Almost Enlightening

The More Things Change

2008-09-11T12:01:00.002-05:00

A year ago I wrote a post regarding September 11th, and little has changed in its relevance (save for changing "six years" to "seven"). In fact, things might have gotten worse, especially after Giuliani's presidential run with "noun, verb, 9/11" speeches, the unknown whereabouts of Osama bin Laden, and--most disgusting for me--this "tribute" video from the Republican National Convention. With every passing year a terrible tragedy and a beautiful rebirth get more and more trivialized, marketed, whored out and profiteered with devastating effect. Remember 9/11 today, remember what came out of it in November.

It's been seven years. Wow. Like anyone else, I can ramble through the particulars of the day: pre-litigated Coach Feldman telling us about a plane hitting the World Trade Tower (but still having to teach us about safety while lifting weights); going into Chemistry and watching both towers fall; the crisp, sunny afternoon and how something this terrible isn't allowed to happen on a day this beautiful. I'm sure you've been running through these same scenarios in your mind all day as well. The details still cut with incredible precision, and I doubt they will dull in time.

It's strange how the day has been mutated ever since. It has become a talking point, a fear tactic, a construction plan, a reason for more death, a squabble over a politically correct statue, a tent pole for polity. It's been a while since the tiny American flags were on every car, front door, and overpass. It's been some time since tragedy was transformed into unity, then patriotism and a rallying cry, then belittled as a conspiracy theory, a talking point, a charade. It says something dire about our society that we could so effortlessly and mindlessly turn a negative into a positive and then right back into a negative. The tragedy keeps unfolding.

Seven years. We've all had that weird "has it been seven years already?" moment, where we try and go back and touch the clothes, listen to the music, see the people. We try and put ourselves back into the proper perspective to re-break our hearts. To most of us, seven years in the past is just a marker of where we've been, where we've gone, and what has changed between then and now. What gets lost is what those seven years could mean others. The infant boy whose mother died is now a second-grader. The sixth-grader who has to cope with the loss of her father is starting college. A wife has to spend what was to be her 25th wedding anniversary alone.

I hate the phrase "never forget." It's common sense; I don't have to be reminded to remember. Far too often we remember Tower Two getting hit, the awful long shot of both Towers in line with each other, a plane coming from the right, a dreadful pause, then the blow out of fire, smoke, debris and flesh from the left side. We think of terrorism, and we fill our hearts with hate.

Tonight, remember the people who were working a boring job to pay the mortgage, or to get their kid through school, or because that's what their parents always wanted her to be, only to be killed. Remember the kids who, in a flash, had to traverse an infinitely more difficult road through life than we can imagine. Remember the firefighters and police who held the badge and their duty over their own lives. Don't think about the conspiracy, the wars that have come forth, the fear that we're constantly reminded of and held down because of. Remember the victims, remember the heroes, and remember the families of both.

Low Light

2008-07-09T23:36:00.005-05:00

Is there a stronger human emotion than loneliness? Or is emotion not the right word; mechanism, condition, fault, component, downside? It is the one constant we are always striving against, even if it isn't in those terms. We do not want to be homeless, alone on the street somewhere begging for money from a group of people totally and completely disconnected from us. We pick which colleges to go to, the good ole' vessels for our future, based on the sizes of student population, determined to find out which one we would fit best in. We drunkenly hook up with one another because we want the carnal experience, sure, but it isn't a terrible feeling to sleep with the comfort of someone directly next to you.

Is there a more palpable sense in the repertoire of humanity? Pain is a feeling to extreme to contemplate; you simply feel it in varying degrees. In a lot of pain, you never stop screaming to ponder, "in what ways did I bring this pain on to me, and what is the best possible means to alleviate myself of this stigma?" Your brain is wired on instinct to help yourself (in most cases, get to a hospital). Grief is something that can overcome all rational thought, shutting down your cognitive because it cannot function when it's submerged so deep in sorrow and tears. You never think "why am I so sad?" when a loved one passes away, you simply are and we accept that fact. If you're happy, there is never a point where you try and analyze the function that causes your happiness. Oh, I found five dollars in my pocket, but why is my mouth all stretched out? Technically you broke even with yourself, but notching a +5 in your mental bank accounts just feels better.

Loneliness is unique because it is a feeling that can be seen in almost all feelings. You can be sorrowful because you are lonesome, can exacerbate pain because there is no one to aid you, and the sheer avoidance of the state can lead to happiness on its own, even if the time you had with people is lackluster. It can certainly damper your mood, alter your state of mind, inhibit your actions...hell, if it made you crash a car it would probably be illegal to take across state lines.

Yet it is the unique problem that we all suffer from, across the board, in every part of the globe, within every last shred of humanity. They even pulled it off with a robot in the brilliant Wall-E. That movie works in the most basic way because while it is an animated robot from the future, he deals with a constant in our lives and is instantly relatable, no matter the vessel in which the message is delivered (or trash compacted).

If the universal language is music, then all the solos exist because of loneliness. It is the condition that drives at least a quarter Beatles songs. It is the mechanism for terrible social and romantic ideas. It makes watching movies in the theaters more enjoyable because it is avoided. It makes attending sporting events better because you can high five someone other than yourself.

I have never felt more boxed in then being back at home after college. There is a clear divide that occurs almost immediately after you receive your diploma (or, in my case, a diploma holder with nothing in it until you have to retrieve it on your own the next day). Like a light switch being flicked up, suddenly you are an adult. You cannot relate to anyone under the age of 21 in the same way again. Ostensibly, your childhood is over. The 16+ years of schooling have been preparation, one grade after another, for this moment, where you are thrust into the adult world. But this is common knowledge.

What isn't--or at least wasn't to me--is the post-college experience of living at home. My work schedule doesn't match some of my best friends’. It doesn't even match some of my not-so-good friends. Yesterday, I had to put my car in the shop and my mom wasn't answering her cell phone, so I figured I'd just call someone else. As I'm walking down the street carrying a trumpet case and listening to an iPod on a road that is not designed for foot travel (don’t ask), it dawned on me that I had no one to immediately call. If I were in Boston in March, there are tons of numbers to call of people who are a mile or so away that could quickly come to my aid. Now, I have friends at jobs on Wall Street who I'm lucky to see once every weekend. I have friends going to Europe for years on end. I have friends who I know simply wouldn't pick up the phone.

By no means is this meant to lament my stasis, to "woe is me" until I'm crying to Dashboard Confessional. Instead, I think I'm hitting on a great irony. After years of being told "Michael, all your classmates feel this way," I'm taking a step out onto the ledge. My entire grade that is home right now mostly sits at home, bored, waiting for someone to talk to or call, yet we don't have the gumption to do anything about it because we don't know where the hell we are, let alone anyone else. You can't walk down the street and run into people; you see them briefly on a road as you both shoot by in cars, gaining a simple moment of acknowledgment, a thought of "I never see him/her/them" glances by just as quickly as the moment. Here we are, all of us, a group separate, but oh so connected in a most vital way.

And we're too alone to even realize it.

How Alive? Too Alive

2008-06-12T11:44:00.005-05:00

The brain has such a unique and complex ability to block out ideas, events, and conduct that it simply does not want to render. If you are abused as a child, your brain can trip its own defense mechanism and completely block it out of your conscious mind. Or, if you are drunk and do something incredibly stupid, do you black out, or does your brain resist remembering the event because of the guilt that you would have to suffer through?

I know there is one thing I certainly forgot about: moving home after graduation. Now here I am, back in the same home that was purchased so I could one day grow up and frolic in a back yard, sitting in the same room where I went from sleeping in a crib, to a big boy bed, and finally to a longer big boy bed, and I can't for the life of me understand how I neglected this part of the equation. Of course I had to live at home. What was I going to do, get a great job from junior through senior year to carry me over so I could afford a place to live? Pfft, yeah.

I'm now a graduate with a film and television degree, where else was I going to go? I feel like I'm in a Greek tragedy, and that since I was a freshman in high school who decided he had to go to film school, I have been avoiding the inevitable, somehow unable to see the future that I could never avoid. You know, without that whole “sleeping with your mom” thing.

Anywhoo, here's some random shit that's been bouncing around my head for the last...well…before I embarrass myself by figuring out when my last "random" blog post was, I'll just say it's been a while.

Is there a household in America who actually allows a house cleaner to fully do her job? For a brief stint, the Anton family had someone come by and clean the house every week. It was so long ago that we were using the archaic and now certainly non-PC term of "cleaning lady," as opposed to the now-appropriate "cleaning woman." Every week before she came over, my mother would yell at me that [b]we[/b] needed to clean the house, for the cleaning lady (pardon) was coming the next day.

What other profession exists where the people hire someone to do a job, and then attempts to accomplish it before the employee gets there? Before surgery, do you clean out your internal organs and try to make them as neat and presentable before the doctor cuts you open? Do you start building your deck before the construction crew arrives so you don't have to be embarrassed by how much progress you haven't made?

What is the point of even having a cleaning woman if you're going to do half the job but still pay her full price? Shit, I cleaned my room and never got a dime, but this woman strolls in, neatly puts some things in a corner and hits my desk with Pledge and gets all the reward?

The other half of the payment has to combat the weird insecurity women (especially mothers) have when they invite other people into their homes. Except, ya know, this person is supposed to thwart said insecurity by cleaning the house so that the mother does not have to deal with such a problem. For whatever reason, moms have this idea that they need to present a house to others that seemingly no one has ever lived in, neglecting to recognize that everyone else is pulling the same gimmick.

It's a vicious cycle and I'd have someone try and sort it out for me, but I'd be embarrassed that this problem exists in the first place.

Is there really anything worse in the world than seeing a wet pubic hair on a toilet? There is simply no getting around it. You walk into a public bathroom that you clearly have to use (why the hell else would you be in a [i]public toilet[/i]?), you lift the seat up or just stare down, and there it is: wet pube.

You can't avoid looking at it, either. Like a traction beam, it just holds your rapt attention while you stand there, motionless, unable to stop it. Do you wipe it? Can you seriously wipe away someone else's curly, awful personal hair that is no doubt not covered by any other liquid than urine?

My god, what if the offending pube and puddle of piss [i]aren't even a matching set?[/i] How does one cope with this? There it is, just looking at you, kinda bent more than curled, drowned in waste, hanging on to the edge of the bowl, refusing to be effortlessly washed away into the swirl of the toilet.

We are fighting many losing wars--Iraq, Afghanistation, on Drugs, on Blatant Horseshit and Rampant Stupidity--but we cannot lose the war against wet toilet pubes. Don’t worry, just vote to give me power to act, and in three weeks time I'll bomb the toilet at a McDonalds.

Mission Accomplished.

I was never good at Logic in Math class, but here goes nothing: If there is a drunk girl, and there is a table in the room, a drunk girl will dance on it. I have seen it nearly everywhere I go, and have no idea what the allure is. Dancing above people? A fascination of putting your shoes where other people eat and have no doubt that it will not be adequately cleaned for patrons the next day?

In a rare form of proper journalistic conduct, I have decided to actually do some work in a segment I will entitle "Useless Knowledge," where some of my pithy rhetorical questions will be answered by someone who does one of those things I am mystified by. Because it is me and it is this blog, don't expect this segment to ever come back.

I dispatched a call to my friend Catherine, a self-proclaimed master of dancing on tables, to try and get to the bottom of this phenomenon. She explained, "Well, I guess, if you like dancing, doing it on elevated surfaces is just one step better. Oh, and it's about being the center of attention, pretty much. When I get drunk, I feel the need to climb on things and dance. Not something I feel the need to do when sober."

She will fall off the table "infrequently," and the impromptu scaffolding must always be "secure…unless I'm really drunk." When asked if she would fear dancing on the table if she fell off (the only time she could recount falling was when she had "three girls on one table," clearly not enough table to support the three ladies), she decidedly answered no. Clearly, when you fall off the table, you hop right back on the horse and dance. Or something.

Finally, when asked if she saw a girl dancing on a table, then saw two tables stacked one on top of another, if she would climb that mighty heap just to dance on a more elevated surface, Catherine answered an emphatic “yes,” before saying, "well the elevated surface needs to be secure." It is that second of recognition of danger and the abject lack of safety that is quelled by alcohol. Therefore, we have found out that girls need to be the centers of attention at all times, and that alcohol fuels their undying quest to both show up men and especially other women around them.

And they do not care about the sanitary conditions of tables, yet they will never eat something that falls on the ground. Hypocrites.

It's Here

2008-04-18T14:13:00.003-05:00

The days have all been getting shorter, while consequently the sun has been going down later and later, for The Day approaches. It's a day that, while you aren't always aware of the exact date, it lingers in your mind for months and months. Maybe even from October forward. It might not be on the tip of your tongue when you're talking to your friends, but you all know what's going on behind the curtain; we certainly can't be such fine actors that we all hide it. When The Day finally comes, it seems surreal, like it was always just around the corner. Now that it's here, nothing is the same.

Everything from this day forward is different. It just...feels different, smells different, tastes different. There are more clinical more pointed words to describe what the day itself is, but what lingers more is the feeling. This is a day you remember for some time. It's a day without care, forethought, or pants.

It's Spring Day.

Spring Day is the first true day of Spring in Boston. Now you can say, "well it's been nice out for a couple of weeks, and the first actual day of Spring was a week ago you non-calendar-reading dope." True, and I do hate calendars, which is why I never put up Zack's move-in gift the 2007 Extreme Ironing Calendar. But has it trulybeen Spring? No, it was New England's attempt at the season, which goes as follows:

Go outside in the morning and it's 45 degrees, even though it says the high will be 68. "Impossible," you say, since this weather holds through Noon. Suddenly at 2 pm, it's 64 degrees, prompting you to stop on your walk and take off your hoodie and put it in your backpack or bag while you sweat constantly down your pant legs. You go to class and walk back home but the sun is low, causing shadows that feel like your marching to lay eggs in Antartica while Morgan Freeman does voice over for your actions. Shade moves and you're sweating out 68 degree heat again. Even though there is no sun, the night can stay anywhere between temperate and "fuck this" cold. Finally, it's time to go to bed and it's 30 degrees out, causing you to bundle up before waking up in the morning in yet another pool of sweat. This is less of a "warm season" and more like water boarding.

Spring Day is the first time where it's warm from when the day opens until deep into the night, and involves a leap of faith that almost everyone is willing to take. While guys can break those shorts out of hiding, it's a whole other ritual for women. It's as if they are finding some catharsis for six months in leggings, coats and scarves, making up for lost time. As you walk down the street, there are sun dresses, low cut shirts, and mini skirts in all directions. Everyone is happier, more fun, attractive, funny, personable. Spring Day is also not just for the upper crust of attractiveness, as it makes everyone just much more attractive. Ugly face? Great legs! Freak arm that bends the wrong way? Cute smile! It is some sort of carnal and peaganistic "fuck you" to winter in New England. We beat you, we survived, and look how little clothes I can wear!

Being the journalistic watchdog I am, I decided to go outside and check out Commonwealth Avenue and BU's campus to live blog the day's events. Except that I just typed up little notes on my cell phone and I'm writing about it a few hours after the fact. But it's close to live blogging, and I don't think there's anything creeper than going out with a laptop on a beautiful day, sitting around on the grass, and reporting--in real time--what people are or aren't wearing. Instead, I'll merely tape delay it, and therefore feel like a normal person.

10:30 AM - Well, nothing going here. Could I have guessed incorrectly? Was I too optimistic? Sigh. There are only some capri pants, which are just a ridiculous idea. How indecisive a person are you where you can't decide between shorts and pants? Has anyone ever said, "well, my ankles were really warm today while my thighs were freezing, but thankfully I had my capri pants for this perfect intersection of comfort, clothing, and weather." I'll accept them on mothers over 40 and girls under 10, who are undoubtedly influenced by their mothers in clothes selection. I refuse to accept them on males in any condition, European or not. You should be more sensible.

11:00 AM - On the T, see some shorts, a low cut shirt, but that's about it. Every male is wearing shorts. Sorry women, this day doesn't seem to be equal for you. Another thing to add to the list whenever a man brings up how painful it is to be hit in the crotch. For some reason, women as a group just cannot allow men to get away with discussing how much pain is involved when hit in the genitals. There must always be a follow up on how bad it is to be a woman involving child birth, periods, getting hit in the breasts. Add "Spring Day oggling" to the heap.

12:27 PM - It begins!

12:46 PM - The BU Beach is a curious place. For those not in the know, BU's campus is mostly along a strip of Commonwealth Avenue in Boston from about 500 Com until 1019 Com, and the only strip of grass is located in the middle of our "campus." The slang term for the patch is the "BU Beach" because if you lay down on the grass and hear the cars passing on a fairly major road just next to the grassy knoll, it supposedly sounds like waves at a beach. I prefer to think it sounds like cars on a well-traveled road because that's what it fucking is.

The Beach on Spring Day--and many days after--is just littered with humanity, looking like a refugee camp for the Hamptons. Stretching as far as the eye can see, there are lush greens and pale whites desperately trying to eviscerate their skin cells until it becomes a lovely mocha. I cannot slight those girls who go to get their fake tans (right above a sushi place, so you know it's quality) and have a rolling start when the season begins. Hope the cash was worth it because now you get FREE sun.

There are also guys just peppered around, talking to no one in particular on cell phones as they take a slow 360 degree turn to let everything in. They will also slowly bike by and errantly throw a frisbee around. It's quite pathetic. But then again, they aren't writing about it, let alone in a time-specific manner.

1:05 PM - There are three Yeah Dudes hanging out at the top of the hill, shirtless, and trying to get some attention. Yeah, ok. That works. Another reason why Yeah Dudes/Dude Bros ruin everything.

What is potentially shocking is that two of the most sexually promiscuous days of the school year are now days apart. Spring Day is today, and then Marathon Monday is...well, this Monday. Hold on to your hats, folks. And by hats, I clearly mean prophylactics that merely look like hats.

For You (And Me)

2007-11-23T03:25:00.000-05:00

My mom and I were discussing how she believes that there is an openness about her, a frank way of putting herself out there when in general she is closed down. She only lets people know what she wants and therefore comes off--in her mind--of being open and honest.

Well, it's Thanksgiving, a holiday that asks of nothing but eating and sincerity. The hack thing to do is to make a list of all the things you're thankful for on Thanksgiving. The cheap way to go about it is to discuss all of the things that you're thankful aren't happening, so you can put something up, feign being clever, and not give anything away. The real way to do it is to be raw, bare, open, and (unfortunately, probably) unedited.

I am thankful for the fact that I come from a middle class home and that I didn't have to struggle for anything. Whatever I wanted, if it was reasonable, was mine. I'm thankful that I have never been forced to have a job, or had to deal with money issues strictly on my own. I'm thankful that where I went to school was always an academic issue and never a monetary one. I'm thankful that my dad has probably taken years off of his life to work for this to happen for me. I joke that because of my spending, he'll be working til he dies at 90. I have few goals, and one of them is to make god damn well sure that he never has to work again as soon as I possibly can. I'm thankful that if this never happens, he'll love me the same.

I am thankful for the blessing and the curse of living and growing up in such a small town. I am thankful that I can walk down the street and have the comfort of knowing someone at almost every other house. I am thankful that I grew up not having to worry about violence, or bullies, or dealing with bullshit peer pressure. I am thankful that there were teachers who gave--and still give--their time to a school that is criminally under funded, improperly cared for, and never get their due credit (like any teacher anywhere, really). I am thankful that I had the opportunity to learn from everyone and everything around me, and that I became wise enough to indulge and appreciate the experience long after I first soured on it and right before I left it, probably forever.

I am thankful for friends who have become almost innumerable. Everywhere I turn there is someone that I can trust and love and, even more importantly, joke around and be stupid with. There is such an incredible diverse and special group of people everywhere I go that it astounds me. Kids in high school, kids in college, adults who have gotten married, filling every inch of the spectrum. The only problem I seem to have is that there aren't enough hours in the day to appreciate all that they offer, all that they so unselfishly give out, seemingly unaware of how special they are. I am thankful that they can take me at face value, and the special ones that can see right through my "happy jokey guy" bullshit and see me for me, that I don't need to perform around. I'd run out of space for names, but I love all of you. I am absolutely nothing without you. Nothing. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I am thankful for the gift and ability to write something like this out. I'm not thankful that I'm far too much of a lightweight to go around and tell people this stuff face-to-face, but, what can ya do? Write about it on the internet, I guess. I am thankful that my parents always encouraged me to be creative. Fuck, they let me be a film major without a blink of an eye. I am thankful for my mom for giving me a vast vocabulary; even though the word I learned from her the most is probably "fuck" (which is my fault, and not a lack of due diligence on your part). I am thankful that I just wrote and directed a 10-minute short film. I'm a filmmaker. An actual, bona fide filmmaker.

I am thankful that I have been able to use a keyboard and a varying succession of keystrokes to let my frustrations, tears, anger, surprise, glee, thoughts, feelings, and fears in such a safe and cathartic way. I am thankful for the fact that people actually read this, enjoy it, and sometimes even taking something from it. I am thankful that when I write about topics, I'm not alone. I am thankful that my bullshit can actually be used for something other than letting off steam.

I am thankful for my apartment and my roommates. I am thankful that I can live with two people who are essentially on opposite sides of the coin in many respects, and are linked in the most basic ways. I am thankful that I can walk away from college knowing full well that I got an education in life at the very least for two years. I am thankful that I can talk about films, writing, comedy, and anything else on the radar with Zack. I am thankful to grow as an artist off of him, and I hope I'm pushing him, too. I am thankful that Ben is a fucking rock, and reminds me a lot of my dad in so many ways. I am thankful that there is someone who always has two feet on the ground, who keeps me earnest. I am thankful that fate put us in that apartment, because it's meant the world to me.

I am thankful for a dedicated family who refused to let me down, or feel unloved, or insecure, or push me in any other way than positively. I am thankful that this extends far up and around the tree, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandmas. I did not know how to be a son, my mom did not know how to be a mother, and my dad did not know how to be a father. It took a while--and a lot of work--but we all came through swimmingly. Of course it could be better; when can it not? We are once again going to hit a new transition with me leaving, and I am thankful that I do not have to worry about it. At all. We're all going to be ok. We're going to make it.

Finally, I am thankful that I can say thanks.

Heart Of The City

2007-10-27T01:41:00.000-05:00

Boston just sounds different after it rains. The T doesn't glide by as easily. Cars make a more deliberate sound as their tires pull down for more traction as they move in the night in either direction past my apartment's windows. It does not matter if you're in Ben's room, the living room, or directly behind me in my room, the soft torrent of cars never ceases. It is past one so the T no longer rumbles, but that bass is replaced by shrill screams of drunk college kids heading East; the reverse Manifest Destiny. They have already conquered the West on this night, and the ones who haven't already found a bed retreat to their own. And certainly not like church mice.

As graduation--and the real world which sits directly on its broad shoulders--approaches with every passing day, there is one thing that I fear more than anything else: losing the heartbeat of Boston.

There is nothing that I have fallen more in love with than Boston. I have had girlfriends, I have had friends, I have had films, songs, but nothing affected me quite like this city has. It happened immediately, even with imminent death feet ahead. After a play rehearsal one night senior year, my Dad and I packed up the Explorer and headed north via I-84 en route to Boston and our room at the Hotel Commonwealth. On the way, we both had to trade off who was in charge of the gas-powered monster since either one of us would be ready to pass out at the drop of an odometer. When we arrived, I did not know--or care--where we were in relation to Boston. All I knew was that there was a bed waiting for me in the tower above.

The next morning I had to visit Emerson College and Boston University, the two Boston schools with film programs. My dad opened the window to find the Green Monster, feeling like an arm's reach away, staring back at us. There it was. It is akin to brushing your teeth, looking in the mirror, and hey, the Mona Lisa. What's up. It was still early (at least relative to my sleeping schedule, one of the few traits that I will carry with me where ever I land) but I scrambled to get out of bed and put my glasses on to take it in. My dad and I stood there for a good thirty seconds, standing both in awe and out of respect.

I walked the same streets that my mom fell in love with god knows how long ago in that oft told story, "I was walking down Commonwealth Avenue...". The story that got me to think of BU in the first place. I remember seeing so many foolish "Cowboy Up" bumper stickers, for we ventured up after the 2003 ALCS. (I did not know then that that moment would be my happiest as a Yankee fan in Boston.) I met BU's campus and just knew, like how the guidance counselors always spout out about how you just "feel" it but you think it's bullshit, and then you find out first hand how wrong you were. Sort of like how my mom walked in to the only house I've ever known as home, took three steps inside, and realized this is where the Anton Family would reside. Where later her son would grow up.

It's been almost four years since that trip. In that time--and in Boston--I have been in love, fallen out of it, turned 21, watched my Terriers win Hockey East, stayed up talking til 4 AM on countless occasions in various locations, have been intimate, have been lonely, have been surrounded by friends, have been decidedly alone (or, as I prefer, the French "seul"). I have met friends for a lifetime; I have met enemies who I still scowl at as I walk Commonwealth Ave. I have lived in a dorm, I've showered with three other friends in separate halls, I've stolen all the furniture in Claflin Hall, I've eaten far too many meals on campus, I've seen three new eateries open up in the GSU, I've been drunk, I've been high, I've gotten an apartment that is my second home in a way that I've never imagined.

And I know that when I graduate, these aren't the things that I will miss the most.

I get Boston. I got it immediately. It's a city that is discredited; a "false" city. Paling in size to Chicago to the west, failing to meet the enormity of all that makes up New York City to the south, and not being nearly as fun and reckless as Montreal to the north, Boston is a city that cannot be easily categorized. Or easily accepted for what it is. It is racist, it is caring, it is green, it's industrial, it's beaten down, and it’s rich. It's a city in transition. You don't know what's going to become of Boston. You certainly know where it's come from and what that journey has been, but who knows what's next? The possibilities are endless, considering the right opportunities fall correctly. New bridge, new tunnel; there are lots of prospects. It's just up to Boston to use these facilities and advantages to push forward into a bigger, brighter future.

This is where I point out that the term of "college town" is not describing the amount of schools in the area, but the fact that it simply is a town in college.

I'll miss growing with Boston. I'll miss walking home half way across campus, seeing a young-ish looking kid walking hurriedly West and knowing--for certain--that he lives in West Campus, is a Freshman, got ditched at a party and is refusing to piss anywhere but on his floor. He spins his keys by Pleasant Street, seeing his home looming large above what used to be a McDonalds, and he grows satisfied while I gain the satisfaction of feeling Boston move all around me. That girl is drunk, probably off cheap Vodka (Popov) at a frat party. He's a junior and is starting to get tired of this scene and starts to long for the grown-up allure of bars. She's 25 and is jealous of both of them. And all I see and hear is Boston.

I'm going to hop into bed now, and while I sleep, I'm going to hear cars passing by at this dreary hour of 3:05 AM. Maybe it's a garbage truck, or a couple of teenagers who are coming back way late, or just a drunk kid praying he makes it back without hurting himself or others. The motives are meaningless. All I hear is Boston breathing smoothly during another restless night of sleep. Its heart beats silently, steadily, gently, right along with mine.

Pump Your Fist

2007-09-19T12:23:00.000-05:00

Last night I was alerted to a story of a University of Florida student who was tasered by police while trying to ask a question to Senator and former presidential candidate John Kerry. A friend and reader showed great outrage, putting a link to the video on YouTube on her away message, followed by bombastic statements like, "freedom of speech is dead," and "RIP - first ammendment." She implored me to write about this on the blog, and, after looking at the situation and the issues involved, agreed. I just don't think she'll be happy when I use this platform to disagree with her.

Countless times on this blog I have defended free speech, including my use of it on this blog, censorship from my college at sporting events, and most dear to my heart, when to fight for it, and when it is mired in social and political agenda. As someone who also has a rather "edgy" radio show and who fancies himself a writer, freedom of speech is an incredibly important right that we have to fight for, especially now as our civil liberties seem to wane daily. This case, however, has nothing next to nothing to do with freedom of speech. I know you just got the angry face on and overreacted—again--but let me explain.

Here is the common perception of what happened, as seen on videos from YouTube. A college student asks a political-based question that is not answered. He is then pulled away from the podium by officers of the law as the student yells, "are you watching this? Why are you arresting me?" The student is dragged away kicking and screaming up the aisle towards the entrance for roughly a minute to a minute and a half as a handful of officers try to hold him down. He is eventually tased and taken away. Another angle of the event can be found here, courtesy of Breitbart and YouTube.

This story has been passed on from student to student as a rallying cry, an important reason to stand up and say something (as if we need another reason to). The calls to action are mainly because of three reasons surrounding the event that give it extra credence: a politicized situation, being pulled off of the podium, and police action.

A very crucial aspect is the involvement of John Kerry. If this student came out during a question and answer with, let's say, a distinguished political science professor, would it be different? First, the school wouldn't have used police, letting the Sophomore stable of kids in security blazers deal with keeping the order and peace. Second, his image as the "Anti-Bush" while he stood watching as freedom of speech is being tased out of someone is a big deal. If you read an account of what happened, such as this article which we'll get back to, the question and answer period was over but this student refused to let his answer be heard. He then rushed towards the podium (and, in turn, towards a Senator) after police repeatedly asked him not to.

Once he got up to the podium to ask a question, he didn't ask anything. He ranted, and tarnished an opportunity to ask Sen. Kerry a question that Kerry went out of his way to allow. If this wasn't a Senator on stage, security would have asked him to leave, eventually pushing him out of the auditorium. This isn't an isolated incident, it is routine in this sort of situation. Who hasn't seen someone escorted out by security by not complying with rules?

Throwing gas on the fire, while the student was being pulled away from police, he screams out "why are you arresting me?" Who said anything about being arrested? Why would they, for saying the word "blowjob" in public? I am relatively sure that they were going to escort him out of the building and let him off on his merry way.

Instead, he resisted needlessly from the start. He got so out of hand that he could be not calmed down by two officers and they needed assistance by the other police in the building. Why were there so many police that eventually found themselves around him? Because their job is to take care of security risks and disruptions just like this one.

Let’s be realistic. Could you walk around to a local police officer, have them ask you to stop doing something and resist. After they ask you again to do it you refuse yet again, eventually having them physically touch you. You then tell them to "get the fuck off of you," and resist their control further. Do you think you would get away with it? Apparently so if you’re saying that you were only instituting your right to free speech.

Furthermore, when he was on the ground, he was instructed for a good thirty seconds to roll over and he refused. Instead of simply following their orders, he resisted, choosing to become a martyr or a hero for the cause. He was tasered, following what I assume is procedure, adding the cherry on top. We now have a case for police brutality when the only thing he did was make damn well sure that everyone knew he was getting tased (“please don’t tase me!”) instead of following proper action to ensure that he wouldn’t be.

In conclusion to this section, I think that a kid went out of his way to be a pain in the ass to a police force who might not be prepared to handle this sort of situation. However, to say that he is a victim or some sort of martyr for the cause is taking a gigantic leap. We have fallen victim to the Fox News-ification of all news from all outlets. We are shown a small, selective piece of footage (one of the videos on YouTube is apparently from his own camera, possibly one of the videos linked above) and having it be used to rile everyone up and drown us all in hyperbole.

According to the Gainesville police report, which could very easily be a case of police covering their own asses, discusses how once the student was out of view of cameras he calmed down, reigniting once they got outside where more video cameras were sure to be there. He even went so far as to say, "I am not mad at you guys, you didn't do anything wrong, you were just trying to do your job," according to Mallo's account (from the article linked above). I'm sorry, I'm not falling for getting out my pitchfork for something that was being sensationalized as it was happening.

That does not mean that there are legitimate gripes with freedom of speech involved with this situation, both from the media coverage and the uprising of students over this specific “encroachment” of free speech.

Returning to the Breitbart article, there are some troubling issues brought up in regards to the credibility of the student in this situation. From the AP article, "Video of police Tasering a persistent questioner of Sen. John Kerry became an Internet and TV sensation Tuesday, generating fierce debate about free speech and the motives of the college student involved—a known prankster who often posts practical jokes online."

While I do believe that he overdid his reaction for his fifteen minutes of fame, does this mean that being a prankster suddenly absolves you of any credibility? What if this was genuine? If I'm tased by an officer in a situation where I was in fact incorrectly tased, would this blog somehow make the incident change?

The article goes on, describing the student's website. It contains "...several homemade videos. In one, he stands in a street with a sign that says "Harry Dies" after the latest Harry Potter book was released. In another, he acts like a drunk in a bar while trying to pick up a man dressed in drag." Why is this news worthy? Why does the AP feel the need to critique the comedy styling of someone who is mired in this situation?

To show how classy they are, the AP report then decides to disparage the kid totally, writing, "Another site had pictures of Meyer licking a woman's face and making a suggestive pose as he stood behind a fake cow. The site listed his activities as 'getting wasted' and 'being ridiculous.'" It is one thing to criticize if he was making a big deal out of an isolated situation, but it is quite another to have the audacity to say because he makes silly videos that he shouldn't be regarded with the same respect as anyone else.

Just because someone has immature pictures on his Myspace or irresponsible messages on his Facebook profile doesn’t mean the AP has the grounds to use that against him to damage his credibility. There is a responsible way to discuss the event and the issues involved, and I find it shocking that my blog is being more respectful than the Associated Press. Freedom of speech is one thing, using words as a legitimate and respected news source to destroy a twenty-one year old is simply irresponsible to the highest degree.

Finally, I love how selective we are when we describe Freedom of Speech. The Imus Incident (gotta love those Important Capitalizations) was a clear issue of freedom of speech that hardly anyone got behind. Here is someone who was taken off the air for saying something that was completely FCC compliant and for that reason and that reason alone, does not justify his firing. The outrage only came because it involved an intangible of race. How many people who are saying what a travesty this kid getting tased is and such a slap in the face of the first amendment defended Imus? A handful?

You cannot choose to fight for this right only when it is convenient to you. Of course college kids are going to get up in arms, look at what this incident involves: a college student being "silenced” during a political rant at a politician before being abused by police. There is nothing out of the ordinary here. I just feel that it is disingenuous to label this a first amendment issue because people are upset only for the factors of age, police, and a politicized situation. And, once again, it's going to be heresy to come out against this as a true indictment of freedom of speech because of those attached factors.

The real shame of this entire situation is that even the first amendment could be so easily warped to fit a specific situation that has little relevance to what is really going on while a genuine case of censorship is laid to waste because of the racist and sexist implications involved. I love the fervor, I do, it's just sadly misplaced and badly timed.

The Long And Winding Road

2007-09-11T14:16:00.000-05:00

It's been six years. Wow. Like anyone else, I can ramble through the particulars of the day: pre-litigated Coach Feldman telling us about a plane hitting the World Trade Tower but having to teach us about safety while lifting weights, or going into Chemistry and watching both towers fall, the crisp, clear day outside and how something this terrible isn't allowed to happen on a day this beautiful. I'm sure you've been running through these same scenarios in your mind all day as well. The details still cut with incredible precision, and I doubt they will dull in time.

It's strange how the day has been mutated ever since. It has become a talking point, a fear tactic, a construction plan, a reason for more death, a squabble over a politically correct statue, a tent pole for polity. It's been a while since the tiny American flags were on every car, front door, and overpass. It's been a while since tragedy was transformed into unity, patriotism, a rallying cry, before being belittled as a conspiracy theory, a talking point, a charade. It says something dire about our society how we could turn a negative into a positive and then right back into a negative. The tragedy keeps unfolding.

Six years. We've all had that weird "has it been six years already?" moment, where we try and go back and touch the clothes, listen to the music, see the people. We try and put ourselves back into the proper perspective to re-break our hearts. To us, six years in the past is a marker of where we've been, where we've gone, and what has changed between points A and B. What gets lost is what those six years could mean. The infant boy whose mother died is now a second-grader. The sixth-grader who has to cope with the loss of her father is starting college. A wife has to spend what was to be her 25th wedding anniversary alone.

I hate the phrase "never forget." It's common sense; I don't have to be reminded to remember. Far too often we remember the Tower Two getting hit, the awful long shot of both Towers in line with each other, a plane coming from the right, a dreadful pause, then the blow out of fire, smoke, debris and flesh from the left side. We think of terrorism, we fill our hearts with hate.

Tonight, remember the people who were working a boring job to pay the mortgage, or to get their kid through school, or because that's what their parents always wanted her to be only to be killed. Remember the kids who, in a flash, had to traverse an infinitely more difficult road through life than we can imagine. Remember the firefighters and police who held the badge and their duty over their own lives. Don't think about the conspiracy, the wars that have come forth, the fear that is held over us. Remember the victims, remember the heroes, and remember the families of both.

Bigger Than Guns, Bigger Than Cigarettes

2007-08-07T14:46:00.000-05:00

It's been a while, friends, and I am forced back to work not just because my friend Katie chastised me for my laziness last night, but also as preparation as I will once again be trying out for a column in the BU independent newspaper, the Daily Free Press. This time I'm going to actually follow the guidelines and write three 800-word columns and not, say, try and condense old posts from here into manufactured ideas that lose half their humor but are still in the Land of A Thousand Words. Instead, I will form NEW ones that I can't reproduce here because if they're printed in the Freep, I think Google can sue, cause they're an evil, heartless corporation who tries to keep the little businesses down, MAAAAAAN. Anyway, here are some more random thoughts.

Let's tackle some college-related quotes I've seen recently. "I live for the nights ill never remember with the friends ill never forget." Yeah, yeah that's good. So you only live to get black out drunk with people who enable you to get black out drunk in the first place? That's probably not healthy for you, your liver, or your social life. I've never understood why being in college can somehow wipe out the fact that you are starting a debilitating problem that could ruin the rest of your life. But oh, to waste those halcyon days not being wasted. What's the point of showing up, am I right?

Point of fairness: if you are to believe that having more than four beers is in fact binge drinking, I might have some questions to ask myself as well. But not now, cause I’m a senior at college whooo!!! Edward Forty Hands mother fuckers!

Here's a recent quote that has been going on with the recent influx of fresh ~~meat~~ men girls: its not goodbye... its see ya later. There is an inherent difference? It sounds like some sort of Diet Coke commercial. We're not differentiating between Apples and Balzac here folks, you’re saying parting words twice with the same meaning.

Why is goodbye such a bad thing? True, no one says "Let's say our final 'see ya laters' to Grandpa," when they push their kids into the hospital room, but I like goodbye. It's formal, it's straightforward, it's to the point. I also enjoy its shortened "bye" form, which is easier to use in the fickle world of the "how personal do I want to get?" society that we live in. If a loved one said "see ya later" to me, I'd probably ask when and where so I could stand them up for not giving me a proper fucking goodbye.

Is being traded in baseball for a player to be named later one of the most humiliating things one can go through? Your team wants you gone so bad that they usually pay the other team to take you off of their hands AND don't even have the time to figure out what they are getting in return for your services. They are so desperate to get you out of their jersey that they'll trust the other team will give them something of equal value. In the mean time, get the fuck out, you black hole of victory.

