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.

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. I have no fucking idea why I learn more about feminism in a class about masculinity. I also don't understand why I came into this class strongly believing in androgynism, yet the ideals of what is masculine or not is shoved down my throat. However, if I tend to agree, say I think that ballet is feminine (I actually don't care) then I am labeled a sexist. Awesome. I love this class so much. Why? Because this means that I am the smartest kid in the class, and everyone else sucks ass, except for Garrett. It's a whole heroin high of superiority. We had to learn how to check for testicular and breast cancer using fake rubber boobies and testes. Embedded in the silicone was a little lump that was supposed to be cancer. While I fondled these peanut sized balls, Garrett stole a pair. I couldn't find the cancer. I told my professor that I don't regularly check myself for any cancers because when I die it want it to be a surprise. I don't want some old man with a stethoscope-crystal ball predicting my six months to live. If I'm not already living my life like I could die tomorrow, I'm wasting it. Everyone in the class gave me this look like what I really meant was I don't want my testicles. Afterward, Garrett and I walked into the campus buffet. We walked right past the place where you pay and helped ourselves to some food. Then we walked out carrying ceramic mugs of hot chocolate. No one noticed, no one stopped us. You know why? Because we're that awesome.

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

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 advocating child 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 my family 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!

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.

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. . .

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

Stoopid Girls

06 Sep 2007

Stoopid Girls Dear Stoopid Girls, Here is some prose I found on the internet. Live and Learn. Scientific Fact 8: Your Internet Girlfriend Has Body Image Issues It took her three months to send you a picture when you started dating. You finally saw her, smiling sheepishly, in a photo attached to an email with the subject line "SORRY THAT I'M SO FAT..." No matter how many times you told her she was beautiful she would always object, insisting that if you saw her in real life you would run the other way. Why not meet, you suggested, so that she could see how untrue that was. She was radiant when she picked you up at the airport, a thousand times more beautiful than in the pictures. Her hands shook when you hugged and she apologized for being nervous. A few months later she confessed that she was shaking because she hadn't eaten for nearly three days before you arrived so that she wouldn't look bloated. On her 26th birthday she shrieked when you tried to take a picture of her blowing out the candles. They were carefully arranged on top of a bowl of fruit salad because she doesn't eat cake. You weren't allowed to grab her ass when you fucked or to run your hand along the inside of her thighs. Cellulite. Next week when you leave her she'll cry so much that she will almost choke. You'll walk out anyway because you're tired of tuna for dinner and sex with the lights off. She'll whimper between sobs that she knew she didn't deserve you, she knew you were too good for someone like her, that she's hideous. One day she will meet someone who agrees, someone who will hit her just like her first boyfriend did. http://scientificfacts.livejournal.com/?skip=10

How Does She Do It?

How Does She Do It?

How does someone dead know me so well?

How can she love me better than someone living?

I'm no stranger to her, but she's a stranger to me.


"And we will never be alone together again."

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.