening habits. I, for one, am a music person. Maybe it comes from playing music, maybe I spend so much time thinking about words in writing that I tune out words in waves. Either way, there's no denying it: I don't listen to lyrics. It's not that I don't hear vocals, I do. I sing along. I even know some of the words, from hearing them so many times. But, even if I can sing along to the whole damn song, the fact that those words are conveying a meaning just never really registers with me until someone points it out. Don't ask me why, I don't know. The point is, I listen for the sound, not the message.

There are other people who are quite different. They immediately tune into the words, the story, the statement. They tell me how great a song is - because of such and such a line or a certain idea. And that's great - just not for me. It takes so much effort for me to try to think about the words, I can stay busy for weeks just listening to the sounds on a good album, without touching the lyrics. Nevertheless, there are a lot of lyric people out there, you know who you are.

I'm certainly not saying that each group is exclusive. Certainly, the lyric people dig a good groove, and, when I finally notice them, I greatly appreciate a witty wordsmith. After all, wordsmithing, and mainly, the study of wordsmithing, is what I do. What is really great, however, is when a lyric person really loves a song, or a record, or an artist, and a music person happens up on the same conclusion, from a different perspective. That points to a truly solid piece of work.

What's the point of all this? What have we learned about lyric people and music people? I don't know. I've noticed that many of my posts take a somewhat idyllic and sweepingly broad turn at the end, trying to transpose the subject of the blog to another level, finally commenting on society or life. Well, I've decided that's kinda wack, so this time, all you get is that there's two kinds of people - lyric people, and music people.

To the hills...

Blogging has been neglected lately every since JZ got into town. Picked her up at the airport Thursday afternoon, came home, at some din din, packed the car, and headed for the hills. It feels good to get away. From people, from the internet, from the phone. From concrete and cars and commercials. I mean, yes, site 42 was stuck right between the bathroom and the pack of screaming 5 year-olds, and was the only site left for a reason, but hey, we made the fucking best of it. We did get to see the guy from across the way carry his 5 gallon bucket of piss and shit from his camper over and dump it out in the bathroom - three times. And yes, it was bloody fucking cold at night, and blood fucking hot in the day, but the air was, at least a little bit, clearner up there. We were going to wake up at the crack of dawn and climb a Colorado 14er before we came home today, but at 6:30 in the morning, still in the ass-cold stage, there was no way I was getting out of the tent, packing everything up, and climbing my ass off. So, we waited for the sun to sweat us out of the tent, and stopped by the City Market before heading home. Foturnately, everyone, their dog, and even their bratty kids were heading the other direction on the raceway to the mountains, and we sailed home without event. At this stage, I ought to comment on our time, on the things I saw, on using the self-checkout line 4 times in the last 3 days, but I really have nothing to say. I saw spiderman 2, and it was good, but Donnie Darko is still the only super-hero movie for me. JZ reads a lot; it's kinda annoying, because her book is clearly more intersting than me, but hey, I'm not going to try to deny that, and this way, I have time to blog. I also had time to read a couple blogs, and I give up. I'm outblogged. Whatever, I'm ok with that. The Success blog doesnt have to be the best to succeed. Maybe that is just my lazy-boy attitude - lowering my expectations to match reality. Fuck it, what if it is? Maybe now's just not my time. I haven't seen the flick, but I heard this big in the Legend of Bagger Vane, or whatever his name is. Anyway, Will Smith tells somebody that they can't go out and make the perfect golf shot, you've got to let it find you. Well, I like that, but I'm worried that it's too easy to say, "I'm waiting to be found." Sometimes, it works. I 'waited to be found' by a girl for 19 years, and then, low and behold, I was found - and it was great. Still is great, in fact. But that's just not going to happen with everything. Some things, you got to go get. So, tomorrow, I'm leaving again. Gonna go climb that mountain. Then maybe just kick it and relax. Who knows, tomorrow's Independence Day, maybe I will turn out more dependable. I hate it when one thing follows another. Life is better when things just happen. Thing, Thing, Thing. No connections. Just one after another. They tell a story, and they have an order, but it's not logical. What IS logical, is Good Times, and those custard spoonbenders. Damn, good shit. Well, I'm going to go make JZ stop reading, because I'm going to stop writing, and I can't possibly write as fast as she reads. When things don't make any sense, keep the chage. One thing after another. Keep on truckin'.