I'll never understand why when you're in a library or some place studying on campus and the person next to you gets up to use the lavatory they ask you to watch their stuff. This person is asking you--a complete stranger--to please watch their laptop from being stolen by other complete strangers. Your trustworthiness is based specifically on your proximity to the valuable object. I'd love to see this in prison where the warden leaves and leaves the jail in control of the closest inmate.

To close, I'll leave with you something I did this past weekend. My mom called me in mid-August explaining that the annual Anton Family Reunion would feature a comedic drumming on some members of the family who are turning 50 or 60 over the course of 2007. One of those lucky few heading towards seriously considering joining the AARP was my father. Mom thought that since every other sub-family was doing something for their chosen older person, I should write a roast of my dad for her to read aloud.

My audience is a group of people who mostly laugh at very easy, simple things, such as mugs for 40th birthdays that read, "I'm not 40, I'm just Twenty Twice!" If you read the first 600 words, you can kind of see how this is going to turn out. While I toned down a lot of my stuff (for example, no jokes about fucking or dead relatives, or both), it was not very well received, especially jokes about Poland. We're a 100% Polish family, with me--part Irish--being the freak. So in love with the motherland are they that the other Anton sect formed their own Polka band for weddings, and, uh, Polka festivals? I don’t know. Wherever there are parogies. Here is an excerpt from the opening:

I hope today finds all of you well, clearly meaning that the Anton Family Polka Band is 100 feet away from their instruments like my court order instructed, carried out in the name of “good music.” By no means would I try and demerit the skill of the performers. I’m sure they play Polka to the most of its enjoy ability: sounding like a belt sander in three-four time. My only regret is when Russia and Germany expunged Poland they didn’t take Polka with it.

Oh Christmas gifts and Birthday cards, it's not goodbye, it's just "see ya never."

oooohhh New Things!

2007-07-14T02:13:00.000-05:00

While a possible redesign is permanently on the backburner (I actually forgot I have a template for it), I decided to screw around to try and make things easier for you, the reader. For each post, I have added what blogspot calls a "label" and what I refer to as a "topic" cause I don't want to be seen as a "blogger douche." I clearly don't think I have this all figured out as only 25 posts marked as "comedy" since I didn't want to make myself seem like I'm Woody Allen. You do have the option to not have to troll around in the archives to find things anymore, though. You want comedy? Click the link, nothing but the funny! You want to see my series (Ask Manton, Manton vs. Woman, Boys and Girls), click series. If you want to simply read about embarrassing things I've done with girls, click, on MvW. I did all of these from 2:15-3:15 AM, so I got sorta silly at times, so excuse me.

Edit: Audience Participation! If you think I'm missing a topic or should throw one in or whatever, leave it in the comments. I doubt anyone will go that far, but hey, would make my life easier.

Get Back

2007-07-12T15:59:00.000-05:00

Sorry for the delay. Directing is far more time consuming and soul wrenching than I could have imagined. No wonder the body of a former director of mine damn near shut down out of protest, like a Mexican warehouse when workers fight for 5 more pesos a week. I've also decided that I might actually do some more sports related quick shots, mostly because a lot of stuff in sports recently has bugged me (US reaction to David Beckham, par example). I figure the more writing I put down--regardless of content--the better it is. …For me. Man, I really sounded like I've got a million adoring fans who are waiting on my every word. I don’t even know if any of them are left around after a whopping four posts in three months. We’ll see. No more preamble. Or pre-ramble, am I right? Sorry. Just scroll down, I might not stop.

If you were the best person in the world at some remote, inane thing, would you brag about it to others? Could you go up to a girl in a bar and say, "yeah, I took first at the Yo-Yo World Championships," or "nobody crochets a better handbag than me. Nobody." Would you even want to aspire to be the World's Best WAHL Beard Trimmer User? I'd think it's a hell of a burden, personally. I wouldn't want everyone coming up to me asking for advice on how to make the perfect hand-shaped Turkey. It's a gift and a curse, and frankly, I'd just like to enjoy my dinner.

Also, because there is no international body to deny the fact, I officially declare myself the greatest person to never like sandals. I hate them, and deserve a prize for it. So there we go. The business cards will be ready next Tuesday.

While watching a Costa Rica/Mexico soccer match on Univision (yeah, it's official - I'm part of the US soccer loving cult), there was a commercial for the US Marines. In Spanish. Well, if you can make it over our giant, electronic, killer-bee infested, camouflaged super fence, I guess you can go invade other countries. We're not entirely sure that we want you as citizens, but we'd be mighty pleased if you'd die for our cause, thanks.

When acting like Rome, fall as the Romans did.

I saw a bumper sticker the other day. If you are an incredibly avid and dedicated reader, you would know of my post of middling entertainment value on how I hate those things so. Well, I found one that takes the cake, and no, it isn't "I'M PROUD OF MY CHILD EVEN IF THEY DON'T MAKE THE HONOR ROLL!" We're all excited for you, your clear distinction that your child isn't intelligent, and that you are simply doing your job as a parent: being proud of your kid. Anyway, I saw a bumper sticker that went like this:

United We
Stand Against
Aggression

I have to agree with this statement. We do need to stand up to aggression. Cause aggression...man, fuck aggression. Always coming up here and doing shit to us. And do we fight back? No. Aggression just mops the floor with us. Well, we’re not going to stand for that any longer. Starting today, I say we go to war with Aggression. That cocky fuck has had it coming for a long time.

On the way to New York, I saw another sticker relative to the one above. Yes, God May Show You Mercy....

America: We're Better Than God

Why is it that in every sports game the goalie is indestructible? For whatever reason, the people who are obviously the biggest pussies and the easiest targets have superhuman powers. In any of the EA Sports NHL games dating back to 93, you touch a goalie and you're sent backwards like he's a master of the Force. Try and go after a goalie in a soccer game and 98% of the time your player reacts like they were quickly shanked like they're playing in Rikers.

Girls utilize the word "love" far, far too much. They use it all the time. When they have a boyfriend, they constantly tell everyone (we all suffer, not just the poor schmuck boyfriend) how much they love them, putting it all over their aways or stupid facebook statuses. They love shoes, they love puppies, they love skirts, they love gum, they don't love badgers (poor li'l guys), but man do they love shitty musicians. Why can't they simply "like" things? They always go straight to LIKE like. No wonder some girls are never satisfied in a relationship; you can't love boys like they love a new Coach bag. We have far less room to pack things in.

The thing with Satan is that he's always been named Lucifer. Always, of course, includes his time as a God-abiding angel. Isn't it weird to think that at one point Lucifer was as nice a name as Michael or David? Now whenever we hear Lucifer we think of lakes of fire, Dante's Inferno, Gerald Ford and the like. What if Lucifer was instead named Lollipop? We'd have the same exact reaction as we do now to Lucifer and we'd never know how silly we were being. "The Prince of Darkness is actually named after those lovable sweets on a stick. You know, Lucifers! (Say from Charms!)"

Finally, there was a piece of news from a while back that I would like to touch on, which I call the "George Bluth Rule," NO TOUCHING!!!. Yes, it has come to this: Kilmer Middle School in Vienna, VA has decided to ban touching. Of any sorts. Ever. From the Principal, "You get into shades of gray," Hernandez said. "The kids say, 'If he can high-five, then I can do this.' " It's the best known use of the Broken Window theory I've ever seen. If one can high five, or throw a pound, and it goes unmonitored, what is stopping that boy to next time rape and slaughter his fellow 13-year-olds?

Why do people in positions of authority have such a problem using it in a proper and constructive way? More from the article, and more from the Principal, "She has seen a poke escalate into a fight and a handshake that is a gang sign. Some students -- and these are friends -- play "bloody knuckles," which involves slamming their knuckles together as hard as they can. Counselors have heard from girls who are uncomfortable hugging boys but embarrassed to tell anyone. And in a culturally diverse school, officials say, families might have different views of what is appropriate."

Hmmm, as if pokes don't escalate into fights anywhere but as a teenager, that stopping gang signs might just stop gang violence (which side is he on? hell, which side am I on? who knows anymore with this wacky no-gang-handshake situation!), or that people haven't played Bloody Knuckles. Dear god, they're being stupid teenagers. But instead of trying to weed out the kids who are just acting out because their hormones are temporarily going berserk and finding the problem kids who could end up shooting up the school, they just blanket something as natural and humanistic as contact in any sort. Their football team must be awful. This surely won't drive kids to do more physical contact, seeing that such action is restricted and kids always follow the rules, especially when strictly enforced. Keep trying to cover the problem instead of solving it. It’s working wonders.

That was kind of dark. Let's not end on that.

If you were a hot dog, and if you were starving, how could you eat yourself? Your intestines line the outside of you. You won't be able to digest yourself. Christ is that a stupid question.

Raw Power

2007-06-11T02:17:00.000-05:00

So that whole "Grab Bag" concept didn't really hold up, did it faithful readers? Oh well. Instead of posting once a week with random thoughts, I'm just going to throw one large one at you (this one) and you're going to love it. Dammit.

The new (that's a relative term) Arctic Monkeys album, "Favourite Worst Nightmare," sort of bugs me. Not the album itself, as it is incredibly amazing and is really the only hope for the future of rock and roll, but the spelling of "favourite." We all know the British invented English and we bastardized it with our democracy, representation along with taxation, and Pong video games, but you don't need to go out of the way and point out how classy you are by throwing in the "u" in words like favorite and favour. The accent is enough, elitest punks. Go drink your teua and leavue us be with ouur American speauk.

Don't girls have to know that there is a certain level of attractiveness that would garner you the ability to cut in lines at bars and clubs? At the very least you have to be an 8 or be tight with someone at the door (oral). When I was outside a bar for a good hour and twenty minutes, one girl decided she was good looking enough to waltz up to the front and get in. How do I know? Well she said as much. "Fuck this waiting bullshit, we're getting in," she said, while fixing her shirt and doing the "sexy walk" up to the door. The best she got was jumping ahead about 10 places.

I was all ready to blast her and say she wasn't that hot until she kept making eye contact with me. If I wasn't shown away at the door (damned expired Jersey license !) I probably would have hit on her, so instead I'll say that some other,uglier girls tried and failed and they're terrible people, too! They kick baby seals and shit on river otters, the ugly skanks! Yeah!

God, I have no scruples.

As I have mentioned on this blog numerous times, I don't always have the highest regard for the latest fashion trends. Be it stupid Uggs, awful colored tights, or coffee plate-sized sunglasses, I have a big problem with things that are "fashionable" but really look "stupid and immediately regretful seconds after the digital picture shows up on the big screen in the back of your camera that you refuse to give to someone else to take a picture of you so instead you hold it in front of you instead because it somehow looks better to you."

Ahem.

Suddenly, though, everything seems to take a back seat (except Moonshoes, which I will not show again, which you should thank me for) to the newest wonder of stupidity: Crocs. These jackass pieces of footwear have absolutely no reason for existing, let alone being on sale, thereby putting forth the idea that someone looks at them and somehow decides to exchange currency to wear them in public. What are Crocs, you ask?

I guess they're golashes that are fun colored? I don't even know what function they are to provide. But, with each pair of Crocs sold, there should be a complimentary straight blade for you to slit your wrists when you either find a mirror or look back at pictures in a photo album 10 years from now. By then it should be rusted, making it hurt more, and maybe make the penance a tad more equal for the atrocious crime you have committed against humanity as a whole. If those fucking things gave you superpowers I'd gladly not have heatray vision cause I'd rather be normal and not look like a complete asshole (who may or may not be able to burn things with merely a glance!).

I saw a dead possum on the side of the road and it looked more like a puppet used in the forests of Endor in Return of the Jedi. Possums are not of this earth, and might come in large groups to smash your SUVs with two large trees, or at least sicken you with their heavily convoluted cuteness. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I usually don't write about common things ("how do you know when milk goes bad?!?!?"), but I must touch on the DMV as it is truly the place where time stops. You can walk into your local DMV and every piece of American popular culture in society since 1950 is on display. I saw a greaser, a guy with a mullet, a woman with a fanny pack, and a douchebag in Crocs. The DMV is truly the microcosm of America. Man, that's more hurtful than I intended. Ouch America. Ouch.

AND I DIDN'T EVEN TALK ABOUT THE DMV'S SERVICE LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL GET IT IT'S LAKSIDASICAL AT TIMES

The DMV also featured another feature of our culture that has been sucked of any credibility. Remember when the term "Express" actually meant faster? It has been bastardized to the point where it's now ironic. The express line at the grocery market doesn't mean you get through faster; instead you're in a line five deep with people who only have six items and all pay with credit cards or checks. The Express side of the Garden State Parkway only has two lanes while "local" has three, so if there is a crash on Express, it turns into Stop. The express registration is in the DMV, and is there for impossible to be anything other than "above plodding." I was told of an Express Planned Parenthood around the University of Maryland. I can only imagine the tag line: Baby free in 30 minutes or the next mistake is on us ! No, Express Planned Parenthoods did not come from my imagination, sadly.

Why is it that with the end of TV shows we demand closure and are batshit if we don't receive it? The end of the Sopranos came and went with no absolute resolution and people started losing our minds. It's baffling that in our culture where death--and inescapable end--is always avoided and pushed out of the collective conscious, it is totally expected in fiction. Closure in something fake is some sort of right while death in reality is an unexpected and terrible twist of fate.

If you're from a small town and are stifled by it, you can add another song to the list of "this is absolutely about me." I have Ben Folds - Silver Street there, but you can toss on Built To Spill - Twin Falls. It's a good song anyway; it's just that my current location sort of tips the scales of importance. Throw in some more in the comments if you feel so inclined.

For any form of ID, if you're ugly and when the person behind the table asks "is this picture ok?" do you always say "no, not really" in your head while you shake your head yes? You know that the picture sucks, but it's not the camera's fault or because you didn't smile, it's because the genetic game of Yahtzee just didn't work out for you.

Can someone explain New Hampshire to me? As I enter, the sign says Welcome! Bienvenous! There is a scenic view of trees and greenery, bordered along the bottom with "Live Free Or Die" in white cursive as if it actually reads "Happy Fun Times Galore." Also, the mile markers are also outfitted with kilometer readings, as are some of the exit signs. This is the state that has a NASCAR event north of the "border," but for some reason believes in the metric system? The shit? At least I can get a shitload of Jack Daniels for 10 bucks less there. Or a horse. Whatever is cheaper, I guess.

To close, I have a special celebrity sighting. Getting off of an elevator at the New York Public Library branch by Lincoln Center, I saw David Blaine. It was magical just being around him. Now I'm sure that merely being in his presence will allow me to stand, be cold, or sit in a pool for very long periods of time. Also, he's incredibly in shape and if you give him shit like I just did to his face, he could rip you in half. Twah.

Mayday

2007-05-20T18:50:00.000-05:00

How does one chart maturation? In our society, when you hit a fixed age you are supposed to fill a certain quota of maturity. When you're 17, you are now responsible enough to drive a two-ton vehicle that could easily be turned into a killing machine. When you're 21, you are allowed to legally consume alcohol, taking the burden off of older siblings or friends to purchase it for you illegally, and having the confidence in you to know when you should stop drinking (and if you are not trusted, there are DUIs, DWIs, and public drunkenness). Of course, not everyone is the same, so do these blanket gestures really apply in real life? It's a subject I've grappled with in my own life both physically ("Mom, it's not a big deal if I drive around with my friends after midnight all right, it's a stupid law anyway!!") and theoretically as the basis for my screenplay now four years in the making.

After a lot of thinking--and living--I have found a sort of litmus test not as much for maturation as much as for the impending onslaught of tomorrow, of jobs, of what was once "the future" and might now be “today.” The best way to characterize where you are in life is the question, "What does May mean to you?"

Let's go back a ways to Sixth Grade, which is about to wrap up, at least in the Northeast. After being the low person on the totem pole for the last few years (damn turnover from 3rd grade to 4th made you Kings of Recess into lowly serfs again), you're at the end of your reign over the entire K-6 school. (To be adjusted to other schools who have 6-8 middle schools, please take this as 5th grade. Thank you.) It only gets better: next year, you move in to Middle School. That's almost High School! That means it's almost time for driving, for parties, for breasts (if they haven't shown up yet)! It's time to stop being a stupid little kid and be an adult (read: teenager). For you, it’s all gravy from this point forward. Goodbye, stupid Elementary School, hello best summer ever (the Pool! Biking everywhere! Maybe a trip to the beach!!) and Middle School!

Of course, they have no idea what is coming instead is Middle School, where no one is ever happy with themselves or their station in life, the denizens are all incredibly insecure with everything and everyone around them and refuse to believe that anyone else is going through the same feelings that you are when clearly everyone is. They don't know that what affects them in the next two or three years will forever cement who they are as people from that point forward. Hell, you never know that until you're a Junior in High School.

You've made it out of puberty, right on the cusp of stopping the acne and weird hair growth and just before you're able to grow legitimate, non-comical facial hair (or, for girls, decide whether to bleach or wax said facial hair). You've just finished the most pressure-packed year of your life, because Junior year is the one that colleges look at the most, and everyone goes to college cause if you don't go to college you don't have a future, and if you don't have a future you won't have a job, and if you don't have a job you won't have a life worth living, and if you don't have that you'll be living on the street alone with HIV or some other god awful disease because you didn't stay awake in your SAT Prep class and now you're slowly dying, starving, cold and alone. Deep breaths. But no matter; you can now drive, so you have your first inkling of true freedom, leading up to the all important age of 18. You'll be a Senior, once again at the top of the food chain, with upwards of five grades looking up to you with either love or fear (it'll be a few years until you read Machiavelli, but instinctively you choose to instigate fear). You're the head of the class, done with SATs, and moving on to college applications. It's almost summertime, and it's time to start Senior year right!

Holy shit High School is almost over. Holy shit you're going to college in a few months. Holy shit your best friends are going to Ithaca and Syracuse and you're going to Boston and the person you have a crush on is going to Maryland. Maryland! You know how far away that is? Oh my god, High School was so easy. All those times I would panic over what is going on...then you take an AP course, and then they tell you that's not even HALF of what college is like!

Man, college is going to be great, it really is, but how are you going to do it without your friends? How can you attempt to get through with all of that learning without them around to support you? This summer will be the last one where everyone's together, and that means everyone...even the people you don't like. How can you live without Tweak? Yeah he's annoying but...but he's Tweak! He's always there! Now he won't be there. You might never see him again. You might not see anyone else again. Holy shit, let's make this summer count, cause it's the last one ever!

Pardon my forray into second-person narration there. It was going to go into full-on first, but I decided that'd be too much of a shock to the system. Not unlike May your freshman year of college. Somehow you survived, getting by with facebook, the internet, text messages, and lots of alcohol. By now you're starting to think about the rest of your life in concrete terms, specifically "What do I want to do with it?" You might take different classes to test out if you're into History or Visual Arts, Business or English. You find out that sometimes learning isn't that bad, and that you're treated with a certain amount of respect that you haven't gotten before. That respect comes with a more personal responsibility, where you have to get things done without your parents or peers harping on you (your parents will be on your back when the report card comes, with the harshness of disappointment directly linked to how much money they are spending for you to not do well). You rushed home on Thanksgiving to be back with your friends where everything seems like it used to, a return to normalcy as you still adjust to sharing a shower with twenty other men. This feeling is still around in the summer, where you're sort of older, wiser, more experienced, and ready to do different things like the stuff you always said you would when you were out of High School and looked forward to college.

The things that change most are the sweatshirts, from a Nike swoosh to a “College” or “University.” The settings normally do not. For some reason, while everything seems like it's the same, it's just...off. Yeah, it's the same people in the same basement at the same party, but they aren't the same people, this isn't the same party, but those are the same Solo cups, which is disgusting, frankly. A lot of what united everyone was the common enemy: High School and the inability to really "grow up."

Now everyone has that opportunity. Most take the baton and run with it, some don't, and some run faster than others. A disconnect grows. Whose fault is it? With the friends at college, you can talk differently, share different view points, do different things, go to bars, go to parties with new and interesting (and different) people. You grow on your own, becoming more and more rounded only to return and try to jam yourself back into a square hole. You get through it, but it's more difficult than you can imagine. It's exactly the same as your "last summer ever," except, for some part of you, it was the last.

Sophomore year gets a bit more serious. Remember how everyone else was doing this and that to prepare for colleges? SAT prep courses, summer courses for college credit, visiting 30 schools in a month? Now you're expected to have internships and job opportunities. The time for summer being about fun over everything is being pushed aside, replaced as a means for the rapidly approaching "future" which is morphing into the "present" every passing day. You're warned to enjoy this time more than ever, cause it will never be this fun again while also you're being told you're crazy if you don't know what your major is, if you aren't trying to make connections, if you aren't doing slave labor that will look good on your application. This dichotomy extends to your friends, who are starting to really differ. They just don't get you like the kids at school do, who you ironically miss more in your three or four months apart than the kids you grew up with and don't see for eight or nine months. Then again, they don’t really get you, either. Maybe you avoid the whole situation and stay at school for the summer. Ha, “summer.”

Then Junior year ends and holy fuck now you're a senior. This is it. You have only one year to somehow relish being this young and stupid while juggling future opportunities for yourself out of college. Look back on your life and see how it is all leading up to one year from now. You will walk on graduation. You will be thrust into the real world, or if you're lucky, try and linger on with Graduate School. The future isn't really the future anymore. In fact, a lot of your close friends are leaving, moving on, starting that journey that you are hesitant to start and they are downright reluctant, or petrified, to head into.

You wonder how you can survive without your friends at school, the ones that keep you sane, the ones that make hockey games worthwhile, the ones that you can sit around and talk with til the sun comes up, the ones with whom you can put on a movie and never even watch the damn thing cause you're all too interested in each other, the ones who somehow know you so incredibly well in such a short time. You wonder about how you can live without them in a much more real and tangible way than with Tweak, who you only remember when your hometown friends remind you of his existence. You had a common enemy again, but your side didn't win. No one ever does, really. You lose to reality, to the present, to the inevitability you've been resisting this whole time: adulthood. So, start spending money at the bars you can now legally get into and drink away this feeling as fast as humanly possible.

Senior year.… Senior year I really can't divulge on, simply because I haven't experienced it yet. The way I see it, it's High School all over again, except the stakes are raised. You don't have anything else to prepare for, you've been prepared for the last 12 years plus for this moment. You don't have anyone else around you to ease your way through the next few months of adjustment, as you've already been reassured countless times by many different friends who have known you for various lengths of time. You have one last summer (maybe) to try and get everything out of your system before the real world hits you like a ton of bricks. You’re perched at the edge of the nest, looking down at the ground before peering back at your tiny little wings. Before you can jump, you're nudged out from behind: Mayday! Hope you can fly.

Hope I can fly.

Welcome To The Grab Bag

2007-05-15T01:45:00.000-05:00

It has come to my attention that I do not update this blog enough. I really wouldn't know; I'm never really around to hear about it. My life is winding down...wait, that doesn't sound right. My busy days are winding down and slowly succumbing to the summer sun, leaving me more time to sit on my ass, play Guitar Hero, drink beer, and oh yeah, update this, I guess. The real reason why I haven't been updating as much as usual is a combination of my screenplay (film due out October, 2011) and, of course, my radio show. But now I am free (free!), and vow to be better with my posting.

How can I guarantee this, you ask? Well I will tell you, Impatient Reader.

I think of a lot of nonsense as I walk the streets, drive the streets, and do things away from streets (meadows?). I have a few post-its on my wall with ideas that I just never made it from yellow paper to the blue-backed internet. Basically what I'm saying is that there are a lot of little pieces of thoughts that never could be formed into a full post, nor could they really be partnered with anything else in a logical way.

So I figure the hell with logic. I'll just lump them all together and call it the Grab Bag, a weekly feature that was supposed to be every Wednesday...but I'm writing this early on Tuesday...so it's going to fall between Tuesdays and Thursdays, I guess. How about that? Not only is the content a Grab Bag, but whenever the hell it's posted is, too. There will still be full posts (I have a rather large one in the pipe for later this week) on top of this lazy ass conglomeration of whosits and whatsits. To the randomness we go....

I'm always puzzled when people feel it's the right time to befriend someone on Facebook. In the last few days, there has been a rash of friend requests from kids at my old High School. Looking beyond the fact that I'm obviously well-liked and a popular fellow, I just don't know what it is that makes people decide "ok, I’ve known him for a decade plus, NOW’S the time!"

I got a request recently from someone who is a younger sister of an old friend of mine. We haven’t talked recently, and I doubt my name is flowing through the halls more than it has to on a usual basis (27 times or the state cuts funding). Was she walking around and saw a beard and thought of me? Did she watch Queer As Folk and have "hey, Mike Anton!" pop into her head? I believe she reads, or read, this blog, so maybe that was it. Either way, I hope it wasn't because she was watching Dateline: How To Catch A Predator and thought of my last relationship.

If you're pro-life, you should never be allowed to eat eggs; it’s hypocritical.

How is it that ugly, fat, or incredibly dorky people are always in relationships? It makes no god damn sense to me. I'm single for years at a time, but I always see terrible looking (and sometimes smelling) people holding hands as they walk down the street. I can’t even escape it on the internet as they list having a boyfriend or girlfriend on facebook who is equally as into Battlestar Galactica as anyone could be. Is it because they look past the ordinary superficial boundaries, journeying far below the surface to find the true beauty inside of others? Nah. I think they just know that they have nothing going, have equally given up, and think, "fuck it, at least they have a penis or vagina." I was going to write "penis/vagina" and decided against it, although it may very well be the case for some people. Who knows? Grab Bag indeed!

Does it creep out anyone else when something is italicized, but when a word should be italicized in the italicized text, they just make it normal? Doesn't that ruin the whole reason for italics in the first place? It is sort of like the grammar Special Olympics, where you can somehow make plain, old, boring text feel good by giving it a bizzaro award. "Here you go for being ordinary in the face of excited text or in an aside, when being fancy just won't get the point across." I say we use bold, just to drive home the point. You get it?

Thank god for hyperlinks, or else the only reason we’d have underline is for magazine titles. Ouch.

Why did someone have to refer to gay people as fags? They totally ruined one of the most fun put-downs in the English lexicon. Everyone says it, even Hip Hop Superstar Eminem(tm)! The British were smart enough to co-op it as slang for cigarette, so they can always try and pull the lame excuse, “no, I was just calling him a cig.” At least they have something. On top of the Italics movement, I move that we de-hate the word "fag." This makes the homosexual community feel more accepted, makes straight people feel less guilty when it's the first thing out of their mouths when their friend does something dumb, and affords us the opportunity to beat the British like it's 1783, and those limey fucks are getting cocky again. Let’s see the sun never set over that, fags!

No, no, I meant cigarettes.

For whatever reason, people from all over the world check out my blog. Oh wait, I do know the reason: they want porn. The weird, ridiculous searches that lead to my blog have been well documented, but the new version of Blogger has led to a veritable feeding frenzy at an edible underwear party. Therefore, I have decided to really up the ante and trick Google and desperate perverts (why would you show up at "Almost Enlightening" for porn?!) by throwing out all the weird things I can think of at once. Feel free to throw in your own words in the comments and I'll be sure to add them. Ahem:

Suck lick thong girls underage Mortal Kombat II boys party teen panties KFC moist bra orgy duck Paperboy! oil lube used condom ew gross stegasorous backwards wet Kazaam hard eat soft rough fast slow watermelon head legs thighs binoculars push long

I’ll report back next week if there is any hike in the hits. At the very least, I made my Mom blush.

Racing In Circles

2007-05-07T16:18:00.000-05:00

There is a dichotomy that is running rampant in America, and that is of equality when it is comfortable for all parties. On one hand, it does not matter what skin color you happen to live in as you should be allowed to have the same job opportunities, the same respect, and the same dignity of anyone else. But then, whenever it is most appropriate to the situation, the dividing lines are drawn. Race becomes a cause of concern and a means of division to get points across. This schism is becoming all too real and apparent in this "post-Imus world," and it needs to stop.

The Imus Incident--given caps and a name because it is so obviously important--is by no means a polarizing issue. To polarize would mean that there would be two different and equal opposing sides that people would gravitate to. There weren't two sides in this case, unless you wanted to be Wrong. The only side one could take is that Imus is a racist sonuvabitch who has no right to spew his hate speech anywhere, let alone on the public radio waves that could be broadcast to anyone close enough to his hateful radio transmitter. To think otherwise would label you just as Imus himself was labelled. No one would stick up for someone who is a racist out of fear of being called a racist as well. Who is going to defend him, Oprah? Dr. Phil?

The pile on began. Throughout all facets of media, from talking heads to blogs, it rained shit on Don Imus. A lot of people took advantage of this incident and tried to show how liberal, good hearted, and morally correct they were in opposition to such a terrible person. It was the equivalent of a decathlon against Terry Schiavo. The bigger the story got, the more elitist the response became.

Let's see someone on his high horse. ESPN seems as good a candidate as any, having carried the Women's NCAA title game that put the Lady Scarlet Knights in the news in the first place. Tim Keown, a columnist for ESPN's Page 2 (a sub-site on espn.com that tries to mix pop culture and sports, usually in a comedic vein), takes a very strong and holier than thou approach to the whole matter. His column, found here, discusses the Incident in the most pompous, arrogant, and elitist way imaginable. He does not go out and call Imus's listeners stupid, instead implying it by saying that they "were laughing into their gun racks and plastic tablecloths." He does not give any merit to the rights of freedom of speech, instead criticizing the humor. On the comment of "nappy-headed hos," he asks, "That's the kind of humor you can't get away with anymore? That's humor? And Bernard McGuirk saying the word 'jigaboos'?"

The issue becomes confused. What someone feels is funny or not should have no baring over whether or not a man should lose his job. Furthermore, the arrogance to tell people what is or is not funny, what is or is not tasteful, is astonishing. Who put you in charge of what I should have to listen to? There is no universal mandate on what is racial insensitive and what is not. Dave Chappelle had an incredibly popular show that dealt with racism on a constant basis, and he's hailed as a genius (and rightfully so). Where were all of these people when Chappelle would mock whites? Is that not racist? When he would go after Asians, that wasn't racist? No one threw him off the air. People weren't coming out of the woodwork to badmouth Chappelle's Show. The Klu Klux Klan still has the right to march the streets of New York, why in God's name can't "nappy-headed hos" be broadcast in radio waves above their hateful pointy hats?

A week later, another (shittier) radio show in New York, JV and Elvis, was suspended after they made a prank phone call to a Chinese take out place using a stereotypical "Asian" voice. An Asian coalition, much like Al Sharpton's National Action Network, decided to put them out on the streets as well. In the New York Times article, the final line did not have anything to do with the comments from the radio hosts, but that the organization "was not yet as media savvy as Mr. Sharpton’s." Is that the real issue here? What small entity decides what is most appropriate for the masses to hear?

We have all learned that race isn't something to be toyed with. It is an issue that divides. It brings up many emotions, including anger, and it's best to not fan those flames. Thankfully, we have all learned our lessons, and from now on.

Study shows black players whistled more than whites.

Poll: Whites, blacks view Bonds' chase differently.

Or not.

The first story is about how white refs in the NBA call more fouls on black players than on white players. The discrepancy "is large enough that the probability of a team winning is noticeably affected by the racial composition of the refereeing crew." Let's just go beyond the fact that the majority of players in the NBA are black and that most of the refs are white, beyond how this isn't based on a single ref but calls made by all three members of the officiating team on the court, and even beyond that the study used statistics only and did not look at whether or not the foul calls themselves were fair or not.

The second story describes a large racially based discrepancy between blacks and whites on how Barry Bonds is viewed. 74% of black fans want Bonds to break the all-time career home runs mark, currently held by Hank Aaron (an African-American, like Bonds) while only 28% of white fans are rooting for Bonds. Furthermore, 46% of black people polled feel that Bonds has been treated unfairly while only 25% of whites do. Of those 46% of African-Americans, 25% think he is being unfairly treated because of his race (21% blame his personality). For the white side of the equation, 66% blame his unfair treatment based solely on steroids, and virtually none say it is because of his race.

For all the bullshit pandering that people like Tim Keown like to spew, the media conglomerate that pays him is very obviously keeping racial issues at the forefront of national thought to further their own profit. What does this story have to say about race? What general good does this do for the race relations that we hold so dear, especially after the Imus Incident? Where are the outraged masses to march on ESPN and demand that they not poll specifically between blacks and whites as we are all equals? Where are the Asian-American groups to ask why they were not equally represented? Why is the line drawn here?

The schism in this society is brought out by all of us, perpetrated by all of us, and then when someone "crosses the line," we all put up our dirty hands and attempt to show that we have wiped them clean. We are all guilty of playing into this game and then casting the first stone when it is comfortable and accessible in an effort to show others how "correct" we are, too. How can we have the audacity to say that we live united under one common, humanitarian banner when garbage like this permeates the air of society? These stories don't come from a "shock jock." This can't be pinned on someone who doesn't have the proper taste as any of the other Morally Correct people who are strewn across our land. No, this comes from the same media who shook their finger at a Don Imus. The hypocrisy is never ending.

This will not be the last time, either. At some point, another figure of questionable morality or decency will make a comment that is racially based and they will be run through the ringer. The media will ask aloud who is to blame, what sociological underpinnings make it so that the black race feels inferior and subject to ridicule, that whites have to be tolerant of other races, etc. etc. We are being played the fool. If polls which further divide the races are not published, what happens to Al Sharpton's position as a black leader? What happens to the Network he has put up? What happens on a slow news day when there needs to be a new angle on Barry Bonds? These stories sells papers, they make for airtime, and they bring up ratings and we all play along like marionettes.

This goes beyond the simple idea of what is funny or not, what is insensitive and what is not, or what is racist or what is not. This is about the majority (meaning all people) being jerked around by a minority who are thinking of themselves first and using a racial banner in order to achieve their personal goals. Instead of trying to unite, we are turned against each other, on purpose. Never once will they turn the mirror on themselves. Never once will they try and understand that they are the ones who perpetrate the never-ending racial issues. Never once will they question themselves because it drives stories, sells papers, fills up airtime, and gives certain people positions of power. This is an issue of morality and ethics, but it is not pointed at the proper targets, nor will it ever be.

Turning Your Orbit Around

2007-04-08T18:19:00.000-05:00

It’s Easter Sunday and once again I attended mass. On the way back my roommate Zack asked me a very good question: why do you go to church? As you might have realized, I do have my reservations with Catholicism (look at the post below for one teeny tiny example), but yet the last two years I have not only gone to church on Easter, but sort of looked forward to it. Clearly I'm not there to praise the lord for his holy elevator journey. I think it's my way of paying tribute to my parents, specifically my Dad. We don't see each other a lot, but there is a connection that he's going to pretty much the same service that I am, be it 225 miles due south.

As per usual, I have some critiques and a list of grievances about the proceedings that I'll bother you with.

-I saw some girl bring coffee in to church. Ok, what is that about. You don't bring coffee in to church, let alone on Easter Sunday. Who would ever think that's alright? They can serve you coffee in the rec hall downstairs that is used for bingo night, that's all well and fine, but don't bring your Starbucks in to wash down your sacrament with. Thanks.
-Why must everything be sung? I understand the pomp and circumstance, but some of these things are a stretch and a half to try and make lyrical. We can just say things; look at the Our Father! The only people who can sing cause they do it properly are Southern Baptists. All I could think of is how great that part is in Blues Brothers and how lilywhite and crappy it is at Marsh Chapel in Boston.
-There were people dressed up in suits, some had jeans and a t-shirt, and one girl had cowboy boots while wearing a dress. I just...I just don't know.
-When did we start clapping in church? No one should clap. We should do like it always was: stew in silence and stare in appreciation.
-The amount of hot chicks at church for Easter is astounding. It was better last year when we attended the six o'clock, when everyone was sobered up from the previous night and went "eh, yeah, I guess I'll go." One of these attractive lasses sat directly next to me when most of the pews were empty.

One cannot hit on a girl in church. Do I lean in and go "man, what a great homily, huh?” or "she really pronounces 'Nazareth' well, doesn't she?" At one point I tried to look down her dress (she was 5'5" - it's hard not to from up here) before realizing that I was doing that, on Easter Sunday, in church. While it was one of the lesser sexual crimes perpetrated in a church, I still felt wrong. I did not judge her when she neglected put in any money for collection, but I was willing to look past that.

Unfortunately, it was all over during the Our Father. Apparently, it's a well-known custom to hold hands with the people next to you during the prayer, eventually raising your hands up together afterwards. This is something I did not grow up with, and only way I caught wind of it was when I used to go to mass with my cousins on my Dad's side. The Our Father is gearing up and she grabs her friend's hand, then hesitantly goes for mine. I don't move, cause I don't deal with that noise. Suddenly, Zack grabs my right hand and in that instant I became a giant asshole. I totally blew it. What can I do now, try and grab her hand at the "...as it is in Heaven" part? She gave me a look, and I felt small. She did the "peace be with you" handshake and was courteous, but my opportunity was blown. Thy Will be done indeed.

Heaven Help Me

2007-03-28T23:01:00.000-05:00

*WARNING: Blasphemy is about to rain from the sky like sulfur.

I was reading up on the new Iron Man movie that changes the origins of the character. Instead of in Vietnam, Tony Stark now has an incident in Afghanistan that gets him into the iconic wonder suit. Comics will do this occasionally. When a character’s ideology or general beliefs don’t mesh with what’s current, he is either put out to pasture or changed (it's not a stretch to see Captain America die in 2007, is it?). Comics will have to update their characters roughly every 10 years or so, just to keep them fresh and viable in society and popular culture. But yet, there is one book whose characters are rigidly steadfast, whose feats border on the impossible, and is to be read as absolute truth from two thousand years ago.

Yes folks, Superman goes through more changes than SuperSavior ever does, and Kal-El doesn't have wars fought, laws made, morality based on, or terrorism enacted His name. I have had many problems with Catholicism over the years, from roughly five years old onward. It's rather evident in this blog (try and count the times I capitalize the pronoun "his" properly). What I've never done is look back critically, in an almost revisionist mode, and try and modernize the situations or problems with Jesus in the here and now. Somehow, this all came about during a lecture on the rise of Conservatism in 1980s America. You connect the dots.

For as long as I can remember, we all knew everything was going to be ok once Jesus came back. And he is coming. Oh yes, he's coming. The more time that goes by I keep thinking that we're getting stood up. It’s been two thousand years and he still hasn’t called us back. What if Jesus is actually trying to salvage a younger, prettier humanity from all that is evil? We could be floating in limbo and see Jesus and 6 Billion others at a bar having drinks. Man that'd be awkward. "Oh, these are my....friends, ya know.”

*cough*

We are all so cynical now that I don't think we'd believe Jesus if he did come back. We'd deem him some yahoo, a puppet of Jerry Fallwell, a loon, someone looking for cash or a reality TV deal (Pimp My Savior?). All of his "miracles" would be debunked on Discovery, or, God forbid, he just stands around on a really, really high church for 3 days before he is “set” back to Earth. Man, Jesus would be a hack and a half. Then again, he could very easily just start the Rapture. That’s a good one.

