PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> A Blindfolded Chimp With a Pencil in His Teeth: November 2004

Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Let the Wookie win.

Hello, hello hello. I just realized that it's been a week since I updated this bad boy. I'm sorry. I realize you've all probably gotten dumber for it. But here I am again to enlighten and delighten and, um, premighten I guess. What? That's a word.

My brain needs to slow down so I can sleep. Does anyone else have this problem? My family and my girlfriend often chastise me for my sleeping habits, but I don't think they understand that I can't sleep until I am at the point of collapse. I tried to go to bed at a nice reasonable time last night. I showered, brushed up and headed to bed at around 11:30... no dice. I layed there thinking for like two hours.

My brain is so weird. Everything I think about gets represented visually, and I lay there sorting my thoughts in weird polygons and swirls of technicolor that have nothing to do with the actual appearance of whatever I'm thinking about. Like I imagine shapes or blobs moving in lines and being knocked over or moved around or sucked into other blobs, or colors moving across colors and sliding into boxes and somehow each thing I see means something and it's like everything's being packed up and arranged for sleep. This is impossible to describe. I know this makes no sense, but I've just been doing it like that for so long that it never occurred to me that it didn't make any sense until I tried describing it to someone one time and ended up sounding like a complete loon. Alot like now. Nevermind.

Anyway I have found that TV or some stupid movie does, just as parents have always suggested, actually slow my brain functions down to the point that I am a pure reciever, with no creative or introspective activity taking place, nothing going out. It's like the TV acts as noise or interference that keeps me from wondering about this or that. Only what is on the flickerbox is in my head, and once my brain has slowed to stagnation, I can stumble to bed and fall asleep.

The other option for me is to stay awake until I am completely physically exhausted at which point I will sleep where I fall and hopefully wake up sometime in the night and stumble to bed. Alot of times if I stay still long enough, I realize that I am completely and utterly exhausted and I sleep if I can or I try to distract myself again if I'm in an innappropriate sleeping environment (work, church, driving, etc.).

People have told me to read or listen to music until I fall asleep. Well the music works I guess, but if I close my eyes for very long with music on, it turns into the swirly colors too, and then I just think really weird stuff before I drift off to sleep.

Reading doesn't really work because I can never stand to read long enough to get tired. You have to sit still to read and I always get uncomfortable and have to change positions a million times or get distracted by whatever I am reading reminding me of something else and I go crazy till I can figure out what it was it reminded me of. Or, if I remember right away, I drop the book and move to whatever that is. I have to read in fifteen minute to half-hour installments because I usually can't stand to sit still and stare at and think about what I am reading for that long. I even have a hard time finishing whole magazine articles in time or newsweek, even if its about something I am really interested in. I have to set it aside and come back to it later. It's so annoying. The only things I can read for hours at a time are comics or comic strips. I don't know why that's necessarily the case, but I can sit and read those for three hours at a time and I freakin' crave after them, wanting more and more to read. All these books I have on my shelf and I've probably started thirty of them and never finished them. The ones I have finished it took me months to read. I majored in English and Political Science in college, two reading intensive majors to say the least, and I think I read two of the assigned books cover to cover over the course of my entire college career. There are books I have absolutely loved and still never finished.

It's the same way with writing. Obviously, I love to write, but I can never sit down and write for any amount of time about the same thing. I can't keep a story or a subject going for more than a few pages without either just getting impatient and quitting or going off on a tangent that has little to do with what I started on. Even as I write this I keep thinking of other things I want to write about, but I don't cause I want to finish writing this, and then by the time I finish this I will have forgetten what I wanted to say, or I will quit before getting to it.

