It's ON!

You are luck to be alive blog readers because this movie is coming to theaters July 25, 2008.



OH FUCK YES! It is the X-Files: I Want to Believe trailer! The long awaited X-Files sequel's trailer not shot on a cell phone camera!

Wow, am I excited. I just need to live until Transformers 2 comes out in 2009 and then I can die a happy man. Unless they get the ball rolling on a Green Lantern movie sometime in the next twenty years. I need to keep drinking my green tea and jogging if I am going to make it to that one!

I can wax on and on about X-Files. It is the only show where I ever wanted to lash out against so-called "n00bs," and some of those You Tube comments just drove me bat-shit up the wall frustrated. You kids should really watch the whole series until posting up crazy assumptions that will spread on the Internet.

Krycek is dead, folks! At least we should hope so because he is evil incarnate. Didn't you watch the scene where Skinner shoots him through head? It was a religious experience, purgative and exhilarating! We already know the "Truth," just watch the final episode. It tells you everything and, plus, has Adam Baldwin in it, the hero of Canton! It is sad that the Lone Gunmen will not be in it (We are to believe since they died in the regular season), but they died American patriots. You want them to still be plugging away at their basement in northern Virginia and selling all their spy gear to save the struggling paper!?!?!

We already knew that the sequel would be a "Monster of the Week" episode since last year. This is a wonderful thing because Monster of the Week episodes are often overlooked by the neophytes. Your never got your significant other to watch X-Files until you showed them the Flukeman episode from Season 2. Or creeped them out with the Peacocks in Season 4. Leonard the murderous conjoined twin and Big Blue in Georgia! Oh, poor Scully's dog, Queequeg. The first movie attracted non-viewers and fan boys alike with an accessible and engaging script. This is an even wider door open and while the "n00bs" might bug me now, they all become fans and we sure need more of those!

Please mark your calendars for July 25, 2008. Call in sick, leave the dog some extra food in his dish, and try to pass the movie off as an educational home-schooled field trip to your kid's principal! HOORAY FOR X-FILES!!!!

Peace!

Lazy, Hazy Days of Blogging Summer

I hope everyone had a great Memorial Day weekend and that you are ready for summer! It really is the best season.

In homage of my blog post title, here is a little something from the archives. OK, so I am lazy and did not have any err... jokes for you today. Once again, I am conflicted about what to blog about and how to stay consistent with whatever I choose. There are many wonderful blogs and sites out there already that offer sharp observational humor. I feel much more comfortable with pieces about the mad subtleties of Arthur, but probably because I read blogs with similar posts. Whatever did happen to book devouring Garik? I have only read 10 books this year. JESUS! In my defense, I now have subscriptions to The New Yorker, Harpers, and our local paper. I try to read these first because those New Yorkers come to the mail box as fast as they can print them. The New Yorker people must have material queued up for decades. Has John Updike ever taken a break? Chill out, Mr. Updike! The magazine has enough people screaming to have them take a glance at their short story or cartoon without your fine craftsmanship always eating up those pages!

So, I am still reading, but not just too many books.

Great writer are also great readers. I should get back to some serious reading.

Until something really fresh comes along, please enjoy this piece from back in my college days. In my science fiction/fantasy course, our end of the semester project was to put together a book proposal. We had each written several short stories and the hope was to unify them under one banner.

I entitled my proposal, "Town on the Event Horizon," and said that all my stories would take place in one town where strange things happened. And each of the stories would refer to one another. The protagonist from this one story has a coffee at at the cafe where most of the action of this other story takes place. It is Winesburg, Ohio meets Erie, Indiana!

I only had three full pieces written, along with some ideas and sketches for future ones. In my proposal, I had everything connected, but it is a cinch to write proposals. And fun to draw lines between the stories! It is like the play place mats at Denny's!

One of the stories had to be novella length. Unless we had a whole novella ready to go, we could submit a first chapter. Well, here it is. The main character can read peoples minds, but she cannot seem to control the ability. Imagine a radio that is always on and you can get a grasp on the phenomenon. Come to think of it, I use that analogy in the story!

_________________________________________________

Like an Open Book (excerpt)

By Garik Charneco

Last night, around 1:45am, right after I finished American Psycho and wondered exactly why Patrick Bateman did it, I read these three drunken students on the street. They came down the street and stopped to fumble for some smokes right in front of my place. In the lazy half-sleep of just going to bed, my mind sensed fresh thoughts and pounced. I can’t turn off my ability so I spent thirty minutes reading their minds while they sat on the stoop of my apartment complex—smoking.

Maia told herself that this would be her last cigarette tonight and that tomorrow she’d quit. She would do it for Nana. This Maia girl was the nicest of the group—the least drunk and quiet. She took drag after drag, reassuring herself. I hate when people repeat themselves.

Nikki tried counting how many drinks she had that night. There was the three they had back in Rishel, just as pre-game. Then the two tequila shots at the house party and one swig of whiskey from Jared’s hip flask. She struggled with the directions to the after party, wondering whether it was 249 Stark Road or 111 Oris Place. She was always mixing them up. Must be a freshmen, those streets are next to each other.

Jared nursed his hip flask, taking long, hot draughts of whiskey. His thoughts came in hard and rough. A burst of poetry from his seminar here and an image of Maia in her underwear there. He was the easiest to hold onto and almost entertaining, a mental collage of colors, words, and skin.

They finished their cigarettes and Nikki thought about whom to call for a ride. Maia flicked her cigarette into the gutter, stamped it out and focused through her beer buzz for Nana. That always bites back when people try to think clearly and free their minds. It is the psychic equivalent of staring at the sun. Jared screwed the top back onto his hip flask, debating whether to masturbate to Nikki or Maia at the end of the night.

The three of them walked down the street, striking up a conversation. Then it became the standard fare. Action and reaction. The period of “what should I say?” and “uh huh.” I followed them far, something I hadn’t done since high school, sensing the satisfaction of not having to walk to the party and the uncomfortable camaraderie of six people in a four person car. I followed their minds till they were just wisps in my head, squeaky voices and weak thoughts. I should have read a book or something instead, tried to lose them against a backdrop of words, but I went with them and now I feel tired. I went to bed at 2:30 am.

* * *

The clock at the Broken Quill reads 8:57 am. Three minutes later the owner, Mr. Savona, unlocks the front door. I am sitting at the front register, uncurling orange and white rolls of quarters into the tray. Mr. Savona turns and looks at me, giving me a succinct smile even though he wonders whether he’ll catch me reading the books. Mr. Savona lets all his employees read when at the desk but I tend to ignore customers, burying myself in books with characters whose minds are silent. There is this new collection of poetry by this guy out of the city named Calixto that we aren’t even allowed to display yet. The shipment got in yesterday, when I was punching out, but I sensed Mr. Savona hope dreadlock girl did not get to them. I’ll hide it inside a magazine and read it in the morning lull. Mr. Savona walks past the register and thinks that the novelty gifts—The Make Your Own Bonsai Kits and Home Made Voodoo Dolls—are unorganized. There is one pocket dictionary where the magnetic poetry stands, but nothing heavy. I tell Mr. Savona that I will clean up the desk and when he asks how I knew I say, “Initiative, I guess.”

