Moved.

I've moved this blog to a new location, as Word Press has more features and control options than blogger does. You can find a blog about common things at http://blogaboutcommonthings.wordpress.com/. My schedule is still Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday, with today's blog in the works. I hope you enjoy the new location and layout, bigger and better things are in store.

Thanks for your continued readership and/or bookmarking, it means quite a bit to know that others enjoy my hobby as much as I do.

Writing Writer

When I was little I used to make up songs in my front yard. I'd sit at the base of a huge tree and hum ditties to myself until words came to mind. Writing used to be so easy then, there wasn't any effort to it. No worrying about falling into conventions, or being too repetitive, or following a meter and rhyme-scheme. All there was to it was spoken word with a melody.

Time went on and I started learning the ways of "real" writers. You need to pay attention to things like alliteration and allegory, and make sure that your syllabic patterns aren't cliche, or it'll seem like you're plagiarizing. All sources are cited, and the MLA margins and font formatting are too perfect, there's no life left in the writing. Everything that made it raw and beautiful has been ripped from the skeleton leaving a bare, desolate structure with no substance. It isn't always this way, but by and large this is how it turns out.

Things have changed for me now. I try desperately to adhere to structure, but at the same time have lost regard for it. I'll pay attention to the feet of a poem, and each stanza will have the same basic format... but I couldn't care less how else it holds together. I'll inject the soul back into it by breaking the rules a little. Not all the time, and not even in big ways. Little things, like a slant rhyme, rejuvenate in ways that couldn't be with a hard phonemic jab.

Other things change too, the definition of "genre" no longer means "comedy or sci-fi." It starts to take on more broad terms that don't really matter. Poetry is not a genre, it's a format. Nonfiction is not a genre, it's life. Even then, you're getting only half truths for what should be a complete roster.

Comic books and graphic novels - because they aren't the same, and it's not just the use of a buzz word - are "literary genres" too. So are screenplays. And raw notes. It's not limited to "fiction" and "memoir." It's all writing. Everything is art. Everything is beautiful, if you make it so. When you jam format in like steel rods you sacrifice the freely formed splendor that used to come from the writing.

Sure, it sometimes improves the intended impact in your reader. Sometimes it clarifies the point that was made. Sometimes you will want to format your work differently. This is not mandatory to make something worth reading. It is not mandatory to make anything at all.

Yes, I am a writer. I am not famous, nor am I published in any notable work just yet. College magazines and newspapers have put my words to page, and supposedly I'm in an anthology from a scam artist writing site from ten years ago. I'm cool with the realization that my work is - for the time being - insignificant. I only reach a small audience, and they mostly know me in person. I'm fine with that, as long as each of them take something away from this.

Literary greatness is overrated, even if that's what pays. I'll get there one day. I just don't mind waiting.

Spring Breaking Walls

"The concept of a 'Spring Break' has always fascinated me, even if it's usually just an excuse for people to get drunk and take their clothes off. I've never celebrated in such a way, though taking my clothes off is always a good idea. I've opted almost universally to stay in the area for the break, with rare exceptions when I was younger to go upstate with my family. I hated those times."

I search offhandedly for my bag of gummy bears.

"Really, if I'm going to have a week and a half off from my classes and work, do you expect me to go do something I won't remember after? Or wake up with an infestation of crab-mites? Or find out that the person in the bed with me looks much less attractive and suddenly more manly than she did when I was drunk? There's no point to it."

Where the fuck are my gummy bears? I ignore it, and keep typing.

"If I wanted that kind of nonsense, I could do it on a weekend and have significantly less memory loss. How many college students do that on a daily basis anyway? If my university wasn't commuter based I imagine there'd be a higher drop-out rate and a much higher level of alcohol poisoning on campus. Why would I want to do that though?"

There they are! I bite the head off of a green squishy bear.

"Besides that, there's so many better things I could do. Gatherings with friends, construction projects (which are actually quite rewarding). Coheed and Cambria concerts that were sold out until this afternoon that you jumped on like the 'Tea Party' to Obama's Health Care bill, except your jumping was productive. These opportunities would be missed in Cancun, or wherever the hell the young and logically handicapped people go get herpes these days."

I smile, kill the last few bears, and my fingers come to a rest.

Tuesday's Psychological Corkscrew

Hot shit, just inside my day's time window. Still Tuesday! This one's going to be a shorty, as it pertains to this blog.

