I Break for the Holidays or, Herman Melville is Overrated

In honor of just beating solitaire twice in a row, I have decided to update my readers on my Christmas Break happenings thus far.

Two days ago I went to the mall to do some Christmas shopping, as we all do to commemorate when the Magi stopped outside of Bethlehem and bought gold, frankincense and myrrh during the big sales—Balthazar is reported to have received a free box of truffles with his $50 or more purchase, a $10 value, but he held out on Jesus because his dyslexic mother had taught him that chocolate was bad for gods—but I ended up just buying a bunch of stuff for myself, to commemorate when the shepherds stopped on their way to Bethlehem and bought Steve Martin cds and some books for school.

Chief among the books I got is Moby Dick or, The Whale. Not many people know that Moby Dick or, The Whale has a secondary title, namely, The Whale. This is a misleading title, to be sure, because when read out loud it could sound like I am presenting two options of what I bought, and it is the listener's job to decipher which is the correct name of the book, but in actuality the or is functioning as an and, which is also confusing because Moby Dick and the Whale is even more incorrect and has the potential to be a great deal more offensive. I have chosen to address the book as simply, The Whale to prevent myself from snickering when I say the title, thereby prolonging the life of my nasal passages.

After two days of casual reading, I only have 601 pages left, but the last page isn't even a full page, so I basically only have 600 pages to go. This will, however, take me a little longer than you might expect since I prefer to understand what I am reading and I have to read The Whale with a dictionary nearby, and whenever I pick up the dictionary I get to reading it and looking at the pictures.

I doubt that the man at the Barnes and Noble Title Sleuth Desk knows about the secondary title, unless of course I mean Moby Dick, which I might, now that I am calling it The Whale, but I don't. The other book I purchased is called Invisible Man. I asked the man at the Barnes and Noble Title Sleuth Desk who the author of Invisible Man was, and he said H.G. Wells without even looking it up, which was wrong—both H.G. Wells and not looking it up, in that order.

I could have corrected him, but everyone around me was Christmas shopping and I felt "in the way," so I went to the back of the store and did my own title sleuthing, which would have just been author sleuthing if I had known how to spell invisible. I would have known sooner that I didn't know how to spell invisible if "invisable" hadn't brought up four results, but I was eventually tipped off by the fact that none of the results were The Invisible Man, by H.G. Wells, so I searched for H.G. Wells and learned how to spell, so the man at Barnes and Noble ended up helping me after all.

TRANSITION

We have three cats and a dog. We keep the cats' food dish on a towel on a chair—the towel to keep the chair clean and the chair to keep the dog "out of the kitty food." This morning, our only legitimate cat, Jacob, ate some of his food, promptly threw it up, and then returned for a second helping. After he was done eating for the second time, or done eating, that is, his kitty instincts kicked in and he tried covering the left-over food with the towel, in order to protect it from the elements, I suppose. Instead he knocked the dish onto the floor, thus scattering Hill's Prescription Diet all over the kitchen.

This is the most exciting thing that has happened during Christmas Break so far. I was asleep when it happened.

And with that, I wish you all happy holidays or, if that offends you, a merry Christmas.

"Fix You" Is a Good Song

It's over folks. That's right, today marks day the last of the first annual PLNU Fall Semester 2005. Three cheers for that.

We've had some good times, we've had some bad times, and inbetween we've had some just plain old times, which in the future we will refer to as good times as well. Good times.

Oh yeah, hip hip horray...

Yeah, way to finish strong, me. Always get 'em with the kicker.

This year I think I will wear pants and be less evil.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like, oh Forget It.

Baby, it's cold outside.

It is a pronoun, by the way. Just know that, please—please just know that it is a pronoun. Write it down if you need to (that is to say, write down that the word it is a pronoun). I don't really want to spend anymore time on this one. I have a Christmas party to attend. My friend is Santa, which is weird because he really exists.

Warmly,

TG

The Following Is What I Really Should Do More Often

I really should blog more often. Don't you agree? Yeah, you do, because you are me, and you are not that unstable.

But alas, and anon... and so forth.

This is the kind of crap I have to put up with every night.

This is my brother. I can't remember if he was looking for rocks to skip in the ocean or if he had just shot the man who murdered his family earlier in the film.

"For With God We Stand United, Bound by Love We Are."

For a number of years my school has thrown toilet paper onto the court after our basketball team scores its first point of the Homecoming game. It doesn't snow in San Diego, so the tradition is really unlike anything many of my peers have ever seen, and it tends to bring joy and mirth to all in attendance.

Unfortunately, over the course of the last two years, people have been adding sundry undesirable items to the traditional precipitate, and there was a growing concern that things would escalate.

Things really got bad when what we were doing ceased to represent the life and teachings of Jesus. Fortunately for our souls, the administration caught wind of our moral condition and rectified the tradition, in keeping with the Church's prescribed course of action, by putting it to death.

So tonight we all demonstrated the love of Jesus by not throwing anything on the court after the first point, or after any of the points for that matter. As an added bonus, I got a free T-shirt for only two dollars. Actually, it is more than a T-shirt; it is a symbol of hope and reconciliation.

The shirt is a handsome forest green, which represents New Life according to the wordless Bible, pretty much the only translation of the Gospel worth not reading. On it are the words "Represent" and "Don't throw the game away." Personally, I think the word "throw" should have been in quotes... like so.

