Humbly Abrasive

Midnight Parties

2010-12-06T07:44:00.000-08:00

Word of the day: Trepidation, meaning: a feeling of alarm or dread. (A word I don't normally use)

There is nothing that eases my trepidation of exposing myself to public places more than doing so around midnight, just to find that most of the public that firmly establishes that place as a public place ceases to clog my path. For instance, shopping for things at midnight. It's a beautiful thing. Ever tried it? I'm sure most people have, but have they done it through the perception, or at least thought about it through the lens of somebody who hates most gatherings of people? Give THAT a shot. It's great. You'll look at it as a haven.

Nevermore!

2010-12-03T06:32:00.000-08:00

I wish to see a musical NEVERMORE! Most uninteresting and bipolar form of entertainment ever (obviously in my own opinion). Nothing against the actors of that play, if they were ever to read this by some chance.

The Disc Chain...

2010-12-02T08:06:00.000-08:00

...would be the name of my magazine if I were to create one focusing on disc golf. I had to do an assignment yesterday for journalism thinking about a site/magazine idea of my own, and that's what I came up with. I actually don't think it would be much of a flop, considering there isn't a whole lot of coverage out there for disc golf as much as other "things." My idea centered around the usual stuff I found in other disc golf magazines (funny thing, I only found two) : course/gear/new disc reviews, tournament coverage, etc. But my big idea was covering one unique park in every issue, including a huge spread with full-page photos of every single hole on the course, detailing the hole number and what its general appeal is. This would give readers a chance to actually take a vivid look at courses they might not have access to from across the nation, which I think a lot of disc golf people would find extremely interesting. I know I would...I feel like I want to make this happen.

If I look back on this years from now, and the idea is a success...good fucking job dude. You have put your life to good use.

So Maybe It Still Happens Here

2010-12-01T03:36:00.000-08:00

I saw my old Psychology professor at the most random tire shop in Grand Rapids, and it was amusing to say the least. End.

Appendage

2010-11-30T09:41:00.000-08:00

The new EP "Appendage" from Circa Survive is out today. After listening to it once, it might be one of those CD's where it needs to grow on the listener through several runs over, but so far, it sounds pretty decent. At the least, it's a complement to "Blue Sky Noise," which is probably one of my favorite albums of all time. People should give it a listen.

Finished Lyric Essay

2010-11-29T10:07:00.000-08:00

Word of the day: Eicastic, meaning: imitative (courtesy of Savethewords.org)

WELL, here is my finished attempt at what is known as a lyric essay. Although I'll admit it's a bit eicastic in comparison to what's already out there, I guess it doesn't seem too bad when I read it over.

Selective Hearing

I want to be deaf…
The words glare back at me. I can hear the anger in their tone in my head; my head that holds my eyes that sink down at the meaningless words I’ve read over and over again, with the same page repeating itself in the same distraught, questioned voice: “You’ve looked me over seven times. Doesn’t that mean you like me? Get that frown off of your face!” But I can’t smile. A college book is another assignment, another grudge that any distinct sound, any sudden shift of particles reminds me of a world outside this little white frame that I curse. I can’t smile with all the sounds. I reach into my white shelving unit and pull out a little baggie of earplugs. Six in total remain - bi-colored with half the end in neon yellow, the other half neon orange – and I take two out. I plop back down on my couch, knead the yellow side into an elongated worm, and stuff one into each ear. The sizzles and pops of foam fitting my ear canal are the exploding brain cells from the heroin the book must have gotten into while I was up. I look back down and all is calm. The words are mute, and the voice in my head is docile. The only sounds are through feeling and sight; the pages whisper softly as they are pulled up, tossed over, and flutter onto the “discard” pile.

I want to be deaf…
It’s Saturday, November 20^th, 2010, and I’m at St. Andrews Hall in Detroit, Michigan. My favorite band – Circa Survive – is playing a sold out show. They are the only band on the lineup I care about though. Animals as Leaders? Codeseven? Dredg? “Never listened to them before. No point in wasting what good hearing I have left on unfamiliar bands.” I take the bi-colored earplugs from my pockets between sets, cram them in my ears, and the gradual muffling of sound is led by a thump. I can hear the blood thumping through my ears, I can feel the bass drum thumping in my chest, but all sound comes from a foot below the water. “Is this what it’s like to be deaf at a concert? How long until Circa Survive plays? The next set? No point in wasting the quality of a good show.” I pluck the plugs from my ears and cram them back in my pocket. I rejoice in the uninhibited coat of loudness that the songs from my favorite Circa Survive album, Blue Sky Noise, are ejected through the venue speakers with. My sister and mom always warn me that I’m going to be deaf by the age of thirty from all of these concerts. “So what? It’s good music. I’d rather be deaf.”

I want to be deaf…
“Is this real? Do I have to listen to this?” The pile of fat, Sicilian ex-step-dad idles in my doorway, running his breath out with the woes and ill tidings both him and my mother suffer. They divorced in 2006, he moved to an apartment (though he frequently visits), yet he’s still in love with her, but the medical system has run their lives through. They are permanently separated, though spiritually united, in order to adequately pay for their medical bills. Thus, he still finds the energy to rant, rant, rant about her next surgery, her new expensive medicine, his planned stay at my house for the entire Spring of 2011 after his next surgery, my flux of responsibilities as the “man of the house,” and what I need to do, do, do. “I can’t change a damn thing about your health care system, I can’t do a damn thing about medicine prices, and I sure can’t do a damn thing about my own devotion to college. I’m still young! Let me worry about that when my time comes, but for now, let me get back to this book!” He was in my life since I was four years old; always told me to listen until somebody’s finished speaking. I bleakly stare back at him with the pads of my fingers depressing the two piles of “discard” and “to do” pages with urgency, watching the same muah-muah-muah scene of Charlie Brown over and over again before me, wishing horribly that I was just deaf.

I want to be deaf…
Here I am, at the late end of October, 2010, hurriedly combing the leaves in my yard into a huge pile so that I may suck them up with the leaf vacuum and get the lawn mowed for the last time of the season. It’s a Monday; I had work from 8:00AM – 10:30PM, class from 10:50AM – 12:05PM, break time, class from 1:40PM – 2:55PM, smaller break, class from 3:05PM – 4:20PM, smallest break, class from 4:30PM – 5:45PM. It takes me half an hour to drive home to Caledonia, so ETA: 6:15PM. I’m tired, my legs are aching, I’m pissed because the lawn mower pull-cord just fell out of the handle loop and underneath the beast; the plastic handle was eaten up, leaving me with nothing but a flimsy string to start the engine. I’ve got shit tons of homework to do afterward and the days are getting shorter, but not short enough to stop me. I’ve gotta’ do, do, do this right. It’s called living life as a commuter, it’s called living life with a single mom who’s pilled out, it’s called pulling up my boot straps (whatever that means) and living in a crunch, one task at a time. “For now, let’s just think about these leaves and this grass.” The power-dial is turned, the pull-string is yanked, and the electric whir and gas-indulging churn of yard maintenance utilities fill my brain with incessant, droning, indistinguishable noise. They sound no different than the lectures I faced today. “On second thought, let’s not.” I sift through my pockets for the Skull Candy headphones, feed them under my shirt and plug the 3.5 mm driver into my iPod; the ear buds are plugged into my head. Volume’s up, and away I go, mowing the lawn at a brisk pace while After the Burial is blasted into my dome, deafening me ever so slightly. An elusive smile might be visible in the cracks of my mouth.

I want to be deaf…
My grandpa is a beast, straight-up. A couple months ago, in September 2010, my mom told me a rather frightening story when I came home from college. My grandpa, who is now 86 or 87 years old, has the “workaholic bug.” No matter how old he is, nobody can tell him to stop working. Hard work flows through his veins, and the minute he is officially sentenced to stop doing anything physically tasking, he will probably shut down and die, voluntarily. In September, he was working on a boat in his private mechanic garage in preparation for fall fishing. He was underneath it, holding the boat up with jack stands, when I guess the boat fell off and landed directly on top of his head. Somehow, he scrambled out, went inside, and called for help from nearby friends, suffering only a minor concussion. I repeat: boat on head, minor concussion, 80-late years old. I recall my mom phoning him to check up on his status a few days after the incident, and when he didn’t pick up, she’d have to yell and slowly enunciate her words on the answering machine: “Dad! This is Susie. Pick up the phone if you’re there…….Dad? Please call me back if you can. I’ll be gone from home, so my cell phone number is #...#...#...#...#...#...#.” This wasn’t because she was too worried, of course. It was because he was hard of hearing and didn’t catch the phone too often, which for him, at 86 or 87, just came naturally. He wasn’t very fond of music, and whenever I’d ask him to take a look at something broken on my car, any advice pertaining to my trunk area was coupled with threats to send screwdrivers through the soft padding of my two twelve-inch subwoofers hiding in back. “You don’t need that shit! It’s uneconomical and just too damn loud. What do you need it that loud for? What do you even need the radio for? You’re just going to ruin your hearing.” Every time he scolds me for it, I fear he’s going to yell so loud he gives himself a heart attack. He isn’t entirely invincible after all, and heart problems have stricken him down before. In fact, he was recently offered to have a device surgically inserted to subdue any future heart ailments, but his response? “Fuck it. I don’t need it. If it’s my time to go, I’m not going to fight it.” He’s an all-natural kind of guy. My response to his screwdriver threats (or at least in my mind)? “Lay off my back, old man! It’s only making me closer in likeness to you: a beast. I’d rather be hard of hearing.”

I want to be deaf…
When I was little, I had a best friend named Kyle Bishop. At the mere age of five or six, the differences between him and I never really made a difference in our friendship. To be terminologically correct, he was mentally retarded. More or less, he was in the special education classes at school, so my time at home away from school was rewarded with our friendship and the time we shared. Kyle was also a drummer. One time, when I was out riding my bike around my neighborhood, I rode by his house and heard his drum-playing permeate through the thin plaster-and-sheet-metal walls that compose our trailer-homes. It was good playing; in fact, it was a lot better (and louder) than I expected to hear from him. It made me wonder if those were the things they taught people in special education classes, that couldn’t learn normally. As Kyle and I advanced in age, it seemed like I matured and became interested in things he couldn’t grapple as a mentally impaired person. Our friendship eventually broke off and died out.

When I was a freshman in high school, I became friends with a kid named Jon Beaulieu (pronounced “Blue”) in gym class. Our friendship was created on the grounds of ceaselessly talking about an upcoming video game we were both awaiting: Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. He was in the same grade as me and he took all the same kinds of classes as I, except there was one thing about him: he had an impressively strong speech impediment. Jon couldn’t speak two sentences without stopping to stutter at the most random words, straining his throat for the right sound and harshly whispering out the faint windy vocals that completed his broken sentences. He literally could not speak for more than ten seconds before his diction was impaled with strain. I was patient with Jon though. I let him talk, never guessed his words, and I let him into my life as a completely “normal” person. He became a best friend to me, and I learned a lot about him that made him one of the most unique people of my life. For instance, because of his stuttering, Jon had to wear a hearing aid. His family and he called it “his ear.” I never fully understood how the hearing aid had anything to do with his speech, as he was usually short to discuss his ailment, but he was the only friend I had that wore a hearing aid. Also, Jon surprised me one day in his basement when he opened up a door to reveal a drum set stashed in a little cubby. Jon was a phenomenal drum player, and I had every intention to convince him to teach me how to do it. I was so jealous of him, and I was also jealous of his house. Compared to the sound-leak-prone housing of my one-leveled neighborhood, I was astonished that his ferocious skills were only halfway audible from upstairs. It was like listening to a private concert with ear plugs in. Unfortunately, my ideals for learning were cut a bit short. Jon was killed in a car accident in April of 2008, before we graduated.

If I became deaf, I wouldn’t lose. I would only gain. I would gain the insight of what it’s like to contend with a world that honors the ample-sensed and unimpeded lives. I would understand a fragment of what my lost friends dealt with; to deal with true ailments.

I want to be deaf…
Third grade is when I remember it the most. I’m sure it happened in other grades too, but third grade was when I really despised hearing that noise. It would come twice a day: once in the morning and once in the afternoon. It was a horrible, gut-wrenching, ceaseless beep that held the air for only a second and a half, but that frame was the fastest conversion I felt from contentment to dread. Wherever I was in the classroom, whatever I was doing, I would have to stop by the command of the office assistant over the intercom: “Mrs. Zoerner (my third grade teacher), can you send Robby down for his pill?” It wasn’t a conspicuous call over a private phone, where the other kids in the room couldn’t hear what was going on. The assistant would just call the room, blurt it out without refrain, and call it suffice. It didn’t take too long before the students in my class were even quick enough to jump at the sudden beep and offer their own guidance before the assistant could chime, “Robby, go get your pill!” I’m sure that assistant lady, who I became so well acquainted with then but have now completely forgotten, did not want to call me every single day as much as I did not want to go. My parents made me take this medicine called Ritalin for this stuff the doctors said I had called ADHD. I wasn’t too sure how feeling like a monotone and mono-minded zombie/robot helped me “get better” when I took it, but I sure knew I hated that beep enough to wish I were deaf in those seconds it came.

I want to be deaf…
November 16, 2010 was my nephew Sawyer’s seventh birthday. It landed on a Tuesday, so school the next morning refrained him from staying up too late. After the participants of his birthday party left the house, Joe Hill (Sawyer’s father, my ex-brother-in-law) let Sawyer and Joey (my other nine year-old nephew) stay up twenty extra minutes past their bedtime until 9:20PM. Those twenty extra minutes were spent amongst us four men in the living room, playing Halo: Reach around the TV. Sawyer and Joey are video game nuts. In particular, they are nuts over Halo. Sawyer was actually reported on by his school teacher a few weeks before because he was interrupting the class by humming and singing songs from Halo instead of paying attention. I was so proud when I found that out. When I was his age, my classic Nintendo was my lifeline.

Since it was Sawyer’s birthday, he got to choose the final game before 9:20 hit. His choice of game type was juggernaut, where one person has to hold onto a skull for a given amount of time (default is two minutes), and the other players try to kill the person holding the skull so they can carry it themselves to rack time. Suiting enough, Sawyer demolished us all (yes, seven year-olds CAN play video games well in this era), ending his birthday in rightly crowned victory. Joey, however, wasn’t too happy with the outcome. He hated playing juggernaut, and the level we played on was pretty much broken; it was custom created by Joey and Sawyer in their spare time, so he really didn’t have a lot to complain about. Joey started pouting and throwing a fit, tossing his arms about and thwacking them on the bongo drums spread around the living room. Joe was an avid drum player in his free time. He played well in high school, and he bought really expensive instruments such as bongos, guitars, wooden sticks – anything that would make rhythmic noise – in order to teach his kids when they got to the right age. Joe nearly had to hoist Joey up by the waist to carry his kicking and screaming son upstairs to calm him down. Sawyer, on the other hand, happily threw down his Xbox controller and picked up his new DSi, taking pictures of himself and laughing giddily. I decided it was a good idea to take Sawyer up myself and ready him for bed.