Politics, the Flag, and America

The Success Blog is becoming too political - not in content, but it form - and to me, at this time, in this country, most things political don't find close kinship with the things I call successful. Lets give fewer answers and ask more questions. What would that lead to?



In this picture, the American flag looks backwards. But what does that really mean? A flag, after all, is two-sided, and unless it is symmetrical along its vertical axis, any flag will look different from one side than from the other. So is this flag backward or are we just seeing it from a new perspective. Is the wind blowing the wrong way? Would this picture be more correct if I simply reversed it, so that the stars and stripes stream out to the right, as they should. Or should they? Do we like the flag-pole on the left because it is how we read our books - anchored on the left and free-wheeling on the right? Our terms for politics and lifestyles seem to be the reverse. In Japan, do they like their pictures of flags like this? So it matches their books? Do they care? The Japanese have a nice symmetrical flag - it's never the wrong direction. Does that reflect something about their culture? Can a flag really tell us something about the people it represents? The Japanese flag is the same from all sides. Are the Japanese people? Is Japan? Did Betsy Ross decide that Americans were pretty damn complicated, and they needed a pretty damn complicated flag? Does the flag look different from all sides because we, as people and as a nation, look different from all sides? Or, was Ms. Ross simply handier with thread and needle than her Asian counterpart? Possible. All possible. But unlikely. The two-sided nature of our flag probably has nothing to do with the two-sided nature of our politics, our lifestyles, and our morals. It probably has nothing to do with why, as Michael Barone writes in the latest US N&WR, "the world's most egalitarian nation allow such a yawning gap between rich and poor". It is probably unrelated to whatever it is that lets a nation of immigrants striving for inclusiveness "square with its history of division and racial strife". The asymmetrical pattern of stars and stripes probably goes no further than its representation of the 13 original colonies and 50 states that we learned in elementary school. Even so, it seems an apt icon for understanding the duality of our nation and how, from one side, we are made to appear just, good, and peaceful, while from the other, we are hopelessly backwards and hypocritical. Are these views really of the same thing? Are we all loking at the same flag? Probably not. Unfortunately, politcs is not as simple as a flag. Even a complex flag such as ours, that looks backward from one side, but frontward from the other, is clean and simple compared with the thick allusions and layers of politics.

The flag in the picture, with the sun shining through it, could easily be a symbol for democracy. Each side looks different, but both have the same 13 stripes and the same 50 stars. While you will always find yourself on one side of the flag or the other, neither side is impenetrable to light, and it is impossible to be one side, looking, without having some idea of what the other side must be seeing. Many people will still view one side of the flag as forwards, and the other as backwards, but no one will be able to get rid of either side without losing their own. The politics, like the flag, would be transparent, or, at least, translucent, and no one could use it to hide. I suppose that in an ideal democracy, the flag wouldn't be merely two-sided. The greens would have a side, and the independents, and the workers, and maybe Nader would like a side all to himself, and that would be ok. There would be as many sides as there were people who wanted one - and they would always be there, and none of them could be removed without it affecting the whole flag. It's hard to picture a flag with that many sides that were all connected mirrored; and sadly, it’s equally as hard to imagine a government of the same kind. Yet our flag, with all of its simple complexity, and it's humble two sides, could be a start. At the very least, it might make someone think - and we could all use more of that.

Look...