* * *

This child-choked mother stands at the register, a stack of pop up books in front of her. I ring up the books; one on dinosaurs, another on Australian animals and the last on backyard birds, while her two kids claw at her legs. The mother, Debbie, worries whether the kids will actually read these books. She wonders whether they should just be playing outside or maybe in one of those after school clinics like Joanna’s (her sister’s) kids. I pull out a bag, slide the books in, and say, “It is great that they are starting to read so early.” She is mollified for a second and smiles, content that someone else agrees with her and that her sister isn’t always the best. Debbie says, “Oh, you’re so right. Can never start too early. Do you have any suggestions?”

From the tone of her voice, the soft fake edge and hint of nasal intonation I can tell she isn’t interested. This is idle chit-chat; the kind of stuff that everyone tries to make with the cashier while waiting for their change. I look at her kid, the boy, and catch his name: Alex. Then I read a little deeper into Alex’s head and pick up laser firing robots, juices boxes, and big trees to climb. His entire mind feels fast and saccharine, the kind of thing that if cast on a screen gives people epilepsy. His mind is superficial but not shallow enough that I can pick it apart. I only read what is on the surface, what he thinks about at the moment. I hand Debbie the bag. “No not really. Just whatever they like. As long as they read.”

She snatches the bag, slides her handle through the loop and carries the weight on her wrist. She says thanks, but thinks, Some help. Stupid kidt.

I watch her wrangle the two kids together; Alex, who debates whether King Kong could beat The Incredible Hulk, and the other kid, the girl, who is too young to even know her own name. No wonder I read only two heads. Debbie opens the door and the rusted brass bell above the clatters, announcing their departure.

The sound of the bell still rings in my head and it feels kind of good. For a brief few seconds I don’t pick up anything. During that time, I’m an unplugged radio—all potential, but no product. Then the bell stops and my mind lingers, ready to pick up the next customer or passerby the just happens to think too hard. Debbie is still on my mind and I can read her as she fumbles for the keys to her car. I’m not some stupid student. I tried the whole college thing for a while, but it got hideously boring. I knew what all the teachers wanted to hear. Even an open-ended question like “What did you think the author is trying to do in this piece?” was pointless. I dropped out and started working full time at the Broken Quill afterwards. When an old teacher comes into the store and sees that I dropped out they are honestly sad and think What a loss of potential.

I honestly don’t mind the bookstore. I get to read for free and I can’t mind read a character in a book. If Don Quixote trots into the store right now I couldn’t tell why he tilts at windmills, but this kid over by the poetry section I am all over.

He has a big tuft of curly brown hair that comes over his eyes. He is emaciated and looks like an urban refugee, dressed in all black, gray, shoeless moon boots and three chains running from his wait into his back pocket. I squint, focus on his thoughts, and pick up his name. So, Eric what are you thinking about?

Eric curls around a column and balances a thick anthology of 19^th century Romantic poetry in one hand and a crumpled pocket notebook in another. Eric nests the notebook inside the book and whips out a pen. He scribbles away, taking glances at me with every line. He tries to be furtive about all this, taking breaks to scan the room pretending that he is just looking around when he debates a metaphor. This what he writes…

Broken Quill

DNA double helix hair

Shimmer starburst beads

Play in twisted follicles

How did you get that piercing?

On your nose

Didn’t your mother disapprove?

Of that iridescence across your face

Speckled green eyes like

Margarita jelly beans

Razor sharp features

No need for curves

Book store muse

What do you want to read?

I try hard not to laugh. I got some interest in the book from him, but it is camouflage more than anything. I have never been anyone’s muse and I throw Eric a tiny smile, flashing those “razor-sharp” features he likes. He sees me and tries to hide his surprise. He reminds himself to act cool as he slides, out of order, the book back onto the shelf. I single out one of my dreads—one with an orange and cream colored swirl bead—and twirl it in between my thumb and index finger. I chew at one the end of it, while I arch my back against the chair. He forgets about the metaphors and fails to keep cool. He shoves the notebook back into his pocket and walks to the door. He hangs around in front of the register, pretending to read the cover of the magazines Mr. Savona keeps next to the register. He wonders about my name and I lean forward, putting my hands under my chin and letting my hair drape over my eyes. I smile at him again even though all he can think about right now is looking down my shirt. Eric’s eyes dart from the magazines to me and to the door. I pull up and flip through the Calixto poems. Eric thinks Fuck it. Then the hackneyed, Nobody likes me. He looks away from the magazines and shuffled to the front door, defeated and loathing. I sense his final thought coming—smashing through sad little neurons and breaking the surface of his active memory. I want to kill myself.

I laugh because I know he isn’t. He finds suicide appealing but he thinks about it with apprehension and dramatic flare. He looks back at me, his mind snapped to attention and running through a list of possibilities. She has such a sweet laugh. Oh God, what is your name? Was that for me?

Eric opens his eyes and he tries to cut into me, see my soul as he puts it. He stands there at the door under the purple dream catcher Mr. Savona hung up, thinking that he can somehow turn me with just his pale paper bag brown eyes. I blow at the hair in front of my face, so one my tiny dreads swings back up and then I smile, not at him but at the book. He finally gets the message and decides to leave. He thinks I am a bitch that played with his heart. He starts to think about this biting sonnet he is going to write when he gets back to his dorm. Something really harsh in Italian, no Spencerian format that will show them. He thinks about me reading it and then crying at the heartless bitch I was. He imagines me hitting the floor, sobbing, and begging for him to take me back. I say some sappy lines. Stuff like, “I never understood you, baby!” and “Your poetry is too hard for me to understand, but I still love you!” and “I want your cock!”

Still chuckling, I watch Eric leave the store from the reflection on the lacquered counter and with my own minds. I keep reading the book of Calixto poems, happy to experience some real poetry and wonder exactly who the speaker is in this one he entitled “Bruised Apple.” The apple itself or the kid refusing to eat it? I start to lose Eric. He thinks about crossing the street, then about food, how much money he has and then me. But I am reading and his thoughts get fuzzy. He gets farther down the street and I get farther into the poem. I forget how tired I feel and clear my mind till I achieve psychic white noise.

* * *

The rest of the day is uneventful. No more Eric’s thinking about how they want me to suffer in un-publishable poems. Marissa from the rear register decides to cover my post for a bit while I get us coffee. The coffee maker broke. No one wants to admit who did it, but I read Xander at the last store meeting and sensed his guilt over hitting the thing too hard when the water wouldn’t come out of the reservoir. Mr. Savona says he is going to get a new one, but he really thinks we don’t deserve it. Let them bring their own coffee. They won’t waste time at the maker anymore, he though at the meeting as he pretended to write down suggestions for the new maker in a paper pad.

