I’m wrong often. Hang out with me for a day and watch me stumble through life. But not only am I wrong often, I’m consistently wrong about the fact that I’m wrong…It’s here that I’ll let you nod your head in agreement. “Yes, he is. Yes, he does.” You think resolutely. And here is where I tug my own chain, float my own boat, and blow my own whistle. This is what the arrogance boils down to, the reason I’m a loser with an ego that won’t quit. Make sure you sit down for this; I wouldn’t want you to hurt your sweet little head as you go into shock. Alright, now that you’re sitting down. (By the way, why the hell were you standing at your computer?) Take a deep breath and start thinking. What the hell am I talking about? Why am I so confident when I shouldn’t be? When you figure it out, get a glass of water and leave me a comment explaining below. Otherwise I’ll tell you next time. (Smiles smugly)“Constantly talking isn’t necessarily communicating.”-Joel in “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”Yesterday, I woke up at 4am, and right when I opened my eyes, my Alias poster fell. I just let it lay there. I turned over and went back to sleep. This isn’t a noteworthy event (to you anyways) but the thought that immediately followed it was (to me anyways). I though about having a kid, a little baby girl who smiled and giggled. And just as I enjoyed this notion for the first time in my life, a perverse idea crept into semi-consciousness. What if I didn’t teach her about God? If I absolutely guarded her from exposure to the very idea, would she eventually come up with it on her own? Thankfully, this though was pushed to the back of my mind by the irony of me dreaming of a child. I chuckled and went back to sleep. If I could publish every though in my head, I definitely would. Soon, I’d the most hated man on the planet, and I would sell ad space to gun shops. “Tired of this asshole, 20% off selected rifles.”Someday...Some lyrics, a translation, and a goodbye.¿Quien me entregar sus emociones?¿Quien me va a pedir que nunca la abandone?¿Quien me tapara esta noche, si ase frió?¿Quien me va a curar el corazón partido?¿Quien llenara de primaveras este enero?¿Y bajara la luna para que juguemos?Dice me, si tu te vas, dime cariño mió,¿Quien me va a curar el corazón partido?- Alejandro Sanz “Corazón Partido”Who will hand me over every emotion?Who will beg me never to leave her?Who will cover me tonight when it’s cold?Who will cure my broken heart?Who will fill the winter with spring andBring down the moon to play?Tell me, if you go, tell me love,Who will cure my broken heart?Notice that I’ve only translated for meaning. Go learn Spanish to learn why I like the song.Ja.
I try to pretend that I learn something new everyday. To my complete surprise, I usually do. But it’s never what I wanted to learn, or even remotely useful at all. Yesterday I learned that writing isn’t always enjoyable, but always productive. If you read the post yesterday, you might disagree. You might say I have it backwards. But that only shows how much you’ve learned. Today, I learned something much more frightening, because it’s something about me. I learned that there is the possibility that I’m actually the happiest person in my given circle. And that idea brings to mind a virtually unlimited amount of reasons to discard hope as simply being the ultimate “in” word. If you step back for a second, look at the whole of history, and allow the flash card behind your eyes to relate it to your own life, can you seriously find a reason why hope hasn’t been phased out with other trendy bad ideas. Crystal Pepsi anyone?Every time I being to say the phrase, “I’m proud of….” I feel very old. Only the ancient compliment the young this way, right? Why should we be proud of our elders? They’ve had the chance, now they should be proud of us. That’s all beside the point:* I’m proud of my little brother for having been raised by my parents and not being a complete geek. He’s also on the way to kicking my ass in the artistic ability dept.* I’m proud of Stephanie for becoming an awesome songwriter and a kick ass vocalist. I’m even prouder that she’s a much stronger person than when I met her.* I’m proud of my mom for becoming open minded to a world that requires it.* I’m proud of my uncle for facing awful situations and not breaking down on his resolution to be successful.* I’m proud of Dan for choosing a career that he loves rather than needs.* I’m proud of Kenya for deciding she’d rather be happy than merely satisfied, and working forward on those grounds.* I’m proud of Max for being a person that does what he says and says what he does, never faltering to offer a real opinion. He’s also on the way to kicking my ass in the artistic ability dept.* I’m proud of Linda for carrying large burdens with a smile. But, stop it sometimes, please?When I write that I’m proud, you might figure I’m insinuating that I had something to do with their accomplishments. I assure you that besides beating the crap out of my brother, I’ve only observed them as they grow taller than me (sometimes literally). A million people aren’t mentioned above, mostly because they don’t want people to know that they speak to the pathetic human being who writes these words.Have you ever tried being happy just because it’s on the menu?To the person that commented on it seeming I was working through writers block last night, thanks for making me feel like I have actual writing talent. For that you get a million life points, redeemable for a long, deep breath of fresh air. Thank me later.Ja.