Since I can't seem to regulate and harness my thoughts to repeat at set times and days, I'm considering removing the set posting schedule, and giving it one more malleable. This could limit it to one post a week (which is a lot less work on your part, reader), but I don't feel that's doing anyone a service. I could go back to a post a day, but then there's much more filler and fewer oddeseys into the things that life is made of (in my case, prog-rock, video games, and books by Grant Morrison are likely topics). I could swap it back a day in all cases, putting it at Monday/Wednesday/Friday, but there are so many things I'd rather be doing on a Friday night than writing about whatever I did that day that it would just be silly.

I've been considering this change for the past half hour or so, as I'm not really around a computer frequently enough to make sure I'll have a post at a set time for various days of the week. I could write my work in advance and post it later - it's a very good business practice, and I've done it before - but that requires too much time in one sitting when I could be doing something else that works as well. It's not a long period of consideration, so obviously it's not a matter of dire urgency.

I've been considering a number of other things lately. To cut my hair for the first time in ten years? To abandon all aspirations of writing or teaching and take up a city job in Sanitation or some obscure office? Abandon everything I've come to believe in an become a priest, soldier, or criminal so an organization with much more money can take care of me?

There are benefits to all of these things, and oddly enough, all can work together. I could easily cut my hair to a common length, quit writing and reading alternative literature (which should be the proper term for science fiction, graphic novels, and horror novels that have literary redemption plastered between the covers), and join the Army. I'd be set for life, however long that turns out to be. I wouldn't have to ask any questions anymore. I'd never scrounge for bus money again.

I think I'd hate life though. I appreciate what soldiers do for our country, but I don't think I would ever become one by choice. I'm as capable of following orders within reason and completing my objectives as anyone else, but I have less interest in it than most. I couldn't do it. I respect the people that can more than most others living, but realistically I'm not one of them.

I could get a job wrangling wild 22 lb bright paper, my cubicle decorated with pictures of my family and all the things that remind me of who I could've been before giving my life up, but realistically I wouldn't work out there for the same reason above. I have no interest, and I would fail. Besides that, I'd get better treatment, benefits, and food from the Army in that case.

My insecurity about the future might be the reason why I need to change the posting schedule. That's actually a lie, but I wanted some clever way to wrap it up without sounding like this became a tangent post.

Wish I made money off this stuff. With the whopping 22 clicks on average in bit.ly, I'd be raking in the pennies.

Can't Fight the Future

“People they come together, people they fall apart. No one can stop us now. ‘Cause we are all made of stars.” - Moby

College has a funny way of taking you away from the things and people you love. Sometimes you're still present for them, but ultimately you're somewhere else mentally, and everyone notices. You don't realize it until much later, but by the time you're finished with your Associates, Bachelors, Masters, or Doctorate depending on personal preference, you are transfigured into a new person independent of who you were when you started.

In high school I used to love to tell stories in my writing, drawing fiction from reality in Star Wars storytelling forums online. I built fantasies around characters loosely based around who I was then. They were facets of the things I liked, aspired to be, and avoided ever becoming. I wrote about an evil mastermind that could shape-shift, but eventually realized he had a soul and shifted away from the Dark Side of the Force. I wrote about a survivalist in a post-apocalyptic environment, after God and Satan have both killed each other off, leaving Earth, Heaven, and Hell behind. I wrote short stories about romancing extra terrestrials as satire.

Now I write nonfiction. It's still wet and thick with detail when I can help it, but nonfiction only leaves so much room for fun. I've stretched out instants that take no more than three seconds in real time to a three page psychological odyssey, in which a mouse click becomes the most difficult thing in the world. I've painted vivid images of college arcades, capturing snippets of tournament gamers by their details to give an accurate account of their personalities. I've delved into the nature of things, described delusions and daydreams with more clarity than reality often brings, and earned readers' sympathies for characters that should have none for their actions.

I never used to write poetry, yet now the structure of verse seems almost comforting in a way.

None of this seems important to you now, and it really shouldn't. People change as they grow older, that's a side effect of existence. College is a catalyst, not an origin. The ways my writing has changed reflect the ways my own personality has changed. I'm not the same person I was last year, or the year before, or five years before that. I like who I am and what I've become, even if I don't like everything about it. I can look back at those years now and draw from them. The experiences, the sights, the people - they're all back story now. A proper base to build the character on for future developments and plot twists.

We're all works of fiction in our own ways, but acknowledging it at least gives ground for the plot. I don't know for certain when the back story stopped and my plot began. I don't know if I'm simply drawn from a writer's mind like my Sith Master was, or if I'm a blur of detail in an overarching piece. I don't know if I'm just trying to survive after God and Satan dueled to mutual demise. Maybe I'm a rhyming couplet at the end of a sonnet.

