No Fun Intended

Authors as Food

2012-02-20T14:42:00.001-05:00

Sorry it's been so long. Been busy as hell. But the wait is over. Was it worth the wait? You decide.

My friends Stuart Taylor (https://twitter.com/#!/HelloAmericans) and Justin D. DeVane (http://thoughts47night.tumblr.com, https://twitter.com/#!/thoughts47night) wrote an intriguing piece comparing authors to food. This is their story. These are the pictures their story inspired me to draw (in MS Paint).

"Southern writer Flannery O’Connor’s short stories are like pistachios. Sometimes it’s tough to get into them. But when you do, you’re likely to over-consume. And though you’ll feel queasy once you’ve finished, you’ll be craving more."

"Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby is the perfect expression of his thematic interests: love lost, rich people juxtaposed to poor people, dreams dying. Heinz ketchup is the perfect expression of ketchup, but people and companies keep trying to make a better ketchup. Just like Fitzgerald kept writing and rewriting about the same ideas, themes and situations, long after he had already perfectly expressed them."

"Ernest Hemingway is mustard. This Nobel laureate inspired a school of literary theory and his own genre to boot. Likewise, his spice-based equivalent has yielded some of the finest condiments to grace our sandwiches. While the derivatives may be delectable and easy to consume, the foundation from which they came are a chore to get through."

"Contemporary poet Dorianne Laux’s poems are like a bite of dark chocolate. There’s the moon hovering above us and there’s the mother defending her dead son, the violent son, the one who lied and stole. There’s vacation sex and there’s the homeless couple in an empty parking lot. There’s a teenager’s first job at fourteen and there’s his father being slowly worn down by a combination of cancer and chemotherapy. Just like that bite of dark chocolate, eighty percent, eighty-five, there is the sweet and there is the bitter and in Laux’s work, it is all given a kind of beauty."

"Spaghetti. Stephen King is spaghetti. Both are probably best enjoyed when you’re young and your tastes are still developing. Nothing spectacular about either and Americans probably consume both more than they should, but every now and then, you just get one of those cravings and nothing else will satisfy it. Banality never tasted so good."

"Most people only remember Shirley Jackson for her short story 'The Lottery.' Most people only remember garbanzo beans as that vague space between French-style green beans and black-eyed peas on the grocery store shelves. But the truth is garbanzo beans are a wonderful source of protein, fiber, iron, magnesium, potassium, and zinc and can be added to a number of dishes with a few minutes prep time. And the truth is Shirley Jackson wrote dozens of solid short stories, and what could be the best horror novel of the 20th century, The Haunting of Hill House. For all that, they’re both woefully under-appreciated."

"Cormac McCarthy: veal. Something innocent was slaughtered in the making and, generally speaking, the more blood there is, the better. It can be difficult to get through the whole thing sometimes, yet some mysterious force compels you to power through it. When you’re done, you take a cold shower to keep yourself for a while as you digest the carnage (both literally and figuratively)."

"Key lime pie is one of my favorite pies. The thing about them though is that key limes have to be used to give them the right flavor. Key limes have a thinner rind than normal limes, making them more perishable, and key lime trees are thorny as hell. But the taste is more tart than a normal lime, and the aroma is sweeter, lending the key lime pie its unique flavor. Toni Morrison, author of Beloved, Song of Solomon, and The Bluest Eye crafts stories that, if written by anyone else but her, would lose their unique flavor, their aromatic sweetness, that mix of tart taste with a small hint of sugar."

"William Faulkner? Barbeque. Slow and Low works for both of them. They can get really messy if you’re not careful, but if you take your time and enjoy all the subtleties and nuances, then it’ll probably be one of the greatest things you’ve ever had. Also, you’ll probably want to take a nap afterwards."

"Henry David Thoreau is beans. Plain beans. Maybe with a little salt. Maybe cooked, maybe raw. Have you read Walden? We’ll be lucky to get salt."

- Daniel J DeMersseman

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Hey Christmas, you heard about my new blog?

2011-12-25T20:00:00.000-05:00

I've never liked Christmas but I've always enjoyed drawing and music and didn't feel like writing a long blog here so here: a comic I drew and a song I wrote and performed. Song's not particularly Christmasy, but it's slightly Jesus-y. Well, it has "Jesus" in it anyway so enjoy.

- Daniel J DeMersseman

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Junkyard Strokes

2011-11-24T19:28:00.001-05:00

Don't worry. I'm a vegetarian. I guess that still doesn't un-kill you though.

Ever heard of Deviantart? No? It’s only, like the biggest online social network for artists. Kind of a Facebook for artists, I suppose. And by Facebook for artists, I mean the number of people on Facebook who think themselves socially well-adjusted is nearly proportional to the number on Deviantart who think themselves great artists, meaning a lot more than actually are. So sometimes when I’m feeling lonely/depressed I’ll browse mediocre art on Deviantart for hours* until I feel better, only I feel worse because I just spent hours looking at people’s mediocre art to make myself feel better.

Another way I like to make myself feel better is beating up kindergarteners.** I’m pretty sure I beat up a kindergartener. Granted, I was six, and he probably deserved it. Plus, how else was I going to vent my hatred for kindergarten?

Well, one time, our class was instructed to draw pictures of ourselves. Naturally, I drew a picture of Arnold Schwarzenegger, complete with bubble-muscles, dots for eyes, and a curve for a smile. I didn’t make high marks for following rules that year—they didn’t reward creativity where I went to school, only how well you memorized Bible verses.

Luckily, I went to a public school in first grade. And met one of my best teachers. And one of my best friends. And figured out how to excel in school and still create art the way I wanted to.
I drew during all my breaks/teachers’ lectures (in high school, I used those times to sleep). Then, I’d pass my drawings around class, as per my classmates’ requests, and everyone would tell me how talented I was. Of course, in my mind, I was already the most amazing artist that ever lived but appreciated the praise regardless (when you’ve grow up with Rob Liefeld-drawn comics, it’s not hard to imagine you’re a better artist).

Thankfully, high school gave me a wakeup call. I’d met a few aspiring artists and creative types along the way but in high school, we were the ones who largely filled up the art classes. Moreover, my teachers schooled us on a lot of old masters as well as recent great art.

My delusions of grandeur began suddenly dissolving—I wasn’t the greatest artist of all time and had better work my ass off if I wanted any recognition whatsoever amidst all the other great art already created. Of course, I was naturally talented enough and likeable enough that my art teachers gave me A’s even when some pieces were only half-finished or barely even attempted. It was too much work so I became a Psych major as soon as I left high school and entered college.

I’d learned from my father that a man could ignore all the rules, never fully committing to anything or anyone, and rely on natural talent to become relatively successful in life. They had a word for his untrained talent on the tennis court—junkyard strokes—even if the other guys on the court were mostly just jealous. Well, it worked until he started to realize he wasn’t invincible, when he started getting older, his health started failing, he got divorced, and he started feeling suicidal. That’s when he practically had to rethink and rebuild himself the last five years of his life (which he did surprisingly well).

Meanwhile, I’d discovered Internet forums, Napster, and three-to-five-hour nights of sleep so I didn’t have much time to be creative anymore. Plus, college didn’t suck nearly as much as high school—I was vaguely challenged now. After an amazing 1101 class with Professor Fred Morris , I knew I wanted to become an English major and, after trying to kill myself not many years later, I knew I was going to become a writer. So the unfinished art continued piling up, and my writing was clever but near-completely irrelevant. Suicide was a wakeup call in an oncoming train’s horns and headlights, a call to become more serious about my life.

I figured I’d continue in school, honing my writing until it was worth something. Then, my cousin died, my cousin who’d always frequently, sincerely, and vocally believed in me no matter what I pursued, be it drawing, writing, making bad rap songs, anything. There was no one else I’d wanted more to make proud, and he was gone.

Second-most important was to prove myself to my father whose approval seemed near-impossible to gain, but he died a couple months later. With my gods toppled, I had only myself to prove myself to when, less than a year later, another fell. My best-friend-since-childhood’s mother died. She was the first adult to truly treat me like an adult, to actually engage my critical thinking. With her gone, I realized I had one thing left in life to do: follow my heart above all else.

During that death-fest and ever since, I’ve worked tirelessly to transform myself and my work. As many beers and grueling hours as it took to write my heart on paper, I had to do it. And after I’d poured out enough of myself, I rediscovered drawing.

This was a practice piece to help me get back into art. It's a drawing

of some scantily clad woman in an ad in Men's Health magazine.

Also, my hair-drawing skills could use some work.

I watched a lot of my friends creating art when I wasn’t, and it made me somewhat jealous. Then, I started looking through all my old drawings. There was a lot right but a lot wrong because, for all my skill, I always held back. Maybe it was fear of success or maybe a desire to look better with how much I could accomplish with so little work or maybe both. Regardless, I’d relied on junkyard strokes, leaving lightly shaded artwork that mostly captured the essence of its inspiration but could’ve been much more striking with more and darker shades where needed.

I was afraid to strike too hard, to ruin anything beautiful, anything I’d already put so much work into, afraid to offend, afraid of anything I might be unable to erase, afraid of burning bridges, and that was true of all of my life. But not every scenario or person in life was meant to be won, and I realize that now.

So today, I’m thankful for all the friends and family who helped me through, for exercise, beer, and art, which do wonders for managing stress. I’m thankful for my family making ornery ol’ me look normal sometimes. Here’s to creating more and (much better) art because, after years of all-but-ignoring it, I’ve realized it’s more fulfilling even than music and writing.

*This is a joke. I actually browse through/seek out all the good art on there because I find it more inspiring.

**I still don’t like kindergarteners but I don’t beat them up anymore, if I even beat up that one kid. That year’s still kind of hazy.

- Daniel J DeMersseman

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

One Last Stop: Road Trip with my Father, July 2009

2011-10-12T18:06:00.000-04:00

Hey, that's not even a a cool geometric shape.

Valdosta to Atlanta (07/03/09): approx. 3 hours 41 min

My dad had a knack for playing God. His anger was as unpredictable as his acts of kindness; his rules, vague and incomprehensible, often contradictory; he was loved by many, he patently ignored both my most selfless and most logical pleas, and he wasn’t well-regarded for his driving habits. But Dad was also lonely, I was also broke, and he wasn’t beyond bribing me. So, with fifteen dollars to my name and more unpaid bills than I cared to say, I hopped in his car, we skipped town, and we wouldn’t see home for another twenty-four days.

It was a good thing I brought along my generic Dramamine (motion sickness pills) because my father enjoyed speeds upwards of twenty miles over the speed limit, hairpin turns, and last-minute lane-switching. As much as he hated rap songs, he practically was one. Exaggeration was his first language; modesty, a second language, another waste of our tax dollars.

Gas dollars were another matter. Sure, everywhere he’d told me we were headed was westward, and Atlanta was four hours away, but he wanted to make his Georgia Covenant Keeper’s meeting. He had a full homemade ice cream machine and a guitar in the back of his car, a passable singing voice, and several divorced and/or abandoned women to impress. And for two hours, it didn’t matter to him that his wife had divorced him—because who could divorce a man like him?

Several hours later, we slept at my uncle and aunt’s house—in an un-air-conditioned upstairs office. By slept, I mean I laid on the floor, closed my eyes, stuffed two tiny foam phalluses in my ears, and pretended my father wasn’t snoring five feet away in a too-small bed. Ditto the next night, after a day with the family and a night concert with my father with some bands he adored, that I didn’t.

At a Macaroni Grill: "All these people writing on this table are scaring me. I'd rather be dancing in my car."

Atlanta to Birmingham: approx. 2 hours 41 min

Then, we traveled southwest to Birmingham, Alabama. We settled into our hotel. Then, he drove all around Birmingham until we found tour guide-recommended Vulcan Park.

Vulcan Park was built around a giant statue of Vulcan, Roman god of blacksmithing and fire. After a quick run of the park’s museum, I quickly realized the statue was basically all it was. But the statue was a must-see. For children. And pedophiles.

Being neither, I struggled my way up the cramped corridor’s twisting stairs to the top, well, as far as they would go. Of course, it wasn’t the top and it wasn’t great for pictures either so I retraced my steps downward. There, I took a picture of Vulcan in effigy, from under his backside, and retired to a nearby bench where I inevitably fell asleep.

I awoke sometime later, un-raped, un-robbed, and un-murdered when my father arrived to pick me up. I was just glad it wasn’t my six-dollar park-entry fee. Meanwhile, he’d been working, selling insurance to fast food employees. This was, after all, a work trip for him, and he’d be selling insurance nearly the rest of it.

The next day, he dropped me off at Linn Park where I made like a homeless person while he worked. When I had my fill, I walked across the street to the Birmingham Museum of Art. It was, as its name implied, filled with intriguing art, a major American city’s worth even. If I’d been able, I’d have split my entire stay in Birmingham between the park and the museum, both well worth the free admission if you ever find yourself stuck in America’s Bible crotch.

Other than that, these were dark days, without books or a laptop, in the Sun Suites hotel where only PowerAde, Doritos, and rationed leftover Popeye’s chicken sustained me. By then, even Bear Grylls would’ve been drinking his own urine to survive. Luckily, we eventually left for Mississippi.

Gawd, quit staring at me, statue in Linn Park.

Birmingham to Pearl: approx. 3 hours 50 min

Pearl to Vicksburg: approx. 55 min

Mississippi, you might have heard, is a wonderful place, if you enjoy the leftovers of racism and the lowest child support rates in the nation. Even if you do, skip the city of Pearl. After one day, we left for Vicksburg. Vicksburg’s major export, of course, is dead tourism.
As such, I slept through boring historical films at a Civil War Museum, this time with my dad. He remained awake, none the wiser.

Behind the Museum desk sat a wheelchair-bound man with a long, white beard. “Daniel, this is a rare opportunity,” he pointed and told me. “This is the last living Civil War veteran."
We laughed; the old man massaged the barrel of his Civil War replica rifle under his desk. Good, clean fun for everyone.

Farm Cats: Farm Fleas' Revenge

Vicksburg to Eerie: about 9 hours 59 min

After a week of that, we traveled through the night, into Chiggersville, USA—Eerie, Kansas—to visit our distant relatives. Around 7 AM, we plopped down on their trampoline in their front yard and didn’t plop back up for several hours. Here, there’d be no shortage of food, company, sleep or air conditioning— home, sweet homeostasis.

But for the next few days, Dad had his guitar out near-constantly, conjuring up every song he knew in the key of G. And if it wasn’t in the key of G, he’d transpose it into the key of G. The moment he’d pause from serenading us, our relatives would conjure up every question they knew to ask. I couldn’t blame them as this was the middle of nowhere, on a farm, and they hadn’t seen us in years, but I wasn’t exactly running at full capacity. Still, the questions allowed me a chance to air my complaints to someone who cared.

In a rare quiet moment, my sister phone me. “Well, at least you’re eating well, right?”
"—except for Dad's inability to shut the fuck up… ever." He was on the phone literally every moment he was with me, I told her. When he wasn’t, he was talking to me (or singing). “Thank god for Dramamine”—a couple pills would put me to sleep, curing both my nausea and the constant awkward conversations.

Braum's ice cream. An OK City food with more-than-okay taste.

Eerie to Oklahoma City: approx. 4 hours 8 min

Now, we were in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, home to Timothy McVeigh and that year’s National Covenant Keeper’s Convention. This was his plan all along, I realized, his reason for red-eye drives and self-inflicted ten- and twelve-hour workdays, but my realizations couldn’t travel a few hours back in time to deflate his tires. No, we were here for the week, and all I could do was slip out of meetings and hang out in the lobby of the hotel hosting the convention.

But I couldn’t skip the convention lunches if I wanted to eat. Nor could I turn down dinner where my father would always invite his fellow estranged spouses to join us. Oh, they loved my father, but they loved me. If I’d only been into repressed middle-aged fundamentalists—I might have enjoyed all the well-made food.

At one of these lunches, my father wove shamelessly demonizing tales of my mother, and I’d never been so close to crying or beating someone to death in public. Instead, I waited till he’d finished bragging about his inhuman work and driving routines and how I couldn’t keep up. “How do you do it?” They asked.

“Because he’s manic and pumped up on Prednisone,” I answered.

They laughed, confusing the bitter truth for a hilarious joke. This was the blueprint pattern for the week, and I knew there was nothing I could do for them. I could scarcely escape, myself.

Lucky for me, my birthday fell on our last day there. My father took me and his ten closest estranged-repressed-housewife friends to a nearby Mexican restaurant to celebrate. Better yet, he told them he’d buy all of them their lunches if "in honor of [my] birthday," they would pray a blessing over me. Sitting there, awkwardly thanking each of them, in turn, I wondered why my father couldn’t have thrown me a normal cult-themed birthday party.

Before I knew it, we were halfway back to Eerie, in Joplin, Kansas, to spend a few hours with our Kansas relatives again, only to drive another five back into Missouri. I’d stopped asking questions. I was more worried now about the itchy, red chigger bites all over my body I realized I’d gotten from kittens I’d played with in Eerie. Then, Cousin Brenda informed me they were actually flea bites and finally convinced my dad to buy me some anti-itch cream. Thank you, voice of reason.

Don't eat me, fake bear! We'll talk when I'm dying from some terminal disease.

Oklahoma City to Joplin: approx. 3 hours 28 min

Joplin to St. Louis: approx. 4 hours 40 min

Missouri was much better—Dad was back to work plus he bought me new shoes. Sure, we had to drive to every imaginable shoe store in St. Louis to find one that fit both my wide feet and his tight wallet, but my then-current shoes were worn to hell.

Almost as awesome as the shoes was the St. Louis Arch. That and the adjacent museum were one of the few times we got along. Of course, when we went through the museum’s metal detector, I had to empty the contents of my pockets. “I didn’t know you smoked?” he said.

I didn’t either until I was stuck in a surprise convention in Oklahoma for a week. Funny what we learn about ourselves in desperate situations. Like how futile Camel Crushes and a lighter are in curing incurable anxiety—I only smoked two that whole trip.

St. Louis to Warrenton: approx. 1 hour 3 min

Warrenton, Missouri, his hometown, was our last stop in Missouri. The current owners of his childhood home even let us tour the house where he was born, complete with its small-but-wonderful improvements—the basement was redone in wood panel, and they’d added a wet bar.

It was a perfect segue to meeting his childhood friend’s parents in their lifelong home in a nearby neighborhood. They even let us drink their wine which, considering my father’s frequent speeches on my drinking habits, was both odd and refreshing. When we left, we ate at my first Jack-In-The-Box where we filled up on overpriced novelty foods, yet another first with my father.

P.F. Chang's on my hotel bed in Little Rock. I don't eat this sort of thing anymore. But when I did...

Warrenton to Little Rock: approx. 7 hours 11 min

The ride to Little Rock, Arkansas, likewise, was the first time the whole trip that my dad and I didn’t argue in the car. Granted, both of us were slightly buzzed on wine, greasy fast food, and nearly a month of piss-poor sleeping habits. But if he’d wanted to throw me a birthday party, this could’ve been it.

Of course, like any crazy party, when it’s 7 AM and you’re seven hours away from where it started, you stop caring. About everything. Except sleep—somehow, his priceline.com skills had scored us an amazingly cheap stay at a Wyndham Wingate Hotel, and it was some of the best sleep of my life, much less the trip.

When I finally awoke at 5 PM, I was alone, car-less, food-less, and starved to suicide-craving, vertigo-inducing blood sugar lows. It was my hypoglycemia, and I was ready to eat the first thing I saw—twice. Dad had mentioned a Chinese restaurant his friend had told him about that was next to the hotel parking lot.

Sure enough, there was a P.F. Chang’s within zombie-gait walking distance. I ordered quickly—the two cheapest, most delicious-sounding meals I could. Of course, it was dinner prices so I forked out twenty bucks. I had no cash but I still had my credit card, and only the cooking time could keep me away from my food.

I’d never had P.F. Chang’s before and relished every bite back in the hotel room. That is, the three-quarters I finished before my father called. He needed someone to project his rage onto, and twenty dollars for food—even bought with own my money, not even his this time—was unacceptable. When calmly defending myself failed, I hung up the phone, stopped eating, and sighed.
Later that night, when Dad called back, he apologized, explaining what I’d already figured. He’d had a hard day at work. Existing on Prednisone power naps hadn’t made him a more patient man. I didn’t feel like arguing anymore, but my food still tasted like refried anger.

"Great. Now, someone's going to make a bestiality joke about us."

Little Rock to Birmingham: approx. 6 hours 16 min

Along the way back to Birmingham, I lost a staring contest with my father’s cupholder. His cupholder held an unwashed cup of rarely-changed water and his two-tooth bottom denture whenever it wasn’t in use. It’d been there the whole trip, and I figured I had permission to start complaining again. This time he folded, tossing the water out of his car window. After all, I reasoned, at this point, it was probably more sanitary to keep the denture dry than in days-old water.
A few hours later, it was the middle of the morning, and we were asleep in his car; me in my seat, him at the wheel. When we opened our eyes, we were a few feet from a head-on collision, then a few feet swerved off the road. When I complained that he’d nearly killed us, he told me, “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

Somehow, yes. Miraculously, neither we nor the car were injured. Even the people in the car we nearly hit were alive. And in the same breath, we made our way back onto the highway.
Later along the road, we stopped in a McDonald’s parking lot until it opened twenty minutes later. At this point, I wasn’t complaining about staying in one place for more than ten minutes. Once inside, we ate breakfast, and Dad brought back his half-full McDonald’s water cup, placing it beside his now-dry denture aquarium.

Another forty-five minutes down the road, he panicked looking for his denture. We stopped on the side of the road, failed to find it anywhere among us, and my father yelled at me that he’d probably tossed it out the window with the cup of water—because I’d told him to.

When yelling failed, he drove us back to the McDonald's. In the parking lot, we asked a man changing the marquee if he’d seen it, and he said they’d taken out the trash since we’d been there so our only chance was if they’d missed it. We searched the parking lot anyway.

Failing again, we returned to his car. As I was getting in, I noticed his denture on the floor. I didn’t remember it falling on my feet but I suddenly remembered getting my shoes drenched in our near-wreck on the highway. Turns out nearly killing us saved his several-hundred dollar denture. He found it hilarious.

If you want a vision of the future, imagine a camera in your restroom—forever.

Birmingham to Valdosta: approx. 6 hours 1 min

We'd really only returned to Birmingham to sleep before heading home. So I thought. The next morning, he’d accompanied one of his potential insurance clients from a fast food restaurant to her pre- surgery meeting with a dentist. Apparently, she couldn’t afford much-needed surgery, with or without insurance, and the dentist would only accept payment in full upfront so my father had offered to pay for her. It was rather generous of him, and surely the praise of everyone he told would be his treasure in heaven.

My sister was the first to hear about it. She was pressuring him not to renege on his promise to get me home in time for a surprise party she’d planned for me since the day we’d left, a party he’d known about all along.

He’d done well to keep the surprise, but as the drive wore on, it was no longer a surprise. Realizing he couldn’t possibly make it on time, she was texting me now to so I’d know what he’d done and not to blame her. I appreciated her effort and his but, at this point, only cared about getting home safe and alive, followed by my father helping me with my bills like he’d promised. That and sleeping.

Dad was determined to make it back in time, despite weeks of overloading our schedule. For a while, aggressive driving and risky shortcuts cut out time, but they failed to un-roadblock a later construction detour. Of course, as soon as it let up, he was back to risking our lives.

At one point, he used the right turning lane to pass another vehicle, driving 70 mph in a 40 mph school zone. This time, a policeman stopped him. Ironically, the policeman released him with a warning. My dad called it god’s blessing (but he didn’t thank god several months later when a Texas traffic camera caught him running a red light when it was impossible to contest it in court).

Because nothing says "Happy Birthday" like blowing up a Photoshopped picture of you fused to your childhood obsession. But my eyes were too tired to roll that night.

Road Trip to “Surprise” Party (07/27/09): 2+ days of driving and 3,000+ miles

Somehow, we arrived to the party only an hour late. Half the party was her friends I’d never met, and the other half was mutual friends I’d rarely hung out with, except for a few family members and my friend Chance (practically family anyhow). Regardless, all I wanted was another cigarette, some food, and as much alcohol as my body could take.

Of course, I took what I could get. Even with limited alcohol, I had no trouble sleeping when I finally got home, entered my bedroom, and rested in my own bed again. I had plenty to contemplate the next day: the cost of the American Dream, the dangers of prescription drugs, the intricacies of growing up with a bipolar father, how to turn writing into a career that paid enough that I never had to rely on him again for money, and how to explain how I'd spent my summer.

Daniel J DeMersseman

Bright Eyes with First Aid Kit at The Moon

2011-09-13T22:20:00.000-04:00

My finga' points. (Conor Oberst, of Bright Eyes)

Nearly three months sober now, I figured I’d saved enough from not drinking to reward myself for not drinking. But, like any good recovering alcoholic, I still had to sabotage myself. So I procrastinated my way out of a possible free ($30) ticket and out of properly coordinating with local friends. Meaning four hours alone in my car, two hours each way of turntable imitations, underwater-cat-singing, and whatever else you’d expect me to do with no one else around (trade-offs, they say).

