So... you would continue, then? You would gather the dust off the ground and blow it into the eyes of the butler at the mansion of doom? You would pick up a small puppy and watch the tail that wagged the dog, that wagged you, that just plain wagged? So be it...
I could add another "What's the point of this page?" type intros, but it takes too much ingenuity using HTML code, so I'm just going to type like this: small and inadequate. It's probably for the best anyway. This page will be dedicated to writings that I take 5-10 minutes a day to do. Kind of like a journal, except you don't find out about anything in my life, though you may infer that I was attacked as a child by circus monkeys who have embedded themselves in my mind and made a little pillow-fort.
Without further ado, to you and you and you, the first entry of my journal of pure lunacy. I trust you'll find it incalculable and insufferable.
After having a talk with my good friend Mike W. today (sorry, internet stalkers, no full names here), I've decided to put up a links section with a link to his site, among others. Unlike myself, he is actually committed to making and updating some kind of "real" site. I added those quotes myself, because he never calls it a real site, but you'll understand when you get there. It's much more honest than my site, which is me doing my best to change the subject and mislead people as to what my actual feelings are. Alright, fine, you win... my real feelings are
I was going to update two days ago, but I forgot. So, here we are, roughly four months after the last update. It's sure great to be back, huh? Yes, I know it is. You don't have to answer, because I will do the answering for you. Thank you. Which of these sentences are mine and which are hypothetical answers of yours? The answer might very well surprise me.
This update goes out to my one true love: the ladies.
So, it's been roughly two weeks since an update; the same update when I figured I could probably update the site daily if I just put my mind to it. Somewhere along the line, I just forgot. It's better than forgetting other things, though, like your gender.
Jeez, maybe the opening was more than just a clever line to start out with that I stole from the opening to a They Might Be Giants song. I've got the ladies on the mind right now. I'm going to see Bruce Almighty tonight, for the second time in two nights, and it's one of those romantic comedy type of movies. You'd expect more of a straightforward, slapstick comedy from Jim Carrey, but that wily actor is never one to meet your expectations. Besides that aspect, the movie is often very entertaining. And, step aside Jehovah, Morgan Freeman plays a really good God. Besides that, I put up a new play on the site, which is a rather interesting story of a loveable homeless man. That's what we're lacking: movies about homeless people. Hopefully, I can fill that niche market when I start making movies, because it's a travesty that something isn't being done already.
Damn it! I was so close to having updated this site daily again. I missed a May 9th update by exactly 1 hour and 36 minutes. On the plus side, I got to see a video of A Chorus Line, and let me just say that I didn't know the mic was on, I swear. If you ever see the video, I'm doing my little monologue, except I'm one of the few people who actually has a monologue to recite rather than just a little improvised pantomime. So, I'm whispering my monologue, and the microphone picks up one word: stripper. I'm guessing I said something along the lines of "And I got really friendly with this one stripper." After seeing the video, all I can think of is how much better a job I could have done if I'd known exactly how I'd looked out there. As it stands, most of the time all I do is stand there and have really big arms.
We were in class the other day, and somebody makes a mistake on green paper. A question is posed: why is there "white out" but no "green out?" I pondered this answer long and hard, near and far, and finally realized that most paper is white, but if you buy tinted glasses, everything can look green. You'll know that the green out you're using isn't green at all, though, because it'll still say white out on the side. What are you supposed to do? The answer, of course, is to put out your eyes. Simple, affordable, and you'll never notice mistakes ever again.
Here's a trivia question for those of you reading this who attend Darien High School: What is the date of the Prom? The answer, of course, is May 16. Now, the second part of this is as following: When did I finally get around to arranging a table for my date and I? If you guessed "today," you'd be correct. I've been busy lately, but I think it's safe to say that waiting nearly two weeks after tickets stop being sold to find a table is overkill in terms of bad judgement. Well, besides that, things have been excellent as usual, but I'm just not in that free-writing mood tonight. If I wanted a journal, I'd get some online journal to write all that in, but I don't have one as of yet. I'm going to give my best shot at writing another one of stream-of-consciousness rants tonight, but I can't promise it'll be anything less than half-hearted. Here we go:
Time moves like an ocean, through a sea of regret; regret that you didn't take off your watch before going swimming. It floats among the tides, getting filled with salt water and possibly making it less effective. Eventually, because it is not water proof, the watch will stop moving. The hands will freeze like so many penguins dipped in liquid nitrogen, and time will stop inside that microcosm, never to start again. Next time, take off your watch before swimming, or buy one of those cheap ones that you don't care about losing. You'll thank me later.
