Last Things First

A letter...and a request

2006-09-13T21:50:00.000-07:00

I got a letter last week. Like, a real one.

For those of you who can't recall what that is, a letter is one of those antiquated means of communication where people use a writing utensil to scribble words on a piece of paper to convey a series of thoughts or feelings. It's much like a Myspace comment, just slower, handwritten, more personal, and not immediate. And a letter is more likely to make people actually think about what they write. You have no delete key on a writing tablet, which forces people to formulate coherent thoughts before committing them to unerasable tangibility. You wouldn't see "yo dawg call me we cann grab sum brews at da club lata" in a letter, mostly because someone that would type that, well, probably wouldn't write.

So, the letter. It was from a great-uncle I haven't seen in thirteen years. I was ten at the time and it was for my great-grandmother's funeral. That was the last time I talked to him before I saw him two weeks ago for another funeral, this time for his sister. We talked briefly and I gave him my business card. Three days later I got a written letter from Uncle George delivered to my office. I was almost confused. I didn't know how to handle a mail-delivered letter; that kind of thing doesn't really happen anymore. I've received cards and gifts in the mail, but I can't accurately remember the last time I got a hand-written letter delivered courtesy of the United States Postal Service. I think it was from Brooke, my short-lived third grade pen pal from another Catholic elementary school in Fresno. Even when I was nine I thought the name Brooke was hot, but was disappointed when she sent me a picture and I thought she looked like a squirrel.

The letter naturally came as a surprise. It was reassuring in a non-technological kind of way, in the respect that it is nice to know that not everybody relies on the internet as the sole method of communication with others. Phone calls, while a step up from e-mail and hundreds of steps up from Myspace, still isn't as genuine a form of contact as a hand-written letter. Forethought is a prerequisite. It takes time. It takes patience. It takes a level of dedication to the recipient that you don't necessarily need with an e-mail. With a letter you have to set aside the time to mull over the right words you put on paper because once it's written, it's there. You have to consider handwriting, legibility, and signature. Do you scratch out a wrong word or do you start over? You use white-out? Do you write in uppercase, printing, cursive, or some crazy mix between all three? Do you write on front and back, or just front? Pen or pencil? What color? Lined paper of freeform? How dark do you write? You don't want to write too heavily because if you're writing front and back both sides become illegible from pressing too hard. All these things simply don't exist in e-mails, which all lead to the absence of a very distinct sense of personality and tone. In a hand-wriiten letter you just get a more accurate feel of the person writing.

Effective communication is now synonymously (and erroneously) linked with immediate communication, and anything that is less than immediate is deemed absolutely useless. If you cannot reach someone the second you attempt to, communication as a whole in considered a complete failure, and because of this, letter writing is now lying dead in a pile with VHS tapes and year-old computers. The chief unspoken "rule" of Myspace has perverted the concept of communication, and the rule is as follows: you leave a "comment" on someone's page, and regardless of how insanely insignificant the comment is, you are obliged to return the comment with an equally insignificant response within a reasonable time period (i.e., 0-12 hours). Content is absolutely irrelevant here in Myspaceland, and it's killing how we even think about the way we communicate with others; we talk to people on here just because we can. We don't have anything to say, but since there's a picture of you associated with our social networking website, we will force unnecessary banter and demand instantaneous response. With our Blackberrys, text messages, IMs, and Myspace we are being conditioned to expect immediacy, and as a society we are evolving into genetically impatient people. We have 20 minute photo labs, 24-7 customer service call centers for entertainment consumer products, and computers that can perform trillions of operations per second. Efficiency of communication does not necessarily depend on speed of communication, but rather the ability to properly convey and interpret something meaningful.

So I wrote Uncle George a letter in response. It was one page, front-side only, written in moderately-pressed black ink with all caps. I signed-off with "Love, your nephew Ryan" near the bottom right part of the lined yellow page and scribbled my rock-star signature to finish it off. I then folded it neatly into an envelope I stole from work, addressed it, went to the post office to buy a stamp, and mailed it off. Now I'm waiting with anxious anticipation to receive the next letter. The whole process was strangely exciting. Sure, it takes more time, but it feels more rewarding in the end, which brings me here.

I'm making a request to all people reading this, even if it's only the same three people who even read my stuff: write a letter to someone you know. It will feel weird. It'll feel a little uncomfortable just because you'll have to think about it in a completely different way than if you were writing an e-mail. It will give you a greater appreciation (or at least it should) for genuine communication. It'll make Myspace look more ludicrous than it already is. Just give it a shot.

But of course, you'll probably have to Myspace the person to get their address first.

Stuff + Cats = Awesome

2006-07-23T20:04:00.000-07:00

I enjoy my weekends. I do stuff like, sit down, watch stuff, eat things, drink liquids, and waste time. I read Calvin and Hobbes and watch movies I've seen hundreds of times before. I play guitar and annoy my neighbors in doing so. I spend my weekdays working for the man and getting little to no appreciation for it, so I figure my weekends should be the complete opposite of anything closely related to my professional life. So today, for example, I had two corn dogs, a PB&J, a bowl of strawberry oatmeal, a Newcastle and a Sprite for breakfast, all while sitting in my boxer-briefs, playing with my new computer and watching the edited version of Tomcats on FX. Between bouts of photo editing sessions and absolute mindlessness I went browsing. I stopped by the Hot Librarian, laughed, and then somehow stumbled onto one of the most insanely hilarious things I've ever come across, period . <---- (there's the period)

The site is www.stuffonmycat.com and the premise is very simple:

1. People have cats
2. They put stuff on those cats
3. They take pictures of stuff on their cats
4. They send the pictures of stuff on their cats to www.stuffonmycat.com

I know you're thinking: "Why the hell didn't I come up that? I've always liked putting stuff on my cat and laughing at it. It's funny. It's stuff on a cat; of course it's funny. Granted, I've never considered taking a picture of my cat with stuff on it, but I should've thought of that first. It's ingenius. Brilliant. Prodigious, even." So I almost barfed from laughing so hard. I fell on the floor and couldn't breathe, which made me choke on the spit in the back of my throat (if you know me, you know exactly what I'm talking about). I had to cough forcefully to regain control of myself, which then made me dry heave, when then almost made me wet heave.