In line at The Moon (the venue, in Tallahassee), I swam through a sea of indie-mo, black and bland-colored shirts in every direction, one of whose wearers literally said, “Conor Oberst is so talented.” But I persevered.

Once inside, I sat beside an older couple with an extra seat between us, the man among them asking my age. Twenty-five, I said.

He didn’t answer with his age, only “We’re smart, sitting here behind this bar while the kids crowd behind the stage for an hour. Because we’re old.”

“Well, tired,” I said.

Then, some cute girl who’d gotten in free as an FSU student filled the seat between us while she waited for her friends. I fought the rising volume of the crowd to make small talk. Eventually, I found out that we both enjoyed reading, John Vanderslice, and The Tallest Man on Earth and that neither of us were massive Bright Eyes fans.

Veeee're Svediiiish. Just kidding. They talked mostly normal. (First Aid Kit)

Around that time, First Aid Kit had started their set. The cute Swedish retro-folk sister-duo sang sweet acoustic harmonies. The taller blonde one who mostly looked around half-bored when not singing backup strummed an autoharp in their first song while the dark-haired one sang lead and strummed her guitar. Later, taller blonde pulled out a keyboard to play bass. Their drummer later joined them.

They bantered briefly and playfully in between songs. In one song, they even name-dropped Tallahassee, and the audience went wild. Between their humor and their 60s-ish clothing, hairstyles, and music, First Aid Kit easily won over the crowd. Occasionally, during their songs, they even shook their long hair just enough to rock out without looking too much like a strange trance-inducement-obsessed cult.

I, myself, was too entranced to immediately realize I’d never gotten cute, quasi-interesting girl’s name or number as she walked away with her newly-arrived friends. It wasn’t until she was long gone and several tall people with bad haircuts were now blocking my view of the stage, making it the perfect time to join the crowded audience in front of the stage and stand there for the next couple songs and the hour intermission before Bright Eyes.

I caught these people dancing to a First Aid Kit song.

Bright Eyes, as you may know, well, I give Conor Oberst a lot of crap sometimes, but I can’t crap on his showmanship. Sure, I couldn’t get into his first few songs—kind of bland Americana—but I couldn’t not be impressed by his frequent switching from acoustic to electric songs and, eventually, piano on “Lover I Don’t Have to Love,” “Shell Games,” and later songs.

I couldn’t crap on his energy or charisma either, especially when Conor would introduce a song like “Haille Selassie” with, say, “This is a song about the black Jesus. Actually, you may not know this, but Jesus was black so this is a song about the second black Jesus.” Not particularly profound but enjoyable regardless.

Later, he told us, “I don’t know if we’ve ever played Tallahassee before” and the crowd whoo’d loudly.

“I’m not sure what that means,” he answered, then went back into his songs.

When Conor and his band finally exited the stage and the lights dimmed, the crowd remained in a perpetual roar. By the time I returned from the bathroom, he’d re-entered the stage, alone, with his acoustic, singing an earlier crowd suggestion, “First Day of My Life,” perhaps his catchiest, most upbeat and popular song, a song about falling in love.

Conor sensibly followed with his infamously anti-love song, “Lua.” He had First Aid Kit join him on stage to sing backup. Good choice. I always loved the song’s dark lyrics but could never quite take his brittle vocals on the song. Luckily, the girls slightly overpowered his voice.

Then, he brought back his full band, with First Aid Kit on tambourines, for his last song. I was sad he didn’t play “Let’s Not Shit Ourselves to Love and Be Loved,” but I’d imagine it being hard to fit in a ten-minute song when you’re trying to cover so many eras of your music.

Fire! But not really. Just lights. Trickin' you. You know how lights do.

Afterward, I met my friend Justin at the nearby All Saint’s Café. We briefly caught up on each other’s lives, and I told him about the girl whose name and number had eluded me. “I think I’ll write a Bright Eyes song about it,” I told him.

“Or you could send a letter to Bright Eyes and have him (Conor) write a song about her,” He paused. “But she doesn’t really care for Bright Eyes.”

I smirked, and we agreed that Bright Eyes puts on a good show and actually writes pretty good lyrics but that his voice/music is sometimes irksome. Then, by some strange miracle, my car blinker worked the whole way home, and I didn’t die. Now, there’s something to write a song about.

- Daniel J DeMersseman

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

VM-Meh 2011

2011-09-01T14:05:00.000-04:00

Lady Gaga came to the Oscars as Jared Leto. I know exactly how you feel, Jared Leto.

I’m sure you've heard the rumors—Russell Brand has a fetish for women with head cheese, Nicki Minaj is actually a malfunctioning Decepticon, Lady Gaga makes a more convincing Guido than The Situation, Amy Winehouse is dead, and Bruno Mars has a great range of vocal ability—all of which proved true at the VMA’s (minus Bruno, of course). I took a break from driving hot needles through my eyes to tune in for myself on MTV.com.

It started with Jo Calderone, Lady Gaga reborn a cigarette-smoking leftover from a Grease-themed drag show, channeling a frog she’d earlier swallowed for a guttural male voice, and then monologuing in third person from the perspective of a lovelorn boyfriend. As she segued into some new single, the camera panned to Justin Bieber who appeared even less amused than I was. Not even Queen’s Brian May’s guitar could save our attention spans.

Short generic dubstep intermission and—did the old white voiceover guy just say, “Swag”? Kevin Hart hosting. Blah blah. Rihanna, why are you dressed as an energon cube? Sorry, Nicki Minaj, thought you were someone else. Hey, that’s Jonah Hill making a joke about how, now that he’s not fat, people don't think he’s funny. Because it couldn’t have anything to do with piss-poor scriptwriting.

Britney Spears thanked God for her Best Pop Video award. And the robotic implants that keep her alive to this day. Afterward: Kanye, Jay-Z, and pyrotechnics. “Scream,” they told the audience. Great canned orgasm, you guys.

Then, Biley Cyrus and Shaun White gave Nirvana’s drummer an award for his music video tribute to Michael Douglas’ Falling Down. Instead of the Black Keys’ fake grindhouse trailer with Todd Bridges in priest garb delivering lines like, “I’m pretty sure God would consider it a sin not to glorify that ass.”

Kevin Hart, then, checked on celebs in their dressing rooms where Rick Ross went Bob Ross in the only redeeming moment in a running video skit. Next, Tyler, the Creator and Odd Future beat the fake Beastie Boys (Jack black, Will Ferrell, Seth Rogen) in a brief dance-off, before handing the Hip Hop Video Award to the Decepticon from earlier.

Two generic white people from Glee gave the Collaboration Award to Katy Perry and Kanye West, after which Katy Perry joked that he should interrupt her. Meanwhile, clueless TV-watchers everywhere tweeted about how well-behaved Kanye was. Because clearly MTV doesn’t completely stage these things—I must be thinking of the lunar landing.

Then, Rick Ross and Paul Rudd quickly pandered to the crowd before introducing Pitbull, Ne-Yo, and some other R&B clone to perform some other song. Before returning to the Kevin Hart skit, this time with Rebecca Black in a dinosaur suit and Joe Jonas. Surely, this will be funny. Adele then slightly turned her head and gesticulated her hands while standing in place. Yeah, girl, that’s hot. Probably the best performance of the night actually.

You could've dooone all those thiiiings wiith your haaaaands.

Beavis and Butthead provided another brief highlight with Nicki Minaj, asking her, “Isn’t your name Spanish for threesome or something?” before she slammed their heads against each other. Then suddenly, who let the Kardashian out? Isn’t she supposed to be in some factory somewhere building a career out of silicone? The Bieber, then, thanked God and Jesus. Dang, that boy’s right religious as hell. Hey, it’s Chris “the black Backstreet Boy who beats women” Brown dancing. Jay-Z is not amused.

Then, Gentleman Gaga presented Britney Spears with the Michael Jackson Video Vanguard Award, explaining how she used to put up Britney posters on her wall and touch herself. Never would’ve guessed. One dance tribute later, Britney accepted her award. Not before Gaga attempted a kiss in drag with Britney shying away, admitting she’d “already done that before [with Madonna]” (why do I miss the good VMA’s?).

Following, Beyonce began her performance of some new song with “I want you to feel the love inside of me,” singing, then opening up her shiny purple jacket to her shirt and old-person pants beneath, rubbing her protruded belly, revealing that yes, Jay-Z is the father. Selena Gomez and Taylor Lautner then entered the stage to prove once again that they have no souls or personalities. Also, to give Tyler, The Creator the Best New Artist award.

Tyler explained, “I’m excited as f--- right now.” In between bursts of expletives, he explained how he’d wanted “this s--- since I was nine” and “I’m about to cry”, telling all the kids that they could do this, too (yes, Tyler, but they'll probably be crying because their dreams didn't come true).

Next, Jared Leto and Zoe Saldana introduced Young Vagina on stage to perform some bastard child of The Strokes and The Bravery. Time to fake another orgasm, crowd. Good job, kids. One day, you’ll grow up and elect Republicans.

Afterward, Cloris Leachman joined the “Jersey Shore” girls to present Gentleman Gaga with Best Female Video Award for “Born This Way.” Lulz. Then, she shouted out the LGBT community, explaining, “You were born this way.” All cheese aside, I guess she’s not a total drain on society.

Then, Russell Brand rambled about how much of a genius Amy Winehouse was, not unlike Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday. Says the guy whose wife attended the show wearing cheese on her head. Tony Bennett rehashed Rusell Brand’s speech less eloquently, making Russell seem like a poetic genius. Just in time for Bruno “The Fourth Jonas Brother” Mars to butcher an Amy Winehouse medley. Someone needs to find that girl he’d take a grenade for and test his popular claim—preferably now.

Afterward, Katie Holmes gave Headcheese a Video of the Year Award for her performance as the least original female pop vocalist working in music today. Then, Drake introduced Lil Wayne on stage to do his nasal autotune thing, homeless Lil Jon that he is. "YEAH YEAH YEAH,” screamed Lil Jon, Jr., strapping on an electric guitar and strumming down three times. You’ll be playing Weezer covers in no time, kid.

Also, Jenifer Lawrence introduced a “Hunger Games” trailer via satellite and Jessie J sang thirty seconds of “Forget You.” In all, the VM-Meh’s were essentially Disney sponsoring a local talent show and replacing the locals with celebrities and bleeped out expletives, stripping everything of its soul, into a glorified clip show. Excuse me while I retrieve my needles.

- Daniel J DeMersseman

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Wu-Tang is for the Children

2011-08-11T15:33:00.004-04:00

First name: Wu-Tang. Last name: Forever.

Ol Dirty Bastard was a rock star. Rappers don’t OD—rock stars OD—because rappers tend to get shot before they have the chance. That, and often, the only drugs rappers can afford is weed after buying all those shiny useless things and “making it rain.” But ODB didn’t have a lot of shiny useless things. He had a lot of children (thirteen), coke, and Tramadol. Also, the first two initials in his name—OD. Let’s face it, ODB had to OD.

Of course, drug abuse and psychological issues weren’t his only friends. He also had the RZA, the GZA, Method Man, Raekwon, Ghostface Killah, Inspectah Deck, U-God, and Masta Killa. Together, they formed the Wu-Tang Clan in the early 90s, created one of the most classic rap debuts ever, and followed with numerous critically and/or commercially acclaimed group and solo efforts, creating a lasting cultural impact.

So when the ’98 Grammy he thought they deserved went instead to Sean “Puff Daddy” Combs he rushed the stage. There, he informed a live audience that “Wu-Tang is for the children… Puffy is good, but Wu-Tang is the best”—true*. And unlike with Kanye, the crowd applauded his interruption.

And children (here’s looking at you, Kanye) can learn a lot from the Wu-Tang Clan. Probably not how to treat your woman, people of other races, or non-heterosexuals—granted, Wu is a rap group—but certainly a lot about the importance of family, friends, smart business practices, and longevity. There’s something to be said for a nine-man rap group still rapping solo and together nearly twenty years later, still evolving as artists where most rappers are lucky to remain relevant a year, much less five—and hardly ever, twenty.

As the Clan’s resident “genius,” The GZA explained on Dave Chappelle’s classic “Wu-Tang Financial” bit, “You need to diversify your bonds, n****!” And in a manner of speaking, that’s exactly what they did. The Wu-Tang brand blazed rap trails with video games, comic books, clothes, etc. And the names of all the Wu-Tang affiliates, collectively known as Wu-Tang Killa Bees would easily fill this page—brilliant marketing strategy and that’s not even all of it.

The RZA and GZA’s failed respective debuts as Prince Rakeem and The Genius taught them an important lesson in record label negotiations. As such, “Enter the Wu-Tang Clan (36 Chambers)” and future group albums were required to remain on the same label, but each member was free to release solo albums at will on any labels of their choice. If nothing else, it meant U-God and Masta Killa’s mediocre solo efforts and ODB’s personal problems wouldn’t ruin the overall product.

It's The RZA, The GZA, and... BILL MURRAY. Throw your W's up.

It also freed The RZA to influence every next rap producer in existence. His innovations included a move toward soul samples, samples tempo-shifted to fit the beat (including Kanye’s once-trademark squirrely sped-up vocal samples), skits (I know, I know, but many of theirs were actually good), kung fu samples, and his early dark and minimalist style.

It also freed Method Man to become one of the most beloved potheads in the rap world, with an ever-changing delivery and a highly recognizable voice. It freed Ghostface to allegedly do time for beating up Mase (for which we’re all eternally thankful) and rap in an emotionally-charged near-whine almost as recognizable as Method Man’s mumble-rasp. Meanwhile, ODB popularized off-key rap-singing before autotune all-but-castrated rap music. He also took Method Man’s controlled controlled substance-influenced lyrics/style to his own cracked-out place.

The rest of them had and continue their own legacy throughout hip hop and music in general, even in TV and film. That ODB never threw the group completely off-kilter proves they never took themselves too seriously, which is probably why their Dave Chappelle bits were so hilarious, as well as with Ghostface’s “Pretty Toney” bit on MTV and other bits they’ve been a part of.

All that was really just my ploy to introduce you to some of the latest (read: greatest) remix efforts in the rap world. Tom Caruana’s Wu-Tang vs. the Beatles (which you’ll have to torrent because the Beatles’ music rights owners aren’t hip enough) meshes two great musical worlds, as does Wugazi (currently still a free download on Wugazi.com), Doomtree’s Cecil Otter’s fusion of Wu-Tang and Fugazi. They all breathe new life into all their respective original artists’ work. To quote The RZA, "How can hip hop be dead if Wu-Tang is forever?" For the children indeed.

*Actually, you’re too kind, ODB. Puffy exploited his “friend” Notorious B.I.G.’s death for fame and profit, including millions from Notorious’ posthumous albums, making him only marginally better than Suge Knight who profits similarly from Tupac.

Wugazi - "Sleep Rules Everything Around Me"

ODB meets The Beatles for "God Your Money." Doot doot-doot. Perfection.

Raekwon - "House of Flying Daggers." A good introduction to the Wu if you've never had one. Quite possibly their best music video.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

The Bigot-Tree or: Growing as a Person

2011-07-01T22:21:00.009-04:00

We’d all like our lives a little simpler. Racists. Sexists. Homophobes. Miscellaneous Bigots. People who call others racists, sexists, homophobes, and bigots. Name-calling puts our circumstances into terms we comprehend, meaning it makes our lives simpler. We'd like our lives simpler because it makes decision-making simpler, and decision-making is integral to survival.

As a middleschooler, I concluded all black people liked rap music. Back then, I also slept with my covers pulled tight every night for fear I might get raped by, I’m guessing, some magical rape-demon. I knew little about sex. Or people. It was a good thing I made all A’s and rarely spoke. Someone might’ve mistaken me for a cultural and philosophical black hole.

I wasn’t scared of girls. I liked them; I just didn’t like them. Maybe they looked too much like early, awkward puberty. Maybe I embodied early, awkward puberty too much. Either way, a couple guys I’d called my friends began calling me gay.

Weird, sure, but not gay. I eventually learned to overcompensate my manhood though, like any unintentionally-aspiring homophobe, eventually started calling them “gay” back. One eventually learned years after we’d stopped speaking, to die of a seizure in his sleep, by which time the other had learned to stop following him like a loyal sheep. We all learned something.

But I can’t tell you how many times people I barely even know have given me the classic “There are black n*****s and white n*****s” speech the moment no black people are around. How many people have rattled off gay jokes or sexist jokes or racist jokes. How many times I’ve told those jokes. Or thought they were funny. How many times I’ve felt bad afterward.

As much as it should be "a fear of xenomorphs," (pictured above) xenophobia
is just a fancy word for racism. but it would explain why Americans are so
xenophobic toward all the aliens hauling themselves across the border.

I could blame it on living in the South but I’ve met my fair share of people here who seem as horrified as I am by the persistence of bigotry on Earth, in our hemisphere, in our country, in our region, in our state, in our city. Not to say I’m cured, by any means.

And we can call our bigotry humor or satire or a necessary evil or whatever we like. And sometimes it is funny. Or important in, say, old literature to help remind us how far we’ve all come from where we’ve been. And a bigot can still make great contributions to society. Just like a volcano can wipe out everything and everyone in the surrounding area and leave the ground in its wake much more fertile for growing a new food supply than before. Doesn’t make it right. It does make life more complicated.

My father makes for an excellent case study. He was loveable and beloved my many but he was also a sexist, racist, and homophobe. It was partly his charm but it was also his subtlety (well, just subtle enough to let him get away with it). I mean, he had “black friends” and enjoyed “helping black people,” he’d tell me, so he was “not a racist.” He wasn’t ”sexist” either, he said, because “The Bible says men are above women.” He didn’t even try to defend his homophobia.

Truth is most of us don’t even always immediately realize we’re bigoted or that our actions are bigoted. A lot of what we do we do unconsciously, out of instinct, in a moment. Again, it doesn’t make it right but it does make it somewhat more understandable.

That’s why you can’t just go around calling someone racist, sexist, homophobic, or bigoted, why you can’t just write them off if they are. Well, you can but what would you accomplish? This video explains what could’ve simplified years of trial and error for me, and might well help you, too. It also works with sexism, homophobia, and general bigotry though, not just racism, despite its title:

But if you’re interested in better understanding how we think in a moment, why we think that way, and the pros and cons thereof, you’d be better off reading Malcom Gladwell’s Blink than listening to me. And better understanding is crucial to growing as a person, whether you’re a bigot, feel the need to call someone else one, or both.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Lebron James: Not Yet Lord of the Rings

2011-06-13T15:53:00.005-04:00

Lebron James. Because Osama Bin Laden needed us to want someone else dead for a while. And dreams keep us alive. Just ask Cleveland.

When I heard the U.S. Navy was using marine animals and that Bin Laden
had been taken out by S.E.A.L.S., I hoped that meant literal "navy seals."

For nearly fifty years now, they put their faith in Santa Claus, that elusive national championship sports title. Someone probably needed to tell them to grow up. Lebron just wasn't the best example to tell them.

A ring might've cleared all that right up. Just ask Shaq and his rap albums, video games, and movies. Or Kobe and his rape charges. Or numerous basketball greats and their womanizing reputations, even Michael Jordan (although that probably had more to do with his six separate cell phones, an ounce of prevention, as they say). Or people in failed relationships everywhere. One of these four is not like the other.

So a ring might ruin everything. At least, that's what I'll tell him, that it'd ruin his repertoire with his remaining supporters. Incredible talent. Not-so-incredible humility. Likeability and respectability (well, earlier last year anyway). Receding hairline. A lot to relate to. As long as he never wins, we're a little let down with him but a lot less let down with ourselves. It's like Jersey Shore or the Lifetime Channel as a team sport.

Frodo has a gift for you, Lebron. It's not a championship ring but it'll
make you invisible, which you'd probably prefer right now anyway.

But I relate too much to Lebron James for him to not win eventually. It almost feels like a reflection on myself if he doesn't. I'm not sure what that says about me.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

The Reverse-Drinking Game

2011-06-01T13:29:00.004-04:00

So my grandpa introduced me to this drinking game: Is it morning? Take a drink. Night? Take a drink. Are you happy? Sad? Bored? Already drunk?

Strangely enough, we only recently ever even drank together. I ordered an Irish coffee after he ordered a Chivas Regal on the rocks. He joked about me drinking.

I told him, “I learned from the best.”

He, in turn, laughed and smiled. My grandfather has a charming laugh and smile, almost like a low-budget Southern Jack Nicholson. Almost. It’d be hard to tell a smile like that to limit its drinking (or mine, for that matter, for similar reasons). And why would society want to take that fleeting moment away from us?

Well, I've certainly had my fill.

Or the moment two years ago when my father and I finally drank together one of very few times? It was only a glass apiece of Mogen David wine the night he introduced me to his hometown in Missouri for the first and only time. I’ve forgotten the conversations that followed, but they were among our best moments together in our month-long road trip and, really, the entire time we’d known each other.

So was the first night I drank with my underage cousin. Sure, I fell asleep on the floor of my sister’s bathroom an hour after I nearly sliced open my eye with a wine corkscrew on an ornery bottle, and he had his own share of shenanigans, but it was among my best nights hanging out with him and in my life overall. If we hadn’t drunk together when he was underage, we’d have never had that opportunity, if nothing else because he never made it to twenty-one.

And I’ll never forget the first few times my first (ex-)girlfriend introduced me to alcohol, cheap Arbor Mist Kool-Aid wine and all. I can’t even drink that crap anymore, but it meant something then.

Maybe it’s because alcohol is the go-to social lubricant. Maybe it’s because of its euphoric buzz. Maybe it’s the inescapable association it attaches when someone drinks so much/so often over the course of his life, to memories he’ll never re-experience without alcohol. Sometimes, we drink to remember.

But next to treating servers like humans and properly tipping them, practicing homosexuality, or being a vegetarian, respectively, nothing is more heavily frowned upon in the Bible Belt than drinking. But my next decision isn’t for society—I serve a higher purpose than hypocrisy (sometimes).

I’ve decided to try out a reverse-drinking game. For every time I drink because I’m bored or already drunk, I’m going to un-drink one drink. And for every time I’m happy or sad, or it’s morning or night. For every time I say something I shouldn’t and wouldn’t have otherwise said, for every time I cause myself or someone else harm. Or break or waste something. And no, this isn’t some clever way of saying I’m going to regurgitate all I’ve ever drunk.

If this game sounds impossible, even metaphorical, that’s because it is. I’m going to see how long I can go without alcohol. They say if you can’t go thirty days without, you’re an alcoholic. That’s not to say you’re not an alcoholic if you survive those thirty days (because that, my friends, is bad logic).

It’s more like you’re non-alcoholic if you survive those thirty days, like an O’Doul’s beer. O’Doul’s purportedly contains zero percent alcohol but really contains just little enough to be called alcohol-free (about half a percent). The same way I or anyone who’s ever had their alcoholic occasions will always contain traces of alcohol no matter how long we go without it.

Stay tuned for part two when I update you on my success and observations or lack thereof.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Meat for Vegetarians

2011-05-13T17:28:00.020-04:00

"They're eating her... then they're going to eat me...
OHH. MY. GAAAAAAHD."

If you’re a Southern male and a vegetarian, you’ve probably heard everything from “I’d be a vegetarian, too… if I had a vagina” to “Why deprive yourself?” to “Are you getting enough protein?” That last one will probably earn a smartass response from me. I mean, I’m not twelve, stupid, or trying to starve myself. That and I can’t think of a single gay vegetarian off the top of my head so I figure, by not eating meat, maybe I’m even less gay than my peers who do. Just a thought.

Western society seems to like its men gluttonous, drug-addicted alcoholics—who somehow find a way to six-pack abs. So, of course, it ignores the news that vegetarianism can lengthen your lifespan and the duration of your erection, as well as increase your current overall well-being.

After all, that’s what will probably matter to you five minutes after you finish reading this article. Forget that mad cow disease resulted from factory farms feeding cattle beef or that the growth hormones fed to cattle may have helped jump-start kids' puberty rates over the last decade. Forget how loading up our future food with antibiotics makes us, the people who eat it, less able to fight off bacteria. Especially forget how disgusting and inhumane factory farm conditions are for animals. Or that it takes seven pounds of grains to produce one pound of meat and about half that amount of grains to produce the same weight and volume of milk and eggs. I willingly ignored them for a long while.

Four years ago, I was a vegetarian just shy of six months. I literally stopped because I got bored. It wasn’t until February 2011 that I picked it up again, after reading about the growing rate of vegetarianism among mixed-martial artist fighters—because what could be manlier than half-naked men beating the crap out of each other?

Disembodied-cow-head-of-the-apocalypse says
he ain't got no beef wit vegetarians, dawg.

Apparently, vegetarian diets increase their stamina in the ring and reduce recovery time in training, which anyone who’s ever intensely trained their body can appreciate. They have to eat a crap-load of non-meat to stay beefed up, but they were eating a lot of meat before that.

That’s the problem. 2 – 3 servings of meat per day on the food pyramid? Now, experts are saying 2 – 3 servings per month. Not that anyone understands serving sizes anyway. That Big Mac you just ate? More than your daily requirement of meat. And that's even in the old system.