At the coffee shop, I try hard to block out everyone’s thoughts, but the shop is busy. The speakers in the ceiling play a moaning choral music that doesn’t make for a good focus. Surrounded by people I pick up bits and pieces. Someone worries about a deadline over by the napkins. Over by the message board another individual puzzles over what exactly zydeco jam music is? I focus on the lady behind the counter, a big Hispanic woman with greasy curly hair and overalls stained with coffee grounds. She feels angry and thinks about some guy named Roger and how he ruined her business. Her thoughts come in a mix of English and Spanish. Maybe an old boyfriend, I guess, not wanting to pick too deep. I just want the coffee and I put in the order for two tall lattes. I hand her our mugs and she reminds herself to punch in the discount. She goes on to make the coffee and I enjoy the sweet hiss of the coffee machine as it warms milk and water.

No one is behind me, so while she makes the coffee I turn and lean against the register. My mind, stuck on ‘scan’ right now, takes in the entire scene and I hear a few more thoughts. Upstairs there is a paper that needs to be finished. By the bathroom door this one guy thinks, Way too much coffee! There are some sad thoughts—stuff like Should I tell her about that girl last night? and This coffee is going to be my only food today. I swear. Sometimes I get something that feels honestly interesting—when someone wonders about a character’s motivation in a book they are reading or when they gaze at a pamphlet on permaculture farming, wondering how they can help. Then there is the inane—thoughts wasted by over use, thoughts like: Gee, wonder what I want?, Where did I put that extra penny?, That girl looks hot, That guy looks cute, Where did I put my wallet, Weather sure is nice, What a great day, What a crappy day.

I wish the lady gets the coffee made, so I can leave. The coffee shop starts to hurt my head—all the quick thoughts machine-gunning into my head. The whole experience feels like when someone sits on a remote control and the channels on the TV just blur past. Except with me; its ideas, rants, worries, and opinions, and no one gets up to stop it. I sense the Hispanic lady think all done and I turn around to grab the coffee, but I see the reflection in the tip jar. Right under the hand drawn purple and green note that says “Karma Collector” I see him. I didn’t sense this guy. I didn’t feel anything coming from his direction and he is only ten feet away, cradling a steaming cup of oil-slick brown coffee. The Hispanic lady tells me that my coffee is up and I hear her, but I keep my eyes on the man. I fumble for the mugs on the counter and tip some hot latte foam onto my fingers. Wincing, I pull the cups away and hold them against my stomach. I let my tank top soak up the coffee dripping on my hand while I keep looking at this guy. Where did he come from and why don’t I pick up anything from him? What is he doing in the Blue Iris coffee shop just standing in the corner next to a stack of soda can flats? Right now, my mind is entirely blank, just like when I get really into a book or a song. I blink and sway my head around, trying to get something on this guy, but there is nothing. I must still be tired. Some caffeine will do me good and sort this guy out. I lift my cup to my lip and feel a pact of moisture against my stomach. I look down at see a brown splotch at the bottom of my tank—my white tank top, so it looks like some old wound opened up under the cotton. I mutter under my breath and the lady behind the counter thinks Pendeja gringa, whatever that means. My watch says 1:30, so I am late. I hunch over and shuffle out of the Blue Iris trying to ignore the lady behind the counter but she rings inside my head thinking out curses in Spanish.

Back at the Broken Quill, I arrive late, having taken all the quiet alleys and side streets. Marissa’s eyes widen when I walk through the door and I hear her think, Finally! What took you so long? She perks her shoulders and slides the copy of Utne reader off the counter and into the cubbyhole under the register. “Long line or something?” She puts an elbow on the counter and flicks her wrist, so her fingertips reach for me. I hand her the mug and half-smile, feeling actually awkward, as I pry into her head. She is wondering whether there really was a long line and where I got that ugly brown stain on my tank from. She takes a sip from the coffee and is surprised to feel heat still in it. Must be the weather that kept it hot. The radio did say 84 degrees today.

I must look stupid standing at the head of the store with a brown splotch on my stomach and staring at Marissa, who idly sips coffee while playing with the register’s change tray. Marissa’s thoughts bore me. Nothing special, but I still got it. I can still hear her thoughts and comb her short term memory for mental tidbits. That guy in Blue Iris must have been a fluke. I was tired from last night and caffeine deprived from Mr. Savona’s policy. It was loud in the coffee shop, both physically and mentally, so he just slipped past me. It happens and part of my head tells me I should be happy because his presence gave me nothing.

Marissa thinks, Woah. What is that? I circle around the counter and climb up onto the little island in the middle of the bookstore. She forms the question in her head, but I answer before her lips even move.

“I bumped into someone as I left Blue Iris. Spilt a good part of my coffee on myself.” Marissa goes blank, thinking Woah and Umm. I grab the coat I wore over here this morning off the back of the chair and throw it over myself. “It is nothing severe.”

“Oh ok, I’m sorry, but how did you know I was going to ask that before I did?” Starting to feel anxious, she awaits my answer.

“I saw it in your eyes. Just the way you glanced at me when I walked through the door. Besides, it is a pretty huge stain.” I zip up my coat up to the top of my stomach. “Nothing really discrete about it.”

I guess, she thinks feeling satisfied. “Were did you learn that whole face reading thing anyway?”

Motioning around us I tell her, “Read it in a book.” It’s an old joke but she feigns laughter.

“Ok, well do you want me to stay here while you go back home and change or something. You’re here for like another 4 hours, right?”

Marissa is sincere when she says that, but I can also sense how worried she is about Mr. Savona coming back and finding only one register open and two employees. I doubt he will come back. I heard him think It is too nice to stay in here all day and Better go work on the boat while the weather is nice before lunch. I could go back home, but I can only read minds, not the future. I tell Marissa, “I think I’ll live.” She gets out of the chair and feels relieved that I didn’t take her up on the offer. I can’t get another demerit or talking to. She can deal with it. You got to stop being so nice.

I watch her walk away from the desk and take the bend at the travel section. I hope she doesn’t stop being too nice; she’s an easy read.

* * *

At 5:45pm, I am alone in the store. Marissa left at 3:30 and Mr. Savona never returned. I start to close the store; flipping off light switches and re-shelving loose books people leave in the wrong sections. Poetry with poetry, history with history, and humor with humor. I only do the really noticeable ones; like having Crime and Punishment sandwiched in between Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover’s Soul and Yes, You Can! I take a copy of Invisible Monsters someone left next to Greatest Military Blunders and head towards fiction. I take the bend at travel and I hit a wall of flesh. I drop the book and the tip of the spine hits my big toe; it’s a hardcover and I’m wearing sandals. Curling my toes into rubber sole and biting my lip, I look at whoever I hit and it is him. The same guy from the Blue Iris.