It may just be because I'm an idiot, or that I have no friends in LA and I'm borderline autistic, but the whole concept of the website almost made me shat myself out of pure, unadultered hilarity. There are thirteen categories of stuffonmycat.com, ranging from "food on my cat" to "naughty stuff on my cat", which includes bras on cats, cigarettes on cats, and tiny-sombrero-wearing cats with Jack Daniels and guns (cool stuff on cats). And the slogan is equally ingenious and correspondingly amusing: "stuff + cats = awesome".

It's funny 'cause it's true.

The Littlest Shit

2006-07-08T20:18:00.000-07:00

It was time for the Jones family to upgrade our antiquated kitchen set. The wheeled chairs were light brown pleather and squeaked when my sister and I had spinning contests before dinner. Naturally I'd win because I weighed more but that never stopped her in a spin duel. The chairs reclined slightly and had a brassy gold base that matched the legs of the peculiarly large table. And it was a beast of a table. Because the oval tabletop was so wide, the base had to be extended so that it wouldn't be top-heavy. It fit four, maybe five people, but because of the golden spider-like legs and King Arthur tabletop, it should've fit closer to ten. Either way, it was hogging up the dining room and was an embarrassing eyesore we needed to get rid of.

So my Dad put an ad in the paper, and we got two phone calls. The first person ended up flaking on us, but the second one was more promising. In the midst of initial phone discussion my Mom heard the high-pitched yaps of puppies in the background and asked the potential table owner about them. They were Chihuahua breeders and just had a batch. Herd. Litter. Whatever. This was coincidentally the same time my parents were considering a dog, preferably a smaller one that wouldn't be too big for us kids. I was eight and Jenna was six. My mom put the woman on hold and we congregated around the table like generals in the war room, and after a brief family talk we decided to offer a deal with the second caller. The deal was: you give us our Chihuahua of choice and $100, and you get yourself a massive table courtesy of the Jones family dining room. Within the hour the woman came over to view the table with her husband, the deal was offered and accepted, and we were quickly on our way to owning a tiny dog.

The next day we went to the family's small apartment a few miles from us and I wondered how the gargantuan table would even fit in there. But the thought fled as quickly as it came, for I didn't care because I was going to get a dog. My own dog! But this small dog wouldn't be my first pet. In kindergarten I won two goldfish at a school carnival and named them Bert and Ernie. Bert and Ernie were everything you could ever ask for in a pair of goldfish: quiet, cramped, and gold. They enjoyed the confines of their small tank with fake coral and fluorescent colors that would serve as their home, and it was understood that I would be responsible for feeding and taking care of the new Joneses. Unfortunately my parents must not have been aware of the fact that I was five years old. I once forgot to put on my underwear before school and was terrified when I went to the bathroom to discover I was freeballin' it. I'm pretty sure I started crying because I didn't know what was going on, but after a few moments of confusing silence I collected myself and went back to my place on the floor to play the kazoo with the rest of the class. I was obviously not suited for this type of responsibility, and one morning before leaving for school I checked my buddies' tank and found both of them floating atop the unnaturally blue water. I called my Mom over and, once again, started crying because seeing her face made me realize they were more than sleeping. Of course I forgot to feed them the night before, and in doing so forced my two aquatic friends into an eternal dirt nap, or water nap. I'm not really sure if that phrase applies to water. But whatever the phrasing, Kindergarten was a bitch that day. After returning home from a long day of gruesome mental imagery we waited for my Dad where my Mom gave him the bad news. We then had a funeral for the dearly beloved and the Jones family huddled around our guest bathroom toilet, said some heartfelt words about Bert and Ernie, and gave them their proper burial.

So this whole new dog thing was big for me. Thankfully I was a couple years older and knew what it felt like to lose a friend--nay, two friends. When we walked inside the under-lit apartment the dogs were yapping loudly because of the doorbell. We walked over to the dogs feeding from their mother and our Chihuahua of choice was obvious. There were three to choose from and two of them just looked stupid. Like, retarded stupid. The one we chose had light, golden brown hair, a fat, dark snout, a snow white belly, and didn't look nearly as retarded as the other ones. By default Chihuahuas will always look dumb but this pudgy one was just cuter than your run-of-the-mill, long faced, shaky little rodent. They got their table and we got our dog; it was the perfect barter.

We had to wait an eternal two weeks before finally getting him, but once he brought him home he was an immediate member of the Jones family. For about a month we didn't have a name for him and called him everything from "Max" to "Little Shit" (well, my Dad called him "Little Shit". I didn't start to experiment with cussing until the seventh grade). One morning while rummaging through my sister's closet for some reason I came across an old Ziggy calendar my parents had from the late 70s. Ziggy was a greeting card character created by comic artist Tom Wilson in 1971 that developed into a full-blown comic syndication. It still appears in hundreds of newspapers around the world, and the Ziggy character is the spokesperson for The National Foster Parent Association. The name seemed like a good fit for our chubby, affable dog, so from then on the first canine member of our family was forever known as Ziggy.

But throughout the years he was called many things. "Little Shit" often turned into "That Goddamn Little Piece of Shit" when he ran away, "Stupid Ass Dog" when he'd shit on the carpet once a year just to keep us on our feet, and "Stinky Shit Dog" when he ran through the sprinklers then immediately came to sit next to us on the couch. A friend of mine called him "Chris" because he reminded him of the late Chris Farley's happy-go-lucky fatness, and a slightly less intelligent friend called him "Pico" for reasons unknown to anyone. But regardless of what you called him, Ziggy was always the kicked-back fatty who was eager to hump your forearm if you riled him up. Sometimes he just wouldn't care and would attack your arm if you were picking up a quarter off the ground. Other times he'd snuggle his way under you while watching TV and then slowly make his move. All of a sudden you'd look down and he was making love to your elbow. We decided that we had to do one of two things with his burgeoning hormones: breed him, or neuter him. We decided both.

