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.