He has a lot on him, but he carries the fat well like if his eyes were meant to sink into two pudgy sinkholes. From the crinkles under his eyes I can tell he is old but he still sports a tuft of gray and black hair under a cap. His skin looks permanently tanned a deep toasty brow, a color I have only seen on pictures of people from islands in the South Pacific. He has no coffee but instead carries a plastic bag from the supermarket, filled with odd polygonal black shapes. Our crash didn’t seem to faze him and he chuckles while I wince. The laughter sounds neutral and hearty, but I don’t know where it’s coming from.

I pick Invisible Monsters off the floor. “Sorry. Um, we are closing in like ten minutes. Is there something I can help you with?” It is the first time I ever ask the question without knowing the answer. Without knowing what section to point to or if we have the book in stock. I only have my thoughts and I wonder how Marissa or the other employees handle customers. The questions are pilling up in my head and I have no way to answer them, except by waiting. He laughs again and I think if people always take this long to answer questions. Is he being rude or should I just give him another second?

He points at me with his bag. “I’m sorry if I surprised you. I just came in here to get a little break from the heat and must have lost track of the time. Afraid I don’t read very much.” All his words come out very slow and long like he is spelling everything out nice and clear. I stare at him, wondering what Marissa, Xander, or Mr. Savoan would do. I remember all the store meetings where Mr. Savona would talk about customer relations and wish I paid attention. He takes the initiative and speaks again. “But since I have troubled you and your store I will buy something.” He looks at the shelves, tilts back a burgundy cap that reads “Xavier Brick Works”, and scratches his head. “You know what I have always liked?”

Normally, I would know but this guy isn’t some fluke; he is a freak. I’m left to guess and I have never guessed with people. I shrug my shoulders and let my hair fall forward so he can’t see how red my face is. “I don’t know. That is up to you.” It is a lame answer and anyone else would have thought up something better, something clever.

“Well that is true.” I shuffled over to the side and points at the science fiction section. “I always loved those space stories. And the really campy ones, I mean. The ones with blue aliens, laser axes, and planets that eat spaceships. You have any of those?”

“Sure.” I motion to a bottom shelf and point out some trade paperbacks in bright neons, smooth pastels, and stylized covers. The art on the covers is better than the books, but it seems to fit the bill. He looks over the books—stuff with titles like Starburst Surprise, Bounty Hunters of Terra Nova, and At the End of the Eclipse. His bag is on the floor and I try to look into it. I make out some sharp lines, angles, and a lot of black. I need an excuse to peer in there. Drop the book again? Trip over him again?

He chooses a book, the bounty hunters one, and grabs the plastic bag. “I think this one will do.” He turns on his feet and walks right by me. I stand next to the shelves and see him take the bend to the front register. “You coming?” I hear the plastic bag crinkle with each of his steps.

I pull at my hair and tuck it behind my shoulders. Following him, I rub my eyes, trying to coerce some read from this guy. At the register I don’t focus on the beep of the keys or ring of change. I keep staring at this guy focusing my eyes on his pudgy ham of a face. The book is $10.15 with tax and I wish he pulls a credit card out of a pocket or that bag—something with a name on it, so I know who he is. But he pays in cash and with exact change.

“I don’t need a bag,” he lifts up his arm and shows me the crinkly plastic hanging from his wrist. “I got my own.”

I tuck the receipt into the book and tell him, “Thanks. Have a good night.”

Bag man says the same, but with a tip of the Xavier Brothers cap. I have never heard of any place like that in town, but I spend the rest of the night pouring over the phonebook. I try Xavier Brothers, then bricks, then masonry, then masons, but nothing. He doesn’t seem from out of town, but the hat must and I close the phone book. I tuck it under the counter and look at my watch—6:35pm. After closing the door and spending 35 minutes of unpaid overtime, I gaze around the street looking for him. There is a pair of parked cars and a jogger that thinks I feel so alive! Bag man isn’t around. I don’t hear the crunch of his plastic bag and I give up on sensing him.

* * *

Next day, I wake up having dreamt of Bag Man. In the dream, he came into the store and left his bag on the counter. I looked into it and saw a burst of light come from the crinkles and folds in the plastic. Then I woke up, a full hour before my alarm. I dress for work slowly, always thinking of Bag Man and still trying to remain collected, like if he were there, staring at me, looking for some sort of reaction to his unreadable state of mind. Outside the leaves on trees hang limp and the most common thought I pick up while walking to work is So hot! At the Broken Quill, Mr. Savona blasts the air conditioning and we have a dozen people loitering in the cool halls, escaping from the heat like Bag Man last night. Xander, the coffee maker breaker, stands at the register and rings up a beaded bookmark this lady is buying because she feels bad that she came in here just to dodge the heat. But it is so hot out there! This will make due.

__________________________________________

Any people from Ithaca might note the similarities to local stores or situations. Or maybe not. All my stories have a decent touch of self-awareness in them, particularly this one. Everything happens too neatly and too well explained. How you exactly "show" and "not tell" is still beyond my grasp.

I had several ideas of where to go with the Bag Man. One would be that he is somewhat mentally disabled. Autism was one specific idea. That would be hard to pull off without cowtowing to disability stereotypes. Another is that he suffered a head injury at the brick works. But that sounds too much like a Daffy Duck routine. I had a change set up for the main character, which is critical to fiction. The narrator, previously annoyed with her power (Who is not named in this excerpt, but in my proposal was called Emily), now needs to find out why the do not work on this man. Her whole life is suddenly thrown off kilter. The idea with Emily was that she had this power since birth. Imagine losing an entire sense or nervous reflex. How it would excactly end is always my big question.

Peace!

More Cartoons

If you did not get it from the previous post, I still watch cartoons. In secret and alone, you see. Well, until I tell everyone about it on the blog, but I am relying on the time and media cushion divide in these posts.

Unfortunately, our current TV line up does not feature as many awesome cartoons as I was used to. "

Hey, it is 5 in the afternoon! Where is Toonami? Saturday nights!? No fair! I actually do stuff on Saturday nights now! I have a fiancee! And a local sports team to root for!"

With much less awesome things to watch, I am forced to learn how to read all over again with the line-up on PBS. Previous to recent weeks, my only exposure to PBS was Where in the World is Carmen San Diego? Unlike the commercial network affiliates, Puerto Rico did have both national PBS stations and homegrown ones as well. The national ones were weird with English language broadcasts of Nova and the kids show, but then Spanish language local shows. I guess there is some wacky whimsy in all of that. You capture Carmen San Diego in the North America map and then learn how to make tostones! Still, my exposure to PBS was limited.