The T in Represent is fashioned to look like a cross, the execution device used by the Romans for the basest of criminals. This is what I would call a clever suggestion. I am glad that no one chose to throw anything on the court. I am also glad that the administration chose such a tasteful way of designating the punishment for infraction.

In addition, the right sleeve proudly sports the mighty Sea Lion, our new mascot that no one ever hoped to receive, but everyone received freely nonetheless.

New life and abundant mercy given freely... it’s a good thing I have a view.

From the Still Torrent

Permeated with unrest,
Dripping with this weariness,
I sink between the bed and the wall,
Hemmed in by stale, dead, white.
I want to slather it all with blood,
With loud, beating permanence.

I want. I want. I have want.
And the silence of this stagnant torrent
Is broken by my bleating.

It is time

for a new post. Here it is. Sorry, but I really have stooped this low. Better luck next time eh?

Sincerely,

F You, Regression

"I've sought so hard to sustain this gain/Now watch me give this ground away/What can i do but admit I'm in over my head?/Colors fade from blue to dark red."

"My exit unobserved/And my homesickness absurd.../I said "water" expecting the Word would satisfy my thirst/Talking all about the second and third/When I haven't understood the first."

Tears stand ready in the ranks, awaiting an order never given, in keeping with their training.

But these songs have happy endings.

Lucky for you, Regression, it isn't Wednesday.

My MLA Handbook (5th Edition) Smells Like Fetal Pig

Thanks, MLA Handbook for Writers of Research Papers, for smelling like fetal pig in formaldehyde. Extra special thanks to Human Biology and Bioethics for teaching me what that smells like.

Assuming Honesty is the Best Policy

I am tired of being alone in my head. I don’t know if there is a cure for that or not. I think it might be prayer, but I am not sure. Sometimes prayer makes me feel like I am alone in my head, like my prayers are just bouncing off the inside of my skull. There are a lot of questions that I cannot ask anyone because no one has the answers… or at least there is no safe way for me to get them. I feel like all I can do is mess up because I do not recall having been pleasantly surprised when I go out on a limb and do something crazy like tell a girl I like her.

Sometimes I Wonder

Isn't that weird? I wonder why that is. Weird.

Yeah, I hate it when people are condescending. Now, bring me another brandy.

Still Taking Notes for My Best-Selling Memoir

I have always been a know-it-all. I could have published a book of my whole theory on life at age 10, and it would have been a very long book with not a lot of pictures.

I knew where to draw the line between good and evil; I knew roughly how old the universe was; I knew how the dinosaurs died; I knew what the perfect economic system was; I knew why there was poverty and hunger in the world; I knew why there were mosquitoes… In short, I understood the mysteries of God entirely.

Then something rather ordinary happened to me at the end of my junior year of high school. My friend, who not unlike myself was a socially awkward and nerdy fellow, asked the hottest girl at school how her weekend had been. I was highly disappointed, and a little indignant, as I watched them politely chat.

Due to my vast understanding of the inner workings of the universe, it took me a whopping three seconds to arrive at my conclusion: My friend was completely selling out by talking to this girl.

I understood girls like her. They were selfish, dim-witted and shallow. My friend was obviously giving in. He was tired of being a real person. For me, striving to be a real human being––to attain personhood––was a call to an honest, genuine lifestyle in which I had to sacrifice hanging out with people who walked around wearing masks all day trying to get people to like them for who they wished they were.

But this was really no sacrifice at all. The only challenge was resisting my desire to be accepted by the crowd. My friend had given up. He had exchanged personhood for acceptance.

It took me another four seconds to become completely floored. Thank God I was shorter then.

Somehow my eyes were opened to what was actually in front of me, and what I saw was two people talking. Two people. Talking. Being human with one another.

In that moment, standing in Mr. Thomas’ classroom during lunch  period on a rainy day, I realized that I was wrong. Not that I had been wrong, but that I was wrong. I realized that I had closed my book about life too early.

Last summer I read “Blue Like Jazz,” by Donald Miller. If you have already read it, it is one of the greatest books you have ever read--I assure you. In it I think Donald Miller spells out exactly what I have been learning for the past four years:

“The most difficult lie I have ever contended with is this: Life is a story about me… No rut in the mind is so deep as the one that says I am the world, the world belongs to me, all people are characters in my play. There is no addiction so powerful as self-addiction.”

I do not hold the keys to all knowledge and truth. People are people in process. They are not who they were or who they will be, ever. I might disagree with what people say about how the world works, about what is and is not important, but I can’t say for sure who people are or what drives them just from reading one thing they write or hearing one thing they say.

People are people, not the masks they wear.

Sixth Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series

Part Six*:

F

"F" stands for Freudian slip, which means "a mistake made in speaking that inadvertently reveals unconscious motives, etc." However, it sounds a lot like... well, actually I guess I don't know sexactly what it sounds like. I suppose there really isn't any confusion with this one.

*6

Working Title

I am pulling on a door
That will not open,
Trying desperately to get in
Or out...
All I know is
The door says push.

What Are You Eating Under There?

Under where?
Ahh shoot.
I got me.

Fifth Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series

Part Five*:

E

"E" stands for Erstwhile, which means "formerly" or "former." However, it sounds a lot like "burst whale," which means "to suddenly and violently vent a large, warm-blooded sea mammal." Therefore, to prevent an unnecessary mess, it is best to just say "formerly," or "former," respectively.

