Hey! I Remember You!

Hey, guys.  I know it's been a while since my last post and I'm here to explain.  I am busy.  Like way busier than I planned to be.  My classes are requiring significantly more work than I predicted they would to the point where just keeping track of my assignments has become a back breaking task.  Plus, I'm working on three stories (Ranging from short story to full length novel) simultaneously and they are sucking up an enormous amount of my down time.  The end result is very little time and energy at the end of the day.  Therefore, I wanted to say that I will be updating my blog much less than I have been.  If I become miraculously less busy or have something funny I feel compelled to say, I will be happy to post here again, but for now it's going to be impossible.

Peace (For now), homies.

First Signs Of Insanity

I've come to the conclusion that I am padded walls, white slip on shoes, eating Dole fruit cups crazy.  How did I come to this conclusion?  I decided, in my infinite brilliance, to sign up for a 7 AM English class.  That means I have to drag my semi-conscious, drool-coated self out of bed at the unholy hour of 5:30.  Then, as if simply being awake didn't cause my brain to fizzle out, smoke, and die, I have to go be engaged and pay attention to the format of a story arch.  You know...  the intro, rising action, climax, falling action, conclusion thing.

I woke up to do that.

On purpose.

So just go to bed earlier, right?  WRONG!  My sleep cycle looks like two trains that collided at mach 2, therefore it doesn't work.  The end result is me getting 2 hours of sleep (Maybe) and then going off to pack my brain with important information.  If you have any experience with that, it is hellish.  I took that class specifically to get the teacher I wanted and to have 2 consecutive classes, but I must be insane to think I can wake up so early.  I'm driving to my morning classes in the god damn dark!

I appreciate your lack of enthusiasm for my learning, sun.

Well everyone, I'm going to embrace my oncoming brain malfunction.  Do you know what comes with the insanity/super early class combo?  AN EMPTY PARKING LOT!  Oh yeah!  I park where ever I want!  I can park really close!  Or far away!  Or somewhere in the middle!  Victory has been achieved!

It's important to find the silver lining.

...*Sigh*...

Where I Never Thought I'd Be

I generally try to keep this blog funny, but this time I'm going to break the formula.  I've mentioned in previous posts that I went to guitar repair school instead of college once I graduated high school.  Part of the reason was because I wholeheartedly love guitars and thought the concept of working on them was awesome, but the other reason was that I didn't do well in high school.  I struggled for the majority of my time there, only having luck in a select few subjects with varying consistency.  The environment and style of high school was constantly working against my own ways of thinking.  For six hours a day, I was subject to 7 different teaching styles, litanies of long ans short term projects, multitudes of similar but critically different concepts, and the generally uninteresting.

Kids have trouble in high school?

Go figure.

I tried, too.  I did my best to keep track of assignments and do well, but organization was/is just not my thing.  My downfall came from my inability to keep track of homework and out of school anything.  This would sometimes get labeled as laziness and I will admit I got into fights with a few teachers.  Even classes I should have aced, I didn't due to all the out of class work I didn't know about.  I constantly got Fs on my mid-year reports, which sparked endless house fights.  I put my parents through hell as I struggled to keep my head above water.  My senior year of English, I pulled at least a B+ on all my essays and I was the only person in my teacher's career to ever get an A+ on her lengthy and unforgiving senior paper.  I ended that class with a C.  I was unable to get a GPA higher than 2.8.

High school hated me.

I went to guitar school hoping to learn something useful without having to take tests on the Pythagorean Theorem.  It did work, but through a series of complicated, infuriating and trial-by-fire type experiences,  I ended up quitting the job I had gotten post-school.  I felt, for some mysterious reason, the urge to go to college.  I enrolled in Raritan Valley Community College using the money I had earned while working and began my first semester of college in September of last year.  I was behind the ball in almost every way.  It had been a full year since my senior year, I had forgotten a good deal of the minutia from high school, and I had an overabundance self-doubt.

Those aren't on the supplies list.

I'm just an overachiever.

So, why have I told you this story of my high school failings?  Simple.  It gives you perspective regarding the second half of my story.  When my first semester of college finished, I got As in 2 classes, one of which being English, and got a 3.5 GPA.  If I had told my 16 year old self that, my past self would have laughed in my face.  It gets better.  The other day, I received a letter from the college, which we all assumed was a receipt for paying my tuition bill.  My parents opened it and it wasn't a bill.

GASP!  They didn't want more of our money!?

What manner of sorcery is this!?

It was from the dean of the school.  I made the Dean's List.  Speechless doesn't cover my feelings because I'm fairly certain my brain ceased functioning for a moment as well.  I will most likely be framing the letter.  I don't care if it took me years to hit my stride.  I tried until I did.  And now that I'm here, it feels damn good.  This semester is underway and I am aiming to keep my streak going.  I have a lot of work to do, but I'm feeling more confident about it than ever.  I will beat school this time.

Hear that, school?