“Uncle Robby, are you staying the night at our house?” I was trailing behind Sawyer on the stairs when he asked, watching him crawl up the steps like a dog.
“No man, I don’t think tonight will be a good one for that. I have to work and go to class tomorrow.”
“Oh. Do you like school, Uncle Robby?”
Sawyer had turned and stopped on the stairs to ask me that question. I hesitated, but grinned before saying, “Not a whole lot, man. School is definitely not a fun time.”
“Yeah, I know. I don’t really like to be at school either.”
“How are you doing in it, anyways? What’s your favorite thing to do?” I asked as I sat down a couple steps lower than him. We had given up ascending any further. I figured I was in debt for some quality one-on-one with him, since I don’t get to see him as much as I’d like with my tasking work and school schedule.
“Umm, I like recess,” he said. I laughed at how typical the response was. I laughed when he told me he liked to hide near the only tree on the playground and say swear words with his friends. He laughed and seemed astonished when I told him it was absolutely fine to do that, as long as he didn’t do it around people he knew would tell on him or get him in trouble. He laughed when I told him I used swear up a storm when I was his age too.
“How about actual classes though? What’s your favorite subject to do?” He wasn’t so readily equipped with that answer. He was short to tell me what his least favorite subject was: math. I laughed and told him I was studying math at the school I went to. He looked at me like I was an idiot.
“Are classes getting kind of hard for you though? I heard you were having some problems with reading and whatnot.” I already knew the answer was yes, but my stiff and condescending communication with children always bleeds out when I try the hardest. Sawyer was quite a bit behind for most children his age in terms of reading skills. It’s hard to say whether it was lackadaisical parenting or his lack of interest in books that made him stray. In fact, my sister Jennie (his mother) said he might have to take special education classes in order to catch up with the rest of the kids in his grade.
“You see, man, there’s two different kinds of kids that go to school. They have the normal type who take the regular classes there, and then there are kids who have special needs or have sicknesses in their brains that cause them to not learn well. They go to special education classes.”
“Like me?” He asked with such a perplexed countenance. “There are kids my age that already read. There are even kids who are three that can read!”
His question stunned me. The way he said it, I could tell it was information fed to him by another source. That wasn’t anything he would have said without being told otherwise. I wasn’t certain, but I knew my mother was prone to focusing on the bad in life, and blatantly telling her grandchildren what was wrong with their lives, right to their faces. I could hear somebody else’s voice speaking for him. I could hear him misrepresenting his own life. I could hear how confused he probably felt inside, but didn’t take the time to ask many questions and accepted things how they came. I could hear the Halo tunes in his brain silencing and ciphering out the bad. When he asked, I wished I didn’t hear it. I wished I didn’t have to hear his vulnerability as a seven year-old to the ideas and opinions of other people. I wished both he and I were deaf, so I didn’t have to hear the question and he didn’t have to deal with further intrusions on his sense of self.
“Not in the least bit, man. Don’t you ever let anybody tell you that you have a bad brain. It’s okay to not do so well in school, as long as you give it a try. You have to do things you don’t want to do sometimes, but if you deal with it, you will find yourself in an okay spot. Just don’t ever let anybody tell you who you are.”
Our conversation broke from there. I walked Sawyer to his bedroom and let Joe take care of the sleepy-time prayers.

BEST SITE

2010-11-24T16:25:00.000-08:00

EVER. EVER EVER EVER. You could spend all your years allocated for proper parenting wasted away in front of this. SCREW IT! SCREW THE KIDS! DO IT! It's worth it. The kids will love it too. It'll teach them a lot about science. GO NOW!

http://alexonsager.net/pokemon/?one=68&two=80

Haste the Gayness of Bands Breaking Up

2010-11-23T14:20:00.000-08:00

So another band of my liking - Haste the Day - (though not in my EXTREME favorites) is breaking up. And yet again, all we have to read is another generic-sounding goodbye note. The following is taken directly from their website:

www.hastetheday.com

"STATEMENT FROM THE BAND
This is a very difficult announcement to make, but Haste The Day will be doing its final tour February - March 2011. It has been an incredible 10 years and we want to thank all of our amazing fans who have stuck with us through all of our changes and growth as a band. If it weren't for all of you, this band would have been nothing. There are many reasons why HTD is ending, however we mainly feel as though we have created the best music we can and believe it is now time for us to move on to the next stage of our lives. I remember when this band started a decade ago, we wanted to be like the Solid State/Tooth and Nail Records bands we grew up idolizing. We wanted to use our passion for heavy music and the love that God put in us to be a light in the underground scene; letting people know they are loved, important, forgiven no matter what, and capable of using their gifts to serve their fellow man. I never imagined that we would be able to put out five full length albums, tour the world, and develop so many meaningful relationships with the people who came to our shows. Without your support, this wouldn't have been possible.
The 12 Days of Christmas will be in cities that we will not hit on our final tour so please come out to say goodbye this December. For our final tour, which will also be amazing, we are bringing our friends in My Children My Bride, The Chariot, and A Plea for Purging along for our Farewell Tour all across the US and Canada. We will be playing a great selection of songs from all of our records, including all of the fan favorites, rarely played songs, and a few songs that you guys keep begging us to play live. I have no doubt that this will be the best tour we've ever done and we cannot wait to see all of you and give you a hug goodbye.
We love you all, thank you for everything you've been to us, and we can't wait to see you for the last time in 2011! We encourage you to keep your inner flame burning and show it off to the rest of the world!
Much Love to you all,

Mike & Haste the Day"

Selective Hearing

2010-11-22T16:50:00.000-08:00

So I'm supposed to be thinking about how I want to write my last essay for my Creative Non-Fiction class, which is supposed to be a "lyric essay." Basically, these essays just use some sort of technique that weaves itself throughout the essay and such. I had to start a bit of it today, and I'm wondering if it just looks like a bunch of ballsax, or might turn into something worthwhile. Either way, my writing is still convoluted, sucky, and not impressive. I know this. I pumped it out in twenty minutes. It's an assignment, so I can't really complain. I'm trying to base it off of selective hearing/ADHD/medical alleviations for said ailments.

I want to be deaf…
It’s Saturday, November 20^th, 2010, and I’m at St. Andrews Hall in Detroit, Michigan. My favorite band – Circa Survive – is playing a sold out show. They are the only band on the lineup I care about though. Animals as Leaders? Codeseven? Dredg? “Never listened to them before. No point in wasting what good hearing I have left on obscure bands.” I take the bi-colored earplugs from my pockets between sets, cram them in my ears, and the gradual muffling of sound is led by a thump. I can hear the blood thumping through my ears, I can feel the bass drum thumping in my chest, but all sound comes from a foot below the water. “Is this what it’s like to be deaf at a concert? How long until Circa Survive plays? The next set? No point in wasting the quality of a good show.” I pluck the plugs from my ears and cram them back in my pocket. I rejoice in the uninhibited coat of loudness that the songs from my favorite album, Blue Sky Noise, are ejected through the venue speakers with. My sister and mom always warn me that I’m going to be deaf by the age of thirty from all of these concerts. “So what? It’s good music. I’d rather be deaf.”

I want to be deaf…
Is this real? Do I have to listen to this? The pile of Sicilian ex-step-dad idles in my doorway, running his breath out with the woes and ill tidings both him and my mother suffer. He’s still in love with her, but the medical system has run their lives through. He rants, rants, rants about her next surgery, her new expensive medicine, his planned stay at my house for the entire Spring of 2011 after his next surgery, my flux of responsibilities as the “man of the house,” and what I need to do, do, do. “I can’t change a damn thing about your health care system, I can’t do a damn thing about medicine prices, and I sure can’t do a damn thing about my own devotion to college. I’m still young! Let me worry about that when my time comes, but for now, let me get back to this book!” He was in my life since I was four years old; always told me to listen until somebody’s finished speaking. I bleakly stare back at him with the pads of my fingers depressing the two piles of “discard” and “to do” pages with urgency, watching the same muah-muah-muah scene of Charlie Brown over and over again before me, wishing horribly that I was just deaf.

Circa Survive Review

2010-11-21T15:29:00.000-08:00

I decided to curb my Friday blog post in exchange for posting this today, which is my first article ever written for some kind of newspaper. I wrote this CD/concert review for the Saint, and this is the unedited, first draft that came outta' me:

Blue Sky Noise Storms Detroit

On Saturday, November 20th, Pennsylvania-based progressive-indie quintet Circa Survive played to a sold out crowd at St. Andrews Hall in Detroit. The show was a part of their ongoing “Blue Sky Noise” U.S. tour, in support of their newest album of the same name which met store shelves in April of this year. Bands supporting Circa Survive for the entire tour were Dredg, Codeseven, and Animals As Leaders.

The Detroit crowd made it obvious that Circa Survive was the main - if only - attraction on the roster. Reactions were warm and applause was ample for most of the opening bands, but the loudest approval came when Circa Survive’s lead singer, Anthony Green, played as the guest bass player for one Codeseven song. As soon as Dredg ended their set and Circa Survive’s equipment was setting up, a surge of bodies pressed toward the front row in excessive force, trying to secure the perfect vantage point for the headlining set.

Cheers and angst were only heightened as the powerful first note of Blue Sky Noise’s opening track, “Strange Terrain,” commanded a flurry of crowd-covering confetti from stage-side cannons and the bellowing, half-raspy, off-key exulting voices of fans all around singing along. Through the mass repetition of the first verse, where Green proclaims, “no one could see if we ended up where we needed to be,” the crowd was an implicit verification for Blue Sky Noise’s success and for Circa Survive attending terrain that might not be as strange as they thought.

The remaining introductory quarter of Blue Sky Noise was pumped out proceeding this as the CD’s first single “Get Out” and jam-heavy “Glass Arrows” further energized the performance and instigated the first storm of crowd and band movement. As “Get Out” gradually builds at the end toward a heavier, groovy breakdown that strays from their typical style, guitarists Colin Frangicetto, Nick Beard, and Brendan Ekstrom were up and down in sync; Anthony Green was dancing everywhere, along with the unbalanced dancing and shoving of fans.

Long-time Circa Survive fans were well-awarded too with the inclusion of older songs on the set list from their freshman and sophomore albums, Juturna and On Letting Go, respectively. A hybrid song was even created during the night, where a standing crowd favorite, “In Fear and Faith,” was mixed with a song called “Invalid Litter Dept.” by the now-defunct band, At the Drive-In (associated with the Mars Volta). During past shows, Circa Survive have made a habit of covering other bands impressionable to them such as Nirvana.

In the spirit of blending the old with the new, Anthony Green solidified his role as the origin of energy and antics. Reflecting an earlier show in Cleveland during March of 2010 where he was shouting another standing favorite, “Act Appalled,” from the rafters above the crowd, Green was held up on his knees by adoring fans as he sung the last portion of Blue Sky Noise’s second single, “Imaginary Enemy,” before its exploding guitar solo. Similar to 2007’s Van’s Warped Tour too, where Green was adorned with a sundress and making wisecracks during many sets, he literally demanded the entire crowd to act as if they were shooting lazers at him, to make poodle noises, and to emit the most powerful “death growl” they could.

Other notable additions to the show included rotund confetti-filled balloons punched around the venue from ceiling to balcony, along with a segment where the band invited the Detroit members of their personal fan club, the “Creature Club,” to sing on stage the chorus of the mellow and acoustic “Spirit of the Stairwell” off the new album. The entire display demanded an encore from the crowd, which was valued with three additional songs from Blue Sky Noise. They started off with the instrumental “Compendium” and continued with “Dyed in the Wool,” completing the final quarter of the CD.

Before singing with the crowd the final song of the night, “I Felt Free,” Green urged the crowd to “take the feeling you find here with you, take it out with you wherever you go and do with it what you want. Share it with friends and family; let people know about it.” Consider this an act of sharing then. Circa Survive will be returning to Michigan with co-headliner Anberlin and Foxy Shazam on Friday, January 21st to play at the Orbit Room in Grand Rapids. After addressing the events of the November 20th show as “the most fun we’ve had in Detroit so far,” don’t miss out on contributing to the inevitable best time Circa Survive could have in Grand Rapids. Pick up a copy of Blue Sky Noise, pick up a ticket, and give your weekend a good kick start.

Remedies

2010-11-18T10:24:00.000-08:00

Word of the day: misqueme, meaning: to displease (courtesy of savethewords.org)

I'm just waiting for the day when - just like what happened merely seconds ago to me while I sit here in my school's computer lab - I sneeze close to ten times in a row, somebody next to me repeatedly smears out the phrase "bless you," I thank them none, and they get immensely misquemed for it. I don't doubt that it has happened already, and perhaps taken aback a few people, mentally. I consciously neglect the thanking though. I never remember being a person who, by instinct, would say "bless you" to anybody who sneezed, though I know I've used the phrase many many times. Well...when I was a little kid, I actually thought people were saying "blesh you" for close to three years or something. I digress, though I refrain from thanking anybody consciously, it's slowly merging into my subconscious, my selective hearing if you will, to not thank people any time they say this. Do you have the power to bless me? Sure, maybe the implications of the statement is actually, "may God bless you," but do you even know if I've accepted your god as somebody I want blessing me? Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Do you care? Are you an imposer? Do you even know the origins of that statement, or why the hell people say it?

From my knowledge, without looking anything up, I believe it still stands that the phrase "bless you" came from the superstition that every time you sneezed, you were letting your soul out of your body. Hey, maybe that was a really legitimate rationality back then, but does our culture really believe this now?

Of course we don't. We know damn well that what people call a "soul" does not escape us because of a mere bodily function. So why is it still said? You don't hear anybody say "excuse you" because it has some sort of negative tone to it or something, like it sounds rude. But wouldn't it be way more correct to say? Maybe if somebody said "excuse you" every time I sneezed, I'd make the effort to say "thank you" ten times in a row. But is it really worth my time to thank you for your persistent ignorance and/or unestablished right to push your religiously-oriented statements upon me? Perhaps this may sound a bit pretentious, but I don't care how much or how little effort it takes for you to say "bless you" every time I sneeze. Sure, it's just a statement. Some people just do it by reaction, and it's no big deal, but I'm sure as hell not going to thank anybody for it.

From Winter Brings the Spring Again (Ouch...had to take a Circa Survive quote)

2010-11-17T05:46:00.000-08:00

Word of the Day: Riviation, meaning: (simply) fishing.

So it just hit me here and now, at 8:26 AM while I'm typing this (and the song 8:16AM by 311 chimes into my brain here and now -http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sTJCEk4NeYA) that I've never ever gone on a riviation trip with my grandpa. He's 85, 86, 87? I don't even know. I'm going to become one of those stereotypical family members who can't remember any of his relatives' ages. Can't even remember my own nephews'. I DIGRESS, I've never been gone riviating with that man. He's in his later 80's, dropped a boat on his head this past year, endured a consequential concussion, and is still living enough to tell me, "that's the longest I've held a fart today!" every single time he shakes my hand. Great stuff.

It's weird to me. Isn't riviation with your grandpa like hunting with your dad or something? Not like I view family values with any sort of repute, nor can I ever remember hunting with my father (though I do remember sitting in the woods with guns). But carpe diem, in the context of Ovid, yes? Well...I suppose I messed that one up for this season, at the very least. Riviation season is over, winter is almost here, and the gramps' blood gets another year colder in the passing of the two seasons.

Pact to self: go fishing with the gramps next Spring. Especially when he's pulling out 42" catfish, taking them home, and actually eating them. No idea why he isn't getting all the ladies...

Blown Out

2010-11-16T14:20:00.000-08:00

Word of the Day: Oporopolist, meaning: a fruit seller (courtesy of savethewords.org)

When I'm done with school, I'm going to take a break from life. I will move to a distant country and become an oporopolist, selling painted rock fruit. That's how it'll go.

In other news: can't wait to see Circa Survive in four days. Should be one of the greatest shows ever.

