Filth the Female Condition

I'm sorry, it's gone too far. I can't take anymore of this fecal matter. That stupid b!@#$ Stephanie Meyer has to be sorted out. They turn women into giddy little morons, and that's just infringing on male territory. Listen ladies, we've got the moron thing covered, we don't need your sad attempts at trying to stoop to our level.
Every time I hear women talk about the Twilight series they begin to sound less and less intelligent and more and more like ditsy, pathetic, air-headed high school girls who lack any novel personality traits. From what I hear (from my wife who is addicted to the abomination), the writing in these books is not even good. Turns out the author just throws in largish words to make it look like she's good at writing. Apparently the one thing she is good at, other than bringing people down, is making the reader (and the demographic of which is female) feel like a high school girl with a crush, which explains how the readers act when they talk about the books.
What happened to good literature? What happened to the Catcher in the Rye, 1984, and Small Island? What happened to Tyler Durden, Boo Radley, and Soup?
What kills me most is when women think that men would like these books. Yes, it has been known to happen, but for the most part these books are for women. They were written by a woman for other women. Men don't write about sparkly, shimmering vampires. For guys, vampires don't sparkle, vampires don't shimmer.
I'll probably write more on this as it continues to bother me, but for now I'm tired and losing my train of thought.

The Blender out-golfed the Puma.

Last night I found out that some people, even those closest to me, may not be aware of something that has always been a large part of my life and who I am as a person. This saddened me and I feel the need to bring this funfact to the attention of all three people who read the crap I write. Alright, so here it is: I love Koolaid.
Since I was a young chap sucking on the stretched out neck of my t-shirt I've loved the stuff. For years Grape was the ruling champion in the fight for the coveted position of favorite flavor. That was until one faithful summer morning 6 years ago when I stumbled upon Mango. Actually I don't remember exactly when I met Mango, but we've been thoroughly fond of one another since. For years and years Koolaid has been my primary source of nutrition, a fact that seems to have taken those closest to me unawares.
I suppose it's not their fault. I go through stages of foods. Such phases include but aren't limited to: Mint Hershey Kisses (which were ingested in disgusting quantities), Koolaid, KitKats, ButterFingers, Baby Ruths, doughnuts, granola bars, bananas, toast, popsicles, Rice Krispy Treats (a personal favorite), and the current obsession: peanut butter (by the spoonful).
All of these have a very special place in my heart and stomach.

There aren't enough mint brownies to keep from eating my hand.

Here's the thing about the subconscious: I don't buy it. I obviously don't know that much about it but it seems a little too fantastical for me to swallow. If I do in fact have a subconscious making decisions without my consent, having thoughts without my being aware, and doing things in secret from my world of conscious thought, then I'm a little creeped out. It's like there's another person inside of me, someone who's keeping things from me. That's just plain weird. This idea sounds more like Dissociative Identity Disorder (formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder).
Maybe I've got it all wrong. In fact this is highly likely. Obviously there are things that the body does without conscious thought like the beating of the heart, the maintaining of certain bodily functions that, were it up to actual conscious thought to initiate, we wouldn't last very long. But is that proof enough for the existence of a part of my mind that is doing things and influencing and motivating my decisions without my being aware of it? Just let the insanity sink in. I think I'm just tired so I'm talking crazy.

"Nothing else will fit right,
Or seem so directly applied,
Than fitted shirt hung on me,
Fitted shirt alright..."
-Spoon

This is one of my favorite Spoon songs. And it's also an eternal truth. Throughout my entire life I've had dress shirts that were too big; the sleeves big enough to fit two or three of my arms through at once, the shirt ballooning and bunching up around my waist and torso...hideous and uncomfortable. I'd find and purchase random fitted shirts now and then, but it was always difficult to find a white one, which would be of most use.
Yesterday I purchased a white fitted dress shirt. It fits perfectly. It's hard to fully explain the elation that comes from wearing clothes that actually fit. Hoorah and kudos for clothes that aren't mass produced to hang off of various body types, but are made with care and purpose for individuals who enjoy clothes that fit right.