That reminds me: I recently bought the first season of Viva La Bam on DVD. This has become one of my surprise favorite shows. It shows a remarkable lack of depth, reason or intelligence even for an MTV program, which is why I think I like it. It helps slow my brain down to a crawl when I need to stop thinking so I can go to sleep. Apparently MTV has agreed to pick up the check for whatever Bam feels like doing. Hilarity ensues, I guess. The pranks aren't incredibly clever, sense there is no real need for restraint or sneakiness since there are apparently no consequences. Still, its funny when he stays up all night painting everything in his kitchen blue. Everything. Floor to ceiling...including the cans in the cupboard and the eggs in the fridge. I guess I like it cause he can do all the stuff I'd like to do but would get fired/disowned/jailed for.
Also I have realized that Ryan Dunn is my hero. I don't particularly like Bam, since he seems to be a brat that loves to prank but hates to get pranked, but Ryan is all coolness. He just stands around with his shades and his beard and seems to have no talent or athletic ability. He is the only sidekick I've ever seen that is cooler than his... (what is the word for the other guy, like Robin is Batman's sidekick, but Batman is Robin's what?) ...well, cooler than his Batman. Bam runs around like a moron doing stupid but funny things, and usually Ryan kind of stands around in the background watching, laughing and avoiding getting too dirty uncoolified. From what I can tell, he is a klutz that has ridden a cool demeanor and willingness to do whatever to stardom. I salute Ryan Dunn. This may not have made any sense.

Man this was a long one so thanks to anyone who hung on to the end. I probably wouldn't have. This is the fastest I have ever written a blog so I apologize for any errors in spelling or syntax as well as any vagueness as to subject or purpose. I don't feel like rereading it to check. I'm out.

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

I want to take you out to dinner. And then I want to go back to my apartment and watch Kung Fu. Do you ever watch Kung Fu?

Prompted by the nice long comment to my last entry, posted by a young man named Josh if I am not mistaken, I have motivation to write again. He seems to have spoken with my sister and she in turn has given an account of one of my attempts to impress women in my more formative years.

From the comment:

"I bought a book for a friend as a Christmas present titled, "The Complete A**Hole's Guide to Picking Up Chicks." I was informed as to how you once purchased a similar "Dummies..." version and sat outside Express, reading the book, waiting to see if it would really work. Now, I know it didn't work; however, I would like very much to read your personal account and your thoughts on such insane literature."

This makes it sound like a failed attempt. Instead this was one of my many moments of pure, unadulterated romantic brilliance, and it in fact worked like a charm.

Here is the story, in all its glory.

Josh Stewart, David Weaver and myself took a trip to the Cary Mall when I was about 16 or 17 years old. At this point I had very little experience with girls. Up until about a year before this point, I was known only as "Josh's Friend" by the girls I liked. Anyway, we took the hour drive from The Sticks of Harnett County to the comparitively booming and bustling metropolis that is Cary, NC to spend an afternoon at The Mall. (Remember: When you grow up in The Sticks, The Mall is a privelage, a Mecca of Capitalism and Human Interaction the likes of which we ruralites did not have the privelage of experiencing every day.) We were pumped about the prospect of an afternoon complete only in its lack of productivity... and its abundance of females.

This is what the mall is, really, when you a16 year old boy. It is an excuse to loiter in an area where girls are known to be. You act like you are shopping, but you have no money. You spend your time browsing both merchandise and "talent," as we oh-so-cooly referred to the ladies. "Lotta talent in the room," or "Now that is one talented young lady." Far be it from us, however, to actually speak to one. No. We observed from afar, like Wild Kingdom cameramen, never coming too to close, never risking the social dismemberment of rejection.

Back to the story. I had colored my hair with bright metallic red (or maybe blue) pomade before we left home. As such I was out of my skin with confidence, so daring and unique and, dare I say, mysterious was I. The three of us were enjoying our obligatory stop in Spencer's Gifts, giggling at all the naughtiness therein. On one of their book racks was a little novelty book title something really simple like "How to Pick up Chicks." The title was written in really big letters right on the cover. The book itself was actually pretty funny. It had very little real advice. It was more of a sardonic look at dating life. It was the title that caught my eye. I hatched a plan so simple, an yet so brilliant that I frightened myself. I discussed it with my cohorts and they concurred: The plan was foolproof. Now who had the balls to do it?

Ten minutes later I approached a table of young ladies at the food court, Josh and David close behind. I stood in front of the nearest girl and held the book open in front of me, with the title in view of the whole table, to make it clear I was reading the book "How to Pick up Chicks." The book was open to a random page, but I prentended read from it as follows:

(Looking at the pages of the book reading very slowly.)
"H-Hello."
(Look to her anxiously for reaction, then back to the book.)
"My name is Your Na-- (frustrated grimace) My name is David."
(Back to her for reaction, back to book.)
"You are ve-ry pret-ty."
(To her for reaction, back to book.)
"I was wond-er-ing if you would like to hang out some-time."
(back to her for reaction...give hopeful, desperate, longing, wide-eyed expression... wait for it.... waaait for iiit... now give her a niiiice smile.)