I do know for certain, however, that right now I like where the story is going. I like the narrative arc, and (assuming that I am the protagonist of the story) my antagonists are not without sympathetic traits. My characters are developed and complex, and I love them all. I'm proud of how my story's coming along.

We should all be proud of our stories.

Flutes and Credit

Tonight was a very long night. This won't be a very long post.

I did some sound engineering for a jazz trio earlier today. I've worked with two of the three before, and they're all awesome guys. I'm not positive, but I think I might've been requested specifically for this event (which is pretty awesome, and warms my heart). This added pressure to my performance. It had to be spotless.

The first challenge came from the floor, as the staging we used was too small for the full trio. This was very minor, and took five minutes. The second, much greater challenge came from a cool effect. The namesake of the trio is an awesome flautist, and he uses an effect for live performances to get more 'umph' in the sound. The required cables weren't even close to being the same type, and had to go through two adapters to get the XLR and 1/4 inch cable to work together, followed by some futzing with cables.

I'm amazed that "futzing" is actually considered a word in spell check.

Then there were two hours of awesome music.

Then there was two hours of putting things away. Less fun.

Well after all this, on the way home, I had to teach a complete stranger how to do their job. It was almost a bad joke. This worked out well, since I wasn't sure what I wanted to write tonight. Thanks, guy.

A close friend of mine needed gas in the car, and by order of the pump paid ahead of time at the attendant's window. The actual bill came to seven dollars less than the pre-paid amount.

The attendant claimed to not know how to give a refund, because the system had been installed fifteen minutes prior. After a few words (all kind and genuine) I was able to show him how to use the credit refund system. It was nearly identical to one I'd used in a previous job of my own, and after a small amount of trial and error, my friend got their money back.

Initially I thought it might've been greed, until I talked to the kid at the counter. I realized he was a victim of poor leadership, and that his should-be teacher/supervisor had failed him. I smiled politely, gave my friend their copy of the receipt, and we went on our way.

My lesson for the day is to remain patient, no matter how difficult things become. Just because you have a road block doesn't mean that you've an insurmountable obstacle that will crush you if you resist. It just means that you need to do what you can, and if that's what's needed, it will resolve the problem.

Yay for happy-fun-time-stories!

Fifty posts and four months later...

In October I was worried that I wouldn't keep this blog up. I feared it would go by the wayside like all the other attempts at a journal, and would eventually get dug up a few years later and start a new cycle of writing and abandonment.

While there's always a looming chance of things like that happening - life is rapidly trying to eat all available time, including this - it doesn't look like it's any time in the near future.

Today we celebrate. I now give a gift of my twelve favorite posts of the last four months, and why I love them so. Not that I don't like all of my writing (which is true for all writers, including egotistical ones), but certain posts stand out more to me. In no particular order:

Halloween - I've been meaning to say a few things about specific holidays for a while now, and Halloween (while one of my favorites) is not exempt from criticism. Really though, it's not the holiday's fault. It's the immaturity inherent in people trying to get laid.

Why I Hate the Yankees - They have it coming to them.

Why I hate the MTA (Part 3) - If I had not written this blog, I would not have decided to calculate the times... and discover the amazing inconsistency, leading me to believe that the Metropolitan Transportation Authority has some sort of time vortex installed under the Staten Island Ferry terminal.

Politics are for Smart People - Also known as "Examples of why I feel abortion should be an option."

Make Friends with (better) Grammar - This is a pet peeve as a Writing major. Sometimes grammar and I don't get along very well for stylistic reasons, but in most cases it's my BEST FRIEND. It should be EVERYONE ELSE'S TOO.

Ten Disney Villains that are Awesome - Disney Animated Classics are simultaneously over and underrated. The villains never get enough love, and the heroes are usually generic pussies. Sadly, villains besides Darth Vader don't sell.

Sackboy Just Shot Master Chief in the Face - I will always be a child of the platforming era.

Nature of Attraction - I learn a lot of things when acting the shrink for my friends. Huzzah for observations!

"She thinks she missed the train to Mars, she's out back counting stars." - Awesome song to describe senility. Incidentally, planning for one's own Midlife crisis was a fun idea that sparked interesting conversation after publishing. I want more like this down the line.

Seven Year Snapshot - Possibly a spark to that midlife crisis. Also, better for me in sentiment than most others.

Voyeurism Doesn't Work in Society - A request for all to be good people. I know it's not for everyone, but it should be for most people.


Nothing. - Literally, nothing. But that's within this month, and you probably remember that already.

It's a minor celebration, like a couple celebrating being together for nine months. Outside of someone getting knocked up, it's not all that amazing a feat. A month? Six? A year? All landmarks for a new couple, in small ways.