The Death of Conscience

When I was young I loved animals. Then my parent's got a shitzu and my feelings changed. Maybe it's because I just woke up but this video made me so angry, so I thought I would share it. You should know that this footage isn't appropriate for kids. I don't know how to put this video on my page, so you might have to copy and paste.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2p6lyRZ66-s

I know it's sick, but whatever, it sounds good.

Okay, here's another top 5. I realized a long while ago that there are a lot of really good songs that just happen to be about murder and/or murderers. So here it is, again, in no particular order:
1. Westfall, Okkervil River.
2. John Wayne Gacy Jr., Sufjan Stevens.
3. The War Criminal Rises and Speaks, Okkervil River.
4. Black Dirt, Sea Wolf.
5. Turn, Smile, Shift, Repeat, Phantom Planet. This one was difficult, there are so many good ones. This is my tentative 5th choice.

Our Latern's O' Jack rule.

Is it weird that I find Garden State a comfort? Is that weird? Yeah...yeah, I think that's weird. Maybe it's the soundtrack. Or the fact that the weather is autumn-ish and stormy, that's always been comforting to me. Anyway, here's a picture for your viewing pleasure.

So tired it hurts.

I just finished watching one of my favorite movies, which I hadn't watched in years, with my baby baby sweet baby. Movies are one of my favorite things...ever. And one of my favorites is The Shawshank Redemption. This movie has it all: great performances, nice score, it's emotionally stimulating (for better and worse), it has memorable quotes, and it makes me happy to be alive. For those of you, if any, that haven't taken the time to watch this film I highly recommend the 2 hour or so investment.
The only problem with the movie is that it makes me homesick. It gets me thinking about where I'd like to be if we weren't confined to the routine of school and work. So now I just miss the ocean and wish I was on a white sand beach watching the waves crash against the shore, the water pushing it's way up to carefully wet my feet, dark storm clouds gather across the water in the distance. I'd say something stupid as Michelle sips her Peach Daiquiri, and I'd laugh as the ice cold liquid would shoot out her nose. Ahhh...delicious dreams.

I suck as a student, but I'm great at watching movies.

I feel it's time for a list. Today's topic: A few Top 5s. Now keep in mind, these have no particular order, just the top 5.

Actors:
1. Christian Bale.
2. Daniel Day Lewis.
3. Ryan Gosling.
4. Brad Pitt.
5. This spot is a tie between many actors including John Cusack, Jim Carrey, Dustin Hoffman, Mark Wahlberg, Jason Shwartzman, Bill Murray, Joseph Gordon Levitt, Ryan Reynolds, and others. It may seem like cheating to include so many people in a top 5 list but it's my list, so whatever.

Books:
1. The Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger.
2. Me Talk Pretty One Day, David Sedaris.
3. Soup and Me, Robert Newton Peck.
4. 1984, George Orwell.
5. The Fires of Heaven, Robert Jordan.

T.V. Shows:
1. Seinfeld.
2. Arrested Development.
3. The Office.
4. House.
5. Simpsons.

Songs:
1. EZ, Pete Yorn.
2. Jacksonville Skyline, Whiskeytown.
3. Raining in Baltimore, Counting Crows.
4. Right Here Waiting, Richard Marx.
5. Used to be Alright, I Mother Earth.

Albums:
1. Musicforthemorningafter, Pete Yorn.
2. Beautiful Midnight, Matthew Good Band.
3. Secret Samadhi, Live.
4. Blacksheep Boy, Okkervil River.
5. Nasty Little Thoughts, Stroke 9.

Places I need to see before I die:
1. Egypt.
2. Ireland.
3. England.
4. Israel.
5. Savannah, Georgia. (In spring, summer, and fall.)

Things I want to be when I grow up...when I was 8 yrs. old:
1. Scientist.
2. Archaeologist.
3. Fire Truck.
4. Ninja.
5. Chef. (And I only became one of these things.)

Favorite Seasons:
Ha! Almost had ya.

