Copy and paste of a blog by Joe Mathlete. (NOT ME!)
http://joemathlete.blogspot.com/
The following is a series of text messages I received this Thanksgiving, while I was at my parents' house. We ate a little after 3:00, so keep in mind that for a lot of this I was sitting next to my grandpa, trying not to be rude (to my credit, my phone was at least on vibrate).
1:55 PM
I do have strong feelings for you…and as odd as i keep telling myself that is…i still do. When i went out with jeff it was because i convinced myself
1:56 PM
razy to wear my heart out in the open like i do and like you so much and want to only court you right from the start…but that’s who i am. Im fairytales
1:59 PM
and crazytown. And when it didn’t seem like you were, i did go out and see other boys and put my walls up towards you…
2:13 PM
ey really really wanted to be around me. i never had any other reasons and if i felt that you felt and wanted the same with me as I did with you I wouldn
2:16 PM
you will meet…all i know is i cant help but think of you. i was at my aunts with my friends and family all day having so much fun! Drinking and cookin
2:17 PM
I didnt expect me to go out and date and you not to, i just expected to make myself not feel for you and move on by showing myself boys who acted like th
2:30 PM
And because i want to be honest, i have spent 2 nights in a bed with jeff since ive dated him this time. We didnt have sex. I didnt touch him at all. Bu
3:04 PM
ut i feel right in my actions because of your tone with me (on a regular basis) and your actions. I appreciate so very much that you would invite me to d
3:11 PM
You are as bi polar as a polar bear. Be kind to me or dont. It cant be both anymore...i would also likd to say im sorry i was so quick to write you off b
3:12 PM
inner with travie trav and his parents but how was i supposed to know? You spoke to me and acted as if i would be lucky to see you ever...
3:39 PM
k of you when im trying to think of anything but you. Ive thought of you since i first met you...there has to be something to that. I know you think im c
3:47 PM
that i didnt want to like someone (you) so much when they could just take or leave me. I needed more assurance than that if my heart was already falling
3:49 PM
for you . So i went out with him on the full intention of never having feelings for you again. But here i am... He kissed me and i thought of you. I thin
3:51 PM
g and i just kept thinking of you. Jeff came over to my aunts later that night to hang out and drink and still i thought of you. I spent last weekend mos
3:52 PM
tly at home or with my family. ..not boys...i'm not the crazy girl you imagine. I just am crazy about you. And the way you treat me drives me crazy!
3:58 PM
t go out and see others just because we disagreed or whatever...thats definately not who i am. When im shown respect and honesty, im the most loyal puppy
3:59 PM
and surprise surprise. I thought of you. You ass...happy thanksgiving zach.
4:04 PM
t the first night (when i planned on having nothing to do with you ever again)He touched me over my jeans but my shirt and bra were off...it was awful...
4:11 PM
I just read that and it sounds like rape or something. it wasnt...it was nice actually but you know what i mean
9:19 PM
*Duplicate*
Zombihe! Are you amapzing time!
And now, here are my responses:
2:00 PM
Who is this? I think you have the wrong number
3:04 PM
PLEASE STOP TEXTING ME. YOU HAVE THE WRONG NUMBER.
4:13 PM
Why am I still getting text messages from you? who is zach? for christ's sake, YOU HAVE GOT THE WRONG NUMBER
Thank you to Verizon Wireless and their innovative "William Burroughs" method of text-message delivery. Also to the unknown teenage girl who transformed my otherwise-pleasant Thanksgiving into a Kafka-esque technological farce.
30.11.07
25.11.07
Gloom Rules
Ever heard of Bret Easton Ellis? He's a contemporary of Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club), and wrote the book American Psycho, which was made into a movie staring Christian Bale. 
I own all of Bret Easton Ellis's books. I have tried to read every single one, and gotten bored/frustrated/disgusted by the tenth page. My last attempt was Bret's book Less Than Zero.
As I expected, it was boring, but I kept reading. The main character is Clay, an 18-year old college student who returns from New Hampshire to Los Angeles. He's rich, arrogant and addicted to cocaine. He feels nothing and does whatever he wants. The first fifty pages was a boring trudge through nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. But as soon as I reached page 51. . . things took off.
I realized that Ellis was creating a deep, symbolic build-up for one of the most amazing books I have ever read. Instantly, the book becomes gripping, mind-blowing even. Clay reminds me of myself, a dark side that I have, where I have "almost" everything I want, where I stop feeling and even death, rape, prostitution doesn't bother me. As he goes to party after party after party, takes snort of coke after snort after snort, as I watch him deteriorate, something beautiful grows inside me. I am facing myself, overcoming myself.
Don't read this book. Watch the movie, or stop caring altogether. I think only a select few will understand the symbolism in this book, something I can't explain in a mere book review. You'd have to read it, and you won't.
Bret Easton Ellis said "I read it for the first time in about 20 years this year—recently. It wasn't so bad. I get it. I get fan mail now from people who weren't really born yet when the book came out. I don't think it's a perfect book by any means, but it's valid. I get where it comes from. I get what it is."
He wrote the book in 1985 when he was 19.
I own all of Bret Easton Ellis's books. I have tried to read every single one, and gotten bored/frustrated/disgusted by the tenth page. My last attempt was Bret's book Less Than Zero.
As I expected, it was boring, but I kept reading. The main character is Clay, an 18-year old college student who returns from New Hampshire to Los Angeles. He's rich, arrogant and addicted to cocaine. He feels nothing and does whatever he wants. The first fifty pages was a boring trudge through nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. But as soon as I reached page 51. . . things took off.
I realized that Ellis was creating a deep, symbolic build-up for one of the most amazing books I have ever read. Instantly, the book becomes gripping, mind-blowing even. Clay reminds me of myself, a dark side that I have, where I have "almost" everything I want, where I stop feeling and even death, rape, prostitution doesn't bother me. As he goes to party after party after party, takes snort of coke after snort after snort, as I watch him deteriorate, something beautiful grows inside me. I am facing myself, overcoming myself.
Don't read this book. Watch the movie, or stop caring altogether. I think only a select few will understand the symbolism in this book, something I can't explain in a mere book review. You'd have to read it, and you won't.
Bret Easton Ellis said "I read it for the first time in about 20 years this year—recently. It wasn't so bad. I get it. I get fan mail now from people who weren't really born yet when the book came out. I don't think it's a perfect book by any means, but it's valid. I get where it comes from. I get what it is."
He wrote the book in 1985 when he was 19.
15.11.07
The Role of Journalism in Democracy
I’m a pacifist and so is my friend who is majoring in Nuclear Physics. In the future, he will help design rockets, missiles and other nasty projectiles. He once told me he felt guilty that he is going to help create weapons of mass destruction, and I told him to shut up. I’m majoring in journalism, I said, and words have killed way more people than bombs ever have.
Perhaps people have forgotten how potent the press can be. Long, bloody wars have been started because of the written word. The Yellow Press encouraged the Spanish-American War. Mein Kampf was Hitler’s ladder to power. The Communist Manifesto gave Lenin the push he needed. Yes, in the wrong hands, the written word has killed many.
Indeed, journalists need to be mindful of what they publish. It is often all too easy to influence the world with even the simplest reporting. In recent history there have been enumerous junk science reports that caused panic over nothing. Examples are SARS, the West Nile Virus, Anthrax, the Y2K virus, and the weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.
All of these scares had some truth in them, that’s for certain, but it doesn’t explain why all of these issues were blown out of proportion. The consequences were loss of large amounts of money and at times, loss of life.
The role of journalism in a democratic society is to report the truth, with minimal harm, and no outside interest. It should also be held accountable to its readers. Journalists are not filling this role by reporting half-truths that send people into a panic.
Those in the media will apologize for spelling and grammatical errors, but no one apologized for these outrageous hypes. The media continues to go unchecked, still spreading fear and propaganda without remorse. Perhaps these are all innocent mistakes, but that doesn’t change what happened.
I don’t think issues are exaggerated on purpose. I do think the media needs to man up their mistakes. If an issue was not a threat as previously thought, apologize. Next time, be careful how you word or place your article. There may be a range of ideas why the media doesn’t do this. First, it may make them seem without credibility. Second, reporting mistakes doesn’t grab as many viewers or readers as reporting an incredible new threat. If you want to make money, advertise something that scares people into buying it.
If this is done unintentionally, it could be a simple matter of what events get the most coverage, the slant and tone of a story, where the subject is published, and how it is treated graphically. The best way to illustrate this is to give an example.
Second to the Iraq invasion, global warming is the biggest issue in today’s news. It often gets more coverage than suicide bombings or genocide. The focus is no longer on lives being lost on foreign soil, but on the weather, of all things.
From a scientific point of view, the earth has been warming, but a little more than a degree. The theory is that levels of carbon dioxide, which are released into the air by car exhaust or coal power plants are causing the planet to heat. This is a problem because the polar ice caps will melt and flood the planet, although this detail is incorrect because melting sea ice does not actually raise ocean levels.