He could have very well been born into a virgin mother in 2007, but I find this to be a big problem as well. Would anyone believe that someone just GOT pregnant? If your girlfriend or wife said that, would you fall for it? She could be beaten for cheating or gotten an abortion from the phantom rape. It would at least give the old people who sit in front of Planned Parenthood every day on my walk a good reason to keep showing me baby pictures. I would also hope that the doctor that would perform said procedure wasn't Jewish or Italian, cause that'd be 0-for-2 all time against Sons of God. Those numbers don't bold well for postseason success; ask Judas-Rod.

How overbearing must Mother Mary have been? I had a protective mother, but she only had, you know, a regular son. I don't know what it would have been like to raise the Son. I don't think Jesus chewed his own food til he was 13. Or was it the opposite? Did Mary think his son was of God, and therefore invincible, so no matter what she did he'd be ok? Mary could have bounced that baby into the manger and she’d be all right. I’d say somewhere in between, but I don’t think moderation is allowed when dealing with these sorts of things….

Apparently Jesus had siblings, and were therefore born of Joseph. I wonder if Joseph saw Jesus's faults (I think he had a weak left in basketball) and taught his kids to exploit them. Joseph could have been the ultimate bad sport parent, pushing his kids past the brink just so he could compete with that Creator Of All That Is Heaven And Earth guy. Jesus is inside eating...sand?...and the kids are outside doing wind sprints til dusk.

I wonder if Jesus could have been a carpenter by trade? I guess it’s a good back up plan if downsizing snagged that whole Son of God thing. Imagine if you had a table made by Jesus? Who knows how much that would bring in on eBay.

Did Jesus actually rise up to Heaven literally? Could you wave goodbye to him until he went out of site? Is he nothing more than a balloon filled with helium? I'd hope he miracled a rocket ship or something; sparklers at the very least.

Why is it so weird to think of Jesus as being a normal guy? I hope he had a wife and he had kids. What do you want him to do, just ignore his human feelings and walk around in sandals until he was hung out to dry? He died for our sins; the least we could do is acknowledge that he got some. Good for him.

I have come to two conclusions on Jesus's sex life. One is that he was gay. Considering he didn't write the Good Book (or the one starring him, The Good Book Two: Heaven Harder), maybe his friends were kinda freaked out by dudes kissing dudes and wrote about how it should never, ever happen. The idea that I tend to hold dear is that he did have kids and they had X-Men like super powers. Jesus descendents are now a whole race of super humans, always lurking, always watching. Where do you think the show Heroes comes from?

I don't think the big J-Man would be able to cut it in today's culture. His face would be sprawled all over the Christian equivalent of Page 6, seen canoodling with famous (and loose) nuns. "Giving her the host" indeed. I doubt that he could snag myspace.com/jesushchrist without paying a hefty fee. Ditto for anything JC related on AIM or gmail. There are already like 300 Jesus Christs on facebook, too. After that, what’s the point? He’d truly be a stranger in a strangle land (I know, that wasn't Jesus, but it's appropriate). Maybe, just maybe, he could summon up some of that old magic and heal the lame, namely Nickelback.

Gramophone Filled With Dog Shit

2007-02-12T01:46:00.000-05:00

Tonight, the music industry got together (meaning everyone from one of four companies) and gave out awards that used to have meaning. That's right, it's Grammy time! It's sort of like the Oscars or the Emmys, except it has even less credibility than the Golden Globes (they've only given Madonna one award).

It is shocking that at one point those awards actually held some sort of merit, as if winning them could solidify one's career. I think I blame Santana. He wins a baker's dozen and it was shocking. "My god, he came back from 30 years of playing shit only stoners would listen to, makes a song with that Matchbox 20 douchebag, and all of a sudden he can fill his swimming pool with golden awards!" Ever since there's always someone or some group walking out with more gold than you can put on a plane. Now, every year, someone has to have way too many awards to hold and they giggle and everyone takes pictures of this jackass and you have tomorrow's headlines: "HASBEEN/DEAD GUY/WHO? WINS TONS O’ AWARDS. I GUESS WE SHOULD CARE."

In example, how long has Ray Charles been making albums for? Decades upon decades. Can anyone think of anything remarkable to come from him out of the last twenty or so years? Other than the Pepsi song, I don't think the greater populace knew he was alive. So towards the end of his life, he makes a cd of duets with various “stars” (like Norah Jones, a 5-time Grammy winner, who is still a nobody), has Jamie Foxx play him in a movie, croaks, and then wins 80 Grammys that year. If he didn't die, if that movie didn't come out, and if the nation wasn't baffled by a blind man being addicted to heroin ("I couldn't find the vein WITH vision!") he wouldn't have won dick. The cd would have come out, sold in Starbucks across the nation, and done nothing.

This year, the day that the nominations were given out I knew who was going to win: the courageous Dixie Chicks. These uppity broads said some borderline mean shit about George Bush and are riding that train for as long as it can go. Stupid liberal cock fucks stand and admire. "My god," they think, "these are some educated southerners who have seen the liberal, blue-state light, and put down Evil George W. Bush. They are heroes of free speech!"

Those fucking bitches could have shit on a plate, passed it out as a pâté to guests, have them revolt and vomit, tape the whole fucking thing, and still would win best record, song, and ALBUM of the year. What? What? Who does that? Who gets all three? What the fuck?! The song, entitled "Not Ready To Make Nice," really shows that they are going to rebel, maaaaan! They're going to take on whoever they want to, maaaaan! They're not a country band anymore, cause they're ABOVE that maaaaan! There are worse words I want to use here, but my mother reads this, so I'll be polite. They are vaginas to the utmost.

Lifted from the AP: "That's interesting," Dixie Chicks lead singer Natalie Maines crowed from the podium after winning the country award. "Well, to quote the great 'Simpsons' _ 'Heh-Heh.'

"Just kidding," added Maines. "A lot of people just turned their TVs off right now. I'm very sorry for that."

Don't worry stupid, no one was watching anyway. You're in a pretty bad place when you're trying to rip off the Video Music Awards, which is such utter crap it should be used against terrorists in interrogations. They'd easily give up the minute they hear one of those 18-word-long Panic! songs. What the hell is up with that, anyway? Why must they have such long titles? Does this make them more important, deep, introspective?

As Maines accepted the album of the year, she joked: "I'm ready to make nice!" She then added: "I think people are using their freedom of speech with all these awards. We get the message."

This cutesy bitch should be hit with a fucking shovel. Holy fuck. You aren't cute, you aren't a proponent for free speech. Let's see what you got out of burning bridges in the south: a movie, kept the mainstream audience you've had before hand, added bed wetters, and got five Grammies. Tough. Wow. The nation wept for you. I'M GONNA MAKE NICE NOW LOL GUYS NO REALLY I'M NOT BUT THANKS. People are using their freedom of sp BITCH IT'S ABOUT MUSIC!

Well, actually, no, she's right. If it were about music and not politics (heaven forbid at a MUSIC awards show), then Gnarls Barkley wouldn't get the shaft for anything but Alternative (what does that even fucking mean?) and Urban (the classy term for "black music that isn't rap, we guess"). At the very least, the very good Stadium Arcadium from the Red Hot Chili Peppers would have gotten a nod. But no. No, that's not possible, because we shouldn't award one of the most original, unclassifiable (well, other than Alternative) albums of the last ten years. The only time the Grammys caved was when they gave best album to Outkast for Speakerboxxx/The Love Below, and they ended up looking like assholes cause it came across as, "LOOK! HISTORY! WE GAVE THE NEGROS AWARDS!"

I don’t even know why I’m so angry. I only watched the show for roughly 15 seconds, just enough time to see The Roots lose to Ludacrus for Best Rap Album. Luda also beat Pharrell...who apparently put out a rap cd. I'm just so befuddled I don't know what to do with myself. Before you ask, no, I didn't watch the Police open the show. If I wanted to see old people scrounging for their check to pay the rent I'd go to my local grocery store. At least they won't pretend that they hate everyone around them.

The best irony for this shitfest is the award itself: the ornate, golden Gramophone. Once essential to playing and enjoying music, it is now nothing more than a relic, a kitsch item for the older set who use it not to listen to Benny Goodman, but to look at and think of days past. It harkens back to the good old days--as they are always better when they are now out of reach--when things were different, when things were great, when things meant something. But now, that Gramophone is worthless, a relic, a piece of history that is best left there: in the past. How appropriate.

Alert Status Red

2007-02-01T14:48:00.000-05:00

Throughout time, there have always been odd coincidences. On the bigger scale, you have David Bowie and Bing Crosby singing "Little Drummer Boy," or the British and French working together for the first time in the Crimean War. Of course, there are smaller odd combinations, such as taking the wrong drink at Starbucks (sorry confused-looking Asian girl, but don't fret - your drink sucked, so you’re welcome whilst you enjoy my café mocha) or reading Hunter S. Thompson at the School of Theology's library. I have propped myself in here with the haggard looking friends of Jesus to do some work, but I can't not discuss what happened in Boston yesterday. It seems as if some great satirist put his work into action and everyone is taking it like it's Death of a Salesman.

If you are not aware, there was a terrible bomb scare all over Boston, spilling into Somerville, and getting as close to me as the BU Bridge. I guess I would have been scared if I didn't hear of the bomb threats until around 4 PM, when the truth started to come out. I just got the tail end of, "the devices, these...hoax devices, seem to have a similar characteristic that...seems to show that they are of the some unified front." What was that image?

To say that I almost shit my pants when that came on my tv would be an understatement. It's simply a Mooninite, a Space Invader-esque character from the College cult show on Cartoon Network's [adult swim] programming block, Aqua Teen Hunger Force. The heavy irony here is that they are invading Earth from the Moon to take our planet over. “Cartoon terrorists take their mission off the screen an into reality…more at 11.”

I watched in gleeful joy as the local news stations had such "breaking news" as the "hoax devices" are from a show called "Aqua Team Hunger Forces," pulling production assistants from the booth to try and explain what's going on. The young chap called it "guerilla marketing," while the anchor goes "guerilla...indeed," before using his Stern Face and staring down the barrel of the camera.

Every bit of this coverage is humiliating. The constant repeating clip of the Boston bomb squad water cannoning the "explosive." Helicopter shots of a panicked Boston, hiding in fear from glorified Lite-Brites. Mayor Menino threatening "whoever did this" (did what?) with two to five years in prison. The anchors having to swing twenty minutes of tv time out of a toy. It was surreal.

This campaign has been going on with no problem in other, larger cities without the sense of inherent panic. When someone thinks of terrorism, doesn't Boston fall somewhere below Los Angeles, New York, and Chicago, who had no problem with this advertising? What really shocked me was all of the bluster being thrown about by the officials of Boston and Massachussets. The use of a term like "hoax devices" certainly makes it seem as if this was the desired outcome of the marketing. "Let's totally think people are doing to die! Awesome! That’ll get our name out there!”

We have ventured onto a weird cross section of generational gaps and national security. Most people here at BU would probably consider this to be laughable. Here we are, so stricken by fear that we immediately panic when cartoon characters are being lit at night in various points all over Boston. "But Manton," you say, "they placed these 'devices' all over heavily populated areas of Boston including interstate overpasses and T stations!" Yes - it's an advertisement. Where do you want them placed, back alleys, trashcans, the fucking desert (ie the Garden during a Celts game).

Two people have been arrested for putting the terror devices up all over town. You can view the amazing interview on YouTube, where they discuss the history of various hair styles and their origins instead of fielding “proper” questions. One reporter quips "are they going to take this seriously?" Why should they? Why are you? So these guys might get martyred because of an easy-to-assume media who get their viewer ship by terrifying the public blew up (pardon the pun) a mix-up?

Who can you blame in this situation? Clearly someone will have to be to blame, and it looks like it will be these two schleps and Time Warner, who owns Cartoon Network, the show, and therefore the ad campaign. They had a wonderful statement that explained their sorrow that the advertising pieces could be mistaken for bombs. They did not apologize for putting them up, but simply that they were mistaken for combustibles.

This is an embarrassment, and new governor Deval Patrick doesn't like having the egg on his face. They have already published how much money Boston had to spend yesterday, so Time Warner will foot that bill. The over dramatization is in full effect; people were "fearful" and given a grave disservice from not being allowed on roads and public transportation. The media will drop buzzwords and phrases like "hoax" and "...in a post-9/11 world" while flashing NEWS ALERTS that transpire to nothing.

This is the culture we live in, folks. Dominated by fear and insulated from the dangers of light-up cartoon characters who happen to "give the finger." Every article or piece of news condemned the wrong people. The only people to blame are those who overreacted. Put a twenty-year-old kid with the cops and the entire problem is diffused immediately. Send out one bomb squad, figure out what it is, go around town and take down the rest if permits weren't officially offered. Slap on the wrist, we all go home.

No, instead, we have a big hairy mess from people overreacting who place no blame on themselves. In fact, it's the opposite. Good job Boston for responding so well to a terrorist situation! Could have used the help a couple of years ago. But now we can sleep easy as every neon light bulb and walk/don't walk sign is taken from the city, keeping us safe and snug and secure. I blame light bulbs. If we can't plug in lights to advertise things, then, well, Edison-ists win.

God Bless America!

Hello, Timebomb

2007-01-29T02:27:00.000-05:00

My roommates and I were invited to a party downstairs in our apartment building. It was the first event held by one of the sororities on campus, and the invite list on facebook was somewhere in the 90s (meaning there would be roughly 150 people there at any one time). Filled from front to back with ladies of varying degrees of sobriety and attractiveness, we walked in, found two girls we knew, and proceeded to talk to them almost exclusively. After nimbly dodging a drunken freshman girl--who then fell in a lap of a couple heavily making out on the couch, leaving the gent none too pleased--my group retired towards a table that was once the playing field for flip cup.

Across the beer can mass grave was a group of five or six females, all of whom were intently looking in my direction. Playing it cool, I paid them no mind and continued to talk to my little entourage. From out of nowhere came a flash of light from a digital camera. Jarred, I shook my head and looked at the source: two girls, rather short, fairly unattractive. The one holding the camera giggles and says aloud, to no one in particular, "oh man, let's get more crowd shots!" That was followed by another picture of me exclusively, this time with the camera slightly ajar, giving it that wonderful Dutch Angle/"there's something wrong here" vibe. Meekly, she turns to her right and randomly holds down the trigger, flash goes off. She turns back to her friends. I do the same.

A few seconds later, I hear someone yell something from across the table. I look over and the photographer is asking me a question. "Are you Jewish?" she asks. With the help of a few bottles of beer, I stone faced a, "no, Roman Catholic" retort. She shoots me a confused look. I try and further my case by telling her that I'm even confirmed. I feel it isn't necessary to go the extra step and say that my confirmation name is Joseph. She says, "oh," prompting me to wave my hand in front of my face and say, "I know it looks it, but, no." I am Polish after all, and being Jewish became rather unfashionable around the same time the Antons moved to America. Dejected, li'l Annie Lebovitz turns to her friend, and they continue to point at me and debate my ethnicity, facial structure, and perceived religion for the next minute or so.

For the record, even if I was wearing a yarmulke, I would tell the girl I was Muslim. She was certainly not worth a conversion.

Have you ever wanted to beat someone so fucking badly in beer pong that it becomes almost as intense as a legitimate competitive sport? There was this one kid who kept hanging around the table, pointing out good shots, going "ooohhh" when there was a close miss, and laughing when a shot was way off. His commentary went unappreciated by all around. I figured he was just an asshole, smiled at him, and then when he turned his head I made faces at him, because I'm a coward and a backhanded son of a bitch. Oh well, the people on the table with me laughed.

The girl and I win. While we set up the next game, we see our next opponents. Lo and behold, it’s the douche himself. I turn to the girl I'm playing with and say, "I don't want to play anymore...but we can't fucking lose this game." She nods her head in agreement; so serious she refuses to say anything. That's quite the level of seriousness, sirs and ma'ams.

This guy was shooting with his right hand, but floated his left hand up as if he was shooting a basketball. He made his first shot, left the right hand leaning, got a big high five, and made an "oooohhhh it's on now!" sort of noise. I wanted to take the table leg and throw it, much like a javelin, through his giant round head.

Anyway, turns out he was the worst kind of asshole: he wasn't very good. In 10 cup, he hit maybe three, letting his partner do all the hard work (whilst she leaned with her elbow blatantly over the edge). So while that jackoff talked and talked and did dumb shit with his hands, my partner and I won, going undefeated, and beating a pure dick in the process. I hope he is now racked with self-doubt and cries himself to sleep.

Oh who am I kidding, he's probably wearing a hat that says "I'm #1" while he poses all alone in his bathroom with his shirt off, staring at himself in the mirror, trying his best to convince himself that his life is one worth living. Godspeed, sir.

There are absolutely no advantages to having the toilet paper be set for an overhand setting. The preferred method--hell, the only method--in the Anton house is the underhand orientation. This is the type that has the paper coming from the back, towards the wall dispenser, and dangles nicely straight to the ground. The overhand set up has the next sheet right on top of the roll, just waiting to be wrenched away, one 4"x4" slice of papery goodness at a time.

Has anyone ever had a problem with underhand? I can't believe it's possible. It's always ready to gently roll off, and you can usually control when the sheet ends. Overhand is a grab bag of lengths which could lead to the dreaded "one at a time" problem one experiences mostly at restaurants or places where you already don't feel comfortable going to the bathroom in.

This bothers me nearly as much as orange juice with pulp. This has baffled me since I was three. I was at my grandma's shore house, and my mom pours me a glass of what she swears is orange juice. "Incorrect," I counter, "this has stuff in it. Juice doesn't have stuff in it." She tries to placate me saying that it's just pieces of orange, and it comes with the sweet nectar of Tropicana oranges. I will hear nothing of the sort.

If this sort of willy-nilly processing happened with any other food, there would be hell to pay. Would you accept pieces of grape in your wine? How about apple bits in your apple juice? At least one foreign embassy would burn in effigy for the lax processing involved in creating that liquid product.

That is the most crucial part, really. It's a liquid and therefore shouldn't contain any solids. If I'm thirsty and suck down a glass of liquid, I don't want to deal with shit sticking to my teeth that I eventually have to sort of chew and then swallow. This is a mixture of mediums that simply should not be. Pulp should be barred from every household in America. We have the internet, a Polio vaccine, the Nintendo 64, but somehow we have pieces of fucking oranges in our orange juice. What's the point of modernity when shit like this continues to occur? I write on my 2004 laptop and drink oj from the dark ages. Fucking ridiculous.

Culling it all together: I'm not Jewish, I hate people who talk and have no game in beer pong, ineffectual toilet paper configurations, and orange juice that was drank when leparcy was still an issue. Yup. All in a night's work.

Why not?

2007-01-25T00:07:00.001-05:00

The most curious disease of any writer is the dreaded Writer's Block. I have heard stories that it's just in your head, that it isn't true, or that you don't have any confidence in your work. On the flipside of this coin, I remember not being able to write. When NYU wanted 50 pages of a sample screenplay, I wrote 50 in two weeks and eventually a full-length 90 pages in about three weeks after that. Five weeks, ninety pages, no problem. Then I couldn't write another thing for months.

This blog was supposed to be the cure for that. Here I could say whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, in whatever form I wanted. But, suddenly, I have been snake bit. There is no topic I feel the urge--no, the need--to discuss. Nothing has really driven me to the computer, my hands already spasming to communicate so they can hit the keyboard running in mid thought. Instead, I've been simply content. Passion fuels my writing. From being miserable or angry or happy, there is always some feeling that needs to burst out. For whatever reason, this is the only suitable medium for my catharsis.

Earlier on in this trumped up journal I had a similar spell. "I guess I'm just really happy," I mused, while the actual lass was out-and-about with nary a phone number to reach her at in case of emergencies. Is this my trade off? I have nothing of real merit to complain about or really ponder in an entertaining way, but I'm incredibly happy, intrigued, and just in a great place personally. Sure, I could have more, but I most certainly could have less.

My roommate Zack is plugging away at a column submission for the Daily Free Press here at school. I honestly forgot they were even giving away slots this semester (like they do every semester). In the battle of mind and laptop, he tells me, "It's like I forgot how to write a column." I merely forgot what to write.

I'll finish this up with an air of uneasiness. There is no way I have outgrown the blog, but something has changed, and I don't know what that certain thing is. In due time the breaker will be turned back on, the plug we just thought never worked since it shorted while we used the blender AND the toaster will once again try and power both appliances, and I'll be telling more dumb stories. Until then, the focus remains on my radio show. We now pod cast. Awesome.

Oh, and if no one's seen it...here's what I did last semester in Production 1:

So Misunderstood

2007-01-04T04:23:00.000-05:00

Title comes from the brilliant Wilco song "Misunderstood" (creative song title, huh?) which sums up my latest winter break in Jersey. I don't want to go to Hooters and look at girls who only talk to you for tips and drink watered-down cheap beer. I'd rather be writing screenplays, watching the Twilight Zone and 24 on DVD, and playing far too much Winning Eleven 9 Soccer for PS2 (go LiverpoolFC!). For this, I’m a little bitch. Oh so misunderstood.

This post was originally going to be entitled, "four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire." Problem is only 4% would get the reference and it was far too long to write out numerous times. But who cares about things that won’t ever happen? Let's get random (and be even more misunderstood).

The Best-Of Who cd, entitled My Generation, is adorned with a sticker that would hopefully sell you on buying the cd as you hold it in Best Buy. Some stickers say, "featuring the hit songs Wanksta and In Da Club!" or, "with BONUS Live DVD!" The Who cd comes emblazoned with, "As Heard on CSI." I'll wait while you react like I did: swallowing that vomit down your throat, back where it came from.

Are we all ok now?

Some items can sell themselves...or at least without the “help” of saying they did the theme song for some ass show (on CBS of all places). You know what sticker should be on that Who cd? "Why buy this? Because it's the fucking Who." This can be personalized for many other artists, namely The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Nirvana, and more. You don't need a reason to buy those albums other than the obvious: they were made by (insert genius here). To be fair, I never would have started listening to Radiohead if not for the opening credits for Saved by the Bell.

Any time I go into a bathroom and the hot- and cold-water knobs say "Delta" it freaks me out. Is this the same company that can fly me to over 200 domestic locales for reasonable prices? I would assume not. If it is, shouldn't there be some sort of law that a company can't diversify that much? I will never own a Mitsubishi TV for that very reason. It's akin to having a Starbucks MP3 player, a Wonderbread calculator, or an ESPN toaster. It's simply not right.

During a recent trip to Barnes & Noble, I passed by a section of books under the heading "Religious Fiction." Isn't that a bit redundant?

Who the hell does Cedric the Entertainer entertain? What balls for a man to proudly proclaim something he's not. I'm Mike the Healer of the Lame! Look at me heal Panic! At the Disco fans! Has he EVER made a movie that leaves the viewer even chuckling? Let's go through a sample, thanks to the glory of imdb. Big Mamma's House: Nothing funny about obesity (or Martin Lawrence, who has been doing his best "Martin Lawrence" impression since 1995). Serving Sara: what? Barbershop 2: there weren’t any loose ends from the first one, were there? Johnson Family Vacation: let's take National Lampoon's Vacation...but make it BLACK! Man of the House: men can't deal with babies! Huzzah! The Honeymooners: let's Black that one up, too! It worked so well the first time! Then there's this absolute dogshit new flick, Codename: The Cleaner. He's not your usual undercover FBI whateverthefuck! He must have the best agent in town or gives phenomenal blowjobs. There is no other explanation. Wait…is there affirmative action in Hollywood? Would certainly explain Eddie Griffin….

I have a very contentious relationship with reality television shows. As a future writer for television, seeing so many writer-less shows succeed does not give me much hope in an already minute job market. There are some shows that I at least understand. The Real World (which is as real Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and Moses) is escapism fun, because NO ONE can be as stupid or whorish as a cast member. You can get the herp just by watching the orgy in the hot tub from the Vegas season (and I hear this new season is simply insane).

However, my parents' new favorite show, Top Chef, is completely ludicrous. How can you judge who should be tossed off? How do you root for someone? "Oh, their inedible green soufflé thing is definitely better than her Orange Julius-inspired rotisserie crab Rangoon. You heard the judge, the texture and flavor layering is CLEARLY not sustained through the entire meal!" What? Anyone can watch American Idol and figure out who puts on a better performance. How the christ do you judge food by looking at it? There aren't any samples coming out of your cable box. I have a great idea for a new reality radio show: Top Sculpter.

There is a billboard that nearly caused me to crash into a barrier on Route 17. In front of a stark white background is a bunch of people, but most notably featured among the bunch is Will Smith. I’ve liked Will since way before he captured our hearts with Big Willie Style (1997). My love and admiration has grown in this Willenium. What shocked me about this billboard is what reads in large, bold, black lettering across the bottom: WE ALL HAVE AIDS. Like hell I do! I'm sorry for this shocking revelation, French Prince (always thought he should stay away from that loose Jada Pinket), but WE ALL HAVE AIDS? Why someone hasn't sued Cedric for false advertising is beyond me, but this rampant slander is egregious. Then I did some research and saw the other part that was not mentioned on this particular billboard:

…IF ONE OF US DOES. Obviously not everyone in this ad campaign has AIDS. Look at Nelson Mandela. He's African for chrissakes!

Do you remember the ultimate cop-out during elementary school gym class? Instead of playing poison ball, Dr. Dodgeball, or matt ball, there was something else (and no, I don't count gymnastics, because that was a month-long shitfest). There was parachute day.
Let's go over all of the amazing activities we'd have a ball with: lift parachute and and put it down, make "popcorn" by shaking foam balls on top of said parachute, and lift it up and with the magic of air, pull it down really fast, sit down on the edge of the fabric, and make a ceiling of Kingdome-like sturdiness.

Why do I bring this up? Other than the obvious (pointing out that it sucked more dick than job-seeking Cedric), any time I type in AIM and start the im with a “(“ and don't close the parentheses before prematurely sending it, I have to type a solo “)” and send that out. I keep feeling like I'm merely sitting down on the edge of the parachute and trying to make it look like I didn't mess up. In fact, we're just having fun! And, like in gym class, no one is buying the sorry excuse to make up for something shitty. Not a-one.

And that's what separates us from the monkeys, folks.

Century Mark

2007-01-03T23:10:00.000-05:00

There are so many little accomplishments in this world that go unnoticed. Little Jeffy doesn't get a prize when he wakes up one morning to a dry bed. Grandpa is not awarded a medal when he goes outside to fetch the morning paper without breaking his hip. Does anyone give accolades to the mom who tirelessly, day after day, has to be seen in a minivan? No, these people are not given the proper due for these achievements (both big and small). Thus, I submit to you the small milestone of writing the 100th post on Almost Enlightening (formerly Dribbling Drivel, a direct rip-off from Steve Martin's book Pure Drivel).

I have had a very firm stance against blogs, most specifically livejournals. The thought of the pomposity that one has to posses to believe that someone else would be interested in how their boring day-to-day life went sickened me. I don't care if you went to the mall, hit up Hot Topic, and then chain smoked all day. Who gives a shit?

It was with great trepidation that I created this thing. I tried my best to avoid having it fall into a self-serving discussion of my everyday life. While backlogging all of my previous posts, I realized that something like that is unavoidable. When you write what's on your mind it is directly affected by your every day life. During the time that I had trouble finding girls, I wrote about how they don't understand guys. Feeling out of place at home, I wrote about the disconnect between home and the place your stuff is while you’re away at college. There is a string of four or five posts with one word, lowercased titles when my two-year relationship ended.

I didn't spill about what she said or what I did; that is not important. I felt the emotions of the situation were important and relatable. I guess I just can't escape, well, myself. My only hope is that it reads as a sort of sharing effort and not a "and then I did THIS!" blow-by-blow account of my dull life. Probably against my best intentions, my life is on here, for all to see; all 487 days, all 128,175 words.

What constantly surprises me is how many people read this (let alone for why they do). I have a tracker on the site, so I know who comes to the site (through their ip address). I also get some fun little stats, like what kind of web browser you use, where you come from if you’re directly linked, if they found me on google, under what search terms, etc. So far it's been 24 countries all in total, although most have come from some wacky ass google searches. Some of my personal favorites:
sucked Allison Murphy (a Thai boy wanted to see my friend get sucked, apparently)
24-Hour Erotic Film Fest
Between a toilet and a hard place (the only direct title hit)
Bloodhouse pissing concert
My Vaginoplasty (which has since garnered 2 return hits from the same person, so I'm cornering that market)
men who tease too much or try and make girlfriends jealous

My biggest supporters in terms of linking have been the wonderful ladies at Chickball who really don't post enough. They're an absolute joy to read, so check'em out. Do it if only so I'm not as embarrassed by the fact that I give them around 1/3rd the hits they give me. I also give great thanks to those of you in the BU community. Thanks to the university for making a unique IP for almost every on-campus residence. This gives me the opportunity to see who reads based on where they live (55 Buswell, 10 Buick St. and their individual floors, brownstones on Bay State). Thank you Mom for reading, cause what other mother would?

The biggest debt of gratitude I owe to New Jersey, specifically my hometown of Park Ridge. I have not always been fair to you, but you really helped to shape me to be what I am now. For the number of readers I get, about half are from Boston, and the other half are from all over Jersey. Lord knows why you read, but keep it up. You puzzle and gratify me at the same time. Big thanks to Katy, Sasha, and Maggie for reading when this started. Another big thanks to Kels’s friends for being the first people I don’t know to look this over: you legitimized me.

So now I reach a crossroads. What the hell now? I always said I'd try and cull this into some sort of 100-200 page book to shop around. Maybe I could even self-publish. My biggest question is not unlike that of anyone else, really. It's a question of identity. I always had a problem with how the media handled Kanye West's "George Bush doesn't care about black people." Not for the racist undertones, or that they took it as an indictment rather than a bombastic exclamation point to get his message into the realm of headline news. What angered me the most was the title that they all gave him: Rapper. They couldn't call him "recording artist" like at any halftime show (regardless of genre), or "music artist," or simply "producer." He is stuck with "rapper," a subtle condemnation on his position to make such statements. Basically, they had "STUPID" running underneath the name "Kanye West."

The term "blogger" doesn't seem to be a fitting term. It doesn't hold the same disparaging tone of "rapper," but I'm not Matt Drudge, nor do I write for Deadspin. I'm not a columnist, because I am far too irregular in my posting pattern and have absolutely no structure. I am not a comedian because I don't go on stage and discuss these things, nor am I always very funny (intentionally or otherwise). I'm not a dramatist because I'd rather make people laugh. I’m not a storyteller, just when the situation calls for it. So what am I? Am I a writer? Storyteller? The only thing I know is that I'm long winded. Dear lord that's a lot of text up there. And what am I talking about? Oh well, time for 101 to make up for this self-serving nonsense....

That Guy IV: I'm Probably Talking About You

2006-12-16T02:46:00.000-05:00

Almost Enlightening is on the cusp of its 100th post. I have no idea when that came about. Since this is the 99th post, I figure that there needs to be something of great importance to this blog itself before the self-important century post. What encapsulates this collection of various forms of writing and different ideas, moods, and lengths? What is the one sort of post that I can put up which also captures the holiday mood? What is the one piece that can be so uplifting that you can forget about all the terrible looking—and ill fitting—clothes you acquired over the last few days that you never wanted in the first place? There is only one answer: That Guy it is.

What is That Guy, you ask? At this point, not knowing the term could make you That Guy. You’re “That Guy” whenever you act out in a certain way, usually in a group, that has some sort of bad precedent. Wearing a shirt of the band you’re seeing in concert? You're That Guy. Drop the Snapple bottle in the middle of the food court? You’re That Guy. This term can be used with either sex, but I think Guy just sounds better. If you want past reference, you can see the first, second, and third iterations of this time-honored holiday tradition (note: no other post was written by a holiday, let alone Christmas). What better way to pay homage to Jesus? God Bless us, every one! Well, not everyone….

Pays No Attention To Oncoming Traffic Guy - Sometimes seen with an iPod, this common creature is indigenous to the Boston metro area. He is susceptible to self-centeredness so severe that he believes all cars must stop for him. Evidently, getting to his destination is vastly more important than anything else...including fighting for the same space of asphalt as a two-ton vehicle barreling down at 35 MPH. When a car tries to go in its normal path, they are at fault, not the asshole crossing the road at the wrong time.

Snores In Class Guy - We have all fallen asleep during class. Don't be ashamed to admit it. Once I woke up from a Physics video in high school to see that the entire class was watching as I drooled on myself, including a girl who I had a crush on pointing and laughing and yelling "eeeww!" Harrowing indeed. The problem is when you give yourself away by snoring. While we all laugh at you, you’re letting the professor know that you’re definitely not watching the film he’s showing. Here's to you, snoring guy, for your great sacrifice. Enjoy your B- while I write about you on the internet !

Contributes Too Heavily In Conversation Guy - You cannot possibly know this much about any subject that I happen to throw out in conversation. In fact, I know you don't, cause most of the stuff you're saying either doesn't make sense or has no baring on the topic at hand. Why do you continue to discuss ideas you don't understand? It's ok to stand in a circle and not say a word, smile when everyone else does, and occasionally throw out a chuckle while everyone else laughs. You can be a conversational chameleon. But no, you have to consistently open your mouth and talk about the Manhattan Project and how it was founded by Truman and the power of his bowtie. Next time, I'll hand you a shovel so you can try and dig yourself out of this stupid hole you can’t help but burrow in to.

Yelling With No Material Guy - There's always one guy at a sporting event who has a loud, booming voice and thinks anything that comes out of his mouth is funny. Just because we can all hear you doesn't make up for the fact that you have nothing of value to say. "YEAH...YOU TOTALLY SUCK! YEAH!" is not a good put-down. Doing a countdown to "Let's-Go-Yank-Ees" is unnecessary and confusing. Trying to start a chant with an unknown nickname for a player is not a good idea. Looking at everyone else like they have three heads when it doesn't catch like a California wild fire isn't the best way to set up that next genius cheer, either. Don’t fault us cause you’re a failure.

Likes Chuck Klosterman Guy - Fuck you, he sucks.

Takes It Too Seriously Guy - Dude, it's a pick up basketball game. Why are you so upset? You're throwing the ball around, walking off the court before the game is over, and nearly punched a hole in the glass door. The worst part is that you're not even helping your own cause. Your constant crying and carrying on doesn't mix with defensive ability and rebounding skills. You're just doing it to yourself, sweetie, so stop yelling "COME THE FUCK ON" at your teammates and hustle.

Hey buddy, why don't you put down that chair before you huck it across the room? It's week 9, and this loss isn't worth spackling the wall, is it? You're on the road, it's before the big playoff push, let's just smooth this out. You don't have any money riding on this, don't have any friends who root for the winning team, and you have a better record. It's ok. It's not a big.... I'm not helping you clean up, asshole.

Apparently Knows A Lot Guy - Look, I don't know why you're leaning in to ask me questions. I know just as much as you do, which seems to be little. “How do I upload video?” Uuhh...I guess you just...I don't know, sorry. Wait, what? Audio? I would guess the same as video? No, no I don't know video or audio. Yeah, no, neither. Sorry. I'm just going to get back to figuring out wait what's that? Audio mixing? Haven't the faintest. Can I just get back--no, no I guess I can't. Oh, well, thanks for calling me super helpful....

Really Loud Guy - WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS YELLING? IT'S 3 AM, WE'RE ALL SITTING AROUND PLAYING UNO, AND FOR SOME REASON YOU FEEL THE URGE TO SHOUT ABOUT YOUR LACK OF CARDS OUTSIDE OF THE ONE YOU PRESENTLY HOLD IN YOUR HAND. IT'S OK, YOU CAN WHISPER - THE SINGULAR CARD IN YOUR HAND IS ALL THE EXCLAMATION NEEDED. THANK YOU. OH SHIT, YOU FOUND A BEER? AWESOME. THE FRIDGE IS FULL OF THEM. NOT TOO EXCITING. JUST A HEADS UP - YOU'RE ALSO WEARING A PAIR OF SHOES. DON'T KNOW IF THAT WILL SET YOU OFF INTO A FIT OF SCREAMING, TOO. FIGURED I'D LET YOU KNOW AHEAD OF TIME TO AVOID BLEEDING FROM MY SHATTERED EAR DRUMS

Always Has Beer Guy - Alice in Wonderland always works its way into some guy's 30 pack. This guy is always with a beer in hand. It doesn't matter the make, kind, or general temperature, he is always loaded with booze. Theories on how this is possible:
-Has already staked out quality hiding spots in five spots, both indoors and outdoors.
-Really, REALLY deep pockets.
-Has mastered dark magic (in association with Coors Brewing Company)
-Containers in long sleeve shirts
-Is Jesus.

Now why can't you just give me one and not have to buy it for a buck? You're stacked like Costco!

Totally Out Of Place Guy - Apparently it's wrong to hang around school yards looking for playmates. It was cool for me 10 years ago. Fucking neo-conservatives polluting our nation....

Assumes You're Pregnant Guy - It is never, ever, ever, EVER a good idea to assume someone is pregnant. Do not go up to a girl and say "hey, when's the baby due?*" There is no winning answer. If she isn't pregnant, she'll become incredibly offended. If she is pregnant, she'll think she's built like a house. Then, she will cry, because the mixture of preggie hormones, the odd urge for cheese fries dipped in bacon grease, and self-esteem problems are the perfect storm. What is the desired answer in the first place? "3 months." Awesome! Help me find this in a large please.... Regrettable all around, really. Like asking a black guy "where's the rally?" while dressed in the standard ghost outfit.

Looking For: Random Play on Facebook Guy - Putting up "whatever I can get" is really pathetic, no matter if it's a joke or otherwise. It honestly makes me sad to read that. We've all been there, but you don't have to put it in a public forum, pal. But while that's pitiful, looking for "Random Play" is unforgivable. Who calls it "play" anymore? Should I bust out my Montell Jordan greatest hits and discuss the merits of parachute pants? Just put up "I'm an asshole, steer clear if you get this warning." I'll catch you on the flip side so we can discuss your "play," however random it might be.

Constantly Talks To Performer Guy - When you're at a show, be it a comedian, play, sketch, why do you feel the need to talk to the performers? When there is a sketch, you don't need to go "oh man what's going to happen?" That's implied. That's why we're here, because we're all asking that question, hoping that we’ll laugh. This isn't some fucking call and response show - you're not listening to someone play What'd I Say. Sit and enjoy the god damn show cause you're bugging everyone around you with your giant mouth and insipid comments. "Oh shit, what is he going to do?" He’s going to throw out a punch line I can't hear because you act like it's your turn to talk. Quiet, stupid. Couple that with a terrible laugh and I have the urge to jam a spear through your jaw line, Iliad style.