Truth is, you can get your protein from milk, dairy, grains, nuts, beans, tofu, or seitan (which tastes a lot less evil than it sounds). And these days, if you’re allergic to any of that, there’s always soy-everything. If you’re allergic to all of that and soy, well, you’re on your own.

But it’s actually the iron in red meat that the are-you-getting-enough-protein-ers are yapping about (they’re simply uninformed). Eating more iron-rich foods (beans, greens, nuts, dried fruits, eggs, tofu, iron-fortified grains, etc.) should take care of that.

Dr. Atkins was onto something with his meat-obsession though and not just a clear path to heart trouble (though he did suffer possibly-related heart trouble). People on his diet avoided refined carbs (white bread, white flour, and other overly processed foods) and were, if nothing else, more conscious of what they ate. Being a little more conscious of what we eat and a lot more logical, we take care of ourselves much better (not by following unhealthy, unsustainable fad diets like Atkin’s).

It’s unrealistic for anyone to become an overnight vegetarian. Start by reducing the number of meals-with-meat that you consume per day and/or reducing your intake of pork, red meat, and birds, respectively.

As always, diet is only one element of good health, but do what you can. If/when you can, try adding in thirty minutes a day or even every other day of exercise, even walking. Every little bit counts. Of course, consistency is most important. If you break your routine, simply work yourself back into it as soon as possible.

Of course, it wouldn’t hurt to get your doctor’s opinion either. She is, after all, your doctor. If you can’t afford a doctor, visit a clinic because a doctor can probably help you plan out a reasonable path toward better health.

Reducing your meat intake is better for you, for the animals, for the environment, for the economy, and for the world at large. Unless you’re one of the many companies profiting from people’s unhealthy and irresponsible lifestyles and habits, in which case, I hope you fail. Horribly. As for the rest of us, I hope you have enough self-respect and consideration to make changes wherever you can.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

What Taylor Mali Makes

2011-04-03T16:49:00.015-04:00

I'm excited. Are you excited? Note: That's Taylor's manly hand.

My right hand's busy holding the camera at an awkward Myspace angle.

Maybe it’s his ponytail, but a Taylor Mali performance is a great place to pick up girls, particularly if you have any literary aspirations. Probably. I say "probably" because the girl next to me excitedly pumped her fist and exhaled a sigh at every poem she recognized when he announced he'd be performing it next, because the girl behind me kept repeating his between-poem commentary as if it were the most poignant or hilarious thing she'd ever heard (it might’ve been); because the girls in attendance overwhelmingly outnumbered the guys. I say "probably" because I stayed for open mic afterwards.

But unlike most of the audience, I wasn't subtly sexually aroused by Taylor's performance, no that's-what-she-said intended, though he definitely and deftly delivered. Like most of the audience, I was familiar with his material from YouTube clips plus his appearances on Mos Def-hosted Def Jam Poetry. Def Jam Poetry, if you're unfamiliar, showcased slam poetry to several seasons of HBO viewers.

Critics slam slam poets’ over-reliance on emotion, humor, and delivery to carry their work, and there's some truth to that, but Mali's more than a gimmick. Other than his "special pen" with its pull-out plastic page at the merch table—on one side read the words to his humorous "On Girls Lending Pens" and on the other, the 102 two-letter words usable in Scrabble, and a bolded "SHUT UP" imprinted into the same page. Granted, as the host had informed us, Mali once scored more than 550 points in a Scrabble game. Plus, the "SHUT UP" makes a cool picture.

Justin's excited. Are you excited?

As for the actual show, true to his slam poet heritage, it was much more exciting than a traditional poetry reading (but don’t take my word for it, take YouTube’s), and I like traditional poetry readings. He got all the awww’s and giggles you could want—with work that deserved them. “This is one of the poems I read that makes people become teachers,” he’d explain, after plugging his mission to inspire a thousand people to become teachers.

Taylor quit teaching eleven years ago and admittedly misses it, but, as someone once explained to him, he hasn’t truly quit because he still inspires and enlightens, especially those who will go on to teach others. Aw.

Sappiness aside, it’s true. He’s best known for “What Teachers Make,” his last poem of the night, a narrative in which a lawyer reminds him, “You know what they say about teachers,” over dinner, which inspires him to fire back what forms the last half of the poem.

He also inspired us with “Bodhisattva,” the life and death story of a three-legged dog, and earlier that night, a tale of an elementary kid who died of cancer. Poems that, most would’ve made painful for all the wrong reasons, work for Mali because of the way he infuses honesty, truth, and humor into them while preserving their emotional power.

On the other hand, it doesn't take much talent (or lack thereof) to bore me. I immediately apologized to Justin (we joined forces again after the Yeasayer concert we both attended) when I signed up for open mic—number sixteen on the list—and several times the rest of the night. He told me he’d just wished he’d signed up, too.

One girl spouted about how sex shouldn’t be taboo (unless it’s sex with her, I whispered to Justin), another spouted bad Michael Jackson references (no bad Michael Jackson references intended), and one guy spouted about a pregnant girl in high school. “That Whore Jezebel is Pregnant with our Secrets” he called it. It was clever but subtly misogynistic and ultimately empty—not that I can judge.

For the rest, I’d only stare up to see the cute-but-too-ecstatic announcer girl announce the next poem. Then, my eyes would return to my feet, pondering whether, my thumbs now bored, it was possible to twiddle one’s toes.

One other performer nearly impressed with passionate-yet-stolen style. “But everyone’s got a poem about their parent’s heroin addiction,” I half-sarcastically quipped to Justin. Then, I excitedly leaped on stage, energized by the audience’s entertainment, and stared into the crowd, reciting a short poem I wrote entitled “What’s Eating John Milton” impressing all the edgy FSU freshmen in attendance, then exiting abruptly.

Justin noted how diplomatically Mali had omitted “I Could Be a Poet” and “How to Write a Political Poem” from his performance, both of which would’ve probably discouraged every open mic-er but me, away. “But you have to give ‘em some credit just for going up there,” Justin reminded me.

I agreed. “Yeah, some of ‘em have promise.” Then, I pondered how difficult it is for even a good writer like Mali or even an aspiring writer like me, to get the recognition he deserves. Probably a lot of it’s in his attitude—Mali’s a bit more mature than I am, knows better how to hold his tongue. And he taught me that what teachers make isn’t much different than what writers make.

Taylor Mali on "What Teachers Make" and yes,
those are shivers crawling up your spine. Embrace them.

When he started with this poem, my nerd-erection grew... and grew.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Shedding

2011-03-07T18:23:00.011-05:00

My mother's cooking was never good enough—not for my father—because it wasn't his mother's. His cooking was hardly better; it was an ultra-low-budget-parody-of-Paula-Dean cuisine, rather than actual cuisine. He’d take the cheapest, semi-edible ingredients he could find, slather them in butter or grease—both if he was feeling adventurous—and call it a meal. My body called it heartburn and acid indigestion. After every family dinner, my bowels rode bareback on my dignity till the poison finally snaked its way, back up or out, into the nearest bathroom.

Snakes were all the rage in the Garden of Eden. When the first serpent slithered down his tree and offered an apple to Eve, it was customary to carry on like restroom-bound schoolgirls. “Hey girl,” he started off the conversation like any good propaganda. His winking eyes glowed as he posed to show off a gold chain of apples-and-vine, “You know what’s hot this season?”

“You mean the fruits with the skulls and bones on them? What do they even mean, Mr. Serpent?”

Mr. Serpent condescendingly laughed and shook his head, “It’s pronounced ‘duh-lish-us,’ not ‘duh-skuhls and bonez.’ Lately, God’s really taken to decorating everything with meaningless symbols—it doesn’t mean anything. Trust me. I’m a talking snake.”

Years later, I moved in with my older brother and recently divorced father in their apartment—The Pit of Despair, I called it. I job-searched during the day and took to the VSU library, on foot, by night, every night, after midnight. One such night, at 2 a.m., the Southern summer heat and humidity wafted around me like the fumes of hell, but it was heaven for a jobless, Internet-less twenty-something with nothing to lose. All the more for the cold-blooded snake sitting several feet ahead of me on the sidewalk.

That was the day I grew to hate snakes. Not so much as a “hi” when I waved and greeted him. Fuggin’ kids’ stories. “Screw this,” I decided. “I’m startin’ a religion based around Aeosop’s stories. I like talking foxes better anyway.” But he was only a harmless baby garter snake—maybe he just hadn’t learned to speak yet—so I captured him with my cell phone camera and set the picture so that Baby Snake showed up anytime my father would call me.

***

Snakes generally shed their skin four to eight times a year; my fifty-two year old father was overdue. Only, instead of skin, he and his hair were quickly parting. Vanity was the Elmer’s glue that kept them together. He couldn’t re-grow or replace his hair with other hair, but a few thousand dollars could buy a hairpiece dyed and blended to match his remaining hair.

The baldness, I’m guessing, stemmed from splitting so many hairs in money matters. A hundred bucks for a hospital visit for one of his sick kids? Never that. And you can forget yearly checkups. So what? All three of his kids made it past twenty. Plus, snakes are known to abandon their young early on to fend for themselves anyway. And it’s not like he’d ever cared about his own health, so when he called to ask if he should buy a ten-thousand dollar hair piece, I said, “Sure,” and thought nothing of it.

After all, any expenses that came his way met his favorite words—“ludicrous” and “ridiculous”—so when he bought it, I had only two words for him, but, like any good son, I kept them to myself. Oh, but my mother and sister said it looked good. So maybe I’m bitter, only, I know I’m not. Or maybe it’s just a projection of what he really was—a child. Maybe I’m just mean, but if my father’s a snake, what does that make me?

Even the most venomous snakes mean no harm; they simply can’t tell friends from foes. My father’s still too tight with money these days, but he’s a little better now, even got rid of the hairpiece; meanwhile, my mother still isn’t Paula Dean (and neither is my father). But my mother’s a lot better now.

It seems we grow the most when we stand to lose the things we love, shedding everything that holds us back. A man reaches out; his forked tongue turns to human form as tears roll back the blackness in his eyes. His poisonous jaw remains but slowly drains. And I hope we never stop shedding.

Note: I wrote this essay a few years after my parents divorced (before my hairline began growing scarily more like his) and revised it a few months before he died. I wanted to post my month-long adventure with him in 2009, but this came out first so here it is.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Goodwill Fashion

2011-02-04T11:56:00.004-05:00

Remember when fashion was a luxury for the rich and powerful? Of course, you do. It was only a few centuries ago. Then, the story goes that a middle class was eventually born, above the poor but not above adopting cheap knock-offs of higher-class fashions they could still barely afford.

Flash-forward to the twentieth century: little has changed beyond year-specific trends, compounded by more and better technologies every decade that make each and every new fashion more publicly known. Somewhere along the way, people adopt the notion of styles-become-fashionable-again-every-couple-decades-or-so.

Flash-forward to the Internet Age, high speed. Decades of every imaginable style from the past century are now widely available everywhere at the click of a button. And you'll find a wealth of them in secondhand stores everywhere.

Fashion: 1) v. to build or make 2) n. prevailing custom of the day

As many clothes as I've donated over the years, I've never set foot in a Good Will, though there's no shortage of people who seem to have never left the place. You've seen them: some are homeless; some are bored twentysomethings with a little money (just not enough for a cocaine addiction), clothed in irony to cover up their otherwise-uninteresting lives and personalities.

This is me expressing my apathy toward hipster-dom
through caricature and an actual hatred of Vince Gill.

I suppose we can't all be Lady Gaga, with her endless disposable income and reckless abandon of social conventions. She's painting eyeballs on her eyelids one moment, dressing up like a walking commercial for bath bubbles another, and becoming what could only be described as Marilyn Manson's female doppelganger the next. Even if there's no account for taste, there's plenty for consistency and creativity. Of course, even where there is plenty, there is plenty to be insecure about, as Gaga admits: she's just like "any other insecure 24-year-old."

Good will: 2) Something we don't see enough of these days

And maybe if we were doing more with our lives, we wouldn't feel so empty, so naked under all those clothes. Now that clothes are cheap and inspiration is even cheaper, the way we dress has become less indicative of our individuality and more about our inability to find individuality in an increasingly bland and empty world. I, for one, love to look good (on a budget) and differentiate myself from others but I never let that alone define me. There are more important things in life.

"Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that it must be changed every six months."

- Oscar Wilde

And if you missed it, there's this:

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

2011

2011-01-01T16:17:00.003-05:00

It's a new year, and I'm only half-sure how I got here. Fumbling, fumbling, fumbling through. You never want to admit it in the moment, but some people, things, and events make better stepping stones than friends or lovers even though so few of those moments might be repeated and even fewer, bettered. But what could be more beautiful?

Some of the most beautiful moments come from some of the most grueling times. Only a fool holds onto them any harder than he has to because it WILL destroy him. I've created and accomplished more in 2010 than I ever imagined. Less, too. But I'm done revisiting all the concrete I've poured, stopping and staring till the flowers crack through. It's time to build.

The official site is in the works. Meanwhile, I've been writing for Valdosta's local culture magazine The Glass Onion for a few months. That means more CD reviews, band interviews, and more. If you're local, pick up a copy. If you're not from here or you're just a shut-in, go here. I've also submitted work to my college's magazines Odradek and On Tap. I plan to submit a lot more and elsewhere as well. Stay tuned. Your boy's onto some big things. More short stories and poems as well as some youtube videos and drawings.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Daniel’s Top Ten (Songs) of 2010

2010-12-15T18:47:00.003-05:00

‘Tis the season for cheer and good will. Not Christmas, silly. Not even New Year’s. It’s an end-of-year list. Exclamation mark! And it’s not even technically ten songs. And they’re not even in a particular order. I don’t give you what you want; I give you what you need—enjoy your coal.

Steven Fiore – “Why Do You Waste Your Breath?” While not his saddest song, it’s a pretty sad song but a pretty, sad song. Someone who won’t stop apologizing to him but to everyone else, acts like they’ve done nothing wrong. Perfect for the holiday season.

Young Alumni – “Styrofoam Airplane” Also perfect for the holiday season—a song about escapism. After the last song, you’ll probably need this one.

Yeasayer – “Ambling Alp” If you've read my Yeasayer article, I needn’t say more. If you haven’t, go do it. If you have and still haven’t checked out this song, may Cthulhu have mercy on your soul.

The Morning Benders – “Excuses (Yours Truly Session)” Young love—so beautiful, right? So is this song which applies Phil Spector’s (who looks like a specter with an afro now, google him) Wall of Sound to the original. You have no excuse to dislike this song.

Kanye West – “Runaway (feat. Pusha T)” Kanye “sent a girl a picture of [his] dick” and wrote a song about it. Need I say more?

Head Like a Kite – “Director’s Cut” Imagine an Americanized version of early Gorillaz hits, themed around life as a movie production. Now, stop daydreaming and listen to this song already.

The Black Keys – “Tighten Up” Because you can’t have a top ten list without at least two love songs. This is one of them. Watch the music video. Now.

The Tallest Man on Earth – “King of Spain” When Bob Dylan died (the Bob Dylan you see today is just a corporate zombie remnant), decades ago, his spirit landed in Mr. TMOE. And developed a talent at multiple instruments.

Keegan DeWitt – “Say La La” Do what the song says. It’s really no deeper than that. Unless you want to dance while you’re at it.

Wavves – “Post Acid” It sounds like the Beach Boys had a baby with punk rock. “Misery, won’t you comfort me/ in my time of need?/” Irony, let’s make a baby. And listen to this song.

Drive-By Truckers – “This Fucking Job” It has “fuck” in the title so it has to be good, right? Right. And it’s incredibly timely. Man hates his job, quits, and is forced to take up a fast food job, immediately regretting quitting his slightly better job. Has 2010 written all over it.

P.S. You can probably find all of these on youtube except for Steven Fiore/Young Alumni, which you could find on http://www.bandcamp.com

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Thanksgiving Sucks so Here's An Awesome Guide to Good Writing Instead

2010-11-25T14:08:00.020-05:00

See that dead Native American at the bottom? American colonists killed him (and millions like him), robbed them of their best land and resources, and forced them and their children to accept their traditions and vices. Thanksgiving is just a celebration of that.

How do you improve your writing? Simple. Hard work and an even harder life. My best advice is you get out now. You take the blue pill—the story ends, and you make it out with your life and your sanity. You take the red pill—you should've taken the blue pill.

How far do you want to take this?

1) The bare necessities: Those good ol’ bear necessities?

a) Read: Read whatever you can and as much as you can—the more and the different, the better. Reading my blog is important, perhaps more important than life or death, but if it's the only thing you're reading, you can only hope to become a crappier version of me. Make your reading a mixture of pleasure and insight. Read your Twilights but also read your Nabokovs (and vice versa).

b) Write: Write whenever you can and as much as you can—the more and the different, the more likely someone else will care (and possibly take notice). For every blog I write, there's a few hundred pages of words that will never see the light of day. But those unread words are important, too. Without them, I'd never have gotten to the good stuff, and if I'd shared them all, you'd never have gotten to the good stuff either (because you would have died of boredom—several times).

Start with a daily journal. It's something they probably won't teach you in school (which is normal for the best things in life anyhow). Write something—anything—in it every day (do it first thing in the morning if possible). If you miss a day, get over yourself and start back the following day.

c) Experience Life: If you forget to experience life in the process, you will be boring and so will your writing. These are the bare essentials, not the "bear" essentials, meaning cave-dwellers need not apply, meaning, as my brother once overheard someone loudly shouting to another person in the college cafeteria, "Get out of your dorm and stop being a pedophile." Replace "dorm" with whatever place you live.

2) Useful links: Taking it to the next level, getting grizzly with it.

a) http://gapingvoid.com/books/

This brilliant piece is from that brilliant site.

If you're even considering becoming a serious writer and especially if you (think you) already are, go here. Scroll down a little bit and you can read a quarter of this guy's book (it's a quick, fun, and informative read). He knows what he's talking about. And if you like his book, you should probably buy it (I probably will when I have time to read books again).

b) http://www.pw.org/submission_calendar/2010/11/all
If you need help finding where to submit your work for contests/grants/scholarships, and dates, this calendar is essential (this is a link to the November 2010 calendar so adjust the date as necessary).

c) http://blog.iso50.com/process/overcoming-creative-block/
I haven't actually tried this page out. Granted, I have A.D.D. so it's not my lack of ideas, just a matter of pinning down a good one. This is for everyone else (and me, when I finally run out of ideas one day/start using Adderrall or something).

d) http://play.typeracer.com/
Okay, so it's not nearly as important as the first two (that's why I placed it third), but it's a fun, effective way to improve your typing speed.

3) Improve your technique: Maybe you hate yourself but don't make us hate you all the more when we're forced to read what you've written. If we get more pleasure from the paper cuts from the pages of your writing, you're doing it wrong.

a) The Paramedic Method (paraphrased):

I) Cut out prepositional phrases (anything beginning with of, with, in, about, for, onto, into, etc.).

II) Cut out any being verbs (am, is, are, was, were, be, being, been).

III) Cut your action down to a single verb.

IV) Cut your subject down to the simplest noun or noun phrase possible.

V) Move your noun (phrase) in front of your verb.

[I’m too lazy (and hungry) to model this out for you right now. If somebody’s got a short passage they want to give me, I’ll give it a gander and then probably steal it and edit into here for everyone else-you’d practically be a saint.]

Why does Christopher Columbus look like such
a douche bag? Probably because he was a douche bag.

b) Use good transitions: Adverbs (first, next, then, thus, additionally) are great but only minimally help clarify your writing. What you need is something more.

Here's a better, more subtle trick (and you can do this instead of or in addition to adverbs): Begin one sentence with the same or similar idea to the last. The key here is to connect.

Your sentence is a subject and predicate: represent it with A + B, subject being A and predicate being B. Make B the subject of the next sentence. If your sentence is, say, "Make B the subject of the next sentence," then start your next sentence with "If your sentence is." See how "sentence" in one "sentence" is near the beginning of your next sentence? That's how you do it, and it's a lot easier to do if you've mastered the paramedic method.

Another good method of transition is to use similar ideas that aren't exactly the same as in your previous sentence. A predicate like "about my dad" transitions well to a sentence that begins with "my mom," as in "I never knew much about my dad. My mom refused to tell me." It works because “my mom” and “my dad” are related (they’re not blood-related, I promise) and the “my” appears in both phrases. That is, if each phrase contains the same adjective, it also makes them connect transition/better.

c) Being verbs suck: Am, is, are, was, were, be, being, been—avoid/replace these whenever possible (see "a" above).

d) Adjectives suck: Also, I hate them.

I) Which sentence is better? 1) She was bulimic. 2) Her ribs practically poked through her skin.

The answer is 2, and if you notice, there isn't a single adjective in it.

II) If at all possible, replace your adjective with a gerund. A gerund is a verb turned into an adjective. "Moldy," for instance, is something that has molded/is molding. "Molded" or "molding" generally say a lot more, with only a few additional letters more, than just "moldy." Compare "moldy banana" to "molded banana"/"molding banana." It saves you time explaining the state of the banana and saves your reader time reading. If you have to use an adjective, a gerund is your best friend.

4) Invoke your subconscious: Tear down your writer's block and build a newer, better neighborhood. In your mind.

a) Freewrite: Ever have a bunch of things on your mind? Does it distract you from writing? From Life? Ever get writer's block? But have you ever written automatically, as quickly as possible, not caring what you're writing? Well, that's probably why you're so distracted/have writer's block.

Try this: 1) Get out a pen and a piece of paper.

2) Turn off your phone, computer, your wife, your kids, your husband (hide them, if you'd rather), or anything else that might distract you for the next two minutes.

3) Take a phrase (and don't think about it), say, "If I a billion dollars, I would..." or "My life sucks because..." or "I'm going to succeed because..."

4) Write for 2 minutes/120 seconds straight. Don't scratch out, erase, or rewrite anything. Remember, you're the only person who's going to be reading this anyway.

5) Repeat. Daily. Weekly. Monthly. Whatever. Just do it until it comes natural and you don't even need a phrase to start you off. Don't be afraid/too lazy to start back with a phrase later, too, if you feel your ability to write automatically slipping away from you.

b) You must change your life: Chances are, you're boring and your writing sucks. Or you're pretty good but, for some reason, you aren't nationally recognized for your writing abilities. So you must change your life. And all these tips mean nothing (well, little) if your life is boring.
Do something you've never done before. Do something you've always been afraid to, something you've always wanted to (or even something you don't want to do but might've needed to). In other words, you might need to listen to your subconscious, especially to things that stick out to you from your free-writing.

5) Be creative: Obviously, these aren't rules (because there are no real rules to writing) but that doesn't mean they aren't good guidelines. Once you've mastered these guidelines, you can be creative with them, breaking them for effect. But the effect is just terrible writing if you don't master the guidelines first.

6) Copy/paste this, print it, and post it onto your bedroom wall (Or near wherever you write).

Congratulations. You're now a gentleman (or lady) and a scholar.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Yeasayer, You Say?

2010-10-28T14:13:00.010-04:00

I know. I know. You come here for the lolz, not the lulls. For that, I apologize. So without further ado, I blog. For you.

Who loves free shows? FSU does. Me, too, especially bands I would've paid at least a quarter to see. Not you, Washed Out, silly opening band.

He was so intense when he twisted our nobs though.

Luckily, my friend Justin and I were thirty minutes late, enduring only a few songs before “last song. Yeasayer is next." Claps erupted like the sounds of low-level fireworks and popcorn-popping making love, and no one was clapping harder than I was. Yeasayer was only thirty more minutes away.

Luckier still, someone was tossing large balloons into the crowd! Personally, I was more enthused with the sound and smell of my own farts (and Washed Out).

Smoke clouded the stage (from their smoke machine, duh), and the crowd cheered as the band set up the stage. Strategically placed props set the stage aglow with shifting colors. Showtime.

I sang loudly along with the band, mostly on-key, mumbling the words I didn't know, consummate fan-boy that I am. Before I knew it, my eyes were closed and I was doing every sort of white boy dance my white boy pants could handle, camera in hand, fellow fans nearly as close. In between bouts of religious experience, I inched progressively closer to the front of the crowd—closer to the band—to take more and better pictures (knowing me, mostly more).

Who cares if I was dancing my butt off? (No one can see you if your eyes are closed, right?). I mean, three part-harmonies, tight rhythms, and experimental psychedelia? You’d be dancing, too.

Yeasayer literally lit up the stage.

"Everybody's talking ‘bout me and my baby,” they sang. “Making love till the morning, morning light." This was baby-making music. Guilty pleasure? Maybe. But Yeasayer could pleasure my guilt anytime—this was one of my favorite tunes. Next was another, "Sunrise," as the night neared its end: "And as the trees grew higher and higher and the fish began to fly, I went and stole some wings and thought, 'Why can't I?'" Me, too, Yeasayer. Me, too.

I was high on music when this tall, lanky fellow scuttled violently past me, to the front of the crowd, latching his degenerate-hell-spawn fingers to the top of the fence that protected the stage. “Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!” he chanted. “Guitarist! You should do other things! You’re better than the band!” His cigarette smoke flew behind him, into my face. “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!”