It's not often that we really step back and take a look at ourselves. Spending time outside of your body is not only dangerous, but potentially fatal. The number one way people get SARS is carelessly leaving their body for vacations to China or rooms in which peope are being quaratined. I don't know why you would vacation in a room specifically designed to isolate people with horrible illnesses, but maybe just to get away from it all. "It all" being your body, but now we're back to the old debate about whether it's better to be in your body or out. I say it's A-ok as long as you avoid China, but many would disagree with me. As long as we're on the topic, I'd like to link it to the thirty hour famine going on at my church. For those of you not from around here, Christians starve themselves for the purpose of realizing the suffering of some 30,000 children who die everyday from hunger. Trust me, this does go back to the topic. I've heard people all day saying "Yay, famine!" and all I can think of is that they're aspiring Communist dictators. I believe the last people who said the same thing were Stalin or Mao. I could go on about why this famine idea is flawed, but I won't. If you're curious, ask me in person, because I'd be happy to infuriate you with my unorthodox but logically sound ideas.
I just flew in from New Orleans today and boy, are my arms tired. After a week of staying in a hotel on Bourbon Street, it's going to be tough getting adjusted to a town in which drinking is cool because only a select few do it. I'm going to miss Gabrielle, Honey, Ginger, and Amber among others, as they were the faces I saw bright and early across the street as I exited the hotel (On a billboard at the "Temptations" Gentleman's Club). There were more amusing anecdotes relating to this trip than I could possibly remember. Among them were Pete's pretending to be deaf at a cafe and that turning into a running joke in which he called himself "Deafie" and sang about being deaf all the time. Also, Jon getting dual snake tattoos on either forearm, and having everybody chant his new nickname "Shredder" all the time. Chris' video project in which I starred as a guy who thought he was in heaven but really was in hell is probably going to get him a C or lower, but it was still fun. Other things that happened were my acquiring of two new nicknames, my favorite of which is "Flirty McFlirtFlirt," and the feeling that we were going to slip up in conversation at some point and get shot. But, more than anything, I miss the loose women, the fast cars, and the endless supply of touristy beads and fake voodoo dolls. God bless America!
Wow, it's April 10th already. Amazing. I was going to make this update about going to New Orleans over the next week and the play I wrote for Student Productions, but there is a much more pressing matter at hand. Recently, I found that someone of great importance had actually read some of the website, and it worried me. It worried me because I thought about how obscene I must seem from these journal entries. I didn't think about it too much until I went back and actually read some of them. The very first entry uses the two words "fucking" and "Mormons" consecutively. How much worse could I have started off? And it only goes downhill from there, folks. In the interest of keeping it interesting, I will try to clean up my language a bit in order to force myself to write about things that have actual relevance rather than just take the easy route with a bunch of funny swears. That in mind, with that new leaf turned over, I'm now going to describe why Monty Python is stupid. First of all, people quote it everyday, but none of the lines are worth quoting. You can tell the humor is bad when people go around saying "your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries" because it clearly has to be one of the better parts otherwise they'd choose something else to quote. And there's a whole running gag in a movie about a French guy who farts. Since when is farting funny? If I want funny, I'll listen to George Carlin make jokes about rape. Also, funny is knowing that it is impossible to convey sarcasm online. Who do I find funny? Well, not Dennis Miller. He thinks he's so smart. He was the guest on a rerun of Conan O'Brien tonight and made a joke about something that nobody got, and quickly followed it with an excessively dumb joke to make sure he covered his tracks. I hate to admit it because he's so popular, but the one Kevin Smith movie I have seen ("Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back") was completely and utterly brilliant. He underestimated the audience's intelligence to the point at which I was going "How'd he do that?" but it was still a hilarious movie. So, I got a little bit sidetracked, and I forgot what the point of this whole entry was about, but I think hating comics is a perfectly healthy way to begin this new era of journal writing. I'd try hating less tomorrow, but I won't be here tomorrow because I'll be in New Orleans. And maybe, just maybe, the sunny warm weather will make me hate Monty Python less, but I would probably also have to absorb excessive amounts of radiation for that to occur, so that I would mutate into someone who doesn't understand what funny is. Actual "good" comedies do not originate in England, folks, and that is that.