I'm coming for you.

The Vanishing Pants

My friend and I were at the gym last night, working on our respective firnesses, as I believe the song goes.  We were chatting about online classes and why mine has already caused me massive frustration when a man approached us.  He was probably in his fifties, had medium length gray hair and was wearing khaki pants.  (Yes.  The pants part is important.)  He asked us if we were students and various other questions, most of which we were giving short answers to because he was creeping us out.  He eventually went away, but stayed in the gym and continued to work out in his khaki pants.

Practicality is relative, I suppose.

I decided that if I kept my headphones in and made it obvious that I was listening to music, he would leave me alone.  It worked, but he clearly wasn't done being a weirdo.  I went to the bench press and started pumping the old iron.  At some point between reps, I glanced over to grab my water bottle and the man had, at some point, removed his pants.

I have no punchline for this.

I was stunned.  Now, this guy wasn't in his underpants.  He had on those tiny spandex bike shorts that are unjustifiably short.  And believe you me, he seized every opportunity to bend over and stretch in his sport utility hot pants.  My friend had a difficult time keeping her composure, but we we able to survive the encounter.  Although, I have to say that I don't feel like I've completely recovered.

My psyche has disintegrated.

Thundershine And The Nun

I have returned!  Rest easy!  School just started and I needed to sort everything out and get back into school mode.  Philosophy, contrary to what I feared, has not sucked me into an infinite chasm of self-questioning and non-existence, so three cheers for that.

Hip-hip-hoo-why?

It is slowly becoming clear that many of the students aren't exactly interested in having deep theological discussions, but that was bound to happen.  It seems weird to me that philosophy, the study of consciousness and existence, screams "Easy A" to some people.  I guess the intricate workings of the cosmos just come easy to a large amount of 19 year old students.

Like painting or basketball.

The cosmos: Akin to painting and basketball.

Grave misjudgments aside, I have to talk about my science fiction literature class.  The class itself sounds great and the teacher is dorky enough for my liking, but the most awesome thing about the class is who enrolled.  There is the expected gaggle of nerds, dweebs, losers, dorks and the like, all with their own geeky specialties.  For example, one kid makes chain mail for cosplay purposes.  However, there are two specific people worth noting.  There is one woman, roughly 55 years of age, who goes by the name Sister Mary Catherine.  Yep.  There is a full blown nun in my class.

Just wait.  It gets better.

In order to loosen up the class and get us all acquainted, the teacher had us interview each other and say a few things about whoever we interviewed.  Everyone had relatively normal things to say.  Favorite super hero, favorite book, favorite movie, and so forth.  However, when the girl who interviewed Sister Mary Catherine spoke, she stated one very surprising thing.  She told the class that Sister Mary Catherine's favorite hobby was karate.  KARATE.  I have a NUN who practices KARATE in my science fiction literature class.

Does thou need thine bread broken?

*AXE KICK*

The second person was a older gentleman, roughly in his eighties.  He walked with a cane and looked like the average World War II veteran.  His presence was less unusual to me as the pieces we are reading in the class are from between 1929and 1964.  Assuming he is a fan of science fiction, it makes perfect sense that he would be there.  The most striking thing about this man is not his age or his appearance, but his name.  I hope you are all ready to discover the most incredible name in existence.  First name: Frank.  Last name:

Thundershine.

I would marry this man for the sole purpose of having that name.  The heaven gates opened up when his name was spoken in class.  That's not a metaphor either.  God literally opened the sky, reached his holy hand down and gave this guy the sweetest high five in history.  OK, so it was a metaphor, but Thundershine is no less epic a name.  I now know what it means to feel true jealousy.  It makes me wonder how many amazing things have happened to this guy because of his name alone.  Jobs he's gotten, women he's wooed, wars he's won by himself with a baseball bat and a hard jaw.  Oh, the stories that man could tell.

I want to take a class on him instead.

I Think, Therefore I Am An Undead Rogue

I have school today.  Actually, by the time you read this, I will be in/done with my class.  What class will I be in/done with?  Philosophy.  The study of... Thinking?  Consciousness?  Never-ending, unanswerable questions?  I'm fairly certain I'm going to spend the next four months writing papers about the abstract, metaphysical, and whacked out theories on why my thoughts can't think, but my thinking births more thoughts.

Deep.

I'm excited to try my hand at the art of cognition, but I am afraid of one thing.  Don't think me odd.  I'm hoping I don't learn so much about the the mind that I think myself out of existence.  Or at least into the vegetative state that occurs from overexposure to World of Warcraft.  I mean if I'm going to go down that road, I would like to get a level 80 Dwarf Paladin out of it.  I don't want to end up hunched over with a glazed stare while I dump Mountain Dew down my throat and go on 3 hour long raids for a hammer of- ... Uh... I mean think too hard.

Yes.

Think too hard.