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up,” I mocked in like fashion, but he didn’t. “Shut the [expletive] up. Shut the [expletive] up,” I continued.

He shouted back “No” but stopped. Just in time for the best crowd-hyping Yeasayer song ever written. “Youuu must… stick up for yourself, son. Neveeer mind whaat anybody else done.” We all sang along. Hell-Spawn even started us into a faux-mosh pit for a whole minute as we all began jumping as one—as one-amoeba-of-a-crowd.

Hell-Spawn was right about one thing: the guitarist was pretty badass.

Yeasayer stopped singing for a moment to tell us to thank Washed Out. Against my better judgment, I joined the crowd in their clap-ter. I mean, who can say no to Yeasayer (look at their freakin’ name, man). But soon enough, we were back to the song’s familiar refrain and just as soon, it was over. Not even the amoeba-crowd’s shout-chants for an encore could change that.

It was eleven anyway, and we were two hours from home so Justin and I reloaded at the nearest Taco Bell (you never know when you’ll be stuck in another crowd for thirty minutes). Along the drive home, I informed him that my GPS was telling me it had some error—it had run out of memory.

“Your GPS has Alzheimer’s,” he joked.

“Well, I’m glad I brought you along. I’m not sure how I would’ve gotten there and back,” I thanked Justin. He was my second GPS since he knew his way around Tallahassee and to and from Valdosta, even when my digital GPS didn’t.

Minutes later, as we continued conversing, Justin began telling me some story he’d told me before so I finished it for him. “Looks like your second GPS has Alzheimer’s, too,” he said, self-referentially. “My future grandchildren are gonna’ hate me.”

So here’s to stories and bands that bear repeating, I say. Yea. Yea, I say.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Fire Changes Everything

2010-09-10T20:11:00.010-04:00

Who can say no to fire? More importantly, what does it matter? You've got fire. If you don't "got fire," all you need is the oxygen you breathe and something to burn. And we've all got something to burn.

Puritans have their witches, politicians your trust, McDonald's coffee the roof of your mouth, Republicrats and Democrans your billions of dollars, devil-worshipers your children, Dove Ministries their Korans, and hell its Dove Ministries. What do you have? Bridges. Passions. Those embarrassing yearbook photos. All the time you spend wondering how you can better spend your time. Something.

I like to spend my spare time joking about setting things on fire. Things that I would never actually set on fire. Because I love to see people's reactions. Because fire is known for its reactions. Fire changes everything.

Even Strong Bad knows that fire changes everything.

As a child, I tried to hide my fire--my passion, my personality, my need to change the world on my own terms--from the world because the lying-through-its-fundamentalist-teeth powers that be had me convinced me to hide. That is, until I remembered a song they used to sing, and "this little light of mine," well,"I'm gonna' let it shine." And "hide it under a bush?" Sheeeeeeeeit. NO. that's how forest fires are started (garden fires, whatever). That and nature itself.

Forests spontaneously combust over time on their own. Humans aren't much different (I'm sure you've seen "Carrie"). Whether we give it our all or nothing, we all eventually burn out and die. But I can assure you, being lazy and unproductive and slowly burning to death is even more painful than it sounds. Not to mention, boring.

But watch everything flock to a brightly burning fire, with its great passion, everything from other people to insects to cold-blooded reptiles and everything in between. Which is why you don't burn everything at once (life is not a gravity bong). Not only will it attract more snakes, which can overwhelm you, but the very flames you fan can escape your control.

suspicious man who claims not to have started the fire
but looks eerily similar to Billy Joel

Build your fire over time--build it progressively over time, progressively larger and more powerful. That is, one stair-step at a time. Master your fire but never stop at mastery. Slowly build more flames into your fire while maintaining your original fire and the flames of your mastery. If you fail to add branches, you'll eventually run out of reasons to burn, but if you add too many branches too fast, you'll run out of fire to burn your branches.

You'll make a few mistakes along the way, but they'll be only ashes one day. And sometimes you'll feel like you've burned out completely, like you've gotta' start over. So start over. Hopefully, you've been taking notes all along the way there and learned something. Apply what you've learned to create an even bigger, better, smarter fire. Fire is unpredictable. But a fire can also be kindled and, to an extent, controlled. Burn accordingly and maybe you, too, can change everything.

FLAMMA from Helmut on Vimeo.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

I Want to be Christopher Nolan Right Now

2010-08-11T12:26:00.010-04:00

And who wouldn't? Four critically and commercially successful films in a row (Batman Begins, The Prestige, The Dark Knight, and Inception). In only five years. And that's after his first three feature films (Following, Memento, Insomnia) won rave reviews and scored progressively higher profits and budgets with each film he made until he finally became a major filmmaker.

I'd be happy just being on set with Scarlett Johansson for the duration of The Prestige, but this man went on to direct The Dark Knight. He didn't stop there either--he made Inception. And with Untitled Batman Movie #3 in the works, it doesn't look like he's stopping anytime soon. I'm scraping for crumbs writing this blog while he wrote Inception and sits on an ever-growing mountain of cash. Closest I ever came to that was in grade school.

Or maybe I want to be Michael Caine right now? Or Scarlett Johansson, for that matter. I mean, how often do you get to hang out with Michael Caine?

Back then, I'd spend all my free time drawing until a classmate around me would notice and spread the drawing around the classroom until everyone knew my skill. In turn, I'd auction off each drawing for a million bucks a pop. Maybe that last part was wishful thinking but so was my perception at the time: I felt I'd achieved universal and critical success in my field and could do so in most any other creative field, with only what natural came out of me.

Moreover, I felt I could assimilate and perfect, even improve upon, anyone else's style. Turned out I was wrong--takes a lot more hard work than I was willing to put forth, and even then, it might not happen--but I never forgot that feeling. Even after I stopped drawing almost entirely.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Christopher wrote Inception almost 10 years ago, presented it to Warner Bros, and decided to wait until he'd worked on more major films. 3 blockbusters later, he was finishing up Inception. I might well have retired after Batman Begins, but this man's diligence, patience, and passion took him much further.

I still haven't seen his first 3 films and I wouldn't say any of his last 4 films are perfect but I'd say he's definitely working on becoming the greatest director of our generation, striking that rare balance of near-universal love by critic and common man alike. Likewise, I'm working to become the greatest writer of our generation. It may not work out for either of us, but I'm glad I wasn't handed his success without his work. It makes me appreciate all the little things--my grade-school peers who loved my drawings, random people I've never met or rarely talk to telling me how much they love my writings, and people telling me I'm cool or awesome.

It means everything and nothing to me as I'm sure fame and fortune mean to Mr. Nolan. Maybe I'm glad I'm not him right now. I have to pave my own path, working hard for my own fame and fortune at the risk of possibly never achieving either. Plus, I probably wouldn't enjoy Untitled Batman Movie #3 if I were Nolan.

Plus, I wouldn't want to have his weird eyes.
Okay, now I'm just being spiteful and jealous.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Meridional: Or Norma Jean Returns to its Roots

2010-07-20T00:23:00.002-04:00

I haven't reviewed an album in a few millenia or so mostly because, as I explain in a future, pending interview with one of my favorite bands: "When I hear a CD, I usually want to soak it in kerosene, light it on fire, and launch it with a clay pigeon shooter." I think that's rage enough to qualify me to listen to and review the new Norma Jean album then, no? And also, because they used to be my favorite band?

On this, their latest album, Meridional, they claim they were returning to their roots. Whatever that means. It doesn't mean returning to their critically acclaimed "Bless the Martyr, Kiss the Child" because that was 4 albums, a drummer, a lead vocalist, and a bassist ago. I think it means, like most bands whose cleverness is completely limited to their lyrics and music, that they're running out of ideas. Let's see:

I'm not going to lie to you. I love this album's cover and liner notes.

Leaderless and Self-Enlisted: About 2½ minutes in, Cory Brandan belts, "I never wanted to show you since we know you've heard it before." So much for that, eh? It's not that it's a terrible song; it's that I already bought their previous album and don't need what could've been its B-side, on their current album.

The Anthem of Angry Brides: Now, this I can get down to--an uncharacteristic guitar riff on the verses for NJ, at least since their first album. And there's always the catchy shout-chant at the end, of "You're not getting under my skiiin." Cause y'know, that's the first step in making a suit out of your skin in the Hannibal Lecter handbook. Cory, I, for one, am with you.

Deathbed Atheist: Palm-muting. You guys are killing me. Just kidding. It's not a bad first thirty seconds. Then, the uninspired vocals come in.

Bastardizer: One who bastardizes older Norma Jean albums? I haven't been on dictionary.com in a while but I'm guessing that one's right.

A Media Friendly Turn for the Worst: One of the great charms of Norma Jean's first album was its many cool and clever song titles. If only for a song or two, they've recaptured that element of their roots. Luckily, it's also one of the better songs on the album.

Blood Burner: This one just kind of burns my blood. And not in a good way.

High Noise Low Output: Return of the melodic vocals. Not bad actually. Little screaming, too. Reminds me of "Robots 3 Humans 0" off their last album.

Falling From The Sky: Day Seven: Reminds me more of a He Is Legend song than a Norma Jean song but in a good way. But it is 6 minutes long, and I'm not sure they quite pull it off in the end.

Everlasting Tapeworm: I like it. The song title. Song, too. But you've got to be a real asshole not to like tapeworms.

My favorite page of the liner notes: "Blood is thicker than water,
but which did you drink?" (from "A Media Turn...")

The People That Surround You On A Regular Basis: I think the name fits (if it didn't--you know me--I'd make it fit somehow). It's kind of pedestrian for Norma Jean, but I enjoy it.

Innocent Bystanders United: This intro smells like Redeemer with its repetive, atmospheric, feedback-laden intro. 4 minutes of pure, unadulterated goodness, if you ask me. If you're not asking me, go read someone else's review, preferrably while being wrapped in a rug and set on fire.

But yeah, this song is one of those once-an-album, long-as-fuck tracks that actually doesn't get old. There's even a nice little piano outro at the end. I think I'm going to go fight a bear now.

Bonus Tracks:

Kill More Presidents: It would've been a great track. If it didn't suck. Okay, it doesn't quite suck but it's not worth downloading, paying for, or listening to on the youtube. Whatever you cool kids are doing now. Kind of sad for a song with such a great title. Actually, the band itself said they were tired of this song and were reworking it. Reason enough for me not to listen to this version.

Distance to Planets: Meh? People still use that word, right?

Overall Rating: 3½ stars out of 5

Recommended Tracks: The Anthem of Angry Brides, Innocent Bystanders United, A Media Turn for the Worst, Everlasting Tapeworm, in that order

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Unhealthy... But Filling

2010-07-01T23:29:00.008-04:00

I glance down at the frozen, over-processed chimichanga staring back at me out of the edge of my mouth. We're not the best of friends (friends don't eat each other). I don't even find it particularly tasty, but it's filling. Unhealthy. But filling.

Hunger. Loneliness. Boredom. We look for the shortest route between ourselves and fulfillment--toxic relationships, broken friendships, the Internet, Internet-ready phones, Wal-Mart; frozen, over-processed chimichangas. It's survival at its most primal. And you thought technology, comfort, and convenience made you civilized?

Sup, over-processed foods? How's it going, future chronic
diseases? Say hi to your mother for me.

Monkeys throw their feces, dogs chew up our trash and all our belongings, and cats pee outside their litter box. And the whole lot of 'em make irritating noises all through the night. When we're trying to sleep. But I've never seen an animal cause a massive oil spill, kamikaze into a tower full of thousands of people, burn a city to the ground, commit genocide, defraud their own kind of millions of dollars, enslave each other, shop at Wal-Mart, engage in road rage, or make racist or sexist remarks to one another, much less behind each other's backs. As long as it's not happening to us, it doesn't hurt; if it happens to us, it's the end of the world as we know it. We'll sling our crap wherever we damn well please, thank you very much.

I'll be the first to point the finger at me. I'm no better than you, no better than the Nazis, no better than my family or yours, no better than that frozen, over-processed chimichanga--only better than I used to be. And I'm only better than I used to be because I chose to be.

I don't choose when I'm born or when I die, only when I live--not what I experience but what I blame. And who. Who and what do you blame for your predicaments? I blame the chimichanga on my relative poverty and daily busyness. But I don't have a job and I don't have to be so busy all the time.

because one finger is enough to make them unlearn
years of violating traffic laws and ignoring traffic signs

Those are things I chose. I chose them for my own reasons--good reasons--but I chose them. But this isn't where I'll always be. I'm finishing up my degree and writing constantly, working to improve myself whenever and however I can. Because I choose to believe that I'm more than I appear to be. We die everyday but we grow everyday, too. And you can take the shortest route to fulfillment but know that it's the road you chose and there might be something better.

Of course, if you don't want something better, you'll never get it. You have to want it and you have to want it more than anything. Your life is yours. So long as you make it yours. There's always someone hungrier than you--more determined--and they'll take your place if you don't take it first. But if you play your cards right, you can feed the both of you and make the world a little better, a little brighter. I hope you do. I hope I do, too.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

The Book of Mark (a short story I'm working on)

2010-06-14T17:17:00.003-04:00

I haven't written a piece of fiction in about a year but yesterday I got the writing bug and typed this out. Needless to say, I hope to do a lot more of this in the not-so-distant future.

She looked like a cigarette with a fish in its mouth. Fish with a cigarette in its mouth. Mark hated being dyslexic, slight though it was. But he figured it made for better laughs than, say, narcolepsy or ADHD jokes. Too easy. He figured anyone could tritely change subject mid-sentence or feign sleep mid-phrase, but how many people spoke and wrote—thought—in unintentional puns and backwards sentences? Leonardo DaVinci?

"No," Mark thought, raising an imaginary middle finger. "DaVinci—you and your secret, backwards notes—hold a mirror up to this."

"What are you staring at?" Her words evanesced through her lips, passing through the midnight air and the smoke of her Pall Mall slowly, surely leaving her mouth.

Mark's stare-into-space snapped down to the cigarette breathing its last in the vice grip of his index and middle finger, nearly burning his hand off as it dove into the asphalt below.

"Your cigarette's about to burn off your hand."

His eyes turned upon her, oh-no-you-didn't raised brow in tow, then quickly drew down their curtains and reopened as quickly, wringing his still-burning fingers and grabbing another cigarette, "I... wasn't aware.”

"Who are you fantasizing about?"

"You," he remained stone-faced, eyes locked on hers as he lit up another cancer stick.

“Lies,” she paused, drawing her straight red strands out of her face with her cigarette hand. “No really, tell me.”

"Why do you smoke shitty cigarettes?"

“Why don’t you give me something better to smoke?”

Mark removed his own from his mouth and handed it over, “Here.”

She grabbed it, neither of them ever looking down, and took a puff, “Lemme’ guess…”

“Camel,” they answered at once.

“Jinx,” she added. “Now you have to buy me a Diet Coke.”

“Diet and rum if you tell me your name.”
She took a long puff, “Margarita,” making another fish-with-a-cigarette face. “Amanda,” her face and name now burned in Mark’s brain.

“Aces,” he drummed his fingers briefly on the table as he got up to go inside the bar. “Mark.”

Amanda adjusted herself in her seat and her coat, now the only one at any of the ten outside tables. “Aces,” she repeated to herself under her breath, smiling slightly, half-mockingly.

“Margarita,” Mark returned, handing over her drink.

“Bourbon,” Amanda briefly ogled his drink, in turn, shuffling her feet under the table and taking a sip of her margarita.

Mark mimicked her foot shuffling and drink-tasting, raising a momentary eyebrow as if to say the competition were on. Then, grabbing his chin in one hand, he nodded his head at her drink.

And so it began, a sip for a sip, a foot shuffle for a foot shuffle, a finger drum on the table for the same, until each had finished their drink within seconds of the other. Neither ever let their eyes off the other.

Then, they each reached for their respective lighters, eyes stuck on each other’ cigarette as if they were their own, from the box to the mouth to the open flame to the first puff. Mark started half a second later, giving himself just enough time to stick out his tongue and whisper, “Aces.”

Amanda’s Pall Mall steadily shortened as her fish face returned, and she never stopped to take a breath. Mark’s Camel, meanwhile, stayed the same length as he began coughing up the unlit tobacco in his lungs, then staring down at his backwards cigarette.

“Dyslexic much?” Amanda ashed her just-finished cigarette. “You alright, Aces?”

Mark reversed his cigarette, re-lit, and took a brief drag, coughing a bit more along the way, “Yuck foo.” He coughed a bit more for good measure, then lowered his head down and to the side, “Shit.” He closed his eyes and laughed into his fist.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Still Got That New Blog Smell

2010-06-08T18:26:00.004-04:00

There's a time to read the pages of history and a time to write them. Some people don't do much of either. But as the saying goes, they're always hiring at McDonald's. Not that you can't eventually up-size your life even if you work at McDonald's. So long as you work hard enough and smart enough.

My mom birthed and raised my brother in her late teens, survived an abusive marriage, and still graduated college on time, even made nearly straight A's. Years later, she was pregnant with me, playing tennis doubles on a team with my dad, and they still won. Granted, they were both great athletes.

My dad, meanwhile, carved out a living for himself and his family, often on a poverty-line salary. He taught my siblings and me how to turn a dime out of a few pennies; we lived a lot like people did on twice the income and three times the debt. Not that we never felt the pinch--more like a knife into the quick of our collective fingernails--but we survived. And surviving is the first step toward living.

The second step to living is making no excuses. And accepting even fewer. It took my mom twenty-six years to stop excusing my father's abuse (and file for divorce). It took me nearly my whole life. But I never stopped loving him, through the good and bad alike--not for the life of me, not for the death of him.

I lost my father in the beginning of May, after losing my younger cousin only four months prior. Then, I let them go. And what's let go is never lost--it's given new life. In you. In whatever new setting it enters.

Those who know me seem to think I'm made of steel. Maybe so. Steel doesn't rust--not after a thousand tears--but a thousand tears and sympathy cards won't bring them back so why would I let them rust me?

It's just my life's working-at-McDonald's phase. For some, it lasts a summer; for others, it lasts a lifetime. As for me, I'll turn a few tragedies into a blessing for others. It's what I've learned. Now, it's what I live. I started this. And I'm going to see it through to the end. I don't live to make it "the best year ever" anymore--you can't when two people close to you die within four months of each other--but I'll make the best of every day to come.

ain't got shit on me

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

And Now I Remember Why I Don't Go to Chat Rooms

2010-05-18T23:38:00.003-04:00

And now for something juvenile and voyeuristic because, if you're like me, one good, momentary distraction would mean the world to you right now. So I took it out, under cover of annonymity, on all the unwitting, often unwilling, people I came across, some assholes like me, some just stupid/bored, and others there for cyber sex. Here are my favorite selections. Mind you, there's a lot of vulgarity below and, mind you, these are all (theoretically) different strangers:

Edit: I used omegle.com's chat that automatically sets you up with random people to talk to

OMGEEZ, IT'S THE CREEPY OLD GUY FROM

NEXT DOOR. WE SHOULD SEND HIM NEKKID PICS.

Some were combative

You: bitch better have my money
Stranger: bitch you better have my money
You: i aint cha bitch bitch
Stranger: oh yes you are now go give me water bitch
You: you can have all the water you want when i dump your body in a river
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

Midway through conversation with a guy who posed as a Vietnam War... Note: He'd have to have been at least 58 to have served even four months in the war. I called his bluff immediately.

Stranger: Son I would stop
You: stop your feeding tube and life support?
Stranger: I'm only 50 not 100
You: so you're only half the man I thought you were
Stranger: You do know when the war took place or are you just a complete retart
You: No, I actually learned how to spell "retard" in school.
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

Stranger: oi faggot
You: oi carpet muncher
Stranger: are you?
You: i'm just mirroring you, buttmunch
Stranger: are you?
You: i am but a mirror, i do not engage in sexual conduct
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

Some played along well

Stranger: hi
You: yo yo
Stranger: asl
You: 75 male Lithuania
Stranger: 90 female Russia
You: you're a liar... a really old liar
Stranger: hahahahh so are you
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

You: can i has titties?
Stranger: yes
Stranger: *poof* you know have titties
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

You: can i has titties?
Stranger: well sure ;)
You: how many do you have?
Stranger: 7
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

Some didn't get the joke

Stranger: Hi asl
You: my anus is bleeding
Stranger: Thats nasty
You: tell me about it
Stranger: Y
Stranger: Y did u tell me
You: because you asked me about my asl
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

Stranger: hello!
You: my anus is bleeding!
Stranger: no it's not
You: how long have you been checking out my ass?
Stranger: I haven't checked out your ass, but I know you're lying
You: then I know you're lying, everyone checks out my ass
You: constantly
Stranger: Really?
Stranger: I haven't had the same blessing, a nice ass.
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

Stranger: gay?
You: my anus is bleeding, yes
Stranger: hhaahhaha
Stranger: im lez
You: we should have fake babies then
Stranger: ohhh faghag?
You: whatever floats your goat
Stranger: hahah
Stranger: i want pussy man
You: a pussy or a pussy man?
Stranger: hahaa
Stranger: pussy
You: in an ideal world, you could have both
You: for everyone else, there's walgreens
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

And let us not forget those wishing to cyber

Stranger: hi
Stranger: horny girl willing to show pics?
You: yes
Stranger: can i see some pics?
You: yeah, buy a copy of Playboy
Stranger: ?
Stranger: i cant
Stranger: im 16t
Stranger: 16*
Stranger: can u just send me one
You: maybe you should learn to download porn likea normal teenager
Stranger: who are u
Stranger: whats ur name
You: your mother, now get offline before I cut off your internet
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

I played along for a brief moment with the next one, then got bored

Stranger: uh huh... and then? you go lower to my....
You: to your brain, i know it's right below your chest
Stranger: are you horny or not?
You: very
Stranger: well then be sexy not weird... you go lwer to my what?
You: to your vagina
Stranger: and you...
Stranger: is wet
You: tickle your vagina with the feather glued to the end of my dick
Stranger: wtf?
You: and then you cum from the surprise
Stranger: and thenyou?
You: lick it up
Stranger: yummy;)
You: then spit it in your mouth
Your conversational partner has disconnected.

This picture looked cool so I tacked it onto the end.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

The End of G Gnome Project: Now You can Download it All. Fo' Free.

2010-04-27T21:19:00.002-04:00

You've probably never heard of G Gnome Project. I probably don't care. I care more about my project with my friend Mikhail, Mannequin Bucket, though we only ever made 4 songs. Sadly. Meanwhile, I've received almost unanimously positive responses over the most of the past 8 years I've made my experimental hip hop/electronic instrumental G Gnome Project music, but one really struck me:

"You've got a lot of potential but you need to study up on melody to make your music more coherent." Potential. Potential is nothing, nothing but uninitiated action. I had a lot of that. He was right. But if people like it, I won't keep my music from them. And I also don't mind studying up on music theory till I get better. So here's free music until that happens.

My personal favorites: No Fun Intended (And a Fifth to Send Us Off), Cold Shoulder to Cry On (1 Up), My Flamethrower is Empty So Go to Hell (1 Up), Unneccessary Wizardry (1 Up), Hobophobic (2 Down), Beat Battle (3 Left), Mammoth (3 Left), Aeolus (4 Gone), Contemplating Pesticide (4 Gone) ,Embyronics (4 Gone), Forte (4 Gone), Long Drive Home (4 Gone) ,Ornery Pine Cones (4 Gone), Satan Wears Prada and Drives a Yellow Yugo (4 Gone) and the Electronichaoticore album (which includes the 4 Mannequin Bucket tracks)

P.S. I'm wanting to submit some tracks to pandora.com. If you download/listen, lemme' know your picks.

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=A8JX2IGR Electronichaoticore EP

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=BGOJGE9P 1 Up

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=N1A4BP1X 2 Down

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=TV2UP55Z 3 Left

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=70I1A4G6 4 Gone

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=HJKCUCOZ And a Fifth to Send Us Off

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=4ED9L3A8 B-Sides from Hell

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

I was Home for the First Time: Remembering Andrew John Bond III

2010-04-03T11:32:00.002-04:00

Live fast or die trying. You might as well have etched it in our arms with broken bottles or lit cigarette butts. Because sometimes that's all there is. It's a selfish philosophy. We know. And I felt like Andrew knew it better than the rest of us but just wasn't sure what else to do, where else to go, or how to do it. He was too busy seeking greatness to recognize what he'd already achieved.

We sat in my living room, exchanging stories and music recommendations over Black and Tans before, after, and as we watched Requiem for a Dream. He coughed up a few lungs in the process. I unsuccessfully searched the kitchen cabinets for cough syrup before resigning that we were both too drunk to get some from Wal-Mart. I'd always been the responsible one. Tonight I was playing too much catch-up to care. I wanted to make up for all the years I'd sat in judgment, this being only the second time we ever drank together.

After he'd dozed off enough, I got him a blanket and sheets for the couch, then made him some CDs, a mix of songs he loved and new ones he could learn to love. It was the least I could do since his laptop had recently been stolen. I threw those and some CDs he'd left with me into a CD wallet I didn't need anymore.