Recently, I've been taking some flak. Who knew, but that Lindsay post got everyone all riled up. Seriously, everyone needs to calm down. Nevertheless, in the 12 hours since the Lindsay post, the following things have happened:

1. The long-term lady-friend almost told me to get long-term lost.
2. The blog-nazi flipped his shit and gave me the blog-bird, twice.
3. My most faithful reader, and, as I will soon explain, the leading contributor of ideas outside of myself, has decided that he likes the blog-nazi's blog better, and thus, will take his patronage elsewhere.

The first issue, thankfully, has been resolved. The second, I don't mind, and find rather funny. The third, well, let's talk about the third, because coolwater, the guy who started a blogspot ID just so he could post comments but has no desire to start a blog, is the reason for this whole mess. He is the one who suggested Lindsay, not you, blog-nazi. He even selected the damn pictures, miss long-term lady-friend and love of my life. If anyone wants to eat strawberries with Lindsay, it's him, not me.

Now, I will admit, that despite his influence, this is my blog, and I ought to be responsible for what goes on here. And, as we have been over before, the blog-nazi blogged - then I blogged. Yes, our layouts are similar. Yes, my blog looks like a black-background version of his blog. And yes, maybe The Success Blog really is the evil twin version of The ***** Blog. But I'll be damned if I stand for having my blog called "the shitty Sham Blog that has stolen everything from my blog and given absolutely nothing back". I mean, really. That's just not true. I clearly haven't stolen everything.

I'm getting tired of this blogwarring. It makes me want to eat cake. All I want is to be able to write what I want, when I want, and not get in trouble for it. I thought that was the whole point of the blog. I don't want everything to be mortally serious. I want to be able to be a character. Maybe that is the problem. I have been so inconsistent in the attitude and point of view from which my blogs come, that the reader has no choice but to see me, the author, as the narrator, when really, each new post has a different narrator, none of which are really me. Is that what you don't like, coolwater? Do I seem dishonest? Am I dishonest? Who knows. Maybe I am. I just don't know anymore. Maybe if I broke up with JZ, the blog would be more entertaining. In fact, it definitely would be. But sorry readers, that's just not going to happen. I've found a source of happiness that not even blogging or hockey can top. And she's pretty damn cool. Nevertheless, in an effort to bare my soul and give my blog more of a storytelling feel, I may start a new "tales from scribb's past series". Plenty of buffoonery and embarassing moments there. For the next week or so, however, blogging may be sparse, JZ's comin' to town and we're headin' to the hills. Scribbs - out.

Michael, Lindsay, or the Real Deal

So, Michael, I saw the flick. It was ok. I mean, you did good. I'm not going to vote for Bush. Of, course, I wasn't going to before the movie either, but yea, you've reinforced that I guess. As far making a reasonably entertaining documentary that might make some people think and re-evaluate how we look at our politicians, I say, not bad. It had some slow moments, some weak parts, some pretty flimsy arguments, but, it made me think, and it might make some other people think too, and for that. Good. People ought to see it. But really, when it comes right down to it, I'm just not really into talking about your film, Mike. If yo want to know what people think, you can just flip on MTV and watch that goofy MTV News guy go around and talk to people about it in the soda fountain. As for me, I'm just not feeling it.

What I am feeling, however, is Lindsay Lohan. The little kid that did double-duty as those two bratty kids in Parent Trap will soon turn 18 on July second and recently turned hot last year. Freaky Friday, Mean Girls, MTV Movie Awards - the girl got around. My question, as the target for mucho criticism for common masculine behavior toward TV hotties from the long-term lady-friend, is this: what exactly is it that I, and I think I can say, we, feel for Lindsay? For that matter, for any insanely desirable and unceasingly attractive celebrity? Is it love? Lust? Like? Desire? Jealously that we don't have a girl like that? Is it really what they think it is? I mean, do I really sit in a movie theatre and see Lindsay Lohan and say, I wish that rather than being on-screen, Lindsay was sitting next to me instead of my date. No, wait. I wish Lindsay were on screen AND sitting next to me instead of my date. Yea...? Do I think that? Does anyone? Well, maybe. But to be honest, most of the time, and unless the said "date" is a real dud who is already seeing her last of me anyway, ALL the time, no, I don't think that. I don't want Lindsay to replace my date. I like my date, I may even love my date, and these are very different feelings from those which Lindsay inspires. While it may be true that, if given the chance to fulfill some sort of adolescent fantasy involving Lindsay, a bowl of strawberries, a can of whip-cream, and some Ruben, I'd find it hard to pass up, when the strawberry's were eaten the whip-cream was gone to wherever it went, I'd be the one singing Ruben's song and the girl who used to be my date probably wouldn't want to listen.