 Wait... Is that what WoW is about?  The search for higher existence and understanding while embarking on a path of constant evolution that culminates with a person achieving the maximum in a solitary journey and then continuing with the help of others that have the same level of experience, but in different disciplines.  That's the same path as a philosopher.  Holy shit.  Philosophy and World of Warcraft are the exact same thing.  I'm not even sure what to do with this information.  Maybe I'll bring it up to my professor tomorrow.  "Professor.  What do you think Sartre would have said about the concept of a Gnome Warrior, ridiculous as it may be?"

This will go one of two ways.

Amazingly or unfathomably badly.

Be prepared philosophy.

A Very Musical Monday

It's Monday.  I go back to school tomorrow.  I'm stressed as all hell.  Therefore, I running a bit low on humor juice and couldn't muster up something to rant about.  Instead I'll put up a song I've been listening to a lot lately in an attempt to decompress.  Seeing how it is Monday and some you are are undoubtedly searching for decompression as well, I'll lend you some of mine.  I hope you enjoy and have a Monday that doesn't end with death threats, binging, copious tears, and heavy sedatives.

Welcome to my Mondays!

Without further ado, The Avett Brothers.

A List That Won't Do You Any Good

It's 5:41 AM.  I'm declaring it "List Time."  Here are 8 things you probably didn't know about me that will have no impact on your life, but I want to say regardless.

Should I give honorable mention to: Inability to concisely name lists?

Sure.  Why not?

1. I intensely and unabashedly hate paisley.  The pattern literally causes me rage and discomfort.  The reasoning?  My best guess is that my OCD has warped into delusional germaphobia and paisley patterns look like armies of massive germs.  Needless to say, Vera Bradley is one of my most hated people.

2. When I get blood work done, I have a Vasovagal Response.  Basically, that means that when the needle hits a nerve (Which it always does), I unwillingly and spontaneously pass out.  I look like a huge wuss.  I don't have a problem with needles anymore, and the pain doesn't bother me, but I will faint like a weenie every time.  How much fun is that?

3. I have open man-crushes.  The list is as follows: Django Reinhardt, Brian Setzer, Bob Ross, and Carl Sagan.  I have nothing more to say about that really.  I'll just let that information settle.

4.  I have broken every desktop computer chair my parents have gotten over the years.  The total is 4 chairs.  I'm am now considered to dangerous to sit in my own living room.

5. Despite every single commercial, I am certain that my friend's fold out, safari print futon is a thousand times more comfortable that my Posturepedic mattress.  You ever jump on a memory foam mattress?  It's like landing on your back onto sand.  If that sounds comfortable, you are gravely mistaken.

6. I was unhappy with my body, so I started going to the gym a few months ago.  After a while, I lost 25 pounds, but none of my pants fit, which pissed me off thoroughly because I can never find pants that fit me.  I think the message here is that I am determined to not let myself win.

7. I have lived on the same street, in the same development, in the same town for 13 years.  I still do not know a single road name besides my own.  How?  I don't know.  Magic?

8. I could not care less about politics, current events, etc.  I just consider myself too young to worry about those kinds of things, at least up I feel too old to say that.  At that point, I will consider myself too old to worry about those kinds of things.  If I'm not dead/dying, things are going OK.

There you go, loyal subjects.  8 things you are no better off for knowing, but do anyway.  Now enjoy all these useless tidbits that have filled your brainspace and taken up room meant for important stuff.

Ain't I just the worst?

Celebratory Kitchen Fire

I set the toaster on fire on Mother's Day.  Not recently.  This was years ago.  I will admit I was well beyond the age that toasters were complex, mysterious machines, but I will not admit it was my fault.  I mean... I did set it on fire, but it wasn't because I was inattentive.  Well... I guess technically it was, but I wasn't inattentive by choice!  Well... I'll just explain what happened.

Make up your mind, you portrait of uncertainty.

Years ago on Mother's Day, I got up extra early to make my mom breakfast.  I could cook (To some extent) and was all excited to do it.  I asked her what she wanted and she said she would love some rye toast.  Easy enough, right?  Well, my mom likes her to look and taste like charcoal, so her instructions were, "Put the bread in on dark, then put it in again, but watch it."  Again, easy enough.

You picking up on the "Bad things to come" vibe?

'Cause I'm laying it on pretty thick.

So, I began toasting.  And I mean really toasting.  The bread: Thrown like discus into the toaster.  The toaster: Hooked into the power grid to amplify it's power a thousand fold.  When out of nowhere, the toaster overloaded from the immense power surging through it's heat coils.  Fire burst from the toaster oven, throwing open the door and rocketing the toast out.  You don't seem like your buying it... Alright fine.  I may have exaggerated.

Nobody was fooled.

So, here's what actually happened.  I toasted the bread for the first cycle.  I turned the dial again, like I was told, when my mom called me into the living room.  I told her I had to watch the toast, but she insisted I come in.  (For the record, we were roughly ten feet apart when she called me.  Was that just too far?)  I went in to the living room where she told me something irrelevant and unimportant.  I wouldn't normally remember her telling me something pointless, but it's pointlessness made the resulting incident all the more ironic.  I walked back into the kitchen and, lo and behold, the toast was aflame.