When I was a junior in high school I had a friend who lived behind us that had a female full-bred Chihuahua named Lady. We waited until Lady was in heat and let them loose in my friend's backyard. Ziggy did not treat her like a lady and impregnated that little bitch with four puppies. We took one, named him Roscoe, and neutered Ziggy a week after he was born. A couple years later we tried breeding Roscoe but lost hope after he couldn't figure it out. Ziggy's sex drive was not passed down to this particular offspring, and neither was his intelligence. Roscoe is about as smart as a pile of hair, and because of it, is a bit more entertaining than his dad. So after we chopped off Ziggy's nuts (my Dad rarely uses the term "neuter" for some reason) he mellowed out even more and basically just ate and slept. He was a sad Chihuahua with no testicles, but on a couple occasions I walked into a room and he'd be air-humping with a desperate look in his eye, kind of like the soldier that loses a limb during war yet still believes he can utilize the arm after its amputated. But Ziggy didn't have a ghost limb, he had ghost balls, and I think he secretly resented my Dad for it.

But as he got older Ziggy had more important things to worry about than his lack of manhood. A little over a year ago he was diagnosed with the canine equivalent of leukemia. Then his hearing went. Next were cataracts. Finally were prostate problems, which caused him to scream when he peed and fall over when he shit. It hurt him so much to he'd prop himself upwards to relieve the tension, but just end up cramping over and giving up. So he rarely ate and lost a lot of weight, making him go from Chris Farley to David Spade in the matter of a couple months.

Yesterday Ziggy had a stroke. Jenna found him in the morning still alive but paralyzed, so my family finally took him to the vet and put him to sleep around 11:00am. We got Ziggy when I started the third grade, and I'm now a year out of college. I had him when I learned how to multiply and when I learned how to write a corporate memo. He was my dog when I had my first crush and when I experienced my first adult heartbreak. From elementary school through college, that little dog has been a big part of my life. So the next time you're out having a drink, drink a beer in remembrance of Ziggy. That Little Shit will be missed.

Jillian Barberie makes me want to projectile vomit.

2006-06-21T09:32:00.000-07:00

Moving to a new city means you have get used to lots of new things. Things like new freeways, restaurants, people, grocery stores, murder rates. Also on that list is new news. For the past 23 years of my lovely little life I've been soothed by the calming newscasts of car-thefts and meth stings in Fresno, so after I got to LA I had to find a good newscast to present the events of crazy LA, and one of the first ones I previewed was Fox. Fox reporters/anchors tend to be a little more unrestricted and casual in their presentation, which is nice, up to a certain degree. I don't want my news people lecturing me with Ben Stein monotony, but I also don't want them belching on camera. I want a personable yet professional reporter giving me my news. But when I watched Fox there was a whole other ballgame with Jillian Barberbie: the antithesis to everything good and right in news broadcasting.

For those of you lucky enough to not live in LA, Jillian Barberie is the obnoxious assclown that is one part of the tripartite Fox 11 morning show, Good Day LA. Tabloid annoyance Dorothy Lucey and neutral old guy Steve Edwards finishes off the awkward threesome for a strange mix between scathing, menopausal bitchiness and unscripted, mindless banter. You also may know Barberie as the scratchy-voiced crackwhore that farted out the weather on the Fox NFL Sunday show in 2000. She doesn't exactly belch on air, but she talks about it. And her ass. And how she thinks she cool with every celebrity in Hollywood. Now, back in Fresno we had quality news reporters like John Wallace, Nick Ryan, Kim Stephens, and a truly hot anchorlady, Heidi Watney. Heidi is best known for pissing off Bill Murray at a Pebble Beach golf tournament where he called Kopi a loser. Bill just wasn't being a jerk; Kopi really is a loser. And Heidi Watney is pretty hot. And Nick Ryan molested little boys, but if you're not from Fresno you'd never know my Nick Ryan reference was sarcasm. But now you know, and you're a better person for it.

But the real story here is not about the baldness Kopi is trying so hard to disguise or Heidi's acctractiveness, but about how much Jillian sucks. And also how much she looks like a foot. For instance, a couple months ago she brought on her tiny novelty dog and drank her coffee from a silver chalice. Apparently she's a humanitarian and saves retarded poodles--which is fine--but no self-respecting, professional news person would bring a dog on-air to display just for the hell of it. She's basically the Paris Hilton of the broadcasting world, just a little older and has a bigger wang. She is manageable in small doses--like if you don't have to hear or look at her--but once she comes on screen and opens her mouth, it's unadulterated, unrelenting verbal flatulence. And apparently the gas is contagious and easily soaked up by her dim-witted fans. The proceeding quote was taken from the ultimatejillianbarberieclub on Yahoo groups:

"TO DAY IN THE MORNIG I SEEN JILLIAN LOOKING VERY GOOD THAN BEFORE SHE HAS A LITTLE BIT BURN BUT SHE STILL LOOK VERY HOT I GALD THAT SHE IS FINALY BACK I REALLY MISS HER."

I'm aware that my half-assed criticism has been about how she looks or how retarded she sounds, without really giving any examples. And I probably won't, other than quoting her moronic fans or drawing attention to her monstrous package. There are plenty of people out there that look far more slutty and/or ridiculous than Jillian Barberie, I suppose my whole problem with her is that she's one of those women who think she's hot because lots of horny dudes said they'd bang her, and because of her newfound knowledge she gratuitously shows off her cans and dresses like a Beverly Hills harlot, AND that she displays it so gratutitously on TV. Reporting the news or weather or whatever it is that she reports should insist on at least a moderate level of class and professionalism, but she blows the hinges right off that door every time she flaunts her rawhide boobs and yaps about guys touching her 40 year old ass on air.

So what it basically comes down to, is this: I think Jillian Barberie has a penis.

A twisted kind of optimism

2006-06-02T16:09:00.000-07:00

I've always been a passionate guy.

And I don't mean the sweaty, long-haired, shirt off, Fabio kind of passion, but the kind of passion that drives a person to do what they love regardless of its financial or real world impracticality. It's the kind of passion that won't even consider getting a job that "just pays the bills", even though you hate it. Its the kind of ridiculousness that makes a person want to be poor. It doesn't matter what I love at any given time, whether that be a book, a job, a woman, an entire field of study; if I'm interested in something it's 100%. But 100% for like...a chapter...or a month...or a failed six month relationship...or a semester. My passion is strong but fleeting. If I love you now, be careful. I may not love you next Thursday.

