A Blindfolded Chimp With a Pencil in His Teeth

2006-07-27T17:06:00.000-04:00

You take yourself out of the game. You start talking about puppy dogs and ice cream and of course it's going to end up on the friendship tip.

apologia \ap-uh-LOH-jee-uh; -juh\, noun: A formal defense or justification, especially of one's opinions, position, or actions.

I apologize for the poetry below. I was trying to convey the feelings you go through when a relationship like that ends - one that you have put your whole life into and based your whole existence around, but one that could ultimately never work.

Sometimes we force the idealization (is that a word? i think it is) of the person we are with, and convince ourselves that they are our very salvation, even when it's obvious that they are not the one for us, and to be with them is a mistake. We crush and break and hurt each other, and the harder it gets, the tighter you hold on because you are by that point, actually just a little bit insane. Then one day, in a terrible moment of clarity, one of you ends it. It's amazing when you come to that realization, but it's even more amazing how crushed you can still feel, even when you know - you know - that it was the right thing to do. That's such a frustrating thing sometimes, when you hurt so bad over something that you're ultimately glad happened. You think the world is ending, and you entertain crazy ideas, if only for the briefest instant. When you really think about it, it's incredible what an amazing effect your relationships with other people can have on you. Literally incredible. Based on the words an actions of another individual, you might feel like there's nothing that could make you happier or you might, in a very real way, wish that you would just die. I was talking to a friend who is going through that very thing and I could really relate. So I got all inspired and threw down these lines on paper and threw them up in a post before I took the time to think about whether it was a good idea or not.

So there you have it: lines written in some kind of involuntary spasm of misguided and ultimately embarrassing "inspiration," which was apparently the poetical equivalent of an epilleptic seizure. My site meter tells me that many of you have visited this blog in the past week* but none of you have had anything to say about my effort... probably meaning that none of you had anything nice to say about it. At first I was anxious for some feedback, but I suppose I should thank you for your restraint.

I will not, however, cower and withdraw the post to cover my shame. I'll leave it up, as a painful reminder of what sort of thing I ought to damn well just keep to myself.

*I mean "you" plural, not "you," you. I have no visibility into which people come to my site, just how many people come. I didn't want to scare you guys off.

2006-07-21T17:37:00.000-04:00

I don't know what to call it

you keep me so close i’m on pins and on needles
i wait for the next time i see you i need this
like water, like air, like the food that sustains me
i linger alone it’s your absence that pains me
and i’ll spend all the rest of my days wide awake
if it means i can see you my angel mistake

could you stay by my side while the world spins away
is there something to keep you ‘til i go to the grave
are there things i could do that would let me live on
is there someplace to go where i’m not in the wrong
come back, please come back my angel mistake
you left me dirty, alone, and flew far away

a lifetime of love in the breath of a touch
no one so blessed has suffered so much
and you know how its hurts me to always to hang on
and its too hard to be here now that you’re gone

so if i let go
then you'll have to come back
to show me forever
by the wings of your back

2006-06-22T10:52:00.000-04:00

Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

Today is Thursday. By my calculations, that makes tonight Thursday night. Thursday night is going out night. You hit the town. You paint it red, or whathaveyou. It is likely that I will do just that tonight. I don't know what is wrong with me.

I remember when I first got to college, the idea of Thursday night being the big night out dumbfounded me. I thought that Friday and Saturday night were the nights to cut loose. But it was explained to me somewhere along the way, I don't remember by who, that Friday night was a "night to chill," and Saturday night was a "night for dates." I don't know if this theory holds water where you guys are from, but it was near airtight in Chapel Hill.

You see on a college campus, and therefore in a college town, the week is divided according to the classes that one must (might?) attend. There are classes that take place on MWF, lasting about an hour apiece, and then there are classes that take place only on TuTh, lasting an hour and a half. If you miss a TuTh class, you've missed fully one half of that weeks lecture time, whereas if you miss a MWF class, you've only missed one third. A marginal difference to be sure, but there is more to it. If you miss a TuTh class, it by the time you get back to class, a full week will have passed since you were last actually in that class. That's something to think about.

I once skipped a Thursday, a Tuesday and aThursday. Then one of my classmates called to remind me that I had just skipped on the day of our Midterm. Follow me through time to see how this happens. I was in class on a Tuesay and was reminded that our Midterm was in a week and a half - the following Thursday. Plenty of time.

I skipped the following Thursday for very Ferris Bueller reasons. When Tuesday rolled around I skipped because I was sulking in my pajamas, having just been dumped. By the time the next Thursday rolled around, I had forgotten the midterm because it had been a week and a half since I had been to class, even though I had only skipped two. The class was early and I was sleepy so I decided to "take an L" as we called it and just sleep through.

(If you'd like to hear the story of how I talked my way out of trouble and into a full-credit, delayed makeup midterm, let me know. It involved elaborate lies, sweet talking, and even clever applications of a girl on my hall's eyeliner.)

My roundabout point is, you can much more easily afford to miss a MWF class. As such, as far as party nights go, Tuesday night followed closely on the heels of Thursday. So Tuesday and Thursday everybody went out and got smashed (or, as the case may be, went out and watched others get smashed with no small level of bemusement).

Strangely, this still seems to be the case among the younger folk here in Raleigh. My only explanation here is the force of habit. For those young professionals who still venture out seeking fun and inebriation on a weeknight, they must still be following the pantal ("of the pants") impulses of their college days.

Some driving force - indeed some call of the wild - draws us into the night, into the bars, with no compunction and no concern for responsibilities that await us at 9am. We are the young, the tireless, the foolish... the irresponsibility of youth clinging to the visceral existence of our past, our future be damned!! We will not go quiet into the dusk of our lives! We must live, and live fully - while the sun is still high!!

Or maybe we're just idiots.

2006-06-15T11:51:00.000-04:00

I am Spider-Man.
I am intelligent, witty,
a bit geeky and have great
power and responsibility.

85%

Robin

60%
The Flash

60%
Iron Man

55%
Superman

45%
Wonder Woman

35%
Hulk

35%
Green Lantern

35%
Catwoman

25%
Supergirl

20%
Batman

15%

Damn straight I am.

Click here to take the "Which Superhero are you?" quiz...

2006-06-14T15:59:00.000-04:00

- 28 days... 6 hours... 42 minutes... 12 seconds... that is when the world will end.
- What?

It has been 4 months, 27 days since my last post.

I'm sure you all already knew that though, thanks to mournfully annotated calendar surrounded by the lighted candles and laserjet-printed pictures of me you no doubt have near your computer... hoping -- nay, dreaming -- that I may some day return to you, my ever-longing readership.

Your faith has pleased me, and I have deigned to return.

Fortunately, I prepared you all for my extended blogging hiatus by making my posts fewer, farther between, and increasingly lacking in quality or thought. You may have taken this as a sort of downward spiral in my blogging career. I am here to tell you it was not so. I was merely looking to wean you from my proverbial intellectual teat. No one can quit me cold turkey. No one.

I return to the blogospere on this, a dreary and rainsoaked Wednesday. A hump day indeed. Stephen mentioned that I was working from home today but sadly this is not so. I was merely delaying my departure until the torrents of rain outside my window began to fall to earth in a direction more vertical than horizontal. I'd like to take a few minutes to tell you about my day since that point.

Upon my somewhat tardy arrival to work the power in my office went out, shutting down my computer and keeping me from getting anything done. Then it came back on again.

As I booted my computer and began to dive into the pile of work for the day, the power again faltered... then failed. A few minutes later, back on it came.

Again I booted the computer and began my steadfast workday duties. And again the power failed.

But not for long!! Soon, my sad little cubicle was once more illuminated with the soul-sucking force of flourescent light. This time the power stayed on for nearly fifteen minutes before, alas, it went out again and once my my progress halted.

This time the power was out for over an hour but then finally it was restored and, it now being nearly noon, I was able to actually start some work. For the fourth time I booted up and attempted to begin my day. I worked heartily for an hour and half. Much was accomplished. The power went out again.

I went to get some food. When i got back, still no power. At around two or so the power returned, seemingly for good. I logged on and checked the news on the local news station's website. More good news... Raleigh is flooded.

Anywhere near water, or a hill, or a ditch is underwater. Good thing I live on Glenwood. Near the mall. What's that mall called again? Oh yeah -- "Crabtree Valley Mall." That's because it is in the valley created by Crabtree creek.

Thanks to the marvels of modern technology I was able to view, through a webcam, the very route I wil need to take to get home. It should not be a problem, so long as I remembered to gas up my submarine after I took it out last time.

Have you ever have one of those days when you wake up and look out the window and you think, "No. I refuse." I felt like that this morning. I just wanted to roll over and refuse. Instead I dragged my lazy carcass from the warm embryonic cocoon of my soft, safe bedsheets, shuffled into some clothes and drove the six miles to work in two inches of standing water only to find an office with power issues that made the whole journey hardly worth while.

Shoulda listened to my gut on this one.

Well, love to everyone and all that. Let's hope I can be a bit more consistent with my online presence and a bit more capable in my writing in the coming months. Thanks for even checking to see if I am still alive. I am, and I am well.

Forever yours,

David

2006-01-20T10:17:00.000-05:00

All I do man, is stare at their mouth and wrinkle my eyebrows and somehow I turn out to be a big sweetie.

Thought I'd make my return with a simple post - Another thrilling installment in David Sloan's epic gastro-saga. Brough to you by the letters TMI and WTF:

An email I wrote to my boss this morning upon arriving to work...

Evil Chicken
David.Sloan [david.sloan@inlethd.com]
To: 'Jayme Inman'
-------------------------------------------------

On a not-exactly-work-related note –

Not only did my beloved Tar Heels lose last night, but while I was watching them lose, I was eating chicken from my fridge that was either bad or old or both. Apparently chicken, once its shelf-life has lapsed, acquires the ability to affect the human gastrointestinal system in two seemingly contradictory ways: I found that it can alternately speed up the digestive process or in fact reverse it completely, and switch between the two functions arbitrarily. I like chicken less today than I did last night.

I had quite the rough night, and my body is still pretty angry with me. In fact we had a huge argument this very morning (my body and I) about whether or not I would be able to function in a professional capacity today. I eventually won the argument, but now it’s showing its stubborn, surly nature by grumbling and generally doing it’s best to make me miserable. If I seem dazed and/or confused today, please chalk it up to a serious lack of sleep and an evil chicken’s revenge from beyond the grave.

D

2005-12-09T13:59:00.000-05:00

Idiom, sir?

Stephen's "fluffy" post has prompted a new one of my own, albeit a short one.

The girl in question from the night/morning in question is named Sarah. And Stephen's hair was fluffy. And no, Marissa you could not resist The Kaleb. The only thing about Stephen's description is that it insinuates a certain amount of narcisim on Kaleb's part. Not true at all. Very humble guy, doesn't know his own strength. But he does have a weird power over people. Case in point:
Last night I went and picked Sarah up and we drove out to Chapel Hill to hang around Bailey's until Kaleb (with a "K") got off work, and then we were all going to go out or whatever. Just as she was getting into the car I said to myself "Self, what sort of spineless lackey have you become? Are you now actually fetching Kaleb his women and bringing them to him?" Dammit, I am not a lackey! I am supposed to have my own lackeys!

Anybody wanna be my lackey?

2005-11-15T15:23:00.000-05:00

You just put your lips together... and blow.

So what's so hard about posting everyday? You'd think that it would be something pretty easy to do. You just put your fingers down and type what comes to mind. That's what I'm doing now. The only problem with that is I end up with posts like this one. Banal. Uninteresting. When I first started this blog it was called "Randomly Pecking Like a Chimp in a Fez." That's because when I started I was planning on doing just that: Sitting down every day and pecking out a few random thoughts and seeing what would come. I got bored with that pretty quickly, and if you go back and read some of my very first few posts, you can see that it was pretty boring, sucky stuff.

I am not a perfectionist. I am not anal-retentive. I am not neat. I am, for the most part, hardly ever on time. But I will say I take pride in what I write. I write and re-write these posts, look them over and over, then post them, and then I usually find something else I want to change and I pull them down and post again. Sometimes I pull the whole thing down and just delete it all together. Sometimes that's why you don't hear from me for a while.

The point is, usually the posts you finally see are due to some considerable effort. You may not always be able to tell this. You may think that I suck as a writer in general, but I just want you to know where I am coming from and to explain what the eff takes me so long sometimes. All that plus I am pretty lazy sometimes.

Coming up with a topic worth the effort of writing is my biggest challenge. I realize that I can just sit down at my computer and spend 10 minutes and I'll have a post and not seem so negligent. But I'd rather have something that I think you guys will want to read. Maybe it provokes thought. Maybe it makes you laugh. Maybe it stirs up an old memory or feeling. But I really want it to do something. I want you to be glad you took the time to read here. I want it to be good.

I started this blog for me. It was designed as a place for me vent, to be opinionated, and to tell eveybody why I think I am right all the time. Granted,it is still that, but now it is more. If you are a regular reader (as regular as you can be with my irregular posts), you are my friend. Even if I've never met you. We know each other through this. I read about your life, and you read about mine. We form a loose community unaffected by social or geographical restrictions. We interact and share our selves with one another. That, to me, is incredibly cool.

Now as far as I am concerned, this blog is for us. For myself and for you, my friends. I hope that what I write gives you insight into who I am and what I care about. I hope that everything I put here helps you know me a little bit better.

Please have patience when I am slow, and take what I write as my little attempt at a gift to all of you...

Well, Laura is here now and she has asked me to tell everybody hi, and to sign of so I can give her some smooches. I am more than happy to oblige her, so let me say goodnight.

Much love.

2005-11-12T21:32:00.000-05:00

It appears my hypocrisy knows no bounds.

In addition to the story below being (finally) added, I also added a "Greatest Hits" section to my sidebar about the links. I went back through all my entries and linked to the ones that I thought were worth reading again.

It appears my narcissism knows no bounds.

2005-11-12T20:00:00.000-05:00

Smoke 'em if you got 'em.

Is it hot in here or is my head on fire?

If you ask me, fire is fun. I love it. Always have. My mom could never keep the matches away from me. We had those big boxes of 200 wooden matches. I'd find where Mom had hidden them and then I'd sneak off with them and have my fun, then get in lots and lots of trouble. But nothing could deter me.

Despite inevitable punishment(s) involved, my fascination with flame afforded me lots of practice and knowledge of the craft through trial and error. I could spend hours describing my various pyrosperiments as a youth. Indeed a disproportionate number of my "idiot stories" have to do with fire. This story is no exception.

As you might have inferred, I was undoubtedly something of a handful when I was younger. My older brother and sister were relatively well behaved and obedient children. It wasn't that I was maliciously bad or disobedient. I was a sweet kid. It was just that I often acted on impulses that may or may not have been in direct contridiction to explicit instructions my parents had given me on numerous occasions. That's all.