Loser's Hard Heart

2010-11-15T10:37:00.000-08:00

Word of the day: trophaeal, meaning: pertaining to or adorned with trophies (courtesy of savethewords.org)

When the things you do seem faceless; when your choices in life are the choices made by millions of others and your narrow, singular lens of self-focus make it seem like you're actually important; when your shelves aren't as trophaeal as you think they should be;

Maybe they shouldn't?

Something From Nothing

2010-11-12T13:22:00.000-08:00

Word of the day: vacivity, meaning an emptiness.

And on to the weekend, to clear out the vacivity of the school-ridden week. Oh oh oh...so deep right there. So deep.

A Faint Glimmer?

2010-11-11T15:26:00.000-08:00

Word of the day: rogitate, meaning to ask regularly.

Today, in journalism, we had a guest speaker stop in and talk to us about public relations, and she kind of touched on the entertainment side of media coverage. Specifically, she mentioned my professor from my writing about film and drama class last semester, John Serba, and how she had to meet with him to talk about the film festival she was helping with. Taking a look at John Serba, who is the head of writing about entertainment for the Grand Rapids Press, and everything else he does - he informed us during my class with him that he also works at Vertigo, the record shop down town - that working in the field of entertainment and writing about entertainment could be an insanely fun or at least amusing field to pursuit. I mean, with all of his odd jobs he performs, he never seems like he'd be bored with life, and his schedule (I'm not assuming) isn't set in stone every single day of his life. That's the kind of interesting life I'd like to lead, even if it's only interesting on my part for never getting old.

Perhaps I might have a more concrete answer now when people rogitate me about what I want to do with my writing degree: an entertainment specialist, or whatever he's considered. Regardless, he was cool in class, and I assume his job(s) is cool too. It's also not like my current activity would be too far behind in that focus, as I've been approved for about a week now to cover the Circa Survive concert I will be attending in a few weeks for my school newspaper. Fuckawesome!

No, I'm not bipolar, by the way.

Bars of Old

2010-11-10T10:17:00.000-08:00

Word of the day: Lubency, meaning a willingness or pleasure to do something.

In no way am I trying to sell myself on a strong line of virtues or anything, but I'm starting to detest my own lubency to help people out. It's honestly not out of some pseudo-altruist disposition where I'm secretly just searching for glory and adoration in the hearts of other. I enjoy helping people out, and it's fun to me at times since it gives my agenda a bit of a detour from homework that doesn't make me feel like I'm completely wasting my time. If people need help, more often than not, I award it without question. However, tossing around a schedule that involves eighteen hours of work in a computers department garners my reputation as "the computer guy," and people ask me to do off-hand, random favors involving those computers quite a bit. I don't detest this, and it's cool to apply something I do as a necessity, my job, in an environment where I am free and happy to do as I please. If anybody is reading this that was considering asking me for help, still do it! But when instances come about like yesterday, for example, where I was driving along with solid plans in mind when I get a phone call from this lady I work for who was having problems with her iTunes, it's like I disregard the conventionality of time-flow in order to fit in every ounce of help I can squeeze out of myself before it's literally too late for other things. Time-efficiency goes out the door in the sake of aiding another human being, and sometimes, it's met with the same fate as I had yesterday where an entire hour was spent uninstalling some nonphysical program on a slow computer, watching bars load and load - hardly more - knowing fully well that I'd rather be elsewhere but also that helping is a nice thing to do, and ultimately meeting demise when my tact of helping out fails. iTunes was still messing up, and an hour of my life went by without making any real progression at all.

I really don't know where I'm going with this. Altruism? "Time is money?" Complain-blog #2 for the week, that's for sure. Go me and my already drained imagination. Tomorrow? Maybe time travel...

Fuck Everything In The World

2010-11-09T16:08:00.000-08:00

That's my post. Deal.

Blot

2010-11-08T21:10:00.000-08:00

Word of the Day: Conduplicate, meaning folded or doubled together, sometimes creating "leaves."

I wish I could understand why all the pens' waters need to break in my possession. Have I not made it clear already? I DON'T WANT KIDS! Stop splootzing your liquid matter all over what is rightfully mine. Even my nice, crisp, $20 bill I got, all conduplicated neatly in my pocket, stands no chance against your reach. Go away, birthing pens. Be gone with ye!

Daylight Pavings

2010-11-05T14:28:00.000-07:00

Word of the Day: Commensurate, meaning to express sympathy in someone.

So a couple days ago, when I had to wake up really early around 6 in the morning, my grain-brain got all disoriented like what occasionally happens when you wake up, and even though I nearly forgot about daylight savings entirely, apparently my brain wasn't too forgetful to jump in and nearly convince myself, mid-realizing that my alarm was going off, that "OH! It's almost daylight savings. I bet daylight savings is even TODAY, so you can just go ahead and go sleep for another hour." Then I snapped into the real deal, and realized my head was playing tricks on me.

Then, last night, I was having a wild dream about riding a horse down the sidewalks of Chicago and being chased by police on horses. It had a very interesting ending though: I woke up at 8:14 when my alarm was set for 8:15.

Sleep cycles weird me out. Oh how I commensurate the man who has to deal with learning about it all.

Shattered Glass

2010-11-04T21:11:00.000-07:00

So we're supposed to blog on this movie called "Shattered Glass" from journalism and touch on a moral issue or two that the movie encounters. I would say that one of the most prominent examples that stuck out to me while watching this movie was how Michael Kelly, the editor of The New Republic (the paper featured in the movie), stuck up for his coworkers after their sickeningly spiteful boss forced them all to sit in a room and circle every comma within a lengthy article. I would have to say that the most of us people, no matter how much we could admire characteristic traits like that and try to mimic them ourselves, would be able to emulate such actions in the dire situation Michael Kelly was in. After all, he didn't KNOW that doing this would consequently get him fired, but he sure as hell had a prestigious and difficult job at The New Republic that I'm doubting most people would offer up on the table in order to defend integrity. Hell, even at a point like this in my life, where I could very well still be working in a restaurant had I not landed my current job, I would still find it difficult to defend my own opinions if it meant putting my job on the line. It's hard enough to get a job as it is, and although working as editor for The New Republic puts Michael Kelly at a fairly reputable spot for other jobs, along with his only drawback being he stuck up for his own opinions, he still put it all on the line. It was such a daring thing to do in an industry (journalism) where opportunities only show up occasionally. I could easily sit back and say, "Oh yeah, if I were caught in that situation, I'd do the same. Circling commas is bullshit." (That was supposed to sound funny in a ridiculous way.) But I most likely wouldn't. Shit, the only scrap I have to work with right now is writing for the Saint. I've got more to lose than gaining by even considering a degree/career with writing.

I think a loooooooooooot of people would follow suit if they recognized how hard it is in the writing business.

Speak of the Disheveled

2010-11-03T19:45:00.000-07:00

I would probably like to use that title for a much better piece of writing than this will be. And no, that wasn't supposed to be the word of the day, but I suppose I can use it anyways.

Disheveled, meaning tousled, throw into disorder, or upheave.

Yesterday, I was making dinner for my mom and all the dishes were on the counter. Word was it that an old friend of mine and his mom were going to stop by my house at some point. Ties weren't so great with him and his family in the past, after our paths split, and there was much hostility offered between both parties. Halloween rolled around though, and my mom spoke with his mom. The canvas was anew and the dried paint had apparently chipped away entirely. While making dinner, they arrived, and I felt so disheveled for being caught in the middle of a chore and unprepared, to the max, for the union that followed.

It was an interesting visit, and I would like to write about it more in-depth. Perhaps during a time where my schooling doesn't keep me so disheveled either.

Ignorant Ass

2010-11-02T21:58:00.000-07:00

The word of the day: recrudescent, meaning breaking out again or reemerging after temporary abatement or suppression, often in the context of a disease.

Today is voting day for the nation. I would often like to say I respect my mom, but that ceases to apply after her recrudescent ignorance breaks out and shifts my opinions back to where they started: not a very high rung on the ladder. Maybe not ignorance in what she is informed of, but ignorance in how she carries herself as an informed person and the things she says related to politics.

Sorry Kirkbride, but I'm not voting. Not when I'd have to subscribe to the same system that such ignorant asses like her have equal access to. Sure, I don't know a damn thing about these people and what sort of politics they are fronting. I'm ignorant as fuck about this election, and I've thought about it none. But the next time I have to hear the words "Muslim" or "terrorist" pointed at the democratic party, the imploring that I should vote Republican if I have no idea because "it's the right choice," and see the cheesy, giddy, embarrassing glee of her seeing the democrats' demise, I'll saw open my throat with a butter knife and bleed to death all over a ballot. You can find my choice right around the big red blotchy spot.

Something Today Starts a New Way

2010-11-01T12:56:00.000-07:00

I suppose, with my seemingly unfocused blog so far, I should try to tie in something for each day. Thus, I'm going to start finding random words that I've never used in my day-to-day vocabulary, and try my best to use them in coordination with something relatively interesting I might spew.

The first word I came across was "anachronic," meaning chronologically misplaced. SO, here goes...

Halloween happened this weekend, and I'd doubt there could have been a better-looking one to date. From Friday to Sunday, the weather was ridiculously glorious and permitting of consistent discing, every single day. This was possibly the first Halloween I've ever spent completely unconcerned with the idea of going door-to-door and getting candy. In the years past, it's not like I was completely stoked for it, but the people I was around and the 4/7 chance that Halloween will fall on a legitimate weekday contributed to my role as nineteen year-old trick-or-treater instead of following suit with the notion of parties through "maturity." Label me "immature" for that if you please, but the twentieth Hallow's eve arrived this weekend, and it was a passing thought. My door-to-door activity was shooting at the narrow doorway of dangling chains that make this image below such a might treat for my pleasure-center:

Every hole was a bargain. I wasn't too sure what I would get (as far as score is concerned), but I went from door-to-door, reached in, and nabbed the treat which is a sunk disc. Some treats were great; birdies are rather sweet to one's score. Some treats were displeasing; bogies are detrimental to the health of one's score. But that was my solicitation for the weekend.

That, and social gatherings of rather epic proportions. It's odd, since I can vividly recall one time around the age of thirteen when I was out with a few friends in my neighborhood trick-or-treating. One house we stopped by was jammed full of people close to my current age, having a party. We knocked on the door expecting candy, and they clearly had none and wanted us to leave, but instead we chose to harass them. I was so amused with the cluster of inconsideration for the Halloween spirit. Halloween, after all, has been one of my favorite holidays for a long time. Not for what you get from it, but for what it defines as a time of livelihood in conjunction with morbidity, gloom, and gothic-like ambiance (quite ironic for the way the weekend looked). It creates a timeless atmosphere that, to me, is far more unsullied than other holidays that flat out suck. Shit, Valentine's day used to be glorious back in Kindergarten, but now it's a pile of lies and terrorism on the idea of "love."

And now here I am, on year twenty, defining my Halloween spirit with none other than discing and engaging in (what I assume) were the same activities of that house party I ambled upon when I was thirteen. I'm doing the same exact thing, and the details I can vividly recall about my Halloween celebration (excluding discing) would be entirely anachronic and skewed by beer's embrace.

Birdies, bogies, and Busch beer. Those were my Halloween treats.

This I Believe - Edit

2010-10-29T19:22:00.000-07:00

Based on a previous post, I decided to revamp it a little bit in preparation for a school assignment. The following came out of it. Still pretty horrible, but it's an effort:

I was at work the first week of my junior year of college, in the school’s ITS department, and I had to fix a media cart that was having issues in a classroom. The room’s vacancy was scarce, and a German class soon began session in my presence. The funny thing is, I probably learned more in that class during those five minutes than I learned that entire week. I learned how to say all of the months in German, and also learned that little kids are more apt to become fluent in several languages because the muscles in the human mouth grow in age to accommodate the language they speak. Thus, adults have a harder time learning different languages, whilst children can become masterful powerhouses of language fluency.

Little kids have power. This is especially apparent with the thing I love doing most: skateboarding. I started skateboarding when I was in high school, and I often wonder what I would have turned out like if I started earlier, like most kids these days, around elementary school. As I get older, the skill difference between me and younger skateboarders seems to get more and more tangible as the age difference widens. Little kids nearly the same size as the skateboard are able to pull off tricks I was just learning in the tenth or eleventh grade of high school.

And, sooner than I’d hope, much sooner than the rest of these kids, I will probably start to break down in time. I will feel the grenades of age ease into my spinal sockets and casually explode, shredding and fragmenting the discs in my back. I have far fetched visions of myself as an eighty year-old man carving a bowl or pulling off switch 360 flips, but really, I understand that inevitably, I will have to stop skateboarding for the sake of my own health. I will have to stop learning and teaching myself new tricks and daring myself to go beyond my own physical comforts for the sake of success. I will have to start learning and teaching myself about surviving in my physical body.

I am offered an oddly comforting reassurance though that, despite how early and how fast children seem to advance in skateboarding these days, they will still go through a realization such as mine at some point in their lives too. No matter what skill level they ascend to, all skateboarders will reach the same end result in time. It makes me feel less alone.

I’m not bitter of my own progression in skateboarding, nor am I bitter of the fact that kids are getting better and better at skateboarding at earlier ages. I condone such growth, and am hopeful that, unlike the filthy food corporations and their growth hormones, our youth hone their skateboarding skills out of pure love and nothing else. Skateboarding is more than just a hobby that people can talk about and express interest in. When two people meet while skateboarding, even if they don’t talk to each other, they are speaking to one another through the passion of learning at a unique pace. Each person has their own riding style, their own brands of boards, their own brands of shoes, their favorite tricks, and their favorite skate spots; these elements and many more mesh into a centralized message of love. Even if a person quits skateboarding in their later years and simply reminisces these elements once apparent in their life, they will look back on elements that captivated a sincere love, and will hopefully feel that love festering greater and greater for the skateboarders preceding them, offering zero traces of scorn or abolishment.

Skateboarding indefinably weaves itself into the lifestyle of people. Sometimes it’s a slow growth, and other times it accumulates like a fatal cancer. Skateboarding is a language, and I sincerely believe that those who speak it experience one of the most honest and satisfying methods of learning how to learn.

If Anybody Can Remember...

2010-10-28T14:51:00.000-07:00

Nick Arcade. You know, the really really old TV show on Nickelodeon where the kids had to play arcade games and competed for prized. If anybody can remember this show, you may be my friend - instantly, at that.

...Two...One...Out

2010-10-27T21:04:00.000-07:00

So the people in my life who are gradually turning 21 is starting to build up a bit quickly. In a weird way, my mind envisions it like a plague that makes the names fall like flies from the air. So many odd things about such an odd number. Although I think the act of celebrating a 21st birthday with lots of alcohol is a worn-out tradition, I'm sure I'll be imbibing my own share once mine comes, and I'm still happy enough to say it has been a great run with senor

Josh Kramer.

I dearly hope the day is great for ye. Happy birthday to one of the long-standing best friends.

Moneyzzz

2010-10-26T15:41:00.000-07:00

Statistically, I wonder how much money is spent every year on workers sleeping during their shifts. I'm sure there are a grand amount of jobs out there that offer the opportunity for a worker to catch a few Z's here and there during their shift, and I would be very interested to know the total hours and total money spent. If anybody somehow found this information and sent it to me, I'd be pretty grateful.

Cedar Pee

2010-10-25T18:31:00.000-07:00

It's absolutely disheartening to learn about stories of amusement parks using maximum fraudulent techniques to get people to spend money. For example, I was informed by somebody that really big places, such as Disneyworld, purposely waft manufactured scents throughout the grates underneath the park in order for people to smell them, get hungry, and go spend their money on food. The people are lead blindly by what they think is real - some sort of food shop nearby MUST be the origin - and then make the park even richer by purchasing their overpriced grub.