If you ever go try to set up a website, the first question that people will ask would be "You're going to provide regular updates, aren't you?" If they don't, they should, cause I should have had somebody ask that when I decided to set mine up. Long story short, I didn't, and thus the lack of regular updates. Now, for something completely different, a thought-provoking quasi-journal entry, like I'd promised to do before I started with all this "real journal" nonsense:
Monsters in the movies are only scary until you realize that you're watching a movie. If you think about it, you have to really be absorbed in a movie for the whole suspension of disbelief thing to kick in so much that you forget you're watching a movie (by the way, I got kicked in the suspension of disbelief last week, and it sucked). Believe me, I can relate. Somebody suspended my disbelief a month ago, and I had to go down to home depot to get a step ladder. You'd think 6'1" would be a good height to reach out-of-the-way things, but it's not. Think of it this way: up to my shoulders, I'm about 5'1". Then, add my arm length, approximately another 2'6". Then, take the average disbelief, which is about a foot in diameter. So, if you hang it slightly off of a ten foot ceiling, there's no way I'm getting it without a step ladder. Nope. You win, asshole.
Wow, I haven't updated in a month. I must not care about all you loyal readers, huh? Shut up. I'm just messing with you, folks (aka "peeps," "ya'll," and "hos"). Been awful busy with A Chorus Line (Which is going to kick the shit out of anyone who goes to see it, in a good way), and trying to think up crazy ideas for my video production class project. Basically, it's a series of non sequitirs with a final screen that says "Drink Responsibly, A Message from the Independent Filmmakers of America." If you don't yet get it, it's not worth explaining, but if you do, read on. I've developed a list of twenty-something random ideas which I will then put in any order into this film, and will list a few below. If you've got any suggestions, tell me. I'd love to make this the craziest film ever, or at least another film that will make Mr. Duncan think I'm insane.
A man carries burning firewood out of a smoking building.
An old man plays golf with a hardboiled egg.
Someone writes the word "hate" on their leg with butter, slowly and deliberately.
Some young punk pulls a knife on himself in the mirror.
Powdered sugar is liberally sprinkled on The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde.
A homeless man holds a sign: "Will starve self for food."
Someone falls up the stairs.
A fifties couple shares a drink in a diner which turns out to be turpentine.
A guy hands a girl a ring, proposal style, and tells her to "go ahead, open it." However she manages to do this, inside is five dollars.
Basically, I haven't had anything truly interesting to write about in the last few days (And/or I forgot). Today, however, was special. I'll skip talking about my college visit to Weslyan because it was a place that I'd rather forget about (Like Hell, but full of whiny liberals, so... wait, why did I say "but"?). After, that, however, I had to do my homework for Video Production class, which was to make an instructional video for using a video camera. Just rough footage, though, nothing final. Here's what it consisted of: 1. An explanation behind the "plot" of the film, set to a dramatic improvisational piano score... and 2. Eleven and a half minutes of various shots of milk, as narrated by some disgruntled milk-lover (Sounds like Christopher Walken). The sheer amount that happens in this film is honestly very unsettling. The fact that some of the narration was improvised is equally frightening. The whole thing is funny but makes you uncomfortable, hearing someone talk about milk that way. I'm sure it'll be a big hit at Sundance.
So I had a song stuck in my head a second ago, and I tried singing it to remind me who it was, and then I found that I couldn't sing that high and realized it was a Dave Matthews Band song. Well, back to listening to The Smashing Pumpkins. With the Zwan release coming out Tuesday, I have to celebrate somehow. Yeah, I know you're complaining that I don't write anything strange for you anymore. Well, once this CD comes out, the creativity will return and manifest itself tenfold. Here's something to ponder in the mean time: if George Washington had worn lipstick, would we be able to tell? Think about it. On every dollar bill, he could either be wearing lipstick, or not wearing it, but we just assume that he didn't because he was a president/it probably had not been invented yet. That's something to research. Write me a two page paper on when lipstick was invented, by whom, and where. I expect it by Monday. Now, you're probably saying: but Monday is only an hour and 54 minutes away! Shut up and write me the Goddamn paper!
What a crazy day. If I had to pick one word for it, it would be "Zwanderful." Don't tell the record companies, but I downloaded the songs off the new album over a week before it came out. I'm so naughty. Long story short, I've been hooked the entire weekend. Sometimes, I turn up the speakers really high and fall asleep to it and have crazy dreams which I can't remember later because they only occur when I'm "under the influence." On a lighter note, my eyes friggin' hurt because I've been doing various computer related things all day, not the least of which was finishing my English project. But enough boring talk about homework, it's time to talk about my true passion, which is restoring the Chelsea Opera House. All proceeds will go to benefit the homeless, and you know how I feel about the homeless: they're human beings, and they have no homes.