Things that make life worth living:
1. Michelle.
2. Lightning storms and storms in general.
3. #6 Biggie-sized with Mr. Pibb.
4. Candy.
5. Hanging out with friends.

Software Softball

Class ended late today. He stepped out the door and into a world he recognized only from dreams. The air was clearer than it had been in weeks; crisp with a slight breeze that felt strange against his face. The setted sun still lit the pale eastern sky above the mountains with a faint light. The rest of the sky was covered with dark grayish purple clouds, parts of which were painted a soft orange color by the city lights. He began his walk down the sidewalk, towards his flat, but paused at the top of the stairs that led down the long hill. He looked out again over the valley, taken back by the foreign familiarity of it all.
To his left was an amphitheatre that looked out over most of the valley. He stepped off the shoveled sidewalk and into the snow. The first six inches of snow had been frozen solid by the preceding weeks of sub-zero temperatures, so his shoes only sunk through the top half-inch of powder from earlier that morning. He made his way to amphitheatre, across the second row, walking on the bench until he reached the middle aisle, then turned and looked out across the valley. He could see the trail of lights from cars heading toward the canyon to the Southeast. Cliffside hill, the long steep road that led to the house he grew up, in was illuminated by the streetlamps reflecting on the snowy hills. The scene felt surreal. He couldn’t get it out of his mind; he just stood there in awe.
The soft breeze kissed his face and he closed his eyes, pretending it was a cool summer breeze, relieving him from the hot summer evening. It felt like a dream. The cars drove through imaginary streets to their imaginary homes. Streetlamps, pale blue or creamy orange, lit little sections of the scene, making a cartoon of the town. The valley looked like a Christmas tree, dotted with lights all over.
“This is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen,” he thought to himself. “No matter what I do I can never share this with anyone. I’m the only one in the world with this view right now. God made this scene for me and me only. Even if I had my camera there’s no way I could capture this.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then looked up. “Thank you.”
He looked out again over his view, wishing he could stay there forever, then turned and slowly started back towards the sidewalk. He made his way down the steps to the path that led down the hill and to the underpass. His steps sounded hollow as he walked through the tunnel. It was this that turned his attention to the sound of his footsteps. He’d always loved the sound of shoes on pavement or loose gravel or dirt. These particular shoes made a soft thud when the heels hit the sidewalk. He continued out of the tunnel and to another sidewalk that was covered in snow. His path was lit by a tall streetlamp and the orange glow made the snow bright and alive.
He closed his eyes, looked to the sky, and held out his arms as if they were wings, tilting them side to side slowly to adjust his course. As he put his left arm down his right arm went up and, with his head back, he couldn't sturdy himself when he stepped on the ice. All of his weight conspired with gravity to pull him to the ground and into the snow. A spike from a small, iron-wrought, garden fence went through the back of his neck, dislocating the top of his spine and piercing his brain. Pinned to the ground, unable to move, unable to feel. He was unaware of the halo of red saturated the snow around his neck and head. There he lay, looking at the soft orange light from the lamppost. The light began to flicker. He strained to focus his eyes. The light flickered again then, went dark.

I was tagged, so I had to.

4 Places I Visit Over and Over
1. Smiths. What can I say, the best grocery store ever.
2. Brett's house.
3. My spot. Most don't know where it's at.
4. Wendy's. If I'm at Wendy's that means I'm with friends and that means
guaranteed laughs and good times.

4 People who call/text/email me regularly
1. Michelle, my baby baby sweet baby.
2. Brett (V).
3. My mum. She's kinda crazy.
4. Don Juan.

4 Favorite Foods
1. Spicy Chicken Combo Biggie-Sized w/ Mr. Pibb. And of course, honey-mustard for the fries.
2. Philly Cheese Steak. Mmmmm......
3. Poppy seed chicken, cream-cheese corn, baked red potatoes with specific seasonings, and my grandma's cake for dessert.
4. And PIZZA!!!!