As I alluded before, "Do not, do not, do not play with the matches!" was one of those explicit instructions. It was often given at a volume that one might liken to a scream, and may have been accompanied by healthy corporal reinforcement. My mom could do this while at the same time stamping, snuffing, drenching or otherwise extenguishing any blaze(s) I had set that might still be alight. She's quite a woman.

A large part of the time one spends raising children, I think, is spent cleaning them, dressing them, and attempting to keep them dressed and clean. My mother hand her hands full with me and my siblings. Well, more me really. She developed a system. Hours before it was time to actually leave for some event/location I would be called in from playing outside and scrubbed thoroughly. My hair was combed, my body was clothed, and I was instructed in terms none too foggy that I was to sit still and not alter my appearance in any way lest I come to bodily harm. Only once this process was complete did she approach the task of preparing herself and the rest of the family. Sometimes I was a good little boy and sat quietly in my room and played with my toys, waiting for when it was time to go. Sometimes I would get a little bit... distracted, if you will.

On one particular winter evening, when I was in about 1st grade, my mother was preparing the family for an annual Christmas get together we always shared with two other families in the area whom we were particuarly close to. On these occasions it was of utmost importance that all us children looked our best. We were dolled into our Christmas Cutest and shown off for a few minutes when we arrived.

I was dressed and then sent to go play quietly and cleanly while everybody else got ready. After a reasonable amount of time doing this, my mind began to wander. As I was browsing my toys for something to new occupy myself with, my mind went to the Star Wars figurines I'd left outside earlier in the day. It occurred to me how terrible it would be to leave them out in the cold, possibly rainy elements. After all, hadn't Mom always told me to take care of my toys? Hadn't she made it a point that I shouldn't leave them outside and let them be ruined? And wouldn't she actually be upset with me if these toys were to spend the evening exposed to the elements? Well, like the good and dutiful son that I am, I struck out to rescue them.

Luke, Han, Chewie, another Luke in X-Wing gear, Greedo and a few other figures were outside in the sand pile. You might be envisioning a sand box at this point, so just let me take a moment to correct you. The sand pile was a pile of sand. It sat in our yard next to the new house that we were in the process of building next to our old house. It was that red dirt that (you may or may not know) is used to mix concrete with. A dumptruck had dumped a huge pile of it in our yard and it was immediately taken over by my brother and sister and I as a wonderously wonderful playplace. We dug an intricate interconnecting series of tunnels all through the pile that we used as a battleground for various actions figures in wars that could last days at a time. The rain had washed some of it out at one end forming a sort of plain situated at the base of a large orange mountain (large, that is, if you were the size of an action figure, which luckily my action figures were). If you've seen Star Wars, it really made a wonderful Tatooine. If you haven't, imagine the dry orang-ish landscape of, say, Tunisia. A desert. But with canyons and tunnels and oohs and ahhs.

Upon reaching my miniscule party of standed heroes, it occurred to me that there was really no difference in playing with them here and in my room. I mean, I would still be sitting quietly playing with my toys, just like I was asked, right? I wouldn't be getting sweaty or dirty. I'd just be sitting and playing. The only difference was, I'd be out here instead of in there. No big deal. Just to be sure, I even went and got a big peice of cardboard to kneel on while I played. It was foolproof.

When I played by myself, I often didn't actually move the figures around. Instead I liked to arrange them into little scenes, like a freeze frame of some action in progress. Since the sun was beginning to set, I arranged the figures in a seated circle at the base of the "mountain." This is where they were setting up camp for the night, you see. I soon had them all arranged like they were sitting and talking and settling in the the night. It made me feel all cozy.

But, I thought, it's so cold! What kind of idiots would camp for the night in weather like this without some source of warmth? Then it dawned on me... you guessed it - campfire!

I quickly darted about the yard picking up tiny sticks and splinters of wood to serve as tiny fire logs and bits of paper and pine straw to serve as their kindlin'. Now I just needed some matches.
No problem. I snuck in the house and grabbed a coathanger from my closet. While everyone else was busy getting dressed in the back of the house (we only had one bathroom), I went to the kitchen and drug a chair from the the table over to the cabinets beside the refridgerator. I stood in the chair and used the corner of the hanger to grab the knob of the uppermost cabinet door above the fridge and swing it open. Then, on my tip-toes, I rattled it around in the cabinet until I heard the distinctive clatter of wood matches in a carboard box. I carefully drug the matches out over the lip of the shelf and into my waiting hand. Then I used the hanger to close the door back, replaced the chair, threw the hanger back in my room and I was on my way. Easy as that. Did my parents think I was stupid?

I ran back outside, practically vibrating with excitement. When I got back to the tiny campsite I carefully arranged the tiny little logs into a tiny little pile and, with the tenderest of care, I place Han, Luke and company into a snug little circle to bask in the warmth that was soon to come.

I struck a match and put it to the little pile, and it lit up sooo nicely. Once I had created my little scenes, I liked to get down there with them, so close that I could imagine I was there. I crouched down so close that my nose was amongst them. It was beautiful. The sun had dropped below the horizon, and the sky was a perfect twilight blue. The light of my little fire licked the canyon walls behind them and lapped across their figures, casting delightful dancing shadows in every direction at once. Beyond their little circle of light was the unknown in the darkness, but I just knew they felt safe right there. Imagination is a powerful thing at that age, and this intimate little outdoor diorama seemed so real to me that I was at once filled with a sort of giddy happiness for what I had created and a peculiar sadness because I wanted so badly to be there with them. I still distinctly remember what a powerful, magical feeling that was.

It was so powerful and magical in fact, that I almost didn't notice when a strange sensation crept across my forehead. I sat up, a little confused. I felt something like a very light breeze, soft and warm, emanating from my hairline. I suppose my brain registered this as odd because there was no soft, warm breeze hitting the rest of my body. It was almost like someone was holding a candle near my skin, and I could feel...the..."MYHEAD'SONFIREMYHEAD'SONFIRE!!!" I thought calmly to myself.

Let me tell you, nothing breaks the power and magic of a halcyon childhood moment like a your head catching on fire. It really just breaks the mood. Luckily for me (and all the LAYdees out there) I did not sustain any disfiguring injury. Fortunately, the fire safety slogan "Stop, Drop and Roll" had been drilled into my head for weeks at school. Stop was easy, but how does one "drop and roll" one's head? I acted quickly and decisively: I dove head-first into the sand-pile and ground my hair all around until I felt sure the hair fire was snuffed. In the process I brought half the dirt pile mountain down on Luke and company, snuffing them and their quaint little campfire as well.

I sat up again and paused. No more suspicous heat emanating from my forehead. So far so good. Time for damage assessment. I gave a few cautious taps around up there to check for tell-tale gooiness... all clear! I seemed to have escaped unscathed, as it were. How lucky I was. I decided it might be time to mosey on inside and sit quietly.

As soon as I walked in the door, Mom called from down the hall in the bathroom. "David, come here. You better not have been outside getting dirty!" "No Ma'am," I said as I walked into the bathroom. "I just went to get some toys I left out in the sand pile." Mom was at the mirror, carefully applying mascara. She didn't look up, but she said "Didn't I tell you to go play in your room and-- ... do you smell something burning?" "No ma'am!" I said quickly, shaking my head furiously. As I did, I shook loose some sand still lingering in my hair. It fell to the linoleum floor with a ssssshhhhh that did not go unnoticed by either of us. I stared at the sand covered floor helplessly and when I looked up, she was looming over me with a look of horror on her face. "OHMYLORDWHATONEARTHHAPPENEDTOYOURHAIR?!"

At this point I could see that the situation had the potential to escalate out of hand if I didn't explain things quickly. I stepped back as she lunged toward me to investigate and held up a hand. "Don't worry mom," I said calmly. "I was outside making a campfire for my Star Wars men and I accidently caught my hair on fire, but I knew exactly what to do. I smashed my head in the sand pile and put it right out. It didn't even burn me!" I was actually sort of proud of myself for being so resourful.

For some reason, this didn't have the relieving effect on her I had expected. In fact, it seemed only to upset her more. "YOU DID WHAT?!?!?" she screamed. "YOUR HEAD??? ARE YOU OKAY? HOW ON EARTH DID YOU-- ARE YOU OKAY?!?!" she snatched me up and pulled my head close to her and examined the little scorched spot at my hairline. "OH MY LORD YOU BURNED YOUR HEAD! ELDON GET IN HERE!! DAVID CAUGHT HIS HEAD ON FIRE!!" My dad ran in from his bedroom and snatched me up to look. "WHAT? WHERE?!" I think he expected my head to actually still be in flames. Mom pointed to to my little burned patch of hair and Dad looked closely. For several minutes they looked me over thoroughly and talked in panicked tones to each other while they tried to asssess the damage.

Soon enough they gathered that I was rather unharmed, despite it all. The only damage that had been done was that where my sweet little blonde-boy hair had once been about three inches long in a sweet little blonde-boy bowl cut, there was now a very conspicuous area of charred, smelly, gnarled, short ex-hair.

We will now skip my least favorite part of the story. I'm sure of all of you can probably recall a time from your youth where all the energy your parents could suddenly gain from fear for your safety could just as suddenly, upon being assured of your well being, be channeled into an equal amount of rage. You can probably further imagine how well the next thirty minutes or so went for me. If I had simpy messed up my nicely combed hair, I probably would have been in trouble.

I had not only messed it up, but I had caught it on fire and ground it in the dirt. Moving on.

My parents' only recourse was to strip me down and wash me up all over gain, then take our electric clippers and buzz my whole head to the length of the little cooked spot. Then I had to shower again to get all the itchy loose hair off of me, then re-dressed in clothes not covered in sand. Needless to say, we were a bit late for the Christmas party.

The car ride there was no fun for me. When we arrived, everyone was curious about my new haircut, and Mom and Dad were more than happy to explain the reasons behind it. The story was quite a hit. The mothers were horrified. The fathers were amused. The other kids were amazed. I was more confused than anything.

I just didn't see what the big deal was. Like I said, I didn't even get burned. Sometimes parents just don't make any sense at all.

2005-11-11T15:48:00.000-05:00

How can I possibly be expected handle school on a day like this?

Well, I have the day off. It's simply wonderful. I am doing a whole lot of nothing. Well, actually I am working on the blog(s). I am sorry, but it just is not possible for me to post anything while I am at work. It's all against the rules and stuff, and there is a steady stream of supervisor-type figures flowing behind my workspace at all time. Good news though: my computer here at the apartment is in good working order. It was terminally ill due to an impressive collection of spyware and viruses I had collected for the past two or three years. I had to stand back, give a final salute, and reformat my hard drive. I lost a lot of stuff, but the upside is that I gained a functioning computer.

Blog news: I have fixed the formatting problems on readelicious and even posted half a story.
Blog promises: I will do one or both of the following today.
1) Finally post the story you, the voters, requested so many moons ago.
2) Post the rest of the story currently left unfinished on readelicious.

I also plan to sit on the couch with one hand tucked into my pants for an as-yet-undertermined length of time.

So if anybody has been so faithful as to check this sad little blog one more time let me say thanks and welcome back. Spread the word. One day I hope to garner the daily double digits in the comments department like Marissa and Cheryl.

I don't know why I just linked those. Chances are, if you're here you came from there. Plus they already get way more traffic than me. I am jealous and so I have to say, in the nicest possible way, that they suck.

Check back soon for fun-ness.

2005-11-09T09:50:00.000-05:00

You stay alive, no matter what occurs. I will find you.

Quick thoughts I didn't want to cram in a comments page on another blog...

Independence is a virtue, to be sure. Careful though. Independence is wholly different from isolation. Ice-olation? Hmm. Be capable of independence, but willing to depend on others. Bravery is to allow yourself to need another. Foolishness is to need another who doesn't need you. Two hearts beating alongside is nice. It's company. Comfort. Companionship.
Two hearts working together, needing each other, making each other stronger, individual yet interdependent... that's love you can live off of.

2005-10-20T09:15:00.000-04:00

What's a blog?

It's okay to hate me for now, but I sure do wuuuuv all of you!

Thanks for even looking. You're remarkably persistent.

D.

2005-09-23T09:19:00.000-04:00

In a very real, and legally binding way.

I'm sorry. I suck. I build up all this jazz about a funny anecdote and then I don't deliver. Your interest level couldn't have been very high in the first place, but you still humored me participated in my little vote-y thingy, and now here you sit, reading this.

Like I said before, I've got this new job. Well the first three months are entirely classroom training. Eight hours a day. In the classroom. Learning about policies and procedures of claims adjudication (calm down, calm down. I know your heart is racing at the very thought.) and also we must gain a basic knowledge of all the body systems, how they work, and how to recognize when they are not working based on reading medical records. I'm getting quite the crash course in how to have a dull, dull daily existence. To make this all the more fun, we will have a series of five tests throughout the three month period, during which I must maintain an 80 average or better or I get fired. We had one of those tests this week. As such I have been somewhat preoccupied, and have neglected to post. I will happily share, however, that I bent the test over my knee and whipped it like it was naughty. I got a 98. As of that moment, in my own head, I became a god among men.

So how're you guys doing? Really. Tell me. It'll take two seconds. How you doing?

The story will be up next week, and a new round of voting can begin.

Love,

David

2005-09-12T20:46:00.000-04:00

I slept with the author of A Blindfolded Chimp... and all I got was this stupid blog entry named after me.

Sorry to keep you guys waiting for the first big story, that is, assuming you care (I lie in bed at night and stare at the ceiling and tell myself over and over again that you guys care...). I really appreciate the participation in the voting, but now there's all this pressure to write an at least moderately interesting story. I mean, I've got people willing to light their hair on fire if this thing is good. So couple the pressure with the fact that I have already started on each of them a couple of times when the vote swung the other way, and you can see where the delay comes from. I have decided that the winner is #4 because a) I have written more of that one and b) the afforementioned offer of voluntary cranial combustion was, i feel, sincere in feeling if perhaps not in actual intentions.

To fill you guys in on a bit of my life which I really haven't been doing:

Stephen and I are having a pretty good 'ol time in the new crizib though I see very little of him, what with his theater and his girlfriend and his video games (hmmm which item on this list seems strangely out of place?)
Coming into week 2 of the new job. The first THREE MONTHS will be classroom training, which may indicate how incredibly mired down in excruciating minutia this job will be. I will not complain, though, because they will give me money for doing this job... which is nice of them.
Said job requires me to be at my desk at the unholy hour of 7:30 in the morning. I have not been getting up this early since high school.
I've been going to the gym three times a week. My muscles aren't getting bigger, but the good news is I'm always really tired when I leave.
I acquired an impressive case of Poison Ivy last monday playing disc golf. I am so proud. All the chicks dig my oozing sores. Added bonus: I itch so bad I can't sleep at night!!!
I cut my hair yesterday so now i look like my profile picture again rather than the shaggy-haired bearded thing I had become. I realize that none of you knew any different, but I match my picture again, so please get excited.
I'm pretty tired.