The only good part of this is when that same pain in the ass believes what is going on in the scene is real. When the performer is eating “curdled milk,” it is greatly assumed that the actor doesn't have to suffer for his art, but can find a reasonable (and safe) substitute but still generates the necessary reaction from the audience. But, because this person can't process information without saying it aloud for all to enjoy, they are dumbfounded by the whole act. "Oh my god," they say, "is he really eating curdled milk?" Yes. Yes you stupid fuck, he really is eating curdled milk. "It's all chunky! He's actually doing that!" Why would it be something like...cottage cheese? Go put on an iPod and pay no attention to that 18-wheeler. Try and use Chuck Klosterman as a shield while you’re out there.

Wasted By 11 O’Clock Guy - Is he joking? He plays a really convincing drunkard. Wait, that's for real? It's...it's 10:43. How can you pull that off? We started drinking at the same time and I'm not even buzzed. Is he inserting Everclear intravenously behind my back? When I went to pee, did he polish off a bottle of Johnny Walker? I'm befuddled at this sudden disparity. Holy crap, HE'S drunk too? Wait...am I the only one here who isn't drunk? How did this happen? I just showed up. We are still in college, right? Oh sweet Jesus who are you calling. Put the phone down. Please? No, don't do that, don't... Ok I'm leaving.

Gets Pissed About "Happy Holidays" Guy - You do know that there are other religious holidays outside of Christmas, right? While it is universally known that Christmas is the greatest holiday ever, not everyone celebrates it. Therefore, we can't just blanket everything with "Christmas." If someone came up to me and said "Happy Chanukah" I would be taken aback. "No," I'd say, "my family converted sometime around 1930, I think, but thanks anyway." Also, did it ever come to mind that Christmas and New Years are separate holidays, and therefore, when pooled together, are TWO holidays? Happy Holidays works. What’s the big deal here? Wal-Mart greeters aren’t trying to put an end to Catholicism; the Catholic Church is doing a fine job on its own.

And there you have it. Another That Guy is in the books. As always, add your own That Guys in the comments, or cop to being one of the ones mentioned above (this round I'm only one). Coming up is a really self-aggrandizing 100th post. But dammit, I get one per every 100, don't I? I'm entitled! You guys will be paid back though, because Erik is a god damn genius....

Happy Holidays

*credit for line to Brian Regan

Boys and Girls: Sex

2006-12-05T03:32:00.000-05:00

I have had an absolutely miserable past couple of days. How miserable? The highlight was drinking with about 8 classmates before my 2 o'clock Screenwriting lecture today. All we do is watch movies (today was the comedy 1, 2, 3 and a short that I didn't see the end to cause I broke the seal). Now, it's 3:35 in the morning. Instead of writhing around in bed aimlessly for the next hour or so while listening to Ron and Fez, I figured I would update this thing cause I have not done so in quite a while (and it was a diversion from the series, too).

Before I start this ultimate chapter, I would first like to say how helpful it has been to me. First, thanks to the classic differences between boys and girls, I have four pretty good posts, so thank you females for exisiting and the few girls I asked to get this ball rolling. Also, I have been well versed in girls complaining about boys so now when I helped a friend film her movie and I waltzed into six wine drinking women I was prepared, and did a good job. Finally, it allowed me to receive one of the best backhanded compliments of all time: you should get a job writing a column for a teen girl magazine. I still don't know if that's positive, and I never will. Either way, let's get sexy.

Tonight's post is brought to you by Bob Dylan - Highway 61 Revisited.

Lesbians are hot? Why?? You're not getting in on that action. This is a question that I have been asked since we all figured out what sex looked like (meaning when I was 13 and my friends and I saw our first porn at a sleepover...but more on that later). It's really simple math. We like seeing girls have sex. Unfortunately, the real way that you see sex is when guys are getting with girls. Save for insertion, we are constantly watching the girls and cringing at certain shots that put too much focus on the male part (or parts, however it may be). With lesbians--specifically the non-existent lip stick variety--you take out the part you don't want to see and add another desirable object. That's like going from having a cake then having a cavity filled to having a cake and being given another cake. Boy + Girl = ok, Boy + Girl - Boy + Girl = Girl + Girl = two times the expected amount of awesome.

This also leads into the unfairness of the sexes. We can see two girls and get off on it while rarely two guys really tickle a female's fancy. We also don't have to go through having periods (or cramps with said periods). Although dealing with the effects are never pleasant for our side, we definitely tip our hats...and run away for five days...even though even THAT pisses you off. And finally, we don't have to give birth: just support the kid through divorce, marriage, or not even getting married. Oh, the burden.

butt sex with a girl - how is that remotely attractive? This question came with an answer already given: I don't know, it's just another hole to stick it in. That's a pretty valid answer, I think. We just get bored. More than that, it's so dirty and weird and anatomically incorrect that it's appealing. It is one of those situations where we know you aren't going to say yes, so we chase and chase and chase and then we finally get there and...well...it's tight and painful for pretty much everyone involved. I do find it funny how some people simply make a "mistake," which absolutely blows my mind. It's like trying to drive through a tunnel and then making a sharp right and trying to drive through the middle of the tire, then looking at your wife like "well I misread the directions."

The weird reaction is when the girl says yes, or is ready from the beginning. That's something you joke about for laffs and laffs, not an actual invitation. Then, when that time comes, you have to man up because this is a special act. It's a call to the pen that you don't normally get, and when you have that shot in the majors, rook, you better take advantage. It's like an internship - great on the resume, but wasn't really worth the effort involved.

how come when guys think of threesomes they think of 2 girls but never 2 guys and a girl? Most straight men are born homophobic. It's true. There is just a certain level of acceptability that they are willing to take before the line is crossed and they run out of the room yelling about how much they love football and breasts. There are certain things I can take: the thought of men being together romantically, being around and friendly with other men and joking about sexuality, and jokes that involve light touching (not in bathing suit area). There are things I simply cannot take: showering with other guys, looking at anywhere but the wall while using a urinal (or simply not using them at all). Therefore, it is unconceivable that I would be able to have sex with another male naked and present and...accounted for, let alone be able to drink enough to shut that out and go along with it. It's just not going to happen.

Simple math: Guy + Girl + Guy = eehhh while Guy + Girl + Girl = two two TWO CHICKS AT ONCE! Mmmm, I love having more cake, especially Carvel Ice Cream Cake.

how come guys dont care about hooking up with a chick in front of their roommate? i would never go down on a guy while my roomie was there yet guys dont care I certainly fucking care, from both sides of the coin. First off, I can't pee with another person in the room, so lord knows how I'd go about having sex. How do you talk the girl out of it? "Ssshh, it's ok, he's blind...and deaf....so it's cool." Then again, alcohol is a wonderful lubricant.

For the roommate, I don't want him playing music too loud if I'm trying to sleep. How the hell am I expected to sleep through that? And how awkward would it be seeing some random girl naked having sex with the similarly awkward naked roommate? I have only seen one roommate naked, and that was because he would flex in front of a mirror before he hopped into the shower (and that was only the back end whilst he scampered behind the curtain, leaving his techno-blasting laptop on the sink for everyone’s enjoyment). I certainly didn't want to see that back end in action. Ugh. This is depressing. Whoever that guy is must be desperate, inconsiderate, or really open with his sexuality. Either way, he bugs me.

Would you get freaked out if a girl you're hooking up with told you she was a virgin? This is a very delicate question. I wouldn't get freaked out that she isn't experienced that way. It took me a few years past normal to get on the horse (34). And also, there is no universal age (although I think I'd go with South Park's 17 years), and if someone looks down on you, well, they can go fuck themselves...and certainly not you.

I say it's delicate because you don't want to de-virginize someone who actually holds that first bout with sexual intercourse as something special if you're not looking at this past a short-term situation. A friend of mine found out afterwards, and was kind of embarrassed to have had this girl had her first experience in the back of a car. I didn't--and still don't--see the big deal with first having sex with someone special. The real problem, as Kevin Smith wrote while discussing his film Chasing Amy, is that we expect to go to bed with virgins and have them fuck like whores, but somehow revert back to being virgins when the act is over. It's impossible. When you get down to it, sex is purely a physical act whose enjoyment is heightened with feelings behind it. But it's still simply a physical act when all is said and done. Some people don't see it that way, and it has to be respected. I don't believe in Jesus, but that doesn't mean I'll fuck him if he doesn't want to.

Wait what?!

1) why are simple cotton panties such a "let down"? Because while the act of sex is pretty simple (in-out in-out), the thought of it is amazing. I would love to understand what sex was like in the 50s, when it was very hush-hush and there wasn't any sort of graphic pornography; the common man’s how-to guide. Would people just come up with different ways to have sex? Did some guy just figure out on his own how to do doggy style after X number of times? I grew up in a time of internet porn, very well aware of all the different ways I wanted to have sex (and the various situations that I did not want to involve myself in, naked or not - the Germans are a fucked up people).

In society, sex is some sort of Holy Grail that is sought after and, once obtained, is life changing. That carries a certain amount of wait to it. If you think about having sex, then you think about the best possible situation. That's a really attractive girl in skanky--yet tasteful and expensive--lingerie. Cotton panties are like asking for an Xbox 360 and have someone dump a Sega CD on your lap. It just doesn't add up with the imagination, the ideal, the fantasy.

Cotton panties are fine if you're with someone for a while and you both just become lazy and only pull out the sexy undies for special occasions. If you're going out, you have to dress the part. You don't go to a wedding in shorts, you don't play basketball without your jersey, and you don't go out unless you have on underwear you would be comfortable with showing others in a sexual situation. It's the rules.

what is so sexy about a girl in sweatpants? I'll admit: I sort of have a thing for girls in athletic attire. Be it sweat pants and a tight plain t-shirt or short cloth shorts with knee-high socks (volleyball and soccer girls kill me every time). With full disclosure there, I'm not sure if others are on my side on this debate, but, I'll answer it from purely personal experience. I really hate it when girls get all dolled up all the time. I'd say about 75% of the time, girls wear at least too much make up, with about 20% wearing far too much. I don't want a girl who feels the need to cover up or add on artificial supplements that actually dampen your overall appeal. I want a girl who can wake up in the morning, wake the sleepies out of her eyes, and still be attractive. No, I'm not asking for too much. I don't get the high maintenance bullshit. Stop with the bronzer and the eyelashes and shadow and the blush and the....

what is with guys and porn? What's with girls and not watching porn? I think that's the more pressing question. We can all watch horrific things on the news, we can re-watch the attacks on the Twin Towers ad nauseam from the beginning of September til the end of the month, but you can't watch two people having sex? Really? They ask, "what's the big deal?" There is none, but you seem to make it one. It's ok for girls to be interested in something like porn because it's human. We have a fascination with seeing terrible things happen, why not something that inherently grabs our attention and chemically makes us excited? Or, you can be turned on by terrible things happening ON girls or guys, but, we're going to exclude the weirdoes here.

There is a certain infatuation with porn when you're a younger male that I simply cannot explain. One of my friends had a block box and got Spice or some other porn channel for free. One afternoon after about seven of us slept over, we went upstairs and started to watch porn. Mind you, we're all around 13 and have no idea what to do with this situation which is making things really uncomfortable. Someone has a pillow, someone is sitting Indian style with arms firmly across the crotch, and another is bent with groin facing away from the group. For five hours--five--we sat and watched porn. Around hour two I made a question of, "why are we still watching this?" It was quickly countered with, "What, you don't want to see naked chicks? What are you, gay?" I certainly wasn't gay and I certainly couldn't stand up in that situation without fear of knocking things over inadvertently on my way out the door, so I was trapped to continue to watch it.

To answer your question, watching porn is healthy, but there is nothing about being a male between the ages of 12 and 15. Nothing. I won't get into the masturbation habits, but it's suffice to say it's the greatest new toy ever that just keeps giving and giving and giving until it literally no one longer functions.

when guys claim to have no imagination about sexual fantasies, do they just not want to say something that might turn a girl off? Everyone is kind of freaked out when it comes to sex. No one knows the other person's boundaries. Someone could be freaked out if you move outside of missionary. On the other hand, someone would feel like sex isn't worthwhile unless they get pissed on. Of course guys have sexual fantasies. Don't girls? It's a common thing. But, a lot of stuff that we think 1) won't ever be done and 2) is ridiculous to verbalize. "Ok, so you're in the Pippi Longstocking outfit and have the football helmet full of cottage cheese...." Fantasies are usually just that - fantasies. They are impossible to reach and feel satisfied about, and are mostly so out of this world that they aren't feasible unless the person who fantasizes is incredibly dull or the partner is extremely loving and forgiving. The safe word is "fucked up."

what is more of a turn on, a girl in a towel or in lingerie? Lingerie. I've seen my mom in a towel.

There it is, folks. Hope your questions were answered, your mind opened a bit, and your enlightening almosted. It was fun while it lasted. Now I don't have to defend males anymore on the internet. Huzzah!

Post number 99 coming up, and if you have read this blog long enough, you should know what's coming next.... And no, the self-serving post will come at 100 you smarty pants out there.

A Literary Divide: The Advent of Booksism

2006-11-27T17:12:00.000-05:00

Before indulging in the incredibly brilliant Borat (satire which is looked at as gross out humor) with a lady friend, we decided to waste some time in Barnes & Noble (saying Barnes And Noble is unacceptable - if they use an ampersand, so do you). While she went off to non-fiction, I tried to scour the store for more Woody Allen books. I had recently fallen victim to popular acclaim and purchased Chuck Klosterman's collection of essays Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto. Finding it to be elitist and trite, I promptly threw it out after indulging in two terrible chapters. Here is my impression of his work: Blah blah elitist this sucks, that sucks, Saved By The Bell reference, that still sucks, blah blah blah, Cosby Show reference, blah blah blah. I upgraded to Woody Allen and refuse to look back.

The way that this particularly giant B&N (even while shortening, still use the ampersand) was set up was rather disjointed. There was a smattering of non-fiction, then fistfuls of sci-fi, do-it-yourself books, photos, etc. The opposite side had "hobbies," sports, and war books just before teenager books before succumbing to the bright and shiny and happy children's section (notice how the teenager books bridge the gap, but are close enough to the children's section to extricate some resentment that they are closer to being kids than adults). Somewhere in this disarray I was to find the comedy stylings of Woody Allen. It was a daunting task.

After searching for a few minutes to find a more specific bookcase to peruse for his specific book, I stumbled past World War II books and found Sports. There are certain sports columnists who I simply adore. They have such a beautiful way of manipulating words to describe something as simple as making a three pointer, adding in all of the flair and history of an event that is superfluous in nature. I was sidetracked for a moment to try and find a collection of articles from any number of sports writers, be it Bob Ryan, Tony Kornheiser, Michael Wilbon, Frank Riley, et al. Instead, I found a myriad of books about a specific sport, alphabetized, starting with Baseball, then Cycling, and so on. Where are all the books about these sports? I don't want to know how to drive like Tiger, I want to read in dazzling prose how it looks and feels to see Tiger hit the drive on the 18th on his way to winning his first green jacket. Sadly, it can't be found. Upset, I forged past "Rock And Roll" and back into the world of fiction (squares didn't even call it Rock N' Roll).

The situation seemed hopeless. On the right wall were throngs of trashy romance novels that even Fabio dare not put his image on. To the left there were countless racks of magazines from unreadable to unreadable with hot chicks on the cover. Directly in front of me was "Java for Dummies" countered by "HTML for Dummies" on the adjacent book case. I was lost and saddened that I could not get the Woody I so longed for (even after passing FHM and Maxim and the racks on the racks to my left). In desperation, I went behind the Java books and next to Su Doku puzzle collections was the "Comedy" section.

One would assume that I would be happy to find what I had been looking for, the great white whale to my peg-legged long shore man. Instead, I became even more depressed to see what was set before my eyes. There was a Woody Allen book (Without Feathers) and then...bleakness. I scour for more smart, witty, society-damning works to find Larry the Cable Guy's autobiography (which in concept is funnier than anything contained in the book). Instead of finding something of substance, I find one of a hundred "Great Book of Jewish Jokes," written by someone named Goldberg or ending in -stein.

Why is there a snubbing of written works that are funny or satirical in nature? Why are the "lesser" than other works of literature? I'm sure they are hard to classify, as there aren't enough specific bookcases (see: Flyfishing, above Frisbee and below Football) to give them their due, but this is worse than calling it "memoirs." Why wasn't David Sedaris there? How does he escape this embarrassing ridicule? It's cause he's gay, isn't it! No, probably because he's on NPR, but still.

Comedy is a terrible idea for classification anyway. What is funny to some people is devout truth to others (Colbert Report north of Mason-Dixon is parody, south of the line is Gospel truth). If there is a comedy section, why isn't Gulliver's Travels, a biting satirical piece of fiction, there? I remember - because it's in the Children's section. Ugh. Our society should no longer laugh off what is in a book by Woody Allen or Steve Martin or any piece of satire. It is one of the few places where you can point out that the way things are going are so wrong and miscalculated that stating them in a serious manner would be utterly ridiculous and laughable. Do you think that if someone would take the Bush administration and write a book about it, send it back 30 years in the past, then publish it that it would be lauded as comedy or a prediction of things to come? Watch Dr. Strangelove or Network and see that we laugh off what is truly terrible.

Comedy writing should not be given the shaft it currently does. I feel that there is no proper term for it, so I decided to make one up. There's sexism for variance between the two sexes and racism for differentiation between races. Therefore, comedy writing is currently under the ills of Booksism, noun, meaning a literary divide between what is important and what is rubbish. Good writing is good writing is good writing, be it about the background of the mob from Woody Allen, the Celtics NBA title run by Bob Ryan, or Steve Martin's dissertation on hitting his mid-life without much crisis (but much defiance none the less).

Alas, it will never happen. Comedy is something to laugh off and keep with joke books. If I'm lucky, I'll be somewhere in that section one day, hopefully nestled right next to Allen (unless someone of importance has the last name starting with Alm- through Ans-). And, hopefully, someone will be just as angry when they search for my collection of silly comedy on the state of people and society and can only find a dozen "You Know You're A Redneck When..." books. I can only dream...that I'm published, have fans, and have enough of them to find disdain in where I'm placed. Man is that a stretch and a half.

Also, stop making Klosterman look better by saying he's a pop culture essayist. He's an elitist douche who is angry at everyone and everything and can't stop watching tv, who uses terrible sentence structure that is boring and trite. Yeah!

I was petitioned to answer that one question (by someone who seemingly didn't get the gag, or takes offense that I would make a gag out of simply not answering something) so I will do so now.

How come guys say they only want sex but get upset when that's all you give them? They want something more than just the physical act of having sex. It seems simply unmanly (or unbecoming) of a guy to want a relationship, but I feel that is ridiculous. The man probably wants to have sex that means more than just the intermingling of flesh for a momentary and fleeting piece of time, no matter how long you last. Sex with something behind it has a certain extra gravitas than doing it coldly. There is a heightened sense of satisfaction that not only are you having an orgasm, but you're doing it looking into the eyes of someone you care for, that you are both sharing this wonderful experience and that lifts the experience up on its own.

Or he's nuts.

Boys and Girls: Relations

2006-11-26T18:52:00.000-05:00

I'll keep this short and sweet. Back in Boston, Thanksgiving was good, break was ok, kind of sick, no radio show, new blog. BAM SNAP WHOOO.

Real questions, real people, half-assed witty answers.

How come guys say they only want sex but get upset when that's all you give them? I...what? But.... Ok. Ok I'll get back to this one; too tough to start off with.

When you have sex, do you lose friendship? (We refer to it as "sexual backlash") God dammit do I wish I coined that phrase. And I can't steal it cause it would be read and I might see her on the street creating a Social Landmine(tm). You don't always lose friendship, but it sort of changes. You can't go through the most intimate of physical relations and just go back to drinking and making fun of kids on Guts! I would say not necessarily you would lose it, although it's certainly possible. You will certainly lose that dynamic that you had before sex, and I really don't believe you can ever get it back.

Do guys not understand that girls sometimes don't want to have feelings either? We most certainly believe that you "sometimes" don't want to have feelings either. Hell, we'd like it if you didn't want to have feelings. The problem is that "wanting" to not have feelings and actually NOT having feelings are two vastly different things. I want a million dollars, but that doesn't mean that I can compare apples and oranges. Or something like that. Girls intrinsically will have some emotional connection to the guy (or girl) that they are seeing. It's natural...and sometimes messy, but unavoidable either way. It's just a working hazard.

First date dinner: should a girl eat what she wants, or not let a guy see her pig-out? A girl who doesn't eat is a major turn-off for me. I'll sit and wonder, "why isn't she eating? does she have a disorder? does she have incredibly low self-esteem? is she depressed? oh shit, does she listen to Panic! or Brand New?" I like girls who eat, and I'm amazed at girls who eat more than me. I'm not going to say it's sexy--cause nothing about eating that much is sexy--but it definitely earns respect. No idea where this "being rail thin is attractive" idea came about, because most guys don't enjoy someone who could be broken in half with a flick in the rib cage.

does it worry a guy when his girlfriend tries to get in with his friends to the point that they could chill without him being there? It's cool to be in with the friends, so you don't have to split time before the two (angering both if the balance isn't pitch perfect), but there is a limit. If you're hanging out with the guy's friends without the guy being there, that's borderline replacement. This also runs the risk of never having a break from each other, which is a terrible, terrible thing. Everyone needs his or her space, and if someone asks for it, it's not a bad thing. It's natural, so don't take offense.

do guys like to take girls to "scary" movies because they actually want to see the movie or to scare the girl into closer proximity? For all parties involved, I really hope not. There has never been a time where I schemed what movie I would see with a girl specifically to get closer to her. If I picked a scary movie, I would see it just because I wanted to see a scary movie, girl be damned. Out of the many movies I've seen with girls, there have only been two that I didn't want to see going in (Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights and the Cinderella movie with Hilary Duff which I refused to pay for). Also, I almost never make out during a movie because I paid ten bucks to watch that movie; I can fool around in my car for free.

how does a girl know if a guy's out of a relationship long enough to not be a rebound girl There is no scientific equation to that one. The easiest answer is whether or not he leaves after a few days or weeks. Rebounding is a strange inexact situation that has no definitive end or beginning. I've known people who haven't been in a relationship for years, some that go directly into relationships in succession, and people who have balanced both. My guess is as good as yours, but usually when they stop talking about the other person out of spite and you're still there.

is a boyfriend flattered when his girl gets jealous or is it 100% turn off? It's simply odd. One girlfriend got incredibly uneasy and pissed when we were at a movie and someone in front of me just casually talked to me and bragged about where she went to school, which was considered flirting. It was bothersome because why would she be upset at something that I didn't even catch? I will say that I would also manufacture some jealousy, as I'd point out when girls were checking me out at the mall or elsewhere. In my mind, it made her appreciate that she has someone good on her arm, and also gave me a little boost of self-confidence. What I later found out (and is so clearly obvious now) is that is such a dirtbag thing to do. She was just jealous.....

what makes a girl clingy? Lots of texts or calls (especially when they aren't returned), ims that just don't stop, not having plans without the other person involved, making pet names far too early in the relationship (don't you dare call me “pookie” until the 3 month mark), not letting the other person breathe. We understand that you enjoy spending time with the other person, but they also enjoy spending time on their own without you: it's natural and healthy. Space space space space space.

How come guys say they only want sex but get upset when that's all you give them? Well, I've been thinking about it, and... Um...

if a guy really likes a girl, will he hold back physically? I don't hit'em til 4 weeks in. Lull them into a false sense of security. He will hold back so that the two of you can last longer. If your goal is simply to have sex, you'll either get it or you won't, and usually it will be in a manner unbecoming of a long-lasting relationship. If your goal is to be with the girl for a long period, you are more than likely not going to go straight for the belt buckle, lest you want to be known for "just wanting sex." Why is that so familiar?

should girls pay for themselves? No, never. It's a terrible situation, especially with this whole "equal rights" idea, but guys always are told to pay for the girl, hold the door open, etc. It's just the way things go. Personally, I have only once not paid (the aforementioned Duff movie). A lot of people split the bill, and that's good for them, but I can't do it. It's how I was raised.

what do you get a guy for valentines day? Oral. It's cheap and it's what we want on that god forsaken holiday. Every man hates Valentine's Day and is probably so pissed about getting just the right flowers or just the right jewelry that oral would probably be the best thing you could give.

Valentine's Day opens up to a whole different argument and that is the importance of girls showing off for guys. There is the accepted standard that the worst thing for a girl's self-esteem is a boy. We're so mean, so judgmental, throw around "slut" and "whore" as if they were going out of style. That is absolutely false. The worst enemy of a girl is another girl. There is no question. Some of the underhanded, dirty things I have seen a group of girl FRIENDS do to one another is shocking and offensive, specifically because it's either ignored or just "what girls do." Meanwhile, guys get the bad rap when we're just watching and putting down bets like at a cock fight (or like the crowd in Bloodsport).

Let's run through some important events for girls. Valentine's Day is not celebrated by males. We hate it. It's a stupid, made-up holiday that causes nothing but problems for everyone involved. It's the girl equivalent of "who's cock is larger." If you have a girlfriend, you aren't buying to make her happy, but to make her friends jealous. It is an elaborate contest set up by females to somehow judge their men. If you get your girlfriend a bouquet that isn't as pretty as Jenny's, you're a shitty boyfriend to your girlfriend, but most importantly to her friends.

Prom is another example. The girls could come in simple black dresses with little make up and some hair ties we wouldn't care. But, this is showing off to all of the other girls, so they have to get their hair done, nails painted, two weeks of tanning, and find the perfect dress. If, god forbid, another girl has a dress the same as theirs? The bitter resentment flies. Luckily, there are words like "slut" "whore" and "fat" to toss at the other girls, cause they can't look as good in that dress as you can!

how much do guys actually appreciate the small things? (such as cuddling/holding hands) They're nice and good, but we just don't harp on them like girls do. Holding hands for us just feels natural. For girls, it is the exact time, moment in conversation, method of holding, in what context, etc. We appreciate the small things, but we think of them simply as small things, not keys to understanding how the whole relationship works. Just because we don't want to cuddle one night does not mean that we want you out; we just don't want to cuddle. That is probably the bigger difference: not apprecation, but meaning.

why does my friends girlfriend consider me a threat because we play madden, like sports, and talk about history all the time?... it does not have to be those exact examples but it make me mad that she looks at me this way when i know she shouldnt For one, she doesn't seem to have much faith in the relationship. Also, she seems to be very uneasy with herself, thinking that she is lesser than other girls, silently questioning why he's with her. You're also bonding with him in a very organic way that she cannot get into. More so, she's jealous that you can so easily do something he does or takes an interest in (be it history or madden or anything) when she cannot. Whether or not you're trying to, you're doing the right steps to get yourself a man. You might think it's benign, but she might not see it that way - insecurity or not.

Ah, ladies and gentleman, we are almost up to the final post: sex. What, do you think I left that most interesting one last on purpose? Pfft. No. No way. Definitely, yes, yes I did.

Wait, there's one left? Lemme check here.... Oh. This one.

How come guys say they only want sex but get upset when that's all you give them? ...I got nothin.

Boys And Girls: Addendum to The Chase

2006-11-17T15:39:00.000-05:00

File this one under "A Quick One While He's Away." I'm only hitting on this one comment because I think it would more easily be answered in its seperate banner than trying to cut it down to fit in Relations (coming sometime this weekend). The comment is from my dear friend Pam of my legit "sister site" Chickball:

While I'm set and reading this entry for its entertainment value more than anything, I'm pretty sure the average single girl will find your answer to "Where are all the good guys?? are they hidingggg?" unsatisfying. "I guess there aren't many out there," you say? Ugh. May I suggest a later blog entry that perhaps delves into this further, one that doesn't scream "YOUR SITUATION IS HOPELESS"?

And a note to the single/frustrated ladies out there: Venture off the BU campus and I guarantee your luck with guys will improve. And be patient.

I will give this one special treatment and hit on all the important points one at a time. I hope she enjoys getting singled out.

While I'm set and reading this entry for its entertainment value more than anything Braggart.

I'm pretty sure the average single girl will find your answer to "Where are all the good guys?? are they hidingggg?" unsatisfying. "I guess there aren't many out there," you say? Ugh. For all of those who didn't find the sarcasm all over that response, which goes on further to say "you're not alone" and "they already have girlfriends," well...it's sarcastic. I figured this one was more of a universal gripe that everyone already knew the answer to and I didn't really need to touch on it. Apparently I'm wrong.

May I suggest a later blog entry that perhaps delves into this further, one that doesn't scream "YOUR SITUATION IS HOPELESS"? Ok I was definitely wrong.

Everyone complains about not being able to find the right guy or girl at some time in their life. The most common reasoning is that there is something wrong with the pool. "Guys are too cocky" or "the girls are too bitchy," etc. etc. etc. It's never your problem, it's always their problem. For some reason, it seems like God has decided to thwart your every opportunity to get in a relationship, or heaven forbid some action, woe is me, woe is me. By the simple numbers of it, wouldn't one safely assume that if you're a girl and you're complaining about not finding the right guy that there are guys in a relatively close proximity who are thinking the same thing about your sex?

I firmly believe that two things get in the way of being happy: our ego and our drive. Our ego is the most important. No matter what anyone says or likes to believe, we're all shallow. Every single one of us. Looks are first above and beyond everything. Believe me, I'm not shaking my finger at anyone. There have been girls that I enjoy being around that I simply would not get with because I don't find them physically attractive. It's not their fault, really - it's mine. I can't look past the fact that I am not mature enough to look beyond the mere outside (mature enough or simply giving up, call it what you want).

One of my best friends is truly one of the best people I know. He's charismatic, he's hysterical, he's giving...he's pretty much what I try to be. His only problem is that his looks don't equal his heart. There is no chart or record of this, but he definitely has not gotten the attention that he should garner from the opposite sex, and it really frustrates me (let alone how he feels). He is everything a girl says that they want in a girl, so why doesn't he get the girl? Instead, he gets nothing. He's the friend, the one who you can talk to, the one who's the "great listener" (which is the worst compliment in the world).

You want to know where the great guys are? Right around you. Everywhere around you. Maybe you're too stuck in the woods to really see the trees, but we surround ourselves with great people. Your friends aren't your friends because they're attractive. Your friends are your friends because they're either really funny or giving or just outstanding individuals. I'm reading Chuck Klosterman and his first chapter in Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs is dedicated to the When Harry Met Sally syndrome of falling in love with your friends, or that every girl is looking for Lloyd Dobler from Say Anything. We want the perfect package, and if we can't find it, then we at least go for looks, cause like I said earlier, "you can't fuck a good sense of humor."

And a note to the single/frustrated ladies out there: Venture off the BU campus and I guarantee your luck with guys will improve. And be patient. I find this to be ridiculous. Guys are guys, no matter where they are. A good guy will be a good guy at BU, in Worcester, farming in Iowa. Genuinely good people radiate, and everyone knows who they are. Also, there are a lot of shit people everywhere, too. It's the usual lottery, and it has no bounds; be it town, state, or otherwise.

My home town had a strange relationship with our bitter rival, Emerson. We hated them in football, we hated them in basketball, we hated them because they simply existed. We'd call them skanky, Guidos, Seaside North, and so on until we were blue in the face. But we also teamed up with them to have one of the best wrestling programs in the state, which led to all these weird relationships. We always had a chip on our shoulder, but we'd always invite Emerson guys and girls over who were somehow more attractive. Same goes with people from other neighboring schools who just had this different aura about them. "Ooohhh they're different, but still go to the same Wendy's, so it's like the usual schmucks around here, just BETTER."

Our drive always wants us to get better partners, more partners, that there is always something greater down the road if we just keep looking. People don't stay in relationships because they're always looking down the line for the next big thing (hook-up, relationship, marriage). The same drive that keeps us moving upwards with science and technology is the same one that keeps us miserable when it comes to situations like this. "Where are all the good guys?" means that you've searched and found some people that just don't measure up. Measure up to what? The intangible perfect guy? There is a quote from High Fidelity that says he's tired of the fantasy, it doesn't exist.

So where does that leave us?

The term "settling down" startles me. What does that really entail? What are we settling for? It seems to me that this is more about giving up on the fantasy and sticking with whoever you can tolerate, giving up on finding the ideal and simply going with the person you're likely to strangle the least. Is that why marriages don't work, cause you just don't want to be alone so you "settle" for one person for the rest of your life? Is that what we get to look forward to?

So, back to the point. Where are all the good guys? They're everywhere, and you can't seem to find them until it's almost too late. Are we shallow and immature or give up later on? That question I cannot answer, nor will I be able to in five, ten, or twenty years from now. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go to a hockey game and then a party where I will talk to a few friends with great personalities and try and get with the most attractive girl I can. It'll be fun talking to you before you do the same.

Boys and Girls: The Chase

2006-11-14T00:57:00.000-05:00

You ever hear of the perfect storm? Wait, let me rephrase so I can say what I really mean. Have you seen the trailer or a commercial for The Perfect Storm? So you know what that is? I experienced one tonight. I got my History paper done at 11 PM (possibly a new record), I got a twelve pack of Blue Moon from my friend who just turned 21 and wanted me to post as her gift, and my screenplay isn't due til Wednesday. Therefore, there is a new blog.

There are some changes since the last one I posted oh so many days ago (2). First, the bold is not enough to differentiate between the question and the answer, so I'm going to underline it, too. I'm too good to you people. And no, I won't change the last post. Don't get greedy. Also, there are some questions about girls, and I just don't want to wait, so I'm throwing those in there. Finally, there is the first instance of shortening a question from about 20 lines to one. Truncate yourselves, people. Here we go....The Chase. No, that looks cooler like The Chase. Yeeeeaaaah.

Why dont guys always carry condoms??? Isnt it like a rule that they are supposed to always carry one in their wallet or something? This is a two-fold answer. First, I'm still not sure how cool it is to be caught with a condom, even in college. For some reason, people aren't comfortable with always being prepared, and you'll be called a "perv" simply beacuse you don't want "aids." So it goes. The other answer is that the heat from your body can actually weaken the condom and leave it susceptible to breaking. If the guy pulls a condom from his wallet, be wary. Also ask him why he does that, cause that's something only pervs do.

When you meet a girl, do you immediately categorize her as a "friend" or a "potential whatever"? I usually wait for her to open her mouth. If nothing of intelligence comes out, it's hard to keep her in the "friend" farm. Every now and then one slips through, and lands in the "endlessly pining" box. That's usually a long-term situation. To be honest, everyone (read: everyone) judges people physically first. How can you not? You have to be physically attracted before your interest is truly piqued. You can't have sex with his "humor" - you have to be attracted to something of substance. Before I even get the "not me," you're a liar. Or you're blind. And if you're blind, how the shit are you reading this? If it's one of those text reader things, have fun with this: lkasdfjoijasdfasdhahaurblindfhoasfoasifd oaps

What is your take on the 60/40 female/male ratio here (BU)? Is it easier to meet girls? Factoring in gay males, it's probably more like 60/30, leaving roughly two straight girls for every straight male. Is it easier? Of course, it's just sheer numbers. Meet does not a hook-up make, however.

Side story: I was at a party once and I was one of four males. Of those men, one was gay, one was too drunk to function, and one was heavily unattractive...and possibly 30 years of age (we did not check his ID to confirm this). I was questioned by three females, with "Are you an asshole? Are you preppy? Are you gay? Do you have a girlfriend? Are you nice?" I passed the test, and they were sort of shocked. It was nice. And that's where that story ends.

Where are all the good guys?? are they hidingggg? why do we only have assholes See above. You're not alone. I guess there aren't many out there. And no, I won't take this opportunity to point to myself. That would be ridiculous. Another answer: they are already dating someone, and you were just too late. Timing is everything.

Why do guys go for stupid girls or girls with little to no personality? Similar vein. It depends on the situation. If a guy wants to get with a hot chick for that night and then see them three days later on campus and awkwardly wave to them as they try to avert eye contact before they see that you acknowledged them so they begrudgingly lift their heads and force a smile, then he'll go for the chick with little to no personality. If he wants a girlfriend, clearly he is a masochist, or they just have a higher tolerance than me. You can't converse? I'm fine with extending the no-no streak.

What would you think if a girl asked you out on a date? Awesome. Well, that or "oh God how do I put 'no' in a way that isn't blunt and hurtful? Oh! How about, no...?"

How do you a show a girl you like her? a.k.a. what is "liking" and wat is just being friendly? I think this definitely is more about a girl, since they can really screw you up with the friend/more than a friend level than guys do. What is liking? When he makes a move that is incredibly obvious. We are usually not the most secretive of species. In fact, I think we can be read like a book by girls, but girls have a knack to over analyze everything. In fact, that's how you do it: Look at it as simply as possible. Girls have this preconceived complexity switch that scrutinizes every move and saying. If he didn't say hi to you on the street it is entirely possible that he just didn't see you, not that he hates you and might have killed your cat. Take it easy, girls, and just try and think simple. You always say we're simple minded, so pick up on your own disparaging generalization.

why do guys chase so hard but as soon as the girl shows interest he loses interest? You sort of answered your own question. Remember how I spoke earlier about competition? You are facing off against either yourself or your buddies (there might be money on the line) to see if you can get that girl. The point isn't whether or not you do, but if you can. It's a dumb, hurtful little game that always helps to boost that wounded ego.

To make a good first impression what are the most common lies a guy will tell? That they aren't married. I've never been a big liar. The most common lies are probably that they are or aren't involved. You can also say penis size, but if you're "lucky" you find out how big of a liar you really are, so I'm not sure who wins there. Everyone leaves disappointed. I would guess a common one (from one story) is when you're at a bar or something and you can lie about age, profession, and where you live and you can bag a mother of two (aged 10 and 7, I believe). You can do that. I don't know why, but you can. Come on everyone: let's shake our heads together.

What is the best way to catch a guys eye? As I was saying on my radio show, there is a fine line between hot and slutty. The best way to catch a guy's eye is to be dressed nicely, showcase your best assets, but leave more to the imagination. It's always best to leave us guessing, specifically cause we can always imagine something better when we go home alone. Bad ways to get attention:
*Yelling. Anything. Anytime. Especially while drunk.
*Smoking cigarettes. If you smoke a cigar, I'd probably just be confused more than turned off.
*Having a penis. Sadly, that's relative.
Not relative with me.
*Not respecting yourself. Stay classy, Whale's Vagina.

Why do guys ask for your number if they aren't going to call you? For one, it's just a trophy to show the other guys that you got digits. Another reason is that they are too shy, or don't know how to go about it. I am, lifetime, 1-for-1 on asking for a number and getting it. Her name was Patty, and I never called her. I didn't mean to be malicious, it's just that I was busy and I don't think the timing was right. ...Ok I was chicken shit and said I was busy when I really wasn't. I kind of liked ending that on top with a number than going after it and screwing up on the phone with my stutter or saying something wrong or going out and having it not work. This way, I end up with a small victory, and she is probably upset. But I'll never know, cause she doesn't have my number to tell me.