*nevermind, it wasn't that important anyway

Myspace Hecka Sucks

I hate myspace. Myspace is nothing but a whole bunch of insecurity plastered all over the World Wide Web. I mean... really. I don't even go there ever.

You Are Exactly Where You Are

You are above below you and below above you, this much is true, but who can be sure you are beside beside you?
It's deeper than you think, I assure ewe.

Hurricane Katrina Calls Us Into Action

I seem to have missed something in the news.

About a week ago I heard some passing comment, like “I think there is a hurricane headed toward Florida, or something.” A hurricane in Florida is nothing new; it is unfortunate, but nothing new. For a journalism major, I don’t read the newspaper a lot. And while Google news is my homepage, I usually go straight to my e-mail before the page finishes loading, so I somehow missed Hurricane Katrina entirely.

That is until I read the front page of the Union-Tribune last Thursday. “Crisis deepens in the Gulf,” “Looters run wild as rule of law fails,” “Thousands feared dead as New Orleans is to be abandoned”: it was a lot to take in on one page.

In the following days I devoured the front page articles. A picture in Friday’s paper showed three children standing in eight inches of dirty water as they waited to board a Greyhound bus headed for Houston. Something about the barrel of an assult rifle framing the shot burned the image into my mind. Armed guards are the last thing I thought rescue crews would need, but apparently some members of society saw this as a good time to steal guns and start shooting people.

The stories and images draw me into philosophical, social, and political ranting. But then I am reminded, this isn’t a life lesson; this is people hurting. Hurricane Katrina is not a philosophical question, or a political platform, not yet. Hurricane Katrina isn’t a historic event, it just happened, and people are still dying as a result. People are still trapped, still hurt, still hungry. People are still heartbroken, wondering if there is a reason to keep living.

Now is not a time to sit around reflecting on the grand questions of the human condition. Now is a time to act. But what can I do? I want to be there, be amongst the hurting. I want to help. Can my sympathy comfort a 12-year-old girl who has just lost her home, not just her house, but her home—her yard, her school, her best friend’s front porch, her cat, the cereal section with the toys at the end? Can I tell her that there is more to life than things? Is now a good time to tell her that Jesus died for her sins? Maybe I should have done that a week ago.

So what can we do?

“He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” Micah 6:8.

We can start caring. We can let ourselves be affected. Read the paper and watch the news and realize that there is more happening here than rising gas prices. Find out what you can do, and do it.

Most of all, pray. Pray hard, pray sincerely, and pray a lot.

Pouring Out My Heart

Some say poetry isn't my "strong point."
I reply, "Oh yeah, well, you are!"
And then I throw rocks at them,
Or pieces of food, whatever's handy.

TGIS

NOT my favorite restaurant. Typing of which, last night/this morning I went to Denny's restaurant of the same name and thought to myself that I myself would like to get myself a milk "shake" of the chocolate flavor variety. However, my mind went on to myself, would not peanut butter (better) make your (my) "shake" oh so much better (butter)? Asked I therefore not of myself but to the mistress in waiting "Do you "guys" have peanut butter?"

"No," replied her reply.

And presently I ran to yon Vons and purchased about 35 servings per container. Upon returning, there finding a chocolate treat in waiting from the maiden of the same, mixed I some of said butter therewithin. Did I then partook.

And it was good.

Just Breath

That is from a song. I remember it from a commercial about cameras that take polaroid sticker pictures of guys you like, and they make you giggle in that special "commercial girl giggle" sort of way, kind of like those commercials where (in which) girls are just cracking up about how many blackheads they just suctioned out of their nose pores. I think a better title for this blog would have been nose pores. Then again, if the title was nose pores then I would have to restrict my entry to the topic of nose pores, and who really wants to type or read a blog about nose pores? I know I do and probably will someday, but not this day. No, this day I fight! That was, ironically, a somewhat nasely line from a movie, which is sort of like a commercial, only in the movie it is guys who giggle, and they are named Merry and Pippin. I should have titled this blog giggle. That would have been funny. Not laugh-out-loud funny, but funny-on-the-inside funny, like when someone says "Do you remember when we had nap time in school? We should have that in college too," but no one goes any farther with the conversation so no one laughs out loud, but most of the people who heard the comment still think it was a funny little thing to say and they quietly appreciate what was said. I agree, that was pretty funny. Yeah, s/he is a funny person. You wouldn't guess it, but after you have been around her/him for awhile, you start to notice. I submit that this has taken you longer to read than it took me to write. I win infinity.

Speaking of Being Bored

Yes, indeed, that is what I am doing... in one form or another. No... just in one form. This will be my fourth blog contribution of the night, so I believe that I am officially bored out of my mind. If I was a genious I would probably have cut my ear off by now. if I was ingenious I would have found something to do. I am neither, er... neither, no... I think I got it right the first time. You say tomato, I say tomato... eh? I guess that song doesn't translate well into print. What we need is a pronounciation key, or some popcorn chicken. Mmmm... free-flow stream of conciousness writing... and poor punctuation, and alliteration... and grammar puns... yeah, as I was saying. I believe it was Homestar Runner who first posed the question: is there ice cream yet?

speaking of severely handicapped...