Well I love you all with every little teeny piece of my body. Hug your knees close to you chest, look out the window and gaze into the distance as you think of me...

2005-09-07T10:10:00.000-04:00

If I know Mary as well as I think I do, she'll invite us right in for tea and strumpets.

I have done alot of stupid things. Most of the time, when viewed in retrospect, the stupid things I have done have resulted in some pretty funny stories. Often I find myself recounting one idiotic offense or another when I am gathered among friends, and usually much laughter is had at my expense. That's okay. I like making people laugh, as long as it's with me, not at me.

I've decided to share a few with you, so and you can sit back, fold your arms, and think how it's a wonder I'm still alive. In order to shamelessly invite more comments, I'll call for your participation. A reason behind your choice is welcome, but all you really have to do is type one number.

Which would you most like to hear first?

1. Did I just kill my mom?
2. And now we have a river of flames.
3. When car is in motion, please keep steering wheel attached.
4. Is it hot in here or is my head on fire?
5. Sarah Hubbard stepped to me and I punched her in the mouth.
6. Dad, the good news is, I fixed your gun...

Oh, there's more, but we'll start with these.

Let me know and I'll post one soon.*

*Eventually, when I have recieved enough votes to justify the effort.

2005-09-06T10:43:00.000-04:00

I'm givin' this whole thing as a promotional expense, that's why I invited clients instead of friends.

I, like Stephen, just wanted to re-announce my not-deadness to everyone out there. His computer is all hoarded in his room so I am having to issue this announcement from my desk at work. Please admonish him accordingly. His computer should be in my room.

What's that you ask? Work? Me? What? Huh?

Oh yeah that's right, I am once again gainfully employed, and this time I'm working for the government. Neither god nor man's got anything on me now.

Whoops. Gotta go.

2005-08-17T04:09:00.000-04:00

I've come to the end of me, Rita.

I've been away for a while, yet again, I know. But not without good reasons:
1. I am, all in all, quite lazy.
2. I have been using what little time I have spent on blogging lately to create another blog for your reading pleasure.

Last week, while moving out of my apartment, I came across a box of my writing. This box contained various things I had written during my college years. When I graduated from UNC, I did something completely out of character and had the presence of mind to save nearly everything I had written (creative writing, that is) in order to, if I wanted, bless future generations with my no doubt limitless brilliance. I took all the stories, poems, essays and pointless meanderings I'd written over the course of four years and stuffed them into a shoebox. All I could find, anyway. This included formally written short stories done as class assignments, personal entries I kept in a journal, terrible love songs I wrote to accompany my nearly nonexistent guitar playing abilities, and even pages upon pages of writings composed during class time when I should have been paying better attention to my instructors. All this was gently crammed into a big ol' shoebox and, with much ceremony, kicked under my bed and forgotten for nearly a year and a half.

It was extremely interesting to look through this stuff after all this time had passed. Some of it is good, and I am quite proud of it. Some if it is really, really terrible and it should probably be put to flames. In any case, have decided to share it with you guys. I created a separate blog to this end.

I'd like to be a real writer one day. I plan to, with absolutely no regularity whatsoever, post peices from the box o' writing for you guys to read. I will also post new pieces from time to time. Mostly it will be short stories because that's what I've written the most of so far and what I still like to write. This will be the first time I have shared my work in even a semi-public environment. In doing so, I realize that I could be exposing myself to unnecessary levels of humiliation. The purpose of this is to get your feedback. If you think what I post is lame, please say so. Believe me, if it's lame I probably know it. I'm gonna post the good and the bad, and there is so much more bad than good. But then you can laugh and make fun of me. Just do so in the form of comments. I'll never improve as a writer if I don't know what I'm doing right and especially what I'm doing wrong.

So here it is... readelicious?

2005-07-27T23:18:00.000-04:00

Is that a rabbit in your coat or are you just happy to see me?

Has anybody seen this? It's pretty tough.

2005-07-25T21:15:00.000-04:00

Guys like you and me gotta kick it here, old school.

You know how ambulances have the word "AMBULANCE" written really big across the front of their hoods? And have you noticed that it is written backwards so that if you were to see that word in a mirror, (presumeably in the rear view mirror of a vehicle as opposed to say a ladies compact whilst powdering your nose) you might readily identify it as an emergency vehicle and take appropriate action. (Incidentally, if you happen to read the word "AMBULANCE" through a ladies compact whilst powdering your nose, MOVE!! THERE"S AN AMBULANCE BEHIND YOU!!)

You might be asking yourself, under what circumstances will it be necessary for anyone driving a vehicle to need to read the word "AMBULANCE" clearly in their rear view mirror in order to know what to do? Ambulances are, after all, relatively easy for most fully-erect primates to identify. Are we to assume that certain drivers have emerged from a thirty year exile on the ocean floor and proceeded directly to the nearest motor vehicle and headed down the road? Why on Earth would they need to take the time to write the word "AMBULANCE" backwards on a vehicle that is essentially two seats, four wheels, lights and sirens?

Well, imagine if you will the following exchange between Mr. and Mrs. Completely Oblivious Moron, and you'll think twice before questioning that extra little step taken for the safety of none other than you and me.

Please enjoy.

[Husband and wife are enjoying a nice Sunday drive down an long, winding stretch of two-lane country road. While looking lovingly at his wife, Mr. Moron sees something out of the corner of his eye approaching from behind.]

"Gosh honey, what do you suppose that is approaching us from behind?"

[Craning her neck to look behind her]

"I don't know, but it's emitting some sort of strobing light."

"Yes, I see that. Hmm, it seems to be some sort of large, white vehicle."

"Indeed it does. My, it sure is coming up on us quickly!"

"True. Now I am beginning to hear a sort of high-pitched, wailing noise. Do you hear that?"

"Yes, yes I do. It's incredibly loud... and not un-siren-like."

"Well what should we do? It's right behind us now, and I don't think there's a passing zone for miles."

"What was that honey? I'm having a hard time concentrating on what you're saying because of the remarkably loud noise and the incredibly bright and multicolored strobing lights that are now filling our entire vehicle."

"Not to mention your rear-view mirrors,"

"Wait a minute... say that again."

"Say what again?"

"What you said just a moment ago... about some sort of mirrors."

"I said 'not to mention your rear-view mirrors.'"

"Brilliant! Honey, you're a genious!"

"Why? What did I say?"

"The part about the rear-view mirrors! I'll check the reflection of the vehicle behind us to search for any clues about what we might do!"

"Oh, brilliant darling!"

"Hmmm. Let me see. It's hard to make anything out, what with the strobing lights... Wait, there's a word there! 'AMBULANCE.' Oh my goodness it's an ambulance!"

"Pull over immediately! It must be trying to aid someone in need!"

"Of course! I'll do so immediately."

[He pulls the car to the side of the road as the ambulance roars past.]

"Well. I certainly am glad you were able to identify it. Otherwise, in our confusion, we might have held it up indefinately."

"As am I my dear. Thanks in no small part to your quick thinking."

"One thing troubles me though, my dear... If you were reading that through a mirror, shouldn't the letters have appeared backwards, rendering the word virtually impossible to comprehend?"

"Indeed you are correct. Hmm... Ah! They must have printed the word in reverse for the specific purpose of viewing through just such a vehicular mirror! It's brilliant"

"Huzzah to the designers of ambulance lettering! Thanks to their forward thinking, a life was no doubt spared this day."

Aaaaaannnd SCENE!!

2005-07-18T03:29:00.000-04:00

Back off man. I'm a scientist.

Well it's been a terribly long while since I posted last. If you are reading this then it means that you haven't given up all hope that I might return to the keyboard. You guys really should find better ways to spend your time.

I don't have a whole lot to entertain you with this evening (morning) but it's late and I can't sleep and there's a computer where I'm staying tonight so I thought I'd poke around on the old qwertypad for a bit.

I've been surfing the web for about an hour now and I've ever so gradually followed a train of thought (with an origin I can no longer recall) that has led me to several sites with lists titled "Rules to Surviving a Horror Movie" or some variation thereof. I have found these lists to be mostly repetitive, and rarely are as eloquent or insightful as I might like.

As such, I have decided to mark my re-re-return to the this page with a re-hashed topic of questionable levels of interest or intellectual merit. Remeber as you read that in my list I will assume that you already know you are in a horror movie. Otherwise, you would not be consulting such a list as this one. This should explain any overly cautious tones you may pick up on.
May I therefore present...

BOSEPHUS'S RULES FOR SURVIVING A HORROR MOVIE

1. Don't check to see if he's dead. If he's dead, you'll know it from the completely severed head. If head is not severed, sever head.

2. Never split up. Like refuse to split up. Even with everyone else in the group wants to. Raise hell from the moment the suggestion is even made. If everyone else shouts you down (and they should have to shout), and you all form a plan to go in four different directions, just nod and agree. Then follow someone anyway. Never split up.

3. You might find yourself alone and sneaking around a dark hallway when all of a sudden something jumps out at you and scares you half to death, but it turns out just to be another member of the group accidentally bumping into you or something and giving you a patented horror movie fake scare. At this point, if you have not just killed your friend, a stern lecture is in order. Things are scary enough without a bunch of numbnutzes stumbling around bumping into you.

4. If you hear a noise, and you cannot readily identify the source, assume the worst. Do not ignore the noise, and certainly never move to investigate. Heavy gunfire in the general direction of the noise is not uncalled for if a firearm is handy. If a working phone is nearby, call a cab to take you to the nearest police station or military fortification.

5. If you go to check the fridge, be sure to stand far enough away to be able to see behind the fridge door when you open it.

6. In the same vein, keep some sort of weapon in you bathroom medicine cabinet. This way when you close the door to reveal the killer standing behind you, you will be nominally prepared.

7. If any, ANY appliance or lightsource suddenly begins acting strangely in any way, leave the house.

8. If you are fleeing a spooky area, and suddenly find yourself in a yet spookier area, there's certainly no need to slow down and note the sudden increase in spookiness.

9. When fleeing on foot, it may be helpful to find a point in the distance to run toward. Run as hard as you can toward this point without stopping or looking behind you.. When you reach said point, without slowing down, pick another point to continue running toward. There is no need to look behind you. In fact, assume the killer is right behind you and continue running. Inevitably, if you trip and fall, it's because you've not only abandoned the basic priciple of looking where you are going, but added thick woods and darkness to the equation.

10. Come to think of it, don't run into the woods. Try an open field or a well lit parking lot. Or better yet a police station.

11. If you for some reason stop running and look around and no longer see the killer, that's worse, not better. Stalking monsters are known for their tenacity, if for nothing else. He's still after you, only now you can't see him. Run faster.

12. If you are fleeing to safety, and your haven finally comes into view, now is the time to do what runners call "sprinting it out." This is not an appropriate time to pause and breathe a sigh of relief. In fact, I'd suggest you go ahead and start screaming as loudly as possible.

13. If an article of clothing becomes snagged or entangled, remove the entire object of clothing. Whining and pulling at a snagged sweater sleeve virtually guarantees death.

14. Back to mirrors; if you look in a mirror and see a) no reflection b) someone else's reflection c) an additional figure in the reflection d) though time and/or space or e) any combination or the above, leave the house. In fact, break the mirror and then leave the house.

15. If you find an entry door that was previously closed to be suddenly and conspicuously ajar, then yes, he's in the house. Leave the house through that door.

16. Splitting up the group to look for a missing group member (especially a member that rebelliously wandered off on their own) is the stupidest reason ever to split up. See? He left the group and never came back. The fact that you're having to look for them in the first place is in itself an argument for not splitting up. Screw them.

17. Anyone with a sibling knows that the best way to hold a door closed when an intruder is trying to get in is to put the side of your foot at the base of the door. The palms-out leaning technique never seems to work too well.

18. Learn to use a doorknob. Grasp the knob firmly and calmly, then rotate the knob fully before attempting to open it. Wasting precious seconds jiggling a knob that apparently works perfectly (since the door inevitably opens just as the killer lunges) can only be blamed on user error or perhaps mild retardation.

19. The only thing stupider than having trouble using a working doorknob is spending more than half a second on one that is obviously LOCKED. No amount of jiggling or pulling a locked door will unlock it. I maintain that the locked/unlocked status of a door can be ascertained while running at full speed.

20. By all means, if you find an unlocked door and enter it, lock it behind you. This is the only excuse for a pause in your sprint for your life. A pause.

21. Don't drop keys. If you have keys, find the correct key as you sprint for the door. If you get to your house or in your car and drop your keys on the floor as you fumble to find the right one, I hope you do die, and Darwin would agree.

22. Hitchhikers are own their own. Stopping is a bad idea on so many levels.

I am tired now. Please feel free to give me suggestions or ideas I may have missed. I will likely continue to add to this list in the future.

Love you.

2005-04-13T03:24:00.000-04:00

Talk amongst yourselves. I'll give you a subject...

What is up then? I know you've all been concerned. Nah I'm just fooling myself. I know you guys stopped checking this blog about three weeks ago. So maybe it's been like a month since I wrote a post promising new posts soon. And maybe when I wrote that new post, it had been several weeks since I had in fact posted anything of merit. That is all beside the point. The point is: I am back, baby!! Oh yeah, and better than ever.

So, who missed me? Anybody? No? Okay.

Well that's my own doing I suppose. The fact of the matter is, it's well past three in the morning and I am just getting back to the apartamento from a night of loving fun in the tiny little college town of Chapel Hill, NC. If that name sounds a little more familiar to you than it did a couple of weeks ago, it might be because MY TEAM from MY SCHOOL, yeah that's right, the TAR HEELS, just pulled out a NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP. It is difficult express to you in words how very happy that made me. I really needed it. I was toothed on the Tar Heels and I think before it hits open air, my blood runs Carolina Blue. Both my parents went to school at UNC and I can literally say that "I'm a Tar Heel born, I'm a Tar Heel bred, and when I die, I'm a Tar Heel dead!" It's been twelve years since our last championship and we had it coming. Finally the Baby Blue is back where it belongs! The dynasty continues, and the true blue never fades!!!

Having said that, I realize that a great deal of you have no idea what the snap I am talking about, so I suppose it's time for me to move on before I lose you forever. I think the best thing to do right now is explain by absence as of late.

Three weeks ago today (or I guess yesterday, techinically) I was laid off from my job. Booo. I know. What were they thinking, really? It seems that my company was experiencing some "fiscal delays" and as such my position, being the only full time marketing position in the company, became a bit expendable when compared to the overall budget and the need for more tech savvy help that could come in and fix a few things I couldn't .

I came back from using a couple of days of my vacation (a friday and and monday) to celebrate St. Patty's Day down in Savannah with some of my nearest and dearest, and when I waltzed in the office on Tuesday morning, the decision had already been made. My employers said they realized that "this may come as a surprise" to me, but they'd decided to let me go. Oh and by the way good morning, how was your weekend? So within thrity minutes of walking in, I was walking back out with a carboard box full of my deskly things.