This technique is also commonly employed outside of amusement parks, where restaurants purposely vent their smells outside to attract customers. It's much the same ordeal, but it really sucks when that corporate spirit leaks into amusement parks. Those places really do seem to care for you as a young soul and harvest wondrous memories, until you get older and older and realize how it's all a plot.

Alas, the place needs to make money. It is a business, after all. It stinks though. Damn corporations.

Business Catch #1

2010-10-15T16:56:00.000-07:00

I've got it! I've got it! Eureka!

I'll make a deal with Nike to invent (hopefully) the first series of pump-action push-up bras! And if not the first, who cares?! It's Nike. Ladies would wear them like sports bras. And then Nike could revive the deadened pump-shoes in a co-release and make double-bank off of a retro, slightly redesigned product.

Awexome.

Oh so Grand, the Rapids

2010-10-14T10:01:00.000-07:00

So last night, while I was roiling about in a crowd of people I've never met, sponging up the bath of countless sweaty rivulets amassing together on my skin, mixed in with my own concoction of salt, water, and whatever the hell else is in there, I was thinking: "How many people probably touched me that have some strange disease? Owe some massive payment from debt? Just lost somebody close in the last month from death? Or even have some paper they need to write that they haven't started on?" I started thinking about the wildest things that would make somebody worried, angry, upset, confused, bitter...things people would sweat over, to use the phrase contextually. When the show was done and over with, I was a half wrung-out dish rag, and I wondered how many peoples' burdens of life I carried with me in the fabrics of my clothes. I wondered how many people had excreted those pains, along with their sweat, in joyous celebration of music they enjoyed, and left that place with just a little bit less of a reason to sweat. Of course, we were all in the same environment, so those people were inevitably caught in the same cycle as I was, and I equally transferred any of my own sweat onto them too. Thus, they equally carried along my sweat in their clothes.

The great thing with shows too is that you don't really get much opportunity to wash it all off until you get home. You ride along and the mixture of dog breath dances with your immediate memories. You play back the scenes from an hour or two before, over and over in your head, along with the hundreds or thousands of other people that are likely doing the same, and it all never really escapes you until the shower hits, and you're standing under a stream of refreshing water. No salt, no other chemicals: just straight water. Then you start to break away from the correlation of the other folk who plastered you in sweat. Then you are free to move on.

The power of live music is majestic. Curing. Persistent. Enthralling. Enlightening.

HxC

2010-10-13T10:09:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I am going to Pontiac, MI to see three magnificent bands play: August Burns Red, Bring Me The Horizon, and Emarosa, all of whom have brand new or relatively new CD's that I have not yet heard live. Seeing new things with live music is an amazing feeling for me. New venues, new band members, new songs from bands I've already seen before...there are so many reasons that keep me going back. And I must say, it has been a while since I've been to a show with any edge. Good bands I've seen lately, but not nearly enough energy (minus Dan Deacon) as I like from crowds. Should be gooooooooooooood.

Ascension

2010-10-12T19:28:00.000-07:00

Relatively close to what Othello said, "If I were to die today, I'd be most happy."

I went to Old Farm Shore discgolf park today in Kentwood. I played eighteen holes and got the best score of my life on that course (or any other course for that matter): six under (-6). I was extremely pleased with this, and am now more excited than ever for next year. I really hope I will follow through with playing in tournaments.

I'm also hoping that some disc golf park reviews will find themselves in my blog in the near future. Done by me, that is.

A whole new definition for "putting your money where your mouth is"

2010-10-11T10:13:00.000-07:00

So I've been enlightened over the past year to this really obscure federal law that has been circulating around the...well...the arena of politics, I suppose. You'll have to pardon my absence of intelligible diction when it comes to these kind of things. I'll let you in on a secret: the classes that taught me that subject material went in one ear and out the other, for a simple letter grade. I'm a whore to the system.

ALAS! This bill, labeled S. 510, pertains to the freedom of farmers and "other people" to grow/distribute their own food to the public. Essentially, what I'm picking up from all of the summaries and jargon I've shuffled through, it would be nearly illegal (or possibly just that) for anybody to grow their own food unless they're approved and monitored by the FDA. That's the Food and Drug Administration, for anybody new to that term. Personally, when I see "FDA," it rings like any other lawful acronyms. FBI, CIA, other governmental administrations that I don't care about...it just sounds like another law-abiding authoritative figure. And THAT'S where the scary shit comes in play, though.

I like to hear about conspiracies. I'm not trying to make a tirade about how everything is out to get us US citizens, but at the same time, the belief that our government wants the best for each and every citizen sounds a bit phony to me. There are too many of us here for me to actually believe the law cares about our health and well being, and this here S. 510 bill would be the just epitome of that there conviction. The fact that this bill is hardly as easy to research on the internet than the more well-known bills of the United States' history's past could signify one of two things: either this bill is surrounded by an air of negativity from the various conspirators roaming on the internet (as most articles you will find read this bill in a negative manner) and was blown way out of proportion, or the government wants to cover something up, big time. Well, I'm sure there are far more reasons than just that as to why you can't find much about it, but I like to believe it gives my argument some weight.

Nonetheless, I like to play my cards safely in life. I like to assume the worst, and whenever I crack open a hearty can of Campbell's soup or peel back a fresh box of Cheez-Its, I'm pretty sure all of those ingredients added are not there for my own personal well-being, unless you're taking note of my palette. My mouth may like it, but my health probably doesn't. So what happens if all food administrators are controlled by the same company responsible for these ingredients? Just take a look at this site and maybe do a bit of reading for yourself.

http://www.theworldsprophecy.com/senate-bill-s510-makes-it-illegal-to-grow-share-trade-or-sell-homegrown-food/

It's right about now...

2010-10-08T19:41:00.000-07:00

that I wish I were on the other side of the world. The diminishing daylight at earlier times is nothing but a saddening promise of the bitterness winter brings; the one season of them all where we must literally fight to survive. You can manage in the spring, summer, and fall, but winter brings conditions completely intolerable to our bodies.

Mentally too, management is a HUGE issue. Think there's a reason many people feel dismal in the winter? It's not science, it's just suck. Unless you've got something to keep you occupied out there, like snowboarding, winter straight up blows.

Thus, I wish I could have one of these for Christmas!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzVopxyadaY

Mudbloody Half-Truths

2010-10-07T10:42:00.000-07:00

Today, my sister who lives in Mt. Pleasant is traveling down to Grand Rapids to get her hair done. Well, my half-sister, that is. Before my dad met my mom, he was married to a different lady, of whom he made most sensuous love and created a lass named Jill. The typical story ensues: they divorced, he met my mom, the goods in the woods, and finally, the origin of this post.

When I take the time to ponder it, it makes absolute sense as to why she is called my "half-sister." Half of her genetics, which flow just the same in my body, are interspersed with a half of somebody's who technically isn't related to me. It's in the math, it really is. But when my throat fails to exhale the "half-sister" claim whenever I introduce her or speak of her to anybody, I wonder, "Are the half of my genetics shared with her stepping up and laying the smack down on social and biological restraints which deem her half of mine? Or am I just too lazy to make that three-syllable claim unless somebody inquires further?" It really is a bitch having to say things like, "my half-sister..." or "guess what my ex-step-dad did?" Unless the term in question ends in "in-law," I'd hardly say any of these problems would persist if divorce wasn't such an issue anyways.

Blood is blood. It's all blue inside, red outside. Simple colors, undoubtedly, carry very little weight in an argument that a half-sister is still a full sister, but I suppose if I were a nineteenth century American civilian, I'd be right alongside the rest of the evil white men in claiming that every mulatto is just as much of a slave as a sun-baked Kenyan. To me, it's all just the same. I wish I could divulge more into this, and turn it into some literary journalistic piece embedded with great research, but I would hardly know what to start looking for. My knowledge, my scholastic endeavors, are far less tainted by science than they are the urge to express some perplexing and difficult, yet so blaring and obvious fact that I know full well to be true. Opinions, opinions, opinions, onions are white, onions are purple.

Where I am with school, although I absolutely despise various components of the education system, is where I'm certain I should be: studying writing. That's not a half-truth. A half-truth is me saying "school is the only way to make something bigger of your life." Statistics prove that people who graduate college are more "successful" in their endeavors. But "successful in their endeavors" doesn't always mean the Americanized, "let's go out and get a job and make lots of money!" All people don't aspire money.

I know that one of the most prominent subjects of our conversation with my "half-sister" today will be how I'm doing in school. I suppose, in my modernistic views, I think of a functioning family as one who asks these sort of questions and is honestly concerned and considerate of these aspects of another family member's life. I half-doubt that a half-sister could be half as much concerned. I know she fully cares, and that's just great! Go life.

Future Deeds

2010-10-06T12:56:00.000-07:00

If I stepped into the future and came across the hard drive I save all of my homework assignments and papers on, copied them all onto another storage medium, brought that back to "current time," and turned them in as my own work, would it be considered plagiarism?

Web Sights

2010-10-05T15:31:00.000-07:00

Have you ever walked around somewhere outside when you suddenly barge through a web-like strand, with no traceable origin? Like, completely away from any trees, buildings, or anything else a spider would likely hang around? I feel like it happens to me a lot. I will be looking in one direction while walking through a parking lot or an open field, we'll say, and a shimmering beam of light suddenly appears for a split second and then vanishes. Then, I feel the suction of its weightlessness cling to me but I can't get rid of it. I don't even know where the web is on my own body, let alone where the body is that made it.

That wasn't really supposed to evolve into anything too deep. I just wonder if that happens to other people too. Nonetheless, when I climbed into my car today after work, I once again ran into a web and I had no idea where it came from. However, with the plentiful planes about me, I doubted not the existence of a spider in my car. I drove back to Dutton (my hometown) without thinking anything of it, went to my favorite park to do some homework in the last echoes of summer, and then proceeded home after that. When I pulled into my neighborhood, the culprit climbed out from above my ceiling fabric and perused the windshield glass, scurrying about in what I assume was great confusion. I'd hope not though, considering it got itself into that mess to begin with (perhaps it would say the same about me when I got into my car).

Anyways, when I got home, I found a napkin in my glove compartment and ushered the spider onto it, but not without much physical assertion. Once I got it out and set it on the ground, I looked over underneath the shadowed underbelly of my car to find an even bigger mess: my engine coolant/antifreeze is leaking like no other.

The spider scurried off, and I felt incredibly jealous. Have a good life not worrying about stupid shit like us humans, friend. Have a good life without any leaks. I hope...

The Cityscape; it takes, it takes...

2010-10-04T17:44:00.000-07:00

I would have to say this weekend marked one of the most adventurous and memorable weekends of my life. Although it was enjoyable, I would classify it as "helter skelter," had Papa Roach not ruined that phrase for me. Thus, we'll just call it chaotic. But legitimately, I'm not just throwing that out there in absent-minded expression. This weekend is probably one that I'll attempt to write seriously about. It was crazy. But for now, midterms demand my attention far more than a homework-blog.

I went to Chicago this weekend to see some friends. I planned on taking the South Shore Line train from Michigan City, Indiana to Chicago because driving to and in Chicago is not only costly with gas, but also with tolls and occasional parking fees/fines you risk when taking a car. My friends don't really have a place to park cars at their apartment if you disregard the parking garage across the alley, which costs a good $17 for every 24 hours. Implicitly enough, train > car, in many ways than cost. Nonetheless, I left Grand Rapids at about 3:15, expecting to get to Michigan City by about 4:30 or so. Mind you, Michigan City is a two hour drive, but also mind yourself that it (and Chicago) observes the central time zone, so everything is an hour behind Grand Rapids.

So, I get to Michigan City by about 5:00, and since this is my first time ever taking a train by myself, not to mention my first time ever visiting Michigan City, I was pretty unfamiliar with what I needed to do as far as getting a ticket, where I would park my car, etc. Shit I probably shouldn't have been confused about because it was really simple, but "first time" is a rather confounding aspect for most things I do. Nonetheless, a train was leaving immediately when I got there, but that didn't seem like a big deal to me. From what I checked, there would be trains moving through that station all day, so I could just catch the next one in about 45 minutes or so.

Mistake #1

I have this weird tendency to consider Friday a weekend, since in my mind, staying up late with no school tomorrow when I just went to class today equates to weekend status. I was taken aback, then, when I asked the guy sitting in the waiting area if he knew when the next train would be coming, and he checked the Friday schedule to relay "8:30." Also mind you, the Michigan City South Shore Line train stations, plural because there are two of them in the same city, are very small, discrete, and when I was there at least, there were hardly any people around.

SO, this delay wasn't as bad as most people, I assume, would react. I had plenty of homework to do, plenty of silence around me, and three extra hours of assuredly productive time where I wouldn't be distracted by friends. I went back to my car, did homework for three hours, waited for the train, and boarded successfully around 8:30. It takes about two hours for the train to get from Michigan City to Chicago, but when I got on, the first car I chose had a very belligerent drunk man prattling away to the smug riders. I chose a different car instead because I didn't want to be interrupted while I was reading, but that damn man managed to permeate his influence through those suctioned doors. Within fifteen minutes of riding the train, we had to stop at the next station because the cops needed to be called in order to escort this man off the train, which turned into him probably resisting, where they then had to put him down on the ground and cuff him right next to the train. I didn't get to Chicago until a little after 11:00.

When I rode the city bus with my friends back to their apartment, I was so excited to see them that I was talking a bit louder than usual and was scolded by a fellow rider, an old lady, who looked back and wondered aloud in frustration why people needed to be so loud on a public bus. Because, you know, Chicago has quiet hours and all. HOWEVER, I must add, it's absolutely repugnant how clearly you can detect some peoples' "bubbles" when they ride a public bus in Chicago. I don't know if it was just me not used to being in a big city so much, but you could definitely tell when a person was overtly trying to avoid eye contact or the like in order to protect their little world from intruders. It's one thing, a very understandable thing I must add, to not be a social cat and not want people to talk to you. But it's pretty ridiculous, I think, when you overtly play the "city folk" role.

Nonetheless, not a whole lot could happen Friday night since I got there so late. Saturday morning swung around, and I immediately started working on homework when I awoke. While working on a paper, I was going to change the date and checked the computer's calendar to find out I was a tad bit incorrect with what day the 4th of October was.

Mistake #2

When I was waiting at the train station to board the train, up on the marquee, I noticed it said the train would be closed from 3am on the 2nd to 3am on the 4th. For some reason, I figured the 4th was Sunday and thought I was completely covered for getting a train ride back. However, the 4th was a Monday, so the train I planned on catching back on Sunday was a fancy thought. At first, I thought I was totally fucked, assuming somebody would need to drive over to Chicago (since my friends don't have cars and I don't know anybody else who lives in Chicago) and take me back to Michigan City so I could get my car. But luckily, I was saved by another friend who informed me over the phone that Amtrak also runs by Michigan City. I checked online and was thankful enough to have the opportunity revitalized, but the shitty part was that there were only two options: take the 7:30am train for $13, or take the noon bus for $22. Now, I'm no fan of church and all, but saving nine bucks in exchange for a few extra hours of sleep, which I technically wouldn't be spending with my friends while sleeping, was definitely worth it.