No one knows whether the earth is being warmed by human activity or not. There is no proof either way. Still, the media presents this issue one-sided and does not address the other holes in this theory.
The Earth’s atmosphere is a combination of Nitrogen and Oxygen, which makes up 99 percent of it. The other gases are argon, neon, helium, krypton, xenon, and hydrogen. These are labeled as permanent gases while water vapor, ozone, aerosols, nitrous oxides, methane and carbon dioxide are labeled variable gases.
Carbon dioxide makes up 0.0375 percent of the atmosphere. To picture this, imagine you had 10 liters of black sand that averages you about 1.5 million grains. The amount of CO2 in the atmosphere is equal to 3 grains of sand, or 1 per 500,000 grains. Can levels of something so small really be the cause of a global epidemic? Well, if levels are rising, perhaps. But are they rising? Do not forget, CO2 levels fluxuate as well as the average global temperature. No one on either side can generalize, because we do not know enough about our own environment.
Simply put, no one knows what is causing global warming, and no one knows if “greenhouse gases” cause it either. We know that the earth has risen in temperature by one degree. Is that really so big that everyone should panic and drive hybrids?
There isn’t a lot of conclusive data on global warming, yet the media continues to publish data about it as if it were fact and not speculation or theory. Even attempts at diversifying the issue are poor. I reference the August 13th, 2007 article “The Truth About Denial” in Newsweek. The article called itself a balanced look at the debate on global warming and was anything but fair. It attacked anyone who was a “global warming denier” as either stupid, ignoring facts, or that their research was funded by industry.
The irony in all this is that none of the “deniers” claimed global warming was nonexistent, just not caused by human beings. So far, this is true. According to Newsmax, “the expenditure of more than $U.S.50 billion on research into global warming since 1990 has failed to demonstrate any human-caused climate trend, let alone a dangerous one." It goes on to say that skeptics receive only $19 million in funding a year. Compare that to the $50 billion other climatologists receive and it doesn’t seem like “balanced journalism” to be pointing fingers about funding.
This article is only one example of an entire movement of incorrect portrayal of the facts. The November 11, 2007 edition of the Arizona Republic was another such article about global warming skeptics. The newspaper painted them as people who are ignoring facts and hyping on details. It was a front page article that took precedence over six United States troops being killed in Afghanistan. That’s right, opinion is more front-page news than human life.
In general, this type of reporting on global warming clearly goes against the SBJ Code of Ethics. This type of reporting does not “test the accuracy of information from all sources” or “exercise care to avoid inadvertent error.” This type of reporting does not “support the open exchange of views, even views they find repugnant”. This type of reporting does not “distinguish between advocacy and news reporting”. I find reporting like this dangerous and irresponsible, if it’s reporting at all.
Unless newspapers change their attitude about how they report global warming it will just be like with Y2K, everyone panicking, buying up the bottled water, bunkering down for a non-existent crisis. The role of a newspaper in Democracy is to report fact as fact, speculation as speculation and hold itself responsible for what it publishes. If not, we can expect the same cycles of fear and embarrassment, we can expect large loss of money, we can even expect the loss of life. The fact is, the power of writing is not something to take lightly.
Sources:
Blodgett, H. Robert & Keller, Edward A.,(2006). Natural Hazards. Pearson Education, Inc.
McKinnon, Shaun. (2007, November 11). Skeptics Raise Doubt on Global Warming. The Arizona Republic, p. 1
Morano, Mark. (2007, August 6). Newsweek’s Global Warming Blunder. Newsmax,. Retrieved November 13, 2007, from http://archive.newsmax.com/archives/articles/2007/8/6/100434.shtml.
Purtill, Corinne. (2007, November 11). Outspoken ASU Prof draws ire. The Arizona Republic, p. 1
Walsh, Bryan (2007, October 15).Meltdown. Time, 170, 16.
Perhaps people have forgotten how potent the press can be. Long, bloody wars have been started because of the written word. The Yellow Press encouraged the Spanish-American War. Mein Kampf was Hitler’s ladder to power. The Communist Manifesto gave Lenin the push he needed. Yes, in the wrong hands, the written word has killed many.
Indeed, journalists need to be mindful of what they publish. It is often all too easy to influence the world with even the simplest reporting. In recent history there have been enumerous junk science reports that caused panic over nothing. Examples are SARS, the West Nile Virus, Anthrax, the Y2K virus, and the weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.
All of these scares had some truth in them, that’s for certain, but it doesn’t explain why all of these issues were blown out of proportion. The consequences were loss of large amounts of money and at times, loss of life.
The role of journalism in a democratic society is to report the truth, with minimal harm, and no outside interest. It should also be held accountable to its readers. Journalists are not filling this role by reporting half-truths that send people into a panic.
Those in the media will apologize for spelling and grammatical errors, but no one apologized for these outrageous hypes. The media continues to go unchecked, still spreading fear and propaganda without remorse. Perhaps these are all innocent mistakes, but that doesn’t change what happened.
I don’t think issues are exaggerated on purpose. I do think the media needs to man up their mistakes. If an issue was not a threat as previously thought, apologize. Next time, be careful how you word or place your article. There may be a range of ideas why the media doesn’t do this. First, it may make them seem without credibility. Second, reporting mistakes doesn’t grab as many viewers or readers as reporting an incredible new threat. If you want to make money, advertise something that scares people into buying it.
If this is done unintentionally, it could be a simple matter of what events get the most coverage, the slant and tone of a story, where the subject is published, and how it is treated graphically. The best way to illustrate this is to give an example.
Second to the Iraq invasion, global warming is the biggest issue in today’s news. It often gets more coverage than suicide bombings or genocide. The focus is no longer on lives being lost on foreign soil, but on the weather, of all things.
From a scientific point of view, the earth has been warming, but a little more than a degree. The theory is that levels of carbon dioxide, which are released into the air by car exhaust or coal power plants are causing the planet to heat. This is a problem because the polar ice caps will melt and flood the planet, although this detail is incorrect because melting sea ice does not actually raise ocean levels.
No one knows whether the earth is being warmed by human activity or not. There is no proof either way. Still, the media presents this issue one-sided and does not address the other holes in this theory.
The Earth’s atmosphere is a combination of Nitrogen and Oxygen, which makes up 99 percent of it. The other gases are argon, neon, helium, krypton, xenon, and hydrogen. These are labeled as permanent gases while water vapor, ozone, aerosols, nitrous oxides, methane and carbon dioxide are labeled variable gases.
Carbon dioxide makes up 0.0375 percent of the atmosphere. To picture this, imagine you had 10 liters of black sand that averages you about 1.5 million grains. The amount of CO2 in the atmosphere is equal to 3 grains of sand, or 1 per 500,000 grains. Can levels of something so small really be the cause of a global epidemic? Well, if levels are rising, perhaps. But are they rising? Do not forget, CO2 levels fluxuate as well as the average global temperature. No one on either side can generalize, because we do not know enough about our own environment.
Simply put, no one knows what is causing global warming, and no one knows if “greenhouse gases” cause it either. We know that the earth has risen in temperature by one degree. Is that really so big that everyone should panic and drive hybrids?
There isn’t a lot of conclusive data on global warming, yet the media continues to publish data about it as if it were fact and not speculation or theory. Even attempts at diversifying the issue are poor. I reference the August 13th, 2007 article “The Truth About Denial” in Newsweek. The article called itself a balanced look at the debate on global warming and was anything but fair. It attacked anyone who was a “global warming denier” as either stupid, ignoring facts, or that their research was funded by industry.
The irony in all this is that none of the “deniers” claimed global warming was nonexistent, just not caused by human beings. So far, this is true. According to Newsmax, “the expenditure of more than $U.S.50 billion on research into global warming since 1990 has failed to demonstrate any human-caused climate trend, let alone a dangerous one." It goes on to say that skeptics receive only $19 million in funding a year. Compare that to the $50 billion other climatologists receive and it doesn’t seem like “balanced journalism” to be pointing fingers about funding.
This article is only one example of an entire movement of incorrect portrayal of the facts. The November 11, 2007 edition of the Arizona Republic was another such article about global warming skeptics. The newspaper painted them as people who are ignoring facts and hyping on details. It was a front page article that took precedence over six United States troops being killed in Afghanistan. That’s right, opinion is more front-page news than human life.
In general, this type of reporting on global warming clearly goes against the SBJ Code of Ethics. This type of reporting does not “test the accuracy of information from all sources” or “exercise care to avoid inadvertent error.” This type of reporting does not “support the open exchange of views, even views they find repugnant”. This type of reporting does not “distinguish between advocacy and news reporting”. I find reporting like this dangerous and irresponsible, if it’s reporting at all.