The boat docks in London have special entrances for the severely handicapped. Thank God there weren't any on our boat... that would have been messy.

This dog is a goof, I thought you should know. Also, I think this picture will match my blog. We shall see.

Where is Gary Larson When You Need Him?

I got my teeth cleaned a couple of days ago. I wouldn't want to do it every day, but I like going to the dentist from time to time, like, say... twice a year or so. What I don't like is going twice in one week. The second time you go is when you spend some quality time with the actual dentist... the guy with the DDS. I don't know what you have to do to become a dentist, but it must not be pleasant, because those guys are mean.

I had never had a cavity before in my life. I was one of "those kids," if you will. I used to chew on aluminum foil just because I could, but no more. Now I chew things very softly because my jaw still aches from being held wide open for an ungodly amount of time. (An ungodly amount of time is approximately 45 minutes.)

In case you have never had a cavity filled, I would like to relay the process to you.

The dentist started by shining a bright light in my eyes and then politely laughing as I winced in pain. Unfortunately for him, he needed that light to see in my mouth, so it wasn't in my eyes for long. He oriented himself with the inside of my mouth (where I keep my cavities) and then, when I wasn't looking, put a very large needle inside. I never saw the true size of the needle, but I was uncomfortable with the fact that I could see his entire hand in full focus, yet somehow I could still feel something piercing my gums.

I really have nothing against getting stuck with a needle when it is filled with Novocain. I know that it is always better than the alternative. Pain receptors have no business working during an operation, so if it takes a needle to make them take a vacation, so be it, but I was starting to feel uncomfortable as the dentist continued to push the needle down the length of my gums. Was I supposed to say "when"? The needle was approaching my tonsils and I was about to say something, or gurgle or something, when he decided he needed more Novocain. Now I was getting concerned. By the time he was done I thought I would need some Novocain to take away the pain from the Novocain.

The dentist thought this would be a good time to leave me alone so I could think about what I had done. As I sat looking at my truck outside the window, I marveled at the fact that I had willingly come here. I was actually paying for this experience. My right cheek started feeling like I had been punched in the face but wasn't feeling the pain yet. My tongue felt like it had slept on its arm wrong. I began to worry that I wouldn't be able to talk when the dentist came back, that I wouldn't be able to scream.

"Testing, testing, one two," I whispered. "Red rover, penguin, octopus. Lenny, Lucy, Larry. Yellow, watermelon. One two." I flicked my cheek and made a water drop sound. Good, I could still talk. But my mouth was getting worse. I didn't hear the dentist come back in because I was too busy not drooling.

"How does you mouth feel?"

"Okay." So far so good, but I had something important to say. "My right cheek feewls (crap, I was deteriorating) pw... pretty numb, but my left side feewls nowmle stiwl."

"That's alright," he explained. "I didn't give you any Novocain on the left side because that cavity is very small."

The thought entered my mind that this man may have been trained during wartime, when Novocain was rationed out by the government. Or maybe he was trying to save a few bucks wherever he could. Either way I was not pleased with his assessment, but saying the word "assessment" was out of the question at this point. Instead I gurgled and hoped for the best. I don't think he noticed.

I knew things were about to get serious when the dental assistant started putting on riot gear. She has pretty eyes, I thought, maybe she will protect me. Instead she put a vacuum cleaner attachment in my mouth. The dentist had something in his hand that looked like a tooth polisher; only instead of happy little bristles on the end it had a little metal drill. To be fair it was probably a happy little drill, but I was not glad to see it.

As I listened to the drill eat away at my tooth, and smelled the burning fumes coming out of my mouth, I thought back to the large needle. I imagined that I saw it standing upon a hillock across a large grassy field. I dropped my luggage and ran toward it as it ran toward me. In a furry of laughter and tears I jumped into its arms and it spun me around, and nothing mattered in the whole world but it and me, and me and it.

But there was still cavity number two, the one that had never felt the warm embrace of my friend the needle. After testing just how many metal objects he could fit in my mouth, and once his assistant was through blow drying my molar, the dentist started on the second cavity.

He started by spraying it with cold air. That felt very good, kind of like biting into an ice cream bar dipped in CO2. I gripped the chair like my mother had when I was making my grand entrance into the land where you chew your own food. I think there is some symbolism there. After that he played a little game that is kind of like Operation, in which you take a metal object and see how close you can get it to the nerve without hitting it while you scrape away at enamel. Whenever you mess up, instead of the board making a loud buzzing sound, the patient dies a little while his soul screams curses into the netherworld.

I was thinking the worst was over when the dentist handed me a pair of protective glasses.

"We're just going to clean out your tooth with something like a little sand blaster," he said.

Sand blasters hurt cement. I was opposed to the idea but my mouth had a Dyson in it (it never looses suction) and I only know half of the alphabet in sign language... not enough to sign "Hell No!"

It actually wasn't too bad once he got started, and when it was all said and done I was feeling pretty good about myself. The dental assistant kindly showed me to the door, where everyone was smiling because they take your money and never sit in that chair. Going home was kind of surreal. I felt like I should have a designated driver. As I mentioned earlier, my jaw was feeling like I had got out of hand with my boa constrictor impression again, but other than that I was alright.

Everything was alright, that is, until I tried eating lunch. But that is a story for another time.