I celebrate now because no one should ever need a reason to celebrate. Life will only last so long. Why not celebrate that you have it?

Nothing.

There were a number of things I could've written about tonight, ranging from the common to the niche as the things common to me may not be to others. I could've wrote about the sudden rash of birthdays happening this time of year, but I suppose they happen all year round and I just never notice. I could've wrote about why relatively uninspired games are so addictive, but that perhaps comes simply from the necessity to alleviate boredom or risk brash stupidity. I could've wrote about the process of writing, but that is perhaps too postmodern for me tonight.

So rather than go into the fantastic detail about the way one selects words for best impact, or the way that Magic: The Gathering - Battlegrounds keeps pulling me back despite terrible controls, or the way that I'm slowly going broke from trying to make my friends feel loved, I will not write about anything.

Most people think of nothingness as the absence of matter and energy. It is, but also included should be the absence of thought and spirit. To believe that the physical world is all that exists is an appealing idea to many, but to me it seems absurd. Thoughts aren't physical, neither are emotions. They can have physical reactions in the owner, but they themselves are not something that you can touch or perceive physically. If you're the sort of person to believe that a god exists, then I suppose that would fall into this category as well. Same with a soul.

With this in mind, one can assume that nothingness might not exist. You can't perceive it, if you were to then you'd negate its existence. The mere action of being in the midst of nothingness fills it with a number of things, from the physical to the thoughts of its existence. You can't prove it exists, because proving it exists would undo its existence.

For this reason, nothingness could never become sentient. Should it ever realize what it was, it would instantly blink out of existence, or transfigure into a new being. Maybe that's how God/the gods/other primal natural force that created all came to be. It was an anomaly that realized it existed. If this thought process has any validity to it at all, it would suggest that God was nothing, but blinked itself into existence on its own.

If so, then what was the spark that pushed sentience? It had to have been something besides sheer will power, as nothingness has no will power. Nothingness has no distinguishing characteristics outside of nothing.

Some would argue then that just because nothingness can't be perceived doesn't mean it isn't there. They might argue that one cannot perceive the air, or the chemical reactions that make up a bottle of fizzy-pop (I just love that word). This is not true, as all physical and metaphysical things have an impact on the world around them, and can be known in this way. The gradual shift in my house's foundation will eventually sink it into the ground, but in the meantime it produces squeaks, knocks doors off of alignment, and a number of other things. The bacteria in the air could eventually try to colonize in my lungs, and produce an infection. Everything has an effect on everything else.

Then one could argue that we are nothingness' effect on the rest of the universe, in some backwards sort of way. This could be argued quite easily, but is disproven in the fact that if there is a rest of the universe, then nothingness isn't there. The fact that we are not part of nothingness makes us there, and in this way gives a relationship to nothingness. It shows that we are not nothing.

So when you feel depressed that nothing is going as you planned it to, you can take solice in the fact that you perhaps are going as nothing planned too.

Falaffel and the Oral Orgasm.

I realized earlier today that my readership is either much higher than I'd originally thought or bit.ly is inaccurate. Perhaps it's deathly accurate, and I'm only talking to each of the individuals in person or elsewhere. It's good to know. Whichever the case, feedback is always amazing. Please reader(s), feel inclined to leave some in some way. You won't be trolling if you go off tangent, nor will you be ignored. I reply to just about everything anyone ever says to me (until the natural end of the conversation, naturally), and I try not to just say "Thanks for commenting!" which would be pointless.

Now that that bit's over, a quick attempt at a long ago promised post. Names have been changed.

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We walked through St. Mark's Place in Manhattan, the seven of us. Myself, John, Ivan, Calvin, Sylvia, Caitlin and my love had made our way from the ferry, getting off the train near NYU. I've never been a very good New Yorker, despite living here my whole life. I only recently discovered St. Mark's (as both a street and location) the week before, going to SingSing for a friend's birthday party. On the way there I'd been thoroughly lost, wandering half a mile in the wrong direction, into the heart of NYU. John and Ivan came to this area frequently though, effectively saving my sense of direction.

Our quest was simple: Mamoun's Falaffel. Another friend - who ironically was unable to make it - wanted to try them in an effort to get back to middle-eastern heritage through the stomach. I'd never tried falaffel before, though I'd heard amazing things about it. I knew it somehow involved chick-peas, but that was about it.

The busy street was apparently the center of Grenwich Village, though I'd never been able to go when I was younger. My parents were thoroughly terrified of The Village from when they were younger. They remembered the 70's and 80's, and remembered this area as a den of homosexuality and stabbings. I don't think they realized that thirty years is a long time for an area to change. I saw very little of either while there.