And it scares the shit out of me because up until now my life has been completely driven by those evanescent passions; passions that fulfill me for the minute but vanish twice as quickly as they came. I changed my major four times. I have hundreds of 1/4 finished books. I was really Catholic for a year. I have 20 amazing introductory paragraphs for 20 non-conceptualized novels. I thought I was always going to be an aggressive in-line skater or a baseball player. I'm no longer playing music; something I swore to myself I'd do forever. Theres a natural rush in discovering anything thats new and unknown, but after the unknown moves into the realm of the known it loses its intrigue; it loses its initial ability to captivate and mystify. Thats a normal feeling for most people and is also why the first few months of a relationship are--while exciting and emotional--realistically artificial, pretentious, or even delusional. The heart of a relationship lies in the period after the butterflies have flown. But my problem is that I strive on that feeling. I need the feeling of freshness to satisfy my desire for something new. I get bored with the known and need to find, create, and discover another unknown.

So professionally, I'm now at a job that--while completely unrelated to my ludicrous Philosophy studies--pays me well and for the time I actually enjoy. But I have to compare the situation with my past track record, and the way things have been going my excitement for this job should be taking a turn for the blasé in T minus three to six months. But my job is a close derivative of my most current and most promising future: photography. Of course this hobby should be yet another transitory interest until I start picking up zoology or woodworking or whatever outlandish creative enterprise comes strolling my way next. Thankfully, however, at the heart of photography is exactly what I need; something that must be consistently present in order to keep me interested in just about anything.

Writing takes time. It takes lots of time, and for someone that's a little lazy that's not a good thing. So when I feel like writing I will, but may lose the desire to put a sentence together halfway through the first paragraph. And if I don't want to write, sorry, but Im not writing shit. And it's the same idea for music: if I want to write a song I need to feel inspired or some bullshit, so to put something down I have to take the time to create the sound I want in my head, transpose it to guitar, figure out a sexy chord progression, add some cool guitar voicings to avoid sounding boring, find a tempo and the rhythm, and string it all together seamlessly. That takes time too, and lots of it. Dammit. But photography is intrinsically that rush of innovation, over and over again, but in a fraction of a second. I represent the world how I want to see it and it all happens in the same amount of time it takes me to blink my eye. I then reframe and do it again. And again. And again. In 1/125 of a second I express myself in the same manner that I do when it takes me a month to write a song, or a week to write a page. Every picture I shoot is a completed melody. Its that first paragraph. Its a whole semesters worth of Philosophy. Its another girlfriend.

And its not that there's less there substantially. Its just more compact than a piece of music or a book. In one photograph you see a multifaceted arrangement of perspective, composition, saturation, depth of field, color, lack of color, focus, movement. You see a whole story wrapped into a 4x6 frame. Most importantly, it's an ongoing creative process that's much more time efficient but just as rewarding as any other method of creativity I've engaged in so far. And that's why I have a feeling this is actually going to stick. I've been worried--very worried--that this interest will piddle away like everything else in my life that's piddled into nonexistence. This is just more substantial because it's the only passion so far that has paid me. It's creating my way of living right now, and I enjoy my way of living right now. But I will not do something I don't enjoy. Call it selfish, impractical, or downright stupid; I just won't subject myself to the kind of professional monotony that will drive me to insanity before I'm thirty.

So here I am, taking pictures and enjoying it. And I would've never thought that a part time job at Longs a few years ago would lead me to a career that I love more than music, but for now I'm thankful and happy, and I guess that's all I can really ask for...for now.

Forlorn Singles

2006-05-02T18:23:00.000-07:00

He shuffled through the sock drawer, eternally rummaging for the missing matching sock. Black, argyle, striped, gold toe, flannel, crew and athletic; they were all forlorn singles with no visible partner. He found the master and dug with fervent aggression into the drawer to find its potential counterpart. It was a crisp, black gold toe -- calf-high and well into the upper echelons of snugness and comfortability -- but its temporary sole mate was a limpy grey dress sock with faint argyle stitching that had once seen its heyday at least three pairs of shoes before. But despite the obvious mismatch, it was still the closest match despite the sea of socks swimming in the madness of his drawer at the time. How we wished he could find a matching sock for once. One day is all that would suffice for him to have the homey comfort of knowing that the strips of cotton covering his feet were were of the same origin. But the daily deception worked, and it was only he and the sock that knew of the shameful little secret. Nobody else could tell it was a complex scheme designed to tricking everyone into believing he could find a sock that simply matched another one.

Something.

2006-02-26T12:45:00.000-08:00

The first time I got in trouble was in the first grade. I was a polite five year old with a perpetual part on the right side of my clean cut head, nice shoes, and a healthy lunch packed by a nurturing mother who has and will continue to love me like the five year old she will always see me as. Layered in my baby blue polo and royal blue St. Helen’s sweatshirt, the class of thirty stood anxiously with our hands clasped in front of our stomachs, waiting for the end of day prayer announcement to beam over the school intercom. After a few seconds of first grade silence—which has never been, nor will ever be real silence, but more of a compromise, in which the silence is substituted for the fidgety movements, innocent chuckles, and snot-sleeved sniffles of any normal five year old—a speeding ambulance drove by on the street in front of the school with its sirens and lights blazing. Instantaneously and almost intuitively, the well mannered boy we know as Ryan belted out a “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” that mimicked the tone and timbre of the passing siren. I didn’t even think about it. I just heard the siren and for some strange—and still unknown—reason, I had to react. And it had nothing to do about being compelled or inspired to do it, but as if it were the proper and only action necessary for that situation: a siren screams and a nice Catholic boy mimics it.

So the class laughed. Shit, I laughed, and even experienced my first sense of peer acceptance. I was the cool/funny/stupid kid who screamed in class during a time of prayer, so I enjoyed the pride for a couple seconds as I looked around the room and saw the kids smiling, but was petrified when I returned back to prayer time and heard Devecchio grunt out “What was that?” Miss Devecchio was the kind of teacher that, in retrospect, seemed prone to alcoholism and bouts of homicidal tendencies. She had the eerie presence of the wicked witch of the west and even had the grotesque facial exaggerations and stringy strands of brittle hair to complete the comparison. I don’t ever recall her being nice, or even pleasant, and served as the archetypal “bad teacher” for me throughout my 18 years of schooling. She probably had a lot of cats, and loved them all more than she had loved any human.