In the subsequent three weeks I have been back on job-hunting trail. So far not much has manifested, but my hopes are still high and my eyes to the sky. In the meantime I have been enjoying a little mandatory vacation, being given the time to relax between market scouring and visit some friends and family I haven't had the luxury to spend time with since becoming a real live adult. I have also, come to mention it, been living off of my savings, and between my rent, car payment and credit cards, those should be exhausted pretty soon. As such, if I haven't found a "career" type job again in the next couple of weeks, I guess I'll default to retail or waiting tables nearbouts, in order to pay The Man. But hey, if that happens, at least it's Summertime. If I end up with a job like that, at least I know I'll have the flexibility to take few days at the beach every now and again and soak up the sun like I'm just a college kid with a summer job again. I know there's a Provider, and when I worry , I can just remember the lilies, right?

Well they say bad things come in threes, and they sure did with me. Number 2: When I got home from my shortest work day ever, my sister had left a message on my phone saying that my saint of a Grandma was sick in the hospital and not doing well. Keep in mind this is not one of those distant Grandma's that lives down in Florida and you see once a year. This lady live two miles down the road, and the school bus took me to her house every afternoon until I was in 8th grade, and every summer day was spent there as well while my parents were at work. You like food? She's a master. Nothing she ever put her hands to tasted like it came form this world. This lady helped raise me, and I love her more than I could begin to talk about. If she stubs her toe, it brings tears to my eyes, and to see her like this is almost more than I can bear. Now she can't walk, she can't see, she can't hear and she lives in daily pain. This is the first time in my life I can look at somebody I love and the idea of a life ending being a blessing beyond our selfish feelings makes sense. I've lost two grandfathers and the words of comfort "at least he's not suffering anyore" never really made me feel much better. In youth you just think of what you've lost rather than the final peace granted to those which it had so far been denied. I can't imagine a life without my Grandma, but I think when her time comes, relief to see her pain come to and end may do a lot to dull the pain of losing a bit of my heart. In the meantime, could you guys keep her in your thoughts and prayers?

But there are mixed blessings, aren't there. I lost my job, but on the very same day I was reminded that there are problems, and then there are problems. Whatever time I might have spent wallowing in self pity was devoted to being home and with my family, giving love to those who have loved me all my life. By the time Grandma was back home and stable, perspective had set in and I got to skip the whole self-loathing-I-suck-I-got-fired period.

Just when I was feeling a bit better, my roommate and best boy Ben and I were rolling out to the mall to catch a matinee (see? couldn't do that when i was working) of Sin City because we are both big comic nerds and were all hyped up and ready to Geek Out at the theater. Well as my luck would have it, a lady pulled right out in front of me, out of nowhere, and I nailed her pretty good. Thing number 3: Right there, I wrecked my single most favorite material posession in the world: my brand new Z28. Again perspective was handed to me when
I got out of the car to check and see if everybody was alright. I was suprisinigly calm and there was no anger in my voice, face or indeed my mind while I checked on the passengers of the other car. It turns out the driver of the car was visiting from Ohio. In the passenger seat was her 70 year old mother. In the back was her sister and her brother in law. She had come from Ohio to help this sister take car of her husband who was in the middle of fighting a brain tumor. The were, when we wrecked, en route to pick up some of his medicine. Again, there are problems, and then there are problems. Good thing I didn't hop out screaming at her about my car, right?

So as you can see, when I said earlier that I really needed that Tar Heel win, I meant it. Things are going good for me now. I still don't have a job, but hey, I think everybody goes through a little bit of that while they are getting settled into a career that fits them right. I'm drving a dinky little rental car right now, and it's a far cry from the big muscley sports car I was so proud of before. But hey, I'm not paying for it, and at least I saving money on the sky-high gas prices in the meantime, right? My grandma still isn't doing great, but at least she's stable and she's at home. I may be running out of money, but at least I can sleep late. There's good to be found in just about anything I guess, if you look at it right. I've got family, I've got friends and I've got a beatiful woman that thinks I'm the best thing since sliced bread (most of the time, I think). My bills will get paid, my belly will get food, and I've got wheels to get where I need to go. Anything beyond that is just icing on the cake.

I know this entry has been not only long, but a bit out of my usual tone. Such is the way of a late-night self reflection I suppose. I will do my best to return to form on my next post.

The computer was using to update this blog belonged to my late employer and as such I will have to update as often as I can and probably for the most part forgo for the time being further photo publicaiton and html editing. But when I got home tonight for some reason I felt the need to give all you dear readers a holler. It's weird how communities form, and as crazy as it sounds, I was really starting to miss our electronic one. As I'm writing this, I feel a bit exposed, writing my feeling on my sleeve and all. But at the same time I'm not too worried about it. I've known some of you guys through they keyboard longer than a lot of people I interact with on a daily basis, after all. Hopefully you'll all treat me like a wounded puppy and pour on the hearfelt comments and make me feel all loved and appreciated. Yeah that's a hint.

Anyway guys, I'm going to try to get to bed before the sund starts coming through my window. If you've stuck through the entirety of this monstrously long post, I commend and thank you. Let me just say it feels good to be back, even if only virtually.

PEESE.

2005-03-18T11:12:00.000-05:00

Oh Louie, Louie...still whining, Louie?... Have you heard enough? I've had to listen to that for centuries.

Oh for Pete's sake. So maaaaybe it's been just a hair over three weeks since I last posted. I am a busy young man.

I've started several drafts of my next post, but was never satisfied with the outcome... that, or I got distracted or lazy before I finished. My blog is an energy saving model.

I hope to post a third installment of David Sloan's School of How Not to Drive Like a Moron very soon. You might as well start catching up now in preparation for it. To see the first two entries, click here for part one and here for part II (you'll have to scrool down for this one. It's the second post under december 16).

Besides, I know what I'm doing. Just think of the buzz (2) my absence has created. Where is he? When will he post again? What is that weird smell? I know how to keep you all breathless with antici...

pation.

2005-03-10T09:27:00.000-05:00

Coming Soon... A New Post.

Yes. I am still alive.

Yes. I am still awesome.

2005-02-24T15:08:00.000-05:00

Yesterday the Greeks underestimated us. We should not return the favor.

I'm going to do a little blog topic house cleaning. There are tons of random things I've wanted to write about at various times but I either didn't get around to them or I didn't think they were significant enough to make a full post out of. Well now I'm just going to pop up a little post whenever I remember one of those things so I can get it out of my head and make you all that much smarter. Aren't I nice?

So, who saw the movie Troy? The guy that played Hector is Eric Bana. He also played Bruce Banner in the unfortunate Hulk movie.

Now, who has read Chris Baker's (Cbake)blog? I have it linked over on the left of this page. Or, you know, click here. Cbake is a buddy of mine from UNC.

In my opinion, Cbake and Eric Bana bear a remarkable resemblance. Every time I see a commercial for the Troy DVD and it shows Hector, I think "CBAKE!!" I've pointed this out on several occasions to my friends, and I'm always met with at best, a "Huh. Yeah I guess he sort of does." Most of the time with just a blank stare.

Well if you know me, you know that I'm not one to concede points that I think I'm right about. This is a bad habit, but sometimes I feel so much in the right that if someone doesn't agree with me then they obviously just don't understand what I'm saying. They must not be hearing me right, or they would clearly see my point and we could hug and eat raisin bran and watch cartoons. This is a bad habit, I know. Not because I'm wrong, but because I suppose it's rude.

Nevertheless, in that tradition, I have created the visual aid below. I went to Cbake's blog and nabbed the pictures he had, and then went to Google images and grabbed the first three or four Eric Bana pics that caught my eye. I chopped out the backgrounds to make the resemblance more clear (and so it would sort of go with my template :D)

Please enjoy:

Chris Baker looks abso-freaking-lutely just like Eric Bana.

I now consider the argument closed, as everyone can see that I am right. Being right about yet another thing will help me sleep that much better at night. After having read this, if you still disagree with me, I have no choice but to question your intelligence.

As a side note, I realize that this may raise some questions as whether I am gay for Cbake, gay for Eric Bana, gay for both of them or just a loser with nothing better to do than pointless stuff like this.

The answer is, that's none of your business.

By the way, this is definately the most massive shout out anyone has ever gotten on my blog, so I think Chris owes me a steak dinner.

Bye, kids!!

2005-02-22T12:22:00.000-05:00

All I'm saying is that one of us might need a nap.

I dropped the post from yesterday about being straight edge because i was getting hostile comments and especially emails about it. Some of you might not have even seen it. I was working on a much longer, much more detailed explanation for what I meant when the server here at my office shut down and I lost all my work. When I get the chance to recreate that, expect an extremely long read concerning elitism and acceptance.

I wil get back to that later, but for now let me say this:
I didn't know all the background of the term "straight edge" and the unfortunate associations many people have with it. I've had the phrase tossed casually in my direction in the past, especially in high school, and thus inferred the meaning of the phrase itself.

I did not know that it necessarily referred to a societal subculture with a group identity. I've read alot about this phenomenon in the last 24 hours and have learned alot about its origins and its current incarnations. As with any group, most often those that are most vocal are those who least represent the spirit of the group as a whole. A minority of the group live as moral elitists who aggresively condemn those that do not subscribe to their views. However, a vast majority simply see it as a way to live a more pure lifestyle, whether for religious or personal reasons.

That is all beside the point anyway. I personally did not mean I was planning to identify myself with any group in any outward way. Apparently my ignorance of the implications of the phrase caused me to mislead some of you. I simply meant that for my own reasons I would like to make changes in my life that aligned with what I understood the term "straight edge" to mean. This would affect me and only me, and I don't think anyone else has the right to judge or especially to condemn a personal choice.

Let me ask you this:
Was there any part of my post yesterday that even came within the realm of suggesting that I thought that anyone who read it should do the same as me?

Bottom line: I like to write and this is a forum for me to do so. Period. I said "email me if you'd like to discuss," because discussions breed understanding. I welcome them. Especially from those of you who disagree. If we have a discussion at least one of us will learn something. Those of you who instead opted to write me snotty little rants full of spelling errors calling me an elitist(?!?!) can choke.

Did it occur to you that you're the one judging and disapproving? And based on what? A two sentence blog entry? At least I read your email and I know your full point of view before I say the following...

You suck. You don't even know me, and close-minded, quick-judging pea-brained blobs of toe jam like you don't deserve to absorb my brilliance anyway. Grease up your keyboard and stick it where the sun don't shine, you unbelievably massive TOOL. Please DO NOT breed, ever.

I know there are those of you who could've cared less what "straight edge" means. Well, maybe I've sparked some interest and perhaps even debate among you. Or at least now you've got something to Google now when you're bored at work.

Then there are several of you who emailed me simply asking "what does that mean?" Thank you very much. I hope that this post along with the one I hope to finish in the future will tell you a little more about what I have going on in my head these days.

You should all take a look at the "straight edge" phenomenon if you get the chance. Even if you don't agree with it in the slightest, it's still pretty interesting to read about.

I guess I should end this by saying "Okay. Maybe I'm not 'Straight Edge.' My bad."

But I am gonna try Straight and Narrow.

Smooches.

2005-02-17T16:21:00.000-05:00

Well, If I say "yes," I'm an idiot, right?

*-Before you read on-*
If you are the kind of person who says stuff like "Ewww! Too much information!" then you're probably going to want to skip this post. My stomach had a bad 24 hrs and I am going to complain about it now. We are no longer in middle school. We are all adults, and anyone who says they can't relate to this is a liar.

From the too much information desk:
Tuesday, February 15th

I went to a late-night poker game tuesday night. I had gotten an extraordinary (for me at least) amount of sleep monday night and as such I was not even nearing sleepiness.

Around 11:30 - One of my buddies calls and says they are going to hang out down the road and play a little poker, if I'd like to come over. So I hop in my car, still in my pj's (sleep pants and a t-shirt since my red footsy jammies were in the wash) and head over to Josh Bone's house. It's a beautiful 68 degree night, so I put the top down and put the heat on the floor and take the long way to his place, stopping at a gas station to grab a mountain dew. The night is going well so far...

Around Midnight - I get to Josh's and he and another guy are pretty much the only two I know, the rest of the guys being unbelievable rednecks. But they are easy enough to get along with, and my own rural roots seem to give me some street cred with them so we sit down to play for a while. Well from what I can tell most of these guys have been at the bars for the last couple of hours, and they are continuing to drink as we play. Being the only non-drinker at a poker table, I have learned, has its advantages. We play for a couple of hours and I leave the table with three times the money I sat down with, which is always a good thing. I hop back in the car and take the short way home, ready for a soft bed and pleasant dreams. The night is still going strong...

Two-ish - (This really isnt up late for me. Most night, workday or no, I stay up till 1 or 2. I guess I'm still on that college sleep schedule where I don't need more than six or seven hours a night) I am still not terribly tired, but I figure I'll go ahead and hit the sack and see if I could get some sleep when...(gurgle).

"Gurgle?" I think. "What? Was that my stomach?" (Gurgle.) "Yup that was my stomach. That's weird. Stomach kind of hurts." (Gurgle!) "Hoo-boy. Maybe I better head to the bathroom and catch up on some reading..." (Gurgle.)

2:10 AM - I emerge from the bathroom, probably looking a bit tired and confused. I go directly to my bedroom and go to sleep immediately

3:05 AM - Then, from the darkness of slumber... ((gurgle)) I stir but do not awaken.
3:10 AM - (gurgle) Awaken fully but try to get back to sleep.
3:20 AM - GURGLE!! Jet to the bathroom.
3:35 AM - Emerge from the bathroom, stumble to bed. Gratefully drift off to sleep.

4:15 AM - guuuuurgle. I roll over in bed.
4:16 AM - gurglegurglegurlgegurlge. Stomp to the bathroom angry at the world.
4:23 AM - Hoping it will be the last time till morning, shuffle to bed and sleep.

4:36 AM - It's not the last time. Back to the throne.
4:46 AM - Finish this month's issue of Maxim.
4:50 AM - Leave the bathroom, eyes all squinty from lack of sleep.
4:51 AM - Email boss saying that if this doesn't stop by morning, might need to "work from home" tomorrow, hoping time stamp from email will lend weight to my plea. Head to bed, nearing tears.

5:15 AM - Guess where I am.
5:28 AM - Finish latest issue of Ultimate X-Men. Joy level is low.
5:30 AM - (Flush!)
5:32 AM - Having left my phone in the bathroom earlier, I decide to record this miserable moment for posterity. Go to bed and to sleep.

6:58 AM - Ding! Ding! Ding! Round Six.
7:10 AM - Sleeeeeep.

7:45 AM - Alarm goes off. Snooze.
8:00 AM - Alarm goes off. Snooze.
8:15 AM - Last-chance alarm goes off. I get up to check my email to see the verdict from my boss. Good news! "If you're not feeling better in the morning, stay home." I am not, and so I do. Back to bed go I.