Oh... Damn.

"Mom," I said as nonchalantly as possible, "The toaster is on fire."  "What do you mean?" she asked.  I paused after she said that.  "I don't know how to make that much clearer.  I feel like I pretty much explained the situation," I answered.

I really felt that was sufficient, but I guess not.

I felt really horrible after I ruined Mother's Day breakfast and the toaster.  My mom assured me it was no big deal and that she loved that I was willing to make breakfast for her.  She also told me not to worry about the toaster because, and get ready for this, WE HAD A SPARE.  What?  Who the Hell keeps a spare toaster?  Was my blunder so predictable that it merited an auxiliary toaster?

The lesson here?

Extra toasters are the glue that holds Mother's Day together.

If It Snows, I'm GoingTo Jail

It is supposed to snow again.  Let me make one thing perfectly clear.  If I see one more f**king snowflake, I'm taking a flamethrower to the whole damn atmosphere.  It's not a temperature thing, though.  I actually love the cold.  I just hate the snow for one very specific reason.  I can't wear my favorite shoes.  I'll elaborate.  I have incredibly flat feet and need custom (A.K.A expensive) orthodics.  If they get wet, they get ruined.  If they get ruined, my mom ruins me.  Why do the shoes make snow such a potential hazard?  Because these are my shoes.

You wear those in public?

 I am truly blessed to know you.

These are my Green Lantern Converse.  If you've never worn/owned Converse, I'll let you in on their biggest flaw.  They are made of canvas.  Ever get canvas wet?  It holds water like a Destination Maternity shopper.  If you step in a puddle while wearing Converse expect to have a very damp shoe for the rest of the day.  This also means wet socks and, in my case, wet expensive orthodics, neither of which is particularly enjoyable.

It's like walking around with a washcloth on your foot.

Or a big noodle.

So this means I have to wear my clunky boots.  I don't dislike my boots and they are nearly waterproof, but I much prefer the Green Lantern shoes.  Another thing about snow is that I find it inconvenient.  Not disastrous.  Not a nightmare.  Just plain inconvenient.  I hate knowing my car needs to be dug out.  I'll walk outside, see my walled in car, and have to stop myself from grabbing the shovel and side arming it through my neighbors window.

Not like that would dig my freaking car out.

I used to like snow, but I think leaving high school made me bitter.  Until college, snow meant school could be canceled, delayed, or let out early.  Now snow means, "Wake up extra early so you can take your below zero vehicle to school and nearly spin out and die three times."  What happened?  Either the definition of snow changes when you leave high school, or the definition of "Dangerous as hell" does.  I know school is important, but I'm not up for dying because some zagnut doesn't get that ice means slippery roads.

Speeding while it's snowing?

You better have a baby or a bullet wound.

The Earth has 10 minutes to change it's mind about the weather.  If it snows, fine.  I just want everyone to know that if you see a loon throwing firebombs straight up into the air on the news, it's me.  If I'm going down, the whole planet is coming with me.

Hear that, Earth?

You best pay your heat bill.  Now.

Welcome To The Wall

Disclaimer: I know I promised videos in this post, videos that I'm sure a good amount of you saw on my mom's blog already, but due to sound syncing, download difficulty, and matters of personal perfectionism, this post will not have those videos.  If I'm able to get quality videos I'm happy with, I will post them later in the week.  Until that time, enjoy the post I've been dying to do, sans videos.

And so, it begins.

I really love guitars.  Actually, I love stringed instruments (That includes pianos), but guitars are really my favorite.  I got my first guitar, a Starcaster that came with a guitar package, for my 14th birthday and loved it.  Good thing too because I absolutely sucked at playing and would never have continued the hours of torture if I didn't.  (If you or someone you know wants to learn to play a stringed instrument, know this.  Your finger tips will feel like they were run through a paper press for the first few months.)  I took lessons, but after the first year I bailed because they were boring and the teacher was a weirdo.

Not like touchy weird.

Like burn-out in short shorts weird.

After the first year or so, I had acquired SOME skill and felt like I was ready to move on to a real guitar.  I had no idea what I was looking for, what the difference between guitars was, what they sounded like, if they played well, nothing.  But off I went to Guitar Center and settled on a guitar based on... I don't know... The biased opinions of the salesmen?  Yeah, something like that.  (Note: If guitar salesmen seem like they are conning you, they probably are.)  I no longer own that guitar, but here's what it looked like.

Schecter C-1+

You wouldn't guess it, but this thing weighs a ton.

It was OK.  I had no understanding of how anything worked, so one was as good as the next.  I hung on to this sucker for maybe a year before I decided it just wasn't my style.

You sucked and had no style.

Being terrible was your style.