Do guys like to be teased? Sometimes. There is a fine line between "oh this is great" and "holy shit I want to punch you in the fucking face." There are certain things like a strip tease situation when yes, being teased is great. There are certain acts that if you tease too much might end up with an inadvertant eye injury. Pick and choose your times when applicable. For the rule, yes. This most certainly goes with girls, too, except there is a significant decrease in possible impalement injuries.

What does it mean when a guy tells a girl "when I really like a girl, I won't do anything with her" after he's been hooking up with her for 2 weeks? If I'm reading that correctly, that means "I want to hook up with you and that's all, and if that means that this has to end or we're dating, we're through." Basically, it's a bullshit cop-out that is supposed to lessen the sting. Here is one thing that I cannot stress enough: There is absolutely no way to end things with another person where they don't feel hurt. It's impossible. Don't lie, don't make up shit like above because all that does is lengthen the situation until you have the inevitable "JUST SAY IT! JUST SAY IT!" to deal with. Honesty is the best policy, even when there is no winner. Do try and have some bedside manner (not "I'm fucking someone else, beat it").

What is the acceptable time frame for calling/texting someone after getting their number? I say between twenty-four hours and three days. Outside of that frame I think it gets tricky because while you're going for the "I don't want them to think I'm desperate or want them too bad" you could be falling into the "No, Mike...the tall guy from the party...saturday...at 505...no, a beard...ye...YEAH! yeah! ...so what's up?" Just be careful and don't over do it. One text is more than enough. I don't want to know your god damn life story through mashing the 1-9 keys, and I don't want a time obligation while on the phone. My first girlfriend had some sort of mandate where couples talk on the phone for 40 minutes, so we would sit in silence with nothing to talk about until the 40-minute mark. It's terrible. Absolutely terrible.

How true is this "he's just not that into you" theory? Is it true that if a guy is interested in someone, he will always make every effort to be around her? Or are they ever shy and secretive about it? Depends on the people involved and the situation, which has been a common answer, but the correct one. If I'm really interested in pursuing a girl, I will try and involve her in my daily life, be it through texts, ims, meeting in person, etc. When I go after a girl, I'm usually blatantly obvious about it. It isn't something on purpose - the way I get girls isn't through looks, but interaction. I ride that comedy button as far as it is willing to carry me. Some guys will just pine from afar and you'll have no idea until you need that restraining order when you see him with binoculars and Jergens hand cream. On the rule, people want to be involved with people that they want to be around. If you're around someone enough, and both parties want it to happen, it has to mean something.

Why do guys lead girls on when they're not interested?_Why aren't most guys into monogamy? Remember how I said that we're simple creatures? We're also pretty oblivious. There have been a few times where I have led a girl on without even realizing it was going on. I think purposefully leading someone on is completely about serving your ego and is deplorable. You're playing with someone else's feelings in a deliberately cruel way. Just play Minesweeper with 100X100 boxes if you need to feel like an easy winner.

Most guys aren't into monogamy because like in the wild we are told to further the species with whomever we possibly can. That's the answer on its most base level. At somewhere like BU, where there are two girls for every year, the numbers are just too great to ignore. Why stay with one girl when you can experience so many different things with different people? Here's a question to ponder: would you rather have guys that aren't into monogamy or guys that lie about it and cheat? Things could be worse. There are a number of guys I know that would ideally rather be in a relationship. I guess they are all the good guys who have vanished with the stupid girls who are lacking in personality who are so prevalent.

so a friend just told me hand holding is a big deal-almost bigger than sex. is this true?! and why?! Wowie. Um...I would guess because sex could just be a one night stand while holding hands could lead to a relationship. What really was a shock to my system going to college is how trivialized sex becomes. When you grow up in high school your virginity is important, and you're taught to save yourself for someone special, and it takes some time to get into sex. Here, it's a definite possibility on a Friday or Saturday night, and could really be as meaningless as making out. It's always good when the most intimate act between two people can be as cold and emotionless as a handshake. Gotta love feeding that physical need.

Paraphrase: Why do girls say that they have a boyfriend when they don't? Or, why do they say they have a "thing?" Can't they properly qualify their relationships? First off, they're lying and don't want you. That's the most obvious option. If you keep pressing, you'll end up with the friend saying something along the lines of "no, it's like, REALLY serious," before giving way to "get the fuck away from me, creepo." Just take the hint and move on.

Girls also have a knack of overestimating what is going on. This is coupled with their complexity disease. I don't mean to generalize, but I have never been in a situation--or know a male in one--where he thinks they're committed but they are not. It falls once again on the female and her friends who will pick apart every trivial thing to try and solve this intricate puzzle of feelings, making out, and promise rings. Just be upfront and save the headaches. If you don't want to be dating, say to your partner, "I don't want to go out with anyone right now." If you are not sure, ask "are we dating?"

Final side track story: My freshman year, a group of sophomore girls were all huddled around one girl's computer giggling like they were in 8th grade again. Clearly I was confused. I was informed that there was a guy this one girl was waiting to im but didn't know how to break the ice. They were making up elaborate things such as, "oh hey just want to know what the sociology homework was...oh thanks...so hey what's up?" I suggested the crazy of idea of sending "hi, this is ____" and waiting for his response. It was like I said to im "Hey fuckface, eat a douchebag!" The point? Be up front. If you try some elaborate shit, you'll probably come off worse than just stating the obvious in an easy way. You won't be curt, or rude, and you might be walking in to some awkward situations, but isn't that better than waiting and dancing around the issue while your minions speculate away, filling your head with ridiculous thought tangents that lead you with "he has to have a child with someone else?" Keep it simple, people. It saves time...and lives.

Do girls use some guys as 'practice' for the guys they are really interested in? and if so, how do i know that when a girl hooks up with me, i'm not her 'practice' hookup? When she shows up on game day in your uniform.

Coming up next is Relations, cause we already tackled a lot of that tonight. I love built-in segues.

Boys and Girls: Boys - Etc.

2006-11-11T16:32:00.000-05:00

I never expected this. Through the 92 (this is 93) posts on this blog, I've had some novel ideas that never really turned out as well as planned. Most of these plans revolved around feedback. What I've learned is that people aren't always forthcoming with ideas or comments to give back to the blog, when I desperately want to do a mailbag. This also ran congruent with my lack of being "Enlightening" in the big issues, as the title (almost) alludes to. For a while I've wanted to tackle questions about Boys and Girls, and figured that, while hovering around the century mark here, it would be a great time to do it.

The idea was to ask a few girl friends (that's always awkward to write, isn't it?) to share with me their gripes, grievances, and questions about the male in general. I assumed I'd get about 20 or 30 questions, at most, which were mostly congruent. This way, I could make one blog about the major points that they hit and move on to answering questions about girls from a man's perspective, which should be interesting, to say the least. Instead, I struck a nerve. I have upwards of 50 questions that range all over the place, from cuddling to Lindsay Lohan to cotton panties. Therefore, I will answer every question of relevance (sorry "why is mike anton so hot?" and "WHY ARE GUYS SO RETARDED?!") on this blog. After culling all of the questions together, there are four major sections to address: The Chase, Sex (both mindset and physical action), Relations, and Etc. To ease us in, Etc. will be first.

What is it with men and playing Madden? First off, it's a fantastic game to play based on what is arguably the biggest American sport. Also, we've sort of grown up with it. I remember playing Madden 94 way back on Sega Genesis when I was 8-years-old. The gameplay--for the most part--stays the same, giving it a great pick-up-and-play feel. I didn't play Madden 06 with its ridiculous "QB Vision" feature, but still managed to beat my friend Scott in the only game I've ever played with the game. It's a strange little comfort...and it's a shitload of fun to beat your friends in anything, which leads to....

What is so thrilling about making bets with your buddies? Competition runs through everything in nature, be it for food, mating, and video game dominance. Everyone wants to be the best, especially males. Betting makes it even better. It's not based on physical abilities as much as smarts and chance. I bet Alex that Rutgers would cover a +7 spread against Louisville because I figured their defense would at least keep it close. I was right, Rutgers won outright (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!), and I'm five dollars richer. Not only does this show that I know more than he does, but I get a solo cup at a kegger for knowing it.

War movies are cool? Ick. War movies are second only to sports movies as the male chick flick. Yes, I'm well aware how Coach Carter will end, but god dammit if I'm not moved by Sam Jackson's love for these messed up kids who will learn from being a team and not individuals!! ...Sorry. War movies are cool because they involve guns, death, and victory, something that (for whatever reason) we're all drawn to. I would guess it goes back to competition, but on a much more important scale: life or death. It's also such incredible human drama because the stakes are so high. Oh, and we can take blood and guts a lot better.

Is arranging your junk in front of ppl really necessary? You try walking around with that thing in between your legs, positioned dangerously close to a row of metal teeth, in a climate that most closely resembles a rain forest. It isn't fun. There is a double standard as well - we don't complain when girls blatantly go to adjust or itch a scratchy breast. No, it isn't about perversion ("just cause it's a boob"), it's just one of those foibles that we all go through and accept. We are also trying to keep things less socially awkward by adjusting erections, which come at a drop of a hat sometimes. So you're welcome.

Do guys feel bad if their girl has a nicer car than they do? I would assume that most gearheads would go nuts. If you can't relate to a girl based on an irrational jealously of an inanimate object, you don't deserve to get laid in the first place. Also - they probably have small penises, and no one likes that. No one. And the small penis carriers are quite aware of this fact. Sorry guys.

What makes the sight of a girl crying so awkward for men? The most basic dividing line between girls and guys is emotion vs. rational thought. Girls are quite emotional, with someone of them crying over situations that are so far removed from tear-worthy that it is downright shocking.

I have a theory that goes beyond the divide. Most of the time, when we were all younger, girls would cry because boys did it. Whether it is because we pushed you down, or called you a name, men mostly are the reason why girls cry. I had a girlfriend who I made cry weekly, and I didn't really do anything to warrant it. It's awkward because 1) we don't know how to deal with such a situation other than a few pats on the shoulder or a hug and 2) we think we're at fault and want to get the hell out of Dodge before yelling starts. It's a defense mechanism.

The Lindsay Lohan fascination. I don't get it. Jailbait is the easiest answer. It gets more apparent the older you get. "Holy shit, she looks like that and she's only 16?" leads to "why weren't girls that hot when I was that age?" It's the forbidden fruit syndrome. The fascination now is, "how the fuck did she go from goddess to rail?" We all are rallying for her to get back into Lo-Han form, and escape this Lo-En disaster. Jesus christ, eat girl, we'll all love you again!

What do guys think about a girl wearing their guy's clothes? Marking your territory without the whole urination thing. Unless you're into that stuff.

Do guys feel bad if a girl gets the guy a more expensive gift than he gets for her?/do guys feel bad if a girl has/makes more money then he does? This gets in to a whole conversation about social norms. Guys are the breadwinners, guys have to look after and take care of the girl, guys get the jobs, guys support. I don't care how much feminism you want to throw my way, this is how our society works. Do men like it? Fuck no. If I'm on a boat with my family, guess what? I'm going to die. I get to go down with the ship while the women and children go off. Fantastic. We have to ask girls out, we have to pay for them on dates, and when all is said and done, we're disposable because women are more important to furthering the species. It's tough.

Guys don't feel bad if they get better gifts. The problem is the friends. The worst enemy for a girl is other girls. For example, on prom, girls never dress up for their guy. They dress up to show up the other girls. You could show up in a plain black dress for all we care, but it's about females. If you receive a gift that's more expensive than the one you got her, you're going to get flack from the girl, driven directly by her friends. If you have a girl, you don't try and impress her - you impress who she hangs around with.

Do guys feel like they can't be scared in front of girls? Tricky question, since "scared" is pretty open-ended. You can't really help getting scared by someone jumping out at you, something no one likes. When a guy gets upset about getting a jump in front of a girl, you'd get the same reaction if he was with all of his guy friends. If you mean scared in a "we might not make it as boyfriend and girlfriend" situation, to a certain extent, yes. Goes back to the social norm of the strong, emotionless male. We're the cornerstone, the rock. You come crying to us. The very thing that guys always get flack for ("he's emotionally unavailable") is how we are brought up. And guess who primarily brings us up? Women. Their greatest fear is to have a mama's boy, so they make him strong and emotionally unavailable at times, and the vicious cycle starts anew.

Do guys actually read greeting cards that they give to their girl? Do I even have to answer this? Yes. We look at it, open, skim, buy, envelope, never think of it again. It isn't like girls are the only ones that get this treatment; it's anyone who gets a card. Girls have this sick pleasure of finding the perfect card, and then brag about what's inside to their friends. Men know that cards, of any sort, are always corny and dumb, so you just have to find one with the proper wording (not to a great-aunt) and the proper occasion (no bah mitzvahs) and we're set.

Next time, we delve into The Chase

Boys and Girls: The Prelude

2006-11-01T21:20:00.000-05:00

There was a time where I wrote on this blog about silly, trivial things like Captain Planet and the washing machines in my dorms going crazy. As time has moved forward, I have matured discussing love, family, and a depressing amount of death. Who knows how many posts ago I actually said it, but I decided that it was time to conquer bigger and better things. It was my job--nay, my born duty--to go after some of the most difficult questions that have plagued mankind for ever. No, I don't mean the trivial stuff like "where did we come from?" or "why am I here?" Those questions have no real answers, so why even bother to attempt? (Answers are: the sea and to keep reproducing.)

Almost Enlightening was a name that came about a few months or so into this blog existing. It was first called, "Dribbling Drivel," but I felt like I was directly ripping off Steve Martin a tad too much (his book of essays was titled Pure Drivel). The post count is hovering around 100, so I think it's time to tackle one of the most loaded, but constantly asked, questions of our or anytime: What's up with the opposite sex?

For too long I have heard complaints from either end about style, emotions, decision making, small actions, and so on and so forth. None of these problems are ever answered directly, but instead piled into a vast collection of "I don't get it." Here on this blog, I will attempt the unheard of: explain why these things happen.

This is an already difficult task on my own for many reasons (one of them is that I'm not female), so I'll need some help. Earlier, I texted a few girl friends to tell me what their biggest complaints/questions/befuddlements are in regards to men. Needless to say, it didn't take long to get a large amount of responses. Every question won't be answered directly, but I hope to explain the reasoning behind these problems to the best of my abilities.

Now, I turn to you. If you're a man and are confused as to why women watch chick flicks? Put it in the comments. If you're a girl and don't get why we just don't put the seat down? Put it in the comments. If you have too much for the comments, you can email here. This is your chance to get these things off of your chest...and then criticize me for my answers.

Action

2006-10-28T14:26:00.000-05:00

The world does not like film students. Out of every single major offered at every single college, I cannot find one that is met with more disgust than being a film student. This happens for a few reasons. First off, we're going to head into a field with little to no hope of actually obtaining employment, let alone writing/directing/editing. Secondly, there are a lot of us who are elitist snobs, casting down from mountain high their wisdom that anything in wide release is worthless; the only way to view film is as an art and no one must see it. Finally, we are taking what was designed to be an entertainment medium and scrupulously analyze it, bit-by-bit, pissing off all of your friends who you go with. When you say, "that's horrible framing," you'll get a comment of "just shut the fuck up and watch it."

There is an almost innate longing to pick movies apart not because you want to, but because your view of movies is forever altered. I just watched Good Will Hunting and instead of discussing the scene where Matt Damon and Robin Williams have their first breakthrough discussion, I was telling my roommate Zack about how the director (Gus van Zant) is constantly toying with the 180 rule, even in the shot. This prompted a small but audible sigh from the other roommate Ben, who might not have even realized I get it. Ok, I'm sorry, it's just that I analyze these situations.

In screen writing class, we are learning all of the finer points of a script, such as how characters are developed, what a proper character arc is, etc. A lot of stuff that most of you couldn't care less about. The biggest lesson we are taught is to "show but not tell." This rule is to make the read more interesting. Instead of saying "Billy's estranged with his father and is sad about it," you would write some action like "Billy walks in to his Mom's house and stares at a picture of his family, before knocking the frame over and walking away." Show, but don't tell. You get the idea that something isn't right, which is much more interesting than the mother having a line of, "How long has it been since you shut your father out because he didn't support you enough?"

It is a problem to scrutinize in a theater, but what is it when you start to examine life just as thoroughly? There's a new movie coming out called Stranger Than Fiction where Will Ferrell's character is a character in a book being written by Emma Thompson's character. Will goes to Dustin Hoffman's character for advice, and he suggests trying to determine whether or not his life is a comedy or a drama (drama obviously having more propensity for an unhappy ending). I find myself asking the same questions.

If I make a comment about a couple of black guys in giant winter coats when it isn't that cold out crashing a party full of white people, and I say "well, that's odd," what does that say about me? Well, I could be a middle-to-upper class white suburban teenager who has no idea what it's like in the real world. I could very easily be so sheltered that I only understand what's on TV or in rap music and stereotype every black person as a criminal, a thief, a crook. Inherently I am racist, be it from my upbringing or otherwise, and I will always be this way. The first thought will always be negative.

Or

I could be a kid from Brooklyn who's seen one too many robberies in his life. He has a mother in Manhattan and a deadbeat father who can't take care of himself, let alone his teenage son, and sees both sides of the world as easily as flipping a coin. He runs with the wrong crowd when he has to, and he separates himself while eating dinner on the Upper West Side. But no matter where he is, he is always vigilant, keeping one eye out, because he doesn't want to be taken like his pal Brian did.

Or

He's just a dumb schmuck kid who was raised by a mother who was brought up when New York City was a cesspool. The place that we see characterized in movies now, go to Times Square, and think that it was all made up. It's the kind of upbringing where the city is a scary place until recently, and you're taught to protect yourself. Always carry your wallet in your front pocket unless you want to be mugged. Never take money out in public. Always stash some cash somewhere else on you, where it wouldn't be found (like your sock, you sickos), just in case. Maybe you have a nice amount of black friends, and you know stereotypes don't hold true all the time. Maybe you make a comment about your upbringing, about your perceived reality and how you're brought up, and you're looked at as a racist asshole.

The important thing when writing is to not worry about how your script is perceived. You cannot control what the audience reacts to. If they think a plot line is too disparate, that they don't understand how a kid could be selling drugs in 7th grade, that is not your fault. If they cannot grasp the abstract ideas or flowery language that is flying out of your character's mouth a mile a minute, it's not your fault. You have a story tell, and you tell it to the best of your abilities, and let them sort out the meaning. A lot of times, what you expected them to think never happens, what you put on the page doesn't translate to the screen. There are peices of dialogue that are inherently funny in a dark comedy that some people don't understand. Why are you laughing at a time like this? Have you no decency?

So what is my life, a comedy or a drama? It's the question that I posed but never answered. My script, my movie, my being is up to interpretation, obviously. But instead of scrutinizing everything ("is she ordering a plain hamburger because she's boring, or is it because she was never given choices while she grew up...oh god, did someone sexually abuse her?!") and make myself go crazy, I think it's time to sit back, get some popcorn, and laugh. I hear the first act is pretty funny, the second is full of melodrama that goes nowhere, and the third act is...well...a surprise.

But the acting sucks.

The Arctic Monkeys Rule

2006-10-16T16:25:00.000-05:00

Racial profiling his hit the streets of Boston. Commonwealth Avenue, a main strip in Boston which contains mostly all of my campus, contains yet another instance of racial discrimination stemming only from one's color. Jewish kids are sent out into the gentile masses to try and smoke out their fellow Jews. How is this done? Simply by looking, they have to distinguish who they could pester and offer a corn stalk to. Why can they get away with racial profiling while no one else can, let alone in matters dealing with national security? If you read a white man wrote this blog before reading this, wouldn't you expect the classy, highbrow comedy you are currently enjoying (ps boobies lol). I'm not saying that racial profiling is wrong--in fact, in 98.5% of cases, it's 100% correct. Can't beat those numbers folks. In fact, we should do it more. It's as American as apple pie and silly race riots.

Also, using children to give things away on the street should be illegal. not because you are essentially whoring out children to do work that is meant for an adult, but because it isn't fair to those who pass by. You can't easily ignore and rudely walk past children who are shilling goods. I have no problem being Rick Rude to brainwashed 20-year-olds in an economic and political cult, but seeing devout Jewish children makes it harder. Mostly because they have a sad face, and I can't call them "douche bags," since they aren't old enough to understand that I just slighted their character.

Speaking of racial profiling, I was watching the GAS network on cable and enjoying the show GUTS, which pits 3 early-teens against one another in a battery of physical competitions, all culminating in a climb up the agro-crag, a large mountainous structure with paper Mache rocks and glitter. One of my friends back home (who I cannot remember) saw something very odd in how the kids are cast. I forget who it is, so I will claim complete credit for the idea. The blue kid is always a blonde, blue-eyed white male, red is a brunette white girl, and the purple child is always a minority, usually African-American with a fade (it was filmed in 1993 or so). They will sometimes switch it up - I've seen the All Aryan Challenge and I've seen these same kinds of kids with switched up colors as if we wouldn't pick up on their inherent racism. Doesn't matter though, as the black kid always wins anyway.

Geese do not step like Nazis. I'm shocked that they haven't sued based on descrimination yet. Do you think they were refused representations just because they are aquatic birds? Someone has to be outraged about this. But not me. I hate those dirty, lazy, no good Wingers.

For all of the hubbub about vampires recently, there is a fatal flaw in their attempt to take over the world. In documentaries such as Blade, Underworld, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, vampires (also referred to as "vamps") feed off of the living, killing their food source and also creating another vampire after the blood is sucked dry. This creates a mathematical formula that says that for every 1 vampire to live, 1 food source must die, and therefore 1 vampire--who compete for the same finite food source as the vampire that sired him or her--is created. Thus, each time a vampire feeds, it lessens the amount of available food by 200%, while also creating another competitor for a decreasing food supply. Vampires are evolutionary inept and act in a fashion that is completely detrimental to its own existence. Why do we worry? Eventually they will convert their entire food supply into competition and die off.

There is also the various vampire side effects that do not lend to a positive long-term plan for the creatures. If they walk into the sun, the universal life force for all things on Earth, they die. They can only use the planet for half of the day. That is just wasteful. If they happen to walk by a vegetable aisle during the day, they can have their skin burnt if they mistake garlic for onions. Vampires are simply not built to last; they are a flash in the proverbial pan. The same goes for zombies, whose thirst for human brains will eventually lead to their downfall. Werewolves, on the other hand, are simply animals, and therefore scare the bejesus out of me.

Atmosphere has a song called "I'm Always Coming Back Home To You," and in point of the song, Slug--the MC-- says, "It was a .38, the poor man's machete." Isn't that poor man's machete a butter knife or something? I don't think you can say something is a poor man's anything if it is in fact more costly than what you are comparing it to. He should be shot with a poor man's Nerf gun.

I have coined a new term, to go with Unknowing Asshole and my bread and butter, That Guy (which I didn't create, but will ride to money on that train): Social Landmine. Today I was walking through the street and saw a girl who, in passing, politely smiled hello to me. It took a second to remember who she was. Ah yes, she was the one who was rubbing and groping me while everyone was all wasty-waste on Friday night. Faaaaantastic. I have realized now that, especially after this weekend, there are tiny little explosions waiting to take me down, and there is no way that I can track them. At any moment, I could step on...a Social Landmine(c).

Venom

2006-10-11T20:14:00.000-05:00

I absolutely adore my readers. This blog started out as nothing more than a vehicle for me to keep writing, to hone my skills, and to generally get my own feelings and emotions out (writing has always been a catharsis). Of course, I'm also sort of self-centered--blame the only child syndrome--so I'd nudge different people to check it out. Over time it has snowballed to have a great deal of readers, more than I could ever imagine. Hell, people I don't know check this out. I've been told that I help them to voice different feelings that they had, and that in some small way it might help them deal with their problems.

Such an issue was discussed in the previous post, entitled, "In Rumination." While in the shower, I thought about how great things have been in Boston, and naturally looked back to New Jersey, and one of the more emotionally taxing moments of my life, the break up with my then girlfriend. It has been a theme I have discussed for the past 6 or so months since it has happened, mostly because I write what's on my mind. Obviously, it's been hovering around up there. These posts were not meant to win her back, to slight her in any way, or to bring attention to myself for a pity party. I know a lot of friends who have gone through similar situations, including one who was going through a messy break up around the same time as I was, and felt that it would be read and if not appreciated, then understood. If you want to write something for people to read, having it be relatable is a very easy way to get that accomplished. Those posts can be found in chronological order, from break up to reaction to pathetic depression and finally to a reflection on the events.

I do have a certain responsibility with this blog, since I do write about myself, and there are a lot of other people in my life that get written up here. I understand that there is a certain amount of professionalism in this sophomoric production I run, and try to uphold it as best as I can. Over the last year plus, I believe I have done a good job with it. Once, I had to write a disclaimer, which I refuse to write again (hence my pretty little link). I'm a selfish bloke - this blog is about me, my thoughts, and is first and foremost about me. If you no one ever read it again, it would continue, much like it would right now. Although I'm sure I'd throw in more ethnic jokes.

What brings this on, you ask yourself? Well, I came home from my 6:30-9 hell of a discussion (we talk about a single French film for two and a half yours) to see that I got a comment on the blog. What I see is this: wow.. thats touching NOT.. i feel there is no need to post your and your partners sex life on this blog. it's rude and you should consider the other person feelings, and NO this is not her. I encourage people to leave me comments (to the point where it's pleading and thoroughly embarrassing for everyone involved), but every now and then there is a special comment that raises my ire. I have absolutely no problem with someone not liking my stuff, but this crosses a few lines. Let's break this down, shall we?

wow.. thats touching NOT
Your grammar skills are in serious need of help. "Wow...that's touching...NOT," while being incredibly juvenile and ridiculous in any manner of conversation is at least now in some semblance of proper English. Right off the bat, we know it’s a high school girl. Also, are you ripping off Borat? For the record, a good number of people said it was touching, so you're totally rite...NOT

i feel there is no need to post your and your partners sex life on this blog.
Do I even need to hit on the grammar again? I hope your and your teacher's plans involve comprehension of the English language. I try, so should you, dammit. This part surprised me more than anything, since I thought the comment was about one of the various other stories that go into almost horrifying detail of my sexual life (you can find them pretty easily on here - my newly ordained "friends" here at BU did and read the story aloud to anyone walking by our Student Union). This was shallow, intentionally. I went into no sexual details. If you think the throwaway humor at the end to break up how serious the post was from my normal writings was going too far, well, you should have seen what I had before I toned it down. I do think it's cute that he or she (she) tried to make themselves look more intelligent by wording it like he or she (she) did.

it's rude and you should consider the other person feelings, and NO this is not her.
An apostrophe! Goodness. What does the other person feelings have to do with this? She once loved me? What, is she offended by this? I'm ever so sorry other person for simply relaying facts on my blog. You have my sincerest apologies. What is being rude about the situation? Hell, I thought I was being poignant, not puckish. I enjoy the emphasis on the no, which really just makes it look like it is the other person writings.

I could really care less who wrote this stanza that makes 50 Cent look like Billy Shakespeare. The issue here is a very simple one: if you don't like it, don't read it, stupid. It's very easy to do. Here are a few tips: when on a computer, don't go to kingmanton.blogspot.com. It won't sneak up on you in the night, or be sprawled across the Garden State Parkway as you pass in your car, nor is it on your Summer Reading list. Don't come back. I don't want you here. You probably need a dictionary to understand that I just called you ignorant for 300 or so words. Take your little crusade to someone who really would be hurt.

And thank you very much for giving me something to write about! I enjoy it when a gift is handed to me and little effort is needed. You lucky people will be getting another post that would be in BU's The Source weekly newspaper, if it exists still....

A Rumination

2006-10-09T13:19:00.000-05:00

I don't necessarily miss her. No, for all intents and purposes the "her" isn't merely as important as the "what." She is not disposable--not by any means--but she is merely the carrier, the conductor through which feelings and emotion are pumped. Relatively speaking, I loved the vessel while I was really in love with the meaning. I don't miss her eyes, their shape, their color, nearly as much as I miss what shined through them. While she was peering into me, she didn't know how that same mechanism left her open to be viewed as well. I miss what shined behind the retina, a look of trust, of care, of satisfaction. I don't miss her body nearly as much as I miss how it would curl up on mine, giving her an heir of protection while giving myself an heir of invincibility. She knew she was safe, and I knew nothing could harm her because I was there. I don't miss our conversations, as the words usually were trite or coated in more cheese than The Notebook. What lingers on is the sincerity in those words. The words "I love you" can be uttered by anyone for any reason, but not with the same passion and vigor that she said them with. I miss the sincerity behind those words. I don't miss the sex...well.... Ok, there are always exceptions to the rules. What do I miss, however, is what it stood for. No longer was it an arbitrary joining of two people in a sustained (for however long) act of mutual selfishness, a temporary physical addiction fed, but the very material of feeling. I miss the palpability of love. Most of all, I miss the "us against the world" philosophy, no matter how false it was. We were together, and nothing could break us apart, not from the sky, the clouds, the ground, anything. For some fleeting moments in time, we were an impenetrable fortress. I miss the security, the false sense of unending continuity, how the term "forever" could be so skewed beyond any rational thought would allow, but you let it slide. I miss believing in miracles. No longer do I miss her, but everything that came with her.

...and the effortless sex. That's definitely a biggie.

No Eye In Sex

2006-10-09T02:44:00.000-05:00

For as long as I can remember I have been a flirt. For seemingly just as long, I have realized the futility in which I flirt, nabbing only about 5% of the girls with my sweet talk. In a baseball equivalent, I'm batting post season A-Rod (this is the most painful joke I have ever written). There are many ways in which I've flirted, from quirky letters to instant messages to a girl's away message, even to the occasional self-deprecating joke. One form of flirting that I never mastered--let alone really knew existed--was using eye contact.

It is something that always eluded me. For example, I thought a few girls fancied me in my US History class sophomore year, but I fully believe it was because a squirrel would scamper about just outside the windows with were situated to my right. I also took bored, blank stares as signs of affection, leading to many an awkward conversation at a party. "Oh, you're seeing him? Wait, you're not seeing him, just having sex with him? I see.... Yeah, yeah that squirrel is nutty. No, I didn't say that intentionally."

In any class since I started going to school, I have always passed idle time by looking at the most attractive girl(s) in the class. It usually wasn't about making eyes with someone, or trying to get her attention. If anything, it was a stupid game to see if I could get the same reaction. I'm sure most of the time it was a look of "why are you still looking at me, you creep?" but it was a look nonetheless. It was something to keep me going while I was falling asleep based on the subject matter or I was just bored from the endless droning of my classmates who couldn't understand Hamlet (not to say I'm above anyone, but jesus people, it's still English they're speaking).

This eye contact game I always thought was just my own stupid way to pass time. I was recently having lunch with reader/friend (redundant?) Westie, who was bragging about a relationship she has created with a boy in her class, based solely on stolen looks and quick glances. "This kid and I have eye sex," was her direct quote, but I feel that "eye sex" is an extremely awkward term to be kicked about. It is unusual to compare the sensual, discreet act of sexual intercourse with arbitrary eye movements. If they were more alike, I would probably get laid more. But alas, it's simply not as easy as looking at someone else directly in the gateways to the soul, so "eye sex" shall be stricken from the rest of this entry.

Never before did I realize that the girl might actually have something invested in this process, this sport of mine. I always thought it was action without consequence, nothing to note in the long run. Apparently, I am wrong. Not only is it important, but it can be a heavily influential device before flirting more. This was lost on me. After some meditation on the subject, I have thought of various places in which I have played my staring game and what the rules of the game are, along with pros and cons.

It is impossible to do anything in a large lecture hall. The numbers are absolutely staggering (upwards to 300+ other apathetic students and 10+ dorks who are absolutely enthralled) and do not lend itself to something as precise as eye contact. At any time you could think some girl has been staring you down the entire lecture before you hear someone yell her name from five rows behind and then see her react while you feel like an ass. The same goes for the opposite end, as your look at someone from the opposite sex could go through about seven rows of various guys and girls, making your focused beam of interest be refracted like sunlight through a cloudy sky, spreading your stare on to tons of the same sex and generally unsavory people. Bottom line is, unless they are down your row and you can bet that a single person will understand what you're doing, just don't do it. And avoid looking at someone of your own sex; cause if you make eye contact with them they'll make it with you and it will be awkward for everyone involved. Unless, of course, you're gay. I have no joke to follow that statement, for it is simply a truism.

Small lectures (30-50 people) is less awkward, but more difficult. For example, if you're sitting in the front row, you have absolutely no game. There is no smooth way to turn around and look at someone without being incredibly creepy. You cannot pass off "oh, I was just looking randomly to my left and Oh hello there!" No, you're very deliberately turning around and eyeing off, "I think you're pretty and might look good as a rug," while you strangely stroke your pet poodle. If you want to successfully attempt this, get as far up and diagonally across from the target as possible. Even doing this does not guarantee victory, but dammit, at least you have a shot. Move out, soldier (and remember to blink).

Classrooms are the preferred field of play. There are rows of desks and not enough people to really get in your way. Now you can very deliberately have your eye wander before finding the person you want to look at, seemingly as if it was one big coincidence. Be wary of people blindly staring in to space. This can be achieved by darting your eyes back and forth between the subject and something else, because if they don't react to that weirdo motion, they aren't going to react to a football being thrown at her face, Marsha style. Don't get any false confidence from ole' Spacey. Also, be sure to not stare too much, because that would make the opposite more apt to call the police than to call your cell phone. I cannot stress enough how thin a line it is before creepy stalking and harmless looking. Believe me. I can't come within 100 feet of an elementary school

...again.

There is one flaw to the classroom situation, and it is probably the most distracting and troublesome formation of the bunch: sitting in a circle. In this formation, everyone is laid out in either your frontal view or peripheral, and there is no escaping the looks from everywhere. I'm in a discussion now where we go into a circle, and the room is filled with eight males and around twenty females. Of the eight males, four are gay, one is quiet and keeps to himself and doesn't seem to have a firm grasp on English, and the other two aren't fit to be extras in movies about teenagers. That leaves me the alpha male. This is not a point of pride. I'm getting eye-raped from all angles, mostly by people I wouldn't make contact with; visually or otherwise. This also leads to the problem of me checking out who is checking ME out, giving them the false impression of reciprocity. My vision line in that class now looks like this (with - being the eye line): ___/ \____~' \______ I avoid them like the plague. Oh, and the two most attractive girls in the class will not return my visual favors, either. Poetic justice.

Finally, there is walking down the street, something most BU students do daily. I have a simple rule when it comes to walking: the double look. It is something I figured out freshman year and brought to the Palisades Mall in NY to try out. Sure enough, it worked, and really annoyed my then-girlfriend (mostly cause I would triumphantly proclaim how it just happened, much to her chagrin). It is, like any eye contact flirtation, an unsure science...like physics (gravity my ass). The way I use the system is that the person has to see you from some distance, get a general look, then look down/away/up before once again looking at you. Obviously this doesn't work with anyone but a stranger ("oh man, Steve looked at me today as I passed and asked if I had the five bucks to repay him - I think he wants me!"). It could also be, at least in my case, such thoughts that need clarification, as in, "damn is he really that tall?" or "is his face really dirty or...oh...beard...gotcha."

The basic gist is such: making direct eye contact can be threatening, flirtatious, or accidental. Have fun figuring out which look is which, cause hell if I know anymore.

And stop staring at me you fucking psycho. You! I can see you! Stop.

...freak.

Answered By Manton

2006-10-02T23:42:00.000-05:00

I asked for your questions, and I got a few. Huzzah! Now I answer them.

where do babies come from?

Babies come from God. God gives them to storks, and storks leave them in cabbage patches. From there, they are magically transformed in to drunk, high, horney seventeen year olds who cannot have sex in their cars or their homes and are relegated to let their hormones fly in terribly awkward locales, such as a cabbage patch. From there, who knows where they go, cause it could be anywhere from the mother's arms, to an adoption center, or in the bathroom at prom. Lesson learned? Let your kids have sex in your house. This way they won't be drunk or high and could both be rational enough to always wear a condom. Or something to that effect.

From Suzie:
can we hear about manton's most embarassing moment?

pleeeeease?

There are a few really embarrassing ones, including being harshly rejected in sixth grade, my first sexual experience and of course seeking political asylum in a bathroom. There was one instance that I will never live down, and that involves this one kid who I did not like. I was sitting around the lunch table with all of my friends and, like any other day, I was talking to no one in particular. Frustrated--not because I didn't have an audience since that was the norm--with this one child, I had an outburst that was supposed to be "I want to beat the shit out of (boy's name)." Instead, I exclaimed, in a fit of anger, "I want to fuck the shit out of (boy's name)." As soon as the sentence blew (I probably shouldn't use this verb....) out of my mouth (definitely shouldn't have), I became very quiet, hoping that no one would have heard it. The side conversations continued until one of my friends looks at me, then the table, then back at me, and goes "what?" They all heard. I have yet to hear the end of it.

ps not gay.

Earlier this evening you had an away message that said something like "I hate...everything you choose to be" or something to that effect. Is that something you came up with or are they lyrics? Do they have significance to where you are in you life right now or was a song just stuck in your head?

Also, can you share a funny anecdote about your new roommates? What are some of their quirky habits?

It's a quote from the American version of The Office from the last episode of Season 2 where Michael (played by Steve Carrell) finally lets Toby (played by a guy named Toby - seriously) know exactly how he feels about him. The significance is it's probably one of the best comedic line readings ever, which helps since Carrell wrote the episode, and therefore his own line.

I have no funny anecdotes about my new roommates. One of them is Zack, who I consider to be my best friend at school (and one of my best in general), who is great at foosball, sketch comedy, and obtaining favors from girls (and he's not even a scumbag!). Ben is someone who I wish I knew for the previous two years as well as I do now cause he's a great guy, hard worker, and is 21. Captain Fantastic is a mouse that has recently migrated from the kitchen into Ben's room, after following Zack from Claflin Hall his freshman year. We're all glad to see he's made it this long, and no one is really upset that we have a mouse...until it defecates in one of our rooms. Then that fucker is as good as dead.

"Why do you think people are so negative towards BU. Is BU really that much worse than everywhere else?"

It is the classic "grass is greener" situation. All of the kids who wanted out of my home town so badly are either back every weekend or still live there. It's always easiest to hate where you are cause you can always complain about something. BU sucks just as much as probably any other college out there. Do you think other schools don't have fines for alcohol violations? For noise violations? People make it out to be that BU is the only collegiate institution to be run not for educating its students, but for making a profit for its trustees. Everyone wants to believe that there is something better that they are not a part of so they have something to complain about.

The Ladder Theory

The Ladder Theory goes as such: men and women put the opposite sex on a table system. Men will almost immediately put women on a ladder with designated points, with the top being "want to have sex with" followed by "friends you'd have sex with," "have sex with drunk and admit," and "have sex with drunk and not admit." Girls have two ladders, one in a similar structure to men and another ladder committed exclusively to male friends who cannot transfer from the friend ladder to the sex ladder.