Guess what? As if this were a journal rather than some kind of freewrite, I'm going to complain about something that bothers me one more time. Yeah, well, if it just comes off the top of my head, than it qualifies as freewrite material, so it's A-OK in my book. So I watched the movie Magnolia tonight and it struck a chord with me, because of one particular character. Tom Cruise played a master of seduction, who gave seminars to men who had trouble attracting women. One line of his stuck out: I will not apologize for who I am. Damn right. I'm so sick of people expecting things out of me and then being disappointed or pleasantly surprised. Either way, it just proves that you set expectations for a person that were incorrect, and you got shocked when they didn't live up to them. Well, FUCK YOU. I'm not mad. Actually, I'm sitting here calmly typing this, about to go get something to drink before going to bed. All I'm saying is this: I'm perfectly happy with my life the way it is going, and that way may not be the way you would like, but it's still my life.
Here's a bit of a rant, which one does not usually expect from me, but that won't stop me from writing one right here:
So everything in creative writing class is going just fine, except today, when Ms. Sorensen brings in a former senior who now takes a creative writing class at college. Ms. Sorensen loved her, because they have the same style of poetry: extremely pretentious with a side of "changing the format of my writing makes it art." And she read it all as though she was reading a eulogy.
So... Ms. Sorensen gives us a chance to do some freewriting of our own, and maybe share it with her. And I go out of my way to write the most ridiculously artsy, left-wing garbage, and nobody gets it. Is it obvious what I'm trying to do? Look for yourself:
The beauty of a dog
Wafting in the breeze.
A dog...
-shaped flag.
Red, white, and blue,
The colors of our country.
Or Orange, Black, and Red,
The Colors of Germany.
If I ever see this Germany dog,
I will bow my head;
Solemn reminder of the Dog-lo-caust,
When thousands of Jewish dogs,
Mercillesly persecuted,
Fled their home country.
It would be a day that will live in infamy, forever,
If someone were to cut up the German flag
Like a dog.
If you didn't catch the meaning of all this (And nobody did, which is why I said: I don't think it really has a meaning), the idea is that people put meaning behind crap that doesn't exist. Don't use metaphors and fanciful imagery where it doesn't belong. If you're going to speak your feelings, just spare us the bullshit and do it.
Your unreal is here now, and there's nothing to not be amazed at. Chavez is possibly the greatest band that just about nobody has heard of, but Matt Sweeny, former Skunk guitarist and vocalist, couldn't be a part of something bad. In my current state, I've found every song that can be sung along to and done so, which bothers me more than a little, because... I don't know. It's too happy, but I'm sure I'm overcompensating for something or another. Just take this with you (more lyrics). Also, I've come to the conclusion that my Entertainer is good, but a little sloppy when I play too fast, so I need to slow that down so I can learn it properly. "But, Mike!" You say, "Where's your trademark randomness? A whole entry on just music?" Yes, asshole, as a matter of fact, it is. In a scary world, one can always turn to Scott Joplin, and hide themselves in his Entertaininglessness. I know that's not a real word. Shut up. You fucking dick! Always naysaying! And when I'm singing in, it sounds even better than when I sing out! Fuck you! Sorry, "the D" got a hold of me.
So I'm doing my physics homework, and boy are my arms tired. All that writing is strenuous, and it reminds me of the time I climbed the Swiss Alps with nothing but my bear hands and bear feet (I used to be a large, ursine creature). Then, once on top, I threw an amorphous blob with no air resistance and calculated how long until it hit the ground, and how fast it was going when said ground-hitting happened. This, more than anything else, summed up my afternoon.
What a good year that was, huh? Everything about last year made it worth remembering (Including the finale). But, of course, I can't just write about the new year, or the old year for that matter, because that will be cliche. So... what to write about... Dogs. I'll write about dogs. Nice golden retrievers, or white dogs that take your napkins off your lap when you aren't looking. True canine companions. This mood I'm in is something that few could make sense of, so I won't bother trying to. Not much else to talk about, though. Unfortunately, most of my dog knowledge is limited to the popular dogs or the ones that people tell me about, or the holiday dogs with red and green ribbons tied around their necks. Right about now, I can envision some reader of this coming up to me and saying, "Sir, I think you've had enough." I'll tell you when I've had enough!