His Steven Fiore demo CD was only four songs-deep, but we agreed it was the best CD he'd left with me. Some weeks later, I'd call him about an upcoming Steven Fiore concert in South Carolina. He'd say he'd meet me there, but fate took him away three-and-a-half weeks too early.

I was alone until you came and pulled me out of the cold rain. You took me in and you fixed my eye. I was home for the first time. I was home for the first time.

Andrew's family took in its share of strangers and strays--several cats, dogs, me, my sister, and a German foreign exchange student (but never all at the same time). Andrew made his rounds, too, rotating between family, extended family, and much later on, with rotating groups of friends. He was no stranger to strays and loved every one of them, animal and human alike. But he himself could never be domesticated.

Wooden floors, a window ledge. I was warm up against your legs. I fell asleep right next to you. I never slept the whole night through. I never slept the whole night through.

Since the day he was born, Andrew was a restless roller-coaster of a man and none of us could keep up. My first memory of him was us sitting in front of my late grandmother's living room TV, and he randomly started punching me. It barely hurt but it was irritating enough for me to do the only logical thing my six-year-old brain knew to do. I grabbed his fists in mine with just enough pressure and waited till he stopped, and the second Andrew stopped hitting me he started crying. Of course, I was blamed because he was younger and weaker but I wasn't going to hold it against him--he was only three.

Andrew was always that three-year-old pugilist to me--always fighting something, often without explanation. For a long time, it was darkness and loneliness. Many nights through our childhood, I and other relatives shared a bed with him because he couldn't sleep alone, and we'd keep the light on till he fell asleep. I'd never slept well with anyone else in my bed but I wasn't going to complain. Andrew was one of my favorite people.

Keeping that attitude toward him grew increasingly difficult over the years as we grew older and his confused fists grew into confused lies. I grew to realize that Andrew was just trying to impress me and didn't want to let me down, an attitude he seemed to project toward anyone and everyone he cared about. He had more respect for me than I ever fully understood and, in a lot of ways, just wanted to be like me. Funny, I'd always wanted to be more like him in a lot of ways.

As a kid, I was always "selfish" with my toys. That is, I quickly tired of Andrew and other younger relatives breaking my toys and having no one to replace them for me so I became selfish. Meanwhile, Andrew let a lot of his belongings go to crap. Life was more important than material possessions to him. Fair enough. I learned not to lend or give him anything I expected back and came to the conclusion that nothing is valuable that you can't share with someone else, and I'd like to think he helped me reach that conclusion.

When I woke up, I was scared. I looked around and ran downstairs, scratched at the door so you'd let me go. But I came back when the sun was low. But I came back when the sun was low.

Whenever Andrew wanted to go, whenever he wanted to run, there really wasn't anything you could do. It was easy to love that about him. It was easy to hate that about him. It was never easy to keep up. He was going to frustrate you if it were the last thing he did.

And sometimes I tired of his crap.

Like when he managed to clog an upstairs toilet of his parents' house, causing water damage to the ceiling of the floor below. I later joked to the plumber after it was fixed, "Thanks, now I don't have to pee in the sink anymore."

Or when he clogged the only working toilet of the apartment his parents were renting for us and left for a week-long church youth group trip, leaving me and our friend Dylan toilet-less. Of course, neither of us had money so we were also plunger-less and weren't about to plunge it ourselves in the first place.

Or when his parents saw the toilet and brought back a plunger. And I was told to plunge the toilet after all. And as much as I hated it, I hate even more not having more such stories at his hands.

All I need is someone to love me and to make some room at the end of the bed. Don't forget to leave the radio on if you plan to be gone long.

And when he finally slept, he slept hard.

On such a night, his then-best friend Michael and I noticed Andrew snoring on a couch. So I told Michael we should start piling things on Andrew until he woke up. It started with pillows, then toys, and ended with us scratching our heads and staring at everything within reason piled on top of Andrew. Then, we set to un-piling him. He never woke up, never knew until we told him the next day.

And last February, as they piled the dirt atop his casket, we were still scratching our heads with people gathered together from all over the Southeast. I wish he could've seen us. I wish I could've given him one last hug. Instead, I took hugs wherever I could find them from anyone and everyone in the crowd that would oblige. It wasn't enough but it would have to do.

Maybe all he needed was a little rest, but I would've slept a little better that night if I'd heard him snoring again, snoring his sleep-wrenching snores. But all I have is all he left, all the friends he'd introduced me to, the stories we lived together, and his legacy of empathy I'd be hard-pressed to match. I'd be glad to be half as loving and empathetic as he was. That's as good a place to start as any, I guess.

I was home for the first time. I was home for the first time.

This post contains lyrics from Steven Fiore's song "Oliver" (below).

Oliver! from Steven Fiore on Vimeo.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Folk You (Can Enjoy with the Whole Family), it's Steven Fiore

2010-03-09T04:10:00.003-05:00

I was going to make a height joke here but I was overshadowed by Steven Fiore's greatness.

As I pulled my car up beside her and hurriedly tossed belongings into the backseat, she jumped into my passenger seat and asked for a hug. I obliged with both arms, my Toyota inching forward—it’d been nearly nine months since we’d last hugged. “Now,” she informed me, “we’ve just done the most dangerous thing you can do in a car.”

I snickered lightly, shaking my head on the inside, as we entered the parking garage. Once parked, I pulled out my “tiny plastic penis”—an unfortunately shaped plastic covering for an antenna. I handed it to her and told her I thought she “could appreciate it” as I searched my car for whatever else we might need between now and the show.

She quickly and appreciatively began chewing on the plastic implement as we walked toward her dormitory, finally removing it as we entered the building. Standing in her room, I collected myself after my six-hour drive as she readied herself for the concert, but the concert didn’t wait for us.

I’d been twenty minutes late meeting her, she’d taken twenty minutes getting ready, and the show was another twenty minutes away—another twenty minutes driving around, asking for directions, and searching on foot once my GPS got us there.

After our first circle around the lot, I rolled down the passenger window to ask the nearest bystander. If it weren’t for his flesh-colored flesh, he could’ve walked right out of a black-and-white film about fishermen in his black-cloth ski hat, grayed beard, and matching drab, monochromatic sweater and pants.

1950’s-Film-Fisherman-Man had heard of the Watershed, he’d told us, but didn’t know what or where it was. We, meanwhile, knew what it was, just not where. It wasn’t far up or down the road though, he told us, if our directions were right—Lexington, SC is only a town.

We parked, walked out of her car, and found the small, blue-and-white sign, amongst many other signs, on a much larger sign. Continuing on foot, we saw a matching sign, obscured on the side of a former mill. “There,” I pointed. I opened the door and absorbed the ensuing sound, “That’s him.”

The sound led us into a room-full of café-frequenting locals. Our stares penetrated the crowd to the stage: Steven Fiore stood with his guitar, a female violinist/backup vocalist, and a man on drums and percussion whose bright sweater had me peg him as a Weezer fan. Of course, we weren’t here to see some indie-emo-nerds play out their mid-life crises on stage. Nay, Steven and friends were merely dressed like old folks—a folk trio in endearingly vintage attire.

We walked into Mr. Fiore’s apology to the crowd: “I haven’t introduced myself.”

Frankly, I'd have bought this CD for the cover alone.

I mean, look at that shit--Laughing-Cat-Man, I mean.

Oh, he didn’t have to introduce himself—even if I’d been the only one, I already knew who he was. Besides, I was anxious for his next song, singing along shortly after he introduced it: “This is a song about my cat.”

“I was home for the first time. I was home for the first time,” he sang from the perspective of a stray cat he’d domesticated—Oliver, also the name of the song. I felt like Oliver at the show, entranced, wondering how someone goes about writing a heartfelt song about their cat. “Oliver” was an answer unto itself.

Steven’s vintage violinist then began picking her strings, leading into his next song about “How God Designed Us,” “or so we’ve heard from the church,” followed by a beautiful falsetto of a love that could “Save Lives,” sung with the same violinist. I hadn’t known in all the years I’d been following Steven that he even possessed such a falsetto. Then again, he was such an honest, unassuming presence—a short, soft-spoken man in a white button-down shirt and an antiquated, brown coat.

He didn’t play long before the headliner Cherrycase took the stage. I’d traveled six hours and we’d missed the first band before Steven, so my friend and I figured we’d give them a try as we waited by the stage for Steven to return from his tour van with CDs for me to buy. But we weren’t alone.

An unrelated gem from later that weekend: Kate: "What'd you guys do last night?" my friend: "We had an orgy on the floor." Kate: "I wish I was there." another girl: "You were. We had a blow-up doll named Kate."

A pat on each of our backs accompanied an unfamiliar voice apologizing several times before we turned around to his unfamiliar face. Several more apologies from him and several more it’s-okays from us later, he was swallowed back into the crowd. We looked at each other with puzzled faces before suddenly matching his face and voice—it was the old seaman from earlier that night. Apparently, we gathered, his son had informed him about the show but not about it being at the Watershed. His son, you ask? Yes, we were just as confused.

Then, we turned to the band. Cherrycase played too long and too inconsistently, but I bought their CD anyway. They were essentially a mediocre Dashboard Confessional, but I repeat myself. Still, they were good enough live, and their CD was only five bucks. Sadly, whatever passion they’d displayed on stage was completely lost in the recording process. On the upside, their drummer, who’d frequently lost the beat on stage, kept surprisingly okay time on the CD. I was convinced he might be a little offbeat in real life as well.

Overall, I’d have driven twice as far to get there, paid twice as much to attend the show, and paid four times as much for the CD. And Steven Fiore didn’t even play my favorite song—that’s how much I enjoyed it.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

V-Day 2010: My First Time (Blogging about Valentine's Day)

2010-02-14T19:42:00.000-05:00

Inter-special love: You know you love it, too.

Last Valentine's Day was the first time I celebrated it since the day my balls dropped--the day I stopped hating girls and started thinking about them constantly and uncontrollably. Two Valentine's before that Valentine's, I struck up a conversation with this girl (we'll call her J) I'd never met when she posted a Myspace bulletin about how much she hated the holiday. We knew each other through my cousin, which meant that I hadn't even heard of her before she and a number of my cousin's other friends (who also didn't know me in person) had added me and that I thought she was cute from her myspace profile description and carefully angled pictures. Ohhh youuuth.

Needless to say, it's probably the easiest Western holiday to make fun of (I'll spare you), so I verbally brutalized the holiday in my typical way, and we quickly became close friends over the next four months. Next, we exchanged our I-kinda-sorta-like-you's. So our close friendship turned flirtatious for a month till it dwindled into J's growing distance and my falling all the harder for J.

Coupling my creepy near-obsession with her passive-aggression, I finally forced it out of her: "I don't think I like you like you like me... but I like being friends with you." If she'd been more honest with me, we might still be friends. Or if I'd been more stable. I'd imagine, if we still talked, J would agree with me that it was just a weird time in both our lives. But we don't. And I don't really care.

It was a strange time in all of our lives.

Last Valentine's Day was different; I'd learned my lessons from the past. I had a girlfriend now, well, had had a girlfriend--my first-ever girlfriend--now. Now, we were just complicated. Friends with benefits. Complicated friends with benefits. She knew me better and cared about me better than anyone else I'd ever met, she shared my distaste for J, and she was, as I'd once told her, "The best thing that's ever happened to me." So, of course, I wanted to make this the best Valentine's Day of her life.

She kept telling me I didn't have to do anything for her (not that I was going to listen to a woman, not even to her). So I told her I was drawing a picture of her since I'm good at drawing. Sure enough, I had a good sketch of her face going, with a number of her features drawn in, but I'd get too emotional looking at her picture, thinking about how much I missed her (I didn't get to see her much with her living in another state) and never finished the drawing. Then, there was a Pikachu purse at Hot Topic she'd told me she wanted. She wanted it, she'd told me--she just didn't want me getting it for her.

I conceded to her that if I could find it at the local Hot Topic, I'd buy it; if not, then I wouldn't. Days before V-Day, I walked into Hot Topic with a goal and walked out sad, lonely, and confused (in Hot Topic's defense, I was already sad, lonely, and confused before I got there). I walked out empty-handed.

Hot Topic made us all a little sadder.

When V-Day came, I tried to make the 5½ drive as soon as possible, but kept hitting snags in my schedule. Then, she tells me she's been driving around crying and chain-smoking after her mother chewed her out earlier that day and wants me to hug her and make it better and such. I truck it to get there, but she's already been endangering herself and everyone else on the road long enough that she's no longer crying. I do what I can to defuse her angst. On the inside though, I've let myself down, not making it sooner and arriving with only the four bottles of Arbor Mist we needed to drink together.

Each of us were a bottle into drinking (this was only my second time ever drinking) when I accidentally referred to her as my "girlfriend." Her facial response made me even more disappointed in myself, and I started chugging another of the bottles. Before I could finish, she grabbed the bottle from me and poured out the remainder. Now, I was mad at her, too, and would hardly look at her. I was an unstable, inconsolable, unresponsive mess of a man. Nothing she said or did could snap me out of it so we eventually decided to just hug and part ways.

The next day, I woke up in my car, drenched from head to toe in my own sticky alcohol sweat, and she woke up in her bed with her first hangover though she'd hardly drunk anything. It wasn't my proudest moment. Neither was the rest of the weekend where I basically laid my head on the table wherever we hung out, didn't say much, and hardly ate anything. Our friendship took a hit for a long time, but it's slowly improved since then.

So today I'm just glad we're still friends, that I'm infinitely happier today than I was this time last year, and that I haven't done anything stupid to anyone this time around. All I did today was clean my room and write, and it was awesome. On that note, I've gotta' tweak a short story I wrote around that time, which was inspired in large part by that fateful day.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

2009: Year's End Top 10 (+ 2) Albums

2010-01-17T19:18:00.003-05:00

So you've dissed a few albums and enjoyed a few albums, but what were the best albums to come out this year? I'm so glad you asked, voices in my head. Making a definitive list is challenging. Actually, it's impossible.

Many fuckhole reviewers and music taste-makers will tell you otherwise, but that's because they suck and should die in a fire. It's humanly impossible to listen to every album out there, even those from any given year, much less to decide for the rest of us which ones are best. Now that we've got that settled, here's my list (in no particular order):

1. Beatles - Remastered boxed sets

Because they're the Beatles and their newly remastered music is ready is to rip through your audiogasm-greedy ear drums. And definitely NOT because it's in any way fair to compare them to any other modern band, especially who came out with actual new music this year, or because the remaining Beatles deserve any more money. Because Ringo and Paul don't (and won't get any more money now anyway since they don't own any shares in their former band's copyrights). - http://www.myspace.com/thebeatles

2. Brand New - Daisy

If you've never listened to them and don't hate music, check these guys out. I've played the fuck out of this album since it came out. And I still love it. Except for "Be Gone," a track which should do just that. If you're a "Deja Entendu" or "The Devil and God Are Raging Inside Me" fan and don't like this CD, I suggest you hear it live as that's what it was meant for, for better or worse--rocking out (I say, for the better). And if you're a "Your Favorite Weapon" fan, here's your complimentary polite, nostalgic nod. - http://www.myspace.com/brandnew

3. Dirty Projectors - Bitte Orca

They finally stopped being pre-tarded (read: "retardedly pretentious") long enough to produce a solid album and not just solid but rock-solid, only 9 tracks-deep and none of them filler. Finally, someone gets it--the album is dead--and makes an album accordingly. Moreover, they've finally struck a proper balance between weird and talented, with reasonable song structures and catchy melodies to complement their often-irregular time signatures and sometimes-strange vocal deliveries. - http://www.myspace.com/dirtyprojectors

4. Absynthe Minded - Self-Titled

I'll assume you've never heard of them, but they're Belgian (I assure you Belgium is a real place). If so, start here with their out-of-print debut EP History Makes Science Fiction (what I'd consider their best work). This is their second or third best outing, and I love it--a melting pot of thirties music, jazz, folk, alternative. - http://www.myspace.com/absynthemindedtheband

5. ...And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead - The Century of Self

"Inland Sea" is my secondmost listened-to track to come out this year if that says anything. If it doesn't, I'm sure the rest of the album will. If you're looking for one of the most coherent, well-done melodic-alt/prog-rock albums of 2009, then look no further. As a side note, "Insatiable One" and "Insatiable (Two)" remind me a lot of Thrice, which is never a bad thing. - http://www.myspace.com/trailofdead

6. Blakroc - Self-Titled

This album came out of nowhere. Or rather, it came from the Black Keys and several rappers and a one-time rap singstress collaborating to create what might be the first-ever solid rap/rock collaboration CD. The Black Keys take it to another level with their dirty blues, newly infused with psychadelic pianos, smooth-ass basslines, and superb production. Hell, Jim Jones even comes correct on a couple tracks--I didn't even know dude could produce a decent rap verse. - http://www.myspace.com/blakrocmusic

7. The Decemberists - The Hazards of Love

Chalk it up to my burgeoning love for dirty blues, but I loved this album--hate if you will (I'll still love this album). From the clever storytelling over catchy folk-rock on "The Rake" to the rollicking blues and smooth and beautiful vocals of "Won't Want for Love," I complained very little. Why, then, should I complain that it's so long? Because it's so long--that's why. Bands, save your excess tracks for the B-sides. Dirty Projectors stopped at 9 tracks on Bitte Orca, and it came out darn near flawless. Take notes? - http://www.myspace.com/thedecemberists

8. Silent Disorder - Everything Burns

I already wrote a full review on this one. Needless to say, I'm proud to be friends with the mastermind behind this album, Heron DeMarco -http://www.myspace.com/herondemarco

9. dredg - The Pariah, The Parrot, The Delusion

I already wrote a full review on this one, too, but I'll add this: these guys know how to create musical textures and emotive soundscapes (listen to their 3 tracks on the "Waterbourne" soundtrack, one of whose melodies finds a new home in "Information" on this album), but they never really figured out how to make that work in the course of a modern pop song. Until now. -http://www.myspace.com/dredg

10. Hanz Zimmer - Sherlock Holmes OST

I can't say much about the score without saying something about the film so... First off, if you haven't seen Sherlock Holmes and enjoy Hanz Zimmer, Guy Ritchie, Jude Law, Robert Downey, Jr., Rachel McAdams, and/or the book series on any level, go watch this film. Second, this is a return to form for both Ritchie's directing and Zimmer's scoring. Just listen to the Pablo Sarasate-inspired "Not In Blood, But In Bond" on the movie soundtrack.

11. P.O.S. - Never Better

2009 needed a good rap album, and P.O.S. has always been someone to watch but never quite lived up to his potential. This album changed all that. Finally, after singing, rapping, and producing the majority of his own albums for years, he finally hits all the right notes. A 15-track album shouldn't be this good though it'd still be better at 10 tracks or less. Listen to "Basics," "Purexed," "Optimist," and "Out of Category," and "Terrorish." He's improved in nearly every possible way. - http://www.myspace.com/pos

12. Mew - No More Stories Are Told Today, I'm Sorry, They Washed Away

Mew is one of those hard-to-peg bands (especially if you confuse them with the Pokemon of the same name). Sometimes hard-ish, sometimes prog-ish, sometimes folksy, sometimes synthy, always rock with beautiful, higher octave male vocals. I'd especially recommend "Silas the Magic Car" and "Repeater Beater." - http://www.myspace.com/mew

Lemme' know what your favorites were so I can shoot 'em down, agree with you, or check them out for myself. I'm always looking for new music to listen to.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

What's the most intensely weird thing to happen to you on the Internet?

2010-01-06T15:15:00.005-05:00

A little over a month ago, I posted a blog where I asked my readers to answer some questions. Then, I asked my readers to ask me one:

"Ask me a question (it may be my next blog post or I may just answer it here). I'm protected by an invisible force field called the Internet so prod away."

Patrick answered: "What is the most intensely weird and/or zany thing that's happened to you on the internet?"

Sometimes I wish I were as clever as my friend Justin.

I'm sorry it took me so long to address your question, Patrick. But now I've over-thought it and can't choose for myself so you choose. Here are your choices:

1) Getting stalked by numerous people through AOL Instant Messenger, stalkers who included an unstable middle-aged woman who frequented the same message boards as me. In the process, she somehow fell in love with me. Around the same time, I fell in love with a 17-year-old girl I'd never met (I was 19 at the time). I no longer talk to either of them.

2) I also talked a number of people out of attempted suicides over AIM, one of whom had just drunkenly given his virginity to his then-girlfriend who claimed he'd raped her or something. Several years ago, I, too, attempted suicide (on comparably much better terms), leaving some morbid away message on AIM. Only one person saw it, and she quickly chided me upon my return.

3) Going from preaching to my sister and cousins about the evils of Napster (when it started) to getting addicted to downloading music all through high school (on dial-up, no less), running on about 3-5 hours of sleep a night, losing my entire collection several times over due to computer crashes, each time building my collection even greater. Come to think of it, I no longer listen to most of my old collection(s) from high school. Funny how that happens.

4) Going from preaching to my sister and cousins about the evils of instant messengers to having all that shit happen. ^

5) Meeting this local dude I'd recently met on Myspace (in its early days), and never before in real life, at Vito's Pizzeria--he was in a band and thought his band was playing that night (they weren't). Instead, I just met him and his bandmates and watched as some drunken hobo played old songs on dude's out-of-tune guitar. Drunken Hobo kept saying, "Do you know that one?" Of course, I didn't--none of them were in key. Before we all left, DH asked me for a beer, then beer money when I told him I was underage. I gave him neither.

6) this

7) the minor internet shitstorm that followed my review I posted on last.fm of Eminem's last album (note: the two deleted users

8) my blog in general

9) I'm sure I'm leaving something out, but I went without much sleep for a long time, thus killing a lot of my memory(ies).

But if I had to narrow my zaniest/weirdest Internet experience down to one thing in particular, I'd probably say the entirety of the last 7 years. What do you guys think? What are your weirdest/zaniest Internet experiences?

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

New Years Resolutions: You're Not Amazing. Yet.

2010-01-02T20:30:00.004-05:00

"You can do anything you put your mind to": How many times have you heard that? Doesn't matter; it's bullshit. It's bullshit because there are no guarantees in this life--no guarantees but that you'll a live mediocre life and die a meaningless death unless you do something about it.

Starving celebrities won't feed themselves.

What you're doing...

But what are you doing with your life? I know this question takes cliche to near-retaded levels, but really, if you could do anything--be anything--what would it be?

I want to become one of the greatest writers of our time. "Shit," you say. "Well, it won't happen. I've read your blog. You're a selfish jerk who can't be serious for more than two seconds... and kind of an asshole." Yes.

But Bob Dylan rarely sang in tune, Beethoven was fully deaf, Ghandi an average student in high school and fatherless by 15, Albert Einstein a college dropout, Homer and John Milton blind, Stephen Hawking near-completely crippled, Andrew Carnegie and John D. Rockefeller born into or near poverty, and Helen Keller blind and deaf.

Still, Bob Dylan became one of the most influential musicians and lyricists of the 20th century, Beethoven the most well-known composer of all time, Ghandi the man who spearheaded India and Pakistan's freedom from Britain; Albert Einstein one of, if not the most revolutionary scientist of the 20th century, Homer and John Milton two of the most studied poets of all time, Stephen Hawking another of the most revolutionary scientists of the 20th century, Rockefeller and Carnegie two of the most successful entrepreneurs of the 20th century, and Helen Keller the author of some 12 published books.

So shut the fuck up.

Because I may be the next Ghandi, MLKJ, or Mother Theresa. And so may you. It's unlikely--impossible, many say--but that didn't stop them from accomplishing what they did, and it shouldn't stop you.

And figure out what you want before you tell someone else what they should want.

If you can see it in your head, you're more likely to accomplish it. So you want to become an astronaut or the next President of the United States, the creepy cat lady, that guy who won't stop mutilating his body for "artistic" purposes, or a music nerd? If it takes any effort at all, you've gotta' see it in your head first. You've got to believe it can happen.

Then, figure out where you are now. Be honest with yourself. Are you a serial killer, security guard, homeless person, President, or Prime Minister? Are you stuck in a limitless field with no food or water? On the moon? That's for you to figure out. And so is figuring out how to get from there to your goal.

If you're William Wallace or his ragtag army and you want to make asses of the

British army, you may have to moon them. Big sacrifices can make for great payoffs.

The question isn't if you'll die--it's when.

You have to decide what you want to do and, more importantly, that you'll do it or die trying. When Mother Theresa died, there were still starving children; when Mahatma Ghandi died, India split into two countries: (India and Pakistan); and when MLKJ died, the Vietnam War was not yet over. That didn't stop them from putting up a fight, and it didn't stop them from accomplishing a lot in the meantime, even in death. When they died, others carried on their causes, even if not quite how they'd imagined it.

What they didn't do is sit around and wait for things to happen. And they didn't avoid conflict. MLKJ and Ghandi went to jail multiple times and Mother Theresa carried on through multiple heart attacks. The world won't bow down to you.

Plan accordingly.

Study your prey and arm yourself. If you're fighting Tyson or Ali in their prime, you better study their moves and you better develop a few of your own. In the meantime, you better train your body for some guaranteed punishment.