Unless newspapers change their attitude about how they report global warming it will just be like with Y2K, everyone panicking, buying up the bottled water, bunkering down for a non-existent crisis. The role of a newspaper in Democracy is to report fact as fact, speculation as speculation and hold itself responsible for what it publishes. If not, we can expect the same cycles of fear and embarrassment, we can expect large loss of money, we can even expect the loss of life. The fact is, the power of writing is not something to take lightly.
Sources:
Blodgett, H. Robert & Keller, Edward A.,(2006). Natural Hazards. Pearson Education, Inc.
McKinnon, Shaun. (2007, November 11). Skeptics Raise Doubt on Global Warming. The Arizona Republic, p. 1
Morano, Mark. (2007, August 6). Newsweek’s Global Warming Blunder. Newsmax,. Retrieved November 13, 2007, from http://archive.newsmax.com/archives/articles/2007/8/6/100434.shtml.
Purtill, Corinne. (2007, November 11). Outspoken ASU Prof draws ire. The Arizona Republic, p. 1
Walsh, Bryan (2007, October 15).Meltdown. Time, 170, 16.
7.11.07
Maintenance
In an elevator someone scribbled, "I wrote on the wall. Take that society!" I burst out laughing, and the other people in the elevator gave me looks. I liked the writing, but disagree with it's more subtle meaning. I think that graffiti is more than just a pathetic swing at society and it CAN change things.
For example, the longest recorded piece of graffiti was a 4,000 character essay written in the bathroom of a Chinese college in 1915. The artist criticized the college and the state of Chinese society. He turned himself in, was paraded around the school, and was threatened with expulsion. The student was Chairman Mao, who later founded the People's Republic of China and was responsible for the deaths of 30 million people.
How about a more personal example? The communal bathroom in my dorm used to be a women's room. It's now shared by 70+ men, and has only two stalls. No urinals, and only four showers. The people in my hall enjoy missing the toilet, no matter what they expel: piss, shit, or vomit. The lock on one of the filthy doors was dismantled, providing no privacy for that stall. It's been that way for two months, and I finally got sick of it.
I wrote with my left hand, (to disguise my handwriting), "What are we paying you for? Fix the fucking door!"
I wrote the date, to see how long it took to fix. Less than 24-hours. [SEE PRETTY PIKTURES].
If you still need proof that graffiti changes things, read Daniel Chapter 5. Probably one of my favorite stories in the Bible, as you probably already know. But I don't want to spoil it. Read it.
I don't think graffiti is all that wrong. To a certain degree, it's disrespectful, but not sinful. My actions do raise some questions however.
1. Why didn't I just report the broken lock? Oh, that would have been easier, and far less effective. If you've had to deal with NAU administration the way I have, you'd already know this. If you want to be listened to, you have to shout. Which raises the next question.
2. Is the word "fucking" necessary? Oh yes. Very. I pondered this act for about two weeks before I did it. Word choice was not an accident. Personally, I never cared. I poop on the second floor anyway. It's a more private, clean and quiet bathroom. I only wrote this to see the effectiveness of my message, and to prove the point in this blog. I could have been polite, but that would lessen the notice's potency. That is why no one gives a "shit" about the "PEACE PLEASE" sticker campaign all over campus. It's too nice. If I had wrote, "Please fix the door LOL" I can guarantee you that door would still be busted. Your message has to be strong to get attention.
There are two parts to graffiti; the message and the medium. My medium was permanent marker, which is easy to remove. It's gone with a daub of nail polish remover. Other mediums are stickers or wheatpasting which you can remove with water and a blow dryer. Spray paint is probably the hardest thing to remove, second to engraving. You either have to paint over it, or powerwash it off. Both the message and the medium are equally important. Neither one can be weak or inappropriate.
3. Who exactly are you arguing with? Good question. Am I banging my head against a brick wall or debating with scribbles in an elevator? I'm really just tired of those pathetic people who won't stand up for themselves and say they can't make a difference in the world. I want to prove to those poor saps that you can change something, all you need is a wall and a paintcan to be your voice. The question is, what are you going to write?
The last thing was this: An idle warning. But as I already said, I don't even poop there. And I won't write on anymore walls, because my message has already been delivered.
For example, the longest recorded piece of graffiti was a 4,000 character essay written in the bathroom of a Chinese college in 1915. The artist criticized the college and the state of Chinese society. He turned himself in, was paraded around the school, and was threatened with expulsion. The student was Chairman Mao, who later founded the People's Republic of China and was responsible for the deaths of 30 million people.
How about a more personal example? The communal bathroom in my dorm used to be a women's room. It's now shared by 70+ men, and has only two stalls. No urinals, and only four showers. The people in my hall enjoy missing the toilet, no matter what they expel: piss, shit, or vomit. The lock on one of the filthy doors was dismantled, providing no privacy for that stall. It's been that way for two months, and I finally got sick of it.
I wrote with my left hand, (to disguise my handwriting), "What are we paying you for? Fix the fucking door!"
I wrote the date, to see how long it took to fix. Less than 24-hours. [SEE PRETTY PIKTURES].
If you still need proof that graffiti changes things, read Daniel Chapter 5. Probably one of my favorite stories in the Bible, as you probably already know. But I don't want to spoil it. Read it.
I don't think graffiti is all that wrong. To a certain degree, it's disrespectful, but not sinful. My actions do raise some questions however.
1. Why didn't I just report the broken lock? Oh, that would have been easier, and far less effective. If you've had to deal with NAU administration the way I have, you'd already know this. If you want to be listened to, you have to shout. Which raises the next question.
2. Is the word "fucking" necessary? Oh yes. Very. I pondered this act for about two weeks before I did it. Word choice was not an accident. Personally, I never cared. I poop on the second floor anyway. It's a more private, clean and quiet bathroom. I only wrote this to see the effectiveness of my message, and to prove the point in this blog. I could have been polite, but that would lessen the notice's potency. That is why no one gives a "shit" about the "PEACE PLEASE" sticker campaign all over campus. It's too nice. If I had wrote, "Please fix the door LOL" I can guarantee you that door would still be busted. Your message has to be strong to get attention.
There are two parts to graffiti; the message and the medium. My medium was permanent marker, which is easy to remove. It's gone with a daub of nail polish remover. Other mediums are stickers or wheatpasting which you can remove with water and a blow dryer. Spray paint is probably the hardest thing to remove, second to engraving. You either have to paint over it, or powerwash it off. Both the message and the medium are equally important. Neither one can be weak or inappropriate.
3. Who exactly are you arguing with? Good question. Am I banging my head against a brick wall or debating with scribbles in an elevator? I'm really just tired of those pathetic people who won't stand up for themselves and say they can't make a difference in the world. I want to prove to those poor saps that you can change something, all you need is a wall and a paintcan to be your voice. The question is, what are you going to write?
The last thing was this: An idle warning. But as I already said, I don't even poop there. And I won't write on anymore walls, because my message has already been delivered.
6.11.07
Things You Can Ponder
SEX
DEATH
GAMES
INFINITY
MARRIAGE
PARTIES
WORK
RELIGION
FOOD
CHILDREN
GHOSTS
NOTHINGALL OF THE ABOVE:
27.10.07
Something
Current mood: I am Jack's Listening Skillz
http://www.wikihow.com/Be-a
After reading this article about how to be a good listener, I really wanted to practice. This desire came out of nowhere, maybe because the article is slanted to make you feel like an inadequate listener.
So I took a walk at midnight, contemplating the mistakes of the day. To be honest, today was amazing, but I stepped out of line a lot. I'm quite the screw-up.
The walk calmed my nerves. I saw a dumpster and leafed through it and found a metal case for catching tennis balls. Awesome. I took it and walked on and saw an old man dumpster diving in another dumpster across the parking lot.
I decided to talk to him, to tell him there were probably other good things in the first dumpster, to be a nice guy. I've been working on being more polite too. He told me that he was looking for scrap metal to sell and then started talking about how he couldn't get enough money on a small senior citizens check.
I thought, Perfect! Even though he's a stranger, I can practice my listening and polite skills. The man went on to say that people from the East Coast had invaded Arizona, stripped us of our natural resources and destroyed this state.
Then he suddenly changed the subject. He started talking about the materials to make cars and how Henry Ford made good cars, but GM made shitty cars because they imported their metal from some evil factory in Germany, meaning GM is Nazi owned. (His assumption, not mine).
Then he suddenly changed the subject. He started talking to me about how stupid women are, especially the ones on the bus because they all believe that sex is money and that they don't have jobs or cars because they are on the bus. The man told me how he likes to start conversations with women about their jobs and then laughs when they tell him they have cars and houses. He asks them "what would you do if an asteroid the size of Jupiter was heading toward a collision course towards the Earth?"
I decided to use my listening skills and asked, "Well, what would YOU do?"
He snorted and said, "Well, I've tried to talk to people about the UFO, but no one listens."