It's at this point that I can pull this post into the now.  Every guitar after that one I still own, so I'll explain the main point of my writing this.  I wanted to show you all my guitar wall.  Check it out.

And Part 2.

Yeah.  I know it's awesome.

Now that you've seen the guitar wall, I'll take you through the highlights.

When I returned the Schecter, I was looking for a wholly different sound and I found exactly what I was looking for.  The Washburn HB-35.

 

Ah, memories.

I loved this guitar from the moment I played it.  It's hard to describe the sound, but I can say it is a great jazz/rock 'n' roll guitar.  This is my oldest instrument and I will always have strong nostalgic love for it.  It played so amazing (And still does) that I'm sure it was the only reason I continued to play at all.  I was still a relatively new player and was getting VERY frustrated with how difficult it was to learn.  However, this guitar kept me in it for the long haul.  This guitar is kind of like the wise old man in my collection, if that makes sense.

It's the oldest, smells like dust, and has a long crack on the back.

But, it's invaluable.

Bellow that guitar hangs my mandolin.  I got it as a guitar school graduation present and I'm still trying to figure the damn thing out.  It's tuned like a guitar, just upside down, and that is harder to figure out than I imagined.  Nevertheless, it's a great sounding, unique little instrument and I'm glad I own it.

Clearly the baby of the family.

Now we've gotten to the big three, the main trio, the triforce.  These are my main instruments and I love them dearly.  Also, they have names.  Say what you will, these three guitars have personality and needed names.  This first one you may have seen in my Christmas Sum Up post.

I've named it since then.

Her name is Giselle.

My newest guitar, Giselle, is a Rodriguez nylon string acoustic/electric gypsy-style guitar.  (I know that's a mouthful, but you will live.)  I'm a big Django Reinhardt fan and I love gypsy jazz, so I asked for this guitar for Christmas.  Clearly I got it.  This is, without a doubt, the best sounding acoustic guitar I have ever heard.  The recordings (If I ever get them up) don't do it justice.  This guitar is a lady in a black dress.

Classy.

This next one is is the guitar I'm holding in my profile picture.  The picture is too small to see the subtle beauty, but I assure you it is there.  Tell me if you see the not-so-obvious appeal.

Do you see it?

You are seeing that correctly.  Turquoise sparkly fleck pain, a radio knob on the pickup selector switch, and all the retro coolness of Hanna-Barbera cartoons.  What you can't see is the white vinyl siding that runs along the side of the body.  Everyone, this is Flodazzle.  She is a Danelectro, complete with lipstick pickups and shoddy quality.  In a nutshell, Danelectros were guitars made by Sears using things that were already in stock.  They made the body out of plywood, ran vinyl along the side, and cut lipstick containers in half to make pickup covers.  These guitars run pretty cheap and are not going to blow you away with amazing sound, but look at that.  How could you not want it!?  I picked this glam girl up for $200 when I was working as a guitar tech.  I say worth it.  It can be difficult to get her to sound decent, but she is such a glamorous show piece that it's worth the effort.

If any of you are having childhood flashbacks, you're welcome.

Or I'm sorry.

The final guitar.  Oh mama...  I would marry this guitar if that made any conceivable sense.  This is my #1, top pick, complete favorite guitar.  Without further ado, here she is.

Lula Belle.

Hummana, hummana, hummana, hummana.

Lula Belle is my Gretsch Electromatic with custom pickups and a custom pickguard.  I'm a huge fan of rockabilly and nothing screams rockabilly like a Gretsch.  That is fact.  This guitar has seen me through everything.  I've done most of my learning/practicing on this guitar, I played live in front of over 200 people (Several times) with her, and I've even had her break.  A friend accidentally kicked the cable and pushed the input jack into the guitar, busting a hole in the side of the guitar.  The repair ended up being minor, but many nights were spend in a very deep depression.

There's people who have real problems, you know?

You do?  OK.

Let's take a closer look at my modifications.

 

Ah... So pretty.

Those are my gold TV Jones pickups.  (The bridge pickup is a TV Jones Classic and the neck pickup is a Magna'Tron, for those who were interested.)  The original pickups were admittedly dull, so I got them changed to something with a lot more kick.  The pickup combo I have installed is the same combo Brian Setzer uses (This was unintentional, but something I enjoy knowing).   Plus, the gold looks badass.  The sci-fi pinup pick guard I got from a site called Greasygroove.com.  I thought it was a nice touch to the rockabilly vibe the guitar already gave off.  Is Lula Belle the girl on the pick guard?  Nope.  I named the guitar before I got the pick guard.  As pretty as that girl is, I think Lula Belle is the real stunner.

You know who else has names?  Friends.

Get some.

I hope you've enjoyed this journey into my actual, non-absurd life.  I find all these pieces of wood quite spectacular.  Music is a huge part of my life, as I'm sure it is in many of your lives, and playing and collecting help me to connect to what I love.  To sum up, I'm a weirdo, but I'm a weirdo who plays guitar.  As far as I'm concerned, that makes me cool.  At least a little.  Partially?  A tiny bit?