Reading the site is just the most sappy, pitiful, and bitter assessment of females from someone who was burned way too many times. Whoever wrote this up took my Credo I made freshman year in high school and put numbers to it. It's a blast to read, mostly because you know how many people flat out rejected him over time. It just drips of hatred. For example, he constantly says that girls just "fuck" drug dealers, addicts, people going nowhere. Yeah, ok, they do. What about the other girls?

I do not subscribe to the methods that he believes one should use to get a girl, which is to ignore them and treat them like shit and they'll want you. I'm just not that mean of a guy. When I am, it's usually for someone I wouldn't have sex with even if I used Captain Fantastic. Once again, grass is always greener is fully in play here. Sure, I have had a thing for Arielle Vaz for as long as I can remember, but that doesn't mean that I ever thought I'd get her (in any situation). Did it ever occur to you, Ladder Theorist, that you just simply weren't her type? She wouldn't go for me because she wouldn't go for a guy like me. That's just how it goes.

I have had a rather good record with girls I have been with for being a nice guy. I will continue to keep this method up because I usually get good girls when I act like a good guy. I wouldn't really want a girl that I treated like shit and he she wanted me more. That really just shows that she has little self-esteem, thinks very little of herself, and needs to constantly be told she isn't fat or is pretty. Who the hell wants to deal with that? Sure, she's hot, but if the whole time she's going "does this position make me look fat?" what's the point? I'm too old to be criticizing the most attractive girls cause they can go for douche bag guys. I don't need them.

Doesn't mean I can't use them for alone time ammunition....

I will use this time to answer a question that has been asked of me for some time. I was asked to have a realistic fantasy girl, and I said an Asian, much to the surprise of my (half) Asian friend Kim. She inquired further as to why white guys usually would want a an Asian girl. My answer is such: it's what we can't have. Almost every Asian girl I have seen at BU hangs out exclusively with other Asians, including males, of course. They are the most self-excluded race I have encountered here. To somehow nab a girl from the giant group and take her to bed for some love making (?) would be to seemingly do the impossible. I assume it's the same reason why black guys go after white girls.

Except that there might be some underlying male ego problem that runs as an undercurrent. If the urban myths are true, then Asian men have the smallest penises, Caucasians are normal, and black men are the undisputed champs. For as long as time can document, men have been insecure about their penis sizes. One could also assume that the vaginas of all three races would be designed to fit their male counterparts. By using these ideas, one could hypothesize that men sort of "trade up" to make the illusion that they are bigger by going down one level of vaginal size. Therefore, white men get with Asian girls to have a false illusion of penile grandeur, and same with the black men with white girls. It's a stretch (lol get it lol), but I think it might hold some weight, especially since I know absolutely nothing about human anatomy.

Finally, it wasn't from the Ask Manton post, but someone left me with i love you. and it wasn't my Mom. I'm not sure how I feel about this. Mostly, I just hope it wasn't from a male.

Like Clockwork

2006-09-26T00:10:00.000-05:00

Today I was taken to task by readers (and, of therefore, friends of mine) Westie and Allison. They asked me why I had not written on the blog in a while, and I said that I put up Ask Manton. Westie said she does not like Ask Manton, and I won't lie, it hurt a bit. I explained to them that usually this is my place to vent, but with a screen writing class which demands three scripts, a production class which demands three films, and a radio show along with nothing really to vent about, I was left with little for the blog. Allison asked about all the random little thoughts I jot down, and I said I didn't have any.

I lied.

My mind is constantly going, especially in times where I want to turn it off and sleep. It's been this way for as long as I could remember, and with more time the thoughts become more complex (and elegent). What used to be "oh my god is that someone coming in the house to kill me?" has become, "what if I never fully articulate my feelings to others, and all of these events occur: (insert events for 30 minutes)." I decided that today I would try and give you guys a peek into my mind. All of these thoughts happened on the walk to my 6:30 film class, during my watching of the Jean Renoir film The Human Beast (1938) and the walk home two hours later.

These are my complete and unadulterated thoughts and ideas, and nothing was change to soothe anyone's feelings or to make myself look better. You'll know when I see a girl, and that is how I react (some people think I'm perverted....) genuinely. This might be a terrible read, I really don't know. Here we go anyway....

Why do people put on bumper stickers of governmental candidates? You better have complete faith that they win, or have complete faith in your ability to peel the sticker off without harm to your car.
Not many attractive females go running on Com. Ave. Maybe that's why they'll be in shape and attractive at 30 while genetics finally let down the lazy, current attractive girls.
Why do overweight guys wear incredibly baggy clothes? You can be wearing a carnival tent cover and we'll all still know.
Who would use free wi-fi in a bar?
Nice.
I hereby declare the death of Uggs. Next we have purple leggings. Congrats Jackie O glasses, you get a free pass...for now.
One of my film professors sounds like Jimmy Stewart while another looks and sounds like the Colnol from KFC.
Monster Energy Drinks are way overpriced, and I got it for free. It's taking out taxes, too - on my stomach.
Did every old movie get put out by Janus Films? Whatever happened to them? Flipped a coin and lost the company?
Colored bras rule, but nothing (Nothing!) beats classic black.
Am I the only one a bit putt off that "boy" shorts (a type of female undergarment) are hot? The emphasis is on the boy. Does that make me a pedo?
Why would you buy a hat with a label's name on it? I'd rather you support the Sox than Hollister. STITCH THOSE PANTS! STITCH THOSE PANTS!
Could one seating arrangement at Boston University accommodate my legs? Just one, not asking for a total revamp here.
Trains are the cassette tapes of mass transportation. Steam ships are Beta Max.
The Fantastic Four's Reed Richards has to have the biggest penis ever (for those not in the know, his special power is to be rubber like and grow and he can stretch himself out).
I hate bad subtitles in movies, especially when the character is clearly talking for much longer than the short, cumbersome, bastardized cluster of English that is digitally stamped on the bottom of every frame.
Je n'aime pas.
Why don't women wear hats anymore?
The high five will never replace the handshake and the pound will never replace the high five. The ass slap, however, has no ceiling.
There would be more cannibals if blood tasted better.
White boards will never erase chalk boards.
Other items never to be improved upon: the bench, the stool, the rake, the trashcan. The fork was on that list until the surprising development of the spork.
I need new shoes, but hate shoe shopping. I have no idea why this is.
Grey's Anatomy has been entered into the hallowed halls of shows which have, according to girls, "great writing," and they are clearly wrong. Other members include Will & Grace and Sex and the City. Yes, I have watched full episodes of all three shows.
What ever happened to the Thermos?
The Swiss Army Knife - do the Swiss even have an army to necessitate naming a knife after them? If they do exist, do they use the knife which derived its name from its very ranks?
Eh.
Grape Bubblicious
Oh, oh.
Grape Bubblicious gum was the worst out of the four-pack of gum I would regularly buy. Why do companies insist of always throwing in a shitty 3rd or 4th food product in the pack that absolutely no one wants? I'm looking at you Starbursts.
Meh.
Friend's nice.
Eye contact, bonus.
Listening to Radiohead's "There, There" while I walk the streets of Boston at night really makes me want to turn into an animal and bite someone to pieces. I think the rythmic drums unleash the theoretical beast in me.
How hard is it to hold open a door?
How hard is it to say thank you when I hold open the door for you?
I love it when the people say machines are broken. "Machine ate MY ATM CARD!" Not that it's broken, just that it's a bastard. Thanks.
I don't know her right? No, no I don't...wish I did, but....
Sweet, new locks that actually function.
Man, I don't want to type all of this shit up, cause no one's gonna find it funny or interesting, and they'll probably think I'm just a creep.
Ok, I'm just probably too lazy to type it all up. It has nothing to do with feelings.

Ask Manton (Again)

2006-09-20T00:44:00.000-05:00

As you can probably tell, I haven't updated in a while. It isn't like I don't have ideas (in fact, I post-it noted one full blog out), it's just that I don't have the time to write out all the words. I have therefore come up with a compromise. It's time to put the onus on you, my dear readers, to provide me with something quick to talk about. Welcome to Ask Manton (Again), where you can send in questions or topics that you might like for me to discuss. I am well aware that this could be an abominable failure, but I'm used to embarrassment (for example, instead of saying "I want to beat the fucking shit out of [boy's name]" I said "I want to fuck the shit out of [boy's name]"). You can either leave me a comment in this post or you can im me if you know my screen name (no way am I putting that sucker on here to be searched out) or email me here. Thanks in advance.

Fuckem Up Fuckem Up BC Sucks

2006-09-11T20:11:00.000-05:00

First and foremost, I want it known that I do not speak for any fan group, formal or informal, specifically the apparently resurrected Dog Pound. I have a sports pass upgrade for this year as well as the previous two. I live and die by BU hockey, and will always remember Bourque’s goal in the Beanpot and the freshmen line sliding a goal between Schneider’s legs to win Hockey East last year. However, the recent events that have occurred between the fans and the administration have left me to rethink my position on supporting this sport.

Last year’s poor display from the fans during the final minutes of the NCAA regional final was disgusting for a variety of reasons. It smacked of unoriginality, was incredibly classless, and was done not just in poor taste, but also in front of Boston College fans. We gave them more ammunition, people. The “F You Boyle” chants and the like were repulsive, and should be stopped immediately, as well as the rarely appropriate “BS” and “A-Hole” chants (some of you really need to learn that players do fall down on their own). That is where I stop agreeing with our administration.

I find some of the quotes from the administration to be laughable. Mr. Lynch, our Athletic Director, really has some gems, including, “I think they can come up with something more clever than, ‘f you’.” Have you not heard of “Wheels On Your House,” “If You Can’t Get Into College,” or my personal favorite, chanting “Belarus” to Schneider? Maybe they are not completely politically correct, but you can’t say they aren’t witty.

Another point that I cannot wrap my head around is that Coach Parker and Mr. Lynch believe that 118 is holding back a unified crowd, as if all we do is swear and disparage players. Coach Parker said, “It’s defeating the purpose of having an intimidating arena. Three-quarters of the place goes mute because they don’t want to participate.” Since when was “Go BU,” a frequent chant, vulgar?

Mr. Lynch defended this new ban against seemingly any offensive chant or exclamation to anyone—in any way—by saying, “It’s meant to encourage all 6,300 people in the building to come together and cheer for our team. If we had a good, solid cheer that the students come up with that involved everybody in the building, that would rock.” I didn’t know that the other frequent chant of “Let’s Go Terriers,” was inherently racist or demeaning to a player on the other team.

There has been an extreme lack of respect from the administration towards the student body ever since we have moved to Agganis Arena. This recent doctrine is focused almost solely at students, with Dean Elmore and Mr. Lynch sitting around the student section, reinforced with more ushers and security. I would surely hope that if a Premium Seat Holder at Agganis Arena © was calling the ref a naughty word, they would be held to the same standard. I fear that this will not happen.

The announcement of the pre-sale of sports pass upgrades to students had to be passed by word of mouth, since an e-mail was sent two days after the pre-sale started. You don’t have to search for reasons to see how the administration values the support from the students. Is it really a good idea to anger the most fervent fans, already smarting from the new “Hockey Mania Brunch and Naptime” season kick off?

The administration, especially Mr. Lynch, is doing a great job alienating the BU hockey fans. He tries to divide and conquer, saying that he views this as a “small group of problematic students.” Mr. Lynch follows that up with, “I really think the Supreme Court has more interesting topics to cover than whether or not BU throws a kid out of a game for using profanity.” Very professional, Mr. Lynch.

Furthermore, I find it offensive how you belittle our intelligence. This is not about unifying anyone, or the image of the school. It comes down to money. Newer arena means more seats that can be filled by families. Coach Parker said it himself, “it’s becoming a bad place for people to bring their kids.” I was under the impression that BU hockey was for BU students. Pardon me for such an assumption while attending a hockey game on my own campus. If television contracts are being threatened, why does CSTV continually mic us? Why did ESPNU point their microphone more towards the student section during the first period in our first-round NCAA game against UNO? Just tell us the truth.

Mr. Lynch drives home the view of the administration when he says, “If I’m alienating somebody who’s going to stand up and continually chant the ‘f word’ during a hockey game or a basketball game, I would just as soon not have that person in the stands.” Will you throw us all out, Mr. Lynch? Will you have five sections in the Garden tossed out for singing “The Song?” Would you rather have an arena filled with—save some exceptions to the rule—adults who sit on their hands? Do you really want us to be UNH fans?

The greatest irony comes from President Brown, who believes that our cursing is “…rebelling against the administration.” Sir, I do not believe you have seen rebelling yet. I for one will completely comply with what the administration wants so dearly. I will sit in a studious manner and intently watch the Boston Terriers open up against the University of New Brunswick, Saturday October 7th and not say a word for the entire game. If anyone else feels the same way I do, there are tons of seats to voice your opinion, by not saying a word.

Go BU.

Last Call

2006-09-01T02:02:00.001-05:00

Here it is.

Finally. The day has finally arrived. It's not even the eve; it's the actual day I have longed for since May 6th. Salvation. Moving day. In a few short hours (who needs sleep when you have coffee?) I shall return to Boston for the third September in a row. Once again, I'm up at 3 AM, surrounded by boxes containing only my life, typing up my blog. It's so very routine.

Except, well...as corny as I must be, it's not.

This just feels different. I have never packed this much stuff before (the couch and the 32" LCD plasma HDTV really don't help matters). I have never had my dog react the way she did when I started packing up boxes. I never thought about leaving here. Well, no, I've always thought about leaving here, but it's so much different now on the cusp. Hell, beyond the cusp. I'm in the transition right now.

Something about this one feels permanent. It wasn't the usual summer, either. For the last two summers I've had the arduous task of spending as much time with my girlfriend as humanly possible before I had to leave her again. You try to compensate for about eight months away - it's time consuming, to say the least. I remember dropping her off at her house the first time, and I was surprisingly the first to cry (I think because I was the first to talk...please, just let me have that people). Now, there is nothing but anxiousness to leave. I've experienced the Stalin-like nature at the end of relationships, when the other is stricken from the record. I even found a picture she has framed:

Can't compete with those baby blues

It was the first summer that the group (affectionately known as "The Table" since we all sat at the lunch table and we needed to shorten the text in our yearbooks) simply wasn't there. We were all fractioned off into different jobs, activities, locations, drugs, and spiritual missions. You read that last part correctly. There was a very clear disconnect between everyone. Now, the problems of the past started to show. Now, conduct and morality took place of blunts and laughs. Well, not all the time. We are still in college. But it felt like the end of an era. The past just sort of felt more distant than ever before. Our stories from 8th grade weren't just throwbacks brought up in conversation; they were stories about us all the way back in 8th grade.

My life was filled with drama, mostly stemming from the Summertime Players. Two shows, 6 weeks, no life. I can't truly explain to you what a head-trip being a show is without being in it. The closest I can think of as a comparison is being in a foxhole. You see these people every day, you go through a grueling process, and the only people you can turn to are right around you. Relationships get wacky. People become edgy. The seemingly impossible becomes pretty real. I spent more time with this group of people than my friends (by choice or otherwise). It is a learning experience, and I came out with a lot of lessons, most of which apply to the stage. The rest fall in to examining the effect you have on people. You ever know what a phrase, a touch, a smile can do, both positive and negative, especially in the drama-heightened world of...theater. I also learned I could be a grade-A douchebag, but can still pass on Drinkball like the good ambassador I am.

Stemming from my recent experiences with girls, I was in quite a rut. I knew that eventually I would fall for someone again. I knew that at some point I would be with a great girl. I knew that in time these things would happen. Mostly because I had nothing else to really hold on to, and I would like to hope for something good. Then, out of nowhere (meaning the past) came a girl I didn't really expect. And, for the last three days of my time in Jersey, really made me feel like I should hope and I should know that the girls I want are out there. Also, they would spend time with my stank ass. It was a wonderful combination. For that, I thank her. You have given me faith in womankind. Also thanks to Pablo for the roofies in case my faith falls asunder.

This isn't a usual blog, either. It's quiet in the house. The only acoustics are my mom turning in bed, my fingers on the keyboard, and the Sam Adams Summer Ale bottle hitting the dining room table. The common practice would involve playing some music to get me in the mindset, but that won't happen tonight. I can't be bothered. I didn't even use the ole' Sharpie-on-Post-it pre-planning--I hope it doesn't show--with this post. Fair readers, remember how I said I would post the...-its on the wall above my laptop? Here are the results:

And here is by far the best one among them:

Transcribed from the genius words of Brett Russell: I have no life and need to have sex with a "moose like" woman and then get a manicure from a Korean lady with webbed feet. P.S. Jean Claude Van Damme will destroy super-jacked Asian dude in Bloodsport.

What is so strange about this night is the finality behind it all. In high school, there were a handful of people who could not wait to leave the suburban bubble. Day in and day out, all they would talk about is how much they hate it and how they were already one foot out the door. Now, when people have an opportunity to escape, they are home. All the time. It baffles the mind. Some do escape, such as a classmate who now lives in California, and to her I say "good job." She did what she wanted and said she would do. At this point, roughly, she's alone.

For months I have bitched and complained about being back here, for everything from bad endings, no beginnings, no prospects, and no life. The days dragged on, seemingly like an eternity. But now, looking back, it feels like no time at all. Compressed within me are four months of experiences, good and bad, worthless and meaningful, boring and slightly-better-than-exciting. What has happened, almost out of nowhere, is that I grew up. The process is by no means complete, but is really hitting the overdrive right now. Here is the moment I have longed for, and I'm scared.

This could have possibly been the last summer I have in Park Ridge. That is a twenty year tradition that could very well never occur again. My house, my house, might not be my permanent residency for a long time, or ever again. I say goodbye to my dog who is getting up there in age or possibly the last time. I say goodbye to my parents who are becoming less my guardians and more like Grandma, always there, but some distance away. I leave behind the place that molded me, shaped my being. Here I am, being ushered off to Boston, ready to start my life again. This time I don't just pack up my life, I pack up someone else. I know I'm not ready, but no one ever is.

Today I take the plunge into something I have longed for. I've been walking up those giant steps to that diving board for ages. Finally, I have reached that point where you move up and down a little bit and the board bows and bounces against you. I'm looking down at the water below. I hold my breath. Then

Top 5 Most Important Albums

2006-08-28T03:16:00.000-05:00

Usually I'm coy with the titles, but this one kinda went right at the issue. A few nights ago I was in a very High Fidelity mood and thought about my Top 5 most meaningful albums. Which CDs over the course of my life really shaped me? Which ones really helped me through high school, or The Break-Up (important caps), or just a bad day. I own a lot of albums, some good, some bad. I'm a very proud owner of The Roots' Things Fall Apart and an incredibly embarrassed owner of Ace of Base's The Sign (I was like 10, ok). This list is by no means based on artistic merit (which is my way of explaining the lack of Beatles) but is simply based on their impact on me. It also is a nice way of saying "you can't dispute this and say something sucks, cause I don't care what you think." You are free to comment on your own top 5 in the comments section. Let's be interactive, folks. I've missed it lately. Maybe another Ask Manton....

Honorable Mentions:
Coldplay - A Rush of Blood to the Head This was the first real "deep" CD I owned, and it came right around the time I started to think I knew everything (Junior year of high school). Luckily, I still think I do so this one is constantly being played, even though I think their album Parachutes is better. It holds sentimental value as it is the CD that Josie and I made out to while her sister and her boyfriend drove us back from the shitty Anger Management. Only now do I realize how awkward it truly was. I eventually want the title track to be the end of my movie (if I ever write it, let alone film it).
Radiohead - the bends I know what it was like when someone dropped the needle on The Beatles' Rubber Soul thanks to this album. There is something about it that just makes you want to better yourself, to achieve that level of genius. I play it a lot while writing, and obviously am not really making that goal of "genius" any time soon. Planet Telex is one of my favorite songs of all time, and it starts the album off, so how can it go wrong? It's also incredibly depressing, a fact I realized post-Break-Up when reading the lyrics. I felt bad for myself after being happy for loving such a sad song. I hate when that happens.
Pearl Jam - Vs. This CD never left my car the summer going into college. I simply could not turn it off. It, along with seeing the band live, made me absolutely love them. Pearl Jam is all I listen to, prompting comments such as "do you have any music in the car...other than Pearl Jam?" The answer? Yes, but I refuse to play them. So shut up and listen to “Betterman” from State College again.
Muse - Absolution Just when I thought rock was dead, here comes a British power trio who quite literally sound like the end of the world. It was also the first time I got a CD from someone at college, opening the flood gates for...pretty much every piece of music I have listened to since. If not for school, I might actually still be watching MTV. Sweet Jesus. *Shudder*

Now that I got past the ones that aren't good enough to get into the top 5, here they are, in chronological order. Yes, chronological. Each one hits a certain point in my life, and therefore I'll go in that order, from the obvious youngest until now. There is no way I can numerically say which is better or more important, so this is my cop out, ok?

Green Day - Dookie I had grown up on 92.3 K-Rock, like a lot of the kids from my generation, listening to classic rock. I had nothing but Clapton, Mountain, The Beatles, and Led Zep from even before I was birthed. Third grade, I finally got to watch MTV (I used to watch Notorious B.I.G.'s Warning and turn it off cause it made me feel...funny) and listening to Z100, ready to craft my own musical identity. Out of nowhere came Green Day. They were punk--I didn't know what that meant--and catchy as hell. It was on a constant loop around my house. It was the soundtrack to hockey in my basement, to playing basketball outside, to playing Genesis, and anything I did with my friends. I played it from beginning to end, waiting anxiously for "All By Myself," the secret song, to play after the last track, F.O.D. ended, since my CD player couldn't fast forward. It was the first record I absolutely adored with all my heart. Any time you play a song now it brings me right back to that time, that place, that basement, that Genesis game, those friends. And I still know all the words.

Weezer - Pinkerton Weezer's first album--affectionately referred to as The Blue Album--was one of my first CD gifts, from my older cousin who was getting me into good music. Needless to say, I fell in love with it, if only to look cool. A few Christmases after, my Aunt Loraine bought me their follow up, Pinkerton. I didn't listen to it for about five years. Freshman year, I dusted it off after falling into the new emo notion that it was one of the best albums of the 90s. It is a strange mix of resentment ("Tired of Sex"), extreme dorkism ("El Scorcho"), and lamenting about your girl being a lesbian ("Pink Triangle"), none of which I could easily relate to. For some reason, the general mood of the album took me over. I didn't know what it was like for Rivers to get a letter from a Japanese girl and feel a longing for her even though she's "Across the Sea," but I felt the same pang about the girl across the Biology room. Any time I felt depressed (which occurred more often than not) that CD didn't make me feel better, but in good company. Rivers never made me feel alone. By the final track, he was so god damn sad I could comfortably say, "well, at least I'm not crying about chasing butterflies." It got me through my teen years more than anything else. It's a damn shame they couldn't grow up with me and be anything but a joke (God dammit how could they even put out Make Believe and be proud of themselves?!).

Blackstar - Mos Def and Talib Kwelli Are... Blackstar I had always been a fan of rap, dating back to when my mom unwittingly let me buy the profanity-laced Wu-Tang Clan debut CD Enter The Wu-Tang (36 Chambers). After some time I started to feel that something was...missing. Even in 2000, I was getting tired of the chicks and the slinging of yayo and the shootings. It all felt shallow, already done. One of my friends told me to pick this up, and since I had a few extra dollars in my pocket (from slinging yayo) I bought it. From the onset, it just felt different; it felt important. There was a different experience from this album. All of the glorified pieces of the rap game were questioned. Why do we shoot each other? Why do we only get an education when we're in jail? What is going on here? What drove it home was the song Respiration, featuring Common. Here, three MCs talk about hope, dreams, reality, and death in such a way that it is seductive and thought provoking, but most importantly, moving. I personally feel it's what every album, regardless of genre, should aim for. This CD was also a gateway to Atmosphere, the Roots, and Common, as well as countless other acts. For that, I'm eternally greatful. Turn off the radio, folks - hip-hop is still alive and well.

Green Day - American Idiot I had followed Green Day since they first struck me when I was younger, a casual fan of all their work. After the more subtle Warning, they sort of dropped off the face of the Earth. After some time, I read that after having one full album stolen, they decided to just do a concept album. I cringed. You know what was a concept album? Styxx with that Mr. Roboto song. This did not bode well for anyone. The CD came out with the usual-sounding single "American Idiot," which was the normal Green Day fare. What followed was one of the most impressive and epic albums I've ever heard (and yes, I said ever). What really connected with me was that it followed the life of a teenager from young rebel to the wizened mid-20s. While not exact, it certainly mirrored my growth from Dookie til now, ten years later. Certain songs held sentimental value, such as "Wake Me Up When September Ends," expressing the lament I'll feel leaving the girlfriend after a summer together. "Whatsername" becomes more and more poignant with each passing day, discussing the past in a very non-sentimental way ("Remember? Whatever. It feels like forever ago"). It's one of the few CDs I can listen to anytime, the whole way through. In many ways, it's the soundtrack to my life.

Ben Folds - Rockin' The Suburbs This is a CD that grows with me. As great as American Idiot is, it also talks about lots of drug use, which I (at least as of yet) have avoided. Rockin' The Suburbs deals with a lot more common, personal occurances, in a nice power-pop, piano-centric way. There is the catchy one-two punch of "Annie Waits" and "Zak and Sara," which are almost throwaways compared to the rest of the work. "Still Fighting It" is a ballad from Folds to his kid about how much growing up sucks, and that you'll never stop fighting the process; makes me feel like I'm not alone. "Gone" tells the story of people who leave your life (specifically significant others) and that after a certain point, he'll just consider them gone from his life, a very hard eventuality with life that I'm dealing with currently (and will be forever). While the album talks about a lot of adult issues that are certainly in my future--which I dread--it ends on "The Luckiest," a song about him and his wife. It's a comfort to know that after all of this crap I'm sure to go through, it could end on the happiest note of all - love. The problem is I have to get through about 14 tracks of learning and misery to achieve it.

Well there you have it. Please, leave your disgust ("TWO Green Day CDs? How can you even put up ONE?!") and/or your own lists if you feel so inclined. Hope you enjoyed mine (not really, I could really care less, but it's a nice way to end it).

Well there goes that nice end.

That Guy Part 3: With A Vengeance

2006-08-23T21:54:00.000-05:00

It has been far too long since I have critiqued (read: ranted and raved about) those people in our society who always find a way to stick out, be it with their actions, words, or a combination of both. I am talking, of course, about That Guy. For those of you who are uninitiated with the term (which I will ride until I make some sort of career out of this), That Guy is anyone that does that one thing, like wearing the shirt of the band to that band’s concert, or breaking a Snapple bottle in the lunch room in front of everyone. There are two previous iterations of That Guy (hence the "part 3" in the title for those who aren't that attentive). Here is part one--before I found the more...genial title--and here is part two. Enjoy as I display my seething hatred for others (and myself).

"That's Funny!" Guy - There is always at least one person in the crowd who feels compelled to point out the humorous moments that occur while watching TV or in conversation. This Guy believes that the act of laughter simply is not enough of a hint to those around him to fully indicate his feelings on a particular sentence, phrase, or punch line. No, he goes out of his way to verbally indicate, in the most direct way, his feelings on the issue. Thankfully, we have people in the world who go that extra, unnecessary step to tell us the most obvious things. And no, nothing about this paragraph was funny; so don't even think of leaving a comment about it, smart ass.

Curses Excessively Guy - This mother fucker feels the need to fucking always say some shit no matter what the fuck is going on around this mother fucker. Like, he has terrible fucking grammar and shit, but is fucking always saying some fucked up curses as if that shit is going to cover up his shitty control of the English fucking language. There is also the guy that will manufacture reasons to curse.

"HOLY SHIT!"
What?
"I just found my sock! Fuck yes!"
...oh. Yeah. Awesome, dude.

I apologize for the above clusterfluff, but I needed to get "blue" to get my point across. I hope the innocents covered their eyes. It's ok now, you cute little tykes! ...Wait, then how can they see this? It truly is a vicious cycle. I blame rap music.

E-Mail Forwarding Guy - It's not funny. I know you think it is, but really, it isn't. I don't want to see it, and I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one on your list that feels the same. Please stop. Please? I'll be sure to send this message to everyone I know so that they can forward it to all of their friends and put this to an end.

Picking Up Chicks Through Internet Games Guy - I was playing Halo 2 on Xbox Live (the internet) with my friend Blood when a guy started hitting on this girl in the middle of a capture the flag game. While all around us an endless supply of Master Chiefs were getting shot and killed, this guy decides now is the perfect time to start hitting on this chick. Needless to say, it was creepy. He asked where she lived, and look at that! They lived in the same city! Then he kept asking if she was single. Over. And over. And over again. Luckily, she stopped responding, obviously clued in to the recent MySpace rapes. Do you really think you're going to pick up girls over Halo 2? C'mon - we all know you get chicks on Everquest and Counter Strike (I love inside jokes).

Rocking Out Too Hard Guy - At every concert I've ever attended, there is one guy (always a guy in this case) who just rocks out too hard. Sometimes they are just excessively convulsing to a hard song. Other times, it's during a slow number, and they're wooing and fist pumping like it's "Living On A Prayer." This is only acceptable when it happens at the Green Day show at Giants' Stadium, the kid is pudgy, roughly 12 years old, in the middle of the aisle, and will not stop shaking, even when security keeps coming to shut the party down. Then, and only then, is it wanted. Other than that? Stop flailing your arms in my face, sir.

Ruins DVDs Guy - I really treat my DVDs and CDs like shit. In fact, I just tossed out about 50 cds (mostly CD-Rs) because they melted together in my car after two years and two summers of baking. What I will never do is treat a foreign CD or DVD in a disrespectful manner. They are not my property, and therefore I cannot just throw them about the room in a willy-nilly fashion, leaving that shiny, plastic disc unprotected against scratches and dust. Not everyone subscribes to my respectful stance. This makes me a sad (and angry) panda. How dare you scratch up my Simpsons Season 4 Disc 3! Are you nuts? That's the one with the episode where Homer is stupid, Bart spouts catch phrases, and Maggie doesn't speak! Fucking asshole. Then again, there are people who take my DVDs and then never return them (sup Randy and Vaz!). I'm sure they are in perfect condition, too.

"Buy Him A Hat!" Guy - Why are shitty hats given out as gifts? How many "FLORIDA *INSERT PALM TREE HERE* hats have you received over your life time? Don't people even glance at these monstrosities of plastic webbing and foam and think, just for a second, "who would ever wear this?" I'll never understand the "well, we were in Boston, so we picked up a Red Sox hat for you! I'm sure it'll go well with that Yankee shirt you're always wearing. Isn't baseball a fun and competitive sport? Let’s hug." On the other hand, I could just have a very low value in the eyes of the person who is purchasing said hat. They are well aware of the quality and think to themselves: "Well, it's five bucks, so I'm buying him SOMETHING, even though he is an unappreciative little shit. Hope he enjoys the ‘BASS-ICALLY, ALL I DO IS FISH!" hat!’ even though I’m acutely aware of the fact that he’s never fished ever. Serves him right for not sending that thank you note….” (note: I made up that hat’s phrase, and I'm sad to say that it probably does exist, and is probably being worn on someone's head this very second. May God have mercy on us all.)

Gives Up Before Getting Mocked Guy - This guy's name is Luke Herman. I'm not even going to hide this one, cause it has always infuriated me. This son of a bitch, like other people I know, will never take a good beat down, especially when it relates to his favorite sports teams. They lose in Madden and it’s “Well, I only have ’05, not ’06,” or “well, I never played it on Xbox so it doesn’t count.”

Luke irked me most recently when I talked to him about the Yankees sweeping his beloved Red Sox in five games at Boston's Fenway Park. Before I could even rub it in, he concedes with, "dude, they suck, and I know that they suck, and I've been saying it since the All-Star break. I hope they lose every game."

What the hell do you say to that? Where is all the fun in riding your friend?! It's gone! It's all gone! How is this anywhere near fair? God damn you for what little satisfaction you allow me, Guy.

Steals The Good Beer Guy - What gives you the inclination that, at a party with a Bud Light Beer Ball (a mini keg of 35 or so brews) and a 30 of Bush, you can go into the fridge and take the Sam Adams Summer Ale? Do you think there is some sort of treasure hunt set up exclusively for you, and that, against all odds, you have scoured through the shit to find the one piece of gold? No. No, it's not yours, dipshit. It is the property of someone who has more funds than 5 bucks for that cup you’re holding. Step away from the fridge, and take a Natty Light with you, asshole.

Doesn't Get The Joke Guy I just feel bad for this poor sap. He'll sit in during the conversation, attentively listening to all that's going on, and laugh heartily with everyone else. Everything is going well until he ruins everything by opening his mouth and saying something that doesn't relate in any way to the subject discussed. Each person cuts their laughing short, becomes blood thirsty, and jumps at this schmuck's jugular. We ask him to explain himself, and after a line of questioning it becomes clear that the jokes went over his head to the point where he made up his own twisted, convoluted quip; one that isn't even funny in the first place. I do not look to mock you, Guy. I am here merely to pity you. We're all sorry you're in on the conversation and we could not find a tape of Dharma & Greg to satisfy your simpler comedic standings.

Keeps Talking Guy - A lot like the Guy mentioned above, this charmer just keeps the conversation going without saying much of anything, but seems to be well informed of the subject. This person would be me. For countless conversations, I have "yeah, yeah, no, definitely, yeah"-ed myself to look smarter than I really am. Think of a topic and I have bullshitted a fact or something I made up that sounds reasonable prefaced with "I read that...." It's really easy to do. If someone starts talking about world politics, simply say, "yeah, I read that (name leader of country, country, or issue) really isn't/aren't going so well." Bam. You are now seemingly intelligent in a wide variety of topics. Whenever someone tries to call your bluff, say something along the lines of "well that's what I read." They can't dispute words! It's irrefutable. Really! I read that somewhere.

Keeps Running The Joke Until It Becomes Awkward Guy - I met with a friend of mine who I haven't seen for a while and noticed that he had a different haircut from when I last saw him, one that is more boyish and less...metal. I commented about it--in a gay tone, of course--hoping to illicit, at the very least, a smirk. At the most, all of us would laugh and laugh and then someone would say, "That was funny, man!" What happened instead was that he sort of awkwardly chuckled at my haircut compliment. When others would put their pick axes away, I decided to keep mining the gay angle until I struck gold. After saying something about his shirt, jeans, and shoes, and getting a zero response, I simply walked away. We have not talked since. The lesson learned? As told by the great Homer Simpson (who is so great in Season 4, especially Disc 3) is: never try.

Long Island Living

2006-08-18T00:01:00.000-05:00

My parents were never too big on vacations. Actually, I never was, either. We have made the obligatory trips to Disney World, went on a cruise to Bermuda, and visited my Grandma's house at the Jersey Shore. Then I entered 8th grade, and family trips went out the window. Then, the regular trips you would take become the real getaways. Every summer I would spend roughly a week with my Aunt Baba, Uncle Ed, and cousins Eddie and Suzanne, while making trips to see my Grandma who lives almost down the street. This became my way of relaxation, to "get away from it all." Leaving one suburban town to go to another to escape really doesn't sound plausible (or sane), but it somehow works.

The trips have become a bit different now. Eddie is out of the house and out of college. Sue landed a job working at Astralwerks Records in the city and just moved to Long Beach. For some reason, I'm too busy to spend more than a few days there (even though I don't have to depend on my Dad to drive me to and fro anyore). This year's trip consisted of 3 nights and 2 days, and it was probably the longest day of the summer.

While driving to Sue's, I realized that Long Island has about 800 highways (give or take 3) and they all have similar signage, but different names. Why, well, I clearly do not know. One road in particular, the Meadowbrook, must think pretty highly of itself. The exits aren't in your usual "number" fare. No, they are prefaced by a capital M, like Exit M4. Why does the Meadowbrook (not the Grand Central or the Cross Island, or the LIE for god's sake) Parkway feel the need to stamp each exit and remind you that yes, you are, in fact, on the Meadowbrook. The cookie-cutter-LI-highway-sign emblazoned with a capital M by the lighthouse is more than enough. Self-important pavement - the worst kind of blacktop.

I showed up to Long Beach, which looks strikingly similar to every beachfront community that exists, and saw Sue's place. It is far too large and good for her. The girl has about 8 objects to her name and oodles of square footage. I want to buy her something large just so she can take advantage of it...like a blow up pool or something. After watching some of Law and Order SVU: Season 2, I retired to the futon. The futon is a rare creature. It was already evolved upon--the pullout couch--yet it still thrives, even more so than the more evolved piece of furniture. Why is this? The futon doesn't even hide the fact that it's a bed - it's all there to be looked at. I want to bring the pull out couch back. But that'll come in a few years as the new apartment will have a sweet futon. Futons rule!

We took the Long Island Railroad in (affectionately known as the "LIRR" for all you crazy out of towners who want to sound local while talking to someone from Smithtown) to the city for a day of watching Sue go to her job. This was a part of the plan that I never fully thought out. For my "vacation," I get to wake up at 7:30 to get into the city by 9 and not leave until 7 PM. Who does that? A dopey Polack, that's who. The LIRR had an odd situation for its many rows of chairs. They had the standard set of three on one side and two on the other, but some of the sections were turned backwards, creating an immediate and awkward "stare down effect" for the entire trip. You can't even look to the left or right to avoid it, because you fall right into the trap constantly. There is a train full of people looking at the ceiling and the floor to not feel like a creep. And these people shit on New Jersey.

Sue had a fantastic little set up in her office. There was a desk, and envelopes, and cds, and walls! It was quite cozy.

It was here that she and I put Astralwerks labels on manila envelopes, then stuffed them with promo cds, and then put address labels on them (that's what the pile is on the desk). My lovely cousin is in the back right. I'm giving the big thumbs up for free labor!

I eventually moved on to counting Subtle cds and adding their tour dates to the official database. I also remember the passwords, so any time I want to completely fuck up their touring schedules, I most certainly can. The power I yield is incredible. Soon, it was off to packing up a box full of cds with bubble wrap. Clearly, fun was had:

Finally, the end of my slave labor came from one of Sue's coworkers asking for some help. She needed me to take some burned cd singles and package them by folding a piece of paper, putting the cd in that piece of paper, throwing that in a flimsy plastic case, then putting a sticker on the opening to keep it closed. I was handed 200 blank cds, 10,000 plastic covers that eerily resembled Kraft Singles (without the 2%, calcium-stuffed, yellow square of delight inside), a roll of stickers, and an iPod. Luckily, one of the actual interns came over to help me. This is the result.

Her pile was the blue one. She did 10. I did 190. The kicker is that I did them wrong, as the labels should be 90 degrees more to the right. Oh well, I'm not doing slave labor for college credit, so I don't give a shit.

For payment, I received an Inside Man DVD, about 15 cds, and a Chipotle burrito. And yes, it was the best burrito I ever ate. There simply is no comparison.