"Wait, what?"
Then he suddenly changed the subject. He told me that Hitler was crazy and evil and that killing the Jews was still okay, because they were criminals. He told me that some Egyptian Pharaoh predicted the Holocaust, so did Buddha, so did Jesus. He told me that the Jews were killed because they HAD to be with God. It was destiny.
Then he suddenly changed the subject. He said something about how NASA is imperialistic and Nazi owned, and the rockets are made of sand and aluminum and that's why they blow up so much, because the Nazi's couldn't make good machines.
Then he suddenly changed the subject. He told me everyone on Earth is stupid. Why? Because if you asked them what 2x4 is they will answer 8. He told me it's actually 3. Using my listening skills, I asked him to explain. He pointed to a car tire. "360º, right? Well, that's natural and consistent so you don't multiply, you DIVIDE. You divide by three because that's human nature, and you get 90º."
Then he suddenly changed the subject. He told me human beings only care about sex and they are evil and perverted.
But at this point it was almost too hard to keep from laughing, and I was feeling stupidly uncomfortable. So I kept looking for an exit. I told him, "Wow, that's a lot to think about, but what time is it? Midnight? Oh, wow, I gotta go. It was nice talking to you, Mr. . ."
He said, "My name? Well, you know my uncle, don't you?"
"No, who's your uncle?"
"King Basha. He's a Pharaoh and he owns Bashas." He babbled off a lot of grammar and geography and then told me, "That makes me King Lasbahs."
I said, "Goodnight, King Lasbahs. I will talk to you later."
He screamed after me, "People evolved from monkies, and you wonder what aliens look like and why they don't talk to assholes!"
So maybe that was not the best way to practice my listening skills.
The funniest thing is, I couldn't shake the feeling that maybe he wasn't the crazy one, and it was I with the skewed sense of perception. I'm left with a lot more questions than answers, except for one definitive truth, which I choose not to share.
18.10.07
Lockpick Pornography
Lockipick Pornography is a book by Joey Comeau, one of my heroes. I bought the book online for $10 and waited an anxious month and a half for it to arrive in the mail. When I got it I was so excited that I ran around my neighborhood clutching it, grinning like a schoolboy. I wanted to scream at everyone I met to buy and read the book or I would kill them. Slit their neck with a razor.
I would hold the book out in plain sight, so people could see the cover. LOCKPICK PORNOGRAPHY! OMG!
The book is about angry gay people who get up and get revenge on heterosexual people. It was hilarious and weird and sick and twisted. Lots of gay sex and about as transgressive as any Palahniuk novel. The message behind the mess was that gender is constructed, you're not born with it. Or maybe it wasn't. Whatever.
I don't really agree, but I still enjoyed the hell out of the book.
It was short. A mere ten chapters. I read it fast. Some parts didn't transition very well, others were hard to believe. Palahniuk says the best way to make an unbelievable story credible is to present it in a non-fiction form. This is why something as bizarre as Rant worked for him. For Joey's Lockpick Porn, maybe it didn't. But I still loved the hell out of the book. It was like reading a book that a friend writes, and yeah, parts of it suck, but mostly you love their book because you love who wrote it.
That seems to be all I feel lately, that second degree love for art. But I don't care.
Go buy his book.
http://www.looseteeth.ca/storebooks.htm
I would hold the book out in plain sight, so people could see the cover. LOCKPICK PORNOGRAPHY! OMG!
The book is about angry gay people who get up and get revenge on heterosexual people. It was hilarious and weird and sick and twisted. Lots of gay sex and about as transgressive as any Palahniuk novel. The message behind the mess was that gender is constructed, you're not born with it. Or maybe it wasn't. Whatever.
I don't really agree, but I still enjoyed the hell out of the book.
It was short. A mere ten chapters. I read it fast. Some parts didn't transition very well, others were hard to believe. Palahniuk says the best way to make an unbelievable story credible is to present it in a non-fiction form. This is why something as bizarre as Rant worked for him. For Joey's Lockpick Porn, maybe it didn't. But I still loved the hell out of the book. It was like reading a book that a friend writes, and yeah, parts of it suck, but mostly you love their book because you love who wrote it.
That seems to be all I feel lately, that second degree love for art. But I don't care.
Go buy his book.
http://www.looseteeth.ca/storebooks.htm
12.10.07
Horrible Beautiful
Doing some research on Banksy, I stumbled upon an artist who's work look vaguely familiar.
His pen name is Stanley Donwood and he's done the artwork for Radiohead's albums since the Iron Lung EP. That means, pretty much every album but Pablo Honey.
I really like Donwood. Check him out.
Nice quote by him: "Somehow I want to make the horrible beautiful."
9.10.07
Chrysalis / Angel Wings
 | Chrysalis / Angel Wings This is an old blog I wrote on August 29th. . . I've wanted to publish it for a while now. |
8.10.07
Catatonic
Alternate title for this blog could have been "Passive", since this is mostly a vague reference to the APC song.
The lyrics in the song "cold and catatonic" stick out to me each time I hear it.
There are a billion well-placed swearwords scattered throughout this entry.
If they offend you, GOOD. That's the whole FUCKING point of this blog.
To offend you, get under your skin, break your perfect little consciousness into pieces.
Well, my major is journalism. In case you didn't know or guess. I've become all stupid about this. Excited. Shitfaced. I've become like every other stupid, idealistic college student who thinks that because their attending university they can change the world. I look around me on campus and I see all these angry teenagers trying too hard. Fresh out of high school and their angtsy, antsy hormones pressure them to cast the first stones. They recycle or rally or paint or . . . write blogs. I judge them, but it's okay in my mind because I'm just as bad.
Duh.
I've started analyzing my behavior as either "journalistic" or not. The fact that I carry pen and notebook around with me everywhere makes me journalistic. Writing about 3 blogs a day, (no kidding), but only publishing about one, makes me journalistic. I stopped listening to my headphones in public so that I can listen to the sounds around me and take it all in. This is journalistic.
Someone asked what I was writing in my notebook. She said I must be paying lots of attention, I must be very observant. This is journalistic.
But I read very slowly now. I'm more late than early. I am failing more journalism classes than math classes. This is very unjournalistic.
I am making these observations because I am testing myself. I want to see if I have what it takes. And I adjust my behavior, to fit this ideal of "journalism", because this is my shitfaced dream, this is how I am changing the world, by destroying myself and becoming a "cold and catonic" android of information.
Today in JLS 130 I was told to write a lead for a police report. First my professor told us two basic types of leads. There is the inverted pyramid, which is all the important information at the top, boring details at the bottom. I was the only one in class who knew that. The second is the "anecdotal lead". You start out with a short story, then add a bunch of facts that make your readers care. That part is called the "Nut Graph", I think. My professor says, if you don't have one of those, then you don't really have a story.
It's best to give a small example. David smokes and dies of cancer. Why do you care? Because XX percent of people die from cancer each year. That's it.
This entry would be considered "anecdotal".
I read this actual police report, which I still have and never plan on throwing it away. I inhaled with excitement when it was placed on my desk, that is, and I started writing right away. Then I started to feel sick . . .
The narrative, the anonymous "cold and catatonic" voice of Officer X detailed a disgusting, horrible car accident involving six teenagers. There were details no one would ever publish in any paper, about how the bodies were strewn from the car, how this one teenager was screaming in agony as the paramedics assisted him. He screamed, "don't leave me", and they rushed him to the hospital. He died before he made it.
There were 90 pages of detailed information. My professor only gave us 2. This car accident that happened less than a month ago. Reading how this happened on Jennifer Miller's 16th birthday, she and her friends got shitfaced and drove 120MPH into a tree, I wanted to cry. I was horrified. Miller, as far as I know, was the only one to survive.
But I had to finish the assignment. I sucked it in and wrote it. I stuffed emotion. I'm no longer grossed out. Fuck, I've seen worse movies than this report. This "cold and catatonic" attitude, to me, was very journalistic. Or maybe just normal.
And I wrote a lead. And to me, it sucked. I was pressured, I wasn't doing an outline at all, blah blah blah. I don't mind, it was just practice, right? If I do become a journalist I will be doing this shit for a paycheck.
This blog. . . I forget the point. It's anecdotal, but there's no "nut graph". I have no reason for making you care. That means this writing sucks.
That means that this is very unjournalistic.
The lyrics in the song "cold and catatonic" stick out to me each time I hear it.
There are a billion well-placed swearwords scattered throughout this entry.
If they offend you, GOOD. That's the whole FUCKING point of this blog.
To offend you, get under your skin, break your perfect little consciousness into pieces.
Well, my major is journalism. In case you didn't know or guess. I've become all stupid about this. Excited. Shitfaced. I've become like every other stupid, idealistic college student who thinks that because their attending university they can change the world. I look around me on campus and I see all these angry teenagers trying too hard. Fresh out of high school and their angtsy, antsy hormones pressure them to cast the first stones. They recycle or rally or paint or . . . write blogs. I judge them, but it's okay in my mind because I'm just as bad.