Actually, that is one of the minor culture shocks I ever experienced in moving to the U.S. mainland. PBS and all other public broadcasting play a huge role in American culture. Even immersed in commercial broadcasts, we recognized public touchstones. Embarrassingly enough, the first time I ever heard of Frontline was during the classic David Chappelle "Black White Supremacist" sketch from his TV show. Hey, I was raised by cable TV. It is a true status symbol in PR and I used to dread going to my grandmother's house because she only had local TV! The Simpsons and Fresh Prince of Bel Air dubbed into Spanish! And the kind of Spanish they speak in Spain! Castillian*! What the hell does vosotros mean!? Hee hee, bicho means penis Homer, not insect.

I am watching PBS from now on and one kids show is particularly wacky and wonderful to blog away...

Go ahead, judge me!

I first discovered Arthur in an episode where he decides to watch the popular kiddie show Love Ducks over the Batman-inspired Dark Bunny show. Art really does imitate life! Or at least my fall asleep on the couch at 1:30 PM and make yourself a sandwich just in time for kids show kind of life. I did tell you it was OK to judge me, right? I take that back.

Today's was particularly mind-bending. Remember that this is a fictional city full of anthropomorphized animals. Keep that in mind when everyone seems just a bit too excited that the second (Better watch out KFC. Two of 'em!) location of the Lickin' Chickin' fast food joint coming to town. Do aardvarks, monkeys, rabbits, and moose eat chicken? The kids need PBS to help them learn to read, but the food chain and basic biology, well we better hope the kids find a dead millipede on the playground asphalt and that those ants come a coming. Or that there moms tell them where Happy Meals really come from!

Of course, Elmwood City can't have its improved sales tax parcel and keep the kids happy. The new location will be right over the beloved Sugar Bowl restaurant where all the kids gather for ice cream and sodas. Do third graders really spend that much time hanging out at local establishments. When I was in the third grade, I didn't have enough money fill a jar of instant coffee much less buy those monster sundaes.

Bu the kids are wish to them chicken folks. They know that corporate chains often promised increased tax revenues, more jobs, and better markets, but then move out to the other friggin municipality once your assessments go up or the school district needs to be bailed out! Or that there strict zero tolerance policies on minor crimes like loitering or petty theft burden the already over-worked police force! Oh, and that the kids will really miss their ice cream.

Anyway, one of the kids learn from her diplomat parents (So I am guessing Elmwood City is close to the Arthur equivalent of NYC, DC, or LA, right?) that she should try something like a letter writing campaign or a protest.

So, Sue Ellen, who I guess is some sort of 2-D Muppet enlists the help of the local kids to make a difference. "5-6-7-8, keep your chicken off our plates!," goes the second half of their chant. The kids do pretty well getting ready. The last time I went to a protest, we had a hard time getting 19-year old college kids to get up for a 7am bus to DC. Buster Bunny does mess up a sign when he writes "Safe the Sugar Bowl," which Sue Ellen quickly corrects in Arthur-world Sharpie (A Pointy?). Isn't this show about reading? Way to go Buster!

The Anarchist Cookbook! With illustrations by Richard Scarry!

I am no Arthur-pro, but I have to admire its sense of self-awareness and tongue-in-cheek attitude. They have a Sopranos knockoff called the Altos and Arthur gets to run the "bleep" machine! If there is anything else you could want from a kid's show then it must not be legal.

With that said, the protest does not go too well. The rich girl, Muffy, tries to sway Sue Ellen to not protesting and letting her father set-up a rival taco franchise in the space. Muffy even tries to bribe her! "Oh, look what someone left behind [on the floor of her limo]! A Brand New Polly Princess Pocket watch!" Or, "Want to go around the block in my limo. It is so comfy and toasty here with some hot chocolate!"

Pretty sneaky, Muffy. But Sue Ellen doesn't bite because she realizes that she should wait for the hard cas...err...I mean she is the heroine and teaching the kids a lesson. No candy bars and plastic trinkets can stop her!

And there are only about five kids at the protest. Every animal in Elmwood City seems set on feasting on the fried flesh of fellow animals. It reminds of that Pizza Hut commercial where Ms. Piggy eats a sausage pizza. Hey, kids! Ever hear of the ouroboros! Wait, don't run! There is more Arthur to talk about! Maybe a bit too much Arthur. Hmm, I would go cry in my car if I had a car. And I just sold my bicycle on Craigslist! WAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

By the end of the episode it looks like the Sugar Bowl will close. However, it is saved when GASP, the local citizenry begins to support it again! The same phenomenon happened in Ithaca with a great local bookstore. People racked up purchases on Amazon and the Barnes and Nobles on Route 13 and did not frequent the local place. When it announced a going out of business sales everyone and everything from dark energy to Dick Cheney was blamed. The store drummed up some sales and continues today and, hopefully, into the future.

I will keep this all in mind when donating to the local PBS station.

Peace!

*Hey, Spain. Hey ,Spain! Spanish and Castillian ARE THE SAME THING!!!!!

Mobius Strip

Have you been enjoying the frequent blog posts? Well, great! You can thank all the time I have had on my hands as of late*. And what better way then blogging away and digging through the archives of YouTube.

Of lately, I have lost myself in a time warp back to the mid 1990's. Those YouTube lawyers might have scoured the airwaves for anything Viacom, but the wealth of entire TV episodes speaks to the power of nostalgia and sheer ingenuity.

Entire episodes of Swat KATS, Batman Beyond, VR Troopers, Gundam Wing, Samurai Pizza Cats, Wing Commander Academy, and Tattooed Teenage Alien Fighters from Beverly Hills!

There is something odd and infinite about watching these shows again as an adult. So many hours spent watching them at home and, now, entire afternoons lost to the digital video channels. Of course, I should probably go play outside because, back then, it would do a boy well and, now, it would lessen my fat ass. There is also a bit of justice, scales falling from my eyes and what not.

Some of these shows were absolutely crazy. Pizza Cats was particularly insane, the kind of stuff they probably play at Guatanamo Bay to break enemy combatants. Did you see that intro? There are anime purists out there that think that is tame. They wear their armor all the time, get shot out of a revolver cannon on top of a pagoda pizza place, and one fights with an umbrella. The main villain has a banana for a nose!
It was aired on WPIX, which is now a CW affiliate in New York City. Being Puerto Rico, we had not network affiliates so your cable provider would choose whatever it wanted. We mostly had NYC stations, but by the time I hit puberty, our ABC affiliate came out of Nashville. It did not matter much to me then since we still had all those cartoons.