Quest for the Overpriced Album - adapted from a two-part email serial begun May 7

The following is the complete and unabridged version of the gripping tale of a little boy in London on a quest to buy the new Coldplay album so he will have it for the plane ride home.

Once upon a time, there was a little boy who came from a land where stores typically closed between the hours of nine p.m. and midnight. However, a series of strange events had brought him to London, a grand city that the residents enjoyed so much they closed up shop at five p.m. and wandered around making the pigeons uncomfortable.

The boy had been waiting for the day that Coldplay would release their new album for many weeks. “Too bad I am in London though,” he thought, “Even if I did have my CD player with me, I would not want to pay $28 dollars for a CD.” For he knew that the exchange rate was not conducive to making purchases that could just as easily be made at home.

But then something amazing happened. A little girl who the little boy had recently met found out that he really liked music, and she offered to help. “You can borrow my CD player if you like; I haven’t even been using it the whole trip.”

The little boy thought about this, and, after realizing that he would very shortly be riding on one plane or another for about 14 hours, he decided that the purchase could be justified. However, he was still in the land of the five p.m. closing time, and it was now seven p.m.

Then the boy heard an amazing story, the legend of the music store that was open until midnight. No one knew the name of the place—some said it could never be found—but the little boy was determined. He went to a store and bought a magazine about local attractions, and then scanned every page until he read of a place called New Oxford Street, home of the Virgin Records Mega Store and the HMV.

“One of these must be it,” the boy resolved. And so he set out, just he and his dog, only without his dog, and all by himself.

If destiny really had any power, the boy felt certain that he would end the night listening to the glorious sounds of fair trade on a borrowed CD player.

Three stops north on the Northern line took the little boy to New Oxford Street. From there he set out into the west to liberate Coldplay from the bonds of plastic wrap and UPC. For three hundred leagues he could see nothing in the pitch darkness, neither before him nor behind him, and all was as pitch as the souls of the eastern hoards that roam the hills in search of innocent blood to satisfy the cries of the demons that drive them… to search for innocent blood.

Then, off in the distance, where the first rays of the rising sun make ready the cool damp earth for the coming celebration of light, he saw a yellow sign displaying red letters in a handwritten script. “The legend must be true,” he thought, “for here before me stands the Virgin Records Mega Store.”

Like the ancient rock of Stonehenge, Virgin Records stood tall and proud in a light that seemed to come from within its stone walls. Its purpose on Earth remained as mysterious as its origin, but no one could question that this place was a holy place.

Holy, but closed. And in the window a sign read, “Open at midnight for the release of X&Y, the new album by Coldplay.” Open at midnight, not until. The little boy wasted no time in figuring out what this meant. Surely the legend had spoken of the previous midnight, the hour in which the stars and moon declared this was the day of the X&Y, but that time had come and gone. Dejected, but not defeated, the boy pressed on.

He continued his westerly course in search of the HMV, the “top dog for music, DVD’s and games,” with a glimmer of hope in his heart. It seemed to the boy that the story that began his journey had reached his ears one day too late, but he could not turn back now, for signs on both sides of the road heralded the presence of a nearby HMV. If any truth could be drawn from the signs then it was indeed the largest retailer of CD’s and DVD’s in the country.

Presently the little boy came upon the HMV. From a distance he saw that the gate over the main entrance was closed, and his heart sank, but then, he saw a light. A cloaked figure stole out of the doorway and paused for a moment in the street. The pale orange glow from a cigarette steadied in his left hand illuminated deep pits and jagged scars behind his jacket's raised collar. The man looked at the little boy with a pair of lifeless eyes whose light had been rotted out from countless years in putrid darkness.

The heroes of yore would have thought no less of the boy if he had ended the quest right then, but his love for Coldplay steadied his heart and made firm his resolve. “Hello,” came the first word to break the still of the chill night air. “Is the store still open?”

The man in the doorway moved imperceptibly at the little boy’s words, or perhaps he stayed true to his position and it was the very pillars of the universe that moved around him. Either way the words had some unnatural effect, for it seemed to the boy that when the man looked down at him, he was truly seen. The man looked past the boy's body and into his hopes, and fears, and dreams, and regrets, and in a moment the boy was as known to this man as he was to his Maker. And so his words came as the answer not just to the boy’s question, but to his entire existence. “No, it isn’t,” he said.

The anguish that the little boy felt was of such immensity that few who know it survive to tell, and still fewer would dare burden their fellow man with its accurate description. Juliet’s sorrow upon awakening in the cold, lifeless arms of her Romeo was unblemished gaiety at the throne of the Almighty compared to the little boy’s affliction.

It seemed to the boy that falling to the ground would take too much effort, so there he stood. To return would only mean waking up the next day in his Coldplaylessness. To press on would be to fight a battle that had already been lost. Hope had become a childhood fantasy turned into a bad memory.

It is in times like these that the unexpected is called a miracle. Out of no will of his own the little boy raised his head and looked farther into the west. There, on the edge of the horizon, shone the bright white sign of a Borders Books, and below it, a wide open door and customers within. What force moved the boy's legs he did not know, for many miles lay between he and the bookstore, but the earth seemed to rush under his feet like a mighty torrent, and he had no sooner finished reading the sign then he found himself entering the store. There is was, Coldplay X&Y, "Their best yet," rows upon rows of a printer test-like block of colors on a solid night sky blue.