Thus, instead of letting all of the prospective time with my friends get eaten up by the public transportation system of Chicago, I just stayed up all night Saturday and slept zero hours. At 6:00 in the morning on Sunday, we were still up and all three of us took the bus to Union Station, I got on the train, and left Chicago to go back to Michigan City. Everything's kosher, yes?

WELL, the Amtrak station in Michigan City is entirely displaced from the two South Shore Line stations, so when I got off the train, with the minimal help the train conductor could provide me with, I was left to my own instincts to get me back to the SSL station. I first asked a nearby police department, then a local coffee shop, and finally a wandering woman when I realized I didn't specify WHICH train station I was looking for: the Carroll Ave. one, not the 11th St. one. Thus, when I got to the location everybody guided me, it was still the wrong place so I had to follow the tracks for miles until I got to the right place. Going off of no sleep, walking a good five or six miles around the city, then driving home for two hours...I was a tired lad. Immediate crash on bed when I get home, yes?

Nahhhhh. I decided to go disc golfing instead!

Good times, good times.

Kitty Balls

2010-10-01T08:24:00.000-07:00

Hey! It's time for the exhausted Friday blog!

I was at my sister's house yesterday and she has this nearly-new kitten. It's awexome as hell, absolutely charming in its quirkiness, and even sleep-bites. Ridiculously cute. Its name is Dracula.

Dracula is getting fixed sometime soon. My sincere condolences are with him. Not just because of a mutual motivation to keep our balls intact, but because he has to deal with the stupidity and dominance of human power as much as I do. He can't say anything about it, and they're just going to cut his balls off, just like that. For the purpose of containing reproduction rates, sure, I get your point. It's quite logical. But COME ON! From my experience, any cat that still has his balls just seems to have more spunk, more edge. It's great. They run around all day. Here's an interestingly ironic, yet semi-unrelated lyric from the song "Prisoners of Today" by the band Billy Talent:

"My body's tired, my souls excited and i wish that i was gifted,
My body's tired my soul's excited and I wish I had some spunk,
She said "I wanna run, I wanna hide, and leave this place just like it left me"
"The only problem is I need to find the balls to follow through and that's the truth now..."

I think it's quite proven that when a man loses his balls, or begins to accrue a deficiency of testosterone, he begins to change. His attitudes and moods are completely swayed, and what difference would it make if a cat's balls were hacked off? Does a cat's hormones serve the same purpose as human hormones do? I would assume so...

I hate humans so much sometimes. I'm no animal activist, but to think we can just rip apart their attitudinal dispositions...maybe we aren't taking away their identity or anything. Sure, they still have dicks and vag. But I'll tell you what, I think human starvation/hunger rates determine that we should turn the gun around.

Hardy har! Phallic simbowlz blimpzy kissez inglish majur.

Entitlement

2010-09-30T15:34:00.001-07:00

So I don't know exactly how I want to structure this, but I think I'll start off with a bit of personal information, much like my last post.

I don't care much for smoking cigarettes. I've always been passionately, but quietly, against smoking cigarettes. I have my very thought-out rationality for thinking like that, but we'll leave that out. I have best friends that smoke cigarettes, and the most I would ever consider doing is making jokingly snide remarks about their imminent death. I'm not going to tell somebody what they should or should not do, partly because I know fully well that others would view me as a hypocrite, but also in part because I know fully well that I do a vast amount of "things" myself that would intrude on others' beliefs. People are meant to live their own lives and see things how they want to see them, and if they want to make change, they will ask for it or talk about it with whomever they feel comfortable with. Until then, people should keep their personal matters to themselves, partly out of respect, but mostly because we should all be a little more defensive of our rationality being challenged.

If you were to ask anybody you know that smokes cigarettes to explain their rationality of why they started, I'm willing to guess that most of them couldn't tell you since it was so long ago, or a simple "because." They just didn't have a reason for starting it. It's something that just happened, and they now do it. No thinking in between.

I let people smoke cigarettes in my car. I let people smoke cigarettes around me. In fact, I think the smell of a freshly opened pack of cigarettes smells delicious. Then again, I also think gasoline smells delicious, but NONETHELESS, I really don't blame anybody for picking up smoking if they said, "it seemed enticing to the senses." I've never smoked a cigarette in my life, but from what I've discerned, yeah...cigarettes do appease the senses and offer comfort. In fact AGAIN, I don't doubt that I would have smoked cigarettes myself if the situations in my life hadn't come around to make me think otherwise. I just had my own experience, and I fought through that experience myself.

If somebody were even to ask me to lend them a lighter so they could spark up a cigarette, I wouldn't hesitate. Perhaps I am technically "aiding" them in their endeavor to smoke cigarettes, but it's a common thing, a lighter is. The person is going to smoke that cigarette whether or not I give them a lighter. So let's all be friends here, yeah? The thing is, the only thing I really refuse to do is go up to a gas station and buy cigarettes for people. There's something about the monetary exchange that is so enabling for us to make things easier on ourselves. We are able to attain things without much questioning: where did this product come from? How was it made? What does it do that could hurt or help me? We don't need to ask those questions in most monetary exchanges, because the relationship between consumer and seller goes without question just as well. The seller gives you their product, you take it because you obviously want it, and that's it. You are gone, and mean nothing to them. It just happened "because it did," much like a lot of economics function.

Yes, I do buy all of my stuff from distributors that don't give a rat's ass about me. Here's where my hypocrisy shows through in one area. But I suppose I don't really feel any particular way about that stuff I buy. For cigarettes, I do have particular feelings so it's a completely different story. Thus, I don't feel like contributing to the notion of "just because" if I were to buy somebody cigarettes. Let alone the fact that I hear it enough from smokers when they warn, "Don't ever start! Smoking's horrible!", if they want to make the struggle to attain their "just because," I'll have them make that struggle by themselves.

However, inversely, here's where shit gets interesting. I have a friend who made a mistake. He accidentally got a girl pregnant, and neither of them want the kid - for now, at least. The pregnant girl already has one child, and despite that both of the parents are willing and wanting to get an abortion as soon as possible, it goes without saying that a female is free to change her mind with such matters. The only problem with "willing and wanting as soon as possible" is that my friend cannot accrue the necessary money until the thirteenth of October, and then after that, they have to worry about scheduling an appointment. To make a safe estimate, by the time the abortion can happen, the baby will probably be about three months along. Therefore, I don't blame my friend for being a little antsy, and wanting the procedure done as soon as possible. As the pregnant girl stated, the baby would have fingers and a heartbeat by then.

Tomorrow, which is Friday, the first of October, my friend said there is an available spot for this girl to go in and get an abortion. Obviously, not being the close to the thirteenth, my friend won't have the money. Knowing that I have a dependable portion of my own money stashed away, I jumped in and offered. I am paying for a large portion of my friend's abortion. Essentially, I am providing, for my friend, the abortion.

Now, I know there's a sea of pro-life people out there that find those words up there absolutely appalling. I'm sure there are people out there that would cringe in delight over the thought of taking me up by the ropes, cutting my windpipe open with a rusty pair of scissors, and railing my ass to pieces with dozens of expensive vacuum cleaner accessories as I squeak my way into atonement. Now, I don't think I see it as THAT bad when people smoke cigarettes. A far cry. But if you take my perspective of cigarettes and apply it to somebody who disagrees with abortion, it would be just like if I gave a person money to go buy cigarettes themselves. "I wasn't the final link in the chain, from cigarette distributor to cigarette consumer, so therefore, I wouldn't be guilty. I just gave him the money and he was free to spend it on whatever he wanted. I just happened to know he was one cigarette away from needing a new box. That's all."

And in fact, I won't be there on Friday if and when the abortion happens. I will be riding along to Chicago to see some of my friends. Would it be any different if I were asked to stay in the clinic with them while it happened? I answer you: no. Would it be any different if that money were given to me, and I was the one performing the abortion, and giving a product to this pregnant girl, which are my services? I answer you: maybe. I don't honestly know if I could ever gather up the heart to perform abortions myself. Perhaps my whole beliefs about abortion are all bent to hell from displacement and disposition. But I'll tell you this: I think I would be more emotionally bothered if I were to puff on a cigarette for my very first time tomorrow than I know I will be while riding, happily, I might add, on that train tomorrow to Chicago.

Yes, a potential life is ending because of me. And yes, in many ways, I should probably flat out tell my friend, "You're a fucking idiot. Either you wait until you have enough money yourself, or suffer the consequences." This is the second time he's made this mistake, after all. And I mean, that would adhere to my previous remarks about wanting people to fight through situations like this for themselves, wouldn't it? That whole "no interference" thing I was talking about? He didn't even think about asking me for any money. I offered that on my own whim, with no instigation but my own will.

Everything that happened to create this death-row baby was done from "just because." There was alcohol involved, and as controversial of an element that alcohol can be in figuring out motivation (drunk words are sober thoughts, they say), these two parents don't love each other. Their act was simply out of lust. Lust and bad or misdirected decisions. They don't want to be together at all. Their families hate each other, she already has one child, she currently has a boyfriend, and he doesn't want any children at all. I'm not joking when I say that my friend and I pretty much have a pact going between us to go get our balls snipped when we're 25. He does not want this kid.

When a child grows older, they begin to observe and analyze things a lot more carefully. They ask questions. "What was this put here for?" "Why do those things do that?" And that other one, which any adult even has no idea the answer to, "Why am I here?" Some people decide to tell their kids the straight-forward truth to answers. Some people decide to fudge up some things to defend the "innocent little ears" until an appropriate age is reached. Regardless of tact, I think common sense points toward "just because" as a horrible answer to an inquisitive child.

There is nothing saying you can't build a life around "just because." After all, I think we are all products of a huge "just because." We live in its threads, and accept a lot more things than we think without question. Some of us might understand this, and some of us might not, but depending on our specific characteristics, humans adapt to each other and adapt to the ideas or questions that are better left unspoken. When people are called out on a "just because" with no defensive answer in mind, they are caught in extreme discomfort.

It's a rather dismal thought indeed to think of everything as a "just because," and what kid wants to hear that? I sure didn't like learning that all humans die when I was a kid. It's better off to hold tight and wait until you have a well thought-out, defensive answer if a child asks, "Why am I here?" Because in the moment when that child asks you, you're trapped. Comically, you can imagine the scenario: "Wait a minute, is that my car alarm? Gotta' go check!" *darts out the front door, leaving other parent and child alone* But even then, what of the innumerable cigarette butts scattered upon the earth? Although you don't need to deal with them yourself, something else, some other force, must take care of them. You can't just drop a child like you can drop a cigarette after it is born.

Maybe my life is a hypocritical swirl in the abyss of "just because" I find myself surrounded in, but I sure as hell don't wish for my friend's life to be overcome with the pain of forcefully pushing himself through boundaries in desperate search for answers and for a solution. If he does that, he could very well miss the mark completely. He needs to fight through it for himself, but I don't think many people see that common statement for what it really is: everybody needs just a little help.

Tomorrow, I'm killing a baby.

Life ^ (-1)

2010-09-29T07:36:00.000-07:00

So here's a segment of some semi-personal information from my life that I find pretty humorous:

I have an ex-step-dad. His name is Frank. He divorced my mom in 2006 because of slight marital complications, but mostly because he couldn't tolerate living under the same roof as me. I was largely the reason they got divorced. Frank stepped into my life when I was about three or four, with a few people in my family claiming that "he was more of a father to you than your own." I tend to disagree with this.

After the divorce, my mom and Frank remained the closest of friends, and now you could find them acting in much the same way they would before 2006. Yes, I'm saying that four years after the divorce, my mom and ex-step-dad are practically in love again. And although he isn't such an intolerable person now that him and I aren't residing in close proximity to each other (he currently resides in an apartment complex well beyond my school district), my experience with him from about 1994 - 2006 was absolute hell. Perhaps I was just being a child in a few instances, perhaps not. That doesn't matter. The bitter truth is, no matter how much effort we both contributed to make amends, we always loathed the presence of each other.

Frank has a friend named Ron who lives in Florida. Ron is very wealthy, and often, he likes to accomplish his good deed of the year by flying Frank down to Florida. Frank wasn't ever wealthy himself, being on disability for the greater portion of my memory with him, so the opportunity for him to take vacations were few and far between. He pretty much had "up north" (his parents owned a cabin near Lincoln Lake that he often enjoyed retreating to when he was too pissed off and wanted to fish) or Florida. Those were the two biggest reasons Frank would ever leave the house for more than a half-day, since he didn't have a job.

Thus, when these vacation opportunities arose for him, my mind went into party-mode. The amount of happiness and relief I felt with him being gone and out of my hair for any small amount of time, leaving me free to play my video games and watch TV unburdened, to stay up well past my established bed time (when I knew I was old enough to disregard it), and to speak my mind how I saw things was tenfold the relief of answering the last question of the last exam of your last college school year. I absolutely loved it when he was gone.

So NOW, in 2010, well beyond those moments in the past, I live alone with my mom in the same house that we moved into after the divorce. I love my mom, I really do, but if there's any one statement I can make about her at the top of my head: most annoying person ever. Perhaps that is just because I have to see her everyday at the same frequency I saw Frank, since she is also on disability. Perhaps not. But now, since Frank lives in his own apartment complex away from my house, my mom frequently goes over to his place, watches movies, eats dinner, and does whatever two divorced people in love with their divorcee do. Right about here is where people can and often do start cracking jokes, but they phase me none. At least it gets the woman out of my hair, and I have plenty of hair to get tangled up in.

So here's the funny part. My mom informed me yesterday that Frank is flying out to Florida this coming weekend to visit Ron and go to the racetrack. He will be gone the entire weekend. Thus, my mom asked, "do you have any clothes you need sewn up? Since Frank's going to be gone all weekend, I'm going to be stuck at the house with nothing to do." And right about here is the place where I would admit, if I firmly believed in the concept, that I'm going hell. Because as nice of a gesture that we can all see that as, I could only think, Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Why do you have to leeeeeeave, Frank?

Too damn variant. Damn you, life. Once again...

Sorry About The News; I'll Take The Shoes

2010-09-28T12:38:00.000-07:00

If anybody were to use death as a symbolic representation of "bad," polarized as a negative factor of existence, I would scoff. Death can't be coined as good or bad anymore because, at least with my experience of human thought, there are far too many stipulations tied to the whole idea of death. Quite obviously, good or bad is relative. Take any one death, under any given scenario, and you will have infinite outlets of perception tied to it that render the effort of such analysis completely obsolete. We are trained to believe humans' instinctual gravitation toward survival as solid proof that death is bad. But what of the suicide victim who wishes to die? What of the miserable mother-in-law who fades away in her emphysemic bed while the ridiculed son-in-law sits close by? Will her suffering yield ample atonement? "The only good cat's a dead cat," they sometimes say. What if she has assets?

Our minds are also tossed around between sharp divides of expected mannerisms and reactions to death. Some people believe that mourning is a sacred process of getting over it. Some people settle for the "you should be happy because he's in a better place" approach. Regardless of how you act, it all reflects your personal opinions of that particular death.

But symbols aren't meant for encompassing personal opinions. Symbols are meant to generalize an idea that is applicable for all cases. Like in mathematics, which revolves around a slew of symbols, for something to be valid and true, it must be true for all cases. So essentially, do our thoughts and feelings, which we express in the most animated displays of gestures, symbols, and actions, all equate to some mathematical value that identifies how consistent each of us individual people are with defining our beliefs?