She smiled back. So did the rest of the table. I let the book fall in my left hand and offered my right as I introduced myself, for real this time. Josh and David moved in from behind me to introduce themselves. We were invited to sit. I someone at this point had asked me if I was the Lord of All Creation, I probably would have told them that I was indeed.

We talked for a while, got every last phone number at the table and left the mall floating three inches above the ground. We never called them, and I don't really know why. I guess that wasn't really the point. The point was that we were so, so smooth.

I know what you must be thinking: If I ruled that hard when I was sixteen, my powers must be nothing short of scary by now. Well, you would be right. I am rivaled in cool-osity only by the one and only Ryan Dunn.

Man I am awesome.

I'm telling you, it's jobs. We gotta get jobs. Then we get the khakis. Then we get the chicks.


"Be confident. Be yourself, and girls will like you."

Words than may make your skin crawl. Words that, when uttered, may actually be the most useless, empty excuses for advisement in the long, sad history of useless empy excuses for advice.


Unless I say them.


Being confident means giving no apologies for the way you are. Being yourself means acting on those interests and preferences unabashedly.

You must be aware, however, that if you tell a girl that no girls like you and how all girls are superficial horrible penis-chasers, and how unfairly you are treated and how horrible your luck with girls is, it will not inspire her to instill alot of confidence in you. Likewise dogging everything you see around you as mindless claptrap or uninispiring drivel isn't going to endear anyone to your high intellect. It may inspire them to see you as a negative, prententious and unhappy person.

Girls (and everyone in general), I think, want to be around someone who is confident in that he seems HAPPY to be who he is. He is at a certain point in his life and he is comfortable there. He has his interests, he has his friends, and he persues what makes him happy without necessarily needing to convince others to think likewise. Maybe he is outside the lines of the typical cookie-cutter Mr. Popular, but he does not apologize, and especially does not complain about it. If you are not happy with where you are in life, why would a woman want to join you there?

A good rule of thumb is this: Stand back and think about what you just said. If at any point you find yourself channeling the spirit of either Comic Book Guy or Roger Ebert, nobody likes you.


Tuesday, November 16, 2004

I've been downstairs lifting weights and doing coke all morning...

This will be a blog of rebuttals.

First, to "anonymous":
1. It's Joey Joe Joe Junior Shabadoo, buttclown.
2. I think your comments about my girlfriend's appearance may have been misdirected anger. I know the only girl you can get is taped to the ceiling above your bed, but why so angry?

Who you trying to get crazy with ese? Don't you know I'm loco?

3. Maybe if you stopped with the mind-altering substances you would stop seeing "bubbles" and "light bulbs with tiny black scribbles all over." This may also be something you could trace your woman problems back to.

And, as predicted, to my beloved corsin, Stephen:


1. It's remarkable to me that it's always the harshest critics of film that are the most lenient towards television programming and the writing and acting therein. A young man might, for instance, lambast a summer movie such as, for example, the admittedly dumb SFX spectacular The Day After Tomorrow which was a summer-no-brain-required feast for the eyes and nothing more. (There were tornados going through downtown Los Angeles, for pete's sake and that's cool I don't care who you are.) They might call this movie "badly acted," "patronizing" or "unvelievable" and in the same breath sing the praises of Buffy, Smallville, or even (shudder) Angel each of which could easily encompass entire units in any or all of the following textbooks:

How to Make a Show with No Basis in Reality

How to Patronize and Alienate New Viewers with
Convoluted, Hard to Follow Storylines
How to Hire Bad Actors/Write Asinine Dialogue that
Would Make DeNiro Sound Like a Hack
These shows are like comic books. If you are into them, you are into them. You already know the back story, the characters, the current plotlines, etc. so the outlandish subject matter and the over-the-top dialogue doesn't bother you anymore. You take melodrama with a grain of salt and accept certain occurrances as part of the basic premise of the story. That is fine. In doing so, you make it possible to endure and even enjoy the stories that unfold before you concerning heart-snatching demons and sexually charged sorority houses.
I simply find it ironic that fans of these shows can sit in a movie theater and groan at melodrama, bad acting or unbelievable plotlines. How can you watch The Day After Tomorrow and say "Jeez this is just stupid. The climate could never change that rapidly... unless a weather demon somehow passed through the Hellmouth in Sunnydale and altered Earth's weather patterns before Giles could find the proper incantation/mystic weapon in his trusty leatherbound tome."
What's good for the goose is good for the gander.
2. Smarm - n : excessive but superficial compliments given with affected charm
Perhaps you meant snide? Snide I am, and snide this post is.

I know where you live. In six weeks, if you are not on your way to becominga veterinarian, you will be dead.

Apologies for the delay... I know it's been like eight weeks since my last post. And now more apologies for its continuation. This stupid life as a responsible adult is full of much suck. Alas, I find that more and more of my time at work is spent working, and as such there is just no time for blogging. Even as I write this there are approximately thirteen other things I should be working on.

Make that eight. Eight sounds better. We used to have this rule of exaggeration in college: The Rule of Eights. Every exaggeration sounds better when you use an eight in the number. My girlfriend was getting on my nerves last night. I was playing poker. She knew was playing poker and that I always do on Wednesday nights, but still she called me like eight times.

See? That's not even true. But sounded like it was not only true, but an unreasonably high number of times for someone to call. It's the genius of 8. By the way, there was an 18 car pile-up on I-40 this morning by exit 128. Traffic was backed up for like 80 miles. Stupid thing made me so late for work. I didn't even get into the office till 9:48.

Ta-Daa.

Now you try.

Monday, November 15, 2004

Don't sell yourself short judge. You're a tremendous slouch.

So, what do you think of the new template? I had to search around for it, and it in fact did not work with my content so I had to give myself a little crash course in HTML. This template didn't have a comment function (not that you punks make much use of it) and so I had to leave the original template's text format in place and copy the background from the cool little death man template into this one. I also had to tweak the colors a bit.

Now if you know html you may think this is no problem. It probably isn't. But me, I've never seen HTML before. Ever. So trying to figure out what code affected what part of each template was a comedy of trial and error. I had to figure out what code I wanted to keep from one template and what code I had to delete from the other.

All of this has led me to this conclusion: People who write this code all day long are to be feared. They are, I guarantee, on the verge of snapping at any given moment. There is no way you can do this for any extended amount of time and not gradually become psychotic.

Beware all programmers. They may seem like the meek little wallflowers who would never hurt a fly, but that's what you always hear about serial killers after they've packed and frozen their neighbors for the winter like so much snapped beans and corn. Try not to move too quickly or make any loud noises around them, lest you unwittingly set off a three day killing spree.

I have walked a mile in their shoes, and I have seen the blackness in their souls.

Well, we didn't get dressed up for nothin'

I thought that today, in lieu of actually coming up with something witty or intelligent (or redundant) to say, I would just post a bunch of pictures. I got a camera phone about a month ago so I thought I would empty its contents onto this blog so that I can take some more pictures. Enjoy yourselves.... it's a celebration!!!

Oh and props to Nathan for the honorable mention at the One Take Film Festival this weekend. Everybody knows that toilet paper rules.

Now somebody comment on my blog for cripes sake!!!!


This is what I do at work all day. Spreadsheets are SUPER fun!!!!  Posted by Hello


I bought a car. The payments are making me poor, but no one said pimpin' was easy. Picture the fat guy in the picture below rollin' down the street smokin' endo sippin' on gin and juice... (laid back, with my mind on my money and my money on my mind). Posted by Hello


Me and my boy Tommie used to do this thing in high school where we would squish our faces down to our necks and try to make ourselves look as fat as possible. I am now twenty three years old and this is still funny.  Posted by Hello


This is Skip Matheny from the Chapel Hill's own Roman Candle. I saw them play with Spencer Acuff at the Cat's Cradle on 11/5. Their music is creamy smooth goodness. Check out their website at www.romancandlemusic.com. Logan Matheny is the guy behind the guy, on drums. Hi Logan!! Posted by Hello