The little boy stepped up to the counter and made his purchase, but he never left that store. No, the figure that walked through the exit may have been wearing the same gray t-shirt with the same blackcurrant stain on the front, and the same black jacket from the same Sports Chalet, but anyone watching that night would not have seen a boy walk through that door and step into the night. What came out of the store that night was a man.

This is the tale of the one who risked life and limb for X&Y. May all who read it find comfort in the knowledge that men of such courage do exist in this world.

This is the last place I would ever sit on a wood chipper. No wonder this guy's parents make him wear reflective clothing and a helmet.

I am Ahab. A lot of people are surprised that I spent 22 days in Britain as the only guy with 14 girls and I didn't come back married. The truth is that I did get married, but a white whale ate the bonnie lass.

The pelicans in Greenwich do not have any privacy protection laws. I didn't actually see the pelican, but I hope it is okay.

Shut up all of you

That is all really, can't you see it is summer? I want high speed internet back!

it's been a month, I know, long time

So, I know I've been gone for awhile, maybe even a couple whiles by now, but the truth is I have been busy. It is hard to keep up on the blogging when you across the pond and it costs $2 for 15 minutes on the old www, especially when my blog doesn't even appreciate what I do. I mean, seriously, my blog still says that I have only posted 11 blogs total, and something like 700 words. Well I have news for it, I have posted over 30 blogs, and more than one of those is over 700 words all by its lonesome. I don't have to take this crap.
Anyway, I imagine that I have gotten a little carried away. The truth is that it is my fault for being gone so long, and I am sorry. It will happen again, but I am still sorry. In fact, it will probably happen right about now and for the next two weeks. I have finally reached that age where summer is no longer three months of doing nothing, and I haven't figured out how to deal with that yet. I want to wake up at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow and eat fruitloops and watch cartoons for two hours and take a shower if I feel like it... but I think we're out of fruitloops. Oh, and I have a bunch of crap to do. Feel free to shed a tear for me. Thanks.

Have You Ever Thought You Were Having a Debate With Someone, and it Turned Out You Were Actually Just Arguing?

I think I need to be more careful before I open myself up to people. I am beginning to formulate a hypothesis, and part of it includes the idea that many people are not interested in hearing your honest opinion because they percive it as a constant threat to their own. I think I am one of those people sometimes, and you know what, I don't like it.

I Inadvertantly Hit the Enter Key

In regards to the picture below: I intended to inform you (the reader/viewer) that my actual desktop is worse off than my Douglas's desktop (that is, my compy's desktop). To my shock and disbelief, my last photographic attempt also demonstrates that around 80% of my posted photos use the exact same rules of compostion. Finally, I wanted to point out that my mom called, and that I do indeed have a sign that says "Toy Cat Balls," and that it was a birthday present.

I took this picture to document how out of control the icons on my desktop are getting, but, now that I have seen the picture, I have made some new observations, as well as several more trips to the comma key than I am accustomed to making for the benefit of one sentence.

Before a certain bug was intimately introduced to my windshield, I am sure it was what you would call a "juicy bug." Right now I am not sure which part of it you would call the actual bug, but the juicy is all over my windshield.

I have an amazing ability to make my friends look like druggies in all of my pictures, I just thought you might like to know that. Have a good one hehe :)

I Have More in Common with Chickens than I Thought

The following story/soul searching will be presented in the latest edition of student preacher format. Two apparently unrelated tidbits will be introduced; one will be boring but truthful and the other will be entertaining and random. After the two stories are told they will be linked in a way that no one is really sure they ought to be.

I recently came out of a spell of apathy toward all aspects of my life. There is not a precise moment in time that I can point to when it clicked in my mind, but I can narrow it down and say the process took about three days, five conversations and two late assignments.

I have never raised chickens, but I have eaten many, and I like to be familiar with what I am eating, unless what I am eating is mayonnaise-based or has active cultures, in which case I prefer ignorance so that I can enjoy the food. Chickens are not a mayonnaise-based or active culture... toting? food product, so I am familiar with them. On top of that I watch a lot of cartoons. All this is to say that I am under the impression that chickens identify the first living thing (and sometimes not-living thing) they see as their mother, and they follow it as long as they are young enough to do "that sort of thing."

When I hatched from my shell of despondence, the first thing I saw was Splinter Cell 3: Chaos Theory. Now that I care about life again, all I want to do is play a stupid video game. I am not getting caught up in my classes because of a video game. What is that all about?

So where do we go from here? Well, I don't know about you, but I will be doing all of my Optimal Health work, and not playing Splinter Cell.

You are welcome for the happy ending.

Today is 4-20. Here is a pot, and a college student with long hair. Whoa, dude, that is sick man, you're crazy... this is totally like that one movie. You know, the one with that guy who can disappear. Yeah, that chick was hot.

My desk lamp is a dirty cheat, and a thief. I let him into my home, and gave him food off of my table, and this is the thanks I get? It's a good thing for him that it gets dark at night.

This One Didn't Even Make Me Laugh

I finally got around to reading the warning sticker that is adhered to the cord of my desk lamp, and I want to tell you about it, and I think now is a good time... I hope you have a minute.

Please note that the following quotation marks are not being added to designate that I am quoting directly from the sticker. The quotation marks are part of the original document. For clarity I will italicize the quoted portion. The next paragraph will be the cord sticker document in its entirety.