I'll never be cool, huh?

Well at least I can be loud.  And what is better than that?

Here's To Not Having A Point

Seeing as my face is currently supersaturated with both pain and goo, I'm having trouble thinking clearly.  Therefore, here comes a litany of randomness.  You have been forewarned.

It is supposed to snow today.  Actually, let me rephrase that.  It IS going to snow today.  According to weather.com, there is a 100% chance of it snowing in my area.  I find this to be an exceptionally ballsy prediction.  I've heard a million times that weather is extremely difficult to predict, and yet here are these oracles of meteorology saying without a doubt, "YOU WILL SEE SNOW, BITCHES."  Not saying they are wrong, but way to put your necks in the proverbial guillotine.

Adam West is the best actor ever.  The original Batman is one of the most entertaining shows ever made.  Plus, it gets an additional funny factor for it's campiness and dated writing.  It is just so f**king goofy!  It is a half hour of puns and bat-(insert object here)s.  Bat-diamond, Bat-extension, Bat-boat, Bat-burger, you name it.  Awesome.  Also, West was on the panel in the game show 1vs. 100, and when they asked him why he knew the answer to a difficult question, he said, "Because I'm Adam West."  Yes.  Yes you are.

People give you odd looks when you and at least one other person enter a restaurant, ask for a booth, and sit on the same side of the booth.  You get the picture?  You and two friends sitting on the same side of the booth with nobody on the other side.  Seems insignificant, but it's not.  It weirds people out.  Try it.

Were roller skates ever cool?  Not acceptable, cool.  Did roller skates ever aide in the process of getting dates?  (Take formidable disco dancing skills from the equation.)  I'm going to guess no, but I will accept evidence supporting the other side.

I have two pet peeves.  One is when people use too instead of to or vice versa.  The other is when people don't use their blinkers when they are driving.  Is it really that hard?  Really?  I know these two things have nothing to do with each other, but they piss me off the exact same amount.  Just thought I'd share.

I'm ten seconds from passing out, so I will just say that I have a big post planned for next week.  I've wanted to do it for a while, and I think I finally can get to it.  Hint: It includes pictures AND videos!

The Funny Thing About Not Being Funny

Have you ever just not felt like being funny?  That is happening to me as I write this.  It is such a bummer of a feeling, too.  I want to be funny.  I enjoy being funny.  But when I sat down to be funny, I went, "Ugh no freaking way" and fell asleep.  Not exactly a firm foothold for a humor brainstorm.  Maybe my brain has some crossed wires from stress or a sleep cycle that more akin to a hitting a pinata than to a regular cycle.

Sometimes you hit it within a few minutes.

But most of the time you're 50 feet away and swinging blindly like a jackass.

One of the giant dampers on my funny is that I'm starting to feel sick.  I have that gross cold feeling.  You know, the one that comes along with everyone's favorite symptom.  Congestion.  Except my congestion is locating itself on only one side of my face at any given time.  Way to add insult to injury, body.  Not only did it fail to kick these germs' microbial asses, but now my nose has commitment issues.  One side?  Jesus!  I'm already uncomfortable! Just fill both sides so at least there is balance.  I don't want to play, "Will the mucus drain to the other nostril when you lie on your side, or stay put?"

From 2 to 6 players.

Secondly, like I said earlier, my sleep cycle is on it's damn head.  My day time has now switched from actual day time to 2 P.M. to 6 A.M.  give or take a few hours.  I've never been a good sleeper, but this is getting obnoxious.  I have to flip it around before school starts, but I've so far been completely unable to fix it.  At least my favorite TV shows are on in the early mornings.

70s-90s sitcoms and infomercials.

I love TV Land.

The Mega Millions lottery drawing was the other day.  We didn't win, but I never really expected to.  My mom asked me what I would use the money on if I won, and I told her nothing.  I don't want a lot of things.  I would prefer to just have it and never worry about money again.  However, upon further thought, I came up with something I wanted.  An octopus.

No I won't ever drop this.

Keeping one is insanely expensive and they don't live very long (A few months if they are the big ones.)  So, I decided I would adopt one from the WWF.  I would buy the 100 dollar package and make sure that octopus lived on easy street.  Then, I got the brilliant idea (Keyword brilliant) to adopt 10 of them.  Yep.  I would buy an octo-army.  Oh, and a Sumatran rhino.  For good measure, of course.

Best $1,100 ever spent.

The reason that one was included in the list is because we didn't win, so I lost my opportunity to own 10 octopi and a rhino.  That, to me, is an immense loss.  Anyway, I think I just wrote a funny post about how I didn't feel like being funny.  Hmm.  That kind of backfired.

Just roll with it.

Want to own your own army of octopi or other animals?  Here's the link: WWF Adoptions.

Assemble your forces today.