For instance, last night at midnight, one of my best friends (Zach) who now lives in Chicago and who I have been referring to in the last couple posts about Chicago, randomly called me up and said, "What are you doing tonight and only tonight? I'm in town because I have to attend a funeral tomorrow." Bam. Just like that, my sentiments of my last Friday-post were appeased. Zach's great uncle died so he had to attend a funeral in Michigan, which allowed him to show up in town. I was more than overjoyed about this. I stayed up with him and my friend Ethan until 4:30 in the morning when I had to be up by about 8:30. It was, to say the least, a really good thing.

So, essentially, what I'm saying is that I'm partially happy Zach's great uncle died. Yeah, I'm not happy that another soul who meant something important to people passed away, but the effect of it, which caused Zach's presence in Caledonia, was more than satisfying for me. But trying to analyze how my joy is caused more because of the "secondary" effects versus "direct" effects of the indident, in my opinion, is pointless. A death happened, and I feel a certain way about it. One way only. Yes, in that emotion that I am feeling can be a great blend of various thoughts, opinions, and emotions that makes it seem like I feel many ways at once. But truly, when I say "Zach's great uncle died," I feel ONE way about it. And in my personalized situation, the consistency of that feeling is much more happiness than dread.

So let's let the "death equation" be y = ax + b, where y is my emotional value, with positive numbers being "good" or happy, and negative numbers being "bad" or distraught. If we let a = my proximity to the deceased, x = my current emotional disposition, and b = how long I've known ther person...you get what I'm saying (hopefully).

Things are just too variant. I sure hope I didn't make myself sound like a complete idiot by writing this stuff.

Signals From West

2010-09-27T18:03:00.000-07:00

So one of my dear Chicago friends, as mentioned in the previous entry, sent me a pretty great text today.

Emily: Oh god, so im on the bus and we were at a red light and some older guy in the car next to us was totally jacking off.

Me: Could you see his penis?

Emily: No his shirt was over it. Still gross though he was probably in his 40s or 50s and overweight. Just a typical, unhygenic old guy.

NOW IS THAT INSPIRATION OR WHAT?!
Seriously, if I went around town and saw shit like that, I would be like, "Whatttttttttttttttttt, I have GOT to write about this." Damn Chicago. You've done it now.

Chicago

2010-09-24T12:25:00.000-07:00

I would very much enjoy a trip to Chicago so I can visit some of my best friends soon. Partly because I'm exhilarated to ride a train again, since I haven't done so in so many years.

FUN FACT: I've never stepped foot on an airplane.

Damn you college and your impeding work load. Oh well. Perhaps some better ideas will come after the weekend...

Prose 2, No Juxt.

2010-09-23T17:20:00.000-07:00

So last night, I went to the Ladies Literary Club, sponsored by Calvin College, to see a band I've been a fan of for several years now: Midlake. If you're interested in what they sound like, all I can do is apply typical genres and hope that generalizes them well enough, although a severe disservice I feel that would ultimately be. They've changed so much over the years, sprouting as "low-fi psychedelic electronica" (Wikipedia, but my honest discernment), then reaching into the indie/classical groove, and finally, as the band themselves claimed during a group discussion after the show, "British-influenced folk." Any genre application would just dilute their identity, which, amongst their three albums, has morphed into an earthly blend of self-realization. In coordination with this self-realization, their change has marked a great stride of maturity.

A maturity that I do believe the better lot of people should pick up on. What do I mean by this? Well, to start, when I got to the show, I was a bit late and arrived just in time for an older man in navy blue slacks and a button up shirt, tucked in, to walk upon the stage and introduce Midlake. Beforehand, he took the time to express to the audience the absolute necessity of buying music. He didn't directly say "don't download music illegally," but being an institute sponsored by Calvin College, predominantly Christian-oriented, this staff worker was obviously making said statement to the crowd. He poured his two cents of emotion into that little one-minute blurb about how music is art (duh) and how music can only thrive at its best when people legitimately pay for their music, their merchandise, and thier concert tickets; their "product," a term this man was not shy to use. Now, immediately after saying this, as if to cover up for something, he follwed up that statement along the lines of: "It's not commercial. It's just how good souls support art."

But tell me: is an organized system of "concert etiquette" really a good way to dance around commercialism? Don't expect to understand that statement just yet. I'm getting to it. What I mean is...after the show, when I mentioned previously that Midlake partook in a conversation with the crowd, the man in slacks specifically asked the bands, "what do you think makes a good audience?" And in my head, all I could say is who the fuck cares? Yes, there are certain boundaries easily surpassed that would make an audience "bad" if they, say, booed the hell out of the band or were throwing items on stage. But until those ridiculous boundaries are crossed, why would it matter? By expecting an audience to act in a particular manner, which is to buy the music, buy the merchandise, buy the tickets, "be a good audience" to the performers, it's not like you aren't subjecting them to the elements of commercialism anyways. Commercialism is all about making profit, and that profit implicitly depends on peoples' adherence to a particular order of business which will benefit that commercialist origin. Adherence is success.

It's not like I'm saying bands don't deserve money. I don't even want to get started on a debate over quality versus popularity and such, but despite how much a band may stay underground or whore themselves out to the radio, if one single person on the planet enjoys their music, then sure, let's give them a bit of money. But me? I don't really believe in total adherence. Any CD I have on my iPod, I've downloaded and not paid for it. There. I said it. But the catch is, take a look at this following, exhaustive list:

22-20s
311
AFI (x2)
The Agony Scene
A Life Once Lost (x2)
Alesana (x8)
Alexisonfire (x2)
AM Taxi
Angelic Vomit (Now "Decompose My Darling Daughter")
Angels And Airwaves
Animosity
Anthony Green
Armor For Sleep
As I Lay Dying
As Tall As Lions
At The Throne Of Judgement
Atreyu (x4)
August Burns Red
Avenged Sevenfold (x2)
Baptized In Blood
BearVsShark
Before Their Eyes (x2)
Behold The Man
Beneath The Massacre
Between The Buried And Me
Billy Talent (x2)
The Black Dahlia Murder
Black Label Society
Black Tide
Blessed By A Broken Heart
Blessthefall (x2)
Blink 182
Bloc Party!!!
Born Of Osiris
Born Ruffians (x2)
Brighten
Bring Me The Horizon
Bullet For My Valentine
The Burial
Cancer Bats (x2)
Carawae
Cattle Decapitation
Chance Jones
The Chariot (x2)
Chester French
Chiodos (x7)
The Christmas Lights
Circa Survive (x2)
Coal Black Horse
Cold War Kids
The Color Of Violence
The Crowned Virgin
Cynic
Damiera
Dance Gavin Dance
Daughters
A Day To Remember
The Dear Hunter
Death By Dancing
Death Cab For Cutie
Despot
The Devil Wears Prada (x5)
Devin Townsend Project
The Dillinger Escape Plan
Disturbed
Doctor! Doctor!
Downtown Brown
Dragonforce
Drive-By
Drop Dead, Gorgeous (x3)
Dwarf Corpse
Dying Fetus
Ed Gein
Eli
Emarosa
Emmure
Emonday
Empty Orchestra
Ensiferum
Envy on the Coast
Escape The Fate (x3)
Evergreen Terrace (x2)
Every Time I Die (x3)
The Fall Of Troy (x3)
Fall Out Boy
Fear Before (The March Of Flames) (x4)
Finch
Folly
For All We Know
Four Year Strong (x2)
Foxy Shazam (x2)
FRANZ FERDINAND!!!!!!!!!!!!
The Fray
From First To Last (x3)
Gallows
Genghis Tron
Gojira
Good Old War (x2)
Greeley Estates
The Groodies
The Handshake Murders
Haste The Day (x4)
Hatebreed
Hawthorne Heights
Heavy Heavy Low Low
Hella
Holy Fuck
The Honorary Title
Horse The Band
Hot Hot Heat
The Human Abstract
Humataria
The Hush Sound (x2)
I Decay
Idiot Pilot
If He Dies He Dies
It Dies Today (x2)
I Set My Friends On Fire
iwrestledabearonce
Job For A Cowboy (x2)
Kaddisfly
Killswitch Engage
Kiros
Knife Crazy
Kottonmouth Kings
Lacuna Coil (x3)
La Dispute (x3)
Lamb Of God
Lightspeed Champion
Light This City
LoveHateHero
Lydia
Machinehead
Mae (x2)
Man At Arms
Man Man
Manna & Quail
The Mars Volta
Mayday Parade
Meg and Dia
Memphis May Fire
Mental Infestation
Mia Dusa
Midlake
Misery Index
Misery Signals
Mobile
Mod Sun
Modest Mouse
Mose Giganticus
Motion City Soundtrack
Mute Math
My Children My Bride
Necrophagist
Norma Jean (x2)
The Number Twelve Looks Like You (x3)
Of Choir And Chaos
Of Mice And Men (x2)
The Offbeats
Oh, August!
OkGo
Olympia
On The Front
Once Was Lost
Origin
Ouch! Me Arse
Our Innocence Lost
Panic At The Disco (x2)
Parkway Drive (x2)
Phantom Planet
Pierce The Veil (x3)
Poison The Well
Ports Of Aidia
Portugal The Man
Powerspace
Premonitions Of War
The Pretty Reckless
Protest The Hero
Ra Ra Riot
Ratatat
The Reason
The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus
The Reverend Peyton's Big Damn Band
Rewards
Rise Into Ruin
Rogers Met An Iranian
Rogue Wave
Russian Circles
Saosin (x2)
Scale The Summit
Scarlet Grey
Scary Kids Scaring Kids (x4)
See You Next Tuesday (x2)
Senses Fail (x2)
The Silent Years
Silverstein
A Skylit Drive (x3)
Sky Eats Airplane (x2)
The Sleeping
The Spill Canvas
SMP
So Many Dynamos
So They Say
Stick To Your Guns
Stolen Babies
Suicide Silence (x2)
Sweet Dreams For Alice
System Of A Down (x2)
Tera Melos (x2)
Therefore I Am
These Dying Words
Think About Life
Thursday
Tickle Me Pink
Tokyo Police Club
Trivium
Tub Ring
Twin Atlantic
Underoath
The Used
View From Ida (x2)
Vinacious
Walls of Jericho
We Are Scientists
We Came As Romans
We Shot The Moon
Whitechapel
William Control
Winds Of Plague
Winter Sets Fire
The Yellow Sign

That there list is a complete account of every band I've ever seen live in my life. You can't take a look at that and say my soul is completely black, for I clearly have given my fair share of money to a great deal of bands. And, as I take this statement from a close friend of mine, it's not like bands make the greatest portion of thier profit from CD sales. Despite the fact that the CD is giving you the most direct contact with what that band represents, the record labels those bands are on get more money from the CD sales than the bands do. I've bought my concert tickets, and I sure as hell have bought my fair share of merchandise too. You expect me to be perfect and get all three? If so...well...okay. There are probably a lot of people out there that religiously follow said practices.

But I'm not afraid to say I have numerous flaws, or at least perceptible setbacks that infringe upon many other peoples' lifestyles or ideals. Downloading music is one of them. However, every piece of art has flaws too. For instance, the final band I saw, called Rogue Wave, was an alright sounding band. I've never listened to them before, but I think when glancing about the LLC last night at all the various faces, (I wasn't analyzing them, I was just looking for people I knew. Get off my back!) I saw PLENTY of dismal-looking faces, either caught up in their own thoughts or maybe so engaged in the music that their countentences moved none. They were just there, watching the band, hanging out and being an audience. But personally, what I associate with an audience that REALLY likes a show is people singing, dancing, doing whatever they please, so long as it shows emotion.

AND GUESS WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED? The final song came around, and everybody stood up for it. People were five times more active then than the rest of the songs. And then? Well, after Rogue Wave announced their last song and exited the stage, the crowd began to pound their feet as a stage worker brought out some additional equipment, not to start taking down the set, but to do the obvious: make sure the stage was ready for them to come out and do their encore song.

Oh shit. Did I just use the word "obvious?" Well, it has pretty much become that way with every show I see now. I don't think there have been more than ten shows in all of those that you see above that have gone without a final, encore song from the headlining band. But isn't an encore reserved for an audience that legitimately enjoyed the music, and also for a band that rightfully earned that honor to come out and play one more song? Personally, what I think an encore entails, as equally as an appreciative audience, is a band who engages with the audience, and engages with them well. And it's not to say that Rogue Wave didn't do a good job or that they are a bad band, but they only got the crowd to stand up on their last song. To me, that just doesn't seem like it needs an encore. I don't know what portion of the audience was doing it because they liked the energy, what portion of the audience was doing it because they liked the band, or what portion of the audience was doing it because everybody else was doing it. I'll admit: I stood up when everybody else stood up for not wanting to look like an oddball out, but I didn't romp for any encore. It just didn't seem suiting, but what do you think happened?

The band came out and played an encore song. Straight forward. But did they come out looking surprised? Did they come out and start talking on the microphone and say, "Golly gee, what song should we play now?" No. They came out with a song in mind, and their confident gant gave that all away. I think it's pretty ridiculous that bands need to expect an encore song now if they are headlining a show. Some people just might not fully understand this rant I've just unleashed until they've gone to enough shows as I have, but encores are all planned now. And NOT ONCE - for if this didn't happen, encores wouldn't happen - did the audience get an encore without pleading for it, be it with stomps or the typical chant: "ONE MORE SONG!" Over and over again, they say it.

I have to say, with the extensive list of bands I've provided, the aforementioned statistics of encores sounds pretty successful right about now. The crowd expects it. The band expects it. The band procures it. The audience receives it. The encore finishes, the band gets off stage, the audience leaves, and it's all done. That moment is thus gone, all except for the memory it makes. But people can remember their broken computers and crashed-up cars they scrapped ten years ago just as well as an encore, if not better. The encore has just become a commodity, a commercial.

People need to give themselves enough freedom to fail, and stop expecting so much perfection. We should all look toward advancement in a mature way. That doens't mean "growing up." Fuck it. Be a baffoon for the rest of your life. This world needs more goofy people. But do try to advance yourself beyond expectancies, and fail a little bit.

PROSE THAT, PROBRO

Juxta-prose

2010-09-22T11:26:00.000-07:00

So I'm rather amused at how tangible the business aspect of video games have become these days. What I mean by this is how each of the big video game consoles: PS3, Xbox 360, and Wii, are all trying to have the upper hand in the market (less Wii than the rest) by releasing exclusive hardware (and often software) in order to attract a larger audience. My main example is with the new motion-sensing hardware/game peripherals being released for the PS3 and Xbox 360 in order to compete with the Wii. The Wii was the first console to release a controller that was primarily motion-sensing in order to facilitate more family-oriented gaming, which worked surprisingly well.

Well, the developers of the PS3 and Xbox 360 caught wind of the great success Nintendo had with the Wii because of this attraction to such a wide audience (as the PS3 and Xbox 360 are moreso aimed at "core" gamers), and consequently will be releasing very soon the Playstation Move and Kinect, each a respective product of Sony and Microsoft, each utilizing this motion-sensing addition to video games. It sucks that as I get older and understand the real reason why most companies exists, which is to make money, I can feel that imposing on my personal enjoyment of some product that company releases. Now, when I go out and buy things, I have this guilty, faceless feeling that I'm just another number on their business charts, and helping them out in some great battle that I don't even wish to take sides on. Although I inevitably and consciously submitted to that when I bought my PS3, I just want to "have stuff" to "have fun." No mucky, in-between battling of "who gets how much money" and "now that I have this product, I'm forever in their open doorway to advertisement and money ploys."