"WARNING" "RISK OF FIRE / INJURY TO PERSONS. Keep away from combustibles. Turn off / unplug to change bulb. Do not touch bulb. Do not operate without complete bulb enclosure in place or if lens is damaged." "THE LAMP SHOULD BE UNPLUGGED BEFORE REPLACING THE BULB." MADE IN CHINA (emphasis added, see above)
("warning sticker" cord: desktop halogen task lamp issue number BJ-91,767)

Forgive me if I failed to site the sticker properly, but there is no entry for warning stickers in my MLA handbook. What I find more appalling is that the sticker is obviously quoting a warning from another source, yet it makes no effort to give any credit to the original author.

I believe something needs to be done about this if the integrity of desk lamp warning stickers is to be maintained. I would go on, but it is late, and I am tired, and I just finished transcribing my desk lamp's warning sticker.

Because I Know Heads of State Read My Blog

Fidel Castro commended the pope today for helping the poor. Way to go Castro, but your funeral still won't be as big. Speaking of funerals, you need to get on that Fidel. Breaking your knee was a good start, but I think the world is ready for the next step.

My Daily Copout in Three Lines

If my life is a song
I’m stuck in the instrumental
And I’m sick of the solo.

Yeah, it's a sonnet, about ham... what's the problem?

Goodbye Easter Ham

I loved you like no other, yon ham.
With happy heart and joyous face
I supped with you and not roast lamb.
And licked my lips with poise and grace.

Extra care I gave to save you
In a Ziploc bag sealed with a kiss.
Oh muse, love with absence indeed grew
Fonder, in dreams of you on Swiss.

But something terrible transpired.
Locked gate separated me and fridge.
My bosom was robbed of all it desired
By a chasm that no man could bridge.

Apart from you in pain I dwell
Here all alone in my hamless hell.

The Deli Giveth and the Deli Taketh Away

"For here or to go?" It is a simple question really, one that I answered many times without ever giving thought to just what it could come to mean. More often than not I answered "to go", never realizing that my very words were being collected and concentrated like drops of caustic venom in a mad scientist's laboratory to one day be spit back in my face, much like a cobra spits into the eyes of an aggressor, or, more aptly, like a mother bird poisons its chicks with her deadly regurgitation.

And what, you ask, might be the first course? A chilled plate of Cold-Blooded Convenience, followed by the new house special: leg of Shattered Expectations slathered in Woebegone sauce.

Apparently proper human decency and Christian love are no longer on the menu at the Point Break Cafe. That's right, the sandwich bar is gone. Gone are the pickles, cucumbers, onions and mushrooms. Gone is the hopeful twinkle I saw in my roommate's eye every time he branched out and ordered roast beef on rye instead of turkey on wheat. Ah, turkey on wheat--our once rapturous and tear-filled reunions have been reduced to the businesslike formality of a trip to the cafeteria; what once was a welcoming path to your delicious embrace is no longer a through street.

This parting took place some time ago, but it was a wound too great and too deep to be treated when it was first dealt. And like the bloody carnage wrought by a bullet must be suppressed by morphine and a torn bed sheet while the enemy presses in, the necessity of moving on forced me to treat my pain with a half-felt joke and a cup of Yoplait.

Well, the healing powers in a serving of dairy only last so long, and as I begin to peel back the blood caked bandages and swab my wound with pre-made ham on croissant, I feel as if buying PBC credit was like investing $150 in a bank that switched from dollars to wampum or in a chicken that switched from eggs to grandma's old L'eggs.

Oh how I long for a second chance, just one more opportunity to answer that ancient question with the knowledge that I now possess. "For Here!" I would shout it to the heavens. I would tear my shirt and beat my breast, pour ashes on my head for another chance to have a freshly made sandwich from the PBC. But for now I can only fill out a comment card from time to time and return to my fruitless search to find something that will fill this provolone-shaped hole in my heart.

I am pretty sure throwing pennies into this fountain prevents your wish from coming true.

I Am Completely Out of Ideas

I have no inspiration and no clue what I am about to write. Don't say I didn't warn you, because what follows will be unedited and uncensored free-flowing stream of thought madness.

I used to spend my time coming up with proverbs like "no rooster can lay quite like a hen." I think that was a good use of my time, considering that I could have been eating things I found on the ground instead.

Last summer during our family reunion my brother and I stayed up until three in the morning laughing about how funny a Bad Dudes movie would be. The walls in the cabin were pretty thin, so my mom also stayed up until three in the morning not laughing about how funny a Bad Dudes movie would be, but I bet it warmed her heart anyway. We were right though, it would be funny. What isn't funny about two bad dudes battling thousands of color-coded ninjas as they run, walk and train hop their way to the White House so they can rescue the president?

I have an interview for covenant group leader in twenty minutes. I guess I should get pretty and head out soon.

Well, that was fun. I hope you had a good time. See you later. I'll miss you. Don't forget to write. Oh yes, and don't say I didn't warn you.

Every Part of Monday Blows Chunks

Working late on Sunday night is not the part that sucks, it's working early on Monday. Which part of early Monday you ask? It's either the right-now part, the 7:30-class-I-havn't-done-the-work-for part, or the rest-of-the-day-after-the-other-two-parts part. I choose all of the above. All of those parts suck equally. They are the perfect trifecta of suck. They suck in ways that I am not aware of because I was raised in a conservative Christian home.