Tron: Mediocrity

I finally saw Tron: Legacy.  Final verdict: Eh.  I know that response was less than enthusiastic, but I just wasn't thrilled.  Chock it up to my love of the original hopelessly trapping me in the "Nothing will ever be as good" mindset, but I really just couldn't get into the movie.  It wasn't a bad movie, though it did have a decent number of faults, but it just didn't feel like Tron.  I went in to the movie with grand expectations and positivity.  However, I was simply unable to keep my upbeat attitude throughout the movie.

No matter how epileptic an flashy the movie was.

That was my first real complaint about the movie.  I didn't like the world the movie took place in.  It was supposedly the same place, but it looked entirely different.  Where as the world was once very basic, simple lines of neon light that formed a technological grid, the world is now a modernized, dark, city that is not all that dissimilar from New York.  It has streets, slums, alleys, skyscrapers, roads, and all the makings of your average city.  There in lies the problem.  The world of Tron is meant to be the inside of a computer,  a world composed of coding and programs.  The new world looks nothing like a computer-based world.  It looks more like a cross between Chelsea, New York and a rave.

Just some sharply contrasted orange and blue lines.

Was that so much to ask for?

That brings me to my second complaint.  This one has less to do with the movie and more with the timing.  I understand that Disney didn't want to rush out the sequel.  I understand that Disney wanted to wait for a script they felt did the franchise justice.  The problem is that they waited 28 years to make the movie and technology is now lightyears ahead of where it was in 1982.  Releasing a movie in 2010 that looked anything like Tron did in '82 would have been seen as blasphemous.  We have such advanced capabilities now that not creating a detailed, gritty, deep world wouldn't have been accepted.  Nerds like me would have been ecstatic, but there would've been an army of people who would have despised the movie for it's basic graphics.  While movies seem to have a responsibility to be over the top, I stand here and say, "Leave what works alone."

That, and stop destroying my childhood.

My last gripe with the movie was that there was a lack of games and action.  In the first film, Flynn gets trapped in the computer world and is taken prisoner.  He had to fight in gladiatorial games and take on various baddies in order to survive long enough to find a way home.  The plot was simple.  Light-cycle/Light-disk/Fight through enough obstacles and eventually find a way home.  This time around, the games felt like they were put in as a fan service.  The  Light-disk fights were well shot and eye catching, but lacked a sense of danger or weight.  It felt more like watching two guys play racket ball in black jumpsuits than a fight to the death.

If that's your thing, you'll love these fights.

Nothing says danger like ping-pong and spandex.

The Light-cycle battle was really the same way.  It was significantly more stunning than the original, but it just didn't feel like a life or death situation.  When someone hit a wall in the original, that person straight up exploded, screaming bloody Hell before turning into dust.  Tron: Legacy pulls the realism card (A weird choice given the subject matter, if you ask me), and has the Light-cyclists get into realistic motorcycle crashes which send them cartwheeling all over the floor.  It was interesting the first time, but seeing eight people get beaten the same way just gets boring.  They didn't scream, they didn't explode, they just hit the wall, flipped, and disappeared.

Much like one hit wonders or 90s child stars.

Oh, Macaulay.  You derezzed a long, long time ago.

It wasn't a total bomb, though.  Jeff Bridges was awesome.  I won't give away spoilers, but he is two characters in the film and if one is not in the scene, the other sure is.  It could have been overloading, but he's so much fun to watch that it never got to that point.  Plus, he was Jeff Bridges playing Jeff Bridges.  He ended almost every sentence with "man" and he said the line, "You're screwing up my zen."  That, in itself, was worth the watch.  I can't say all the acting in this movie was grade A (Or C), but Bridges is really fun to watch.  If you like him and don't see yourself getting worked up over the details of the movie, check it out.

Note: This may be the only time you'll see him dressed like Jesus.

Worth every cent.

Believe me.  I have lots more to say about this movie, but I may very well end up writing more than anyone would be willing to read.  (I believe you already hit that point, chief.)  The end result is that if you liked the first one, you'll dig the new one.  If you adored the first one, there is a lot to be desired.  I'll give it a C.  Not offensive, but left much to be desired.

Like food that's only slightly discolored.

Try, Try, And Try Again Until You Give Up Ten Seconds In

One of my goals as of late has been to be as productive as I can whenever possible.  I have books I want to read, books I'm in the process of writing, blog networking to do, and a variety of other daily ins and outs that need to be done.  My problem is that I can get into this rut of laziness and procrastination.  I would look at a massive book, first in line being Joseph Heller's Catch-22, and say, "Boy howdy, that looks so much more difficult than lying on my bed until post-nasal drip fills my lungs with mucus and I am lulled to sleep by my lack of Oxygen."  Writing a book is like having to climb up the outside of the Sears Tower, and when you're halfway up someone leaps onto your back and spends the rest of the climb punching your temples.  And Blog Networking drives me nuts sometimes, as I can't seem to find a solid foothold within any established group to expand my viewership.

Relying on an already established community to get viewers?