The silence that proceeded the question was not the first grade kind, but to my knowledge the first and only historical instance of its adult counterpart of true, “oh shit” silence in a first grade setting. “You’re all staying for five minutes after the bell rings” she said with a snarl as the class gasped and whined. “If anyone talks, it’s another five minutes.” I remember thinking she was going to beat me after class. We stood there motionless and scared as convicts awaiting their sentences, but thankfully she didn’t beat me; she didn’t do or say anything to anyone after those eternal five minutes were up and she let us leave with a haunting “okay, bye.” Worried parents came closer to the room during that time since nobody was let out, and after we left no one said a word to me. In the course six minutes I was both the funniest and the most hated first grader at St. Helen’s.

An Update

2005-12-14T21:51:00.000-08:00

1. I currently live in an upscale, urban crevice somewhere between the San Bernardino Mountains and the frantic I-10. Golf courses, Beamers, palm trees and newly-designed apartment complexes are staple fixtures in this swanky little town, and sleek glass buildings scaling fifteen floors line bustling industrial streets. Firms and agencies and logistics and headquarters of varying corporate enterprises stand tall while consumers of the greater Los Angeles area flock to outlet malls and trendy restaurants strategically placed throughout the metropolitan. Cars weave from the slow to fast lane and the fast to no lane in a heartbeat; the pace of life down here is bizarre and it’s never more evident than when I drive. But despite the overall chaos that runs unadulterated in this region, there is a calming, natural beauty in the geography.

Around four o’clock every evening the sun starts to head home for the night and the sky begins to fade from a subtle blue into a thick, deep lavender that eventually attaches itself onto the landscape beneath it. The sun grows more intense as it kamikazes the West, and after the sky is saturated with the residue of a setting sun the Santa Ana winds come racing inland and push thin strings of grey clouds into a sultry swagger, making them glide across the sky like an eloquent dancer. Every single night pastel sunsets burn the sky with a colorful gradient that makes any dusk-time drive a potential panoramic masterpiece. The days here are sub-par, but the evenings are so beautiful it makes up for the lack of daytime color. So if I combine the massive mountains to my direct north, the amazingly picturesque sunsets, the incredible dusks, the strands of dancing clouds, and the overall interestingness down here, I really come to realize I’m not in Fresno anymore.

It’s different here for sure, but it’s a well-needed switch from the security of a smaller city. Plus, the sunsets are amazing. I’m sure when the traffic and the egos and the rudeness of LA’s inhabitants starts to sink in I’ll be singing a different tune—but for now, I’ll enjoy it.

2. It’s no surprise that Southern California has an incredible inability to define seasons, which is definitely a major contrast between it and home—rather, my old home—where there were basically two seasons: summer and winter, with a month of a collective fall and spring. Here, however, it’s pretty much spring year-round. So two weeks ago when it was Thanksgiving and most normal people were wearing sweaters and slippers and bundling up with loved ones around a cozy fireplace, I was by myself watching Family Guy in a t-shirt and shorts; it was 87 degrees.

3. Hotels and airplanes are not so exciting anymore.

4. There's more, but I forgot about what. I'll rack my brain and come back tomorrow and give the excuse that it was ultimately unimportant--which is true--but I really just won't remember.

My return, only to prepare for my departure.

2005-11-05T17:06:00.000-08:00

1. Today my Dad non-chalantly asked "So did you hear about that cruise ship that was hijacked by pirates?" I lost it. Apparently it really happened somewhere off the Somalian coast, but it struck me as incredibly hilarious at the moment. They were pirates. That's awesome. It was the funniest thing I've heard all month.

2. The scariest thing I've heard all month: I got a new job in L.A. and have to move away from everything I've ever known in less than one week. Even though I've had over a week to let the news soak in while I awkwardly switch from one life to the next, it still doesn't seem to be happening in reality. For the longest time I planned this as some idealistic event that would happen sometime in the future; I was consoled by its separation from the reality of it actually happening. I knew that once it happened I would freak out, but it wasn't something I had to worry about then because it was still "off in the future". But now it's here and I think I've somehow managed to keep myself in the same mentality even though I know it's a real thing. Perhaps I've been too busy dealing with the physical logistics of it all (moving, living, transportation, etc.) to realize what's actually about to happen: I'm going to be alone in a city with three million other people, away from my friends and family and everything that's secure in my life, working at a job I'm perfectly capable of handling but completely new at and trying to figure out what it means to be an adult. God, help me.

But I am excited. And nervous. And terrified. And elated. And anxious. And sad. And...

3. I got an unsigned note on my car last week that said "you smell". I thought it was funny, but I do have my suspects.

3. Remember those crazy ass Magic Eye books from like ten years ago? I saw one in the discount rack at Barnes and Noble a couple days ago and was drawn in by its magical, eyesight-ruining novelty once again. So I cheerfully stood in the front of the store with a book four inches from my face, staring cross-eyed into big purple mess that turned into a 3D image of a jumping dolphin.

4. If I don't write anything for a couple weeks it's because I'll be keeping it real in Southern California, kicking it with Sly Stallone and Webster. But in a moment of spontaneity I'm sure I'll be back, consoling you, my faithful readers, with the random, retarded monologues I know you all love so much. 'Til next time, remember this: "What a waste it is to lose one's mind. Or not to have a mind is being very wasteful. How true that is." -Dan Quayle

How sweet it is to be loved by...who?

2005-10-25T23:28:00.000-07:00

1. I don't have a fear of heights; I just have a fear of splattering.

2. In order to counteract Conlan's idealistic vow to not buy or steal any music until the new year, I have decided to buy more music than I can realistically afford. Today I got the following albums:

Common, Be
James Taylor, Live
Bloodhound Gang, Hefty Fine
Jamie Cullum, Catching Tales
Kanye West, College Dropout

...and a few random b-sides by Coldplay, "Gong" by Sigur Ros, and Queen's "Play the Game" covered by Jon Brion.