4 Places I'd Rather Be
1. Australia.
2. Savannah, GA.
3. Heaven?
4. Egypt.

4 Movies I'd Watch Over and Over
1. This one is easy, Ferris Bueller's Day Off.
2. I Heart Huckabees.
3. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang.
4. Stay.

4 Bands/Groups I love to listen to
1. Matthew Good (Band).
2. Counting Crows.
3. Code Hero.
4. Okkervil River.

4 People I'm Tagging
1. N8
2. Michelle.
3. Lisa.
4. Anne.

An Inciteful Look Into the Mind of a Crazy.

I don't remember exactly when it all started but I can tell you it's been happening for some time. I'm talking years. I finally came to the realization that my thoughts were almost always in an accent other than my own, usually Australian, English, or Irish. It was at this point that I realized that my mind had a mind of its own and thus deserved a name, and Henry seemed as appropriate as any, after all, he came up with it himself.
Henry isn't the best at filing and we often have difficulty remembering things and retrieving those files. But, as I've come to find, if we think about something long enough we're bound to remember. I realize that referring to myself and my mind as "we" makes me sound like someone with Dissotiative Identity Disorder, but it's really not like tha...no, no actually you'd probably be right. But it keeps life interesting.
Anyway, I figure it's a good idea to have Henry around because I can always blame things in him. I suppose that, since I'm talking about it, I should introduce the rest of the gang. My stomach was the first of my body parts to receive a name and that name was Chunk. After Henry was christened, I decided that my heart had been around long enough and caused me plenty of trouble, grief, and pain that it needed to be given a name as well, and so it became known as Esteban.
I hope this will be helpful in reading any further stories found on this site. Thank you and farewell.

Chunk was pissed, but Esteban was on the top of the world.

I hardly slept the night before. I think it was the excitement; the anticipation. That or the fact that I didn't take my sleeping pills and I'm an insomniac. Either way, I was exhausted. But when I stepped out the front door into the most beautiful morning I'd seen in months, I was in awe. The sweet smell of the blossoming trees mixed perfectly with the smell of the coming rain. The dark bluish gray clouds blanketed the sky, giving a comfortable, slightly melancholy mood: my favorite. Were it a real day off from work I would have stopped to enjoy this moment for a lot longer, but I had things to get done.
I've always had a habit of planning things out in my head. From lists of things to buy at the store to the 'to do' stuff after work, I'll plan and recite and repeat the order over and over until I've accomplished what I'd listed. Sometimes I'll even say it out loud to myself. And it was the same on this day. ATM, bank, leave town, shop for pants, pick up ring, ask dad, head home before I'm supposed to get off work. After I accomplished the first two things on my list I downed an energy drink and hit the road.
Just over an hour later I got out of my car in the parking lot of the New Gate Mall in downtown Salt Lake City and the delicious smell of summer hit my nose. I smiled and continued on with my list. After a disappointing visit to several stores in search of slacks I found myself at the strange, yet fun, company that held the ring I'd ordered. I then dropped more money than I'd ever spent on anything, and all on an object that was the size of a nickel.
This is taking too long...let's see...skipping...skipping...ah, so I'd planned a romantic evening with Michelle, my skirt, and I got back from SLC with just enough time to get a hair cut (so I could look presentable) and get ready before she came over to my place. We ate at Hamilton's, probably the nicest restaurant in town, which completely pissed off my stomach because I hadn't eaten all day. So we came back to my place and I laid down for a bit. I looked out the window a little while later to find the sky in a absolutely beautiful array of colors. I decided we needed to go to our 'spot' and watch the sun set.
Now, I must preface this by saying that I had no intention of asking the babe a question, in fact I'd been planning on faking her out all night by kneeling to tie my shoe, kneeling to pick something up that had fallen off the table at dinner, and the like. However, with the sky painted varying shades of red, orange, purple, and yellow, I realized the setting was too perfect to pass up. As the broad in question wandered away from the car to inspect an uprooted tree nearby, I pulled a small, black, velvety box from under my car seat, knelt down on one knee, and said, "Question." She turned around to see me there holding a box that held a diamond ring. She covered her mouth and proceeded to hyperventilate. I continued with my question, which, if I remember correctly, went something like, "Will you marry me?" I know, I know, I'm very original, but I didn't have a quirky way to ask. I didn't have any fancy words or funny lines. All I had was a my life savings in a little black velvety box and a hope to have this babe as my wife.