Sticking with the cat team, I was pleased to see how well Swat KATS held up. That was my 60's Batman. They had a missile for everything and the fighter jet spat out more cat themed things than Noah's Ark. Octopus missiles! Mole Missiles! Drill Bits Missiles! Shark Repellent Missi...err...well we never saw that one, but I am sure that Razor and T-Bone had it. When I turn on the TV today, Saturday morning seems dominated by horrible anime imports. Back when I was a kid, the anime dubs seemed counterbalanced by a fine crop of American animation like SWAT Kats or Tiny Toons. Now it feels like it is the mold and kids are shocked to see something that has normal sized-eyes and none of those weird sweat drop effects. I mean, we had three Sonic the Hedgehog cartoons and the only spikey hair was on the damn hedgehog! Like with the new Transformers cartoon, I realize that styles change and animators want to go in a new direction, but why should kids only know one cartoon style? We are sending the message that if something is anime and/or from Japan, then it must be good. That is ridiculous. We know that not all movies are great just because we saw Citizen Kane. All those great works of literature cannot defend Wild Animus. And Princess Mononoke cannot defend Hentai, Tentacle Rape, or One Piece!

Wow, I watch a lot of cartoons. STILL! No wonder I can't write a decent short story. My mind is set for...HORRIBLE FAN FICTION! Stop laughing at me! Just like when I was a kid! CURSE YOU CARTOON COSMIC ELEGANCE!

If you are of my same persuasion and want some serious "Oh, Hell Yeah" moments...check these out.

Peace!

*Ok, so I am in between jobs. But, you like the blog posts, eh?

Run Time

I took a jog the other day. The first one in my entire life. I always feel like watching me "work out" has to be hilarious. Recently, I had the chance to play with a puppy that had yet to grow into its legs. She was a Bernese Mountain Dog, a huge breed with bear like paws. She ran in a broken half-step best described as a stumble-gallop. At certain points she did not move her joints, but instead quickly thrashed across the carpet, swaying her hips and moving her static legs. That should give you an idea of me running.

Of course, I did not run the entire two miles. I jogged for a three minutes and then looked around to see if there was no one around me. When all clear I would simply walk. Sometimes I tried to be clever about it. Pretending my cell phone was ringing or the MP3 player was acting up. "Stupid machine! Now my heart rate will go down. Oh, better ease into the next sprint."

I just realized that I don't necessarily have the discipline to write a full blown short story. Oh, I can write up some asides and vignettes, but it is damn hard to create characters. Good characters. If anyone here has noticed a push towards more non-fiction and notes of journalism, then they are all on purpose. I mention this little confession because I also lack the discipline to jog. Exercising au natural requires the need to keep a constant beat. I shouldn't need a particular good riff during a song to keep me going. There are only so many times one man can hear "Highway To The Danger Zone."

I can only blame myself, but my jog proved much "higher impact" than anything I had done in a gym. The following day my entire body felt like hell. After my initial jog, I also tried my hand at small engine repair and lifted up a hundred pound outboard motor for a two-hour tinkering session. That is a whole other post, but, seriously, I was beat. Sore muscles are the worse feeling. That feeling of "Hey, I just worked out! Hooray for my heart!" feeling last until you take a shower, which hopefully is really soon after you are done running. But sore muscles last for about three days. Legs seem to buckle under you and thighs become coiled ropes, taut and stressed like dock ropes pulled too far. My ropey arms should not have these many aches and my chest seems to pull up and into itself. As a struggling writer, I realize that cliches like "hurt in places that you did not even know existed" are weak. There seems to be cosmic justice when you realize there is not better way to describe what you are feeling.

I think I will stick to the indoor gym. Of course, at this point I am not in the situation to pay for a gym membership, even at the local YMCA. That damn song mislead me. I'll try something here in the apartment. I wonder how thick the downstairs ceiling are and whether the neighbors own a gun...

Peace!

Bird of Prey

I always hesitate to put up some simple picture and quickly comment on it. Sure, I have done it before, but I liked that as much as I liked not posting.

However, I am not made of stone and this is fucking awesome...

That is Swiss pilot Yves Rossy flying a JET POWERED, BACK PACKED, SET OF WINGS over the Swiss Alps. Many, many, many decades since The Day The Earth Stood Still, since we boldly went where no man went before, and since we walked without rhythm it is about time we got a working jet pack! Now we just need those hyperdrives and wrist rockets.


While it has always been humanity's dream to fly, I can't help but see how life catches up to art. Or pop-art depending on how you consider those old comics where a disgruntled inventor turns that suit of armor he was developing for peace (Seriously? Were those spinning saw blades supposed to scythe stalks of rice?) into a killing machine. The Marvel universe is full of such maniacs. Except, Yves will certainly use his machine for good. Like flying over the English Channel or, ultimately, through the Grand Canyon*.

Imagine flying through the red rock formations of the Grand Canyon. The green-blue waters of the Colorado River dampen your flight suit as you start at Le Poudre Pass Lake and then you start to scare canoers all through eastern Colorado, Utah, and Arizona. You get close to the Gulf of California, but by then the whole river has gone dry and the only sign of its water is the vineyard leaves stuck to your nylon wings. It would be flying up and over aviation and ecological history, plus an unforgettable slice of Americana. I give it fifteen years until flying the Grand Canyon on a JET POWERED, BACK PACKED, SET OF WINGS becomes the new pinnacle of daredevilry, usurping riding a barrel over Niagara Falls or burying oneself alive.

Check out more pictures and news of Yves Rossy on his website. It never loaded for me, but probably only because the sheer weight of all those girls underpants must mess with the servers. Or you can You Tube the hell out of him.

Peace!

All photos credit of the Associated Press. Please don't sue! I think your style rocks!

*Oh, and the sheer amount of potential Star Wars references dizzies me! Beggar's Canyon, Womp Rats, the Death Star Run! Thank you, Yves Rossy!

The Happy Post!

Amidst all those posts coming from Cleveland proper, I forgot to give you the Happy Ithaca Post! Sure, I was glad to leave, but I spent six years in and around Tompkins County and it would be foolish to dismiss all of those because of Greenstar Employees, FUBAR car alignments, and zydeco music. Not that Ithaca needs any more praise. The Ithaca Sound Machine goes all the way up to 11 and comes out every Wednesday.

Like many escaped Ithacans, I came as a pesky college kid. I remember that first day lucidly. My sister, brother-in-law, and 1-year old nephew driving up in late summer storm from Henrietta, NY. NYS Route 89 hugged the western side of Cayuga Lake and the vineyards seemed constant on the horizon. The first bits of goldenrod were blooming, but it wasn't until junior year that I would know to call it goldenrod. It was the yellow flower, like Vernes's red weed, except this one didn't kill you. The "brutal minimalism" of Talcott Hall seemed new and dynamic. It wasn't until I started moonlighting as a tour guide that I learned that these buildings were institutional and old-fashioned. Classmates in Boston has private bathrooms and a fire escape balcony. They would scream at girls on late Friday nights from the balcony to flash them and, sometimes, they would. My sister helped me make the extra long bed with these stiff sheet that seemed made of rejected canvas. The hunter green ink would rub off on the walls and slotted bed posts.