Here's the thing, I don't expect to ever even see Linsday Lohan, or NP, or EC, or any other celebrity heart-throb, and if I did, it would probably take away from their appeal. Not only would many of the sizzling stars not look nearly as perfect when not all done-up all the silver screen - though Lindsay must surely look even more delightful in real life - but the idea of even considering actually meeting or, even more unrealistic, dating Lindsay or Natalie is both intimidating and terrifying. Intimidating in a sexy way, for sure, but intimidating nonetheless. The point is, there are two different Lindsay Lohans. There is the Lindsay Lohan I see, and think about, and want to eat strawberries with. Then, there's the Lindsay Lohan that actually exists. The almost-18 year-old girl somewhere who, for all I know, is an uberbitch. I mean, she certainly doesn't seem like it, and let me tell you, MY Lindsay is NOT a bitch, in fact, she's perfect. But that is only MY Lindsay, and I will never see, or talk to, or date, MY Lindsay - because she doesn't really exist. The real Lindsay, for me, just isn't that exciting. I mean, I don't know her, and if I did, I would have to deal with all that publicity crap, and there is really no reason to think that she and I would get along. Not to mention the fact that she would be totally creeped out by my wanting to eat strawberries with her. But that's the important thing to remember! No strawberries with REAL Lindsay! Only with the Lindsay on the screen and in my mind. So, when I say I wouldn't trade a girl for any other in the whole world, I mean it; I don't want the real Lindsay, and the other Lindsay isn't really IN the world. See? It all makes perfect sense.

There's a problem though, and the problem is, girls are wack - which means...they will likely be jealous of even imaginary Lindsay. If you've heard of anything more wack than being jealous of an imaginary person, well, that'd be really wack. Nevertheless, that's the way things are, so it's up to me to explain why Lindsay (from now on, all "Lindsay"s will refer to MY Lindsay, the perfect one...) isn't a problem. For this, I'm going to need to borrow the topic of a post a while back from mindovermatter, archetypes. Now, I'm not saying that Lindsay is my archetype for the perfect girl and I'm just spending my youth hunting for a perfect replica. Nor am I recommending that anyone start trying to model their looks and behavior after her. Nor do I intend to measure the girls I date against a Lindsay Lohan ruler. Instead, MY Lindsay is a celebration of love, lust, beauty, and fun. Because she is archetypal, and has the flexibility that only a quasi-made-up person can have, she constantly reflects the beauties and traits of the real people that I search for, and luckily, have found, in life. There is no time when Lindsay is more beautiful than when she reminds me of my date. It may also be true that there is not time when my date is more beautiful than when she reminds me of Lindsay, but that too, only adds to intense feeling I can hold for that real person. Thus, my idea of Lidsay becomes not an archetype for the ideal girl, but for the ideal way to idolize a girl - to feel love, lust, like and desire for her. You see, the best thing about Lindsay, or any pretty face on TV, is that so much of her is what I make her to be. So when I, or any guy, sees Lindsay, he is not attracted so much to Lindsay, herself, as to an internal creation of his own ideal, which just happens to have Lindsay's incredible face. For me, I am lucky. When I see Lindsay, I see a reflection of the girl sitting next to me. Thus, everyone is already in the right place - when I look the screen, I see Lindsay; when I look to the side, I see the real deal; and when I close my eyes, I see both...at the same time. Snap!