Duh.
I've started analyzing my behavior as either "journalistic" or not. The fact that I carry pen and notebook around with me everywhere makes me journalistic. Writing about 3 blogs a day, (no kidding), but only publishing about one, makes me journalistic. I stopped listening to my headphones in public so that I can listen to the sounds around me and take it all in. This is journalistic.
Someone asked what I was writing in my notebook. She said I must be paying lots of attention, I must be very observant. This is journalistic.
But I read very slowly now. I'm more late than early. I am failing more journalism classes than math classes. This is very unjournalistic.
I am making these observations because I am testing myself. I want to see if I have what it takes. And I adjust my behavior, to fit this ideal of "journalism", because this is my shitfaced dream, this is how I am changing the world, by destroying myself and becoming a "cold and catonic" android of information.
Today in JLS 130 I was told to write a lead for a police report. First my professor told us two basic types of leads. There is the inverted pyramid, which is all the important information at the top, boring details at the bottom. I was the only one in class who knew that. The second is the "anecdotal lead". You start out with a short story, then add a bunch of facts that make your readers care. That part is called the "Nut Graph", I think. My professor says, if you don't have one of those, then you don't really have a story.
It's best to give a small example. David smokes and dies of cancer. Why do you care? Because XX percent of people die from cancer each year. That's it.
This entry would be considered "anecdotal".
I read this actual police report, which I still have and never plan on throwing it away. I inhaled with excitement when it was placed on my desk, that is, and I started writing right away. Then I started to feel sick . . .
The narrative, the anonymous "cold and catatonic" voice of Officer X detailed a disgusting, horrible car accident involving six teenagers. There were details no one would ever publish in any paper, about how the bodies were strewn from the car, how this one teenager was screaming in agony as the paramedics assisted him. He screamed, "don't leave me", and they rushed him to the hospital. He died before he made it.
There were 90 pages of detailed information. My professor only gave us 2. This car accident that happened less than a month ago. Reading how this happened on Jennifer Miller's 16th birthday, she and her friends got shitfaced and drove 120MPH into a tree, I wanted to cry. I was horrified. Miller, as far as I know, was the only one to survive.
But I had to finish the assignment. I sucked it in and wrote it. I stuffed emotion. I'm no longer grossed out. Fuck, I've seen worse movies than this report. This "cold and catatonic" attitude, to me, was very journalistic. Or maybe just normal.
And I wrote a lead. And to me, it sucked. I was pressured, I wasn't doing an outline at all, blah blah blah. I don't mind, it was just practice, right? If I do become a journalist I will be doing this shit for a paycheck.
This blog. . . I forget the point. It's anecdotal, but there's no "nut graph". I have no reason for making you care. That means this writing sucks.
That means that this is very unjournalistic.
4.10.07
Sherry Enema
Found an interesting article today about someone who killed her husband by giving him a Sherry Enema. . . Makes me wonder how many stupid people are still left alive.
Read more here:
http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/0203052sherry1.html
Read more here:
http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/0203052sherry1.html
2.10.07
PANLOL@AS
I like this image. It's just so over the top.
Do smoking companies and anti-smoking propaganda not get it?
People who smoke UNDERSTAND that smoking kills.
Smoking gives you cancer and retarded babies.
Second hand smoke as well.
It's just that smokers DON'T CARE.
They're cooler than you. That's why.
25.9.07
Liars & Vendettas
My dorm wing is full of people who are assholes. They treat me belligerently, which makes sense. Other than my roommate, they are all those "bros", the popular people who either play football or pose as pretty boy gangsters. They only nice thing they do is leave me alone or bring in cute girls they sleep around with. . .
My roommate is a metalhead, sorta. I don't know what cliche he slides into. I'm the only artist in this hall.
I really belong in Reilly. Many of my friends are over there, and once I pretended I lived there and attended a dorm meeting just to get free pizza. I lied straight faced to the R.A. that I was on his floor. When he asked which number I lived in, I said, "Uh. . ."
"Are you on Chris's [the other R.A.] wing?"
"Yeah, I must be."
I'm going to lie again so I can attend condom poker with their hall. Allen hall doesn't do anything cool like that. The coolest thing they've done is host a National Day of Peace art contest. The rules were to color a peace sign template and the best got a $25.00 gift certificate to Target. Since everyone who lives there is "too cool" for art I knew I was easily going to win.
I spent about an hour on it. I colored it with expensive, artsy permarkers, and got high off the fumes. Then I burst open some ink pens I found around campus and blew the ink everywhere. It looked really nice. You were supposed to hang it on your door.
Only two other people entered, and to me, theirs were not very good. One was a pencil drawing of either a volcano or a nuclear bomb. The other was babbling about how there can never be peace between countries or religions. I didn't understand it.
On Saturday night, after the judging was over, I was leaving my room and decided to take a picture of my art. For some reason I felt that the dicks in my hall would tear it down. After a long night, I came home at 3AM and saw my poster crumpled up, ripped in half, down the hall. I was right. The other two peace signs were fine.
At the time, since I wasn't surprised, I wasn't mad. I picked up the pieces of my artwork and plotted revenge, and pondered who would be such a dick. It wasn't a big deal.
I learned today that all three of the people who entered the contest won. Instead of getting a 25.00 gift card, we all get a ten dollar one. . . This is such a copout for real judging. Disappointed isn't the word I would use. What's a word for "lack of surprise"?
And right now, I am sitting in my room glaring at the door, and hating everyone being loud out in the hall.
My roommate is a metalhead, sorta. I don't know what cliche he slides into. I'm the only artist in this hall.
I really belong in Reilly. Many of my friends are over there, and once I pretended I lived there and attended a dorm meeting just to get free pizza. I lied straight faced to the R.A. that I was on his floor. When he asked which number I lived in, I said, "Uh. . ."
"Are you on Chris's [the other R.A.] wing?"
"Yeah, I must be."
I'm going to lie again so I can attend condom poker with their hall. Allen hall doesn't do anything cool like that. The coolest thing they've done is host a National Day of Peace art contest. The rules were to color a peace sign template and the best got a $25.00 gift certificate to Target. Since everyone who lives there is "too cool" for art I knew I was easily going to win.
I spent about an hour on it. I colored it with expensive, artsy permarkers, and got high off the fumes. Then I burst open some ink pens I found around campus and blew the ink everywhere. It looked really nice. You were supposed to hang it on your door.
Only two other people entered, and to me, theirs were not very good. One was a pencil drawing of either a volcano or a nuclear bomb. The other was babbling about how there can never be peace between countries or religions. I didn't understand it.
On Saturday night, after the judging was over, I was leaving my room and decided to take a picture of my art. For some reason I felt that the dicks in my hall would tear it down. After a long night, I came home at 3AM and saw my poster crumpled up, ripped in half, down the hall. I was right. The other two peace signs were fine.
At the time, since I wasn't surprised, I wasn't mad. I picked up the pieces of my artwork and plotted revenge, and pondered who would be such a dick. It wasn't a big deal.
I learned today that all three of the people who entered the contest won. Instead of getting a 25.00 gift card, we all get a ten dollar one. . . This is such a copout for real judging. Disappointed isn't the word I would use. What's a word for "lack of surprise"?
And right now, I am sitting in my room glaring at the door, and hating everyone being loud out in the hall.
Testy
| In my Men and Masculinity class yesterday, I read some aggravating feminist articles about how men are evil because they don't bleed once a month. I'm not kidding. This feminist next to me (who enjoys this class too much for her own good) was being a bitch in a subtle enough fashion that I really have nothing but an aura to complain about. Sneaky little whore. I wanted to die, just to escape the misery of being who I am. |
21.9.07
The Last Question
Current mood: I am Jack’s Infinite Awe
Because of this Dinosaur Comic, I was intrigued enough to read the short story "The Last Question" by Issac Asimov.
Probably one of the best short stories I've ever read. It blew my mind.
I think Scott Adams got his inspiration for "God's Debris" from this story. He just made it more technical and boring.
Here, read something that will change your life:
http://www.multivax.com/last_question.html
18.9.07
Secrets in Advertising!
I recently watched a video of a feminist woman who showed magazine ad after magazine ad of women dressed like whores and said that women are shown as sex objects in advertising. That ads like this encourage/lead to/advocate violence against women. I couldn't agree more. Right after masturbating to a slutty woman in an ad for lingerie, I just want to go beat women up. I resist of course. Instead, I will resort to treating women like objects. I love to go to Women Stores and buy women to add to my collection. I almost have the entire set of Modest Momma's, and half the set of Slutty Sluts. My favorite is Tina, the singing doll who says five different sayings, including, "Of course I don't lie. I'm a woman."
But I digress.