You hear a lot of people scream that college was great on their MySpace and Facebook profiles. And I enjoyed college, but not because I did a power hours of shots or watched the girls from the gymnastics team wrestle in gelatin. I did my share of stupid things, but these were all quite lame, only interesting in their silly timidity. Rolling twenty sided dies against dorm mates trying to guess our roles. Pushing a shopping cart into a snow back while we waited for the last bus back from the mall. We had just seen National Security and Just Married, sneaking into the later, another lame first.

No college was fun because I met people who I could relate to and excitedly poured over the course catalog. People, Plants, and Animals; Novel Writing; Science Fiction and Fantasy, were all fantastic sounding courses. Hell, I even considered Power Algebra just for the sheer beauty of the title. And there were fellow environmentalists! The only people concerned with anything in high school were the local stoners and we always antagonized each other. They thought I was a hack. And I reciprocated the feeling. Here was the Ithaca College Environmental Society with an on-campus organic garden, protest rallies, and campus policy changes. Senior year people considered the organic garden a great place to read and hangout amongst cosmos flowers and those last zucchini blossoms. Oh and teachers that were fun and inspiring. We had some cool teachers in high school, but you could take four classes with Jason Ockert, Kahtyrn Howd Machan, Pat Spencer, Susan Allen Gil, John Confer, Susan Swensen, or Katherine Kittredge. Sweetness. In high school, you took one year of biology with a cool teacher and then you went to the next grade and the punk ninth graders got her.

And there were people that liked to read and were nerdy and wimpy. Awesome! Seriously, high school was lame. I was part of the odds and ends clique and that made it all the more awkward when our senior class almost had a civil war of Puerto Ricans vs. Americans. Or, "La Familia" vs. Americans. Apparently when your a Jet, you a Je..err...I mean Puerto Rican all the way and I had to get an air soft gun to show off to the American kids. Six years later, it is silly to still spread rumors, but there were apparently whole organizational charts of both sides. So if Juan gets whacked by Bobbie Honky, it it OK because then Miguel will take over. I don't know how these would be helpful. Someone's mom wouldn't let them go to school that day and each group needed to fall back to lieutenant. We were all private school kids trying to say how we were owed something. If anyone from high school stumbles across the blog, please remember that you all were great individuals, but the Civil War thing was seriously stupid shit.

But in college, in Ithaca, you could hook with the artsy kids downtown for coffee and enjoy some free time on the Commons. And you could walk there or just chill for a bus, something so obstuse in Puerto Rico that people will holler at pedestrians as if were were fugitives. The Commons is a blast when your a college student and have time to kill between classes. The whole town seems tailor made for you and, if you go to IC or CU, please do enjoy the town. Just don't stay there after graduation.

My none college memories are just that...memories. They are also a series of firsts that I feel obliged to remember. My first rent check, cut on a sample check that featured Marvin the Martian. Those nice folks at CFCU that corrected my scribbled first deposit slips. My first job, which had we steaming pasta for four hours every Wednesday night in the dining hall. Those sixty dollar paychecks seemed like a feast to this freshman. My first "real" out of college job, which still feels like something too good to be true. First lovers and first loves. And I lost a bunch of weight that first summer! Now, I can strive to get back to my college weight. I blasted through the original Dune books on a fallen log next to Six Mile Creek. On another day, I tried to ford the river and almost stepped in a dead Yorkie someone had dropped into the stream. I never swam in Cayuga Lake, but I waded in it's waters everyday through streams that cut through the shale earth and eddied underwater pools on the creek bottoms. Coming from an island, I appreciated how everything still felt hydrated. There is beauty in the desert, but I could never live in it. And plenty has been said about Ithaca is Gorges and the Finger Lakes Region. The natives had it right, when they felt the hands of God somehow scratched their lands.

A lot of food memories, which makes sense in a town rumored to have the most restaurants in the nation per capita. I don't know what math was used to create that figure, but I could imagine some Cornell grad skewing the averages to create that for the Chamber of Commerce. You become a true regular a Just a Taste when Mike the Waiter gives you some respect and suggests to stay away from the ginger ice. But eat up the foccacia, warm brie, braised greens, and new potatoes. Gino's Pizza is great until you realize how great Sammy's is and, yeah, I worked at Gimme! Coffee. I wasn't' enough of a hipster to stay for long, but I had my customer fans.
The horrible peppery bit of Ithaca Brewing Company's Cascazilla, which almost thwarted my relationship with Amanda.

Everything is relative, even Ithaca. It has a wonderful quality of life for those that can afford it and/or those that can tolerate the Sound Machine. It is a wonderful place to learn and grow and my escape makes it feel alive in memories and not simmering in bitterness.

Peace!

Still More Great Works Defiled!

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

R.B. MacHoppy!

I'm faking crazy! WOO HOO! I'm the ward's resident trickster, supplier, and pimp. Hey, everyone loves an Irishman willing to strangle the hell out of our tormentor. I got Billy laid! I represent free will, uncontrolled by the system. A counter-culture messiah, I am, along with Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, all those Beatles, etc. etc.

Chief Pigden!

I represent your potential to rise up against the system. I'm an old school John Locke (Of Lost fame)! Never tell me what I can't do...but only after R.B. MacHoppy has shown me the light. I Raged against the machine even before Zach De La Rocha read his first piece of Marx, except I took it literally. Now that the Combine is dealt with, I need to get these shoes out of my way.

"Hey, finally a character I can enjoy playing. Sex, drugs, and the World Series on TV!"

"Yeah, too bad I have to kill you in other to save the ward and our collective spirits.

"Good tim...YOU CAN TALK!? KILL ME?! I thought we were going to Hollywood these posts up and have me and the chief open a sports bar on the Columbia reservation!"

"Nope, sorry. We stick true to the source material here, buddy. I'm trying to turn these into educational posts so I can get grants from the federal government."

"Oh, ok. Sure. I am sure they will pick this and your posts over something like Sesame Street. Or re-runs of Arthur."

"You know these feathers are much more a Plains Indian motif. Not that it is very representative of Native American culture in anyway..."

Peace!

Pi(e) equals 23

The first big news story since we have moved to Cleveland is also one of the wackier ones I have heard.

Now, before I begin, I think any returning reader should realize that this blog is not the place to make sports references. They are even more ham-fisted than my usual references. More like pork chop fisted or hogged tie to be realistic.

The local basketball team is in the playoffs and has already gone to the second round. They had to beat the Washington DC Bulle...err...I mean Wizards to do so. And the local sport superstar, LeBron James, who I, a three week resident of the metropolitan area, know not to speak ill of, said that one Wizards player was a particular dick and made plenty of hard fouls. In response to LeBron's complaints, a local DC Papa John's owner made a bunch of shirts with LeBron's number (23) and put CryBaby on the back. Right under a Papa John's logo. And it's in Papa John's colors.

Thanks, ESPN. Please don't sue!