Cream Cheese and Poppy Seeds

When I die you guys better bloody well just chuck my corpse into a homemade, plywood box and throw it in a hole, because I can't imagine spending mucho dinero on something as worthless as a coffin. Better yet, get a cardboard box, that way you won't have to waste the time and money on making one out of plywood. Or you could just wrap my lifeless corpse with plastic wrap or tinfoil. I suppose that one would be considered littering, but no one really cares about the planet anyway, and I'll be dead and gone so I won't give a pooh.
I was watching the movie Eulogy, a hilarious movie with an all-star cast (a tad crass, but funny), while eating noodles and it got me thinking about the subject of death. Well, that and burning boats. At any rate, if I look down from that waiting room on high and find that someone wasted more than say...$75 on my funeral and burying expenses, I'm going to come down and personally haunt them until they loose their mind and take to barking at the wall.

Three, three sticks.

I stayed up late the night before our flight, packing and preparing. As I stuffed my CaseLogic cd case in my suitcase I couldn't help but imagine our flight crashing into a mountain or exploding in midair, the tattered remains of luggage and bodies falling into some farmers field in the middle of Oklahoma. Flying had always been a bittersweet experience for me as during the take-off and actual flight I had to concentrate on anything but my approaching, imminent death, and the landing was the relief that freed me from the burden of unimportant thoughts.
So there I was, stuffing my baseball glove between my church shoes and binoculars and thinking of how it will feel when the pilot announces that we're going to crash and what it will be like to know that death is moments away. Then it came to me: I should write my will. Where would all my stuff go if I died unexpectedly? This was my chance to write a note to my surviving friends and let them know that I'll miss them, that I saw this incident coming, and how exactly they could divide my assets. Thus, at 1:30 am, in my basement room, with thoughts of watching the seats in front mine rush toward me as the nose of the plane smashes into a mountain side, I began writing my farewell note.
"Dear Friends," I started. No no, "To whom it may concern," yeah, that's it. "To whom it may concern, and to whoever may find this note, if you are finding it then our plane must have crashed and we must be dead." What if someone robs our house and finds this note? After considering this as a possibility I decided that is was highly unlikely, and went on with my letter.
I told of how much I would miss each of my friends. I left my baseball cards and baseball memorabilia to my best friend Brett, as he would appreciate these most and because these were my most valuable possessions. He would also get my photos. I've loved pictures all my life, mostly because I love to reminisce and partly because I like to see how things and people used to look.
As I finished up the note I realized that I should include something daring, something I would never say while I was alive. I would declare my undying love for a girl. Now, saying you were interested in a girl and talking about girls at the age of 14 is something that is fairly common for boys to do. However, I'd been teased at a young age by my mom and older sister about liking a girl and this did not bode well with my already shy nature and lack of confidence. So instead of casual conversations in the confidence of my best friends about the girls I liked, I avoided the subject and refused to offer any information or clues leading to the discovery of my feelings. Accomplishing this, while trying to solidify my role as a heterosexual, became more and more of a challenge. But I'll save that for another day.
Assuming that if anyone read my note I was dead and thus I wouldn't have to face the embarrassment of allowing others to know my feelings, or that I would survive the plane rides to and from Georgia and find the silly letter lying on my dresser, I continued to write of my romantic interest in a girl I'd only talked to once. Nicole Clark must know of my feelings for her so she could mourn her loss appropriately.
In all the excitement of lying around my grandparent's house, and the stressful flights surrounding those events, I'd forgotten about my unnotorized will awaiting my return. I picked it up and smiled, laughed at my insecurity, and tore it up into tiny pieces so no one would find my incriminating testimony.