I felt kind of insulted that only the ads regarding sex were overanalyzed. So I am going to overanalyze some ads that are also important.
The copy on this image says "Asian Cats are Coming." What the true message behind this ad is clearly that Asian cats are more tidy than non-Asian cats. This anti-non-Asian cat propaganda! It says, "Asian cats can come, but you cannot working-class cat."
This ad is clearly advocatingchild labor awful fashion! Shameful!
This ad is saying that tourists are scary, incompetent and deaf! What is clever about an ad that makes fun of poor people?
This ad really pushes my buttons! It is saying that all animals are lazy. My father worked 170 hours a week to provide for myfamily litter! He was no lazyass animal!
This is saying that girls toys are inferior. I like to play with girls toys and NO! they are awesome! Resist those that flush girls toys! Resist today!
This is saying all men are lazy!
This is saying Asians want to take over America. I'm insulted. Some of my best friends are Asian-Americans. They are all lazy and would never dream of going to the effort of "encasing the Statue of Liberty in carbonite".
Do you have to be a dirty man to enjoy coffee? I don't think so. Lying advertising bastards!
This is saying men are pigs.
This is saying that men are chickens.
This is saying that white males are better than cows, and cows have to ride in the back of the bus. This intolerant segregation cannot stand! Where is the bovine Rosa Parks? How long must we wait until cows are treated like equal passengers of the leeching public transportation vampire?
This is so disgustingly racist! This is saying that the Pizza race cannot afford a job any better than working as a street magician! I am so outraged I shat my pants!
This last one is most offensive of all! It clearly advocates the process of cryogenics on cats!
CATS ARE PEOPLE TOO!!!!! DSHJAGHAK!11!W@
I'm so furious I'm having an aneurysm! I can't take how evil advertising is!
I'm going to go write a blog about it!
But I digress.
I felt kind of insulted that only the ads regarding sex were overanalyzed. So I am going to overanalyze some ads that are also important.
The copy on this image says "Asian Cats are Coming." What the true message behind this ad is clearly that Asian cats are more tidy than non-Asian cats. This anti-non-Asian cat propaganda! It says, "Asian cats can come, but you cannot working-class cat."
This ad is clearly advocating
This ad is saying that tourists are scary, incompetent and deaf! What is clever about an ad that makes fun of poor people?
This ad really pushes my buttons! It is saying that all animals are lazy. My father worked 170 hours a week to provide for my
This is saying that girls toys are inferior. I like to play with girls toys and NO! they are awesome! Resist those that flush girls toys! Resist today!
This is saying all men are lazy!
This is saying Asians want to take over America. I'm insulted. Some of my best friends are Asian-Americans. They are all lazy and would never dream of going to the effort of "encasing the Statue of Liberty in carbonite".
Do you have to be a dirty man to enjoy coffee? I don't think so. Lying advertising bastards!
This is saying men are pigs.
This is saying that men are chickens.
This is saying that white males are better than cows, and cows have to ride in the back of the bus. This intolerant segregation cannot stand! Where is the bovine Rosa Parks? How long must we wait until cows are treated like equal passengers of the leeching public transportation vampire?
This is so disgustingly racist! This is saying that the Pizza race cannot afford a job any better than working as a street magician! I am so outraged I shat my pants!
This last one is most offensive of all! It clearly advocates the process of cryogenics on cats!
CATS ARE PEOPLE TOO!!!!! DSHJAGHAK!11!W@
I'm so furious I'm having an aneurysm! I can't take how evil advertising is!
I'm going to go write a blog about it!
16.9.07
Flag
I got a free magazine downtown the other day about "Mountain Living" or something. In the very back, where the editors of most magazines throw the crappiest, "lighter-side" articles was a page on what it means to be a "true-blue" resident of Flagstaff. Let me spell it out.
---
To be a true-blue Flagstaffian, be sure you have the following:
1. A midsized SUV, Subaru wagon or hybrid vehicle (with a bike rack, even if you don't own a bike)
2. At least one dog named after a prominent feature or trail (the dog should have a tag that reads Weatherford or Fremont)
3. Involvement in at least two, if not three outdoor recreational activities, with one that is of the winter variety.
4. A winter jacket of artic explorer caliber.
5. The best hiking boots money can buy.
6. A sturdy plastic water bottle with you most of the time (a bonus if it's plastered with outdoor company stickers)
---
This led me to some startling conclusions. According to numbers 1, 4, and 5 people from Flagstaff are morons. I am not qualified to fit in ANY of these categories. I'm not upset, and I'm not going to change that.
Other than that, I had an interesting dream where all of Flagstaff flooded. It was the biggest flood in the world and everyone lost their house, I didn't tho.
I woke up with a bloody nose again.
---
To be a true-blue Flagstaffian, be sure you have the following:
1. A midsized SUV, Subaru wagon or hybrid vehicle (with a bike rack, even if you don't own a bike)
2. At least one dog named after a prominent feature or trail (the dog should have a tag that reads Weatherford or Fremont)
3. Involvement in at least two, if not three outdoor recreational activities, with one that is of the winter variety.
4. A winter jacket of artic explorer caliber.
5. The best hiking boots money can buy.
6. A sturdy plastic water bottle with you most of the time (a bonus if it's plastered with outdoor company stickers)
---
This led me to some startling conclusions. According to numbers 1, 4, and 5 people from Flagstaff are morons. I am not qualified to fit in ANY of these categories. I'm not upset, and I'm not going to change that.
Other than that, I had an interesting dream where all of Flagstaff flooded. It was the biggest flood in the world and everyone lost their house, I didn't tho.
I woke up with a bloody nose again.
Requiem for a Dream
16 Sep 2007
Current mood: I am Jack’s Addled Addictive Enthusiasm
I really suck at writing reviews. Possibly because I am always late on what is great.
I was going to write a review of the movie Requiem for a Dream. The movie came out seven years ago. I just watched it tonight. No matter how well I write, it won't give anyone the incentive to see it, it won't interest anyone, it's patently irrelevant.
So screw it. Let's talk about me.
The only interesting thing I did today was walk around downtown for a while. It was kind of a trip. I listened to music, so I wasn't paying attention and nearly was hit by a car more than once. I kept seeing people I thought I recognized, but wasn't sure. Their faces blurred up against the windows of cars, laughing at me, or eyes on the road. That man who played with fire, not so popular now. And the soundtrack was just poetic enough, the way in film, towards the ending when they do a big silent montage of all the characters with sad music playing in the background. You know what I mean.
I began to feel paranoid. I tried to get lost, but it wasn't working. I get so weird around large groups of people.
One the way back, a storm cloud was covering the sun just right that the light sung out over the edges and you could literally see the prisms, shining out for miles and miles and miles. The eyelashes of the sun.
It was a peaceful moment for me and I felt amazing. I felt like dying young and smoking and living life to death.
The movie? It was kind of like that.
It made me ache deep inside at times, similar to being heartbroken, realizing your past is behind you and dead . . .
It made me want a girl who I can into real trouble with. . .
Not many things I know of can do that to me. . .
Current mood: I am Jack’s Addled Addictive Enthusiasm
I really suck at writing reviews. Possibly because I am always late on what is great.
I was going to write a review of the movie Requiem for a Dream. The movie came out seven years ago. I just watched it tonight. No matter how well I write, it won't give anyone the incentive to see it, it won't interest anyone, it's patently irrelevant.
So screw it. Let's talk about me.
The only interesting thing I did today was walk around downtown for a while. It was kind of a trip. I listened to music, so I wasn't paying attention and nearly was hit by a car more than once. I kept seeing people I thought I recognized, but wasn't sure. Their faces blurred up against the windows of cars, laughing at me, or eyes on the road. That man who played with fire, not so popular now. And the soundtrack was just poetic enough, the way in film, towards the ending when they do a big silent montage of all the characters with sad music playing in the background. You know what I mean.
I began to feel paranoid. I tried to get lost, but it wasn't working. I get so weird around large groups of people.
One the way back, a storm cloud was covering the sun just right that the light sung out over the edges and you could literally see the prisms, shining out for miles and miles and miles. The eyelashes of the sun.
It was a peaceful moment for me and I felt amazing. I felt like dying young and smoking and living life to death.
The movie? It was kind of like that.
It made me ache deep inside at times, similar to being heartbroken, realizing your past is behind you and dead . . .
It made me want a girl who I can into real trouble with. . .
Not many things I know of can do that to me. . .
15.9.07
Smug
Do you ever feel like the coolest fuckin' guy on the whole planet? I call this being "smug", because truthfully, I am not. I feel this way a lot when I step outside my comfort zone, (which takes a long walk), and succeed at whatever I risked doing. For example, telling it like it is. Going up to that woman and telling her how you truly feel and maybe "we should get outta here".
When that type of situation is not available, listening to loud, angry music works just as well.