We passed a sex shop and a bar to our right, shortly there after hitting Mamoun's. The restaurant was literally half a basement, with a short set of stairs leading down to the two store fronts that sat under the building. In front was a small patio area with two tables under an awning with a plate-glass window backdrop. If one wasn't paying attention, one could completely pass it without ever knowing its existence.

The ladies in our group almost stereotypically splintered off to hunt a rest room at one of the local places, so the four remaining went inside.

It was narrow and poorly lit. The smell of fresh hummus and oil assaulted us as we opened the door. At the far end of the shaft of a room was the kitchen, counter, and the start of a very long line. The air was much warmer than the winter-bite outside, and music written in sliding keys created an authentic atmosphere. There were three very full tables to the side, almost taunting the line with the promise of deliciousness.

After a surprisingly short wait we were all loaded up with inexpensive chick-pea variants and sliced bits of lamb and pita with no place besides the patio free.

I got a shawarma (similar to a gyro, but the sauce is creamier and lacks the sweetness of a cucumber) and a side order of falaffel. Apparently they're meatballs made of chick-pea instead of beef. A mango juice eventually found its way to my side as well. Shawarma was quite tasty, but very different from how it was described to me ("It's a Middle-Eastern gyro," someone said). Should you ever have one, know that it is nothing like a gyro outside of being a flat bread with lamb.

Then I finally tried falaffel.

I went in for another order after the three in the side order were finished. I also got some to bring home and eat the next day for lunch.

I'm not fully sold on Middle Eastern food, but I went back again the next week. I've often contemplated going back on a more regular basis, but the commute probably isn't worth it from my house. I have found myself making excuses whenever I'm in Manhattan to try to go there though.

The group fully met up again and went home, none of the ladies really liking chick-peas and finding themselves far more interested in the street merchants. It's almost a bad joke how the stereotypes were embraced that night.

I'm sure this probably reads like an advertisement now. I don't care, the amazing that this evening was had to be shared. If you ever go to The Village, try them. They're probably considerably more healthy than all the terrible food you could've got elsewhere for twice the cost.

For all of you!

I will now be posting every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday.

Besides obligations in my weekly life that eat the other days, this schedule will make sure I post on a set, regular basis. It will also improve the quality of the content, giving a day or two to write something more in depth than "I found a notebook and it made me sad. I should've been pimp, but instead I was a respectable human being in high school. Boo-hoo."

So yes. Starting tomorrow (Tuesday, if you're oblivious) I'll be posting as stated above. Posts will be long, engaging, and worth your time to read them. It will be bad ass.

In the meantime, feel free to use the tags to find stuff relating to your favorite kinds of posts.

I'M the King of all Media

I started organizing a few things earlier, and realized that I am not OCD. I have a collecting obsession, but not one for organizational methods. While executing my ongoing operation of room cleaning I found a number of business cards, Magic: The Gathering cards, and a number of other small cardboard rectangles. The Magic cards are beyond organization at this point, I have too many. I played the game on and off (mostly on) from 1999 to 2006. I have at least 10,000 cards, mostly bulk common and uncommon cards from the Masquerade, Invasion, and Mirrodin blocks. I won't be able to organize these fucking things until I have a month to sit down and catalog them all. Some time this year, but not now.

Instead I set out to put all the business cards into a binder. I had this idea months ago, got the sleeve pages and binder, but never bothered to finish. Most of the business cards are contacts I've got for my work with the magazine, so I left them in the office instead of keeping them. I have space in the binder for eighty cards. Eighteen of them are filled so far, from my desk alone.

My books are beyond help right now. They used to be grouped by genre, volume, and author, but now there are just too many for my shelves. They've all been stacked on their sides, sometimes layered on the shelves so none go homeless. My CD's (a testament to my stubborn refusal to go entirely digital) have outgrown their racks as well, but they don't seem to mind staying stacked in front, near homeless. They too used to be organized by artist and album (year, not title), but that was many years ago. Now they are stuffed wherever they will fit.

The most heartbreaking thing is my sheet music. In high school I learned classical guitar, and that came with a limited knowledge of written notation. As the years slip by, the music slowly spreads out from its binder and fills empty spaces they should not dwell. I'm slowly rounding that up, just rediscovered Luis Milan's Pavane for a guitar ensemble. The page is mildly battered, but intact. I caught it in time. Other pieces I had are less fortunate. Bach didn't ware as well in this mess.

That's why I haven't been posting, and that's why my posts will probably include vast lists of things I've unearthed. I haven't decided that last bit yet.