But I somehow feel like I must clarify my Bloodhound Gang purchase. I will admit that I own their first two albums, One Fierce Beer Coaster and, yes, the artistically brilliant Hooray For Boobies. Their lyrics are juvenile, petty, crude, insulting and ridiculous. But they are clever. And seriously, how could you not love a band whose song titles include "Lift Your Head Up High and Blow Your Brains Out", "Diahrea Runs in the Family" and "A Lap Dance is So Much Better When The Stripper Is Crying"? Their musical motives aren't to be taken seriously, as their music is for the most part crap, but they're a niche band, and the niche is clever potty humor. Really, the music sucks. But nobody listens to BHG because of their complicated chord progressions or musical originality. "Farting with a Walkman On" sounds like a Blink-182 fan bought a used drum machine at Salvation Army and had fun on a Saturday afternoon. Is it least common denominator? Yes. But will it make me laugh because I can never pass up a good poop joke? Yes. Yes, it will.

I've really been getting into James Taylor lately. As a guitarist I've always felt I should know some JT, but mostly saw him as the undisputed king of elevator music. Recently, however, through the recommendation of a friend, I picked up James Taylor's Greatest Hits and have been slowly becoming a fan. His guitar playing is clean and his melodies are wonderfully catchy. Plus, he just has that voice. You know, the easily recognizable James Taylor voice that makes your shopping pleasure at Longs and Mervyn's much more enjoyable. Listen to the 7:29 long "How Sweet It Is" and the quasi-country "Something in the Way She Moves"; consider it musical medicine.

Common is along the same lines as The Roots and for some reason I've been getting into an urban hip-hop kick lately, so this CD has quickly made its way on to my "Cool, Jazzy, Soulful Hip-Hop" iTunes playlist. I particularly like it because it has a classic R&B vibe with heavy keys and funky bass lines, kind of like a modern Stevie Wonder or Al Green. He includes subdued but interesting string arrangements much like Jon Brion's on the new Kanye, minus the excessive samples. The whole album has a very relaxed, cohesive feel. Try "Real People" and "They Say" featuring Kanye. It's good "chillout" music, whatever the hell that even means.

Jamie Cullum: get "I Only Have Eyes For You" or try "Get Your Way", which feels like a funky Brazilian jazz standard from the 50s. It's his current single. "I Only Have Eyes For You" is trip-hop jazz at its most interesting. It doesn't touch Ella Fitzgerald's version but it's still a cool cover.

3. I didn't intend to make this a long music review, but if you don't like it, you can cram it.

4. This week I've learned that the little things really do matter.

2005-10-18T16:52:00.000-07:00

1. The Burger King mascot scares the shit out of me.

2. People need to smile at each other more. I've noticed that while walking around in public places I don't get smiled at too much. There could be a few possible reasons for this: 1) I'm ugly and people would rather look away, 2) people are assholes and don't care to smile, 3) it's a geographically specific thing and Fresnans are anti-social, or 4) they're too busy to smile or notice people walking past them. Perhaps it's my retail background or I just like to smile at people, but it's always a nice, reassuring feeling to get a smile from a stranger. Try it.

3. I'm not done, but I don't have any more time. I'm sure you're at the edge of your seat for the continuation.

The Sun That Didn't Shine

2005-10-12T22:53:00.000-07:00

1. Writing on here is a really good thing for me for a couple different reasons. First and most obvious: it's practice. Writing is enjoyable. Regardless if it's about new wallets, Loozas, or life-changing decisions, my thoughts put into words is having a positive effect on my overall quality of writing. I guess you can disagree with that but I'll kick you in the knees if you do. Secondly, it's therapeutic. In the past I've calmed myself down in ways ranging from punching walls and playing guitar to driving aimlessly and listening to Talk Talk. Of course I still do those things more or less--minus the punching walls, but that's directly related to me not having a girlfriend--but writing involves a level of creativity and active imagination that those other ways don't necessarily provide. Even rambling on about the stupidest of shit makes me convert free-floating thoughts into tangible sentences, which in turn makes me feel like I've been productive to some degree, which then makes me feel satisfied, which makes me feel reassured about myself, which finally relaxes or calms me down. Lastly but most interesting, is that once I turn those thoughts into words and I put some effort into making my ideas clear, those sentences I write are also etched into my long-term memory. So when I talk in person about the things I write about, my brain will somehow deafult to what I wrote and I'll speak my written sentences. This will make me end up sounding more cohesive and logical because instead of spouting off stuff from my stream-of-consciousness I'll actually be reciting from memory things I already thought about well enough to put them down into words, which is great because I can manage to sound like a dumbass quite a bit.

2. I had Chef Boyardee ravioli today for lunch because I only had a buck. I don't think I've eaten Chef Boyardee since I was seven or eight, and after eating the ravioli I knew exactly why it's been so long since I've eaten them.

3. After I came home from work today I was super hungry; Boyardee is completely unsatisfying in addition to being incredibly gross. So I went to heat up some pizza and found a sponge in the microwave. I didn't get it. I still don't. But I took the sponge out, nuked my pizza, and put the sponge back. Whoever wanted the sponge in the microwave had to have wanted it there purposely, because they would've for sure taken it out if they didn't. Seriously, how could you forget you put a sponge in the microwave? You can't. It's neurologically impossible to forget you microwaved a kitchen sponge. So I'm assuming it was deliberately put there to confuse me, or because it's part of a huge Russian conspiracy. I'm hoping for the latter.

4. I've been listening to Stevie Wonder's Talking Book the past two days. Download "Blame It On the Sun". The chorus melody is magical.

Wallets, propaganda and Pinot for everyone.

2005-10-06T16:32:00.000-07:00

1. I bought a new wallet today because my old one was a cheap piece of imitation leather crap I got at Longs for $4.35. The clear plastic part was ripped up because I had to take out my ID so much. I either need to stop drinking or start looking a lot older; the constant need to buy alcohol is brutal on my wallets. Anyway, this new wallet is highly compartmentalized and has a whole lot more room for extra stuff. It has a total of twelve spaces for stuff: six for credit cards (which are all visible), two for ID's, two for my business cards (if I had any), and two non-visible slots for miscellaneous items. It's bi-fold, which is much cooler than the junior high-ish tri-fold wallets, and has three spaces for cards on BOTH--that's right, both--sides of the bi-fold. All my previous wallets have only had one side with three spaces, so this isn't an upgrade to be reckoned with. The detachable ID mini-wallet goes in horizontally instead of vertically; it slides in from the side instead of on top like all other wallets I've owned. I haven't had it long enough to determine if it's functionally superior to the vertical slide-in but I'll keep you guys updated. I'm sure you're all dying to know. And if it wasn't awesome enough; it has the split bill holder. My wallet prior to the cheap Longs one had the split and I liked it because I could organize things a little easier; e.g., first part for bills and the other for recent receipts, or any other convenient combination. Lastly, it's a lighter shade of brown. Black is cool but I needed a change. Please refer to the picture below to get a better understanding of the sweetness I call my new wallet.