I walk quick as the beat and smirk at the clever lyrics and glare at everyone I pass on the street. I'm grinning like a Chesire kitten. They may think I am happy, but I'm really just being "smug", which is another way of saying, "I am feeling false superiority". And I'm going to be honest, it feels great.
Long, long ago I lost my faith in humanity and discovered that it wasn't a joke; everyone on the planet REALLY is stupid. This concept applies to most of my friends and some of my family, but I forgive them. They're only human. But for strangers, I have no mercy when I am smug. Everyone is idiotic and everyone gets what they deserve and I am SO much better than they are.
It is best to be smug while driving. Have a deafening, snarling sound system, the bass a heartbeat, the vocals of some possessed soul scream along and you are all set. Pull up to the intersection, and sit there, all smug, surrounded in your castle of sound. When a pedestrian crosses in front of your car, rev the engine, honk the horn, lean out your window and give the finger. When he pauses, confused, yell, "What? What? What you son of bitch!" He will not know what to do. You are so smug.
When the song ends, if my iPod is on shuffle and a sad or boring song comes on, I forget what I'm angry about, and I feel all alone.
I'm losing my hearing this way and I can feel it.
When that type of situation is not available, listening to loud, angry music works just as well.
I walk quick as the beat and smirk at the clever lyrics and glare at everyone I pass on the street. I'm grinning like a Chesire kitten. They may think I am happy, but I'm really just being "smug", which is another way of saying, "I am feeling false superiority". And I'm going to be honest, it feels great.
Long, long ago I lost my faith in humanity and discovered that it wasn't a joke; everyone on the planet REALLY is stupid. This concept applies to most of my friends and some of my family, but I forgive them. They're only human. But for strangers, I have no mercy when I am smug. Everyone is idiotic and everyone gets what they deserve and I am SO much better than they are.
It is best to be smug while driving. Have a deafening, snarling sound system, the bass a heartbeat, the vocals of some possessed soul scream along and you are all set. Pull up to the intersection, and sit there, all smug, surrounded in your castle of sound. When a pedestrian crosses in front of your car, rev the engine, honk the horn, lean out your window and give the finger. When he pauses, confused, yell, "What? What? What you son of bitch!" He will not know what to do. You are so smug.
When the song ends, if my iPod is on shuffle and a sad or boring song comes on, I forget what I'm angry about, and I feel all alone.
I'm losing my hearing this way and I can feel it.
11.9.07
Mateo Falcone
Today is September 11th, may we never forget. To reflect on the tragedy of life, I took a walk through a graveyard, something I have never done before. As I walked, I took a few pictures, read the headstones, and looked around for anyone who may get mad at me for being there. I only saw one other person the whole trip. She didn't bother me. The cemetery was quiet, relaxing and refreshing.
Around the point when I meandered into the "Veteran's Section" I started to feel sick with stupidity.
I often joke around with the concept of death, but this was no laughing matter. I looked all around me, at all the bright, fake, plastic flowers and thought to myself, "what is this? Some kind of garden party?". I could not stop thinking, "six feet below me is a box of wasted meat".
Perhaps I am too cynical. Ha, perhaps. But maybe I just see through the triviality of it all. Why all this pretending and ritual?
I read a headstone from 1859 that said "Gone, but not forgotten". I seriously doubt anyone remembers this person, because anyone who would is buried a few feet from him.
This really doesn't make sense to put blocks of stone over fertilizer. The body should not be buried, it should be recycled. For one reason only: the body DOES NOT matter. It's the soul, the heart, the mind. Those are the essential portions of a human being. If those don't last forever, than good riddance to the person who misused their potential.
The greatest example of this is Jesus Christ. If he really was the Messiah, and the body really mattered, he could have lived on Earth forever, instead of "going to prepare a house for you". But he didn't. Because it doesn't matter. His spirit lives on in us. His wisdom is passed down. His heart is practiced. . . sometimes.
Essentially death doesn't even matter anymore. It used to, 2000 years ago. And that's how old and stupid and primitive funerals and burying people and all that shit is.
Let me be clear: I don't think death itself is trivial. Just how you handle it afterward. And the only reason death is even slightly important is because it is consequentially irreversible. There's nothing to fear about it and never a solid, good reason to commit murder. Not even in self defense. I believe if you kill someone in self defense, it's the same as stealing to keep from starving. Excusable, justified maybe, but still not right.
There is nothing very poetic or majestic about the graves I saw today. Nothing honorable or memorable. From what I read, the most important thing any of those people did in their lifetimes was exist and die. They didn't write books or save children or do anything great.
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they did. But then their legacy would not be found in the graveyard anyway. So then it's redundant and trivial.
The most majestic thing I saw in the graveyard today was a falcon. I've never seen one before. They are incredible, vicious birds of prey. My heart skipped a beat when it flew down in front of me. I knew it was only in the graveyard to hunt the mice that lived here. The ones that dug deep underground and ate the worms in the soil. The worms and maggots that burrowed through the soft wood and velvet cushion, deep into the cold, grey flesh of that meat.
Even in a place filled with death and serenity, there is life and chaos and war.
My point of this is: DON'T BURY ME. I do not want to become another stone in a sea of stones. First, donate my organs to someone who will need them, then cremate me or sell my body to science. The point of this blog is: You should do the same. Let go of ancient empty rituals and forget about being remembered. If you can't do that through your influence, you can't do it through the ground.
Around the point when I meandered into the "Veteran's Section" I started to feel sick with stupidity.
I often joke around with the concept of death, but this was no laughing matter. I looked all around me, at all the bright, fake, plastic flowers and thought to myself, "what is this? Some kind of garden party?". I could not stop thinking, "six feet below me is a box of wasted meat".
Perhaps I am too cynical. Ha, perhaps. But maybe I just see through the triviality of it all. Why all this pretending and ritual?
I read a headstone from 1859 that said "Gone, but not forgotten". I seriously doubt anyone remembers this person, because anyone who would is buried a few feet from him.
This really doesn't make sense to put blocks of stone over fertilizer. The body should not be buried, it should be recycled. For one reason only: the body DOES NOT matter. It's the soul, the heart, the mind. Those are the essential portions of a human being. If those don't last forever, than good riddance to the person who misused their potential.
The greatest example of this is Jesus Christ. If he really was the Messiah, and the body really mattered, he could have lived on Earth forever, instead of "going to prepare a house for you". But he didn't. Because it doesn't matter. His spirit lives on in us. His wisdom is passed down. His heart is practiced. . . sometimes.
Essentially death doesn't even matter anymore. It used to, 2000 years ago. And that's how old and stupid and primitive funerals and burying people and all that shit is.
Let me be clear: I don't think death itself is trivial. Just how you handle it afterward. And the only reason death is even slightly important is because it is consequentially irreversible. There's nothing to fear about it and never a solid, good reason to commit murder. Not even in self defense. I believe if you kill someone in self defense, it's the same as stealing to keep from starving. Excusable, justified maybe, but still not right.
There is nothing very poetic or majestic about the graves I saw today. Nothing honorable or memorable. From what I read, the most important thing any of those people did in their lifetimes was exist and die. They didn't write books or save children or do anything great.
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they did. But then their legacy would not be found in the graveyard anyway. So then it's redundant and trivial.
The most majestic thing I saw in the graveyard today was a falcon. I've never seen one before. They are incredible, vicious birds of prey. My heart skipped a beat when it flew down in front of me. I knew it was only in the graveyard to hunt the mice that lived here. The ones that dug deep underground and ate the worms in the soil. The worms and maggots that burrowed through the soft wood and velvet cushion, deep into the cold, grey flesh of that meat.
Even in a place filled with death and serenity, there is life and chaos and war.
My point of this is: DON'T BURY ME. I do not want to become another stone in a sea of stones. First, donate my organs to someone who will need them, then cremate me or sell my body to science. The point of this blog is: You should do the same. Let go of ancient empty rituals and forget about being remembered. If you can't do that through your influence, you can't do it through the ground.
10.9.07
Sick and Wrong Children's Shows
For my men and masculinity class, I was told to watch children's television and analyze the amount of men and women portrayed in the show. Total crap, right?
Since I don't own a television, I had to turn to the magick of Youtube. These are some of the weird videos I found on the site by typing in "Children's Shows".
I'm not letting my kids watch television when they are born.
Since I don't own a television, I had to turn to the magick of Youtube. These are some of the weird videos I found on the site by typing in "Children's Shows".
I'm not letting my kids watch television when they are born.
9.9.07
First First
9/08/07
For a few years, I've heard rumors of what goes on in downtown Phoenix every first Friday of the month. It's an event called First Friday,
which serves as the date for all the new art galleries to open up. Lots of bands and music and art and drunks. As many times as I was invited to check it out, I never got the chance. It was always Poker Night or work or something dumb.
Recently I moved to Flagstaff, Arizona and I am less then a mile from downtown. It's a nice walk. And I went to my first First Friday last night.