While on the way back to Sue's with her friends (and, over the years, mine as well) Rob, Annmarie, and Nicole, we hit some interesting stores along the road. One Jiffy Lube had a "fast lube" sign that I refused to comment on for lack of difficulty. Another store had signs displaying 59, 79, and 99 cent items. This is easily the worst advertising I have ever seen for a store. What the hell are you going to buy for 99 cents when other items are only 59 cents? Just take the plunge and have a 59 cent store, you pussies. I'm sure that extra 40 cents isn't going towards better quality (a 99 cent store special can opener literally fell to 8 pieces in my mom's hands while trying to do the can openers only given function of opening a can). We also went to a KFC/Taco Bell that had no Mountain Dew: Code Red and raw potato wedges. It was the highest form of blasphemy since the inception of premarital sex. That fucking building should be smote (cause “smited” isn’t a real word, but I think it looks better).

After a night of Funions, Hostess fruitcakes, and even more SVU, I woke up the next day ready to leave. I was left directions and a note on how to lock up the keys and where to leave them, in the Paulinski mailbox. Of course, I got lost on the way to my Grandmas. Traveling on the Northern State Parkway and going west surely didn't help matters. Eventually, I end up at my Grandmas to have garlic knots and see an Aunt, an Uncle, and a cousin. On my way out, in an effort to save time, I give my Aunt Baba--Sue's Mom--the keys, since she was already going to the mailbox and it saves me a trip. I receive a text from Sue asking why I didn't leave them in the mailbox at her place, and why I gave them instead to her mom who lives 40 minutes away. Sue gets to see me, and I give her dirty dishes, laundry, and a far away key as thanks. I'm the best cousin ever.

Between a toilet and a hard place

2006-08-12T00:42:00.000-05:00

There are a few eventualities that occur when you enter college: you will drink a lot of booze, you will find out how to once again do as little work as possible for the maximum results, you will get sick from all of the booze you drink, and you will get caught for drinking on campus. It is a common occurrence. Of course, my brush with the student-run "law" (read: RAs) is not so ordinary. God that's the hackiest set up I have ever used....

It started out like any other night freshman year, with me either waiting for my roommate to leave or fearing his imminent arrival. What I am sure of is that the room smelled of sweat, weed, and general awfulness, none of which were of my doing. But oh how it crept over from the opposite side of the room. My friends Katie, Cindy, and Jenny--if memory serves--all told me about how their friend Colin was going to have a get together with a few people where drinking was to be had, with merriment sure to follow. I was tired, or didn't want to socialize, and made the girls drag me out to Colin's apartment.

He had a very nice place for a sophomore: a basement apartment with a kitchen, a common room, a bathroom, and two separate bedrooms. As soon as we showed up I was offered to help kill off a bottle of vodka. I got my hands on some orange juice and started off the night. A few other people showed up, no more than 10 to 15, creating a small group with a deck of cards and some gin. We were playing Kings, a card game with over a thousand rule variations, with gin and tonics. It was my first time both playing Kings and drinking gin and tonics. Neither really impressed me. Nor did Colin's choice of friends, specifically the hard-nosed Atina (who was very upset that I didn't properly say her name when I called her "Tina" because that is so far off base and I should have thought that someone would randomly tack an “a” in front of a commonly used name creating a hybrid freak name). She drank the rest of the vodka when no one else would before sort of scathing us for not “stepping up” and finishing it off ourselves. Not a big fan of the "uh."

As the night went on, I realized the different level of tolerances one would find spread out through my friends. For example, Katie is an incredible lightweight, especially after one day declaring in her Minnesota-by-way-of-upstate-New York-accent, "oh, I dunno how much I can drink, but I definitely know it's a lot." Fallacy. The more Jenny drinks, the redder her face gets, to the point where if you get her really sloshed she IS a night-light. So I don’t leave myself out from the beating. 1-4 beers have no effect, 4-6 I stop stuttering and talk completely normal, 6-8 I start to stammer, 8-10 I am unintelligible, but still have basic motor skills (I think).

The real problem came from Colin. I do not recall how much he drank, but I am sure it was a large quantity because the kid ended up damn near shit-faced. He was the one that everyone was nervous about while making large, abrupt movements (throw his arms around, try and jump, etc). The peculiar thing, which we did not realize, was that with each random song that played through his speakers on his iTunes, he'd say "I LOVE this song!" and make it a bit louder. Eventually, after twenty or so songs, the music was very, very loud. We hadn't picked up on this trend, as we were too busy trying to avoid furniture from tipping and the like.

Then came the knock at the door, followed shortly after by the word "RAs." The light switch just went on and the roaches began to scatter. The music immediately went off. Atina said, "I'm not hiding," before hiding in a small bedroom adjacent to the main room. I turn to my right, saw a door, and ran into it for safety. That door led to the bathroom. I did not feel like the smartest man in the world as I realized the only way I could escape is if I was a dead fish. The only thing I could do is listen to Colin try and sweet talk two sober RAs while he is loaded and has four empty bottles on the table. It was at this point that the night was officially christened,” a bad idea.”

I could not hear much, but here is a running commentary that went through my head. I heard Collin, “no.....no.....no....just a...no.............no." Man, I really gotta pee. "No......no....." Well, if I pee they'll hear me and then I'm busted. "My name's Atina.....no.....no...." Maybe if I pull a girl and sit down and pee I'll muffle the sound! "Yes.....wait no....." Oh, oh, if I hop into the shower they won't find me! But if they do, I'm going to look so incredibly pathetic it's not worth the effort. OH! If I strip and just hop into the shower they can't get me then! "No.....um, no.....it's just us. Yeah, four bottles, the two of us....." Wait, wait. I don't have soap, shampoo, or a towel. Shit. This was a terrible hiding place. Looking at that toilet just makes me wanna pee more. Maybe I can pee.

Then a quiet fell throughout the land. Anxiously I opened the door, expecting the situation to be resolved. I met eyes with Colin who flashed me the "FUCKING DON'T DO THAT!" look and even gave me the hand shoo before focusing his eyes again and answering a question. I closed the door silently (or what I thought at the time was silently). One of the RAs then raised their voice and, speaking like they're playing hide-and-seek with a child, asked, "Is there anyone in the bathroom?"

Before Colin could fabricate another "no" answer, I popped out, making a grand entrance. "Yes," I said, "I was in the bathroom the whole time," as if the magician was just told how his trick was done. She asked if I attended Boston University. I could have said, "no, I go to Boston College/Northeastern/UMass Boston/Emerson/Berklee/Simmons,” anywhere but BU. Naturally, I said, "yes, I go to BU." She asked if I had my ID on me. Of course, the answer should be "no" so there is no record of this. But, I said "oh yes, yes I do!" and pulled it out immediately. She asked where I lived and I obediently said "Claflin." Then to clarify in case she didn't know, "west campus." Folks, if you haven't realized yet that I'm an ass, here is all the evidence you need to confidently make that positive decision.

The RAs soon left while Colin, Atina and I were all pretty quiet, left to go over our own problems. Colin was lamenting the fact that it would be his second such offense in a calendar year. Atina was saying that she never drank anything. I was just confused as to where everyone went. My question was answered as everyone piled back in from the backdoor that no one informed me of. I get dragged out to a party, and when they all bail out of the escape hatch, no one bothers informing me of such an exit existing. Upset, I finally took the piss I was holding off for a while before leaving with my dependable friends.

The protocol for getting "written up" goes as follows: you talk to the resident hall director for your on-campus residence, they all confer amongst themselves to sure up the story of what happened (or an approximation), and you get fined by the school as blackmail for not telling the cops while BU rakes in more cash than Libya. So it goes.

The three of us who were caught all collaborated on a story. Weak-willed Colin was going with what Atina told her, a tale in which she didn't drink and was just hanging out. I refused to let her put up a stand and then turn-tail and run. The story I agreed upon with Colin was that the three of us polished off a bottle of gin, and the other three bottles, if asked about, were placed there by jealous ninjas in a nefarious plot to blackmail us. Our story wasn't very good.

I made my appointment with the notorious hall director. This is the same large-breasted, large-boned, black, female, empowered hall director who blamed all of the guys on my floor for human fecal matter being present in a shower stall, never thinking it was perpetrated by another floor (it was, and two more attacks followed). Needless to say, she was an arrogant woman who had arranged 11 floors of nit-picking RAs to roam our building (except for our floor, the worst by far, which had a lax, attractive girl). We all hated her, sometimes without a good reason. On that day, I got mine.

I sit down on her couch, sweating, but in a very nice shirt that I got on a shopping trip with my friend Ben. She asked me what happened, and I told her in every detail (save for the ninjas) before finishing my monologue with a resigned “it’ll never happen again” look on my face. At that point, I thought the process was over. But oh no, she had to make me feel guilty. She asked me why I drank, a point blank question that froze me. Quickly, I put together a sentence that found the cause in feeling pressure with finals approaching. I needed a release. From her high chair, she cast down, "there are many legal, safe releases that you can find on campus if you talk to your RA."

With the ball firmly in her court, she asks for more reasons. I respond with, "well, it's college." She reacted as if I said, "well, it's because of colored folk." Almost jumping out of her chair she firmly stated, "that is a lie. That is a lie that is propagated by the media and movies. I would wager that almost no one on this campus drinks." I was just told that, in so many words, I was the only person drinking in college. Not just on that particular night, mind you, but overall. That includes 16,000+ undergrads. Never before I have felt so small and bitter. I begrudgingly paid my $100 fine, pissed off at the whole process. I did receive some comfort when Colin told me that Atina had to pay as much as I did. Sometimes defeat tastes just as sweet as victory.

Go With The Flow

2006-08-09T01:18:00.000-05:00

It's 2:37 AM, I'm sitting in my dining room and drinking a Sam Adam's Summer Ale. It must be time to discuss my random thoughts with my dozens upon dozens of readers!

Why is there always an older guy at basketball pick up games? Almost every time I play a pick up game, be it at school or at the courts in Montvale, there is always a guy having a mid-life crisis trying to ball with the 20 year olds. He is always wearing white basketball shoes, like ones that JUST went out of style, and has on a grey shirt that he will almost immediately sweat through if he hasn't already shooting free throws to decide teams. Sometimes he'll have some "awesome" accessories, like a headband made out of an American-flag bandana, or an awesome "I'm trying too hard" goatee. They almost always unequivocally suck, but make up for their lack of game by talking a great deal. Some find it funny, while I find it to be a hassle. Sort of like how he finds a sore back detrimental to his shot, I find him to be holding back my good time. If you're old and play pick up basketball with 20 year olds, just suck and be quiet about it, ok? No need to overcompensate. We're just happy you can jog back and forth without having us call the EMTs while your complain about a cramp in your left arm.

I keep seeing commercials for "employee pricing" on cars. If I worked for Chrysler and some schmuck is getting the same price for his girls' 17th birthday president as he is working on the assembly line, I'd certainly make some axels a little loose if you know what I'm saying.

My Mom's on my case about getting a passport, because, as she says, they are going to be the universal way to get anywhere or get anything. Want to hop on a plane? Passport. Want to do anything at the bank? Passport. Want to piss? You should see the stamp for that one. I just find it completely silly that we're basing everything off of a glorified pamphlet. Passports have been the laughing stock of international identification forever. It is cumbersome and cannot easily fit into a wallet, much like the drivers’ license or school ID. Also, my class made our own passports in like second grade, and mine was pretty convincing for a 7 year old. At least drivers’ licenses have crazy holograms and the like. I'm putting my vote in towards a national ID card, mostly because I can get it tossed in the wash and not have it crumble up like old tissues I left in my jeans.

Who do I call to have "the Entertainer" removed from Cedric the Entertainer's name? Is there a national fraud agency I can call up? Someone get me a number, an e-mail address at the very least, because this false advertising needs to be put to an end immediately.

People really need to stop leaving their incredibly bright lights on outside by the entrances to their houses. Bugs are attracted to bright lights and heat. Guess where they are all going? As I walk into a house I'd rather not be attacked by moths, flies, and whatever ungodly creatures are fluttering about by the door. For all that's good and holy cut the lights out or at least flip to a 30-watt bulb. If your doorknob is golden, shiny, and protrudes from the door slab, I think I'll be able to find it.

I am very uncomfortable with groups of people that feel the need to name themselves like they're a gang. At one point in high school, during yearbook time, I had to refer to my eight other friends as "The Table" out of necessity and lack of space. It was either to allude to the group of guys at my lunch table than say "Meyer, Hespe, Jassim" etc. Kids nowadays have cutesy little nicknames, like "The Crew." A few friends of mine made a big deal out of being "The Crew," plastering it all over the back hallway of our theater. Now I look at it and see the big name, all of the girls' signatures, the cute in-jokes they had, and giggle at the fact that they rarely, if ever, talk.

The allure of having a name is just lost on me, especially when it's like four of five people. My ex-girlfriend actually had her Crew get into a fight with a rival group of guys who decided to name themselves the "M Crew," as if they were infringing on copyrights. Recently I was almost thrown into a group, named The Six, which really scared me because I was not cognizant of such a group ever really existing, let alone having a name for it. Thankfully, it was just drunken talk and I didn't have to launch into this whole spiel at 5:30 AM while playing Drink Ball.

Ever wake up singing some obscure song in your head? Today's weirdo cut was Live's "Selling the Drama," a throwaway cut that is only memorable because it was their song on the Woodstock '94 CD (the song is off the stellar Throwing Copper. I have not thought of the song in a while, but it popped right into my head during this really weird dream I had, that I will of course share with you.

There was a party at my place, which of course wasn't actually where I lived. It looked instead like a summer place you rent and have three or four friends over and we all crash on a floor. It was my house because my Dad stopped in and said that there were people here for me, but I said, "no father. I'm much more content to sit here and put up an away about how I'm miserable and alone and want to be left that way." Before I could put the away up, my friends came in and pulled me out of the room into some foreign place that I felt was "mine." I turn to my left and from out of a sliding glass window I see a girl who I don't know on some guy's lap who yells "hey!" like we're BFF (best friends for life, mom). I turn to her and yell, "who the fuck is that?" I then go to piss and hear someone commenting on where I sleep in a very negative fashion. The quote was, "ew, who lives like that? Who would sleep here?" This agitated me, and I hurry up the urination so I can give her a stern talking-to, possibly without even washing my hands. At that point, Neel Patel (a kid I haven't seen since we graduated two years ago) walks up and goes "hey!" with two ladies on his arm while I yell, "holy shit, Neel Patel?"

Cue the Live - Selling the Drama. I truly wish I was making this up. I would be able to sleep a lot easier...and wake up without alt-rock album cuts on my mind.

Finally, you'd be so surprised what you could find while cleaning your car (yeah, I've been home for three months and leave in 20+ days, so it's a perfect time to clean up!). For example, I found about 8 coins mysteriously glued into my cup holder by a mystery syrupy liquid. That was fun. The real prize, however, was finding the shamrock-covered small Ziploc bag that once held something quite important: the first Valentine’s Day gift I got my ex-girlfriend Haley.

We had only be dating for about 6 weeks, so I couldn't avoid getting her something. I had the unique pressure of getting her something somewhat cheap that didn't look cheap. There was also the pressure of my teacher, Mr. Kovacs, who had been telling me for the last week that I needed to "get her something good," or, well, irreversible damage would be done to my name and my person. I went to the Garden State Mall where I remembered seeing a Claddagh ring, the Irish ring with the two hands and the hart in between that shows if someone is single or not. I knew it simply as "that ring Angel gave Buffy!" cause I'm a giant loser. I gave it to her in my car, discarding the little shamrock bag that held the small ring (I definitely undershot her finger size) to the depths of my console, not to be found until today, about five months after we broke up. Now, that little baggie will be used to stow illegal drugs, because it is the perfect size. What was once the first gift for a budding love is now nothing more than a handy container for a more fleeting feeling of euphoria: weed.

The circle of life.

how much difference?

2006-08-07T01:33:00.000-05:00

A few days ago I was having a heart-to-heart with a friend of mine. While it was spurred on by the consumption of alcohol, it was moving along pretty well until I asked a rather intrusive but simple question, "what are you scared of?" It is a universal query that could be asked of a four-year-old who keeps looking over at their closet to a 40-year-old ready to ski dive for the first time. I asked that question and did not receive an answer. It was a simple enough question, so I decided that I would try and answer it. That was the point where I decided the question was loaded.

I'm scared. Hell, I'm petrified.

Everyone else is going to school for something that matters. Most of my friends are in for business our accounting, a future that holds a steady job where ever they can find one (business is pretty general). A few are going into pre-med to be doctors or nurses, so that after 18 years of schooling they can go on and help people, hands on. Even my friends who are going in as teachers can shape young lives while getting paid less than a garbage man for a job that is...slightly more important. What am I doing?

I'm going to school for film. Talk about long shot. The only certainty that I will have after I graduate is a sheet of paper ensconced in glass that cost me roughly $160,000 (not to mention $200 for the official BU frame). The introductory film class this year had so many kids that we ran out of room, so we had to import chairs from around the hallways to fit us all in. A friend of mine joked about how there will only be 3000 new jobs created in some incredibly finite bioengineering tract and laughed about how small that number is and asked who would ever go for a life in that with so few opportunities? I don't believe I even reacted. Each class there are thirty or so kids that have the same dream I do, getting the same education, fighting for one job. A single one. Do the math. The odds suck.

I remember going to Cablevision during Career Day at the high school. My friend Maggie (who didn't put down anything remotely close to this) and I went to see how the crappy Cablevision commercials are made. There was a guy who thought we were from Ramapo College, and that we "won a trip" out of tons of applicants just to see him at work. He reeked of failure, and it dripped off of everything he said. The department was understaffed, under budgeted, and slowly getting marginalized. I asked him what he wanted to do when he was younger and his eyes got a bit brighter when he discussed watching Sci-Fi shows, and how he always wanted to make this one movie with his friends.... The twinkle faded back when we finished our drive across the compound and ended up back at the control room.

Is that what I have in front of me? A job that I hate so that I'm jaded to the point where I can put out horrible jingles with green screen that you KNOW is green screen cause you can see it through the woman's 1982 straight-up guido-do? Will I only think about my goals now 15 years in the future when they are way passed feasible and only because a misguided teenager was tired of an awkward silence?

What you are reading here is what I'm working for. This is everything. How weird is that? By putting up my stupid little thoughts on the internet I'm somehow advancing my career. In the most basic bland terms, this is it. I put words together, sell the amalgamation of ideas, and you people read them or watch them be said and acted out. Some people work in industry pumping out cars, food, clothing. Me? I sell words, cute phrases, witty satire. My economy is based on cleverness in a market that is never stable. I'm scared that Anton will be way down come closing time, mired in some horrible insider-trading scandal (aka doing blow off of a hookers ass in Atlantic City...again).

Lightning round:

I'm scared that I'm not going to succeed more than either of my parents.
I'm scared that, as the only third generation on my Dad's side, that I'll let them down.
I'm worried that my wit, which I constantly say is all I've got, isn't really worth bragging about having at all.
I'm not scared that I'll never find anyone again, just that it won't come any time soon.
I'm petrified of being alone.
I'm mortified if I'm with too many people.
I'm scared of the thoughts which run through my head every now and again when it's 4:30 AM. I'm even more scared that I might voice them and the trouble it will cause.
I'm scared of believing that I could do this, because if I fail, I will have worked for years for absolutely nothing.
I'm concerned that people will read this and thing I'm depressed (I'm not...it's just almost 4:30 and I start to get "deep").
I'm scared I'll never escape this town.
I'm relieved I'm not tethered here by heroin or who knows what else.
I'm not scared that I'll die young. Hell, I expect it. I'm terrified of leaving this world without even leaving a scratch, let alone a dent.

I've finally not become scared of the fact that I'm the only one who is afraid. That was called Middle School. I'm just willing to admit that I'm uneasy right along with all of you.

Oh, and spiders. Christ almighty do they freak me out.

The Best of Manton

2006-08-04T00:25:00.000-05:00

I am applying to have a column at BU's independent paper, The Daily Free Press, and will be using samples from this...thing to try and woo them into giving me 800 words a week. It should be interesting. Either way, I was far too lazy to sort through the now 74 posts (this is milestone 75, which makes a "best of" pretty ok). Luckily, I have a good friend with a job that has loads of free time in front of a computer. Pam, a writer at my legitimate "sister" site Chickball was kind enough to do the work for me. If you missed anything, or hopped on to see what the commotion was all about with that AIM convo thing (which didn't make the cut) and stuck around confused, here you go. I present to you, the Best of Manton (according to Pam).

Problems. Technically Speaking. This is my battle with my parents over that blasted technology box that goes on the internet. Speaking of which, if anyone wants a brand new iMac for 1000 dollars ($300 below market price!) contact me, cause we certainly don't need it anymore....

Let's Get Random features the Friend Free Agency, which really did deserve its own post, not to be tacked on at the end of a random post.

You're Never Leaving Silver Street is about the experience of packing up your life and going back home after school's over. Title comes from the song Silver Street by Ben Folds, which comes off of the incredible Ben Folds Live and a studio album I don't have, according to my iTunes. Probably the best fully realized post I've done.

That Guy Part 2 I'm going to ride this idea forever.

The best years of your life laments the not always fun parts of being in college, contrary to the reports of the 24 hour partying that I expected.

Atonement. We all make mistakes. Here is my attempt to try and clear my conscience (it failed).

Mailroom Day Is A Dangerous Day chronicles the mail I get from my two Grandmas. It's pretty horrifying. One is cheap and faux-senile and one makes lewd jokes without knowing it. The picture is pretty priceless, too. Title is an homage to Rocko's Modern Life.

Have You? Taken off a P.O.S. song called Music For Shoplifting. Probably the one I dislike the most, but Pam and my Mom both like it. Maybe you will, too.

3 Random Rants I can't believe I put a number in the title, let alone to start one off. Ew. Anyway, the first one is about Away Messages, because they are just fascinating.

Oh, Growing Up Title is from the Boss's song Growing Up. My warnings to all of the new college freshman about what's ahead for them when they go home for Thanksgiving break. This was interesting because the feedback was completely different for age groups and for when they commented (before: no way! after: god dammit you were right....).

People I hate Before going into the more kosher "that guy" there was just pure, unadulterated hatred.

And now my special faves....

we all believe it is one of my personal favorites, which is why I'm throwing it on here on the bottom. It is the only time I felt I got introspective and didn't come off like a douche. It doesn't hurt that the title features one of my favorite Pearl Jam songs (Faithful). Something we all need a bit of, and I need a lot of at the moment.

Mother's Day So I don't have to get her a birthday gift.

Fuck Boston I was soooo pissed.

Manton Vs. Woman Part 1 So started what I still feel is my greatest accomplishment on this site. I chronicled almost every interaction I had with women before breaking up with my girlfriend (there are three posts sporadically about that). I bore my soul and some other parts. I advise you now - I get very personal and intimate, ESPECIALLY in the Showstopper. The closest I'll ever get to writing the Godfather I & II.

Enter Sandcrack

2006-08-03T23:13:00.000-05:00

The rumors of me falling off the deep end and going on a bender in Hartford, CT were, unfortunately, false. I forcefully had no life for the past two weeks, as I would work from 9-12 before going to Kiss Me, Kate set making/rehearsals from 1 til 3 and then be there til anywhere between 10:30 and 12:30. One day I was there for twelve hours. You never fully appreciate how great it is to have a life until it is taken away from you. Thankfully, I can resume doing absolutely nothing at all once again for the rest of the month. If I will not have a social life it'll be by choice, dammit, and not because of the whims of musical theater.

While talking to one girl in the show through a text message, I saw quite possibly the most disgusting use of internet-based shorthand ever. Using simply the word "k" is lazy, since you're just saving one letter, and it isn't even on the same number as the k, so you don't have to hit "o" and then wait that strangely too long second to hit the "k." This girl has decided to make "have" "hab." It's not even close. Even if you say "hab" it's just not close enough to be acceptable. For the longest time I thought she was just a huge fan of the Montreal Canadians.

I don't think anyone will get that last joke. Why does everyone hate hockey so?

I went to LBI to visit my pal Brian "Mumbles/Mambo/B.Ross/Blood/Blood Rose/Shinobi/Maaaavelous" Ross and his family at the house they rent each summer. There were a few problems to this plan. First, I had no idea how to get there when I left, which is why the Garden State Parkway is probably the greatest 172 mile strip of pavement in the nation. Average of one exit per mile and you can hit anything somewhat worthwhile in the state from that road. It is a technological marvel. Another problem was that it was 100 degrees out and my car was out of God's greatest gift, Freon. When I called up Blood to get directions, the windows naturally had to go up so that I could hear him. As soon as the top of the glass hit the rubber at the crest of my door my entire body sweated out a river simultaneously. I swear my body felt my fingers hit the window buttons and had a countdown. Finally, and most importantly, I really dislike the beach.

For one, I can't swim, so there goes the entire allure of the ocean. Sure, it's great to be able to go into a large body of water that you can piss in without any shame. It's always fun to fight the waves, just like Artie: The Strongest Man......IN THE WORLD! But there is a fundamental problem with the beach: something bad always happens. The most obvious is sand in the natural cracks in all humans. How someone can have sex on a beach absolutely blows my mind. Doing nothing I average more than a few grains in those special crevices. With nothing protecting them, I would have to measure it in poundage. You always get burned. Always. Sun tan lotion is the most fallible "life saver" ever. It is akin to drowning in the ocean and getting thrown a crushed up cardboard box with a taped-up hole. "But Michael P. Anton," you say, "what if you bring an umbrella?" Then why even leave? Now you can just swelter outside before going into the water and fending yourself off from jellyfish. There is a reason that air conditioning was invented. Stop it. I'll sit in the 70-degree weather while you burn, get stung, and see really hairy fat people while you clean grains of old rocks out of your crotch. Have fun. You can't get skin cancer from AC (yet) !

Long Beach Island, NJ has some balls, too. They have decided because they're a quaint beach community they don't need to follow the same rules as every other road across the nation. Around 22 (the streets are all numbered, which is the most genius thing ever, even though to make it somewhat cozy each street has a name, too) the street signs go away. I, of course, am flabbergasted. Traveling into the 80s makes it neigh impossible to count each street, as I would get lost around #18, let alone #60. LBI decided it would be keen to take little white posts and make them the street signs instead! Oh, that's cute. Here's the problem. They're fucking two feet tall and you can barely read them until you missed your god damn turn. You're counting so fast you have no idea that you passed your street about five blocks ago. "ninety fo...fi...si...se...shit I should have turned at eighty two!"

The one positive at the beach was seeing a commercial for the not-around-here Jack in the Box. The ad involved some smarty pants who pulls up to the drive through and asks to speak to Mr. Box. The attractive, young white male working the drive-thru smiles, and hit's a button that reads "JACK." Then, the cone-headed mascot guy is in a suit on a plane and tells the exasperated driver what he should order, and it's coincidentally the new sammich that the company wants to push! It was giggles for all. I still don't know what is more ridiculous: the talking mascot or the white male doing the driving thru. Anyway, my point is that the character was named Mr. Box. Is he aware that his last name is just a slang word for vagina? Can I say I'm eating at Jack in the Cooch? More than that, who would eat in a restaurant that is merely a nation-wide bragger about his sexual abilities? Jack's a cocky asshole.

The biggest disappointment of the trip came at the hands of Brian's younger brother Kevin. Kevin Ross and I have a bit of a history. One day, out of the goodness of my heart, I offered him a ride home. I was a senior, thereby making Kevin a sophomore. This was during a time where he had not yet fully bloomed socially, and preferred to communicate with me in sounds instead of words, let alone phrases or sentences. While we drove it rained, and I felt that I did a really good deed. When he got out of the car, I naturally expected a sincere and loud thank you. Something along the lines of, "thank you so much Anton for driving me home and keeping me dry to boot!" But no. You know what I get? The sound of the seat belt unbuckling, the door opening, shoes hitting the pavement, and then the door closing. Not a single word of gratitude.

I never forgave him. He was the little brother that I would constantly ride. For example, "oh god dammit Kevin you're absolutely worthless" when he dropped a fork, or "jesus christ you're good for nothing" when he was using the xbox as a DVD player when I wanted to play Halo 2 on Xbox Live (aka audio/visual crack). I figured this would be the perfect opportunity to capitalize on my faux-hatred in challenging Kevin at the absolute best reason to go down the shore outside of SkeeBall: Mini Golf. I made a simple bet with him. I put up 10 bucks, and he puts up his soul. He declined. My persuading argument of "but you can't buy anything with your soul, while you can get like two meals at Wendy’s for 10 bucks!" didn't really hold much weight. Eventually we just went for five bucks. He beat the shit out of me. It is one of the worst losses I have ever suffered. His shots couldn't miss; my hole-in-ones always bounced over the cup (four of them!!). So now the unappreciative son of a bitch has five dollars of mine. Sometimes life is simply not fair.

If you made it to the bottom, I have two shout outs: one is to Westie (happy birthday) and the other is to The Life Saver, because you said to. So I did. There. Happy now?

Retro: On Stuttering

2006-08-03T12:52:00.000-05:00

There was a time where I looked like this:

I think that's the perfect way to preface this angsty rant from my past. (photos circa 1998/9 and writing from around 2000, I believe.)

It’s funny how I can’t really talk right. I can write my ass off, like it was my job (and, of course, hopefully one day it will be) but I can barely carry a conversation with someone. For whatever reason, I was born with a mind that works all the time, and is never in a gear below 5. I work, and in fact at times in my youth would not be able to sleep because I kept analyzing, and over analyzing, to the point where I wouldn’t let myself just shutdown and go to bed, but kept up and kept working on something meaningless. Soon that began to manifest itself when I would think things in light speed, but my mouth/jaw/vocal cords wouldn’t be able to keep up. Soon, I had a stutter on my hands that could topple buildings. I was a first grader with giant ears, candy apple red glasses, and a stuttering problem. Surprisingly, I was not made fun of, nor am I much today, as if it is a sacred area. As if my problem is acknowledged but not brought up.
I went to counseling in school with Miss Fingerman, who I always thought had quite the strange sounding name. Her help was very futile, as I really needed someone to tackle my stutter full-time, not just once a week for 20 minutes in school. After school for a year or two I saw a general practitioner of sorts, someone who could do the things like tongue depressing, or a lisp, so once again I was shipped off to a specialist for stuttering. For the next 3 or so years I was with a woman who clearly didn’t understand me, which was something that I didn’t know at the time, but would eventually be a recurring theme in my life.
Through the course of the therapy I was told to talk SO slowly it was ludicrous. Sounding out words so that the normal speech of, “hello, my name is Michael,” became:
Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeellllllllllllllllllllllllooooooooooooooooooooooo, *pause* myyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaame iiiiiiiiiiisssssssssssss MYYYYYYYYYYYY-CAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLL. I knew that this was simply no way to converse with anyone. Anyone! But I kept going, kept going to K-Mart and asking some poor schlep who I’m sure gets asked this every day by this woman, “where is the shoe department?” She could help others, but she came to a point where she couldn’t help me anymore. She came to the same realization I did; this was utterly useless. My therapist left me with one last bit of knowledge: only you can control this problem.
On my epitaph it will read: He was the only one who could control this problem. Common speech for anyone is a walk in the park. I’m envious of most people who can sit and wax intellectual about nothing in particular for seconds, and minutes, and hours when I can barely get out “Yeah, I’d like to place an order for take out,” or simply give the name “Anton” because the hard A sound clicks in with my stutter. So instead, I give,” uhuhuhAAAAnton” after feeling embarrassed and ashamed. One of the things that separate humans from all other walks of life is verbal communication, and I’m limited in it.
When I’m at a party and a girl comes up to me, I barely have anything to say, and whatever it is it’s usually curbed so that there is no vocabulary that I can fuck up, no words I can stutter, and nothing at all thought provoking because she’s either drunk/stoned and wouldn’t understand in the first place, or that I will get lost in my own quick-thoughts and fuck it up and look like an asshole. I see Brett and with nary a thought, barely a gesture, he has people eating from his palm. Moms, hot women, teachers, it doesn’t matter, he has a way with his voice, his word choice that just clicks with everyone. I stand next to him and watch in awe as he does the simplest things that I frankly cannot do. Some people are envious over the girls that he’s been with, I’m envious over the fact that he could talk to them so well and get them so easily, while I struggle to get nothing. I’m surrounded by fast talking friends who don’t even know how lucky they have it, and will never know.
That’s the thing; a lot of people will never know what I go through. By no means do I say that I live a life not worth living, or that I am akin to someone in a wheelchair, but it’s difficult to explain to someone how much of strife it is to go about life and never truly be understood. Not in the sense of I’m an artist and I draw a circle and I believe it is the meaning of life and you think it’s a circle. I mean that I have ideas and thoughts that go over people’s heads, but just the simplicity of answering “what did you do last night” could merit the dreaded, “what?” or even worse, the nod and “yeah.” I’m sure I get it far too many times than I can even imagine, and the realization of this is unbearable. It’s not a disrespect of people not caring; it’s the prospect of someone not getting something that I desperately want them to know, to feel, to comprehend.
The irony that I want to be a writer, (and believe I’m a pretty good one at the moment) but I cannot even speak is a bit too much to even grasp. I can write out my feelings at a piece of paper, bitch and moan to the computer screen so much easier than talking to my dad, or my friends. A lot of times, people don’t understand what I type, as it’s just the same garbled mess of thought and no revision, the raw feed of Anton thought, much like most of this is for a number of you. So instead of telling my Dad that the reason I don’t talk to him is because he is never interested, plops his ass on the floor in front of the TV and takes more interest in JAG than most of the time he ever as has had in me, I say it to this document. Most of what I say is light hearted to them, because I either fear that they won’t hear my cries, or they’ll just make fun of it like they do most things. I say “I’m going to the bathroom” and I get that reverberated in some new “Anton voice” and doing some stupid action to go along with it as everyone else laughs. Does my low self-esteem come from this very problem? Probably, that and being called fat from now till I die, even though I’m not fat. I’m sure that the stuttering instilled in me a certain defense mechanism, so that anything said to me was not true, just a rib. And because of all of this, instead of airing my grievances to Geoff, or Stephen, or most of the lot of my friends is I won’t be taken seriously, or I’ll be told to stop worrying or stop bitching.
I’ve been told to stop a lot of things. I’ve also been told I have the power to stop. I come from a long line of drug abusers and alcoholics, and that addiction somehow runs through my veins. I can’t stop thinking and over analyzing, I’ll sit and think about if I told my teacher this instead of that how it would affect the grand scheme of things. How if I actually didn’t back down but fought, what would that say about me now? When I’m told I can stop stuttering because I have the power, when at times I sit back and am nearly driven to tears on how I can’t curb this detriment to my life. No matter how hard I try sometimes, I know that the words coming out of my mouth will not be clear, will not be pristine, but will be damaged, will be broken, and will be not what I even want to say. I have the power to control this as much as I have the power to control a runaway train, and that thought is lost upon the world.

I really am a boob.

everything is broken

2006-07-19T00:02:00.000-05:00

There is no escape for the natural cost of living life: death. The ultimate gift is poetically paid back with the ultimate sacrifice. Such is the cycle of life in the world we live in. Everything that is will one day cease to be. And so it goes.

I have gotten into trouble discussing death on this blog, and I would like to try and address this now. I have attempted in the past to make my view on death a blanket statement, and that is impossible. The other day, my 82-year-old Great Uncle Bob passed away. Just today I was talking to my friend Chelsea who recently lost a friend of hers, one who I would assume is a lot younger than Uncle Bob. These issues are only similar in their final outcome. This blog will be an unbiased view of how I viewed today's events. In no way am I attempting to belittle religion, death, or the importance of ones life over another.

Saying, "you're sorry," is so incredibly unfulfilling for both parties. As someone who just lost a person, there is nothing that the other should be sorry for, unless they are holding a bloody, blunt instrument. Even at that point, I certainly wouldn't accept their apology. If you're the person who was just informed of the death, it is the only thing you can say that sounds halfway correct coming out of your mouth. There is nothing you can say that could do anything, good, bad, or otherwise. There is no applicable way to deal with this situation; only awkward politeness.

My Uncle Bob was the rural refuge to my mom and her siblings. They were born and raised in New York City (Brooklyn to Queens) and relished their trips out to "the country" in central New York. Here they saw things they couldn't see in the concrete jungle, such as cows, horses, and, hell, grass. I heard stories from my mom whenever Uncle Bob came up for some family function, be it a birthday, Thanksgiving, or whatever else was going on that day. She would sing on the stoop, she would look out the window with Aunt Fran and see the mountains, she would get 7 Up floats (they're disgusting in case you were wondering) and just relax. Uncle Bob was also an accomplished chef for the Navy after enlisting as a Marine, and later feeding the faces above the white collars of IBM workers. The biggest fault my mom had for him was when he made the turkey and threw out the tasty--but unhealthy--skin. My mom was up in arms, and my uncle apologized for "wanting her to live longer." It's funny how we don't realize how morbid we are until death becomes a reality.

I was never as close with Uncle Bob as my mom was. He even walked her down the aisle after my grandfather died; Uncle Bob is not even blood relation. I would see him when he was a pit stop for my cousin Suzanne before she spent some time in rustic Park Ridge, NJ. Distinctly I remember driving up with my dad, seeing my Uncle, playing ping-pong in his dark basement, and, for whatever reason, watching the stage production of Cats on his TV. Driving up today it was strange how I knew exactly where he lived and which house was his after not seeing it for at least five years. It was second nature. I guess the trips meant more than I realized.

The other oddity was meeting with the relatives. Once again, I had a fuzzy memory of almost everyone, save my cousin Ricky who is 3 months older than me and is in the Marines, looking like he's 26. There were so many "...Michael?!" introductions I lost count (yes, I was going to count for this very reason). It probably helps that for my show in two weeks I have a ridiculously overgrown beard so I look exactly like my dad, but still. The queer part was that I definitely knew all of Uncle Bob's sons, at least their faces. I had not seen them in probably 10 years. I forgot the exact date, but I'm gauging by how high they held their hands to their sides to indicate how tall I was the last time I saw them.

The reactions at the funeral home ran the gamut. My mom, for all of her best qualities, is not the most emotionally stable person I know. Situations like these are not her forte. I am not blaming her by any means, but she is definitely the opposite of how I react. She walked in and saw the house and started to tear, walked to the kitchen and looked at "Aunt Fran's mountains," and welled up, and god knows what finally put her over the edge into crying town. She is a very emotional person to the point where if I try and console her she'll just get worse.

Countering her, my cousin Sue had a very similar situation to my mother. Sue would spend time during her summer at Uncle Bobs riding horses, if memory serves, at a local ranch. No matter the action, she was up there and was quite close with him. At the funeral parlor (always odd that "hair" and "funeral" both get the closing word of "parlor") she was pulled out on her own fiddling with some paper. I walked over, confused, to see if she needed a hug or whatever shallow comfort I could offer. She looks in my direction, face never losing focus from the paper below her, and asks for some time alone. I look down as I fold my arms and realize she has "Dear Uncle Bob," as the heading. It's at that point I realized that nothing I will probably ever write will mean as much as whatever went on to that sheet of paper.

