• Being a not so individual

    So, I’m going to do something dangerous. I’m going to be honest for a bit. This is the post I started writing last time, but it got out of control and decided to be snide instead of truthful. There isn’t much to be said about personal journals. They may be meant to be snapshots of our daily lives, but capture only our own solace and frustration. They are the cure to no disease, except perhaps the kind of self-indulgent apathy of a generation that believes it has the right to be happy. We (you and I) were built of the best materials, a generation that forgot about skin-deep prejudices and stopped caring if Mike either slept with Joan or Jerry. I’m speaking in generalities, in sweeping statements. Yet, certain obstacles overcome, we were bred with deep suspicion and guilt. We have high expectations which we expect will not be fulfilled. Could the same be said of our fathers and mothers? While not completely blind to the past, I have to see it through heavy bias. But so far, this is just filler, a couple of candles to get you in the mood.This is not a journal, or should I say, this is a journal. I do not record events or perceptions. The thoughts you read are heavily filtered for relevance and maturity. Most of the time they tumble and loop like poorly executed paper planes. The few that fly are curious spontaneous creations of circumstance, like an unexpected kiss in the rain. Being me is certainly very much similar to being you. I do most things for little reason. Except, I don’t, and here is the part where I’m honest. I do most things for you. I doesn’t matter who you are, because if I was aware of your existence, you’d do just fine. I want you to like me, but not as much as I want you to like what I think. So I write for you. I wake up and live for the chance to tell you who I am, and please tell me that’s ok?It’s selfish ultimately. My brain is wired to work for you, and when you say, “and what do you think about this?” it feels good. They like me, I say.Oh, are you looking up co-dependency on the net yet? Don’t bother. I’m part of a co-dependent species and we need vast amounts of drugs when we don’t get our fix. You are as dependent on me as me to you, though you’d likely tap dance around admission. Personally, I don’t know who you are, nor does it matter. I’m talking to you more honestly than a lover will and only because we owe each other nothing. Nothing will be spared by lying. You might completely disagree, but we’ll disagree on what I truly meant, not tentative approximations.You pragmatists will want a sentence to add to your stockpiled clichés and summaries. We need you to listen and we need to listen to you. This isn’t to be filed under sentimentalism, but survival tips.To the lucky who have always known that there is no happiness except for the momentary lapses of reason where people stop trying to live and just reach out to survive, a slap in the face for not explaining that all you wanted was to listen. To those that didn’t , a punch in the teeth so that you might become angry and tell me what you think, and not what you think I should think you think.This is another type of joke, fella’s. One that isn’t funny.Ja

  • We’ve run out of jokes.

    I like the idea of laughing for about 50% of my waking life. It doesn’t take much effort. There is always something to chuckle at nearby; even a memory might suffice in times of scarcity. You can laugh loudly, if you wish to share it, or silently, to be betrayed only by your eyes. Your best recourse is others who wish to laugh as terribly. Jokes are more easily uncovered with friends.There are the desperate jokes, which are saved only by their pathetic appearance. You laugh at their stupidity. There are the intolerably clever jokes, whose teller remains quietly worried, wondering if it will fly at too high an altitude. Stupid jokes, which are a dime a dozen, but are capable of the most destruction if aimed properly. Rare are the jokes of opportunity, which like a rare bird, are fleeting but beautiful. Cute jokes are dependent on delivery, otherwise they end up spontaneously mutating into some cross of both desperate and stupid. Finally, there are the sarcastic jokes. Being my favorite, let's spend a bit more time on these.First, let's clear something up. Sarcasm is not an art. You do not master it. Yes, it requires intelligence, but you, my friend, cannot acquire it. No. Listen. Sarcasm is a gift. A gift which slaps you in the face more often than not, but like any ferocious muse, delivers the goods. And you, the kindly reader, do not have such a gift. Wanting it, or thinking you already have it, excludes you as a carrier. It appears at the edges of reason and sight, guiding you only by touch. Do I have it? Well, no. That privilege has not been mine to have.So, back to the sarcastic joke. While it is hard to describe, it is worth the labour.It is not obvious, but neither is it clever. It cuts to the quick, like paper, leaving a cruel sting, which might leave the sensitive cursing. It is an acquired taste, but rare are those that haven't acquired it. Most important, it alone is not hilarious. One must bind and build them together, like strings in an orchestra. However, their most perfect asset, and the reason they remain my favored, is their insidious nature. They can be remembered for a lifetime, and repeated with little consequence throughout.You might have been hoping this argument might lead to something. Perhaps, you have been deprived of another type of joke, the cruel one.