I went with my friend Emily and her friend Jasmine. I was pretty caffeine high and the floor was moving when I picked her up. I was excited, but not really prepared. It is apparently appropriate to dress up a little bit. Emily and I both looked as nice as we always do, which got us a few snobbish looks from the art world elite.
Also, you aren't really supposed to take pictures. But I did anyway, until some Indian prick told me to stop.
First Friday was small, because Flag is small. In a way, this made it a little more friendly and fun. The first gallery we stopped at was full of boring
abstract art and a half dozen sculptures made out of wood and old brass instruments. The sculptures looked nice, but didn't have their full potential. I think they could have gone much further with the concept.
I checked the prices and groaned.
The next gallery was small and crowded. Miniature was the word that came to mind. A small woman played a small tune on a small piano in the window.
We left and ran into a crowd on the corner surrounding a man who told me his name was Dan Stern. He was juggling lit torches and telling jokes. I taped some of it, and got some really weird pictures from it. It was worth the dollar I donated to him.
Next stop was a Native American gallery, small, crowded and boring, except for a few pictures of naked women clutching bushels of thorns.
There was a bluegrass band playing outside, how amusing. We turned a corner and went into a large, shiny gallery.
This one was full of art, from many different artists. Not much stood out, except some silverware sculptures by an old man named Dion Wright. He made a lion with a mane of forks and turtle made of spoons. I talked to the guy a little bit. He had painted a huge painting of evolution, all the one celled creatures growing into worms and then frogs and then dinosaurs. I took a nice picture of Emily beside it, because Dion wasn't a dick about it.
We ran off to another art gallery, this next one filled with blown up photographs of desert landscapes and canyons and horses. I talked to the artist, Shane Knight and he told me about the beautiful places he had been to snap these expensive photos.
On our way to the next gallery, Emily had to take a phone call. While she tried to hear, I stood on the corner and took horrible point-and-shoot photos of the Hotel Monte Vista. A drunk man came up really close to me and asked me for a cigarette. I told him I didn't smoke, and he told me he didn't want to
cross the train tracks because people would beat him up. But he could take them, he said. He made me touch his bicep to prove it.
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. He ran off suddenly and yelled something at a few passing hot rods. I protectively grabbed Emily's arm and we crossed the street. She was still on the phone and had no idea what was happening.
We ducked into a tattoo parlor and had a glass of Chardonnay. There were a lot of drunk people here, one who thought I was trying to take his drink from him. He screamed "NO!" in my face and I could smell everything that was killing him.
The tattoos were some of the most surreal and original art we'd seen all night, but it was crowded with angry alcoholics and so we left.
We ran into many more drunk people walking home. We found a small group of people playing banjo and dancing outside an art gallery. It was far from downtown and pretty empty, tho it was larger than most of the ones we had visited. It was full of generic photography, and only one of a waterfall stood out. The gallery owner or the artist was a dick, so we left and went home.
For me, it was a great night, and I hope to do it again and again and again, every month, until I die.
Author's Note:
You can watch the video of Dan Stern eating fire here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3e1W7PpHu-c
For a few years, I've heard rumors of what goes on in downtown Phoenix every first Friday of the month. It's an event called First Friday,
which serves as the date for all the new art galleries to open up. Lots of bands and music and art and drunks. As many times as I was invited to check it out, I never got the chance. It was always Poker Night or work or something dumb.Recently I moved to Flagstaff, Arizona and I am less then a mile from downtown. It's a nice walk. And I went to my first First Friday last night.
I went with my friend Emily and her friend Jasmine. I was pretty caffeine high and the floor was moving when I picked her up. I was excited, but not really prepared. It is apparently appropriate to dress up a little bit. Emily and I both looked as nice as we always do, which got us a few snobbish looks from the art world elite.
Also, you aren't really supposed to take pictures. But I did anyway, until some Indian prick told me to stop.
First Friday was small, because Flag is small. In a way, this made it a little more friendly and fun. The first gallery we stopped at was full of boring
abstract art and a half dozen sculptures made out of wood and old brass instruments. The sculptures looked nice, but didn't have their full potential. I think they could have gone much further with the concept.I checked the prices and groaned.
The next gallery was small and crowded. Miniature was the word that came to mind. A small woman played a small tune on a small piano in the window.
We left and ran into a crowd on the corner surrounding a man who told me his name was Dan Stern. He was juggling lit torches and telling jokes. I taped some of it, and got some really weird pictures from it. It was worth the dollar I donated to him.
Next stop was a Native American gallery, small, crowded and boring, except for a few pictures of naked women clutching bushels of thorns.
There was a bluegrass band playing outside, how amusing. We turned a corner and went into a large, shiny gallery.This one was full of art, from many different artists. Not much stood out, except some silverware sculptures by an old man named Dion Wright. He made a lion with a mane of forks and turtle made of spoons. I talked to the guy a little bit. He had painted a huge painting of evolution, all the one celled creatures growing into worms and then frogs and then dinosaurs. I took a nice picture of Emily beside it, because Dion wasn't a dick about it.
We ran off to another art gallery, this next one filled with blown up photographs of desert landscapes and canyons and horses. I talked to the artist, Shane Knight and he told me about the beautiful places he had been to snap these expensive photos.
On our way to the next gallery, Emily had to take a phone call. While she tried to hear, I stood on the corner and took horrible point-and-shoot photos of the Hotel Monte Vista. A drunk man came up really close to me and asked me for a cigarette. I told him I didn't smoke, and he told me he didn't want to
cross the train tracks because people would beat him up. But he could take them, he said. He made me touch his bicep to prove it.I bit my lip to keep from laughing. He ran off suddenly and yelled something at a few passing hot rods. I protectively grabbed Emily's arm and we crossed the street. She was still on the phone and had no idea what was happening.
We ducked into a tattoo parlor and had a glass of Chardonnay. There were a lot of drunk people here, one who thought I was trying to take his drink from him. He screamed "NO!" in my face and I could smell everything that was killing him.
The tattoos were some of the most surreal and original art we'd seen all night, but it was crowded with angry alcoholics and so we left.
We ran into many more drunk people walking home. We found a small group of people playing banjo and dancing outside an art gallery. It was far from downtown and pretty empty, tho it was larger than most of the ones we had visited. It was full of generic photography, and only one of a waterfall stood out. The gallery owner or the artist was a dick, so we left and went home.
For me, it was a great night, and I hope to do it again and again and again, every month, until I die.
Author's Note:
You can watch the video of Dan Stern eating fire here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3e1W7PpHu-c
8.9.07
bloody nose dreams
I was having some tough sleep last night.
Strange and weird dreams about train stations and the cops and stealing from art shows with my invisible friend.
I had a dream that really disturbed me and I woke up in the middle of it with a bloody nose.
I instantly forgot most of the dream.
I said to myself, "It was about her, I'm glad I'm forgetting."
I woke up again because the people down the hall were slamming doors or knocking over furniture.
And I forgot everything else in the dream, including whom I was forgetting.
In some ways I love that. In some ways, I don't.
7.9.07
You Won't Get This (So Try Anyway)
| | You have to read the whole comic to understand the character, but this one taken out of context is beautiful: Links: If you can't read it, here is a larger version: http://www.kiwisbybeat.com/minus37.html Site: http://www.kiwisbybeat.com/minus.html |
|---|
6.9.07
Nauseated not Nauseous
Current mood: I am Jack's Butterfinger Freedom
I'm running out of notebook space. I have all these notebooks filled with notes and creepy sketches and things about nothings. I have no idea what to do with half the scribbles in these things. Today, two of my journals were filled at once.
I need new ones. I'll get them tomorrow. If I'm not too busy at an art show or stressing about nothing.
I went to a vending machine today and got two butterfingers for the price of one. I loved that. It made me relax and breathe in and say, "Something, somewhere, is good". It was like stealing, that same thrill, but without any way of being caught or returning the product if you so inclined.
I'm learning the same thing in two different grammar classes. It's really annoyed me that I spend my evening learning one thing, to go home and study it again. And no, it doesn't make it easier.
This blog was something experimental that I forget now.
5.9.07
Stoopid Girls
06 Sep 2007
| Stoopid Girls Dear Stoopid Girls, |
ONE DAY YOU WILL HAVE HEROES TOO
ONE DAY YOU WILL HAVE HEROES TOO
Current mood: I am Jack’s Cliche Clickaroo
One day, you will wake up and you will fall in love with someone you will never meet.
If, one day, you do meet them, it will be awkward, so it's better to dream and secretly plan on not achieving anything.
One day, you will find a hero who doesn't have to kill people or flex or pretend.
All a hero has to do is become someone worth being.
Without saying cheesy cliches, like that one.
One day, your hero, your love, without even knowing you or what you need will give you exactly what you need to hear.
To get up, to stand up, to one day save yourself.
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