2. I accidentally typed in rcjones41.blogpsot.com and it came up with the Mega site of Bible studies and information. I tried a couple other known blog sites with the same typo and it did the same thing. So it looks like a bunch of born-again Christians are buying the "blogpsot" domain, loading it up with fundamentalist propaganda, and preying on the poor typing habits of bloggers and their readers. Hmmm...imagine that...

3a. This week I bought more movies than I can afford. In order to compensate for my lack of money and excess of movies I've been knocking out a film or two every couple days to make myself believe I actually needed the movies now, and that my movie splurge was properly justified. Yesterday I watched Sideways and 25th Hour, and I liked Sideways quite a bit more than I expected; 25th Hour not so much, but that will be discussed in 3b. I thought Sideways was going to be a slow, plotless graze through a field of wine-snob humor and lame upper class jokes but I found myself laughing throughout the whole movie. Of course there was some elitism but it was in an blue-collar, middle-class kind of way with Paul Giamatti's character, Miles, as a wine connoisseur in the guise of an unsuccessful junior high English teacher. He was also a depressed writer and alcoholic--as if there is any other kind of writer. But Thomas Haden Church played "Jack" and provided the film with the perfect dose of unsophistication to balance out Miles' highfalutin snobbery for wine. He was the happy-go-lucky horndog who didn't know the first thing about wine, but smiled and nodded as Miles poopooed bad cabernets. Ryan's grade for Sideways: A-

3b. 25th Hour was disappointing, even with Edward Norton. It would've been a lot better if Spike Lee didn't throw in the issue of racism without needing to. But then again it is Spike Lee and that's what he's supposed to do. Here's the plot in a well-subordinated sentence: Edward Norton (Monty) gets busted for drug posession because someone rats on him and gets sentenced for seven years to prison, so the day before he goes in he reminisces on his life and hangs out with old buddies, his Dad, and his ladyfriend who he at one point thinks narced on him, but ultimately didn't. No racism whatsoever, but then out of nowhere Lee throws in a ten minute "fuck you" tirade on how everyone sucks, and I really mean everyone. After watching the scene I was thought to myself "what the eff was that shit?". So I put the movie on pause, got some Wheat Thins and beef jerky, and returned to my seat on the couch disappointed that racism ruined yet another good thing. Today I read some reviews on how all these artsy film hardasses thought the scene was "one of the most powerful scenes in cinematic history" and other pointless drivel. Hey everybody, Edward Norton's reflection in a mirror just said "fuck sand niggers"; it's powerful and great! But his character was not a racist, the plot wasn't about racism, and race had nothing to do with his impending prison sentence. People think that something is powerful just because it's controversial, and I think those people are ignorant. Ryan's grade for 25th Hour: C

I eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast.

2005-10-05T00:16:00.000-07:00

1. I saw the trailer for the movie Jarhead with Jake Gyllenhaal and Jamie Foxx, and while I'm not particularly fond of overdone war movies, two things caught my attention while watching the preview: 1) the high contrast cinematography for some war scenes, and 2)the haunting death march entitled "Jesus Walks" by Kanye West.

In my own photography I love increasing the contrast on just about every picture; it gives the photos a vivid feel and enhances the colors to an almost surrealism. So I'm kind of perceptive to people who photograph or film in a similar style.

Anyway, there were a few shots that looked really cool with gunfire, explosions, and strangely colored skies. I liked American Beauty, and Sam Mendes was the director of both that and Jarhead so we'll see if it's any good or not, at least on a cinematography level. But as for the Kanye song: it's super cool. Before Late Registration came out I only heard of Kanye West but never listened to any of his music due to my preconceived notion that was he was just another crappy rapper talking about hoes and bitches. But hearing "Jesus Walks" on the trailer was the first time I heard that song and I was intrigued by both the content and the creepy, dark quality it provokes. I've listened to it probably twenty times today and every time I do I feel like I want to go pray...really violently, or something. I'm on my fourth week of listening to Late Registration and it's getting better every time I listen to it. It's original. Although I still think he's an uneloquent moron because of the George Bush comment, I have a lot more respect for him as a musician. Or rather, to be more precise, I have more respect for him as a hip-hop artist; I'm not sure how involved he is with the musical aspect with his music (which is funny that's even an issue).

2. I've psychoanalyzed all day and it's incredibly tiring. This is why:

3. I'm going to sleep.

The Impending Fall

2005-09-30T11:25:00.000-07:00

"The Impending Fall" would be a pretty cool band name, but that's not how I meant it. The impending fall as I was originally intended is the time of the year that is soon approaching, and my favorite season. It was officially here as of September 22, but I like to associate autumn with the weather and its cool climate. Unfortunately, however, the weather I love isn't exactly here yet so I'll just label this time as post-summer, and not quite fall. There's an aura of melancholy in the fall, and it somehow provokes a strange sense of self-relfection in me--moreso than I already typically do. And Lord knows how I love melancholic reflection.

The trees and days begin to wither. The colors turn from vivid to subtle and the change represents a kind of crippling, fleeting beauty. There's a peace in the staleness of the dead air that's relaxing and comforting. You can listen to somber music and it's perfectly acceptable to feel a little sorry for yourself; it's the season, you can say.

The fall brings out a stark contrast between it and the summer, and I dislike the summer quite a bit. I mean I enjoy the longer days and the lack of expected responsibilty. I like jumping into a pool and staying there until I turn into a raisin, but I just hate being hot in general. I'd much rather wear some jeans, a sweater and a coat, and enjoy the kind of comfort you can't feel by merely taking clothes off in the summer. You can only take off so many items of clothing before you're naked and still unpleasant. But in the fall--and winter as well--when you're cold you put on a beanie and a jacket and your body is at ease.