Apparently, this DC resident must live outside the beltway because he should have funneled the cash for the shirts through Pakistan or some anti-Sandinistas. And taken off the friggin' logo! Look at what happened to the Ten Rings guys in the Iron Man movie! Pretty easy to track you down when the depleted uranium missile you just fired has a big Stark Industries logo on the side of it. Even though that speaks more for Tony Stark's own ego. Those terrorists should have bought generic brand weapons. From Aldi. Or an unstable post Soviet Republic.

I don't know if Cleveland or Papa John's freaked out first, but, they quickly quashed the offending garments. As a multi-national chain, Papa John's can't go around pissing off entire demographics through fashion choices. Their pizzas must speak for them from Washington DC to Los Angeles. And they are all saying that the dough is just a bit too sweet. Oh, and sorry Cleveland Cavaliers and all of Northeast Ohio.

To apologize, all Papa Johns in Northeast Ohio are selling large one topping pizzas for 23 cents! Yes, 23 cents flat. Those are pre that very first Depression prices! Our apartment is two blocks down from a Papa Johns and I saw that the parking lot was hopping with activity this morning. The local media are all over it as well.

Again, this is not the place for sports references. I don't know much about LeBron James except that he is really good at basketball, has a tasty damn drink*, and is not to be criticized! And this is all seems in wacky good fun for a good cause! Hell, Papa Johns should have made all the DC area locations charge 23 dollars for pizza! And we should have taken money away from their charities, as well. It's DC, they don't have guns, for now, so we could make out like bandits!

Peace!

*The LeBomb James which is a shot of Grand Royal dunked into a glass of Sprite and Grenadine.

Bad Advice

Write what you know is the worst piece of writing advice I have ever heard. Well, OK. The actual worst piece of writing advice I ever heard was "You can do it, Garik!," but that is enough self-pity for one post.

While in college, I had the pleasure to hear author Salman Rushdie speak. I have yet to read anything by Rushdie, but the guy is scintillating. He had a death mark put on his head! Like Han Solo! Or Lorca, if you want to keep with this literary theme. In his speech, Rushdie mentioned how "write what you know" was silly. It endangers writers who dare write about something embrassing or vicious. Rushdie mentioned how he struggles with critics considering his work autobiographical and how in one such piece (where the protagonists commits rape) people then assume that maybe he raped someone. Of course not!

That little nugget of ancient advice dismisses writers and imagination. And in the Information Age, it underestimates how we can all relate to one another and explore life minutiae. My favorite form of procrastination is just surfing on Wikipedia, seeing where each link will take me. And because of those Wikipedia trivia sections, you can play a simple game of one to three degrees of separation between anything.

Hey, what exactly is FM radio? Ah, I see. Oh, look, a section on pirate radio. Oh, sweet, that one pirate radio episode of Pete and Pete! Remember that!

Another issue with "write what you know is that...I don't know anything. Well, nothing useful outside of a game of Jeopardy.

Thanks to my current job I can refer you to several community colleges in 35 states that might or might not recycle! And I have this weird obsession with municipal boundaries. And little tidbits from History Channel specials like, did you know, the record for most pizzas ordered in one night was the day of the O.J. Simpson White Bronco car chase!?

I know plenty of goofy shit too like that the Autobot Prowl in the Transformers Animated universe practices Metakallito and that the Daredevil villain Bullseye could kill you with a piece of poop and, hence, when in captivity he is only fed a liquid diet.

The Sum of My Knowledge. And I have a B.A. in all this crazy stuff!*

I think it might be time to give up on this high art stuff and try my hand at the goofy observations blogging realm. It worked for David Campbell and it might work for me!

Nerds, upload and blog up!

Peace!

*Well, one I honorarily gave myself. Self made nerdy man! Even though mom did buy all the Magic Cards.

A Fight

Here is a little aside i have gnawed on for the past few days. I have the annoying knack to get ideas right as I am going to bed. Chuck Palahniuk does not believe in just making yourself write; instead we should wait for the inspirations, but it is 1am already and I spent eight hours entering school date into a spreadsheet. In those cases, I usually just go to bed and then force myself to put down the thoughts to paper (or blog) by the next morning. Or evening, in this case.

__________________________

I just dodged a punch from the big Dominican in front of me and I am bit proud!
Hey, I thought to myself. Slick move. Straight out of the movies!
Then I realized that I was horrible at fighting back. I was afraid to punch. The guy caught his foot on the gummy steel footing of a cocktail table and my clear shot became this wet, noddley slap. My fingers unfurled as I got closer to his gut. Hey I might hurt my hand!

"Hace cosquillas, mi amor," said the Dominican. I think he is Dominican. He has DR flag necklace on his chest, right below the clavicle. The flag is made of hair beads, like the ones you see on the tiny dreadlocks girls have coming back from Negril for Spring break. I never had time to ask him when he first cocked me in the ear. I smelled the rum on his breath, but now my nose is all soggy from his first knee.

I had never been in a fight. A real one, at least. In the eight grade, I got so mad at Freddy Combato that I shoved him into a wall and then tried to pull this wrestling move on him that I had seen on TV. We really just pushed each other around.

At the bar (Sojourners) the people start to pour out of it and into B Terminal. One woman knocks over a display case at the SunGlass Hut across the way. I thought I heard a police siren or an alarm. I really wanted the police to come.

Hay, un problema maricon! It has been years since I have spoken Spanish so heatedly or in any sort of defensive tone. The weekly phone calls with my mother are full of false plesantries and whenever I see my nieces, I just back up my sister and tell them put whatever they have gotten their hands on down.

Calmate. Calmate," I tell the guy. My Spanish must sound even worse through the chipped teeth. A pair of white shirted police offers blasts into the bar and tackle the supposed Dominican. I scoot back on my ass and hide underneath the bar until another office grabs me by the armpits and lifts me up onto his shoulder. "Hey it is over, son," he said.

_____________________________

What a horrible piece! I realized after the first two sentences there was nowhere to go with this and just left it to die. Peace!

Game On

Grand Theft Auto 4 came out on April 29, 2008 and I am without GTA. I am not so mad as plain damn depressed. Considering that by the time I get a Play Station 3 or XBox 360, they will have the XBoX 1080 or something, I am even sadder.*

However, I am thrilled for all the gamers out there that can enjoy what is pretty much the grandest video game of them all. To everyone out there lucky enough to have GTA 4, please game on and have fun. When you bet that first RC mission** scream out, "This one is for you Garik! It would have been easier just to shut the damn car, but, no, you deserve a tiny little grenade strapped to a tiny little car! YES!"

To all the haters and squares out there, since you do not like GTA 4 then just shut the hell up and don't play it. And don't buy it for your kids.

Watch the trailer here. Those RockStar lawyers have removed most of the You Tube ones.

HAVE FUN! PEACE!

* At least this one will have all those bugs removed. Hopefully.
** More TV screen have been lost to RC missions than all the living room shenanigans and horseplay combined.