Three days? Oh noes!

Writer’s block is a bitch. Common knowledge. This particular bitch is also raging and hormonal at the moment, thus making life difficult.

I haven’t been around for a few days, mostly due to school work. There isn’t all that much of it left, but what’s there is enough to keep me away from this blog. To an extent, I’ve had topics for this in mind, but generally this past week has been about finals and closing projects for my last real term as an undergraduate. All that stands between me and a diploma is a final in Chinese Civilization, a reasonably short portfolio of poems, and a few months of downtime.

Why am I not graduating in January? The administration and internal workings of my institution are terrible. Most of my classmates, colleagues, and peers have discussed this to a huge extent, I don’t really need to talk about it. Feel free to share any insight anyone has in the comments.

Writer’s block, that silly whore, is not actually in my way when it comes to this blog. She’s sitting on the last poem I need to write for my portfolio, flinging bits of refuse at me whenever I try to get close. Maybe if WB wasn’t constantly pissing off the very people she should be attracted to, she’d get laid and be a much more pleasant conceptual individual.

Usually music subdues the block, putting her to sleep long enough for me to tiptoe around her heap of a body. Today she seems intent on jamming with me, and even when I put on something I doubt she’d enjoy, she tries to pull me up to dance. I never dare, knowing she’ll stab me in the ribs and steal my kidneys if I get too close.

She’ll pass out eventually, I just need to outlast her.

Make Friends with (better) Grammar

There are few things that bother me like poor grammar, especially when written by an otherwise clever person. This has ruined plays, blogs, poems, and essays that I've read, and it bothers me a little more each day. This wouldn't be the case if the majority of these works weren't by writing majors. It's only worse in the case of individuals who know how to fix their work, but don't bother to re-read any of their own material and produce drivel instead.

My own grammar is far from perfect, but there are little things that play on my nerves more than most others.

Tense Shifts - This is a common and relatively easy mistake to make. I'm guilty of it from time to time as well, but I usually correct it as I'm typing. The use of "were" and "is" in the same sentence referencing objects that are not in a state of constant being doesn't anger me, per say, but it is annoying and detrimental to an otherwise intelligent piece.

Contractions - I love these things. If I didn't have them, my writing would be much more dry and less personal. When they're used incorrectly however, I whip out my handy red-pen and scribble the hell out of whatever paper I'm looking at. Some of these improper contractions include you're, they're, we're, and it's. These do not mean "You forgot your book!/Let's go there!/They forgot their elephant!/It lost its way!" Common mistakes, yes. This does not mean that they cannot be fixed, or that common sense can't just fix it if anyone had the drive to read their own work. Good job.

Punctuation - For the love of Jesus shaped cookies, use punctuation. If you don't, I will throw things at you. When you do not use punctuation, you look like an asshole. Even if you use too many commas, you are still using them.

When you don't use commas and want to show something it looks like you have too much to say and only one breath to say it before the world explodes and they will never know the love you had for their domesticated animal

Get it?

And I/And Me - The rules are still the same, whether or not you have a friend with you. You're polite, so your friend comes first, but you're still the same as you were. "Dave and I went walking," is the same as "I went walking." Except there's Dave too. "Who wants to walk with Dave and me?" is the same as "Who wants to walk with me?" It's not complicated at all, contrary to common belief when you're in the third grade. As time goes on, your view is supposed to grow and mature on its own.

Then/Than - When? Then! This is probably better than whatever you're using to remember the difference, based on what I read on a day to day basis.

When you're intelligent and you type as if you weren't, then it doesn't matter what you have to say. You will look stupid, and be laughed at. I will be the one encouraging others to laugh at you. Please, for the love of fuck, proofread.

The Foresight Metapost of Win

In the time since I last posted, many things worth writing about have happened. I have not had time to write any of them down yet, but they were all noteworthy in their own ways. Here's a short list of topics I will be posting about in the next two days:

The MTA: Part 4.5
The Merits of Slavery over the Holocaust (derived from a conversation in a magazine office, of all places)
Grammar: Their is no thing two you're argument
Falaffel and the Oral Orgasm
Polyamorousity and Monogomy
Year of the Black Rainbow: A Fanboy's Expectations

I've been writing more often for classes, so each of these posts may or may not feel like a short, informal essay. This is fine though, this is the case for most of my posts.

Depending on my mood in the morning, I may do the Black Rainbow post first before I leave for class. The others will follow through the course of the day or shortly after.

Step One: Live Long
Step Two: ??????
Step Three: Prosper!

On their knees, the war pigs crawling.