9:00 AM - Stomach reminds me that my day off will not as fun as I would like it to be.
9:15 AM - Back to bed.

10:00 AM - 6:00 PM - My day is spent sleeping, checking email and (ahem) reading.
6:15 PM - Leave apartment for first and only time of the day to get food with "couch-roomie" Ken. Regale him with tales of my porcelain bravery. He doesn't eat much.
7-9:00 PM - Carolina plays Virginia. We win. I sleep through a third of the game.
9:00 PM - 1:00 AM - Watch TV/nap in the dark with mutually lazy roommates. Fall asleep on floor.
5:00 AM - Wake up on floor and go to bed.
7:45 AM - New day begins!!

If I never see my bathroom again it will be too soon.

Well I hope you enjoyed this exhaustive account of my physically and emotionally taxing struggle with my true "inner"-self. Oh that's funny. If you've stuck with me this long, good for you. Waste a little more time and gimme a comment or two telling me how sorry you feel for me.

Thanks for the imput on the new template. I don't know how long I'll keep it, as it is a bit too dark for my taste. It was fun to share some more of my paintshop skills with the world. The whole look, especially the little "reflections" I added to my eyes, I stole from Neil Gaiman's Sandman, which is a wonderfully gothy nerderrific read.

2005-02-17T16:16:00.000-05:00

Happy, HAPPY David at about 5:30 AM.

2005-02-17T16:15:00.000-05:00

And again an hour later... Yay for me. Yay, I say, yay.

2005-02-15T21:23:00.000-05:00

Don't look at me. I think these people are completely nuts.

This post will not in itself show it, but I have been working a great deal on my blog. As you can see, I have changed the template.

Again.

What do you think?

2005-02-10T01:40:00.000-05:00

Did anybody see scanners?

Holy freaking crap.

We lost.

I hate Dook so, so much. I am so angry my eyes actually welled up with angry tears on the way home tonight. That is how ridiculously intertwined my happiness and my Tar Heels are. I would like to say "Yeah, well, we'll pound 'em when they come to our house," which is true, but that just sounds too sad. I wanted Blue Devil blood tonight! And to think I took all that time finding a word for destroy for each letter of the alphabet.

I really hate them. Eye-clawing hate. Not even claw-their-eyes hate. Claw my eyes hate.

Grrrrrr...sigh...sob.

I was gonna go out tonight and find some heroin so that I could become an addict laying on my side in a puddle of my own vomit shaking and drooling in an alley somewhere so at least I'd feel a little better, but I just didn't have the strength. I decided to just head on home and stare at the ceiling for three hours instead.

Now that I've gotten that over with, I gues I'll go do it some more.

...

P.S. for anyone who watched the game: That ball went out on Duke, and there was still time on the clock. Losing sorely always makes me a sore loser.

P.S.S. for anyone who didn't watch the game: HOW COULD YOU NOT WATCH THE GAME!?!?!!

2005-02-10T01:02:00.000-05:00

For your viewing pleasure, I decided to recreate and document the progress of my mental state for the past few hours:

At first I was angry. So, so angry. Like the quiet, scary, poised to strike at the slightest provocation angry.

If I had seen a puppy I would have kicked it.

2005-02-10T01:01:00.000-05:00

Then I entered the Mourning Period. Sad. So, so sad. I went and got the big Rameses sticker off of my fridge and sobbed like a girl. Why, God? Why?!?!?!

2005-02-10T01:00:00.000-05:00

Then I just sort of sunk to the floor of my kitchen in front of said refrigerator, drank mello yello and pouted.

This is the saddest face I could make for the picture. When you are as depressed as I am, it takes too much effort to acutally LOOK sad.

I'll probably stay in this sulky, ill-tempered, scowling stage for the next three days or so. If anyone would like to help me feel better...

Kill J.J. Redick.

2005-02-09T17:42:00.000-05:00

This is a song for the ladies... but fellas, listen closely.

Yeah I know its been a long, long, long, long time since I posted. I'm sure you all were getting really tired of Sean Connery's face. Just remember this blog is updated approximately whenever I have the time and feel like it. This can be like waiting for the planets to align.

Still waiting of the first purchase from my online store. I added a new shirt that is pretty snappin' cool if I do say so myself.

The Heels are heading over to Dook tonight to annihilate, butcher, crush, dismantle, eradicate, finish, gut, hamstring, impair, jolt, kill, level, maim, nuke, obliterate, punish, quash, ruin, slay, trash, undo, violate, wreck and zap the Blue Devils.

If we lose I am going out and becoming addicted to some sort of hardcore drug. Probably heroin.

I hate Dook.

2005-02-01T17:07:00.000-05:00

It tells me that goose-stepping morons such as yourself should try reading books instead of burning them.

Jones, fool.

Hang on kids, this is long and link-happy...

Recently the country has been all abuzz with talk about the American Nazi Party adopting a stretch of road in Oregon. The discussion manifested yesterday and Sunday in Cheryl's blog, with comments from Marissa and Jarrad and then myself, which led me to begin writing a post of my own. In preparation for this, I decided to visit the American Nazi Party Website. If you can stomach it, it would do you good to take a look at what complete morons these people are. The "scenario" on the first page is incredibly ludacris and it serves well to set the tone for the entire site. (Plus I refer to it constantly in the email below.)

An important thing to remember when dealing with people like this: Usually they are stupid, stupid, stupid and you have to decide how much emotional effort they are really worth. I don't know about you guys, but that sometime helps me deal with ugly people. Once I take a step back and think about who and what I am getting upset about, I realize that these magnificent examples of human mildew deserve Tilex, not my mental energy. When you realize people really are below you, you tend to care much less about what they think and do. Maybe it's just me, but I think the rest of America would do well to roll their eyes and dismiss the American Nazi Party like the Loud Drunk Guy Nobody Invited and Everybody Hates at the party.

Having said that, I did decide to waste a little time totally owning them. Below is the email I sent to staff@americannaziparty.com. Feel free to follow up and tell them how much they suck. It's really okay, since they do.

"This doesn’t make sense. Your front page doesn’t make sense.

"Publicly gang-raped?" You really think that in twenty years non-whites will completely run the country, and as a result, whites will be hung by the streetlights, publicly gang-raped, and their children will be kidnapped? Please tell me this is hyperbole.

You’re scenario implicitly suggests that all non-whites basic desire is to rape and kill whites, and that if they gain control they will do just that. You can’t seriously think that is idea with any sort of validity.

We as whites are the ones with the greatest history of violence in America specifically targeted at other races (the most prevalent examples being, ironically to your example, hangings and rape). We are the ones known for violence and oppression as wholesale racial policies. The fact that we have abandoned these policies must be seen by rational minds as nothing but a step forward in human rights.

Whatever the small negative effects of the end of slavery, the civil rights movement, and the racial integration of America as a whole in the interim (and from a completely ethno-centric white point of view I see your basis for complaint – after all I guess it must suck to look back and see that you missed your chance to sit in a seat of absolute and unmolested power and authority based on the pigment of your skin), you would be hard-pressed to make a convincing argument that these negative effects outweigh the positive.

I respect your right to say whatever you like under the First Amendment. We all must be free to speak our minds, and so I’d be against any effort to take your site down for that reason, or to prevent you from sponsoring your little stretch of Oregon road. But your ideas are ill-conceived and ill-willed.

You have modeled yourself after the Nazi Party. Even if you (somehow) disagree with the idea that whites in America are known for our history of violence against other races, you can’t argue against this reputation for the Nazis in Europe. They are known if for nothing else for the torture and death of millions upon millions of people. By taking their name, you attest to align with their ideals. You inherently agree that the wholesale forced internment, deportment, robbery, and murder of a people based on their genetic background is acceptable and even favorable.

If ethnicity and/or race are a sufficient basis for such policies, then I suppose the non-whites in your theoretical "2025" scenario have as strong a basis for their policies as anyone. They may be on the other side of the issue, but nonetheless the ideas you fear the most are your own turned against you.

The fact that you fear other races collectively oppressing whites shows that such wholesale policies are always wrong, and always harmful to someone. The best way to avoid the future you dread so would not be to eliminate other races from the equation, but to eliminate the equation entirely. The only way we can avoid such dire circumstances for all "sides", including the "white side" is to eliminate this kind of thinking entirely.

From your point of view, the best you can hope for with your type of thinking is for things to return to the way they were politically and racially 150 years or more ago.

If history has shown us anything, it’s that it repeats itself, and that people will not long stand for the type of inequality and subjugation. Soon this would breed more violent revolts of whatever group is oppressed.

In your hypothetical future scenario, those oppressed (whites) would "fight back! Alone or in small cells, Aryans...men and boys...but most of all women who stand the most to lose, since the decline of real men among the White Folk, strike back...at night and with any weapon near at hand." Would this not be the least you would expect of others were the situation reversed and you stood alone in absolute racial authority?

Your morals are abhorrent, but obviously you could care less what I think of that. I’ll grant you your perceived moral righteousness, and let’s leave moral right and wrong out of the picture.
Even still your ideas and your ideals are illogical, self-contradictory, and, proven by every example in recorded history, doomed to failure.

Sincerely,

D

P.S. I’d love a rational, non-ranting response to my argument."

Another note: In the news story about the adopt-a-highway sign it says that the signs costs taxpayers about $500. However, I thought it was a nice touch that the story also mentioned that "If the signs are destroyed, the sponsoring organization must pay for replacements." I thought this was an interesting tidbit the author chose to add. Could it be a hint? Seems to me most any teenager with a power windows and a bowling ball could take care of the problem late one friday night, if they were so inclined. If they decide to replace the sign, well I doubt I'd lose any sleep over knowing I'd deprived the American Nazi Party of $500.

2005-01-31T09:21:00.000-05:00

It's not a tumor.

I realize I've let my blog languish for over a week. This post is just to tell you that I know its been a while, and I'm sorry. My life, despite my best efforts, has become rather busy lately. My employers want me to work, my girlfriend wants me to spend time with her, my teacher wants me to go to class, my friends want me to hang, my family wants me to visit, and my body wants me to work out three nights a week. The nerve of all of them. Really.

Anyway, I have not been without creative effort, okay? I've been hard at work building the online store. It's taken a lot of hard work and even a basic knowledge of html, which I don't have. But I've been working hard creating designs and posting witty descriptions. Go read my witty descriptions. They are witty. And descriptive. Also, buy something. Perhaps a thong, ladies?

A least get a snappin' button or a sticker. It'll help pay the bills and trust me, you'll be a lot cooler if you do.

peese owt.

2005-01-31T09:00:00.000-05:00

Love is a battlefield.

They've just installed a 24 oz. mountain dew vending machine on the bottom floor of my office.

Note the sleepy demeanor and the hint of pleasure coming to my face. See the light of hope come to my eyes.

Next step is an intravenous delivery system. That would rule.

2005-01-18T10:30:00.000-05:00

I drink from the keg of glory, Donna. Bring me the finest muffins and bagels in all the land.

Thank you for the comments, those who decided to placate me. You've earned yourself another full page of wonder. Congratulations on knowing me, by the way.

Stephen's post reminded me what I am about to discuss, so I commented on his blog. Then I thought I'd cheat a little and just transfer the comment over to my own blog as a post. Huzza for laziness!

I have a painful pain that suddenly pains me out of nowhere. I have a shoulder injury from high school that comes from a bad slide tackle in a soccer game that flipped me upside down and then later in the year, a vicious suplex in a wrestling match. Both of these hurt. Super bad.

But neither of them hurt nearly as bad as it does when, completely randomly and of its own accord, my shoulder gives this loud popping noise and tries to kill me. I don't know what I ever did to make my shoulder angry, but it seems to hate me with all the fire of a thousand hells.

This is not a chronic pain. It's just this thing that happens ever so randomly and seldomly, less than every six months. You would think this would be a relief, but in fact it just makes it all the worse. If it were a chronic continuous pain, I would have either gone to the doctor or died by now. In either case the problem would be solved. But as it is now, there is always this fear in the back of my mind that my shoulder could strike at any moment. How would you like knowing that you have a sworn enemy with only your misery at heart stalking you your every waking moment?

I might be standing somewhere like the mall and raise my arm above my head to give someone a wave hello and the next minute you'd think I'd been shot because I am on the ground howling in pain. This is an all-consuming, life-ending type of pain that sends shockwaves throughout my body from my eyelids to my pinky toes. I mean it actually makes me cry. I am not exagerrating for humor. This is the worse pain I've anyone has ever felt except for Jesus.

Then in about forty-five seconds it stops hurting. This is, I admit, odd. Nevertheless, during those forty-five seconds, if someone offered to end my life, I think I might accept with gratitude.

Just thought I'd share.

2005-01-18T10:26:00.000-05:00

Hi Corinne!! Thanks for reading. Unsolicited readership is awesomeness incarnate, which makes you awesomeness incarnate. I do still owe you dinner and I haven't forgotten -- I just suck is all.

2005-01-17T01:21:00.000-05:00

You lost today kid... but that doesn't mean you have to like it.

Everybody that has a blog wants other people to read it and give their opinions on it. At the bottom of each post is a convenient link that allows readers to do so. It says "comments." I have used this link several times on the blogs of others. They seem to be ungrateful. I will post no more comments without reciprocation.
I spent entirely too much time on my last blog for it to be ignored. It came with pictures. That was hard to do.

It took hours to take them with my phone, send them to my email, save them to my computer, import them to picasso, send them to my bloggerbot, add the witty captions, and the use the bloggerbot to post them on the blog. Don't forget I had to post the pictures and captions before the post itself in order for the post to appear above the pictures and captions, since the most recent posts appear on the top of the page. But in order to know what to put in the captions I had to write the post, but not post it yet, only save it as a draft. Then I posted the pictures and captions in the aforementioned manner. Thing is, the blog remembers when you saved the draft, and once you post it, it posts according to when you composed it. So I had to copy the draft onto another document, then to the post template, then post it, then go back and delete the original.

Hmmmm....I see now that below the posting template I am writing in at this moment, I mean right below it, in clear sight, there is an area where I can change the time and date of the posting, so I could have easily avoided a great deal of that trouble.

But me being a moron is not the point. The point is there was a certain amount of effort put into my last post.

If you are reading this right now, you are doing so because you find me at least a mildy more entertaining than your screensaver. I demand validation. Leave me comments or I might as well be talking to myself. And I will talk to myself and not you. You don't have to create your own blog to comment on my blog. You just hit comment, post anonymously, tell me how great I am, and sign it within the body of the comment.

Do this or I will quite blogging and go sit in the corner and pout like a baby. Man can I be a baby sometimes.

2005-01-06T18:51:00.000-05:00

You are a dirty pirate whore.