    Watch this video of Imogen Heap literally doing magic.KCRWI think i'm in love. Okay, maybe not, but damn...Ja.

  • Born to lose, my files.

    So today... I mean yesterday, was my birthday. I'm twenty-one years old, and for the first time in twenty-one years, I feel old. Not geriatric, but mature and even, somehow, responsible. Time is running out; I can no longer say “When I grow up I'll...” or “I've still got a few years to figure out...” It's over.But it feels ok, which tells me I might be ready for the start.I managed to spend the day alone. I don't know if it was a choice. Probably not. It was a good day nonetheless. I might be a loser, but I can put several sentences together to explain why it's ok to be one.I tried so hard to have a new short story done for my birthday, but between homework and getting inebriated, I'm short a few pages.On other news, I got a bad surprise Thursday night. My drive decided it was time to quit... which was fine, until I remembered one very important thing. I had all the recent ph7 recordings, and maybe even older stuff. I'm still working on trying to recover a few things, but it probably won't happen. It's sad to see it go, and I'm sorry I didn't back up. Too late.Ja.

  • Cutting the meth lawn (Or How the Goverment Became My Dad)

    My dad always had to make a big stink about my chores before I actually did any of them. At first, he’d nicely ask me to cut the grass that weekend. I’d, hmm, forget. So then, he’d get my mom to remind me of it on Monday or Tuesday. By Thursday, he’d start mentioning the lawn getting long and how beautiful it looked when it was freshly clipped. By Saturday though, a week after he’d asked me to do it in the first place, he’d start making comments about the lawnmower becoming permanently attached to my asshole. I mowed the lawn like a motherfucker.You might have heard about Operation Wildfire. It’s the DEA’s clever codename for a national meth lab sting operation. You see, meth labs (and meth usage) are spreading like… you guessed it, wildfire. So, they took down 56 labs in a single week. It’s almost as if they’re on the fucking drug.Except, of course ,there is the fact that Congress had been making a big stink about methamphetamines just a few weeks before. So, maybe, they’re just mowing the lawn.Oh, one more thing. Their great new ‘cyber’ tool against the impact of meth on kids. A website.As of yesterday, you can no longer smoke on the SMC campus. The hazards of second-hand smoke, fire, and addiction have been avoided. Or, just maybe, everybody will just move to the sidewalk for a cancer inducing, nicotine feeding, oh so delicious, cigarette. But that would never happen.Don’t do (too many) drugs.Sidebar: So, Death Cab for Cutie is already on KROQ apparently. I must have missed the memo. No matter, Plans is still great, it’s just their shows that’ll get crowded.Ja.

  • I’m alive, but not well.

    So I'm back to this over-glorified botox and silicon wasteland of Los Angeles. I had a great time being away from life for a while. I can't say I missed home life much. Below is the introduction for the journal I meant to keep of the trip. That never really happened. I plan to write a few pages of it, a sort of post-narrative. But the few words below were actually written on the hard ground of my tent under the neon green illumination of a glow-stick.Meanwhile, Brenda kept a true-to-life account, which she is slowly posting on her website. Photos are included, or you can visit Dan's photo blog. Max might write a bit also. School started today. So far, both my professors speak perfect English, which makes me suspicious. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that my Bio teacher doesn't speak a variation of sea lion. I'm always raving about some new band, but lately, I haven't had one I actually liked. Sure, The Decemberist's might earn you cool points, but do you really enjoy the album? Death Cab for Cutie rocks, but they'll be on KROQ anytime now. Besides, it doesn't matter... Pretty Girls Make Graves. It'll soothe your soul and kick your ass at the same time. Download a few songs here (key track: Speakers Push Air). New album next month. Anybody up to see them at The Troubadour in October? If your trendy, they have a crapspace page.Ja.

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