I am fascinated with all things social, but history has never been my strong suit. I enjoy learning about the past, but I have no memory for names & dates, and no patience for dry "academic" writing. I do my best to get through the thick, sometimes nearly meaningless words to see the inherently interesting subject, but most of the time it seems like an excuse to have SAT words finally used.

For example, I'm reading a text about Chinese art from 1620 on (incidentally called The Arts of China from 1620) for a Chinese Civilization course. The work is actually quite amazing, and the stories behind them are superb. My favorite by far is of Yun Xiang, a relatively minor artist from the 1500's who is best known not for his paintings or poetry, but because he turned down a position as an official (a highly prestigeous place in society, "elite" status). His reason was simply that he "preferred freedom to wander in the countryside."

That's fucking awesome. In an age when rejection from such a position likely leads to starvation and ostricization, he was courageous enough to follow his own will and do what mattered to him. Even if it resulted in mostly paintings of mountains (landscapes were all the rage in ancient China), he did what he wanted rather than what society demanded of him.

Problem: the book is so dry that I can hardly get through it, even though stories like this are amazing. I've been away from academic writing for so long that I can't even make it through a relatively short piece with lots of pictures.

This had better be the best/last academic paper I ever write, once I make my way through the rest of the book.

Black Sabbath will help me push through the dull.

Final countdown?

I feel accomplished tonight. I successfully wrote/rewrote two pieces, performed mass edits to a group piece (which I really, really dislike, but there's little I can do about that with 4 other people assigned to work in a 10 minute play. Two minutes a person? Not a very good idea, even in the best of circumstances), renewed one of my ID's, got the book needed to work on another paper for a different class, and am nearly ready for sleep.

Only major detriment right now is the state my floor is in. I'll clean it tomorrow afternoon eventually, I keep promising myself.

Somewhat related, after months of "cleaning," which means "months of being too busy to do anything," my bed is now clear and I can stop sleeping on the couch. Fantastic.

I don't have much left in me to say right now. I could talk some more about the MTA, but I'm too tired. It would be forced, and not as well planned as it should be for a subject so sickeningly important.

/end filler.

Rain Delays, but substitute "rain" for "sleep."

I apologize for not posting last night, I came in and fell asleep relatively quickly. Today probably won't be too much better, though there's a chance I won't be completely wiped out from fatigue when I get in. If this is the case, then I'll post something special. If not, it will have to wait for tomorrow.

I have to be on a boat in an hour, which means I have to leave in less than a half hour. Usually these posts take me between fifteen minutes and an hour and a half, I will not have time to even rush out a half assed filler piece for the sake of upkeep.

Merry Un-Birthday and/or Happy Birthday to all.

Consciousness: LIVE AND STREAMING!

I should've started typing this earlier, when things were still fresh in my mind and I was awake enough to form coherent sentences. Too late now, I suppose.

There wasn't too much that sparked writing today, or at least not much that really fits into what I'd write here. I could go on a fanboy tangent about the music to a certain game involving foliage and cadavers, and how it's more awesome than most other games and everything on the radio, but that would be a waste of a post.

Not that posts can really be wasted, as they're an infinitely renewable resource for me. I could type about anything and make it fit in here, technically. Doesn't mean it'd be good, or even worth the time it took to type it, but it's not really a waste of a post.

Ugh, heartburn. Do yourselves a favor and don't destroy your stomach/esophagus with caffeine and energy drinks, even if it's just a weekend binge. You will regret it for the rest of your life. Eventually it'll get to the point where drinking water to dilute it will only make it splash higher, and you're stuck with: Milk (yum), Tums/Rolaids/Calcium pills (not so yum, depending on flavor), or Prevacid (just as bad as the stomach acid). Learn these words well.

I hate one word responses in messages, just like I'd hate "k" in texts if my phone could do that sort of fancy thing. If I wanted to talk to a wall, I'd probably talk to a chain link fence instead. Better for the eyes, and much better at responding than "k" or "fine."

Freaks is a lame movie, or at least the parts I saw. It has a legendary sequence of lines, but really it doesn't seem like it it should be praised as much as it has. The same is true for There Will Be Blood (though honestly I like that more as time goes on) and Napoleon Dynamite (which I hate more as time goes on, when I didn't much like that ass clinging turd of a film to begin with).

Some people look better with hats, dresses, and button down shirts. Probably not all at once (or maybe, depending who you are), but in various situations. I was talking to a friend earlier who said she needed more dresses, specifically for a trip to Greece. Said person seems like a dress might actually fit her personality better, as she's light-hearted and airy. A coworker of mine looks almost like a different person without his hat, but that might be just feature recognition with an artificial feature. I like button down shirts, but not all the time.