I know its been quite a while since I last posted, and I'm sure there have been grumblings. But let me just say that is after six o'clock in the PM and I am still hanging at work with plenty left to do. The extensive task list I have been given is both deep and wide. It does not, however, include updating my blog with any regularity. I'm at a loss as to why my superiors (*scoff* only in the professional hierarchy) failed to include this item when they were barking their orders. Apparently they just don't understand how much you people depend on me and my daily nuggets of wisdom.

Having said that I will say this: I have nothing to talk about today besides my lack of recent postings. Christmas was wonderful and very filling to my tummy. New Years was much fun in Charlotte with Laura and her family. But I assume you really don't care about that any more than I care about the details of your holiday, so I won't bore you.

Now I am back at work and have once again been banished to the tiny little workspace that is my cube, so lets talk about that today. Let me try to describe just how small this "cube" is: When I sit at my desk and work on my computer, my booty hangs out into the aisle. I'll be the first to admit that this may be exacerbated by my prodigious posterior, but I find it nonetheless a stifling environment in which to spend eight to ten hours of my day. Especially since I was told I would be getting my own office when I came to work here. Now I spend my days in a position not unlike a child with his nose in the corner. Come to think of it my mindset is not to far from that either. At least I have a window to gaze longingly out of.

I've even taken some pictures to illustrate my point. So, if you ever feel like your day sucked because you are, for instance attending college surrounded by beautiful women or say sleepily smacking your lips as you get up for your 1 p.m. shift, or too many people walked up to your big desk that may or may not be in your own private office, just remember who I hate...

2005-01-06T18:49:00.001-05:00

YOU.

2005-01-06T18:49:00.000-05:00

Sigh. We were meant to live for so much more.

2005-01-06T18:47:00.000-05:00

This is an overhead view of my cube...cube...cube...(That's an echo. Get the subtle irony?)

2005-01-06T18:36:00.000-05:00

The chair in the back right is where my booty sticks out. This is where my chair sits while I type.

2004-12-16T11:57:00.000-05:00

It's 106 miles to Chicago...

It's time for the second installment in David Sloan's school of how not to drive like a moron.

This entry concerns interstate drving, particularly a morning commute. I drive about twenty five miles to work each morning down I-40. A good portion of this drive takes place between concrete barricades due to road construction. All of this drive takes place in the presence of absolute morons. I beleive that most people -- perhaps normally rational, sane people -- when they get within two miles of a highway somehow lose all concept of reason and accountability. They become single-minded pea-brained zombies that only want to go forward as fast as possible regardless of their safety or others.

I actually can relate, as can all of you. The difference is, I am a creature driven by reason. People who do things that don't make any sense bother me to no end. It even bothers me when overhear two stupid people having a discussion. I can't help but listen to them prattle on stupidly about stupid things and agreeing with each others' stupidness. I have even, on more than one occasion and to the dismay of my own tablemates, stepped to the next table at a meal to correct a complete stranger's error in logic. I tell you this to emphasize just how much it irritates me for someone to be willfully stupid about something. This is why I become so irritated on the road. Take the following scenario, illustrated for you with downright baffling artistic skill and countless hours of perfectionist effort:

2004-12-16T11:53:00.000-05:00

All I need is a rear-mounted bazooka.

2004-12-16T11:10:00.000-05:00

Here I am the in the black rectangle, because I have a black car and that is just how much of a detail-oriented guy I am. Okay let's say the speed limit is 65 mph. So for the most part everybody is crusing along at about 70-75 mph. It's hard to go much slower than that without everyone on the highway rushing to get behind you and trying to hide their entire car behind your bumper. I will concede the 5-10 mph speeding as apparently do most state troopers. (We will get to excess speeding either later in this post or at another time, depending on how quickly this post loses my interest.)

Now, in this scenario we see me staying a reasonable distance behind the vehicles in front of me because it is not unheard of for anyone at anytime on I-40 to spasmically lock their breaks for no reason whatsoever. I understand the merit of passing someone as well as anybody. You set your cruise control at what seems to be a reasonable pace, and you'd like to maintain that speed and cruise on by anyone who chooses to go more slowly than you. Unfortunately, this is sometimes not possible. Let's say I have set my cruise at a modest 73 mph which I think entitles me to the fast lane, but I don't mind getting out of the way of those coming at a bit more brisk pace. I come up on a cluster of vehicles moving at about 65 mph. These vehicles are taking up both lanes of the highway and moving along at about the same speed. Therefore the fact that it is impossible to pass this line of vehicles is beyond debate. You cannot pass this group of vehicles. YOU CAN'T, YOU CAN'T, YOU CAN'T!!!!

I will admit that this annoys me. Especially when it seems that the cause lies with either a soccer mom in a mini van talking on the cell phone in the fast lane or with two truckers that are apparently abiding by the trucker code to inconvenience everyone else on the highway in any way they possibly can. When this situation arises, common sense will tell you that the only thing you can do is wait for one of the lanes to open up. Moreover, when you have a pack of cars together like this if somebody in the front hits their breaks you are in a bad spot the farther back in the line of cars you are. This is why when I see this happening I just slow on down mutter mean things under my breath and wait for somebody in the fast lane to wake up and get out of everybody's way. It's all you can do. But I don't get too mad at these guys. They are just being sort of absent-minded and inconsiderate but I guess every body does that from time to time, right?

No. What kills me is the guy in the sixty thousand dollar BMW SUV (who should be choked on general principle anyway) that rolls up on my bumper at 85 mph and slams on his breaks and swerves left and right trying to get around me. I am in a camaro and he is in an SUV and I can't even see his headlights. I actually think he's going to ram me when he first flies up on my tail. He's so close I can actually see his sunglasses and croakies. He is looking very angry at me for going so slow and obviously wants me to speed up or get out of his way. What exactly would you like me to do you moron? Merge over into the Mack Truck to my right? Pull off onto the shoulder? Or maybe, best of all, you'd like me to speed up enough to gain thirty yards on the car in front of me so we can join the slow-moving pack of morons. Even if I could get out of you way you'd only get thirty yards in front of me and then get stuck. Meanwhile all I'd have to do is give my brakes a little tappy tap and you'd get your junk ruined. I really want an x-ray gun mounted in my car so that at the very least I can sterilize these idiots to make sure they don't reproduce.

One day I am just going call in sick to work when this happens and follow this idiot to wherever he's going. If it's not a burning building or a hospital delivery room I am going to hit him in the back of the head with a broomstick. No words. No questions. No explanation. Just WHAM! and he goes down with a horrible, horrible lump in his head. The kind that makes your crotch tingle while you involuntarily rub really fast with the palm of your hand and dance around on your toes. Then I'll hand him a note telling him what an idiot he is and while he's reading it he'll look up to find me peeing on his leg. Finally, just as he begins to object -- another broom handle across the teeth and a foot to the crotch.

If I can work one up, I'll fart when I'm walking away, too.

2004-12-02T17:08:00.000-05:00

Ladies you must be crazy falling head over heels for a man who doesn’t love you, doesn’t know God and doesn’t want to do either. Letting him wine and dine you. A small price to pay to get the divine: a modern day tale of casting pearls before swine.

No wonder you figure all men are dogs. Your brokenness and his neediness has brought you to this conclusion. But there’s another solution. After all, men are made in the image of God even if they are delusional. Set higher goals.

Godly ambitious educated men do exist. You just can’t see because your vision is twisted. Close your eyes and I’ll paint a picture of a man who isn’t posted up in clubs trying to get your number, who looks at your set of eyes not the predictable other. Who prays to God for his queen and so he isn’t impressed with three-hour hair, short dresses, bling and superficial things. He knows a dime-piece doesn’t come with a price tag on her tail but virtue in her heart, something he discovered on his knees before God, not you.

So you want a good man here’s what you do: Button up that shirt, loosen up those pants. Opt for walking instead of the latest booty dance. When somebody different comes at you give him a chance. Kings don’t rock crowns in crowds for no reason. They’re more secure than that.

Ask God what you need and not your girlfriends and remember you determine your self worth. Make the necessary sacrifices even when it hurts. Oh, and watch your mouth. God and his royal priesthood can hear your every word. To think D-O-G spells M-A-N is beyond absurd.

--Paraphrased for white people from Grits

2004-12-01T11:02:00.000-05:00

This man is turbo-cool.

2004-11-30T14:49:00.000-05:00

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.

2004-11-23T14:37:00.000-05:00

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.

2004-11-23T09:56:00.000-05:00

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.

2004-11-16T13:39:00.000-05:00

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.

2004-11-16T11:58:00.000-05:00

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.

2004-11-15T18:02:00.000-05:00

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.

2004-11-15T11:20:00.000-05:00

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!!!!

2004-11-15T11:18:00.000-05:00

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

2004-11-15T11:17:00.000-05:00

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).

2004-11-15T11:14:00.000-05:00

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.

2004-11-15T11:11:00.000-05:00

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!!

2004-11-15T11:04:00.000-05:00

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!!!

2004-11-15T11:01:00.000-05:00

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.

2004-11-15T11:00:00.000-05:00

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

2004-11-15T10:57:00.000-05:00

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.

2004-11-11T17:29:00.000-05:00

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

2004-11-10T14:08:00.000-05:00

"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.

2004-11-08T11:21:00.000-05:00

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.

2004-10-28T17:33:00.000-04:00

This is me, at work, not working.

2004-10-28T16:26:00.000-04:00

My only words of wisdom are this (radio edit). ;-)

Whine, whine WHINE. Everybody can stop complaining now. I writing a new POST. Jeez people, are you just starved for nerdery and sarcasm? Well I've got it in spades.

What's up with this unending storm of crap-ridden MTV politics? Politics suck like a hoover. Kerry sucks. Bush sucks. But this is overload. You can't avoid this if you try. Green Day has even picked sides and gotten all didactic on us. System of a Down has a video with Bush riding a bomb alongside "cohorts" Osama and Saddam. Give me a snappin' break. Do you know I was watching TV yesterday and I saw Snoop Dogg encouraging viewers to vote. Snoop Dogg. SNOOP. DOGG.

SNOOP DOGG!!!!

Last time I checked, Snoop was (admittedly) a really cool, really chill moron smokin' blunts and pimpin' hos. What in the name of all that is holy is he doing talking about voting? Snoop, smoke your weed if you must. Pimp your hos if you will. But you are not allowed to offer political advice. P. Diddy telling me to "Vote or Die"? I ought to kick him in his Puff Daddies.

In fact I'm getting tired of all this choose or lose, vote or die, blah blah blah bull that is all over television. Let me tell you something. You do not WANT all the MTV viewers to vote. The apathy of youth could very well be our nation's salvation. Do you really want those kids who have informed themselves by spending literally hours a day staring slack-jawed at the tv screen at Britney, Marylin, Ludacris, Good Charlotte and Ashton to get off the couch and vote? Do you really want them to influence the future course of our nation?

We need to stop letting Hollywood make our decisions for us. If let your vote be swayed by what Avril Lavigne says on stage just before breaking into "sk8er boi" rather than taking the time to make an informed decision yourself, you deserve a new piercing wherever I choose (or in the case of the overly-pierced, the removal of the piercing of my choosing, done by me, by the method of my choosing. I choose, you lose.) We don't need more voters. We need more informed voters. I think you should pass test of basic political knowledge before you are allowed to pull the lever. Scoff all you want, but I'd just as soon have Dick and Jane stay at home and keep picking there noses if they can't tell spell the candidates names right, tell me their party affiliation, and give me three issues on each platform. You should have to write one solid paragraph about why you are voting the way you are voting. That's all I ask. Take the time to form an opinion and write a paragraph. I swear if MTV turns my country into a bunch of whiney snivelly little wuss-mongers I am going to have to start kicking some serious crotch.
I think these voting commercials should only play on the news channels, so we at least have a chance of these viewers making informed decisions. Do you see the candidates advertising on MTV? No. They're not spending one red cent on it.

Draw your own conclusions.

If you can name five of the top ten videos on TRL, but cannot tell me what the big news was on Tuesday, please, for the good of our great nation, stay at home and shave your pets.

2004-09-29T09:34:00.000-04:00

How's that working out for you...being clever?

A Posting in response to Marissa's question in her comment on my last blog: No I do not love the show smallville. I have never seen it. My cousin Stephen (www.theatremarine.blogspot.com) worships the show, however, and gives me a bunch of bunk about how it is great and how I suck for having not seen it yet. He then (apparently while on acid or some other hallucinagen) suggested on his blog that smallville had inspired him to understand that superman was cooler than Spider Man. Apparently the amazing, gigantic nerd inside me I try to keep hidden deep within the walls of my uber-James-Dean-ness still controls my most basic urges (despite the leaps and bounds I've made since middle school) and so I found myself, through no will of my own, furiously leaping to Spider Man's defense (like he needs help. ha!) on Stephen's blog while at the same time lambasting superman for his inherent lameness (see my comment on his blog. it's fun if you're a geek).
For good measure I placed the last post on this blog just for him, to let him know that even if I did watch smallville one day, a then even if I not just liked, but LOVED it, I would never ever EVER admit as much. This is just to piss him off. I like pissing people off sometimes.

...sometimes by doing subtle stuff like refusing to capitalize the names of their favorite things.

2004-09-23T16:48:00.000-04:00

Luke, I am your father.

Smallville sucks. No I have never seen Smallville. If I watched it I might like it. Heck, I might even love it. I might watch it all by myself in my room late at night with the door locked and the lights off. But I will still say it sucks. You wil never convince me otherwise, ever. Even if we watch an episode together and I laugh out loud six times, cover my mouth and gasp in shock once, cry twice, and sit on the edge of the seat and stare so hard my contacts dry up and pop out when I blink, when I stand up after its over I will say "what a sucky show."
I may own the whole DVD collection one day and have posters up all over my room and talk about it on my blog all the time, and even start a fansite about it, but I will always, always, always say it sucks.
I may do all of these things one day...but probably not because that show sucks.

Smallville sucks.

2004-09-23T13:21:00.000-04:00

MOOoooox, ah've known you mah hole liiiife.

Happy Birthday Ben.

Hello readers. Welcome to David Sloan's school of driving. This is where I will give you advice on how now to be an astounding moron when behind the wheel of your car. I will type till I'm tired and update this periodically. It will no doubt become a 600 page tome by the time I'm done.

Brakelights, Signals, Signaling, Lane Changes, Turning, and Being a Moron.

If you don't have working brake lights on your vehicle, don't get on the road. Stay home, go in the bathroom and give yourself a swirlie.