I sit here, thinking of something, something to write down. If only a simple paragraph about the annals of life experience. I keep hitting these keys, these letters looking more and more like weights I never want to move. Suddenly, just now, it hits me. Sometimes, something isn’t all that important. Wrap your head around that sentence. Breathe in and exhale it, let it circulate at the top reaches of consciousness and let it wisp around, toying with something that might be called a spirit. Sometimes, something isn’t all that important. Do you understand yet? Are you still looking for a meaning, a reason why you’re still reading this simple paragraph about the annals of life experience? I sit here, thinking of something, something to write down. And yet, nothing comes. Except for a few words that hint at a truth, but who needs that, right now? Sometimes, something isn’t all that important. And if sometime happens to be now, then something isn’t all that important. Suddenly, just now, it hits me. Sometimes, nothing is important.Some people don’t believe in magic. Some people believe in it so much that they’ve already outlawed it. Some people want to believe in it but are afraid of disappointment. Some people simply ignore it altogether. And finally, some people are reading this sentence. And in that observation lays the truth about magic.Every so often I wish the President and Vice-President would live up to their names, but I’ll leave it to you to imagine what it is that Bush and Dick should go do with themselves.I wish to be writer of short novels and long stories. I wish to imagine worlds that are ten feet wide and people who inhabit universes. I wish to weave words that make you turn the page quickly, back to the pages you’ve already read. And they’ll all start with, I wish.Isn’t it funny how everything relates to life?Nothing worth reading today. Should I have mentioned that at the beginning?Ja.
I’ve lived my whole life. It wasn’t that hard. I simply stood there and let it happen. I got shoved, punched, and screamed at about the sanctity of life and the pleasures of god, or perhaps the other way around. A variety of numbers and words were thrown at me and eventually thrust down my throat. When they got no objections from me, it worried them. I was alive and they knew it. They scurried about counting the number of times I said the word “banana” and watched me play Lego’s, writing long meaningless words on thin cream colored paper. All the while I yawed and swam a few laps in whichever pool they insisted on that week. They declared me smart enough, but “he’d better get with the program.” A little girl smiled at me from across the room. I think she was alive too. They covered my eyes, and the next day they washed my ears with high pressure water jets. Then I broke my arm; their faces were full of “I told you so.” This young man hasn’t given up yet, please get him a wheelchair. He’s gonna need an operation. They took six pieces of my brain and studied them for three days. They wanted to put them back but who needed morality and its bastard children. They marked me, Do Not Resuscitate, and sent me home. They checked on me from time to time. “A lost case” they decided and left me to my own incomplete wits. I’ve lived my whole life. It wasn’t that hard. I simply stood there and let it happen.Sarcasm; if you’re going to argue with me that it’s asinine, try to avoid using it as a coercive technique, you dolt.I’ve folded twenty small pieces of paper into flapping birds that have eyes. As soon as they start speaking I will be releasing them into the wild for everybody to enjoy.It’s currently 4am. Forgive me for everything I’ve written.Ja.
For one reason or another, I’ve not posted for the past few days. Not that I’ve been truly busy. Instead, I’ve been bogged down by those impossibly worthless things you can’t help but do.Such as, watch countless hours of TV (mostly , Invader Zim, and a variety of movies too good to be mentioned here), play guitar for so long your fingers feel like spaghetti, and finally, allow your friends to waste your entire day on things that make you reconsider your moral objection to murder. One more thing: as if to prove what a loser I am, I actually have a blister from mashing buttons trying to use a “submission” move on wrestler The Undertaker. Conclusion: I’m thinking of turning back time, to my insomniac days, where I concentrated on hitting on as many women as possible to ascertain I was indeed still functioning.
No secret, just ask my friends, I’m in love with Sydney Bristow. I’m careful to make the distinction between Ms. Jen Garner and Sydney, though from what I’ve seen, the only thing Jen Garner is missing are the high-tech gadgets. I mention this only as a prelude —the best show on television is Alias, starring (ta-da) Jennifer Garner as Sydney Bristow. While there is no shortage of great serial dramas (see 24, Sopranos, Six Feet Under) there is a small but important difference. While 24 and The Sopranos painstakingly recreate reality (with the usual Hollywood !!), Alias knits a canvas where reality is simply a backdrop. Alias is so charming and smart that you begin to cheer for Sydney, hate Arvin Sloane, and decide that Vaughan and Syd really do belong together; all before the opening credits roll by. So watch it now, thank me later.
I’ll mention some band happenings, since the band hosts my page, and I am, after all, a member. We have several new songs, all of them different, and yet somehow, still ph7. I think it’s time to hit the studio again, and as soon as that happens, I’ll have pictures posted here. I’ve also heard rumors of a website redesign, and with that we’ll post a backlog of our music. We have several upcoming shows, which should be posted by somebody on the main News page soon. I’ve got more old photos coming (posted here until the webpage redesign).
Pay attention to: the road, your girlfriend, and ph7. Otherwise, you’ll end up dead, lonely, or totally uncool. (2 outa 3…. 2 outa 3)
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