However, this is indeed modernity. There's really nothing we can purchase with currency that will redeem us from that trap. It's just who we are as people who use money as a way of acquiring things. And truthfully, it sucks that I can't write every bit of this out how it feels in my head. Partly because I don't have enough information or proper terminology to make myself sound knowledgeable, and partly because I just don't have the time to do so. I have quite a great amount of assignments to finish, and damnit, when I'm done doing those assignments, I want to relax and let my presence exude away from the rest of society. Enjoy the "shit I have" without always being part of some fucking ploy, just because I own something. That bothers me, and puts me in a state of unrest. Even when I die, I won't escape it, because my corpse will probably be lying within some casket bought from some fucking company.

Or will it? Screw it, if I can, I'm having my body incinerated. Put me through your company-owned conveyor belt crisper, and when my clump of ashes comes out on the other side, I don't give a hoot what you do with me, so long as it's a part of nature. You can toss me down some stupid hill I've never looked at in my life and think nothing of it after that. I don't care, as long as it's not inside some company-owned urn or trashcan. Not like my ashes going in a trashcan would bother me or anything, since I suppose it would all end up outside and in some heap of other garbage at SOME point. But the idea of putting my remains in some company-owned receptacle kills me to think about. Hardy har pun bunz.

But really, will we ever be free of this infinite participation or influence on somebody or something else? Even if it's just the memory of us, after we're just ash? I truly, honestly, no-holds-barred detest the nature of human life because of this. Nothing ever ends. Oh geez, was I just blogging a while ago about how being forgotten bothers me? What a shame. I guess my hypocrisy shines through YET AGAIN. Or perhaps bipolar?

ANYWHO, check this out! A discgolf game made for the Playstation Move!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6JUyNAXz7V4

JUXTA-PROSE

New Singers

2010-09-21T17:45:00.000-07:00

So there tends to be a lot of shifting around with lead singers in the repertoire of bands I hold close to the beater. It has happened so much that the initial shock is all but nullified now, since I do believe I've seen some rather drastic changes made in the past few years. Of the lot, Chiodos is one of the more prominent examples. Craig Owens, in my opinion, slaughtered what it meant to be a member of Chiodos. Perhaps it was his nature that did this, or perhaps it was an unattributable draft of fate. Regardless, most people that listen/listened to Chiodos over the years (and I'll be quite frank - that demographic is/was a LOT of teenage girls) only knew the likes of Craig Owens. They associated him as the very face of the band, which isn't too far fetched of a connotation. I mean, as an avid listener of music, the only part of the music I can really partake in (if I choose) is with the lyrics. Well, I suppose you could memorize the guitar portions or any other instrumental aspect, and try to mimic that with your voice or hitting/tapping random shit (of which I esteem a particular Joe Hill for doing), but that's a rarity to pull off without external revulsion. Thus, I, and anybody who listens to music, would very likely make a first impression of a band from their singer.

But you know those people who tend to abstractly listen to music, and generally care for the music BECAUSE they know the words to the songs? Fairweather listeners, who don't take an extra few to let the meanings of the words actually sink in? I'm not saying anything bad about those people. Shit, I'm a culprit in my youth. I go back to the birth of my interest in music: 90's radio rock/alternative, and really pay attention to the words, and I'm often very happy I didn't take the time to indulge in the meanings. For if I did, with the kind of mind I do now, my musical interest could've been a stray bullet without anything but gravity to stop it. I could've hated half the music I now adore because of nostalgia, but that is probably just my writer's mindset seeping in.

But seriously, I think half of what it means to like a band is to actually engage yourself in learning more about them, what they play, why they play it, and how it's represented. You can take that in any form, with mine being partly the lyrical representation, partly the memorial value the band holds. But if you don't look at a band in any way other than a catchy tune that you can sing to, it seems like a little bit of the music's value is lost. HOWEVER, I entirely admit that in the past, and even now, I'm sure there a couple examples where I'm guilty beyond all measures. And since there's so much discrepancy to the quality of music in regards to good sound versus good meaning and mainstream, money-making infatuation versus underground, independent vigor, all hopes of finding distinction are purely lost. It's a big circle-jerk of genre battles. Quite obviously, as the/my answer has already been restated thousands of times: music is just what you make it.

Swinging back to my point of this? There are just a fuck ton of bands that have had a change of face over the years that it's entirely interesting to compare what they were "originally" to their new breed, especially with their writing. Chiodos, Dance Gavin Dance, The Human Abstract, Sky Eats Airplane, Hot Hot Heat, Blessthefall, Escape the Fate, Haste the Day, Saosin, Emarosa, From First to Last...they've all done it.

Go listen to Chiodos' new singer/material. It's not that bad at all (well, that all depends on your musical tastes.)

MEATLOAD

2010-09-20T18:12:00.000-07:00

I wholly submit every nerve of my body to the aroma of a freshly cooked meat loaf. Take me, and do with me as you please, you fair fragrance, for you have treated me well. On a day like today, with classes and work from 8 - 5:45, commuting home, then taking care of yard work immediately after, you shed light while I am still working in the dark. To step in a home I've called my own for six years, settle down in a perfectly warmed, perfectly cleaned room, and have that scent seep into my living quarters is more than wondrous. It's phenomenal.

Too bad that comfort is sent directly from the evil FDA. Time to ingest some delicious hormones.

Memories Taped Together

2010-09-17T17:23:00.000-07:00

When you never really had the chance to have bits and pieces of your life filmed due to your family never owning a tape recorder, it's really astonishing when you return to a pile of about twenty five or thirty VHS tapes such as mine that were all used to record some of my favorite moments on television. It's a pretty vogue argument by now that television holds a negative placement in most childrens' lives, but I will still defend it up and down as a piece of memory-making beauty that doesn't kill the minds of kids like it's so accused of doing. In my mind, television is no worse than music in many ways. Especially when you consider the existence of severely polarized "uber mainstream" content, the stuff that's made for the "mass mind." Nonetheless, going back on an old stack of VHS tapes is like watching your interests and life unfold in a nonphysical representation. Instead of seeing yourself, you see your interests manifest as yourself and unlock memories that were all but lost to the depths.

I don't think TV is all that bad...

It's All A Blank

2010-09-16T19:57:00.000-07:00

My list of tentative shows/bands to see in the near future:

As I Lay Dying/All That Remains/Unearth/Carnifex - Tuesday, September 21st @ The Orbit Room in Grand Rapids
Midlake - Wednesday, September 22nd @ Ladies Literacy Club in Grand Rapids
La Dispute/Native - Friday, October 8th @ Ladies Literacy Club in Grand Rapids
Bring Me The Horizon/August Burns Red/Emarosa - Wednesday, October 13th @ The Crofoot in Pontiac
The Dandy Warhols - Saturday, October 30th @ The Vic Theatre in Chicago
Atreyu/Chiodos/Blessthefall - Wednesday, November 17th @ St. Andrews Hall in Detroit
Circa Survive/Dredg - Saturday, November 20th @ St. Andrews Hall in Detroit

And counting...

Of Discing and Diligence

2010-09-15T19:50:00.000-07:00

Awexome. Accomplishments of the day: worked for four and a half hours, made plenty of new friends, went discing and hung out with a friend not seen in a while, helped some hitchhikers who also happened to be my friends, drove around plenty, ate homemade waffles for dinner, finished an entire paper in one day, and skateboarded.

How fulfilling of a day.

*Sigh* Yet another journal-esque entry, from me to you.

For Your Enjoyment

2010-09-14T14:29:00.000-07:00

A little tired after putting the effort in the last few blogs. However, those blogs have truly enlightened me to the fact that a writer's real work starts off with not knowing the end means. If you give yourself too narrow of a mindset while writing, by actively starting and thinking, "THIS is what I'm going to write about, and I MUST do it at once, and it's going to be PERFECT," you're going to lose half of the enjoyment. You just need to start, and not worry about a finish.

I kind of wish more people would throw that information around in this world. Except people who rule countries and such. That would be a very bad idea.

BUT, that's an entirely different realm. So for now, have a minute or two with my favorite skater, Chris Haslam:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=35L3wxLiNOE

A Hysterectomy Directed Me

2010-09-13T17:16:00.000-07:00

I want to know what my generation is going to be portrayed as in the text books to come. And more so, I want to know: did the preceding generations before me feel just as title-less as I feel about my generation? I know that great feats are happening before me: a war in Iraq, black president, shit like that. And I know that great eras have already passed before my eyes: the exquisite bliss of the infallible 90's, a new millennium, the great technological advancement, shit like that. But when you read about all of those things in textbooks, usually the breed having a gorepit orgy in classrooms, most of that information is fluffed with information about civilization and the like. The things generalized "societies," and all of the different levels and strands of people involved in those "societies," "do" on a daily basis. Some sort of summation of lifestyles and the like.

For instance, in the Gothic era, despite that we as Americans have tarnished the connotation of what it means to be Gothic with images of eyeliner, sissy whip poodads, and any other derogatory idea (unless, of course, you belong to that group), oh the god damn well. At least they have some sort of dignified image/idea that a great mass of people share. Or you could go the more serious route and actually understand what being Gothic implies. Regardless, that era has garnered a future-accepted set of qualities. But when all of that stuff was actually happening, when a Goth was really hanging around being a Goth in Europe, doing Goth deeds like eating Goth granola, I can't suspect that any Goth going even slightly against the Gothy grain would feel that historical surge that, "HEY! You guys! We're Goths! You know what that means?! We're going to be remembered!" I mean, I personally feel that's why they had religion, and had it they did as they bashed it into peoples' souls. They had NO idea what the fuck was going on in the future. Could they really be so assured that their legacy would live on? I know damn well some of the Goths probably thought so, but human thought can only take you so far. Their god was in charge of their permanence. Not them.

Are people really going to look back on our generation, and I'll narrow "our generation" down so much as to regard specifically my fellow American (harchy har har!) college-mates, and see some great legacy worth talking about? Perhaps our shared ideas or experiences may move on, such as what we've all accomplished in college, but will our individuality and what each and every one of us refer to as important in our lives really carry on throughout the night? If history repeats itself, you sure as hell don't hear about what Filgor Flem of 1800 enjoyed doing after his Goth convention. And you sure as hell probably won't hear about what Murray Albatross of 2010 enjoyed doing after controlling time.

That's my best friend. His name's Murray Albatross. His adorning of the Sacred Watch clearly indicates he controls time. I like this picture quite a bit. It kind of makes his skin look very very nice. He likes the beach, and I do too.

*INSERT HACKSAW MCGRAW*

IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT WE LIKE. Nor did it matter what most of the Goths liked. Unless they wrote stuff. Or somehow created pictures. Thus, I say with a deep-seated intensity, with all of the fire and brimstone within me (go Typhlosion!), artists will be the ones to carry on any legacies. Artists; not presidents, kings, diplomats...none of them. In the true sake of memories as we know them now, you have pictures, books, orators, and sound. Creation is what carries on any legacies, not rulership.

So, unfortunately, despite the displeasure of those hallow text books still gorphing in the classrooms, any man or woman who wrote them created something. I guess you can just refer to the textbook writers as the "modern trash artists" (I kid, I kid! Don't lynch me). But they wrote it. And somebody took the pictures in the book. And if they didn't do it, "they" who is the expanse of humanity, and if I didn't do it, it's like none of us would've ever been born.

Like we wouldn't have ever been born at all.

Write. Take pictures. Speak. Draw. Think. Expand. Create. Please.

Rise of the Frog King

2010-09-10T16:34:00.000-07:00

And although I'd like to think that any animal a hundredth the size of a lawn mower, refusing to move at the sound of blasting blades inches away, deserves to die from stupidity, who am I to deem it stupid or a pointless life?

Who knows...perhaps they have the power too. Everybody should stop mowing the lawn.

Pinching Brain Coins

2010-09-09T19:17:00.000-07:00

There's this longstanding humorous thought/idea that I've preserved with one of my best friends that rationalizes the existence of "memory inflation." Very similar to the way the value of currency bomb-dropped during the historical inflation, it seems all too likely that at some point, if some chaotic thread of chance permitted it, the memory that we use to store information on hard drives in all their suits a' color (laptops, iPods, phones, game consoles, etc.) could very well go into a similar inflationary cycle, where massive amounts of disc storage are worth virtually nothing. I'm no economist, and I do believe that was my least favorite class in college so far, so this could all be flawed logic. But when I examine all of the gadgets I'm exposed to on a daily basis, I see higher and higher storage amounts that are selling for a portion of what that same storage amount cost even a year ago. My strongest example of that is with iPods. I do believe that the only model of iPod classics for sale now are the 120 GB model, which sells at a flat rate of $300. Before, they used to offer 80 GB models for $300 and 120 GB for $400 (I think), and now it's all just the same 120 GB for everybody. I'll take the same concept and apply it to external hard drives too. It just seems like the storage space goes up and up as our technology advances.

Could it be possible that memory storage could become too plentiful, and eventually lead to such disarray experienced during inflation? Or am I just an idiot that doesn't care to factor in the million other variables in this formula?

Skating-Induced Sneezes

2010-09-08T19:50:00.000-07:00

Can't get enough skateboarding to fill in the gaps. I spent a good chunk of my Wednesday afternoon of freedom tucked away in a computer lab, checking out scholarly databases and accruing scholarly sources for scholarly research like a diligent, school-abiding twat. I got done around 5:45, and opportunity struck the combo in a game of Bop-It. I took one step outside and the tendons in my feet were reverberating with the shock of a tribal drum beat all to hell for the calling of slabbed wood. I had to go to the skate park on this wondrous fall day. I like skateboarding a bit much. I love skateboarding.

So much that I can also accept the existence of kids half my age that are nearly equivalent, if not "better" than I am as far as trick performance goes. Not like I'm advertising myself as anything close to "good," a quality that I believe only the truly interested can sense, but after pouring myself into skating for a good five years or so, it's pretty interesting to see kids who are twice the age as the amount of time I've spent skating, who can take a board nearly three-fourths their size, and bust phat ass crooks and plop down fakie heels like it's worth half their time. Seriously, I'm not complaining one bit about them because the more power little kids have, the funnier things get anyways.

But to reflect on a logical aspect of it, I was at work several weeks ago during the first week of classes, and was sent to fix a media cart in a classroom. I had about ten minutes to spare before the next class started in the room, and I happened to slowly discern with the steady seepage of students through the "point of no return"-they-taught-you-about-in-driver's-training worth of a door to education, that I was in the delicate embrace of a German class. No problems here then. I tested out of all of my language classes. Thus, no hauntingly monotonous flashbacks/wickedly drug-induced aftertrip brain-distillation (it's all the same, I can only presume) to make me stab myself in the face while on the clock. Nevertheless, my task continued well after the class started, and while I waited around for a simple phone call, I let opportunity pull the Bop-It combo once more, and turned work into the only free class I will probably ever get at Aquinas.

And you know what? I probably learned more in that class during those five minutes than I learned that entire week. I learned how to say all of the months in German, and also learned that little kids are more apt to become fluent in several languages because the muscles in the human mouth grow in age to accommodate the language they speak. Thus, adults have a harder time learning different languages, whilst children can become masterful powerhouses of language fluency. That is precisely why these little kids are so good at skateboarding.

Little kids have power. I have power too, but not as much as they do. I started skateboarding when I was in high school. They started skating while in elementary school. Soon, I will break down, and breaking down I will do well before them. The physical energy in me to continue skating will most likely escape me at some point, despite my far fetched statements of aspiring to be a 90 year-old skateboarder. I will inevitably break down to half of my stature, half of my fortitude. I will feel the grenades of age ease into my spinal sockets and casually explode, shredding and fragmenting the discs in my back. And unfortunately, the skateboard company Almost didn't construct me with their specialized pressure discs, meant to divert pressure and prevent snapping of the wooden spine. I will fall apart, but at least I'll have a stone heart. My body may break, but the power in me will never fade. The discs in my back will disappear in clouds of dust, but in those parched fumes of dried marrow lingers the cocaine fog that, when mixed with liquid faith, glues the passion to the core of my heart.