And know what you stand to lose. If you're a football player or a boxer, you may develop premature Alzheimer's or Parkinson's; if you're a journalist covering wars and genocide, you may be killed in a crossfire; if you become the next President, you won't be able to party as much.

And carry on anyway.

I started this blog to sharpen my wit and writing and help me better gauge what I'm doing right as much as what I'm doing wrong. Meanwhile, I'm finishing the last year of my bachelor's in Creative Writing. Afterward, I'll be working as hard and traveling as far as it takes to inspire the books I've yet to write, publish, and promote. I don't care that I'm not making money off my writing yet or that there's no glaring light at the end of the tunnel. No amount of circumstances or naysayers can stop me.

What about you? What are your goals and how do you plan to achieve them?

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

It's Christmas, It's Christmas Time (Well, it's Technically Boxing Day Now)

2009-12-26T11:29:00.003-05:00

Well, that explains how ol' Saint Nicholas has kept going all

these years since his apparent death in the 1800s.

The world is full of nice people. Nice people do fucked up things. From the nice people who pull their broken down car off the highway into the abandoned lot of a shutdown gas station, get bored, walk around, and break bottles in the lot; to the nice person who pulls into the lot to explain, between pools of tobacco spit, that he's about to impound their car for said bottle-breaking; to the hour-late tow truck driver who could've saved everyone involved a lot of trouble; to the guy who botched installing a new timing belt into said car some 2 or 3 years ago, they're all nice people.

All sorts of nice people celebrate Christmas. It's just not for me--not all my childhood years of my parents getting me the wrong gifts for Christmas, not the selfish spirit that caused me to despair Christmas from said gifts, not the forced family get-togethers, and not the other calamities that always seem to follow me.

The Christmas when Razor scooters were the thing, I played on my richer cousin's and broke my arm the same day (to this day, the only bone I've ever broken). Some Christmases later, my sister was borrowing my car and our cousin's younger brother to see a movie when some nice people pulled into the back of them at a red light, scaring my sister and cousin, totaling my car, jump-starting those nice people's insurance premiums, and leaving me car-less for the next 3 months.

This Christmas, I've just been counting down the holidays till I can get my timing belt replaced (Monday?). I mean, Sherlock Holmes was thoroughly entertaining, gift-giving and -receiving were fun, and catching up with a few friends via texts made family time more bearable, but it's just another day to me. I'm trying to make the best of it. My plan is to make even better of it next year when I've got a job and a running car. Maybe I can even make a difference to someone poor or starving. I mean, chances are, they're nice people, too.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

A Return to Democracy (A Review of The Senate's new album)

2009-12-17T18:33:00.002-05:00

Note: Sorry it's taken me so long to post a new entry. Going out every night with friends isn't conducive to blog-posting.

Double Note: Your input is important to the life of this blog. I love to hear what made you laugh but I'd love even more to hear what you hate or would like to see improved.

Because whenever I think of a group composed almost entirely of wrinkly, old,

white guys simultaneously boring and enraging each other to death, I think of a

pimped out set of drums with a broken cymbal. Excellent quality art though.

If you've ever watched C-Span, you probably know how the Senate works. Actually, you probably don't unless you possess a godlike attention span and a love of all things political. It's a large group of well-dressed professionals, few of whom you can really tell apart because so few of them stand out. And few of them stand out because few of them care for anything more than representing their constituents (if their constituents are lucky), which they generally only do to keep themselves in office, in power, and paid. I'm not saying this is the intent of The Senate the band, but the connotations don't help.

1. 6:05 AM (Intro) - No one likes an introduction at 6:05 AM.

2. The Legend of Franquoix - I hear the riff and think, "This sounds like someone trying to improve on the Offspring." When I hear "give it to me baby" and "uh huh, uh huh" midway through, I know it's someone trying to improve on the Offspring. But autotuned vocals are rarely an improvement (unless you're a shitty rapper like T-Pain), much less to the Offspring. Neither are the lyrics. But why improve on The Offspring anyway? All it takes is not being a wigger. I'm sure you can aim a little higher than that.

3. Madison Square - It's the Roots without Black Thought.

4. Just Let Go - Again with the autotune. Like the last two tracks, there are a lot of good riffs but none ever get the chance to breathe and bounce around in the listener's head long after listening.

5. Find a Way feat. Crystal Joy - If this CD had a single, this would be it--the most solid track on the CD. Everything fits in place: the melody is catchy enough, Mike isn't going a million different places a second with his vocals and lyrics, there's a more solid song structure here, and every part is solid. The motivational lyrics are cheesy at times, but they're passionate enough that I can't really front on 'em. And Crystal Joy, whoever she is, provides some great vocals as well. If the rest of the album were this focused, it could be an amazing album.

Okay, that's a much better explanation for the broken cymbal,

an explanation the people can approve of unanimously.

6. Changes - Rapper-who-sings or singer-who-raps--these are titles given to someone who tries to be something or someone they're not. Mike transitions easily from one to another and never sounds bad with one or the other, but he rarely ever gives either his all and that's exactly how it sounds. It comes out more as showboating than actually creating music.

7. No Sense - Love the main riff and the samples. I just wish Mike would sing more like he does in the hook--soulful and melodic. His rap vocals are okay, but they aren't really his.

8. Make Me Walk Away - I very nearly did after hearing this track. Why douse a great voice in digital toxic waste?

Favorite Tracks: Find a Way feat. Crystal Joy, No Sense

Overall Rating: 3/5

It turned out better than a Senate hearing/meeting on C-Span, but I wanted a lot more than this-beats-watching-C-Span after hearing Mike kill a hook on Silent Disorder's "Never Again." The whole album is professional and polished, so much so that it stagnates. They don't call a workhorse a well-oiled machine for nothing--if you take away the oil, greasy as it is, even the most well-polished gears eventually scrape against each other and break down. These guys have a lot of talent, and I hope they don't do the same. A good producer could work wonders with artists this talented. If they listen.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Let's See How Far Regina's Come

2009-12-04T15:59:00.003-05:00

Note: I've had this review sitting around for about a month because I'd written

for my friend to post on his site, but he never got around to it. Then, I posted

it on my last.fm a couple weeks later and finally now on here.

First I heard of Regina Spektor's latest outing "Far" (outside of a few forgettable reviews): "It's kind of a clusterfuck." And the last I heard: "like, I can listen to it all the way through pretty much." Chance, the first person, has essentially everything she's ever put out (and many a bootleg concert recording she hasn't put out), and the second, Carrie, really liked a decent number, but not quite so many, of her songs.

Then, last night I heard the first song I'd ever heard from the album and wasn't sure what to think. "This song reminds me of 'Apres Mois,'" I remember thinking. "Is that a good thing? I mean, 'Apres Mois' used to be my favorite."

"Who am I to trust in this world?" I wondered. "Clearly," I thought, "I must find out for myself." Here's the review that followed--track-by-track:

The Calculation: I enjoy the chorus, but that's about it. Not good, Regina.

Eet: Sounds like it's trying to be "Carbon Monoxide" (off "Soviet Kitsch") but with a little Brick-era Ben Folds Five with some prefab Regina-isms. That melody is damn catchy though and real emotion seems to somehow seep through. And that fading beatbox ending is a very nice touch.

Blue Lips: I love it when a track slowly builds tension, especially in typical Regina fashion. This one does that and comes out pretty okay.

Folding Chair: Sounds like something Ingrid Michaelson should/would've put out, minus the dolphin-singing on the second chorus. Not a bad song. Not a great song. And if it weren't for the dolphin-singing, I'd question whether it was even a Regina song. "And the sea is just a wetter version of the skies" - interesting lyric.

Machine: There's really not a "great" standout track on this album, but this one's definitely in the running. Reminds me of "Apres Mois" off her previous album, which was once my favorite Regina song ever.

Laughing With: This song really wants to be a classic song of some sort, but it just isn't quite there. "No one's laughing at God when..." we listen to this song. Okay, maybe they are.

Human of the Year: It was alright the first couple times I listened to it and it gets better toward the end, but I just can't wait that long anymore.

Two Birds: Wait, I was just listening to a song? Must not've been very memorable.

Dance Anthem of the 80's: A little annoying. You almost forget Regina was a classically trained pianist by the end of this song. Lyrics are cute but not enough to make me listen to this song again, at least by my own choice.

Genius Next Door: Regina once again hearkens back to her more memorable days. It delivers a haunting feeling similar to "20 Years of Snow" from "Begin to Hope," minus the awesome synth.

Wallet: Oh, you found a wallet? I hope you returned it.

One More Time with Feeling: Meh, Regina. Meh.

Man of a Thousand Faces: Man of a Thousand Boring Faces

Synopsis: I don't dislike this album, but I really think Regina should leave the caricatures of herself to other artists. Feels like someone took Regina like a wet towel from a sink-full of hand-washed clothes and wrung some of the Regina out of her. It's probably the most cohesive album she's put out, but the emotional lows and fun highs just aren't there. Neither is the sound experimentation from "Begin to Hope." I'm beginning to lose hope... in Regina. :[

Favorite Tracks: Machine, Eet, Folding Chair, Genius Next Door

Overall Rating: 3/5

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

St. Simon's Suicide Mission (and Poem it Inspired)

2009-12-03T18:17:00.003-05:00

Yeah. I went there. Whatcha' gonna' do about it? Punk. Well, not there per se.

3:47 - My dad and I embark on a suicide mission, through monsoon rain, to St. Simon's Island. He's driving his sister-in-law's mother's car to her house, and I'm following him in mine so he'll have a way back.

5:20 - He narrowly passes a semi-truck into the right lane at a major intersection in Waycross, losing me in the process.

5:25-5:30 - I call and find out he was on the phone when I lost him (imagine that). 5 minutes on the phone later, we realize neither of us knows where the fuck the other is and that he, too, may have made a wrong turn, so we rendezvous in the Cavagnaro's parking lot. He rides up to my car and rolls down his window, "Thank goodness for telephones, right?" with no apparent irony in his voice.

6:00 - It's getting dark and I can't see shit. "Oh," I say to myself as I remove my sunglasses. Still can't see shit.

6:40-6:45 - We stop at a house in St. Simon's until we figure out his GPS had sent us to the wrong house. "I have to pee really bad," he says. We pull into the next street over and park on the street by someone's yard where he hurries across to pee behind a bush.

"I just stepped into a puddle," he says as I follow. "Be careful."

"Shit."

"You stepped in it, too?"

He's walking back from the bush as I pee into the same bush, "I didn't know you needed to pee, too."

"That tends to happen when you've been on the road 2½ hours straight," I say, not realizing it'd actually been 3.

6:50 - Several wrong houses later, he gets out of the car. What, do you need to poop this time? Then, the garage door of the house rolls up and he steps out of his car and walks to mine, "Well, the garage door opener worked here so this must be it. check the mailbox."

"Yep, this is 415," I answer, meeting him in the garage beside his sister-in-law's mother's newly parked car.

"I've got some bad news," he tells me. "When I fell in the puddle, I jumped back across and my glasses fell off."

7:20 - We've traveled back to the street we pissed off, searching under the light of my high beams for my father's glasses. "This is the second pair of glasses I've lost in the last month. It's funny, I was going to buy a strap for my glasses today."

I stopped rolling my eyes a long time ago.

7:37 - We've stopped at Steak & Shake. I've got a crapload of coupons, and he's paying so I can't complain. I do anyway. Or badmouth it, rather. I love their burgers and shakes, but their fries and the time it takes to get your food are equally terrible.

10:30 - I'm home in time for Wednesday night trivia with my friends. Great place to let out my pent-up energy from the past 7 hours. So was this poem it inspired:

Staring-Through-Window Pains

Shadow guns shadow
homes, shatter
hopes like glass bones
we are the wake
of ghosts with

no headlights on
caterpillar wheels

Last night, we schlepped like babies
through fields of
rain, bricks, flames, and window panes,
displaced

Escaped,
we watched soldier faces dripping
through the vents of
the sewer gutter
we were under
estimated

Not sure where I want to go with it. Any opinions? Care to share any recent adventures?

In-the-works blogs: You're Not Amazing.Yet., Part 4 of my July Adventures, an answer to Patrick's question of the craziest thing I've experienced on the Internet, music and movie reviews, and more

Any other questions you'd like me to address/cover?

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Thanksgiving Guilt: It's not Just for Dinner Anymore

2009-11-27T17:31:00.003-05:00

Lord, protect our stiff, homogenized corpses from Grandpa's H5N1.

A few hours after dinner with my recently extended family, Chance and I are chilling at his house watching Paul McCartney on TV. Paul's performance reminds us how much he and Ringo Starr are proof that the better half of the Beatles died a long time ago. "I mean, what's Ringo doing now?" I ask Chance.

"Well, I can tell you what he's not doing," he condescends. We both laugh.

"You can tell the rock died a long time ago when a mother in the crowd starts doing this," Chance imitates the awkward waving motion of an aging woman, complete with mocking sound effects.

Finally, he gives McCartney what he deserves--the mute button. We talk again until we tire of the TV static. "Tired of the white noise?" he asks.

"You mean, 'McCartney'?" I answer.

Chance turns the channel. "Magic's Biggest Secrets Revealed"--I ask him if anyone gives a shit about magic anymore as we watch the masked magician fold up a one dollar bill and unfold it into a fifty. "How does he do it?" the cheeseball announcer asks.

"He's the Federal Reserve," I joke.

"How do these trannies have such large breasts?" the announcer asks. "It's not magic," he says.

Then, the masked magician carries over a large silicone implant in each hand.

Speaking of the Fed, how about that economy and the all the dumbassery of Black Friday? I wasn't about to camp out anywhere but I did buy some 18 DVDs and a $25 printer/copier/flatbed scanner. And it only took me 5 hours of shopping, mostly sifting through box after box of badly organized used DVDs strewn about the Video Warehouse parking lot in the cold.

Of course, there were the lines at Best Buy and Wal-Mart, too. One woman I stood behind, in particular, rattled on to an older woman I could only assume was her mother. She sifted through her pile of worthless, sale-priced crap, picking up her copy of "Taken," starring Liam Neeson as she prepared to checkout, "That there movie's probably the best I ever seen."

I scratched my head in confusion. That's when I noticed her hardback copy of Glenn Beck's guide to fear-mongering for the holidays. Suddenly, it all made sense: this is America.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

The I've-Got-Questions-You've-Got-Answers Blog

2009-11-16T00:47:00.007-05:00

Good news, Myspace, Facebook, and Blogger: I've been stalking you, err, studying you. And then, I realized I should just start asking you people questions. I mean, I post these blogs for your benefit (for the most part) so I should be getting your input.

1) My magic 8 ball says Sunday is the day most of you like to read my blogs. And I take my magic 8 ball readings like I take my margaritas--with a fistful of salt. So what day is best for you to read blogs?

2) Which of my posts is your favorite? Why?

3) Least favorite? Why?

4) What would you like to see me write more about?

5) Why do you read my blog in the first place?

6) If I came to your door, wearing an orange suit, and said, "I like your house. Can I come in?" would you let me in?

7) Ask me a question (it may be my next blog post or I may just answer it here). I'm protected by an invisible force field called the Internet so prod away.

I'm not sure whether this McDonald's sign is saying
Thank You or Up Yours, but you get the picture, right?

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Here's Where I Tell You What to Eat and What Not to Eat Pt. 2: With Alcohol

2009-11-09T21:33:00.028-05:00

Yumberry, the best Sobe flavor. Ever.

Like most people, I make horrible decisions while inebriated. My worst: probably attempting to operate my $200 digital camera at a party after drinking 2 beers and probably half a $40 bottle of Jager. Or maybe it was when I'd consumed a margarita, a bottle of wine, and plenteous shots of tequila, then operated a corkscrew on another bottle of wine. But when I was sober I cared more about dropping my camera and having to replace it than nearly opening my eye with that corkscrew, which instead opened my skin an inch below into a scar on my cheek to forever remind me. What does that say about my sober decision-making? (Here's part 1 if you missed out)

My last great alcohol-influenced idea? I was drinking one of America's founding fathers--Sam Adams, my second of the day--and the delicious cherry wheat flavor reminded of me my friend Laurel who always brings a Cherry Coke to class and how I ached for a can of my own everyday after class which, in turn, reminds me of my father. He once told me how his father once gave him a sip of his Coke-mixed-with-beer, which my father says tasted so bad he never tried beer since. Of course, I like beer and I like Coke, but you know what I like even more? Cherry Coke and Sam Adams cherry wheat. Bingo.

My last great alcohol-influenced idea.

That night, I fell asleep early, exhausted from various outside yard work and woke up around 5 the next morning. "Hardees!" I thought. They have breakfast, and I have coupons; moreover, they had Cherry Coke, and I had starvation. I took it home, trying not to finish all my food and Cherry Coke before I got there.

I figured my father's aversion to coke-and-beer, like his aversion to beer and most everything else he hates, sprang more from close-minded retardation than anything else. Or perhaps his father was an asshole, I figured, and had mixed the Coke with PBR (Pabst Blue Ribbon). If he was right though, I wasn't going to waste all my Cherry Coke or Cherry Wheat so I poured it into a cup.

a less-than-appetizing cup

Turns out he was right this time, at least partially. Sure, the ingredients here were better quality and I actually like beer to begin with, but the muted flavors of cherry wheat just made it taste like watered-down Cherry Coke. I should've known that already, but it was early in the morning so I'm allowed to make stupid decisions. Cherry Wheat didn't mix well with the food either so I finished everything else off, then drank it. It was Halloween, and this was my way of pre-gaming.

Halloween: I was the Mexican Cartelletubby and I fought a ninja.

Related Adventures:

Doritos: Secret Eating

me: You ever try Tacos at Midnight Doritos?
Tim: Once when I was very drunk. Tasted like someone dumped a pack of taco seasoning on a bag of Doritos.
me: Sounds like the perfect drunk food then, eh?

Verdict: They were both pretty okay. And hey, these and Sweet and Spicy Chili Doritos kept me alive during an extended car-less, money-less stay in a hotel last July.

Never trust a frozen TV dinner by its cover. A) Buffalo Style Chicken Strips (I'm not even sure they sell these anymore, just plain chicken strips now) B) Boneless Pork (barbecue obviously)

Verdict: No, they aren't quite as good as they look on the box but they're actually pretty decent, bested among the frozen TV dinners only by Boston Market meals, which are damn good if you can afford them. They beat Banquet meals any day of the week though. Not pictured: Hungry-Man burritos, which aren't too good.

Sobe Nirvana Mango Melon.

Verdict: It tastes pretty okay, but don't drink it. Apparently, it's poisonous. And poison Sobe makes me angry.

Sobe I-Can't-Remember-Your-Name-So-You're-off-the-Hook-But-Actually-Citrus

Verdict: It's okay

Sobe Strawberry Daiquiri

Verdict: No. How I didn't figure out beforehand that, without the ice, a daiquiri-like beverage would be terrible is beyond me. I also could've read "Cream" as the primary ingredient and known better; but alas, I am a dumbass. Sometimes.

Not pictured: Orange Cream and Fruit Punch. These are good--not as amazing as Yumberry but good. Yumberry tastes like a delicious wine but without any alcoholic content, which coincidentally, is the only thing that could make it better.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Things That Were Okay in the 90s

2009-10-31T09:42:00.019-04:00

So how about Creed's coming out with a new CD--not even a greatest hits (they already did that shit)... You as excited as I am? Too much asinine, angst-driven, post-grunge lyrics in drop D for you to handle?

I FEEL ANGRY. I FEEL HELPLESS. WANNA CHANGE THE WORLD, YEAAAAH. Hey guys, I've got this bomb-ass bag of razor blades waiting for you if you jump off that cliff over there.

Worst Soundgarden cover band ever, am I right? Damn, I miss the 90s. Sure, Hootie and the Blowfish and Collective Soul are as much to blame for Nickelback and Creed as Nickelback and Creed--as much to blame for the death of grunge as heroin needles and shotgun blasts to the face--but they were okay in the 90s just like a lot of things were okay in the 90s.

Things that were okay during the 90s:

Hootie and the Blowfish
Collective Soul
smoking favored cigarettes
the job market
listening to massive amounts of Nirvana, Alice in Chains, and golden era rap music
high fives
gas prices
heavyweight boxing (nay, it was awesome)
the Chicago Bulls and Michael Jordan (^ same as above)
being Michael Jackson (except maybe in '93)
knowing how to play Wonderwall on your guitar
floppy disks
growing up
paying out the ass for CDs (okay, that was never okay, but we didn't complain)

*HOW AWESOME WERE FLOPPY DISKS?!?! Hint: They weren't.

In case you forgot. ^ But they were better than their predecessors (left)

Believe it or not, I just got rid of all my floppy disks yesterday--13 years of history in about 100 floppy disks. A history that ran the gamut from god-awful homemade rap lyrics to my first web site (a pokemon-based web site) to Windows 3.11 and Windows for Workgroups installation disks. Nothing worth remembering.

If I had it my way, every new Creed CD would come with a floppy diskette, and it would be packaged as the "Relevance Deluxe Edition Package." That and I'd add the 90s to the list of things that were okay in the 90s (but I don't make the rules). That's right, you dick wizards--the 90s were just okay, better remembered than lived. "What does 'dick wizards' even mean?" you ask. Do not question me.

*The best part was if one broke off in the floppy disk drive and you had to use a butter knife, a pair of tweezers, and Soviet Russian-level interrogation skills to get it out of the drive.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Daniel Watches Zombieland

2009-10-14T20:52:00.018-04:00

This tag line is so dead.

"Guitar Hero Arcade. God must be crying somewhere. In a corner."

I've just stepped out of a rare experience and I only wish it were Guitar Hero (hate hate hate) Arcade. Nay, it was Zombieland, and part of the movie was filmed locally in Mild Adventures theme park (the sign at the real park says "Wild Adventures," but anyone with half a brain knows the 'W' is just upside down).*

Then, Genna responds to me, "At least, you don't have to hear it all day," from behind the theater concession stand.

Chance counters, "Actually, they had the Aerosmith add-on where I work. And one day I accidentally scratched the game disc. Then, I had to repair it."

Starring:
1: Jesse Surely-they-would've-cast-Michael-Cera-for-this-role-if-I-were-not-a-skinnier-less-attractive-typecast-of-a-typecast-they-could-hire-for-cheaper Eisenberg

2: Emma I'm-actually-just-the-caucasion-version-of-Natasha-Khan-aka-Bat-for-Lashes-but-with-emo-bangs Stone

3: Woody Didn't-I-already-play-this-role-but-not-so-dumbed-down-in-Natural-Born-Killers-oh-wait-zombies Harrelson

4: A little girl about yay-high

Premise: Mad cow disease has turned into mad people disease, and now you have a bunch of crazed zombies running around. So Jesse Eisenberg's character, the last non-infected human in Garland, Texas, tired of playing World of Warcraft and drinking too much Mountain Dew, decides to search for his parents in Columbus, Ohio. Hilarity ensues.

Synopsis: As a grown man, it's harder to laugh when I've already seen most of the best parts in the trailer and the trailer's already given away all the more feasible plot twists. Harder still for me to feel any emotion at the predictable emotional moments. The one moment when the movie elicited any real emotion in me is when Emma Stone's character jacks the car from Jesse Eisenberg. I realized, if I were him, I might've punched her in the face (not because she's a woman but because of the way her character acts).

But Emma Stone's hot (those damn blue jeans and black boots), I'll watch just about anything with Woody Harrelson in it, and Michael Cera, I'm sorry, Jesse Eisenberg retains some of Michael Cera's charm though we all know Michael Cera is best for obvious Michael Cera roles.

In short, it's no Shaun of the Dead, but I laughed enough to make it worth my ticket, remembering that this is really nothing more than an edgy teen flick. It made accepting that the movie could've been about a third shorter without all the slow-motion on an already short film a little easier. Plus, there's a cameo from one of my favorite actors.

It's basically Superbad with zombies, Woody Harrelson, and near-gratuitous, stylized slow-motion. Yet somehow, the bastardization of Shaun of the Dead, Michael Cera, and Natural Born Killers-esque Harrelson works. And I have to give props to a movie that utilizes both The Black Keys and White Stripes in its soundtrack.

Rating: 4/5 Stars

*Watching the characters ride and interact with the rides/attractions at Mild Adventures, I thought they were some pretty sick scenes. And when I say "sick," I mean I physically threw up after riding many of them. Thanks, motion sickness

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

DarkNotes: Faustus

2009-10-07T18:41:00.018-04:00

As a Creative Writing major, I've read a good many classics. Well, mostly just SparkNotes and Wikipedia rehashings. So I had an idea a few weeks ago to create a SparkNotes parody called DarkNotes, but, much to my chagrin, someone's already taken darknotes.com (not that I had any serious plans for it anyway).

For my first DarkNotes entry, I present Christopher Marlowe's "Faustus," a slightly revised journal from my British Literature class:

Evil always wears red. It's a fact. Prove me wrong.

Summary: Doctor Faustus has all a man should really want and need--all except a sense of humility. He's cured many of the plague as a doctor, been quoted frequently for his opinions as a lawyer, and made some headway as a scholar of religion. All the same, he's unhappy--unsatisfied.