Use a turn signal. If you're going to change lanes, use a turn signal. If you're going to make a right turn, use a turn signal. If you're going to make a left turn, use a turn signal. It's right there. By your hand.
I don't understand you people. You can always be counted on, no matter what, to use your signal when you're trying to claim that parking spot at the mall. You'll throw that blinker as soon as you turn on a row and try to roar over to the spot before someone else can do the same thing. Now we've got two cars at a head on, blinker-to-blinker stand off. This is how I know all of you have turn signals that work and furthermore that you are capable of functioning them properly. I know this because I am always behind you while you clog traffic from both directions in the parking lot. All this goes to show what greedy self centered pieces of turd you all are. When it comes to saving yourself from actually having to walk a hundred yards instead fifty, you'll do everything you can and slow down as many people as it takes to get to that space and get your blinker on. (I especially like it when you pull too close to the spot so the guy trying to leave can't back out. Then you honk your horn at me behind you trying to get me to back up, so you can back up, and get your precious space. But guess what someone is behind me, and someone else is behind them, and so on, and this is all your fault because you wanted to stop and put your effing blinker on while waiting for some geriatric to get in their car and adjust their seats and mirrors and now theirs a line behind you all the way down the row.) But when we're on a highway doing seventy five miles an our between concrete barricades, no, you can't be bothered with a flick of your wrist. You suck.

More on turn signals. This is how it works:

As you approach your turn, you engage your signal.
THEN you begin slowing down
When you reach your turn, you take it at a reasonable speed.

It's really easy. Don't slow down inexplicably for a half mile (you make me want to ram you) and then turn with no blinker or, in my opinion even worse, turn on the blinker as you make your turn. The guy who uses his blinker as he turns mights as well be shooting me in the groin with a bb gun it makes me so mad. If you turn without a blinker, I can assume one or more of three things:

1. You are so remarkably dumb that you still have not put together that slowing down, signaling, and turning are linked. Don't tell me you just forogt. That's not gonna fly. Did you forget to press the brake and turn the wheel? No. Why? Because you are TURNING. Signal just goes in the middle of the process. If this is you, good. Just take your turn and get off my stretch of road because you are so dumb that you will probably drift into oncoming traffic sometime soon.

2. You are just that inconsiderate. You're just driving along thinking of nothing but you and your car and your ugly girlfriend, and you just turn when its stikes you to turn. If that's you then hey, that's you. I can't do much about it. But rest assured that God will punish you mightily, and that your girlfriend is still ugly.

3. You are in a different tax bracket than me. Apparently people with really crappy cars (marked by dented fenders from being rear-ended) are exempt from signaling. Interestingly enough, so are people in really nice cars like BMWs and Lexii. I can only assume that this has something to do with income law.

I hate you for this, but I can't really do anything about it but keep hating. But the guy that goes ahead and slows down, starts turning, and then flips his signal as he's ending the turn makes me want to drag him from his car and hold him down while I puke up Doritos and mustard on his face. That's like running over somebody's dog or hitting their car in a parking lot, and then leaving a note that says "Sorry about that." You may think that at least they took the time to write the note. Oh good. That makes everything better. I'll just rub the note on my car and that dent should go away. Either make a police report and get my junk fixed or just run away and let me be pissed by myself, without the mocking company of your useless note. The note just tells me you took the time to get out, look at what you did, write a pathetic note, and then leave. You are a horrible human being, and you shouldn't have wasted your time writing little notes when you could be on the road getting into a wreck somewhere. It's the same thing with the late signal. It shows me that you know where your signal is, you know your signal works, you know you should signal, you know how to signal, you just didn't signal. Then as a pathetic little mocking useless gesture you signal just to make me really pissed off.

On the opposite end of the spectrum. Do not slow down to a crawl a quarter of a mile before your turn, and please don't slow to 0-3 mph before you make your turn. Unless your car is taller than it is wide, you will not flip or slide if you take the turn at fifteen miles an hour. I want to kill you.

Finally, if you are one of the people on the highway who speeds up when someone in front of you signals so that they can't get over, there is a special place in hell just for you.

2004-09-17T14:21:00.000-04:00

Movie Quote.

Okay this isn't a real post. I just wanted to share a cool ghost story I read on the internet just now, and the guys says you can post it as long as you give him credit. I'm in my freaking office right now and this story (or the AC vent) gave me chills. If you find it lame, I'm gonna put my toenail clippings in your cereal.

As so many things do, it all started out innocently.
My Internet Service Provider used to have offices in a shopping center before they moved to their (comparatively) lush accommodations elsewhere. There was a drop box at that original location. The monthly bill was due, and thus, there but for the Grace of the Net I went.
It was about 9:30 p.m. when I left. From my relatively isolated apartments, it's about 10-15 minutes or so to downtown (Abilene has a population of about 110,000).
Right next to Camalott Communications' old location is a $1.50 movie theater. At the time, the place was featuring that masterwork of modern film, Mortal Kombat. I drove by the theater on the way into the center proper and pulled into an empty parking space.
Using the glow of the marquee to write out my check, I was startled to hear a knock on the driver's-side window of my car.
I looked over and saw two children staring at me from street. I need to describe them, with the one feature (you can guess what it was) that I didn't realize until about half-way through the conversation cleverly omitted.
Both appeared to be in that semi-mystical stage of life children get into where you can't exactly tell their age. Both were boys, and my initial impression is that they were somewhere between 10-14.
Boy No. 1 was the spokesman. Boy No. 2 didn't speak during the entire conversation -- at least not in words.
Boy No. 1 was slightly taller than his companion, wearing a pull-over, hooded shirt with a sort of gray checked pattern and jeans. I couldn't see his shoes. His skin was olive-colored and had curly, medium-length brown hair. He exuded an air of quiet confidence.
Boy No. 2 had pale skin with a trace of freckles. His primary characteristic seemed to be looking around nervously. He was dressed in a similar manner to his companion, but his pull-over was a light green color. His hair was a sort of pale orange.
They didn't appear to be related, at least directly.
"Oh, great," I thought. "They're gonna hit me up for money." And then the air changed.
I've explained this before, but for the benefit of any new lurkers out there, right before I experience something strange, there's a change in perception that comes about which I describe in the above manner. It's basically enough time to know it's too late. ;)
So, there I was, filling out a check in my car (which was still running) and in a sudden panic over the appearance of two little boys. I was confused, but an overwhelming sense of fear and unearthliness rushed in nonetheless.
The spokesman smiled, and the sight for some inexplicable reason chilled my blood. I could feel fight-or-flight responses kicking in. Something, I knew instinctually, was not right, but I didn't know what it could possibly be.
I rolled down the window very, very slightly and asked "Yes?"
The spokesman smiled again, broader this time. His teeth were very, very white.
"Hey, mister, what's up? We have a problem," he said. His voice was that of a young man, but his diction, quiet calm and ... something I still couldn't put my finger on ... made my desire to flee even greater. "You see, my friend and I want to see the films, but we forgot our money," he continued. "We need to go to our house to get it. Want to help us out?"
Okay. Journalists are required to talk to lots of people, and that includes children. I've seen and spoken to lots of them. Here's how that usually goes:
"Uh ... M ... M ... Mister? Can I see that camera? I ... I won't break it or anything. I promise. My dad has a camera, and he lets me hold it sometimes, I guess, and I took a picture of my dog -- it wasn's very good, 'cause I got my finger in the way and ..."
Add in some feet shuffling and/or body swaying and you've got a typical kid talking to a stranger.
In short, they're usually apologetic. People generally teach children that when they talk to adults, they're usually bothering them for one reason or another and they should at least be polite.
This kid was in no way fitting the mold. His command of language was incredible and he showed no signs of fear. He spoke as if my help was a foregone conclusion. When he grinned, it was as if he was trying to say, "I know something ... and you're NOT gonna like it. But the only way you're going to find out what it is will be to do what I say ..."
"Uh, well ..." was the best reply I could offer.
Now here's where it starts to get strange.
The quiet companion looked at the spokesman with a mixture of confusion and guilt on his face. He seemed in some ways shocked, not with his friend's brusque manner but that I didn't just immediately open the door.
He eyed me nervously.
The spokesman seemed a bit perturbed, too. I still was registering something wrong with both.
"C'mon, mister," the spokesman said again, smooth as silk. Car salesmen could learn something from this kid. "Now, we just want to go to our house. And we're just two little boys."
That really scared me. Something in the tone and diction again sent off alarm bells. My mind was frantically trying to process what it was perceiving about the two figures that was "wrong."
"Eh. Um ...." was all I could manage. I felt myself digging my fingernails into the steering wheel.
"What movie were you going to see?" I asked finally.
"Mortal Kombat, of course," the spokesman said. The silent one nodded in affirmation, standing a few paces behind.
"Oh," I said. I stole a quick glance at the marquee and at the clock in my car. Mortal Kombat had been playing for an hour, the last showing of the evening.
The silent one looked increasingly nervous. I think he saw my glances and suspected that I might be detecting something was not above-board.
"C'mon, mister. Let us in. We can't get in your car until you do, you know," the spokesman said soothingly. "Just let us in, and we'll be gone before you know it. We'll go to our mother's house."
We locked eyes.
To my horror, I realized my hand had strayed toward the door lock (which was engaged) and was in the process of opening it. I pulled it away, probably a bit too violently. But it did force me to look away from the children.
I turned back. "Er ... Um ...," I offered weakly and then my mind snapped into sharp focus.
For the first time, I noticed their eyes.
They were coal black. No pupil. No iris. Just two staring orbs reflecting the red and white light of the marquee.
At that point, I know my expression betrayed me. The silent one had a look of horror on his face in a combination that seemed to indicate: A) The impossible had just happened and B) "We've been found out!"
The spokesman, on the other hand, wore a mask of anger. His eyes glittered brightly in the half-light.
"Cmon, mister," he said. "We won't hurt you. You have to LET US IN. We don't have a gun ..."
That last statement scared the living hell out of me, because at that point by his tone he was plainly saying, "We don't NEED a gun."
He noticed my hand shooting down toward the gear shift. The spokesman's final words contained an anger that was complete and whole, and yet contained in some respects a tone of panic:
"WE CAN'T COME IN UNLESS YOU TELL US IT'S OKAY. LET ... US .... IN!"
I ripped the car into reverse (thank goodness no one was coming up behind me) and tore out of the parking lot. I noticed the boys in my peripheral vision, and I stole a quick glance back.
They were gone. The sidewalk by the theater was deserted.
I drove home in a heightened state of panic. Had anyone attempted to stop me, I would have run on through and faced the consequences later.
I bolted into my house, scanning all around -- including the sky.
What did I see? Maybe nothing more than some kids looking for a ride.
And some really funky contacts. Yeah, right.
A friend suggested they were vampires, what with the old "let us in" bit and my compelled response to open the door. That and the "we'll go see our mother" thing.
I'm still not sure what they were, but here's an epilogue I find chilling:
I talk about Chad a lot. He's still my best friend, my best ghost-hunting companion and an all-around cool guy. He recently moved to Amarillo, but at the time this happened was still living in San Angelo of Ram Page fame.
I called him and talked to him briefly. He had two female friends with him at the time, both professing some type of psychic ability.
I started telling him the story, leaving out the part about the black eyes for the kicker. One of the women (we were on a speakerphone) stopped me.
"These children had black eyes, right?" she asked. "I mean, all-black eyes?"
"Er ... Yes." I said. I was a bit taken aback.
"Hmmm," she said. "One night last week, I had a dream about children with black eyes. They were outside my house, wanting to be let in, but there was something wrong with them. It took me a while to realize it was the eyes."
I hadn't even gotten as far as them wanting to come in.
"What did you do?" I asked.
"I kept the doors and windows locked," she said. "I knew if they came in, they would kill me."
She paused.
"And they would have killed you, too, if you had let them into your car."
So, from this extra-long post, we have three unanswered questions:
A) What did I see?
B) What would have happened if I opened my car door?
C) Why does Chad always get the cool psychic chicks? ;)
++++
Well, there you have it. I'll write some more later. But for now, your comments are welcomed as always.
Brianbrianbet@camalott.comhttp://www.camalott.com/~brianbet/ghosts.html
Check out the Black eyed kids FAQ that Brian has written answering many of the common questions he gets about this story.

Okay that was his story. Mwah ha haaa.
Later.

2004-09-10T13:39:00.000-04:00

Pedro offers you his protection.

Let me ask you guys a question:

Do you think that it is fair that I spend my amazingly, remarkably, incredibly valuable time writing these blogs for not only your enjoyment, but for your education, and yet you can't take the time to post a measley little comment when you read? "Hey Dave, cool blog." "Hey Dave, you've changed my life." "Hey Dave I am rendered speechless by depths of your stupidity." That's all I ask. Anything would be better than to check my posts and see a big "0 comments" at the bottom of each and every one.

Start commenting or I will place you on the Axis of Evil.

After all, who can argue the fact that my blog embiggens* the soul? My words are buttery goodness and my ideas are profound. Just ask me. I know. I'll tell you. Thanks, and go take a nap if you are from State and your head hurts from all the wordses you've had to read. I apologize. I'm still working on getting this converted to binary code.

011001010001101100101!!

*embiggens is a perfectly cromulent word.

2004-08-24T09:43:00.000-04:00

It's not that hard: Nayee-Nanajar. Nayeenanajar.

Just a quick post today children. This is in response to a response to an earlier post. At the beginning of my angry rant against obnoxious yankees, I wrote..."Hmm, what a lucky coincidence for all my dear reader:" Someone pointed out their disappointment in my grammatical error here. It should have read "...all my dear readerS:"

Far be it from me to suggest that I am above grammatical errors. There was always a brief moment of terror when my English papers were handed back to me. It appeared that my instructors had, in utter despair in seeing my total lack of writing ability, slit their wrists over my compositions. Fortunately it always turned out to be copious amount of the red correction ink. Except once.

Anyway I just wanted to point out that this particular grammatical error was completely intentional. I find it ironic (or at least found it funny at the point that I posted the entry in question) that I spend time writing in this blog speaking to an audience that doesn't exist. I am aware that my readership is abyssmally low, and that I am in effect talking to myself. Fine. At the point in question, to my knowledge, Evan Sitton was the only person reading this blog. He enjoyed it and insisted that I write more. I was flattered and so I felt obliged to do so. "All my dear reader" is Evan.

So to my little grammaticists* out there: Up your donkey with glass.

THANK you very much.

It's grammarians. I know. Don't email me.

Man I can't write a short post to save my life.
"I apologize for the length of this letter, but I didn't have time to make it shorter."
--Mark Twain

2004-08-20T10:03:00.000-04:00

Takin' it off here boss....

Well ladies and gentlemen I must say I have gotten a mixed bag of responses to this here blog. First of all, I didn't think anyone would actually read the snappin' thing, but those who have found the link on my IM have generally liked it I guess. I imagine I may have lost a few yankee friends if they have taken a look at the last entry. I was playing poker with a few State boys the other night and they suggested none to subtly that my having a blog was lame. They love to use the word lame. Everything is lame to them. It's kind of cool I guess. Somebody does something lame, "that's lame." Your car won't start, "this is so lame." Your officially licensed NC State blow-up doll springs a leak, "totally lame." I guess it works.

Anyway back to my point, I was kind of taken aback by the verocity of the assertions of lameness directed towards me for having this blog. So today I took a look around the web and found a few blogs. Up to this point, I was only officially aware that myself and one other person actually had blogs. Now I see the source of my agriculturally-inclined acquaitences' vehemency: Blogs are lame. I mean they are totally lame.