If there's one thing that's the case, it's probably the brief. Get it? Briefcase? Sorry, I'm in an interesting mood because I have to clean all sorts of stuff off the floor of my room, and I found a briefcase we used in a film over the summer. The untitled chase movie is quite interesting in that you don't know if it's a dream or reality (It's probably going to be a dream, though, just because the lack of time of any of the people involved prevents it from becoming reality). Sad, but true. The movie business isn't what it's cracked up to be, unless it's cracked up to be challenging and often frustrating, in which case that would be exactly correct.
Wow, it's the 28th already. The 28th is clearly a landmark in human evolution, for many reasons. First of all, let's check out all the things that happened on the 28th of December: man landed on the moon, slavery abolished, Microsoft founded, George Orwell's 1984 published, and the first concert by The Smashing Pumpkins. What do all these things have in common? All lies. Maybe I'll do some research next time.
Something tells me I should be updating something daily either every day or every other day. Nope, I don't have the discipline to take 5 minutes to just write something. Here's a breakdown of Christmas, as best I can do: Jesus was born. Yeah, any presents are just a result of commercializing the whole wise-man thing. Not that that's bad. Without it, I'd be without a Tool CD, something that is vital to everyone, even newborns and old people. Well, they won't know until they hear it, and then they won't hear anything ever again, because of their very sensitive ears. Listening to that guy screaming to the sounds of progressive metal reminds me of the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ, and how I should be thinking of that rather than thinking about how freakin' incredible the song "Schism" is. Well, it's an imperfect world, and I'm a sinner, and the best track off the CD is either 1, 8, or 5. Now I know why they call this the "Tool closet."
There's something about making changes to a website and staring at a computer screen that makes your eyes hurt. Well, more specifically, my eyes. They are burning right now, and tearing up slightly, and I want to stop, but I know I must press on. It's tough, but I'll make it somehow. If I die along the way, say goodbye to Eliza for me. Tell her that I love her, and... oh, no. It's the Krauts. They want their boots back. It's not like they'll ever use them again; invading Russia worked about as well as a large rock works on smoothing out relationships.
What's the deal with punching people? Is it supposed to be masculine, somehow? I'll tell you what's masculine: big socks. Big socks, on big feet, and big hair. Keep in mind, this is all coming out as I think it, so it's going to be a little confusing, so bear with me. Bear. Hehe. I love bears. Ursine means "of bears," as in ursa major and ursa minor. Kind of like the leagues in baseball, only they're actually constellations. Constellations are funny, but only because you don't know them. If they ever fell out of the sky for some reason, you wouldn't shed a tear, I'll bet. When was the last time you knew a guy named "Orion?"
Lynyrd Skynyrd is the best thing to come out of the South since slavery...ended. Well, did it really? There are no slaves, anymore, using the actual word. Instead of plantations, we have homes and schools; Homes and schools where they make you sweat like the dogs you are. Dogs you are, balupdaloop. Dogs you are, balupdaloop. Dogs you are, balupdaloop. Dogs you are, doing the homework. Sorry, just a tangent. Ask about the latest release by Midnight Tangerines. You won't regret it.
It was a cold day outside. Good thing I brought my mittens, and my zipper, and my dog. Her name is Lassy, kind of like "Glassy" but not at all like "Lassie." This is purely because we hate that dog and we have a son named Timmy who we want desperately to get stuck down the well in the backyard and not be able to be heard crying for help. We dug that well ourselves just to kill Timmy, in fact. As of today, he is not dead, and my obsession with drinking dirt-filled and generally unclean water is increasing. Either Timmy falls down the well and I stop drinking from it because I feel guilty about actually seeing him down there without offering help, or I get dysentery. Dysentery was a rather unpleasant disease, but a highlight in every game of Oregon Trail. Then again, the part where you finish the game is probably the best, but not if you choose to take the route to Salt Lake City. Those ungrateful fucking mormons. Why don't they go wander through the desert for 40 years, like a real religion might do. Oh, wait, they live in the desert. My bad. They're bad too. Not bad as a religion, per se, but bad as people in general. I'm done. All this talk of Mormonism is making me hungry.
DISCLAIMER: THESE WRITINGS BY THE AUTHOR ARE NOT NECESSARILY THE OPINION OF THE AUTHOR. THEY ARE PURELY BIPRODUCTS OF HIS TWISTED MIND, AND WHATEVER HE WAS EATING THAT DAY.