What he needs is the ability to pull more tricks than a magical prostitute--the devil's magical prostitute--so he pursues the dark arts. But having read too much Harry Potter as a child, he doesn't take magic seriously enough and doesn't hesitate to conjure a demon.

Mephistopholes answers his call. Then, Faustus asks him to make a deal with the devil. Faustus wants Mephistopheles to be his bitch for twenty-four years in exchange for Faustus' eternal servitude. In hell.

Faustus signs his contract in blood and throws the next twenty-four years away on stupid human tricks--turning invisible, boxing the pope's ears (okay, those two actually sound kind of awesome), selling people horses that turn to straw in water, and entertaining royalty and nobility. After all this, the devil is ready to collect, but Faustus begs for mercy. Of course, Lucifer doesn't listen to whiny bitches--he sends them to hell. And that's exactly what happens to Faustus. *cue horde of demons dragging Faustus to hell*

All a man should actually want and need.

Mindbogglingly Important Questions/Commentary:

1) Faustus, great lawyer or greatest lawyer? What kind of lawyer signs over his soul for twenty-four years of glorified parlor tricks? I mean, besides David Blaine (okay, Blaine's probably not a lawyer). 24 years of selfishness followed by an eternity of hell--is Faustus a divorce lawyer?

2) I'm going to go out on a limb and say Faustus would've really enjoyed ACDC's "HIghway to Hell."

3) Faustus is basically the story of what would happen if Johnny Knoxville grew up as a goth kid and met a demon.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

KBBW

2009-09-22T01:40:00.006-04:00

Blue balls--I guess that's all life really is for the twenty-something male. Unfulfilled dreams. Puberty taught me how to get it up (even though I often don't have to do anything at all), but it didn't tell me how to finish. It wasn't difficult to learn, but it was something I had to learn--or at least experience--on my own.

Oh, there's a lot to be said for inward-focused learning and life, but not everyone can (or should, for that matter) be Emily Dickinson, a Buddhist monk, an autistic person, or especially all three at the same time. Believe me, I tried my first twenty years--well, you could easily argue that anyhow--and failed miserably. I didn't even realize I was miserable. Or lonely.

I was alone and in control, ascetic to the bone. No sex, drugs, cigarettes, or alcohol--I didn't need them. And no one cared. And if no one cares, you're doing something wrong. It ain't what you don't and what you aren't but who you are and what you do, not what you can or plan to do.

It's who you know and how they help you accomplish your goals and dreams. I'm tired of trying to do it all on my own. It's the least fulfilling accomplishment and the most horrifying failure. So with the help of my friends and Kanye "Blue Balls" West willing, I'm going to finish (what I've started). And yes, this is just an excuse to take longer to write up my blog about my adventures this past July.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Free CDs (If You Live in Valdosta)

2009-09-18T23:04:00.007-04:00

If you've wondered where I've been for over a month, I've been busy having a life. Well, busy anyway. I've been busy making changes in my life.

Napster, among other things, once changed my life, the irony being that all the music it exposed me to made me buy CDs--far too many, in my opinion. Thanks, the RIAA. Okay, sure, when I started buying used CDs off half.com I saved a shitload of money, but that doesn't change the fact that I've got a large stack of paperweights and drink coasters now.

the CDs I'm trying to get rid of

So I'll pawn most, if not all of them, off on my brother. I unclutter my room and my life a little, and he gets a lot of music. We all win.

Of course, if you live in Valdosta and want some free CDs and/or a good laugh at my expense at some of what I used to listen to, get at me. I have cases and album inserts for 98% of them, nearly all of them in excellent condition. First come, first serve. And if enough people ask, I'll compile a list of them all. And don't worry about me, it's only about half my CD collection.

P.S. I know this post is pretty much filler, but I'm still working on compiling stories from July '09. You'll see.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Or Was Florida Eating Me?

2009-08-03T00:03:00.036-04:00

Some say sarcasm is the refuge of the weak, but it's actually Florida. Florida is the refuge of the weak--child and geriatric alike. So how did I end up there for a week in June? Easy. I'm retiring. In Disney World.

Or not. My father bribed me: a couple free meals (if a lukewarm, half-eaten burrito counts as a meal), free gas both ways, and a free night in an Orlando hotel. All I had to do was drive his mail down to him since he couldn't get it himself as he was working nearly a month straight in Florida.

Put that away, America. There are children here. And old People.

As a good (read: unemployed) son, I obliged and ended up with more than I'd bargained for. More free food for one. I also watched "The Hangover" with my cousin and nearly lost my $200 camera at his hotel while swimming drunk.

And I can't forget the near head-on collision when my father tried to pass another car on a two lane, double-yellow line highway. But we made it to our last-minute airboat ride (my father made sure of it). Alive. Not so sure about my stomach.

Two days later

I'm heading home when chance calls me, "Hey man, still wanna' see John Vanderslice tonight?"
"Where's he playing again?"
"Gainesville."
"Anybody opening for him?;'
"Yeah, some guy from Sweden."

I'd told him 3 weeks before that I might go (and completely forgotten). Now, I was an hour from home and five hours from driving two hours right back into Florida to see John Vanderslice and "some guy from Sweden."

some guy from Sweden

I know what you're thinking. And you're not alone. I'd fuck me, too. Oh, you were thinking, "Who the hell is John Vanderslice?" He's been called "the nicest guy in indie music" but he's probably better known as that-guy-who-toured-and-recorded-a-short-EP-with-John-Darnielle-of-the-Mountain-Goats (and if you don't know the Mountain Goats, then you best get up on game).

I got home, unpacked, and recovered for a few hours, watched "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" and ate pizza with Chance, and headed right back into Florida with him. We reached Gainesville a couple hours early, found the venue, and explored the city, me with my Canon Powershot, him with his two analog cameras.

We made our way back to the show about ten minutes before it was supposed to start. For the next hour, we took turns saving two good seats, waiting for someone to enter the stage. We didn't care if they skipped the Swedish guy as long as someone took the stage.

Girl in crowd: "I love your mustache."
Kristian: "You do?" *pause* "You want it?"

When the Swede in question finally jumped on stage, it took 3 songs for my impatience to wear off. When it happened, I was completely mesmerized.

Kristian Mattson, The Tallest Man on Earth, standing only 5'9", may not have lived up to his name, but his music did. He was a seamless flurry of folk-and-blues picking-and-strumming, picking perfectly even as he tuned his guitars between songs. I'm not sure he sat or stood still more than 20 seconds straight his whole set through.

When John Vanderslice and his band hit the stage, it wouldn't have mattered who he was--he couldn't follow up what I'd just experienced. It didn't help that my camera batteries died during TTMOE's set (since then, I've always kept 2 extra batteries with my camera) and that my blood sugar was once again plummeting (it's your fault, Florida).

Clever

I waited it out till my body, mind, and emotions were desperate for electrolytes (after all, it's what plants crave) to walk across the street to my car for a Powerade. I circled the parking lot three times until it hit me. I was in a Gaineseville, it was after midnight, and I'd parked in a valet-only parking area. I'd been towed.

We caught the last few songs and headed half a mile into the ghetto, past a couple groups of hookers, to the towing lot. We arrive around 1, realized no one was on duty, and called their number. They said they'd have someone there by 1. Fuck.

Sure enough, forty minutes and seventy bucks later, we were back in my car for our two hour drive. Home at 4 am. I really wanted to fuck with those hookers, but Chance advised me they might shank me. After all, there was at least one she-male among them.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Eating Florida

2009-06-28T02:06:00.181-04:00

Silly Florida bathroom graffiti artists, HIV's not that easy to turn off and on. You, of all people, should know that. Wait. Magic Johnson, was that you?

06/19/09 Tuesday Afternoon:

I'm 3½ hours into Florida, driving by myself--not even by accident--and I'm lost so I call my dad, "I don't see a Taco Bell."

"Then you've probably gone too far. Make a u-turn."

Yes, today my father is my GPS--the kind of GPS that gives you bad mile estimates and doesn't inform you until ten minutes before your estimated time of arrival that you're traveling to a Taco Bell in Kissimee and not a hotel in Orlando. The kind of GPS that has to ask Taco Bell employees for directions before relaying them to you.

My blood sugar level's diving, my frustration's rising, and I'm too flustered and focused on the drive to notice the unopened bag of Dorrito's in my empty passenger seat. And it was ten minutes twenty minutes ago.

I wonder if they're any good with directions.

I stop at a Starbucks, get directions, take a wrong road, and end up passing through a toll booth on my way back, riding down US 192 until I find Taco Bell, screaming Fuck all the way there. I don't see my father's car in the parking lot so I call him up, growing impatient and out of breath.

"You know," he tells me. "You have no reason to be angry or frustrated." He pauses. "My mother used to have a saying: 'Roll with the punches.'" Oh, she's the bitch responsible for that one?

"I'm not sure how that cliche's supposed to make me feel better or help me make it to Taco Bell or do anything but make me angrier... Thanks? I'll talk to you when I get there." Click.

As it turns out, he'd been to that Taco Bell earlier that day and was now about six miles down the road in the other direction (the original directions would've been perfect if it were opposite day). A few minutes later, I make it to Taco Bell where ten minutes feels eerily more like two hours. Sloppy. Taco. Fuckers.

When I finally arrive, there's a cold, half-eaten burrito waiting for me, which my father calls a taco--repeatedly--but I'm hungry and just don't care anymore.

Taco Bell employee of the month?
Not sure what happened to the picture frame.

Tuesday Night:

Some other bullshit later, we arrive at Capone's mobster-themed dinner-and-show with my brother and ten-year-old cousin. And after thirty-minutes-in-line, we're inside. It's a small Italian buffet with surprisingly decent food.

And what's this? Free alcohol. Included with the meal. Yessss. The show is a little too long, the singing numbers are cheesy, and my dad drinks half a glass of wine.

Then, he makes an ass of himself by yelling at the actors on stage after one of the cheesy singing numbers when it's just two of the male actors on stage. On one occasion, my father's obnoxious behavior translates into humor:

dad: Bring back the girls.
guy on stage: You wouldn't be interested in that sort of thing.
waiter to the side: I know. I was in prison with that guy.
dad: But you never paid me.

Capone's. Apparently not nearly as bland as it looks from outside.

Seven cranberry and vodkas later, I really couldn't give a shit one way or the other. Three cherry Cokes don't hurt either--the real shit with the cherry syrup. I'd have paid the ticket price just for those. Fuckin' delicious. But there's one other memorable moment.

One of the male actors leaves the stage to interact with the audience. He asks a kid at one table if he'd been drinking. Then, he picks up the kid's drink, takes a swallow, and gargles it for a minute in his mouth, spitting it back into the kid's glass, saying it really is cherry Coke. Afterward, one of the waiters replaces the kid's cherry Coke with a more sanitary one.

Wednesday Lunch at TGI Friday's:

Tim, the waiter with dark eyes and a faux hawk, seats us at our table and says he'd like to get to know each of us. New TGIF policy? We shake hands one-after-another--my father, Wesley, and me--before he tells us his name.

That's actually about what it was like.

"Hi," I joke to Wesley and my dad when Tim's gone. "I'd like to get to know each of your names so I can forget about you as soon as you leave." Then, I point out Tim's faux hawk and ask Wesley if our waiter was wearing eyeliner.

Tim returns and serves us our Coke and two waters and takes our orders. Wesley has a burger, I take the spicy Southern shrimp, and my father orders the infinite asshole. I'm sorry, the infinite soup, salad, and breadsticks. I call it "the infinite asshole" because it costs the least and requires the most work of the waiter out of all the menu items, meaning the most work for the least tip.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Mmm, seven cranberry vodkas.

"Nah, I'm good," I say, followed by my father asking for more soup, salad, breadsticks, and dressing.

When he's back in the kitchen, I answer Tim's question more honestly, "Actually, yeah. Could you cut your hair?"

Wesley laughs, "Yeah, he was wearing eyeliner."

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Michael Jackson

2009-06-25T21:51:00.010-04:00

Hey, is that Mickey Mouse?

a friend visiting Rhode Island(9:44:00 PM): its not thaaat small
a friend visiting Rhode Island(9:44:05 PM): its cool beans thoughhhh
a friend visiting Rhode Island(9:44:13 PM): we're leaving tommorrow
me(9:44:22 PM): oh wow
me(9:44:47 PM): Well, when I look on the map, I usually have to whip out my magnifying glass to find it.
a friend visiting Rhode Island(9:46:45 PM): DDDD:
a friend visiting Rhode Island(9:46:47 PM): so anyways
a friend visiting Rhode Island(9:46:48 PM): how about
a friend visiting Rhode Island (9:46:53 PM): that Michael Jackson
me(9:47:11 PM): I hear he died a smooth criminal and doesn't care if you're black or white.
a friend visiting Rhode Island (9:47:19 PM): xDDD
me(9:47:46 PM): or a girl... so if you wanted him to like you should dress like a boy and not wear a bra
me(9:48:27 PM): but he's dead so he's probably not interested in anyone anymore
a friend visiting Rhode Island (9:49:49 PM): baaw

I'm really not sure what to say about this one.

me: When my dad heard that Michael Jackson died he said, "Did he take any kids with him?" I responded, "Heart attacks usually only take one person at a time."
a friend visiting Rhode Island (9:51:01 PM): awh xDDD
me: Heart attacks are like really shitty rollercoasters.
me: in that way

So celebrities everywhere seem to be dying all around us. Ed McMahon. Farah Fawcett. Michael Jackson. You can head over to the rotten.com deadpool if you want some good ideas as to who's next. But today we're talking about Michael Jackson. I actually turned my avatar/icon/profile picture grayscale on a number of social networking sites in honor of the King of Pop.

P.S. I've got longer, better blogs on the way. I just wanted to put something up so you people wouldn't forget about me in the meantime.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

The Insomniac

2009-06-16T12:21:00.005-04:00

Six months ago, my sister and I still lived with our mom. It was after midnight, and my sister was chanting about how I didn't sleep at night, that that's why I had pink eye, that this girl I was in love with wore the pants in our relationship, that I was pussy-whipped, and that the only reason the girl hadn't caught pink eye from me was because she lived so far away.

I went into my sister's room to tell her to go to bed, and she farted. Women go pretty far to make you feel like shit. And if they can't make you feel like shit, cover your face because they're probably about to fart in it.

and if they fart in your face enough it might get stuck like that

The pink eye's gone, the girl and I barely talk anymore, and I sleep 12 pm - 9 am now. Oh, the foul stench of truth. Sometimes it's just too much to take in the first time around. I guess my sister was right even if she had to be an asshole to get her point across. Even if I didn't listen. Even if it doesn't matter one way or another because I regret nothing.

I regret nothing because I finally gave something--someone--my all. So my all wasn't enough. It's enough for me. I could've shut down and given up on everything, but I've already tried that. Didn't work out too well.

change we can believe in

I was walking down the railroad tracks late one night, stopped, and stood in place until the train was inches away. And I stepped away. I failed at dying so I had no choice but to live. I mean, there wouldn't be another train for a while.

I felt a lot better the next day and the next month or so. But that was three years ago. And I never gave a thought to the conductor, that is, until I told a friend my story and he told me that that might've been the scariest day of the conductor's life. Hence, the blasting horn? Ahh, so that's what it meant. And even if it felt like my ex-girl was trying to run me over sometimes, I don't think she was trying to kill me either. I was just in her path at the wrong time.

only pussies ride on trains, at least those trains

Sometimes life has to punch you in the face before you get a clue. You can bob and weave all you want, but you're eventually gonna' get tired. And when you get tired, you're gonna' get hit. You just have to choose if you'd rather get hit in the head or the chest. Don't expect to tire out life. You have to punch back, too, if you want to survive. A time will come when you have to risk it all to survive.

So risk everything. It may be your one chance at happiness. Or the greatest lesson of your life. Win-win. Be fearless. Just don't pull a Mike Tyson, raping and biting people's ears off. That'll get your ass out of the game and in prison, and prison is not nice to your ass. It's not good for your career either (unless you're a rapper, and even then it doesn't always help).

I'm done with sleepless nights.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Review: The Pariah, the Parrot, the Delusion

2009-06-13T00:05:00.016-04:00

2009 is shaping into a great year for music: new Current 93, Silent Disorder, Cage, mewithoutYou, Malajube, Attila, P.O.S., Decemberists, The Chariot, and Dredg.

I love Dredg, but when I heard they were coming out with another album I thought, "Hope it's not another 'Catch Without Arms'" and when I saw the cover for "The Pariah, the Parrot, the Delusion" I thought, "God, I hope the music isn't as pretentious as the album cover." I mean, it looks kind of cool, and I like what it's saying, but the small captions on the stamp images feel a little too pithy.

That said, anyone looking for weird or different music will probably eat this shit up. Of course, some of them will vomit it right back on you. But that's the way it is with artsy music. And personally, it's my favorite album of the year so far. They could've cut out a few tracks, but they're a prog-rock band so I'll forgive them for their artsy egos.

The Pariah, the Parrot, the Delusion

Track listing

“Pariah” - 4:12
“Drunk Slide” - 1:32
“Ireland” - 3:46
“Stamp of Origin: Pessimistic” - 0:54
“Lightswitch” - 3:33
“Gathering Pebbles” - 5:03
“Information” - 5:49
“Stamp of Origin: Ocean Meets Bay” - 0:35
“Saviour” - 4:01
“R U O K ?” - 2:16
“I Don’t Know” - 3:49
“Mourning This Morning” - 5:46
“Stamp of Origin: Take a Look Around” - 1:02
“Long Days and Vague Clues” - 1:56
“Cartoon Showroom” - 4:23
“Quotes” - 6:09
“Down to the Cellar” - 3:45
“Stamp of Origin: Horizon” - 2:25
Length 60:56

I'm always hesitant when the first track my favorite track off the album, but a good song is a good song. It starts with a choir of kids (choirs of children are cheesy by default), but it works, especially when it kicks into a catchy piano and vocal melody, tight, syncopated drums; and a chunky riff. It's easily the best song on the CD.

None of the other tracks are quite as tight as "Pariah," but you get a good variety of styles and instrumentation here so you can't really complain. The instrumental "Long Days and Vague Clues," for instance, is catchy, but veers into generic string-tribute-to-Metallica territory. "R U Ok?" and "Drunk Slide" make up for it though in the instrumental category.

Lyrics are interesting, at least, much more interesting than on previous albums. They fit together better here and aren't as cheesy or forced as before. The lyrics to the bridge on "Pariah" basically sum it up for us:

No more hiding, no more hiding, no more blame
No more fighting, no more fighting, no more pain
No more chaos, no more chaos, no more stress
No more addiction, no more addiction, no more mess
No more attitudes, no more swollen heads
No more greed, no more feeding from the hand
No more whining, no more blame it on the man
Realize it's your own fault

Sadly, only "I Don't Know" is available for listening on their Myspace page. Maybe they'll show up on last.fm before long like their other albums.

Favorite Tracks: Pariah, Gathering Pebbles, I Don't Know, Mourning This Morning

Rating: 4.5/5

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Florence: A Week in Review

2009-06-09T21:53:00.042-04:00

Wrong Florence (glad I wasn't homeless in that one)

Tuesday:

I've been basically homeless in South Carolina since Friday, but I've got unfinished business with my ex-girlfriend, I already paid for the tank of gas that got me here, and I want to see as many of my Florence friends as I can before I go.

***

Late Tuesday Night:

"Why are women so difficult?" my friend asked me.

"I'll tell you when I finish vomiting."

He laughed as he turned away. Maybe that's all the answer he needed. Maybe when we suffer we're not looking for answers but understanding .

Maybe I wasn't looking forward to sleeping in my car. But my friend I'd stayed with the past 3 nights was too drunk to drive home or even decide if he needed me to drive him home from his friend's house when I texted him. But maybe I'd overstayed my welcome and we were both kind of tired of each other by then anyway.

***

Wednesday morning:

Eyes closed, cold, hungry, head aching, shaking, body cramped into the backseat of my car--I'd put off checking the time on my phone long enough already, and my body and mind swore it must be later.

8 am: Too early for alcohol.

Where did we go wrong? We started as friends, then boyfriend and girlfriend, then complicated but close exes, and now whatever we'd become since then. In her words, "it was inevitable," and in mine, "I agree." I'm not even sure where we went wrong or even that we did. Yet here I was giving our dying friendship one last push. Hell, I'd just slept in my car to make this work. Three, maybe four hours. But at least we'd had a good talk the night before when I walked back to my car where I struggled myself to sleep.

Yeah, it was kind of like that

10 am: I was hungry and depressed, driving around Florence, South Carolina until something started making sense or somewhere cheap and semi-half-decent opened for lunch. What's worse, my body and mind start shutting down and I get deathly depressed when I go too many hours without food, and when I'm too depressed I don't feel like eating.

11 am: Still too early for alcohol.

12 am: Taco Bell. It didn't taste like a cheesy bean burrito, but maybe that's because it was a chicken burrito. By the time my higher brain functions had returned, I was too far down the road and too far into my burrito to turn around. I guess it was too late to make sense of anything, but at least I had something in my stomach--something that wasn't alcohol.

You and me both, brother (note: not my actual brother)

***

Wednesday night:

My too-drunk-to-drive friend from the night before apologized and told me he didn't invite me over for beers because he was nursing his depression and wouldn't have been much fun. Oh irony, you kill me. Fuckin' A could I have used a beer that night. I guess I make depression look too easy. White men, is there a man among us with his spine and testicles intact?

All I knew was I wanted mine back. You had balls and a backone? Perhaps you're right--I never had any, but maybe we grow them over time.

I watched Up for the second time that week, a different group of friends each time. Then, I made a late night run to McDonald's. Afterward, I talked with my ex again, we said good bye, and we fit in one last hug.

***

Thursday morning:

I woke up in my car, drove around a bit, then hung out with my friend Sarah. Sarah made us breakfast--steak and eggs--and I rejoiced that I was't eating fast food or hot pockets for the first time all week. I told her that my ex had told me, "We will either end up together or we will have some great ending where we go down in flames and never speak again." Sarah said she was banking on the former. I wasn't sure if Sarah was being naive or just overly positive. Either way, I was thankful.

Then she gave me some music, we hugged, we said good bye, she headed to work, and I hit interstate. Funny, this was about how it ended when I moved away from Florence.

Play your violin for me, tiny emo kid

***

Today:

I have to remember that when life has no meaning you give it meaning. That's what I'm doing now. I'm getting in shape, taking guitar lessons, and working to improve my writing.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Arby's Roast Beef Flatbread Fajita

2009-06-06T00:20:00.008-04:00

I ate that last week ^ (damn, that sounds dirty already).

If it looks like rotten pussy, well, that's about how it tasted. Not that I've tried rotten pussy. I've heard stories about it though.

So if you are what you eat, what does that make me? a starved Ethiopian? (hey, cannibalism isn't for everyone). And what does that make David Carradine? A dick? His own dick? I mean, he did choke on his own dick. I guess he didn’t technically eat it. Actually, I’ve enjoyed David Carradine’s work. Up until he choked on his own dick. So, I’ll add, as my friend has been joking, “You gotta’ have a spotter for that shit.”

note: David Carradine actually tied shoelace around his neck and balls to choke himself for erotic pleasure. Until he died. No penis was involved. To my knowledge.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Hold My Uglyass Baby and Tell Me It's Beautiful

2009-05-27T06:56:00.033-04:00

We are the faceless--we are the Internet.

What's the difference between you, the girl who's in and out of love with every guy she meets quicker than she can write a blog about it, the guy who wants to get famous through Internet rap battles, the guy who watches the next obligatory sequel to the Fast and Furious and gets a speeding ticket on the way home from the theater, the girl who listens only to KISS, a quadriplegic hermaprodite, and Patrick Swayze?

They're all the same to you, we're all the same to them, and you're all the same to me--a few clicks away from being dead on Wikipedia. The Internet has made us faceless--even more faceless than we are in real life interaction. I think 4chan had it best when they said "there are no women on the Internet." I'd take it further and say that everyone on the Internet is a pimply, white teenager with a 3 inch penis and protracted testicles.

Since the above image is a bit graphic, here's a picture of a robot carp the Mitsubishi company has been developing.

For all intents and purposes, that's us. On the Internet. That's about how we treat each other anyway. The slightest disagreement and you're less than shit to your Internet peers. And we wonder why people do the same to us when we disagree with them.

Funny, in our minds, we're the mother of a newborn baby, passing it off to everyone in sight like, "Hold my uglyass baby and tell me it's beautiful."

"M'am," I say. "I'll hold your baby, but I'm not going to lie to you."

That's when she gives me the death glare--when you give me the death glare--because I'm honest when someone asks my opinion.

M'am, is this his father?

I recently told the Internet that Eminem was an inconsistent rapper and on the decline, predicting from his singles for his new album Relapse, that the album would suck. A few people complained. "Don't pre-judge an album from its singles." So, against my better judgment, I checked the album out for myself.

Turns out I was wrong. I was wrong but I wasn't far off. Relapse didn't completely suck, but it wasn't a masterpiece either, only slightly better than Encore. 2.5/5. I wouldn't buy or download it, myself, but I wouldn't slit anyone's throat for playing it in my presence. So long as it didn't become a habit.