And those kids? The same will happen to them. But the part that matters is that at one point, we all felt the power. We weren't constructed by Almost, but we were all made by BlackLabel, Habitat, Chocolate, Almost, Supra, Rodney Mullen, Krux, Reds, Chris Haslam...by those names, we were given a home, and in that home, we've all found solitude, a final construct that we can all be comfortable in, to worship in. They made us who we are, and they fostered the love that empowers us all to be equal with each other.

Because you see, despite the differences and the playful grudge I hold against longboarders (if you're going to do it, do it right!), whatever you do, whether it's on a six-foot or three-foot board, goofy or regular, good or not, when you've stepped on, you've accepted it in your heart, just as "we" all have. We all love each other, and the love is present whether we are alone or in a pack. That's the grandeur of it all: it lets you worship in whatever manner you desire. If you wish to do it alone, you may do so. If you wish to find the power in numbers, you may also do so. Personally, I like the alone part. I love the alone part. Being alone puts me at rest, at ease, where I have nothing to prove, I have no debt to anybody except myself that I'll not be at fault for the cracks in my "skate-home." My home will stand beyond my body, and the only person who can hold those rigormortified pieces of wood in place after I am dust is my own will. Nobody else.

And that's precisely why I chose to go to the skate park alone today. But even though I went alone and spoke to nobody, that one kid who I KNOW was younger than me, who I KNOW had more "skill" than I - we shared a love. We shared a love for our similar homes.

And the best thing is? Our kids are getting more powerful. We are growing faster, our houses are now sturdier and our nourishment expanded, and we are gaining experience at younger ages. And unlike the filthy food companies that inject their harvest with noxious hormones, we inject ours with love. Pure, manufactured love. This is who we are, and this is our religion.

So today, when I went to the skate park and spent two hours there attempting to "land tricks" (that simpleton lingo is so brutal to the ears) but learned nothing new, it may have appeared as if I came out of the experience with nothing but scuffs, scrapes, and wasted endeavors. But I had more than that. I had the dust on my fingers.

Brisk Olfing

2010-09-07T21:27:00.000-07:00

First off, I would just like to know here: am I the only student at Aquinas who really skateboards? I'm not talking about the likes of longboarding and anything related to. I'm speaking of the real deal shit here, like ollies and kickflips. Fun things. Because I've yet to meet anybody who seems entirely devoted to doing it as much as I am. Regardless, if you wayward soul happen to read this, make yourself known to me. Let's skate it up.
Anywards, I'm pretty sure next year will be the year for discing (discgolfing) my ass off and getting myself into some tourneys. I'm so bummed the end of discing looms in the near future. Faggin' snow. I'll power through it and survive though, and by next year, I hope to feel at my best. But before that happens, one last hurrah, eh? I'm thinking playing one-hundred holes straight will be on my near agenda...

Ween!

2010-09-06T22:53:00.000-07:00

Not sure if we're required to do a blog post on this illustrious Labor Day...I just beat Uncharted 2 for the PS3. That was my great accomplishment of the day. Video games are great, and so is Naughty Dog. Now time for Skate 3!

Sustenance

2010-09-03T13:17:00.000-07:00

It has never really surfaced in my mind, until recently, of how easy it probably is to make a living for oneself. Despite how hard it could be to initiate a compliant system of business, once you sit down in a room and look around at all of the "shit" before you that can be done, that other people don't want to do, and with full utilization of your own skills and abilities, the list grows rapidly. I think the most prominent example I can offer at this point are the various ads for "odd-jobs" you can find on Craigslist. As for me, I currently have a couple computers sitting around in my room waiting to be fixed, since people of course know me as the "ITS dude." If I wanted to, I could put an ad on Craigslist and charge people about $20 to install operating systems or something of that nature. Really simple things that other people just don't want to do, or don't know enough to do it themselves, that I could just pick up and do for money. It would be wondrous to see that escalate, to have that as my life story. None of this, "Yeah, I got my MFA at age 24, went on to become an executive so-and-so...real successful stuff." Not saying that's bad, or far from my sights. I want an MFA in writing. But instead of adhering to a normal route of self-fulfillment, it'd be wicked to take on the random nature of odd-jobs as my way of living. No more nine-to-five stuff.

Captain Scrunch

2010-09-02T16:58:00.000-07:00

I hope that someday, when I have to be old, I'm not an idiot. I hope I won't survey kids a fifth of my age amidst their lollygagging, whilst making merry in the dumbest of humor as I once did, and think for one instance that I'm above myself to see the purity in unbothered, pointless, shits-and-giggles living. I hope that when it becomes impossible for me to see the point of a pin with the holiest of contact lenses, I'll at least see big white blocks sitting on poles aside the road, assume they still say 55 in this era, and actually go that speed, if not more. I hope that when I'm old, regardless of my physical fortitude, I won't allow medicines to be my ultimate pacifier against inevitability. I hope when I'm old, if I don't have to worry about said physical fortitude, I will make every breath of life a step closer toward establishing an impermeable love and satisfaction for skateboarding, discgolfing, standing on my hands, climbing on top of things, and whatever other interest could slice off a chunk of my mind for pie and dry ice cream fries. I hope that when I'm old, I will have a stone heart.

Thank you very much, old smiling couple that wave to me in their portable sunroom thing, every day upon entrance of my neighborhood. And you too, Mr. Probably-In-His-50's-Old-Man that asked to play ahead of my group in a round of discgolf, and consequently ran the hole. Not walked.

Identity Crisis

2010-09-01T18:56:00.000-07:00

So yesterday, I was doing homework in the student computer lab across the hall from ITS. Just for informational purposes, so that nobody is missing anything here, I have been an employee in ITS for the last two years of my life. People have accustomed themselves to coining me as "the ITS dude," since by now, I've worked on such a grand amount of student computers that I'm sure my face is semi well-known across campus. Not only that, but I suppose I don't necessarily strike people at a first glance as a "techie" of any sort, what with my long hair and casual nuances that deviate from the "techie" stereotype.

This leads me to the point of my story. As I was homeworking, a couple girls walked in and clamored in protest about their upright negligence to follow the "no food or drink in the lab" rule. It went somewhat along the lines of, "No food or drink. Yeahhhh right. I'm not following that at all." Since I assume these girls were freshman (as it would seem rather unlikely for any student well acquainted with Aquinas College to acknowledge such implicitness), I also assume they had no idea who I was. Technically (hardy har har, a pun!), if I wanted to, I could've done a little bit of voice-raising and tossing shit toward the ceiling, reprimanding these students and enforcing rules that probably should've been enforced anyways. I decided not to, not for the sake of my own reputation or anything, but just out of the sheer peculiarity of the correlation to the "Pearls Before Breakfast" article we read in Journalism class not long ago. For a little bit, I could feel the congruence between Mr. Joshua Bell and I...

What what?

2010-08-31T14:48:00.000-07:00

So I was talking on the phone yesterday with one of my best friends who recently moved to Chicago, and he told me that he bumped into the most random person while walking downtown: Sam Norman, or better known as "Samwell," for those who have watched his widely popular YouTube video, "What What, In the Butt?" If you have absolutely no idea about the existence of this video, watch it below:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbGkxcY7YFU

If you do know about the existence of this video, then you're probably aware of its popularity, its presence on the TV show South Park, and would undoubtedly understand how running into this man in person would be something half-worth bringing up in conversation.

Nonetheless, it's painful to admit it, but a small piece of my aspirations in life lie within gaining such prominence, where people I don't even know are aware of my existence and remember me for something. That something doesn't even need to be big. I mean, maybe YouTube isn't the most worthy medium for me to be making such references, but it's the most legitimate medium I've taken note of where people are purely acknowledged for whatever they wish to represent. With TV, you've got a horrendous line of "insert fancy titles here" and x-amount of critics to wade through before your material can be broadcasted, and if you are an actor in said material, you aren't even living up to your own aspirations (unless acting/drama is your niche. In that case, bravo!). You have so much crap on TV that doesn't even come close to representing a person's true message. However, with YouTube, people are in charge of their own work, and they can choose to make the most emotionally jarring videos, or they can choose to put out the most campy, nonchalant material ever. Regardless, if people like it, they will watch it and remember it. For instance, take this video made by some kid named Lasse Gjertsen, who pieced together sequences of videos where he plays singular notes or beats on drums and a piano:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JzqumbhfxRo

He literally states at the end of the video that he has no musical talent at all. Hmmm...that kind of sounds like an all-too-familiar side of myself I like to hide in the shadows. Nonetheless, he currently has an excess of twelve million views on that video. Twelve million times, people have watched that video, acknowledged his existence, and whether or not they enjoyed the video, his existence is inevitably known. And again, sadly but surely, anything I could possibly do that garners enough attention for twelve million views on YouTube is enough to keep me interested. I'm sure there are actually plenty of things I could do, and I'm not sitting here, loathing to myself about how I can't do anything good enough or how nobody likes me. That's not it at all. In fact, I am very secure with who I am and how I have constructed my identity according to my choices, but all of the work and effort it takes for each and every one of us to thrive in life (I'm speaking on behalf of a general "people" here, completely disregarding rich or poor), all of the effort it feels like every one of us puts into being human and adapting ourselves to the seemingly inevitable, it just seems like it all warrants an inch more attention. I will speak for myself in saying that I don't want to be forgotten when I die. Lots of people don't, and I follow right along with that fear. So...is this all a bunch of complaining? Some people might see it as so, especially because I have the POWER to make myself remembered. I have the ability to curb my homework, my responsibilities, anything I so choose in order to pursuit something that would make me well-known. But in the end, I just don't (unless this whole "becoming a writer by going to college" thing pays off). Perhaps it's the fact that, ironically, I've found the most astounding harmony and solace in my life by being alone. I think being alone is one of the most awe-inspiring feelings. My personal beliefs, at this stage of my life, coincide with the fact that in the end, we all have to face death alone. It's not the "alone" part I'm worried about.

It's the death. The Death of Me (the title of a very good City and Colour CD, which people should listen to if they like acoustic music).

Built to Break

2010-08-30T18:47:00.000-07:00

I'm sure it happens to everybody: those slumps where every asset you own all seem to consecutively parish in a short amount of time. I'm facing this right now with my car, a lawn mower, my laptop charger, half of the laptops students bring me at my job, and a handful of other items I'm surely unaware are broken. So many reasons can be attributed to why things break, such as misuse or old age, but when you stand back and think about it: wouldn't it make sense that companies plan on their product breaking? I'm not talking about companies writing up flow charts and estimates predicting how many people will "break" their product with general mishaps. I'm talking about the companies that boast their humanistic "built for the better good" slogans on the forefront, but really do nothing more than the next company trying to make a quick buck: build shoddy, mass-produced commodoties that appeal to the human eye but not to the human touch. Seriously, think about how much money is made in reparation fees and tell me that isn't a significant factor in any company's "game plan." Every company benefits when their product breaks, and especially when it is a conceived necessity (cell phones, TV's, video game consoles), because people will take the time to have their product fixed, either directly through that company they bought the product from, or through third-party services such as local "mom and pop" shops that offer reduced reparation fees. Not only that, but consumers are aware of how likely those products can break (and it's a damn shame they have no other choice but to buy the shit anyways, eh?) so they consequently provide money for local or large-chain retailers who sell product protection plans. Furthermore, these PRP's are entirely profitable in their nature because more often than not, NOTHING goes wrong with the covered product until AFTER most PRP's expire.

So, in a nutshell, every time something you own breaks, don't fill out a survey telling the company what they can do better. They don't care. Every time something you own breaks, that company smiles. We're all pretty much effed in the ay, brolaunch.

Time to make a change? I'd be pretty content if this message somehow started a mass revolt. That'd be so great.

Death Becomes Ye

2010-08-25T20:15:00.000-07:00

Death is such a variably controlled aspect of the human experience. Many things have the power to sustain and end life, and that control is shared with many creatures amongst our existence. Everything dies. This base fact keeps those who understand death at bay with reality: that at some point, that person or creature will imminently cease to live anymore. And for anything or anybody that does not completely understand death, it works as a background motivator to keep going, to keep struggling in order to maintain life. A baby cries when it feels pain or is hungry because those negative components threaten the welfare of its life. Similarly, an animal is engrained with instincts that protect it from danger when a threat is present. This fight to keep going, for any creature, is pretty much futile, as everything will eventually end. Thus, it's almost comforting to know that between man and creatures, death is such a controllable component. At any time, humans can end the existence of another, either in vain or in good will. We murder people, we spray pesticides on plantations, and we give concern for sickly animals by "putting them out of their misery" or "putting them down." Although maybe not as logically sound as humans exercise, animals equally have the ability to kill their own species, humans, or anything they please. The difference is that humans and animals have entirely different focuses in life. Does this get us anywhere closer to understanding our similarities?

A Workman's Horse

2010-08-24T19:30:00.000-07:00

It really sucks that the fabric of society is held together by the threads of labor. People just don't like doing work, but we push ourselves to do so because there really is no other way to maintain the luxuriousness and harmony we experience in life without it. We may find particular jobs that parallel our niches and come across as "more pleasing" than other people would find them, and thus seek out those positions. If somebody likes to draw, it is assumed they will pursuit a job in art. If somebody likes to crunch numbers, it is assumed they will pursuit a job in accountancy or as an actuary. Not ALL the time are we given this immediate choice, as we have to sometimes struggle through college or basic hardships that postpone our attainment of enjoyable employment. But the truth is, or at least it seems so in my mind: nobody wants to work. It seems to me that the only reason we search for such jobs that correlate to our pleasures is because it makes the work seem less like work. Not because we LIKE doing work. It just makes us more "at ease" with the fact that we, as the creators of a system where output = input, are all whores to ourselves. Think about it: no matter what the rigor involved is, every job has a purpose or service that makes it "worthy" to pay for somebody to do. It doesn't matter if you're a construction worker paving roads for easier passage, or a writer exuding knowledge or ideas through words for hungry minds. Regardless, you are contributing to a system where services are repaid with money, food, shelter, etc. After simply typing in "define: whore" in Google, it comes out with "compromise[ing] oneself for money or other gains." Furthermore, after typing in "define: compromise" in Google, it came out with "a middle way between two extremes." That seems like it all fits together quite well in my mind then. You have your two extremes: complete freedom or absolute slavery. With freedom, you are at the liberty to do whatever you please, but you must fight (and fight hard) to survive without the means of money to get you by. With slavery, you are TOLD what to do, you are TOLD where to go, but in most cases, slaves were provided with ample shelter and food (of which they were not required to pay for). Therefore, between the two, you could maybe see what I see: jobs as we pursuit them today. All of this consideration of enjoyability is just salt on a very bland slab of fish, and we are all quite too hungry to care that it's really the salt we like and not the fish. Unless you have a phobia of flavors or tasting things. Then this analogy might leave you lost. However, I'd much rather believe it would be my best interest to remain lost and looking for something outside the platter than fancying the silverware before me, the tools which will allow me to indulge the meal. Unfortunately, I've already soiled my pallet and the MSG flows through my veins. The next bit of homework awaits me, and my words are reduced to hypocrisy.