I never know what to do at funerals. Believe me, I'm not bragging when I say I've attended around 20 wakes/funerals in my life time, but I have a lot of experience under my belt. I never show any real emotion. It might be because no one that close to me has ever passed away, such as a grand parent, first-uncle (don't get me started on my extended family tree and 80 uncles and aunts with only 8 being legit). In a counter to my mom's overly emotional stance, I am very logical. Death is the natural outcome of life. It will always come, so why be so upset when it happens, especially to someone who is 82? What more could you want? He was given no longer than a year to live and passed away in a week. In some perverse way, isn't that good?

Back from the aside. I do not believe I have ever cried at a wake or a funeral. I simply cannot do it. When my classmate Joe Smeen died a few weeks before graduation at age 19 (he graduated the previous year) I was stone faced the entire proceeding. Seeing my friends fall to shambles did nothing to affect my outer figure. Watching his mother break apart in front of my eyes from a few feet away couldn't crack my exterior. I finally broke on the two minute drive from the church to my house. That short trip held all the tears I would spill for my departed friend and classmate. I got home, put on my work clothes, and helped out at the town picnic for about eight hours straight. Ever since I was a child, I was so self-conscious about not crying, and how horrible a person others must precieve me to be. All I want to do to this day is just shed one tear.

Seeing the body is always off putting because you really aren't seeing the body at all - you are seeing the corpse, in its most concrete form. There is nothing left of the person you loved, admired, lived with, etc. Instead, there is an empty shell that closely resembles the person you knew. In many ways you are paying homage to a person's character and their life to what is nothing more than the vacant embodiment of those ideals. Having the body "look good" also scares me. I understand that it is a reassuring measure, but isn't that what people in funeral homes are for? Hasn't anyone seen Rico work on Six Feet Under? I would hope he doesn't look horrible - it's someone's job to ensure that doesn't happen. The creepiest of all creepy things is when my Dad's side will kiss the corpse in the coffin. It is the most disturbing thing I have ever laid eyes on.

We had a small service at the Lutheran church that my uncle was a charter member of. During the mass, something really popped out during the Our Father. I was a...lackluster Roman Catholic, but I attended church often and knew the Our Father like the back of my hand. Printed on the pamphlet passed out was the prayer I have known since I was 4, except there was a weird add-on. Apparently, Jesus went to hell and faught demons before coming back to Earth. When did Jesus become a bad ass? Was this the 41st Thesis, that Jesus is too much of a pussy and needed a death count to make him more marketable? The sandal-wearing, miracle-working, peace-and-love Jesus is out and the "I kill demons and I'm the savior motha fucka" Jesus is in!

When I die (well, according to my mom I'm one of God's special angels and I'll never die, but I have the under at 40), I really hope I don't do it in the dead (see?) of Winter or the zenith of Summer. It was bad enough that we lost a member of our family. Did we really need it to be 100 degrees, too? All the men are in black suits at noon. I went the extra stupid step and wore a dark blue dress shirt to top off my near heat stroke. It was sort of sad that while doing the color guard's gun salute I was too busy counting the number of beads of sweat trickling down my back. I refuse to die until there is a portable air conditioner in cemeteries for situations like these.

The most poignant part of the day came when the American flag was folded into a triangle and passed on to my cousin Ricky, dressed in full Marine garb. There was something so incredibly powerful about the hand off of the flag; the low ramble of the one Marine to my cousin, the passing of the flag, the slow salute, and the rigid twenty year old who had gone through all sorts of horrific training to wear that uniform now weeping in it. The epitome of strength was giving way.

It's rare when a symbol actually embodies what it signifies. I will not extol my uncle as someone who has lived the American dream. He lived a life that deserves just as much respect as the flag receives. He was a simple, loving, caring family man, someone whose worst offense was tossing out some animal skin. There are many goals I have in my life, from having children to making a movie, and getting this thing into book form. After a day like today you realize how trivial they really are. If no one knows me by my writing prowess, or as a top 10 director, or one of the biggest money makers in Hollywood, that doesn't mean I'm a failure. All I have to do is shoot for my Uncle Bob's model. No life can be created without finally paying due for the opportunity you were given on this Earth. He gave more than his fair share back to everyone he touched on the moral coil. I hope there is a heaven if only for him, because he earned his salvation.

Any Ideas?

2006-07-16T23:50:00.000-05:00

There are some upsides and downsides to having your blog start to catch on. The first downside is that most of your readers came because you were assaulted on AIM, and you have to somehow woo them enough to keep them coming back. Pressure is fun, especially when you're talking about your fucking blog. I have no life. Another downside is that people start to expect new posts from you all the time. I talked to that big-cocked wonder Sujoy before about updating his blog (he hasn't in almost three months) and he said, "man, I don't know how you do it." I do it because I have people like Luke telling me it's been a week, and that's too long.

Luckily, the upside is that I have enough eccentric thoughts to carry this thing on at a semi-regular basis. As a special bonus, I'm giving you two updates tonight, hopefully buying me enough time in between these updates and the next one. Huzzah!

Why are people ashamed of sleep? No one is ever happily saying that they slept through things; everyone's always sorry. If I sleep through someone's call I'm always mortified. How selfish am I, giving my body the rest it dearly needs while my pal is calling up asking me if I have an idea on something to do? I might be in the majority, but I think sleep is the cat's pajamas. Never again will I apologize for sleeping through something. Instead, I will say something akin to, "well it's not my fault you tried to contact me while I was trying to rejuvenate my yearning body of the natural rest that it needs to properly function as the well-run machine that it truly is." Or something less wordy. Like, "hey, eat me." Probably that.

As you may know, I am very critical of what goes up in AOL Instant Messenger aways and profiles. I have seen a slew of such informational placards display a quote from the movie Blow, which states: Sometimes you're flush and sometimes you're bust, and when you're up, it's never as good as it seems, and when you're down, you never think you'll be up again, but life goes on. The subtle irony of this quote is that Jung ends up locked in jail forever, and never sees his family, the one thing he longs to do. He doesn't go back up. Quite the opposite, in fact. His life is pitiful. I want this quote stricken from all always and profiles unless you think it's a bonus to end up in jail for life. If that is your goal, more power to you.

The choreographer for the upcoming Kiss Me Kate at Park Ridge High School (July 27-29th 8 PM cheap plug?) has a two-year-old named Christopher who is incredibly germophobic. He constantly needs to wash his hands or use Purell. I don't have the heart to tell him that while he's trying to get the germs off of his hands he still uses a diaper. How can a germophobe shit them selves? Is that the greatest irony of all time? Or, me not knowing the greatest irony is, in fact, the greatest irony of all time? Or, is that that I think I don't know what the greatest irony of all time is while therefore

Everything in life is a middle school dance. No matter how old you are, what function you are attending, or what standing you have in society, there will always be a time where guys and girls will split up into different sections no more than four feet apart from each other and not recognize the existence of the other group. There has to be some sort of evolutionary explanation for this, because it simply doesn't stop. I have seen it at concerts (maybe avoiding sexual assault?), waiting around during rehearsals, on line for the T, and in classrooms. I had a discussion last year that had about 20 girls and 7 guys, and you can bet your sweet fanny that all of the guys clumped together as the girls surrounded us, like the succubuses they are. This just goes to show that men and women will never get along, unless alcohol and loneliness are involved...but that has a finite grace period (the morning, or directly afterwards).

Why is licking blood so weird? If I have a cut, the first thing I do is put my mouth over it and keep that sweet nector of life in my system, not losing a drop to the outer world. Someone had a cut during my last show and couldn't really take care of it before making another entrance. I said to simply suck the wound--what other option was there? She looked at me like i had three heads, or some body configuration that is equally as irregular. Seeing how I needed to back up my blood-sucking position, I began to say, "if it comes from your body, it's ok to put back in there." Then I thought about piss and was ready to be called a freak. Luckily, she didn't throw that back in my face, so no one ever knew that I pretty much said I'd be ok to drink piss.

Totally got away with it!

Have you ever been an incredible asshole without knowing it before hand? For example, have you ever made a cancer joke around someone who lost a close relative to cancer...but you were never informed of said tragedy? You don't get off the hook. No, you are forever in guilt because you were an insufferable douche without any proper warning. I have decided to coin this phenomenon the "unknown asshole." You have no idea what a prick you're being until it is far too late. You cannot stop it, you can never avoid it, and you're always susceptible to being a real dick.

Sometimes speaking is incredibly dangerous. Whether it be the passing of my Uncle recently, or my infatuation with Muse's album Absolution and the song "Time Is Running Out," I've become cognizant of how many little actions you do influence others. Obviously we all know that if you punch someone in the face there will be some ramifications. What we don't pay attention to, however, is how telling the little things are. The snide remark you make that is interpreted as pushing someone away, a ride home to someone who has a crush on you, even the slight brushing of someone's leg against yours.

There is precious little time in this life to toy around. It's said all of the time, and it's hard to believe when you sit around your house and play Winning Eleven 9 on PS2 and contemplate how lonely and bored you are, but your life is not going to last forever. People often ask, "what is life?" It's fleeting. Some things do live on, far past your death. Your reputation, your character, your name. There are people in my life that I didn't realize I missed until I started talking to them after a period of silence. Some people I need to distance myself from before they take me down with them. Others I simply will never be able to excise from my life, which is really good and bad.

Always be on your toes, because the window of time to explain things closes with each passing day. You only have one life to live--or if you believe in reincarnation, a shit load of them--so don't dilly-dally, sirs and ma'ams.

From Left Field

2006-07-07T12:02:00.000-05:00

I'm going to Boston for the weekend, and I felt obliged to leave something for you all to enjoy whilst I'm gone. Really it's because I like the attention garnered from last week's post, so I'm trying to keep things going. Think of me as Timbaland to your Aaliyah, as I couldn't leave you "without a dope beat to step to (step to)." Or something like that.

Why do girls love lanyard so much? I don't understand what the draw is. You can tie up different colored plastic strips. ...That's it. There isn't even a reason for it. You can't play with the strand afterwards. You can't do anything. The best thing is to look at it, attach it to someone's hair until their parents take it out for being "insensible," or you toss it. Ta da. Is it the next generation's knitting? In 80 years, will kids be shoving lanyard sweaters deep into their closets until they have to wear them on Thanksgiving to give the old coot something to live for? The strangest part is how attached girls are to this silly hobby. They don't stop loving it, either; they just don't know where to find any plastic strands. Spools of purple and red plastic tie line will soon replace flowers and candy. Bank on it.

An old friend of mine imed me the other day and did a smiley like this: (: Isn't that illegal? That's against internet code. You simply cannot turn your head to the left and read smilies. It has been passed, many years ago, that you cock your head to the right and see smiley faces, sad faces, and the like. I want to call shenanigans, but then I realized how embarrassing it would be for me to tell her that she is incorrectly using smiley emoticons. So I decided to tell about a hundred people instead. I'm a genius.

Who came up with "lol?" Someone had to have been the pioneer to create that horrible acronym. It just didn't come from out of space. Man has made many things: the ability of flight, the Polio vaccine, and now a short way to say that you are, in fact, laughing in an outwardly fashion. I feel bad because they didn't copyright it immediately. Someone also had to feel that simply saying "lol" did not fully cover their reaction to a joke or funny comment. No, they had to take it to the next step. "lol" was soon one-upped by "rofl," which completely rejects making out loud laughter the selling point--it's not even mentioned, just inferred--to show that you are actually ROLLING ON FLOOR laughing (I would assume uproariously). Whoever crated roflmao (rolling on floor, laughing my ass off) is just taking it too far though. That person is an asshole.

One sound I will never get used to is a bird hitting my window. I live in a one-story house. There are trees all around me. Nothing inside my window looks like it should be outdoors. But still, every now and then I hear that weird "thump," and the bang of a beak or talon against the windowpane. I jump, yell, and say, "god dammit, I'll never get used to that ever!" Such is my life.

I really like bad jokes. In fact, I love them more than good jokes (which lends itself to the bad joke of "well obviously, cause you never tell good jokes!" which I reply with "oh you're a hoot!") but some things need to stop. If I hear someone pick up a screw, turn to me, and ask "wanna screw?" I might take off your face with a belt sander. Do you think you're original? Do you think you're the only one who has thought of the double entendre of asking someone if they want a craftsman's tool and how it also runs congruent with asking someone if they would like to engage in sexual intercourse? You aren't. More than that, who ever walks around looking for someone with a screw? "Oh, thank you so much for offering! I have been looking around for DAYS, avoiding every Home Depot and hardware store, just to see if someone randomly had one!" Don't even get me started on "getting lei'd." I really wish that you could pass AIDS through itchy purple pieces of cut up plastic bags that are held together by one staple. The world would be a better place.

In conclusion, I don't understand Jesus dying for my sins. Did someone really need to? Is there a certain limit of sinning that simply cannot be exceeded? I thought Catholics were more civilized, but I guess we do believe in sacrifices. Why couldn't we have used a goat, and nothing something as important as, I don't know, THE SON OF GOD? They don't pop out all the time - kind of a finite number of Holy Saviors. And if he died for my sins, shouldn't I get the auto bid into heaven? My sins are all accounted for, aren't they? What is even stranger is that they were taken care of 2000 years ago. Will someone else have to go after a certain number of years when it fills back up again, or are we good till Judgment Day? These are the kind of post-its I need plastered on my walls - not of blog ideas. Someone call up the Pope, tell him to stop goose-stepping and remembering "the good ole' days" and ask him this. It's kinda important.

Lobbing Softballs

2006-07-02T23:56:00.000-05:00

When kids wanted to be mischievous between Bell creating the phone and about 10 years ago, the prank call was the way to do it. A young lad could call up one of his rivals and alert him to catch his running refrigerator or to please release Prince Albert from his royal can. With new technology breeds new ways to annoy people. The advent of the internet has given a whole new, completely anonymous, way to mess with your common man. It's as easy as creating a fake screen name and iming your target with a barrage of funny comments. I fell victim to such a prankster tonight, and it was a terrible experience

It wasn't because the person mentioned my ex-girlfriend, or because of the acts in which they described, or even who they brought up. No, it was terrible because they were unfunny and made me waste a good thirty minutes dealing with someone who had nothing but hack material. I will share this conversation with you dear readers, of course, with running commentary on the situation.

I'm not upset because of the attempt to "get me," but merely because they were so bad at it. It is a slap in the face. At least bring your B game, you rapscallions.

NawTeLiLGurL69: sup nig
KingManton: hi?
NawTeLiL GurL 69: haha sorry for the language!
NawTeLiL GurL 69: whats uppp??
KingManton: well, my lack of melanin makes the "nig" comment seem...out of place
NawTeLiL GurL 69: i know what you mean, nig
KingManton: wooooord
KingManton: watching cinderella man on HBO because I'm too lazy to turn the channel, you?
- Like any conversation with someone I don't know, I just keep going like I know who they are. Believe me, it works. Just ahead is where it turns "ugly."
NawTeLiL GurL 69: masturbating thinking of you
NawTeLiL GurL 69: well not exactly
KingManton: oh shucks
NawTeLiL GurL 69: im watching a porno for fun and the guy reminded me of you
NawTeLiL GurL 69: haha
KingManton: that's...well
KingManton: uh
KingManton: how, exactly
KingManton: the haircut was similar?
NawTeLiL GurL 69: that
NawTeLiL GurL 69: lanky
NawTeLiL GurL 69: tall body
NawTeLiL GurL 69: thats basically
KingManton: so...someone who shouldn't be in a porn
NawTeLiL GurL 69: haha, it was pretty gross
NawTeLiL GurL 69: but youre not at all!!
- What, did they think that they were going to sucker me in to some cyber sex with someone I don't know? And it really does sound so appealing. Like Perry Mason, I decide at this point that they know who I am by the stunningly accurate account of my body type. Immediately I pull back the curtains to peer out my windows. Nothing. Foiled again by this merry band of tricksters!
KingManton: thanks for the compliment
NawTeLiL GurL 69: i would ride your dick any day of the week
KingManton: aw, that's sweet
NawTeLiL GurL 69: except mondays cause i have to ride hailey that day
- Oh man, here comes the ex-girlfriend! Now it'll REALLY set me off!
KingManton: of course
NawTeLiL GurL 69: what, you dont believe me??
KingManton: I do
- Backfire.
NawTeLiL GurL 69: okay good good
- Panic.
KingManton: I don't need to see the schedule or anything
KingManton: and who's hailey?
NawTeLiL GurL 69: am i spelling it wrong?
KingManton: yeah
KingManton: haley
KingManton: go back and erase it in the schedule
KingManton: just for accuracty, ya know
NawTeLiL GurL 69: hahahaha
- Did you know that you can actually SEE nervous laughter? I know you can hear it, but I didn't know it translated so well to AIM conversations as well. The wheels are falling off and we're only about 20 ims in to the conversation.
KingManton: and I miss spell accuracy
NawTeLiL GurL 69: haha ironic
KingManton: indeed
NawTeLiL GurL 69: dont ya think???
NawTeLiL GurL 69: haha
KingManton: 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife
- Getting too comfortable...need to attack!
NawTeLiL GurL 69: it reminds me of the time that haley was muffdiving me
KingManton: which time was that
NawTeLiL GurL 69: when i forgot to shave and it looked like she had a moustache
- AHA! Got him this time!
KingManton: that's adorable
KingManton: did ya get a picture?
- God dammit.
NawTeLiL GurL 69: yeah i did
NawTeLiL GurL 69: its online
KingManton: awesome
NawTeLiL GurL 69: want me to send you the link??
KingManton: eh, I have enough
- zing! I crack myself up.
NawTeLiL GurL 69: http://www.sillyjokes.co.uk/images/dress-up/beards/investigators-moustache.jpg
NawTeLiL GurL 69: look familiar?
KingManton: and how do you have that on file so quickly
- Honestly. That link popped up five seconds after "send the link?" I never clicked it, but by the url of "sillyjokes" I'm sure it's a right.
KingManton: that's my question
NawTeLiL GurL 69: cause i hear you gotta hairy pussy to
NawTeLiL GurL 69: i look at it all the time
- Nice answer, schmuck boy
NawTeLiL GurL 69: haley turns me on
- Have to stay on topic! Keep pushing the ex angle!
KingManton: hell no, I keep my non-existant pussy groomed at all times
KingManton: she's a pretty girl
NawTeLiL GurL 69: thats true
KingManton: go for it - she's not attached to me. Have fun
NawTeLiL GurL 69: why would she be attached to a lose rlike you, when she could have a pussy like mine all night??
- Thanks you illiterate fuck. Putting this into Word might make my computer explode from all of the squiggly little red lines it has to generate.
KingManton: are you ever wrong?
NawTeLiL GurL 69: yeah sure
NawTeLiL GurL 69: soemtimes
- Like a retard told to do work outside with a pinwheel spinning in the background. Impossible to stay focused on the goal.
NawTeLiL GurL 69: but goddammit...
NawTeLiL GurL 69: haley is soooo right
- Here's the set up....
KingManton: how so
NawTeLiL GurL 69: i fuck her
NawTeLiL GurL 69: its fun
NawTeLiL GurL 69: i like it
NawTeLiL GurL 69: her pussy is very delicious
- And there's the...payoff? Guy walks into a bar...AND HE DOES! SERIOUSLY, FOLKS! Ugh.
KingManton: what's not to like
NawTeLiL GurL 69: the fact that she was with a loser like you kinda scares me
KingManton: I'm shocked you can sleep at night
- Heads up - if you just go with it and say shit like my comment, it will drive'em nuts. All that is wanted is a "go fuck yourself asshole" and then he/she/they would just start laughing. Sorry. Stay tuned, it gets worse as time goes on.
NawTeLiL GurL 69: but you did scare her into being a lesbo
NawTeLiL GurL 69: so i gotta hand it to you
KingManton: why thank you. I have quite the talent
NawTeLiL GurL 69: i have quite the talent at sucking cocks
NawTeLiL GurL 69: but i like pussies more
KingManton: you can do it all
- ?
NawTeLiL GurL 69: for you... i would do anything
- Notice the use of italics to emphasize the variety of activities that the person would engage in with me.
KingManton: oh man, let me calm down
NawTeLiL GurL 69: no
NawTeLiL GurL 69: ill let you cum down all over my chest
- Nice segue. I'm shocked you passed on the juicer "let" and went right for the more difficult "down." You get points for difficulty, even though you stuck the landing much like the Hindenburg.
NawTeLiL GurL 69: this is lindsey duck by the way
NawTeLiL GurL 69: quack quack
NawTeLiL GurL 69: i have flippers
NawTeLiL GurL 69: and a pussy
NawTeLiL GurL 69: and lips meant to be seucking pussssyyy
- Girl from my high school. If you're reading this Miss Duck, hope things are well.
KingManton: are they connected?
KingManton: the pussy and flippers?
KingManton: cause it would be an odd way to fly
- I'm so witty
NawTeLiL GurL 69: well, people tell me i am a fly girl
- They are so not
NawTeLiL GurL 69: and i tell them to go fuck themselves
NawTeLiL GurL 69: then i suck their dicks
NawTeLiL GurL 69: and haley helps
KingManton: what else would she do
- As soon as I sent this I wanted to add "applaud and bake apple pies?" Thank god for this blog.
NawTeLiL GurL 69: she would look for the biggest cock she could find...
NawTeLiL GurL 69: then suck it all night
NawTeLiL GurL 69: making up for time with you, i guess
KingManton: I guess so
KingManton: just for scheduling purposes, how long do you think this is going to keep going for?
NawTeLiL GurL 69: ohhhh shit
NawTeLiL GurL 69: days on end
- That means about 10 more minutes. Days got shorter. It's like the inverse of the "created in 6 days" argument.
KingManton: well, I'm going to have to sleep eventually
KingManton: just wanted to give you the heads up
NawTeLiL GurL 69: haley just wanted to do that too...
NawTeLiL GurL 69: give head
- Douche chill
KingManton: nice clarification
NawTeLiL GurL 69: my name is...
NawTeLiL GurL 69: claire viola
- Oh god, they're drowning. If you're reading this Claire, hope things are well, and you scratch less.
KingManton: good job with the topic change there champ
KingManton: running out of steam?
NawTeLiL GurL 69: im a champion of fucking girls
NawTeLiL GurL 69: want a picture of me and haley??
KingManton: and I thought you were Danielle Duck
KingManton: I think...you might not be who you, in fact, say you are
KingManton: which, on the internet, is just...appalling
NawTeLiL GurL 69: http://www.recoveryiseverywhere.com/images/poster%20-%20lesbian%20couple600.jpg
NawTeLiL GurL 69: im on the left
KingManton: fantastic
- Once again, didn't click the link, but this person sure has a nice collection of lol-able pictures !!!!1
NawTeLiL GurL 69: we JUST had sex
NawTeLiL GurL 69: right when the picture was taken
- were ya?
NawTeLiL GurL 69: and right now too!
KingManton: while typing?
KingManton: jesus are you talented
NawTeLiL GurL 69: she was sucking my pussy
- I'm starting to lose track of what's going on here
NawTeLiL GurL 69: shes good at it
NawTeLiL GurL 69: you would know if you had one
NawTeLiL GurL 69: but you have a small dick instead
KingManton: oh please, stop flattering me
NawTeLiL GurL 69: oh please
NawTeLiL GurL 69: please...
NawTeLiL GurL 69: yess....
NawTeLiL GurL 69: oh shit, im talking ot haley not you
- Do I even need to comment? Wowie.
KingManton: hmm?
NawTeLiL GurL 69: hmmm
NawTeLiL GurL 69: yeaaah
KingManton: oh, say hi
KingManton: we haven't talked in a while
NawTeLiL GurL 69: her mouth is full
KingManton: that's fine - YOU can still say hi
NawTeLiL GurL 69: no i have a guys dick in my mouth
- You can actually FEEL them running out of steam. It's sad.
NawTeLiL GurL 69: its sujoy
KingManton: so you have a guy's dick in your mouth, while typing, well having sex with haley, and taking pictures during the act, while simultaneously being sujoy, claire viola, and danielle duck?
NawTeLiL GurL 69: no its sujoys dick thats in my mouth
KingManton: oh, well, good for him, then
- I'm sure he'd be excited
NawTeLiL GurL 69: hes fucking huge!
KingManton: I'll give him a firm handshake next time I see him
NawTeLiL GurL 69: shake his hand, or dick
NawTeLiL GurL 69: he would liek the dick
KingManton: well, I'd prefer the hand, thank you. It's more polite that way
- Here is the two to three minutes of silence
KingManton: anything else?
NawTeLiL GurL 69: lots
KingManton: then by all means, continue
“NawTeLiL GurL 69” signed off at 12:51:45 AM.
- I love the smell of "signed off" in the morning. Smells like.......victory.

If you're a boy, or a group of boys, and you want to cause some mischief, that is what NOT to do. Do not get a girl's stupid looking screen name that is not even believable (I thought it was one of those porn sns making a come back) and dish terrible banter back and forth looking for a reaction. Also, put yourself out of your misery and sign off earlier, unless you are so incredibly bored that a conversation like this would be entertaining. And take out the shift buttons, cause they are seemingly meaningless ornaments to make the keyboard be rectangular for a smoother presentation.

But hey, maybe you are a fan of their snide remarks and witty barbs, and enjoy it when you start shit talking someone, dig yourself a hole, then ask the other person if they have the keys to the back hoe over there to speed the process up. This was also the second attempt, and the second mention of my pal Sujoy. I'm befuddled as to why his name keeps coming up. But I congratulate him on his huge cock.

C'mon folks. If you're going to get at me, you're going to have to do better than that.

Problems. Technically Speaking.

2006-06-20T23:24:00.000-05:00

I have made a huge mistake.

It wasn't one of those "play Your Song on the ex's lawn with a ghettoblaster and have her not be there and be scolded by her dad who never really liked you in the first place" mistakes. Nor one of those "seriously, I didn't see the hole before I put it in" mistakes. Or even deciding that you can dance on a table top after that last keg stand kind of mistake. No, mine was a good idea that backfired in an un-winnable situation. What I did was mindless, stupid, and hurtful.

I convinced my family to get a new home computer.

It has been a week and I still don't know why I did it. Seemed like a great idea at the time. All I heard was complaints about how the computer was so slow, that e-mail took forever, that Outlook Express would simply not work and the computer would have to be restarted (a 15 minute ordeal). I heard the horror stories of crawling through cyberspace on a cable modem. I saw them languish in a corner after the computer would show the Blue Screen of Death or simply just shut down without any rhyme or reason. The 1998 Gateway (remember them? the cow box company?) should have been put out to pasture about four years ago. But as an e-mail and Word machine, it could have gone on for my parents for a few years. I was too busy tooling around on my brand new Powerbook G4.

Finally the time came where I told my parents that their computer was on life support and needed to be put out of its misery. It's too old, and keeping it around any longer would make everyone around it suffer. It was time to Old Yeller the family computer. We shared great times. The first time I...you know...was thanks to that computer and a Yahoo search for Chloe Jones pictures. I played the Sims for days at a time, since you literally forget that any time outside of the one on the computer is actually passing. I wrote on my wrestling opinion board there. It's where the BWF website started. But it was now a piece of shit. On second thought, that is disrespectful to fecal matter.

I decided it would be easiest if the next computer was an apple. The iMac model was just a screen, a keyboard, and a mouse. That's it. It really can't get simpler than that. I should have seen the snags coming when my mom asked why we couldn't keep our 70 pound 15" monitor that is so used it would kill an epileptic. "Why would we use the old monitor when we could get you a new, clean, fresh one that won't make you go blind as quickly as this hunk of crap currently is?" Her response was, "but I like the old one." This should have been my red flag. Onward I pushed, as it was my manifest destiny to get a new computer.

My mom, my friend Scott, and I all went to the Mac store a few minutes from my house. We bring along Scott because he is our resident computer expert. It has come to the point where my parents don't trust me enough to do anything without his approval. Sure, he works at the Geek Squad at Best Buy and really does know his craft, but christ, I know how to buy a mouse. We work our way over to the iMacs. Immediately I run away because my mom needs a lot of questions answered that would drive me insane. Luckily, Scott is trained to sell computers. He sells her on the iMac. I look at a bluetooth mouse.

My mom asks about an iPod. I cringe. One thing at a time apparently isn't enough. To the iPod Nanos we go. Scott pulls out a white model that gets a resounding "I want a black one!" I have to explain that we can get one, but this is just the model. Scott just picks up a black one. I should have taken notes. Scott starts a quick tutorial about how to get music, how it's sorted by artist, album, song, and shows how to play a song. My mom sees the "podcast" option. Scott starts to go into his spiel and I stop him and say "it's not worth it." She shoots me a look; I know it's for the best. Scott agrees.

As we're on line buying the machine--and fighting off the applecare option with the asshole behind the desk who is rolling his eyes at my non-purchase--my mom asks, "can I play my casino game on there?" Uh oh. We've hit Defcon 1. I explain to her that no, you cannot, because our computer at home uses the obsolete-as-soon-as-it-was-created Windows ME and this is a Mac. They do not work together too well. It's like a Klansman and G-Unit. The panic sets in. "Can I play spider solitare? You mean I CAN'T play it? You never told me this! When were you going to tell me this?" Defcon 2. She and Scott frantically start looking for software that would replicate the experience. I quickly sign the credit card receipt and get the hell out of the store.

We get home and I set the computer up. I nearly get a hernia moving the old Gateway monitor. I get everything moved out and set up the new computer in minutes. God do I love Apple products. My mom comes down and I have to have her put in a password for her account on the computer, so that her and my dad can have their own desktops, screen savers, e-mail set ups, etc. etc. It works out better for everyone. "Wait...what is this password for? Do I use my e-mail password?" I explain the concept to her. She half-heartedly assigns a new password. I call her down some time later to set up her e-mail program and ask her to put in her password. "Do I put in the old one or the new one?" The one you use for that e-mail address. "The one I just put in?" Yes, if that is the same password. If it isn't, then no. The one you use for thta e-mail address. "Oh, ok. Cause I put in the wrong one." And before she goes upstairs, I get the "I don't know why you can't just use the old keyboard. This new one is completely different." Completely different means that there isn't a whole shitload of plastic around the outsides for me to spill Yoo-Hoo on. Raise it to Defcon 3.

The next day I carry over all of my parents word documents and everything that they saved in their own li'l places (Ken's Work Place and Cathy's Den). I figure this is more than enough for them to have. My dad says to wait for the weekend to explain it all to him. My mom is eager to start using the iPod, so she comes downstairs with me to show her how to use iTunes and the iTunes music store. I don't think it would be that hard. iTunes is the program with the cd and the music note prominently displayed on said audio cd. You buy music in the iTunes store. You buy each song where it says "buy song." She should know how to do this.

Of course, she doesn't. I explain it to her painstakingly; getting upset half way through because she simply isn't thinking. Instead of trying to figure it out she is in her own world of shell shock, too dumbfounded to reasonably look at this technology as something she can interpret. It is easy. It is! It's MADE to be easy. I told her to go downstairs and do it on her own and she got the hang of it in a few minutes. She even found things I didn't know about. Defcon 3 is holding. I'm somewhat relieved that she figured something out on her own. The iPod isn't even a problem! Things are looking good.

I sign Dad up on the computer. I run through everything, show him how to do certain things, and where his folder is. He is happy. A few days later he asks where all of his e-mails are. I figured it would be known that you sort of start new with a new computer and start a new stack of e-mails. Of course, he waits til 11 PM to inform me of his need to find this one particular e-mail sent to him a month ago. Why could he not have realized that he only has two messages on the new computer that the rest never made it over? Defcon 4.

Another problem arises when he can't print. "The printer doesn't work." I go downstairs, check the usb cable, check the paper, check to see if it's on. Everything is a go. I realize the problem is that the Excel program on there isn't fully installed yet, and you can't print. Microsoft makes it a little tough to pirate their software because you have to install it on Macs (unlike almost all of the Apple programs). I explain to him that I need to pirate the software. This gets a no reaction. "It was on the old computer, why can't it be on this one?" Well, if you want to pay the $200 for the legit thing, I'll get it for you tomorrow! "I just don't understand why." Things don't usually go smoothly between an eight year old Gateway and a brand new Mac. It just doesn't. "Well I don't know that! I just want it to work! Make it work!" Defcon 5. The nukes are shaking in the silos, folks.

Tonight I got the talk that I never said--explicitly--that the e-mails wouldn't come over. It was as if I could magically take everything that they wanted (without telling me) and put it over in the new computer. "You said the new computer would be faster, better, blah blah blah. We believed you." It's not like I'm lying - it is faster and better in almost every way. "I could lose my favorites, that's fine, but my address book? How can you not bring that over?" There is a way, but I need to get a program first, the same one that Dad needs. "Well I don't get how it all doesn't work and you never told us. We were led astray. And you better get the new program fast or your father is going to go apeshit."

Why do I even bother? Isn't it common knowledge that Windows and Mac don't always get along, let alone machines that are separated by nearly a decade? I'm not making a stretch here. Why can't our parents' generation accept computers? Sure, we have been working on them our whole lives, and our generation can really fool around with anything. But it's the lack of basic computer knowledge that baffles me. Our parents use computers every day. They aren't perfect, and they aren't all the same, but there are certain similarities. For example, almost every Mail program is the same. Almost every web browser is the same. But why can they not make the connection?

They simply refuse to learn. This is the generation that doesn't think that any music after '72 is worth listening to. The generation that laments EVERY single that change that has ever come, including anything that is priced. Oh really, that's great, but movies are now ten dollars. If you don't want to pay it, shut the fuck up and try and find a Nickelodeon, stupid. This is the same group that tried to change the world through peace and love and got nothing out of it but bitterness. Now these jaded middle-aged folk are flat out refusing to take part in anything based on the grounds of "I can't learn" or "I don't need it."

Yes, you can and yes, you do. I don't get the stigma with computers. Is it the lingo? The idea of a portable communication device that allows you access to the world scares people who remember having a black and white TV wheeled out in the 50s? "We don't like change." No one likes change. But, we all learn to accept it begrudgingly and move on. You are not an exception. You are not special. You know how to use a computer but are afraid to confront it. It's so much easier to throw your hands up in the air and give up. Stop being a quitter. There is nothing to fear but paper jams and error messages.

The upside is I think that I got a new computer to take to college with me.

We All Believe It

2006-06-19T02:51:00.000-05:00

One night, much like the one in which I'm currently writing this, I got introspective. That really doesn't take much for me. All that involves is little sleep (between five and seven hours) and listening to Coldplay. Some fine examples are here, here, and here (the last one is my mom's favorite post...no idea why). As you can tell, I get really deep maaaaaan. Wait, who am I kidding? No one clicked those links. I get very emo, just take my word for it. Anyway, the point of one of these sessions of loneliness at 3:30 while my roommate slept feet away and I plugged away on a laptop like a zombie with the eerie glow of the monitor was to find what unified everyone.

There is no real universal anything anymore. Some would say music, but if you listen to some Sweedish death metal or some German trance or Chinese folk songs (had to watch a movie, don't ask) it's unintelligible gibberish. Great literature doesn't translate with all cultures because of religious problems and different locales. I don't think a child in Bangladesh will really grasp the significance of Charlotte's Web without understanding what grass or half of the animals are. There is, however, one idea that is linked across everything: faith.

I don't mean Faith in the George Michael/Limp Bizkit way, because I'm far too straight and not hardcore for that. I definitely don't mean a faith that has anything to do with religion. When you read some of the things in the Bible, it doesn't take a leap of faith to believe. It takes a complete shunning of common sense. In a whale? Really? Pillar of salt? Uh huh? Slaves? Yeah, ok, they existed, too. Faith in and of itself is secular.

Faith is a common day appliance, with even more uses than the can opener and the dishwasher combined. For example, any time you drive you're using incredible amounts of it. The only thing that keeps you from smashing into the car who is also cruising at 45 miles per hour at you--but just 5 feet to your right--is a painted line...and a general unwillingness to kill oneself. Throw some alcohol into the equation and that painted line doesn't mean anything. But, we all believe that we will all drive safely...or just enough to not maim each other. All of that is predicated on a series of laws, most of which are enforced by glowing colored lights, paint, and aluminum signs.

Schools are all faith based, especially colleges or private high schools. You believe that you're paying X amount of dollars so that in the future your money will be paid back to you in some sort of profession. Of course, we are all vastly overpaying (I swear that the first Passover would be less costly than 4 years at a private liberal arts college) so we're already behind the eight ball. But we always think that we'll get something good out of it at the end. If I work hard enough in Screenwriting 1, and if I suck enough Producer dick, I might actually have a job sometime in the future. I also have faith that bananas are a good training method in order to write Garfield 3: The Lasagna Chronicles.

Relationships are incredibly faith based. You put yourself into a situation where you put all of your emotional eggs in someone else's basket and hope that they don't completely fuck you over and leave you an emotional wreck. If you have a significant other at college and you're back in town, you both have to believe that your connection is strong enough to withstand temptation. Without faith, there is no trust. Without trust, well, you have nothing. Except maybe good sex. That is not depended on faith. Waking up the next day and seeing the results of "no, really, I don't have crabs" is all about faith, however.

Governments are run based off of our willingness to put someone in charge who will make the proper decisions when needed. Hell, to elect a president we put faith behind the electoral to put their one Presidential Point to who we all vote for on a state level. On a second note, that's not faith. That's idiocy. Who the fuck came up with that idea? Has anyone seen an electoral voter? Do they have to register for that like the rest of us? What if he's just a douche and always votes against the state, if only to show off his prick powers. We're an actual government people, and our votes literally mean not a thing in the grand scheme of things. Why hasn't anyone thought this through? Fuck faith based voting.

The point is that a lot of times things might not swing your way. There are moments in your life when things just fall apart, and there isn't enough crazy glue to miraculously piece it all back together. We wallow in our self-pity, we feel sorry for ourselves, and we lament what we lost (or what we didn't realize we had). What keeps us going? For some, nothing can pull them out of the rut. But what about the vast majority? We are built to believe in something better for ourselves. Be it a better grade, a new love, or coping with the loss of a loved one. Genetically, we are inclined to believe in a positive; it is our greatest survival mechanism.

There have been times this summer where I have sat alone in my room listening to Coldplay. I get miserable, lonely, depressed. I think about what was, what never was, what could have been, and what never will be. I lament impossibilities. There is a great skill that I possess to really kick myself when I'm down. There are times where you find out your ex might be seeing someone else while you and your male friend scour the mall for a soccer videogame where you just feel at your most pathetic. When all is said and done, I am sitting here expecting something better. For all the hurt (big and small), all of the "what ifs?" and the put downs I put upon myself, I'm still standing. More so, I know things will get even better, cause shit, they're pretty good right now.

I don't know. I'm just faithful, I guess.