Sellout.

Don't get me wrong, though.  I have pulled off some very intense projects that lazy procrastinators just could not muster the motivation to do.  For example: For a costume party, I made a replica of Link's Hylian shield from Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time out of cardboard, acrylic paint, duct tape, and brown fabric.  Observe.

Here's the original.

Yeah.  I'm just that awesome.

If you read my mom's blog, you already know about the Ace of Cakes style Yoda cake my friends and I crafted.  (Here's a link to it, if you've never read it: Yoda Cake.)  It was a exhausting endeavor, but we finished this masterpiece.

Note: The light-saber was attached later.  Sadly, no photos of it exist.

Plus, I do whatever literary voodoo I do here almost every day.  (Being as weird as me every day can be quite taxing.)  So, clearly I'm not always a lazy bum, but when I am, it's really bad.  I have days where I will get up at three in the afternoon, shamble downstairs like some kind of undead weeble, refuse to spend the time to make food, and go back upstairs to sleep off the hunger.  Sometimes I don't even make it that far.  There have been days where I will be on the couch, let's say, and I will announce loudly, "I am hungry."  I will then look at the kitchen, a mere ten feet away, notice my legs have not moved themselves yet, and go, "Well, guess I'm not eating today."

You have all done the exact same thing, so hush.

Or don't.  Whatever.  I'm not leaving the bed to find you.

I don't know what the big deal is for me.  It's like I see the kitchen, a room that is no farther than 25 feet away from any place in the whole house, and my brain equates it to having to complete the Tour De France on a pogo stick.  This used to be a huge problem for me, too.  (The lack of motivation thing, not the pogo stick thing.)  I got demolished in high school because of it, and I'm only now learning to cope with it in college.  Once I get some structure in my days, the rest seems to fall into place.  I was so much more productive when school was still in.  My school is out for another few weeks, but I honestly can't wait to get back to the regular flow of it.  I'm so tired of being this obnoxiously unmotivated.

But I'm not going to do anything about it.

Motivation is just too hard/too far away/too much work.

He May Be Scary, But He's No Batman

This weekend, some friends and I rented Nightmare on Elm Street.  We had all seen the original, but nobody had seen the 2010 remake. So with an enthusiastic "Yeah, whatever," we rented the flick.  I have to say that I enjoyed the movie.  I had heard some negative reviews on it, but I think fanboys were just being picky and overly sensitive.  For example, I had heard that people were upset about Freddy's new make up.

Old Freddy:

 

New Freddy:

 

They are not terribly different, the newer one just being far less dramatic.  The criticism was that New Freddy looked less like Old Freddy and more like a real burn victim.  Excuse me if I'm wrong, but wasn't Freddy killed by being burned alive?  I think he was, nerdlings.  So, wouldn't your criticism imply that the makeup artists more accurately depicted what Freddy would look like?

Elitist fanboys, you have been, dare I say...

Burned.

This post is not intended to tear nerdy fanboys apart.  I am guilty of being a massive nerd myself.  In fact, this post may actually dig me deeper into the inescapable pit of nerd culture than I already am.  While watching Nightmare on Elm Street, a thought popped into my head.  What if Freddy invaded someone's dream who could beat him?  And not just beat him, whip his ass.  What if Freddy, by way of some misguided dream-jacking, ended up in Batman's dream?  What would happen?

Whatever would happen, it would be better than Freddy VS. Jason.

I feel like Freddy would enter the dream, try to control it, but would immediately get cracked in the ribs by a Bat-punch.  Freddy would probably try a counter attack, only to be clipped by a Batarang.  Before Freddy knew which way was up, Batman would have Bat-grappled up into the rafters, spout off lines about justice and how "He is the night", and glided down with a Bat-drop kick.  It is my firm belief that Freddy would get fully and completely jacked up.

Sorry, Freddy.

Utility belts make a gigantic difference.

I know the situation is unlikely, as I'm nearly positive Elm Street isn't in Gotham City, but what if?  Freddy could get himself into a heap of trouble if he wasn't careful with his dream-jumping.  What if Freddy, a hunter of unfortunate teenagers, had a run in with a significantly better hunter?  The Predator.  (For clarification purposes, I will tell you that this situation is, in fact, awesome.)  If you have ever seen Predator, then you know that only Schwarzenegger, Glover, Brody, or Aliens stand a chance against the Predator.  Is there a Krueger on that list?  No there is not.

Claws don't help against the Predator.

What with the shoulder-mounted laser cannon and all...

I like Freddy.  He is a solid horror icon.  He is just no match against Batman or the Predator.  It's an unusual point to make, but I feel compelled to make it.  As I said earlier, I feel as though I've just  dug a very nerdy grave.  Oh, well.  I get to think about fun things like this and you don't, so there.  The moral of the story is... Be nice to nerds or Batman and the Predator will kill you in you're sleep...

That doesn't sound right...

No. No, that's exactly what I was trying to say.