Just about every one I found was authored on at least a daily basis by some bleeding heart middle-upper-class high school white girl who divided her time between whining about how much the world was against her or a boy (inevitably named something surfy-sounding) wasn't paying her enough attention and talking about the literally hundreds of emo shows she and her like-minded whiners attend a year. They seem to be little more than forums for high school shout-outs and social circle name dropping.

I am mortified to be included in such a circle. I had no idea. What's a boy to do? I mean now, if I heard someone say they were updating their blog last night and blah blah blah, I might be overcome with an impulse to whip them about the head and ears with a wooden ruler. This must be the kind of impulse that the State boys were resisting the other night. I must thank them for their restraint. Except Johnny. I wish that little ho would bring it on. He'd get a pimp-slappin' to end all pimp-slaps. Yeah you heard me.

The irony of this situation is not lost on me. I am updating this blog with a lambasting of blogs in general. I suppose I should give a disclaimer of sorts. This blog will never contain: Uninteresting accounts of the night before, shameless name-listing, music show reviews, anything about the boys I am currently crushing on (that's private), annoying abbreviations (lol, sux, etc.), or whining.

This blog will contain: Angry rants, inside jokes, endless sarcasm, idle threats, creative vulgarity, arbitrary insults, and anything I think is funny at the moment.

Also, I will soon be posting a spreadsheet of all yo mommas' phone numbers.

P.S. You may have noticed my use of the word "snappin'" in the first paragraph. Do you like it? I just made it up. I think it's snappin' awesome. It a curse-word substitute, like "freakin'" which in my opinion is totally overused and "lame." Im'll get it started and before you know it you'll hear it on the new Ludacris single.

And one more thing: black-eyed-peas suck. The band not the legume. I dig the chick's skirt and all, but my urge to kill rises every time I hear "Let's get it started." That song is so snappin' lame.

2004-08-13T13:33:00.000-04:00

I love...lamp.

Let's see, what to talk about today... I have several things on my rant list at the moment and its tough to choose what most deserves a verbal beating.

Oh, before i begin: If anyone has been with me since the inception of this blog you might recall that i at one point was planning to run a marathon in July. Just so you know this did not happen. Three weeks or so from the event i tore a tendon in my knee. Not one of the important kind of tears that requires surgury but rather a small tear that doesn't cause much discomfort unless you run on it, and even then nothing too bad until around mile six or seven at which point the knee actually lets out an audible scream and bursts into orange flames of searing pain. Mile six of a twelve mile run means you are actually as far as you can possibly be from starting point, also known as your car. As I patted the flames out on my knee I realized that I was effectively stranded six miles from my car. I further realized that I was standing under a bridge in downtown Durham...

Hmm, what a lucky coincidence for all my dear reader: this actually reminds me of an old rant originating from around this time period. See, I told this story to one of my yankee friends, and expressed that I was a just the tiniest bit concerned for my safety at this point. He scoffed at the idea. He actually scoffed at me. At me! After all this is the south, right? Listen, my situation may not sound scary to you if you are some sort of hard core yankee who looks down your nose at the south and our feeble little cities and acts like we don't have any clue what we are talking about when we suggest that crime in any form could take place south of the Mason-Dixon and North of Atlanta. "Youse guys don't know what crime is like, back home youse'd catch a wicked beatin fa givin' a guy a sideways look." Well good for you. We can only hope that one day we can aspire to such lofty heights of crapdom. Let me be the first to invite you to hop in your "cah" and head back north on the same road that brought you down here and prove your point by getting shot in your dirty cesspool of an overcrowded-crimefest city. Munch my butt you condescending twit. I didn't say I was scared to walk through Durham. I said I was concerned about limping through known gang turf with a bum knee wearing nothing but soccer shorts, shoes and $200 dollar mp3 player. What a tool.

And another thing...next time I have a dirty yankee correct me on my pronunciation of the word "pen" I am going to give them a backflip-kick straight to the scrotum. I may pronounce it like "pin" but so do most other people from NORTH CAROLINA, THE STATE YOU ARE CURRENTLY RESIDING IN. It's called an accent. You have one too. Act like you have more than a ball of pubes for a brain. Regardless of my pronunciation let me assure you I can discern between the thing I write with, the sharp thing you stick in a pincushion, and the thing they keep your mother in at the zoo. If I go to New York or Chicago or Bahstan, then yes, compared to you I will sound strange. But down here you sound like the box of douche, not me.

2004-07-27T13:47:00.000-04:00

Who you callin' scruffy looking?

Well now, i was pooting around at work today and it occured to me to look at my own buddy info on my own screen name to you know, see how cool i seem to other people. It seems i have a blog. See? This is what i do. i start something up, think it's really cool for about three days, and then i forget about it. Looking at my last post i realize that yesterday marked FIVE MONTHS since i last posted on my blog.

Well boy do we have a lot of catching up to do.

Since February i have done the following:

Gone to work everyday at the same low-paying job.
Looked unsucessfully for another job.
Gone to the beach twice. (yeah, i know i rule.)
Played video games.
Read comic books.
Watched TV/Movies.
Rinse.
Repeat.

Well it has been a whirlwind but i got through it, and now you feel like you were with me through it all, i am sure.

Well doctor Waller, it has been a pleasure, and now you can all rest easy knowing that i will be here for your free intellectual stimulation whenever i feel like it.

And now for a musing...

i'm tired, yo.

2004-02-25T12:13:00.000-05:00

How are you? Are you good? Good. Let me bring in your mail.

Well today is Ash Wednesday. The beginning of Lent. I decided to start Lent by breaking character in an enormous way and got up extra early today to go to the seven o'clock Mass at St. Thomas More Catholic Church.
Now, I'm Baptist to the Bone, yo, and sometimes Catholic services kind of weird me out 'cause things are so different from protestant services, but I can handle a dose or two of Catholicism every once in a while and I like to go with Laura because I think it's important for the two of us to worship together. So every once in a while we go to STM and every once in a while we go to University Baptist. Sooner or later she'll come around ;-)(and I'm kidding to everyone who might have been offended by that including Laura, her family, her friends, and all Catholics everywhere. Yeesh.).

Anyhizzle, I went to the Ash Wednesday service and it was very nice and very solemn and very ashy. No, I really enjoyed it, and was convicted about my shortcomings and sins in so many ways. Thing is, this always happens. I hope (again) that this time I can act with the strength of that conviction, and not follow my own stupid lead all the time. I'm really surprised that God hasn't pimp-slapped me by now.

Well I went up front and a man put an ashen cross on my forehead and I left feeling good. It was the earliest I'd been up in a while before work and I had time to kill so I went to ol' teeterboker and bought some blueberry muffins. I also got some gas, went back to the crib (yo) and changed shoes before work. Time having been killed I nontheless got to work pretty early. Nearly on time. But, I had forgotten about the little black cross on my forehead. We'll get back to that.

Last night Evan and I were playing Jeopardy after the watching the Heels lose to Virginia(?). What the freak. I decided to shave my head. Just like that, we went into the bathroom and buzzed my head. It looks fine and its a style i've worn before, plus now I don't have to mess with it in the morning. You should also note that I have a hoop earring in my left ear, and its not all that noticable really, unless I shave my head.

Back to the ashen cross on my forehead. I think it's a good thing. It's a symbol or your commitment at the beginning of the season of Lent. It's an outward sign that you are a believer and that you are not ashamed. There are certain issues I have with it sometimes because people (particularly kids on campus) wear them all day long and I feel like it can be kind of prideful, like "hey look at me, i'm devout." But thats beside the point. The thing is, when the guy at church marks you, he's doing it by dipping his finger in wet ash and then making a cross on your forehead. Due to human error, the inconsistency of his writing materials, and the understandable level of expediance needed to mark all of the congregation, the cross on your forehead isn't always exactly symmetrical or even in coloration. Sometimes it's even slightly tilted. Now, if you'll picture in your head, an asymmetrical, unevenly colored, slightly tilted cross, you may be able to see its resemblance to a simple X.

Now the Story comes together... My attempt to be a good, pious Christian had resulted in me arriving at work (the executive office of a Software Company in the Triangle where professional dress is required) with a shaved head, an earring, and what appeared to be a big black "X" in the middle of my forehead. Couple this with my sleepy demeanor that some might mistake for a scowl and I can see now why I was met with some scornful and/or confused looks. I looked like a newly converted neo-nazi satanist (in a big black overcoat, I might add).

This is not a warning story against Ash Wednesday services. Like I said, I found the service to be refreshing and uplifting. I just thought I'd share my experience, because it was funny. If you find this offensive, I'm sorry. You may never read my blog again.

2004-02-23T13:30:00.000-05:00

I. Love. Heroin. I just love it.

Disclaimer:
What you are about to read is an angry rant.

So I was driving to work this morning on I-40 and a couple of cars ahead of me is this big gravel truck. It's loaded down with rocks and its barrelling down the highway at sixty-five miles an hour filled to the brim. Meanwhile, in order to keep the rocks from flying out there is a big piece of cloth draped over the back that is flapping in the wind and only serving to slap the gravel around.
I know I saw at least one piece fly off the truck and bounce down the side of the highway. Now, I'm no physics major, but I'm pretty sure a hitting a rock at sixty miles and hour is "not good" for your car, regardless of the point of impact. This is my opinion, and you're free to disagree, just when you do, hit yourself on the finger with a little tack hammer really hard.

Moving on. Is there no better way to transport rocks? I mean granted, the whole system of putting them in the back of a truck does seem to get (most of) them from point A to point B, but while we're at it, could we perhaps cover the beds? Maybe some kind of hard plastic shell. If the rednecks i went to high school can cover their truck beds can't the whatever-you-call-a-company-that-hauls-rocks-around company do that too? It's common sense. I'll tell you what: Why don't I put a few pieces of gravel covered with a bedsheet on the top of my car and fly down the highway?

But that's not even what makes me mad about these trucks. It's the sheer audacity they have to put little signs on the back that say "Stay back 200 feet. NOT responsible for broken windsheilds." The hell you say. You can't even read those signs from 200 feet in the first place. What are gonna drive up behind one and strain to read "Stay...back...200.." SMACK!! Broken windshield. Well, now you've got a big crack in your windsheild, but looks like you're out of luck because it seems that the little sign says they aren't responsible for any damage that might be caused by rocks that might be flying from their vehicle. Wow. These little signs are powerful. Aparently if one puts a sign on the back of a vehicle warning other motorists that you'll be doing something stupid there's not much they can do about it.

Again: The hell you say.

Not only that, but these signs apparently grant you the sole privelage to certain areas on the highway. Stay back 200 feet? What if I want to pass you, butthole? "Nobody pass the gravel truck, we can't afford to enter its swath! He's tossing rocks, and there's nothing we can do about it! Don't you see the sign?"

Or can you?

Yes, you can. These signs are lies. They are responsible. Follow the truck. What till it stops at McDonalds. Raise hell.

If the driver points to the sign, acknowledge it and ask for his/his company's pertinant information anyway. If he refuses, kindly admit defeat and let him go inside.

Then slash all the tires on his truck and leave the knife in the last one. Attach a little note to the handle that says "Do not park within 200 feet of my knife. NOT responsible for slashed tires."

2004-02-10T10:36:00.000-05:00

I'm gonna make Gretzky's head bleed for superfan number 99 over here.

Welcome back! I hope yesterday's rhetoric didn't keep you up too late last night. Sorry if you had to cut and paste the link at the bottom of the yesterday's post (I know I'm the only one reading my blog...it's cool.) but I still haven't figured out how to make a hyperlink. meh.

Here's a question for you: Say you go to a pool hall with an inexperienced female pool player to "help her practice" and "give her a few pointers, heh heh." and then get thoroughly shalacked by her for three hours. In what way is that different than actually being neutered?
My thanks to my grasshoppah Kathy Shuping for the experience. It seems the student has become the teacher.

"When you're on, I swear you're on. You rip my heart right out."

In my defense, my boys Josh Bone and Ben Thomas got a little taste of defeat as well.

On other fronts, I am planning to run in the Suzuki Rock n' Roll Marathon in San Diego, CA on June Sixth. My training has already begun. I have found that I can run about five miles without too much difficulty as it is. However, if weather keeps me inside and I have to run on the treadmill, I am ready to open fire after about a mile and a half.

I have no idea how these little anorexic running obsessed girls in the gym can stay on that God-forsaken treadmill for an hour at a time. I'll glance over at their timers and I can see that they've been there for forty seven mintutes when I start mine up and they're still going when I quit. Half the time they're walking. It's not a matter of endurance...its a matter of how can you possibly stand to look at the exact same thing for over an hour? You have a little LCD screen in front of you that ticks away a hundredth of a mile at a time, at a painfully slow pace, and you have this to stare at for the next hour?

In my opinion, most of these girls need to put a little gravy on their biscuits anyway.

So ladies, stop wasting countless hours walking in place, making yourself rail-thin. Go outside, breathe some fresh air, and spend the time you save by doing a actual, life enriching exercise with a pen and pad thinking up other ways to stop being so lame.

2004-02-09T12:11:00.000-05:00

The guitar was out of tune. "Fred's Slacks" is a winner.

I think my "superiors" here at work recognize my exceptional intellect despite my marginalized position of intern, and are reluctant to trouble me with tasks they see as below me. As such, I have a bit of free time to share my wisdom with you as it comes to me...

Soo...

Do, um, do you guys like video games? I think they are really neat. I think Super Mario World is my all-around favorite game.

Ha Ha HAAAAAH! Just try to sleep tonight now that I have planted that tasty little seed into the back of your brain!! Wrestle with your pillow and tangle in your sheets as you wonder aloud to your unforgiving ceiling: What IS the best video game ever? How can one make such a choice? Must we weigh them on gameplay, graphics, or ingenuity? How can you pick the best? I might as well ask you to pick your favorite Star Trek episode! I KNOW!! Can't be done! Not by YOU anyway. I've got mine right here in my head. Shall I drop that bomb on you too? Shall I force you to pick your own and justify it above mine, possibly causing a localized explosion within your skull that forces gray matter through your ear drums, out your ear canal and onto your favorite sweater causing simultaneous brain damage, deafness, and stubborn brain stains?

No. No, I'll let you sweat this one out one decision at a time. You must choose. But choose wisely.

(if you think this post is sad, but not funny in any way, you should stop reading my blog now. MEanwhile, feel free to visit this site: http://dictionary.reference.com/search?q=irony )

2004-02-09T11:31:00.000-05:00

So now I have a blog. Cool.
I would like to thank you for joining me here, but I must warn you: Often even my most innocent, innocuous musing are of such profundity as to render one stunned and sleepless for days while the implications of my next-level notions swirl in your head and your brain attempts to find a space to place them in the scope of your understanding.
You have been warned.