This stream wasn't as interesting as it would've been if I started an hour earlier, or at least I don't think it is. I want to listen to something. Maybe read a bit.

RANDOM WON'T STOP PLAYING GOO GOO DOLLS.

In the late 90's and early 00's, the Goo Goo Dolls were on top of the world. They had one album that successively scored number one singles for a full four years. Dizzy Up the Girl is a fantastic album, and it earned them their spot. Normally this would lead to an album's constant play killing the band, and turning their albums into Frisbees. Not the case with these guys. Thanks for not fucking your own music up for me. Windows Media Player seems stuck on them, but that's fine with me tonight.

Today I was at a wedding and I realized that architecture is more important than what a location houses. Churches that feel narrow but overwhelming play more heavily on Christian guilt (specifically Catholicism, but it's all over the place, really). This is not how to lead sheep, shepards. You want them to feel welcome and invited.

This church was actually much more modern, and very open. It was structured like an ampitheater with a single level. The altar was centered with space behind, making the audience feel like they were equals with the altar. This is a nice change from the jumbo-claustraphobia rooms.

My feelings on religion are difficult to put into words, and I'm too tired to really place them to print and do any justice. Last night's post was somewhat halfassed and unedited, I don't want to do that two nights in a row.

Instead, I'm enjoying "Sympathy," wishing it was written in a tuning I'm likely to leave a guitar in.

Tomorrow night you get one of the following: Ubercon, MTA #2(now with logic!), or a requested post from months ago. The last one will be fun, but time consuming to write. We'll find out tomorrow I suppose, won't we?

Oh, "Acoustic #3" is on. Good night.

Day Two

So far there is a distinct absence of failure. I'm posting again, and it's still recent and relevant to the previous one. Suck it, apathy.

I'm a geek, and I'm quite proud of it. I know this because I fawn over the technical aspects of upcoming video games while I try to compose a list of influential graphic novelists to pretend is definitive. Said list is far from complete, and right now mostly consists of Frank Miller, Grant Morrison, Alan Moore, Neil Gaiman, and Jeff Smith. These folks are proper reflections of my reading tastes, and I suppose my tastes in most other media. I could write several paragraphs about each author's unique style and how it relates to the human condition (therefore to myself), but at present I don't really see the need. Any following I'm likely to develop will probably either know who these people are, have the sense to look them up, or stopped caring once they realized that "graphic novelist" doesn't mean "people that write sex and violence and cannibalism," (even if these are all evident in Frank Miller's work. I think the more important trend to get from this list is the overarching genres each tends to fall into.

These five authors are all heroes of mine, and each represents something different about the way I see life. Jeff Smith has the ability to present complicated concepts in a way that anyone can understand and sympathize with, without getting tedious and preachy. Neil Gaiman presents the unusual in natural ways, allowing the audience to cope with the adversity in a more civilized manner. Alan Moore encourages the readers to pierce the conventions of normalcy that skew true vision, even/especially when said conventions are so huge that we miss them in everyday life. Grant Morrison asks questions that no one ever wishes to ask, and provides insight into the queries that all have but few ever ask in sanity. Frank Miller shows the gritty, animalistic side of all humans, especially those who are so "civilized" that their humanity rides solely on the perceptions of all other humans around them.

I generally didn't have comic books as a child, I discovered each of these authors within the last half decade or so, some as recently as this past month. This isn't nostalgia talking, it's practical research and pragmatic logic. If it were nostalgia, you wouldn't know what the hell I was typing about when I reference Zen: The Intergalactic Ninja. Comics aren't for kids, but when they get them, kids pretend they are.

I should start writing a graphic novel soon. Fundamentally, this is very different from a comic. Comics, as inherent in the title, are supposed to have punchlines. I want to write something deeper than a few throw away jokes on some throw away characters. I don't want it to be "Two guys walk into a bar... PUNCHLINE!" (This one works better in person, accompanied by a jab to the nose.) I want it to be "To guys walk into a bar in Israel... five minutes later, it ceases to exist." No nonsense, only the gravity of a situation and just enough quips to make it digestible to the reader.

There is just enough nonsense in the five heroes above's work to make the intense nature of the stories told bearable to the average person. Monsters craving quiche give way to discourse over materialism and fear mongering. The happy appearance of the campy villain from the 60's provides cover for the unraveling of all of space-time through God's boredom. The humor provides a lift so the readers can stay on point for the trauma yet to ensue.

I've got to try it. There's no drawback, there is only progress. And quiche.