Moral of the story: Life is just an extended metaphore for death.

Is my cat Jabba the Hutt?

How dope are water wings?

Kids get all the breaks. I mean, come on... fun dip? Adults aren't even allowed to eat fun dip, that's why it's called "Adult Onset Diabetes."

Six Shots or None at All

In other news... Hey, I forgot to tell you, something amazing happened on the 18th, at 12:32 p.m.

There, I remembered. Actually, I remembered a few minutes ago, before I signed in and started this post. I had to discuss it with myself first because I really should be working on homework right now, but it can wait... it always does.

So, on the 18th I was having a conversation with a buddy of mine via the latest version of MSN messenger when she was cut off from the internet. I figured she would be back on soon enough, so while I waited I began scanning the room for what I suspected to be a fly that had hit my hand earlier.

Indeed it was a fly, but this was no ordinary fly. I am pretty sure this was the fly from The Fly. This fly had the look of an insect that has been genetically bonded with a cutting-edge scientist who now spends his time being a friggin huge fly and killing people just because he can, since there are no newspapers big enough to end him.

Now, usually I am quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry, but on the 18th I was just being an idiot who really wanted to bag a fly big enough to mount above the hearth.

Hang on a sec, I am sick of typing the word "fly" so much, and it is going to come up quite a bit, so from now on I will refer to the creature by its true name: Seth Brundle.

Now, Dr. Brundle wasn't about to go down without a fight. Fortunately, his little brain is not really designed for thinking thoughts any more complex than "100110" so I knew I wasn't up against strategy or anything like that. What Seth did have were wings, courage, and perseverance. Courage and Perseverance, these are important. If I ever decide to actually pour my heart out on this blog, those words will come up again, but for now, suffice to say they will add a good eight minutes to any fly's life, which is about two years in fly years.

He seemed determined to stay on the window, which I thought was a good thing as I proceeded to swing at him with a newspaper (which, as we have already been over, has no effect on gigantic fly people).

Then came my moment of opportunity. Brundle's little mind did not foresee the danger in landing on the edge of the window sill, where the window hits when it opens. My little mind, unfortunately, did not foresee any of the things that glass can do besides not break.

With the strength of a weak and sickly baby ox I slide the window open to crush the Brundle.

Now would be a good time to tell you something about flies. They see in slow motion, and all they care about is not dying, so while I wasn't thinking at all, Seth was on top of things, and dodged my feeble attempt at strategic attack.

The window slammed against the wall and I immediately had a new problem, one I have been alluding to for far too long: a crack in my window that was not there before. Judging by the not-cracked condition of my window in the pre-slam stage, I am forced to conclude that my actions were somehow linked to the now multiple pieces of glass comprising my window.

It was at this point that my manhood was on the line. Seth Brundle, bless his heart, could not be permitted to live, lest I be expelled from my tribe.

I am still in the tribe, so needless to say, Brundle got royally f-ed up.

As Brundle lay twitchy in his shallow grave/my trash can, my friend logged back on and I informed her of the situation. Her response: "Did you get those files I was sending?"

Cool response dude.

Why I Wish I Was Disabled

Animal crackers suck

It turns out that root beer is the best kind of soda drink imaginable. Seriously, I just proved it today ontologically.

Now, on to the topic at hand. I have before me a keyboard and computer, but slightly off to my left (your west) I have a box of Nabisco brand Barnum's Animals variety Crackers. On it I see various adult male animals, with their respective young, all horribly out of proportion.

While these animal crackers may be a good source of calcium, they are unfortunately also a good source of the taste of old man's butt marinated in clover honey.

Seriously, I bought the box because I remembered liking them, but it turns out that they are freaking gross, so I could never have liked them for their taste. I must have been fooled into wanting them because of the cool box they came in. Little kids are stupid by definition, so it stands to reason that in my child form I was drawn to eat disgusting crackers.

I mean, it used to be a special event in my yet unformed mind when we went out to a grownups' restaurant, because on the way we stopped at McDonald's and I got a cardboard house-shaped box with molded pieces of fried particleboard chicken, French fries, and a "toy" that was not fun to play with and that could not, or would not, interact with any of my actual toys that I already had plenty of back at home.

I was going to save the box, but now I'm getting rid of it, and I'm not even going to recycle it because I don't want to live in fear that my next grocery bag will be made from 75% post consumer marinated butt.

The end.

This is my button, hanging out on my desk with some paper clips, staples, and my friend's In-N-Out nametag. I liked it better with my shorts.

Ode to my button

I have no memories of you,
Only memories with you.
But now that you are gone,
My memories are few.

A belt without a button:
Pat Sajack without a clue.

the Moment for you've all been waiting about

Furthermore, my finals pretty much were unto me as baby wipes are unto a thoughtful mother with a recently poop-ed baby: they have no say regarding the manner in which they are to be used.

"I believe it was Saint Augustine who put it best." - Two Guns

"He who quotes himself often is often himself quoted." - anonymous

"That wasn't funny." - Loser24

Well, basically, as you can by now well see, I have nothing to say at the moment, but hopefully this entry will stop the steady stream of emails I have been deleteing [which were] demanding another one of these things that I am doing right now. (let me know how that last one goes over, I think I might be trying too hard, that is, not trying hard enough)

And in conclusion, however, I am done for now.