THIS is the goalpost we tore down after beating MIAMI. I thought everyone would appreciate this... or hate it. I think either way I'm happy. GO HEELS!!!  Posted by Hello


Laura's gonna kick my booty for posting this, but I like it cause, well cause she's kissing me. Makes me smile, as you can see. Posted by Hello


Me and Bobby Coolbright (Rob) at Bailey's looking hard. Yiiiiiia boiiiii! Sucka MCs better not step to this. Posted by Hello


I lost the beard at the request of my girlfriend. Just thought you might want a mental image of who is typing. Nah, I was thinking I look particularly metrosexual today and you all might want to laugh at what a nancy pants little sissy I am becoming. I seem to wear a lot of sweaters. Sigh. Posted by Hello

Thursday, November 11, 2004


I growed a beard. I guess I'm a real man now. I look mountainy and mean. Grrrr!! Posted by Hello

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

"Snicktey-snicktey-snoime! That's when phase two kicks in. I attack the structure, wolvie-berserk style, Knock out the ----in' pin, and bickety-bam... the mother----er's rubble."


I'm deleting the political post on account of wussiness. If anyone wanted to hear my political musings I guess they are out of luck. This was prompted by me taking a look at Marissa's blog this afternoon and finding that not only had she not commented on my comment, but that she had removed her politically minded post and my comment along with it, both in their entirety. I guess even she found my commentary longwinded and limpwristed, which is a pretty damning statement coming from her.

So to all of you out there I apologize if I made you a little less heterosexual for reading my meanderings, and I hope the above quote and the manly beard I've grown will make up for it in both coolness and hairyness.

This doesn't taste like chicken...taste's more like soup.

Monday, November 08, 2004

Worst. Episode. Ever.

Why I am not excited about Halo 2: Because it sucks.

Only super nerds can enjoy Halo. I am getting really tired of hearing everyone talk about what a great game Halo is and trying to get me to play with them all the time. Apparently, if I would just give it a chance I would see the light and be converted to one of the drooling vacant eyed Halo enthusiests/cultists.

I am not an idiot. I see that in fact Halo has a great engine with great weapons and great levels, ease of use, and responsive gameplay. People say "Oh and have you played the multiplayer?" because that it where it is AT, yo. Hook up four or more people and rock it out all night long.

I remember how fun Bond was, so I can definately see the potential.

So a couple of months ago, when the pre-Halo 2 frenzy was just reaching a nice whipped froth, a buddy of mine brought Halo over and we popped it into the XBox. So myself and three other guys who were completely dedicated to my being added to the fold of the Halo faithful sat down to a mulitiplayer game. I was actually ready to "see the light" so maybe everybody would shut up.

Well a hint to anyone out there trying to turn someone on to the joys of Halo: try letting them play. I did not play Halo. I sat with a controller in my hand completely and utterly confused as to what was going on while these three giggling superfans took turns blowing my head off for three hours straight.

OH MY GOD!! I don't know what I was thinking!!! Halo is the greatest game ever!! Especially the multi-player mode.

Here is what needs to happen for me to like Halo or Halo 2: I need to find the treasure map that leads me to the deep hidden recesses of the earth where I can locate the one other guy on the planet that has not spent 20% of his waking life playing Halo. Using only torchlight, I will slowly teach him to read and speak english using a complicated hybrid teaching model which I have develped specifically for the purpose, utilizing hyroglyphics, the english alphabet and Duran-Duran songs. Soon I will lead him from his cavernous dwelling and acclimate him to life in the modernized world. Once I have explained to him what clothing, electricity, plumbing, and hopeless/dateless freaks Halo fans are, he and I can sit and play together.

After thirty nine hours of non-stop play we will challenge others to a game, and should be able to choose our weapons and possible even point them at another player before having our faces blown off from the other side of the board by one of the super geeks with a sniper rifle that scoffs at our measley thirty-nine hour amateur stint at the greatest game ever made.

At this point even Ngok will realize that these people are waaaay too good at this game for it to be fun for anyone but them and the other members of the cult. He and I will drop our controllers, go home, play Contra III for a couple of hours, then go find us some women.

Game over, losers.


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