A record (for my blog) 28 comments appeared on my blog review I posted on last.fm, many of them negative. Turns out a lot of people can't handle honesty. Granted, it was their favorite artist I was dogging.

And what happens when I give someone honest advice in their own lives and on their own projects, musical or otherwise? Some eat it up, some get angrily defensive, and some--my truly honest, fair, and discerning recipients--take my words in stride, knowing that it is, after all, my own opinion, albeit, an honest opinion. And I ask, why I ask for my opinion if you're going to take it personally and get defensive about it?

It's just my opinion. It's an honest opinion. I won't just randomly tell you your baby is ugly; but if you ask and it's ugly, I'll tell you it's ugly.

Opinions are like...

P.S. I'm going to be out of town for a week so don't expect another blog from me till then. When I return, I'll post another one as soon as I can.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Here's Where I Tell You What To Eat And What Not to Eat

2009-05-23T00:29:00.098-04:00

Summer. No job. A little money in the bank. I don't have any real responsibilities right now so when I'm not sorting through far too much music (more on that later) I'm trying new foods. Or both at the same time (a little ménage à trois never hurt anybody).

It all started at Wal-Mart. I was in the frozen food section, checking out this friggin' hot chick. She was checking out the frozen foods. I moved in closer to figure out how her mere presence hadn't melted all the ice cream. But as I moved in, she disappeared into thin air. Holy friggin'--Really?. That's when I saw what had caught her eyes. Nestle cookie-dipped Drumsticks.

As soon as I exited the store and sunk my teeth into one of the cones, it became clear what had happened to the hot chick. The Drumsticks were so awesome they'd overpowered and absorbed her (damn, Drumsticks, why you gotta' be so cold?). I've always loved Drumsticks, don't get me wrong. But until now, we were just friends. Those cookie-dipped cones took our relationship to the next level. They changed my life. It's okay. Be jealous.

I can't say the same for these Oreos. Neither did they drink my milkshake nor did they bring all the girls to the yard, but they did milk me for a lot more money than they were worth. Don't let the artificial colors lie to you. You are not a codfish... and these cookies taste awful.

Remember those shit-nasty artificially flavored sugar wafers--the strawberry ones? Well, imagine that cream between two good ol' Oreo cookies. Are you vomiting yet? As soon as I make it back to Wal-Mart, I'm going to vomit on the new blue-cream Oreos. I'm one-for-one now. Who's next?

I'm a jerky man. That is, a real man. And Jack's Links is my shit. I love every flavor I've tried--classic, teriyaki, and even the nuggets. So now I stand face to face with Sweet and Spicy Thai-flavored beef jerky.

Here goes everything.

Daaaayum, shit's spicy. Not really. It's a little spicy but not that spicy. The above facial expression is about as real as the girl at the beginning of the story. The great deal of salt that had passed through my chapped lips, however, was real. So I had three choices.

Chap Stick's never let me down before but Blistex and Burt's Bees--its mid-priced ($2) and high-priced ($3) counterparts--had taunted me for far too long, and I was ready to try something new. When I tried 'em, I couldn't tell any real difference between the three other than that Blistex smelled awful and had a terrible consistency when I applied it to my lips and that Burt's Bees smelled damn good and had a much better consistency.

Not long ago, I also tried X-Balm (not pictured), also $2, and that shit is worse than Blistex. If I'm going to splurge, I'll splurge on Burt's Bees. Otherwise, it's Chap Stick all the way for me. Now what do I do about my bad breath?

Of course! Mints. I've never tried Pure mints. But they're sugarfree so they won't be making my breath worse than before I ate them once they've fully dissolved. What's this about a "mirror inside"?

Okay, I can stare at myself in the mirror for a few seconds. Kind of fun. I guess. Now what? Do I grind the mints into a fine powder, sort it into lines, and snort the lines off the mirror? I mean, I guess it beats a toilet or a whore's ass in terms of sanitation and convenience, but really?

Don't you guys have better things for your Chinese sweatshop workers to do than make pretty mint containers with useless mirrors? Like, I donno', make lead-filled plastic children's toys? Well, the mints are okay at least (they came from Canada).

But these delicious killers of bad breath will always be my babies. I keep a pack in my pocket at all times. And they really are good. Just ask any of my friends who love to bum them off me. Go out and try some. Now. Icebreakers Sours. Berry edition.

Here's a fun trick: Spend some time with a friend, saying absolutely nothing to them all day. Then, when they seem worried or perturbed, pull out some of these babies and say, "It's okay. I have Icebreakers. We can talk now."

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Dick's '06 Picture Dump ("Dick's," not "Dicks")

2009-05-20T22:52:00.012-04:00

So 3 years ago, my friend Andrew and I are in South Carolina where a new sporting goods store called Dick's has just opened. It excited us so much that I took a series of pictures. They've been collecting digital dust in my memory card ever since. Until now.

Sorry, Sonic. Looks like you just got cock-blocked... by a store full of Dick's.

Dick's loves kids. Kids love Dick's?

Dick's will raise more than your eyebrows.
It'll put a smile on your lips and a hardness in your nips.

Need I say more?

Never has the mention of dicks made me feel less manly.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Introducing the White Rabbit Series

2009-05-17T17:00:00.006-04:00

Be it from the Internet (Google, Stumbleupon, Youtube, last.fm) or word of mouth, I find a lot of strange, interesting, and useful things. A tireless imagination and tireless determination get you everywhere and nowhere in life. So I present to you The White Rabbit Series.

Look at him--that tireless determination and imagination.

Each post will be titled with a WR for White Rabbit. If you missed it, here's the first post in the series, about a strange movie/video series called "Canzo Empyrean":

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/2009/05/canzo-empyrean.html

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

WR: Canzo Empyrean

2009-05-16T21:29:00.032-04:00

After Michael Bay stole my Transformers, I worried for my G.I. Joes. Thankfully, Michael Bay won't be stealing them, but it looks like the director behind the Mummy might be. There's only one trailer available, and that scares me. So last night I scoured the Internets in hopes of finding a second G.I. Joe: Rise of Cobra movie trailer since, so far, it looks like it might suck. Instead, I found a misnamed trailer for another film "G.I. Joe Movie 2009 (Extended Trailer)" or something, which is really "Canzo Empyrean."

Now, I'm generally not one to call things weird or "weird as hell." And I'm not about to start now. Still, Canzo Empyrean is weird. It's also slightly retarded.

Case in point.

You may recognize the golden mask as Destro's (from the G.I. Joe franchise), but you'd be only partially right. Yes, his name is Destro and, in the trailer, he dons the full 80s Destro outfit and has plans for world domination. However, Canzo Empyrean's Destro is also a mega-pimp/has the cure for AIDS. Yes, apparently, in the world of this movie, everyone or nearly everyone has AIDS and the government has outlawed sex.

Warning: This video contains violence and language. Not for children.

Further summary for the deaf and those too cool/scared to watch the video:

Destro apparently has some beef with Zartan, also of G.I. Joe fame, who is some sort of rock star or something in this movie. Here's a link to a strange parody of Billy Idol's "Eyes Without a Face" that apparently appears in the movie (Huka Brasi and the Brown Brown Mistys - Brine Guava) : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HokYFdG6xmg

Here's a link to the original Billy Idol song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZhHNI7HXiE

It's still up for debate which version is weirder though--the original or the parody.

from Kinolingus Erectus, what looks like a clip from the movie, you can search for it on Youtube

Judging by this screenshot from the video, if the rest of this movie is as weird/retarded, it's probably worth watching. Of course, my Internet research has turned up little other info than this Facebook group dedicated to the hopeful release of this film. http://www.facebook.com/s.php?src=os&q=canzo+empyrean&sid=c540f23407b135dd7961d5e5d327ded8#/group.php?sid=c540f23407b135dd7961d5e5d327ded8&gid=59545075626&ref=search

I read somewhere that the movie's been nearly 10 years in the making and was released last year, shown only to a group of people in Monrovia, Liberia and in The Bronx, New York. I also read that you can get a signed, watermarked copy of the DVD if you send in proof of having spraypainted 25 different places with the Canzo Empyrean symbol. Where you send your proof I don't know.

I am a scary symbol. Canzo!

Then, there are two figures who've shown up on multiple message boards--a "Harry from Liberia" who's seen the film and a Pastor Phil who tells everyone not to listen to Harry or watch "this filth" or some variant--who refer to the movie.

It looks like a huge viral marketing campaign, and I'm not sure how effective it is or even if the movie actually exists. If it exists, I'd like to see it. But I'm done breaking my back to find more information.

Justin Fornal: Frankenstein or lost member of the Backstreet Boys?

That said, I can sort of see why this thing is kept so secret. Both the G.I. Joe PSA spoofs by Fensler Films and the G.I. Joe the Epic Saga (which was one of the funniest things I'd ever seen until the second half when it really just petered out) by Ravenstake/The Fine Bros got their copyright-infringing asses handed to them by Hasbro. Still, you can find those posted and reposted on Youtube, even after Hasbro got them taken down, or on your favorite torrent sites. You can't, however, find Canzo on torrent sites. Whatever. I, for one, am more irritated than intrigued.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Underdog

2009-05-14T15:43:00.015-04:00

What can we learn from Rocky?

That Sylvester Stallone (Rocky Balboa) can take a hit

Does this look like the face of a former porn star? Doesn't really matter. Because that's what he was before Rocky. And you all thought his stamina came out of nowhere.

and rehash it 5 times, each time progressively worse until the 4th sequel fans pretend doesn't even exist, then come back twenty-something years later with a 5th sequel everyone touts as a triumphant end--the best since the first. Of course, I'd only ever seen bits and pieces of any of the movies until a couple months ago.

But I had good reason: the movie came out nearly a decade before I was born, I hate Sylvester Stallone, and whenever it came on TV, my parents wouldn't watch it because it was "cheesy." It was cheesy, but that's no reason I shouldn't have watched it even once.

My mother remembered Rocky mostly for his characteristic slur, his low IQ, and his ugly mug. She and my father, if the movie were an actual event and they'd seen it on TV, would have likely sided with Apollo Creed (Carl Weathers). And until the end of my teens, I'd have probably done the same.

From the cover, you'd think this was a movie about an amateur boxer dating an androgynous Merry Poppins, but you'd only be partially right.

Cynical bastards though we were, I'm glad my parents discouraged me from watching Rocky. If I hadn't waited, I'd have missed the whole point of the movie just like they did.

At first glance, the movie is nothing new. Of course, most people, once they pay for their tickets, won't leave the movie early unless it completely sucks. And if you hit 'em hard enough in the last round, they'll forgive you for the rest of the movie. And that's exactly what happened. That's why they kept coming back to the sequels.

Rocky was a success, both the movie and its titular character, because it was about stepping out and doing something, no matter the consequences. At the beginning, Rocky's not a great fighter--he's an unmotivated thug and an amateur fighter--and that's part of why Apollo Creed chooses to fight him in the first place, putting his title at stake against a struggling no-name local known as The Italian Stallion. It's a genius public relations move, fictional or otherwise.

a man that's taken a few hits

Rocky trains for weeks while Apollo plays it cool. Apollo knocks Rocky out in the first round, but Rocky's not going to let it go down like that. He stays on his toes till the 12th round with Apollo and ends up tying the game. Of course, the judges give it to Apollo anyway. Rocky doesn't care.

He bumps gloves with Apollo and completely brushes off the rabid reporters because he only cared about one thing--going the distance. And now that he's gone the distance, he only cares about his girlfriend. She was with him all the way to the fight and came to see him do his thing. He trained and trained for his one shot and lost and doesn't even care that he lost. That's what makes this a great movie.

You don't win every game. But can you up your game?

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

White Rapper's Delight Pt. 2: Relapse

2009-05-09T19:23:00.015-04:00

Recap: I dis Asher Roth. I dis Shia Lebouf. I dis Eminem. A few people laugh. A few people tell me not to make fun of their favorite pretty white boys. Suddenly, a troll appears:

A troll?

"asher roth > nas"

And what's this? Not one but two challengers:

a) "your opinion about Eminem's new album couldn't be more wrong, listen to the full album then speak, it's far better than the singles."

b) "Well the album leaked and you were wrong."

Other than Eminem, do you guys listen to anything that even remotely resembles rap?

a) Nelly Furtado, M.I.A.

b) Korn, Linkin Park, Thousand Foot Krutch

Trolled again. But I already listened to the CD in full and wrote a review. So screw it.

That's about how I felt.

Track 1: Dr. West (Intro)

The best-selling rap artist of all time needs an intro? On his 6th album?

Track 2: 3 Am

It's 3 AM in the morning, and the only thing I want more than to die in extreme pain and agony is to hear Eminem's Triumph the Comic Insult Dog impersonation again. I think I'm relapsing.

Silence of the Lambs. Kim Kardashian. Miley Cyrus. Man, you're really on it today. Why don't you throw in a tired joke in the next song, too? About Heath Ledger? Oh, you will? You already did? Wonderful.

Track 3: My Mom

This beat is pretty raw, but was I supposed to be singing the chorus to "What's the Difference?" while I listened to this song? Or wishing this was a tenth as good as "Cleanin' Out My Closet"?

Track 4: Insane

Superman. Without the guitar. But I'm actually nodding my head now. "I want you to feel me like my stepfather felt me." Not anymore.

Track 5: Bagpipes from Baghdad

Best beat so far. That bass knocks. Wait for it. I bet this beat's going to change up somewhere, enough to keep me interested. Autotune. I spoke too soon.

Track 6: Hello

Another nice beat. Catchy chorus. But one intro is enough. Or six intros, one per album, but I digress.

Track 7: Tonya (Skit)

Well, at least it's not one of those shitty porno skits you've heard on every rap album since the mid-nineties. Sort of.

Track 8: Same Song & Dance

Name says it all. Almost disturbing and almost a good song. But we've heard it before. And we've heard it better.

Track 9: We Made You

As in, Bill O'Reilly and the other media tards who demonized you into massive fame in the first place?

I'd be speechless, too.

Track 11: Medicine Ball

I could dance to this. But why?

Shame, shame, Marshall. Christopher Reeves has been dead nearly 5 years. And you can't even come up with one funny joke about it.

Track 12: Paul (Skit)

We're trying to reverse-hype our own shock value again?

Track 13: Stay Wide Awake

Sounds like "Business" but with worse lyrics.

Track 14: Old Times Sake (feat. Dr. Dre)

Wow, "Dre from NWA" sounds like a talentless caricature of his former self. Oh sorry, Ice Cube was always the lyricist. You could've at least hired a better ghostwriter this time around though.

Track 15: Must be the Ganja

Weed makes you kill people? Hold still, Mr. Mathers. I think you've been possessed by the spirit of Ronald Reagan.

Track 16: Mr. Mathers

I'm tired of your skit(s), Eminem.

Track 17: Deja Vu

Funny you say that.

Track 18: Beautiful

This is what would happen if Superman and Sing for the Moment had a child. With down syndrome. Beautiful indeed.

Track 19: Crack a Bottle (feat. Dr. Dre and 50 Cent)

50 Cent, I thought you got shot in the mouth, not in the brain. And it makes me wonder if you're half-assing it or you were just never that good.

Track 20: Steve Berman (Skit)

It sucks. But it sells. This is what Eminem does best--reverse-engineering hype through our hate.

Track 21: Underground/Ken Kaniff

I like this beat. But more lame Christopher Reeves and Hannah Montana jokes? And you're fighting classic horror movie villains from the last half of the last century?

Okay, the ending was kind of funny. But not enough to warrant another listen. You got me to smile one time in this record though. Congrats, you cheeky bastard, you.

Conclusion: I'll give Eminem this: His new album made me laugh. Once. And he's a brilliant marketer. Even after Encore, I bet he'll still sell at least a million records to people who hate rap music. And even at his worst, he's better than Assto Mouth. The rapper.

Can I have my 76 minutes and 43 seconds back now?

2.5/5 stars

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

I Speak to Dolphins (Sometimes)

2009-05-07T03:11:00.012-04:00

Some guy with a dolphin as his profile picture randomly added me on Myspace about a month ago.

Here's the conversation after the jump:
Wow, for some of the smartest mammals on Earth, they sure do look retarded.

me: Are you secretly Flipper? Faster than lightning?

dolphin: a dolphin is supposed to be the smartest creature in the world. they are also friendly.

i am a little weird but then again who isn't. i am just like the man at the store or on the
street that you might happen to have a conversation with.
a person you have never met

me: Normal other than that you walk around on your flippers?

dolphin: if i posted my pic then i would be just another face in the crowd

me: Well, you may want to consider becoming just another face in the crowd when the horny dolphins come around. Did you know they're known to do it in every orifice? I'm not lying.

dolphin: lol
you killing me over here

me: I don't kill dolphins, sir. I'm not a necrophiliac.

What she doesn't know won't hurt her. Right?

dolphin: i just noticed you are in g.a
isn't that a racist state?

me: So racist, in fact, that we created Coca-Cola. Which created Sprite commercials.

dolphin: you are only the second person, both men to not like my dolphin.

me: I never said I didn't like it. I simply have no desire to get in a dolphin's proverbial pants. We may be racist down here, but we're not light on bestiality laws.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

That There Wolverine Movie: A Review

2009-05-05T16:02:00.024-04:00

So my good friend Chance and I are peeping previews at the theater when Shia Lebouf starts seeing symbols in his head and "MEGATRON WANTS WHAT'S IN MY MIND!!!" Of course, we bust out laughing, but we were the only ones. Apparently no one else can appreciate the comedic genius of Michael Bay. As the previews ended, I remarked, "I hope the rest of the movie is better than the previews."

Megatron wants what's in my douche bag.

Then came our feature presentation. A young, black-haired child lies sickly in bed (where's your super-fast healing now, bitch?). Across from him, a dirty and ugly young boy and his fingernails begin talking to the sickly child, attempting to comfort him. *cue cool montage you probably saw in the previews*

I'll try not to reveal too much plot, but the rest of the movie was a lot better. I actually enjoyed this movie more than X-Men 2 and 3, both of which I thought were clusterfucks, but more so 3 than 2. 2 was alright--just boring. Wolverine, however, focused on a much smaller circle of characters and, arguably, a much better circle.

Wolverine (Hugh Jackman) and Sabretooth (Liev Schreiber), especially, were top notch in this movie. I especially enjoyed Sabretooth's mix of caged verbal fury and uncaged physical ferocity and the way it directly contrasted Wolverine's equal and opposite characteristics.

A gift...

Why Having Wolverine's Claws Would Suck -- powered by Cracked.com

I was also surprised by Will.I.Am's performance. But then, I shouldn't have been. Most shitty rappers make much better actors. It wasn't award-winning, but it beats the hell out of his musical prowess or lack thereof.

Ryan Reynolds surprised me, too. It's hard to shake the douchey blonde-Dane Cook vibe he smeared all over Van Wilder and Waiting. It was such a prominent smell I never noticed until later how badass he was in Smokin' Aces (or even that he was in Smokin' Aces). And by the time I was watching this movie, I'd forgotten. So I thought for sure he'd fuck up Deadpool.

And Deadpool was indeed fucked up. But in a badass way (see for yourself). Either way, I doubt much of it was his fault so much as the fault of the writers. Deadpool purists will be all, "That's not my Deadpool," and damn do I love Deadpool, but I can forgive the moviemakers because he contributes to some of the movie's most badass action sequences.

X-2 and X-3 were severely lacking in good action sequences (Kitty Pryde vs. Juggernaut? Seriously?). Sure, X-2 had some cool scenes with Nightcrawler, but that was about it. And other than Wolverine and Beast making a few cool moves, X-3 was really just a bunch of random characters appearing and dying. I don't go to a comic book movie for philosophy or completely boring and anti-climactic battle scenes. At least, not for X-Men. Save that for Batman and The Watchmen. The philosophical part.

That said, I was truly and pleasantly surprised by Taylor Kitsch as Gambit in this movie, and I'm thankful they didn't waste his talent on X-2 or X-3. And I hope he returns in the next movie
.

A real comic buff...

(Is it just me or does he look like Jack "The Shining" Nicholson on steroids?)

Later on, we noticed someone was awesome enough to bring their whiny-bitch child to the movie theater when the child began whining and bitching as if infected by the sickly child at the beginning of the movie. So after the kid left, Chance commented, "This is why we watch R-rated films," pointing to the blue PG-13 screen at the end of the movie.

"PG-13," I answered. "As in, bring your screaming children to this movie."

He told me I was supposed to wait till I was outside the theater to say things like that. I told him I was just surprised I haven't gotten in a fight with anyone in a theater before (I was about to embarrass some teenagers who wouldn't stop talking when I watched Iron Man).

Note: stay till after the credits, but don't be swayed by the crappy scene that starts almost immediately after the credits start. Wait till the end for one of two alternate after-credits
endings. And once you've seen it, read up on the other at Wolverine alternate ending at Wikipedia.

Conclusion: It's an action movie, and it does that well. Better than its X-Men predecessors. It's not flawless by any means. And hell, Wolverine's not even my favorite X-Men character. But it's got more Wolverine and Sabretooth which beats the hell out of all but Nightcrawler and maybe Beast in the previous movies. That said, I'm looking forward to the sequel and, of course, the X-Men Origins: Magneto that releases much sooner--next year.

4/5 stars

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

White Rapper's Delight

2009-04-30T23:41:00.035-04:00

First off, I had a good chuckle at Asher Roth (guy who "love[s] college" so much he'll send you into a boredom coma) saying his label undershipped his album with 100,000 copies for the first week when he couldn't even sell 70,000 copies his first week. Who's the poorly made Imus joke now? You racist, talentless, I'm-not-sure-why-I-wasted-this-many-words-on-you, corporate tool.

But seriously, why does anyone care? Hint: the talentless douche bag above is shrugging for a reason (he really does look like a douche though with the pink background behind his white shirt though, doesn't he?). Or more importantly, why do I care? I don't recall anyone caring that much when Fat Joe or any other Hispanic rapper hit it big. Or when Jin became the first Asian rapper signed to a major label. So why does Assto Mouth (Asher Moth?) get such coverage?

Because he sucks? No, he's terrible--I'll give him that--but not terrible enough to deserve all this coverage/attention.

Because he's white? ADeem, Aesop Rock, Slug (Atmosphere), Cage, El-P: these guys are all white rappers that are more talented but aren't getting Hoofto Mouth's level of media coverage. But I think we might be getting closer.

Because Eminem is old and has no male heir to his throne? Even closer.

Because America didn't get enough Vanilla Ice? Keep going.

Because Americans love to buy worthless shit that only becomes more worthless in time? Actually, that's what the major labels are banking on. It's what they've been banking on since they introduced the first heavily overpriced CDs (CDs are cheaper to produce than cassettes). The major labels are excellent at over-blowing things. Somebody give those guys some swine flu.
RAAAAWR. I AM THE SWINE FLU AND I'M GOING TO KILL YOU ALL. OHHH SHIT, SON.

But since I mentioned Eminem, let's be real about him, too.

First, his new album sucks.

Edit: If his new singles are any indication (as they have been with his past albums).

Second, his old stuff wasn't much better. Let's be honest. He fell off after D12 - My Band. Okay, I enjoyed the song and then later enjoyed Encore the first couple times I heard it. But he'd really lost it by then.

I still listen to a few of his songs though:

Without Me
Sing for the Moment
Superman
Mockingbird
Lose Yourself

Beyond that, he's really just a shock rapper who generally hasn't mastered either serious or humorous tones in his lyrics, has an irritating voice; and if it weren't for the Dre beats, his ass would still be underground. But he's the biggest selling rapper of all time. And I don't hate him because he's white. I don't particularly care for Tupac and Jay-Z, the second- and third-highest selling rappers of all time either.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/

Dearest Wolfspider

2009-04-26T00:19:00.007-04:00

Here's Mr. Wolfspider in his car.

One day, a kindly wolf spider arrived mysteriously on the back wall of my room, near my computer. A few days passed by and we began corresponding by mail.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Mr. Wolfspider,

I left you some sweet and delicious sugar ants in the plumbing/wiring inside the walls, and there's some melted chocolate in a bowl by the bathroom sink if you need something to dip them into. You're a pretty cool pet, y'know.

But we never hang out. I like your dance though when you throw up your fangs like gang signs and run back and forth across the top of my computer monitor. But if you get a chance, would you bring me another pet? Maybe a leopard or polar bear? That'd be cool. Thanks, bye.

- me
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wolfspider, wolfspider, wolfspider.

- Mr. Wolfspider

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear. Mr. Wolfspider,

I was a little confused by your last letter. Talking in third person like you're tough or something. Who do you think you are? A Pokémon? A wolf spider?

I should've known better when I picked you up off the street. I should've just called you on your cell phone. I should've listened when everyone told me you couldn't read. So I guess this is good bye. Hope you enjoy the rain as much as I do. Best wishes.

- me

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I was cool with him for a while. Until he stated crawling along the top of my computer. So I got a little paranoid, put him on a piece of paper, walked outside, and poured him back out into nature.

http://no-fun-intended.blogspot.com/