Home Sweet Freakin' Home

There's a relatively small city in a mountain valley in northern Utah. It's in this cozy little place that one might come across some interesting people. These people vary, but it's their unique quirks that give this place it's character.
First of all there's Bert, a man with a slight mental disability who rides his bike all around the valley for no apparent reason, waiving and smiling at everyone he sees. I've seen him riding his bike since I was really young, and he may have been doing it a lot longer. I'm not sure what his story is, but it brightens my day to see him smile and wave and honk his little horn. I always wave back, trying to match the size of his smile as best I can to show my appreciation. I've long suspected that he's getting paid to do this by someone or some company, but I have yet to attain any evidence. Bert passed me in the grocery store once. We exchanged salutations but other than that I haven't really met him or had a chance to interview him.
Then there's the Latin-American guy that stands on 10th North and Main all day preaching what he believes to be the "word of God". From what I've heard, he was converted to the LDS church then had a dream or feeling or something that convinced him he should stand on the street corner and call the people to repentance. I admired him for doing what he thought God wanted him to, though it seemed a slight ineffective. All summer, all winter, there he stood, yelling from his corner to people driving by. Then, one day, I noticed he wasn't there. My friend informed me that the word on the street was that he had been deported due to his illegal residence. Weird.
And of course, lest we forget, there's the man who brings a smile to my face just thinking about him whom we've come to affectionately refer to as: Francesco, or Kevin for short. This man can be spotted riding an adult sized tricycle up and down center street wearing a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, a thick, dark mustache, and sometimes...yellow rubber dish gloves. His hog is decked out with a basket on the back, upon which is mounted one of those little windmills often purchased for children.
These people, and many like them, provide the residents of this little mountain community a special and unique form of entertainment, one that might be difficult to find elsewhere. Hoorah and kudos to these fine individuals who make our lives a little happier.

Those Chucks won't fit Anne.

I've been doing grocery shopping for my mom since I was really young. The setting was always the same. She needed things from the store but didn't have her makeup on, so she, obviously, couldn't go in to the store herself. Thus, she did what any responsible, loving mother would've have done: she gave her eight year old a list of things to get and a blank check and had him shop for her at 1:45 am. She'd wait in the car with my little brother or sister, whoever else she'd brought along for this nocturnal outing, listening to Abba albums or the black Rolf Harris cassette tape my Grandpa had sent her. I didn't mind doing this little chore for her because I had a sweet-tooth and I knew, if I was going in for her, I could get a treat for myself. In fact, she'd always tell me to get myself a little something, almost like a rich person tipping a valet. "And a little something for you, Alfred."
So week after week I found myself piling groceries, cleaning supplies, and personal-care products into a shopping cart in the wee hours of the morning. I enjoyed the time I spent, by myself, in our local Smith's store, pushing my overflowing cart with all my weight down the aisle to the checkout. The cashier would always give me an interesting look as I unloaded the contents of the cart onto the conveyor belt. That look was nothing compared to how they looked at me when I pulled out the check and began filling it out. "How much was the total," I'd ask.
"Uh...ninety six dollars and 14 cents," they said, incredulously.
"Is it okay if I write it for twenty dollars over?" They never answered right away.
"Um...yeah. Yeah, you can do that," they'd finally spit out. "But twenty is the limit."
I was eight when Home Alone came out. I remember watching it in the theater and not understanding why the cashier questions Kevin when he buys some groceries at the store. It wasn't until years later that I realized the novelty of the situation.
From canned soup to dish soap to feminine hygiene products, I got it all. I didn't really know what mascara was, but if my mom told me the brand, color, and what the package looked like, I would get it for her.
As time went on our family grew and the shopping list got longer. I remember one time I completely filled one cart and had to get another to put finish with. I had to carefully maneuver my cart to the checkout and unload the mounded one first so the eggs didn't fall from it's place high atop the mountain of other junk I'd thrown in.
My employment ended when I turned sixteen. I'd found freedom in a driver's license and a job of my own. That's about the time my dad starting doing the grocery shopping.