It's soothing to be warm and content, which is why I'm waiting for the day I can wallow in my melancholic self-reflection outside in a big, comfy jacket.

TEST 2

2005-09-30T10:05:00.000-07:00

So I was walking down the street and a dog came up and it said “Hey you piece of shit, I just pooped. Pick it up.”

“Eat shit and die, you bastard,” I retorted to the talking dog.

“Oh no you didn’t. I’ll fuck yo’ ass up, bitch.”

“Bitch? I’m not the one whose a DOG!” Zing!

The Peculiar Neurodegenerative Inhabitants of the Kazawa Atoll

2005-09-30T00:52:00.000-07:00

1. I haven’t seen Royal Tenenbaums in a couple years and I watched it again today. I forgot how good it was. Wes Anderson is one hell of a filmmaker and can write an amusing mix of dry humor and deeper (existential?) insight. And whoever helps pick the music for his films kicks ass too: Nick Drake, Vince Guaraldi, Van Morrison, Elliott Smith, etc. Lastly, Gweneth Paltrow is freakishly beautiful in the movie. And here are some noteworthy quotes from the movie:

“I’ve always been considered an asshole for about as long as I can remember, but that’s just kind of my style.” “I don't think you're an asshole, Royal. I just think you're kind of a son of a bitch.”

“Let’s shag ass.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss, your mother was a terribly attractive woman.” [Royal talking to Uzi and Ari about their recently deceased mother.]

“I’ll talk some jive like you’ve never heard.” It’s important to note that when I first watched this in the theaters I almost crapped myself during this scene.

2. There should only be one “World’s Best Grandpa” or any other “World’s Best…” shirt in circulation, for obvious reasons.

3. It irritates me to see girls sit in the middle of truck cabins just to be closer to their boyfriends. And perhaps I’m just a little jaded about obvious outward expression of affection, but it just seems so pointless. At the least it’s annoying for the driver. Being unnecessarily crammed up against your loser of a boyfriend, making it difficult for him to drive is ridiculous when there is a perfectly good seat to the right that will seat your insecure, hyperaffectionate ass. Affection, like all other good things, is best when done in moderation. So that ten minute drive from the gas station to Burger King will not solidify your relationship or make it any better because you touch his leg while he’s driving. So to all you lame girls who do this: ride in the passenger's seat; don’t ride bitch (which is aptly named).

4. Listen up uncool people, have I got some good news for you! I’ve noticed some really cool people this week and have picked up on their speech habits. Do/say these things and in no time you will be much cooler:

Call CDs “albums”.

Refer to movies as “films”.

Songs are no longer songs; they are “tracks” or “cuts”.

Wear sunglasses where it is highly impractical to do so.

Late night nostalgia.

2005-09-27T23:22:00.000-07:00

The almost forgotten half-empty bottle of cologne slipped out of his hands as he watched it crash onto the bathroom floor, flooding the tile cracks with aromatic memories from his not too distant past. It was frightening how one smell of that cologne conjured up all the emotions tied to her—not of the whole duration of the relationship—but of a very specific time early on, when things were innocuous and optimistic and full of potential.

He sat down on her wicker footstool and looked up with his eyes while keeping his head down. His arms were wrapped snugly around his knees. The yellow reflection of the bathroom lights bounced off the mirrors and the tinged white walls glowed with a fleeting evanescence that crept away moments later. The strands of long hair that flowed beautifully in front of him were surveyed in detail to take notice of every shapely golden contour. He reached out and rested his hand on her hip. Her head swiveled back towards him as she released a lingering smile and then calmly continued brushing her hair as if he was only there in spirit. “You smell good,” she said, directed towards his reflection. Rising to his feet and wrapping his right arm around her waist, he admired her profile in the side mirror to her left and noticed her blue eyes were especially poignant at that moment. There was a comfortable silence and an unspoken communion between the two as they watched each other through their reflections. “Ready?” she asked. And with a simple nod of his head they swayed out of the room hand in hand. The lights went dark, and the memory fades.

More.

2005-09-27T22:47:00.000-07:00

1. I hope you like my new header. Actually, I don't hope you like it, you just better like it. Because it's sweet. And it's colorful, and colorful pictures are always sweet. But seriously, I took this picture last night and was pretty amazed how awesome the the colors turned out. I'm not the kind of guy to pat myself on the back, but I am giving some serious self-pat action for this picture. Why? Because it's sweet. And colorful.

2. I know just enough html code--which is almost nothing--to figure out how to put in my header and take out the old one.

2005-09-23T00:59:00.000-07:00

Thursday Morning Ramblings

2005-09-22T00:05:00.000-07:00

1. It's been a while since I've practiced Catholicism, and I've been noticing my guilt for things typically shunned by the Church has been dwindling to nonexistence. I mean I haven't killed anyone or done anything horrid, but it's been the cussing and drinking offences, my disregard for traditional dating practices, and my utter apathy about practicing Catholicism that has me not caring much about dealing with my conscience, or lack thereof. Those things, when they occurred when I was a practicing Catholic, would give me the gutwrenching feeling of moral guilt and I'd willingly lead myself to the confessional for some soul cleansing. Now, however, I'll do the sinful deed and feel little to no remorse for it. In both situations (practicing and non-practicing) I was/am perfectly aware of what is considered moral or immoral but in the latter the consequences of immorality don't ring true as important, or even valid. This dichotomy between the morality of me as a practicing Catholic and that of a non-practicing one deals with the same moral relativity that I always adamantly tried to argue against. Moral absolutism seemed such an obvious point to argue in favor of when I had religion to back me up, but now that the religious presence isn't so much a factor things don't seem so black and white.

2. I've woken up the past few nights at 3:00am or so and eaten a couple spoonfuls of peanut butter because I can't find anything else that's sweet. So I'll drink some milk to satiate the PB, and then I wake up at 10:00 with the horrible taste of lingering peanut butter and old milk in my mouth. It's pretty gross.

3. I know a guy that's super annoying. I think we all know a variation of this guy; he's one of those people that come into your life to make you value your real friends just a little bit more. He's relentlessly obnoxious and talks merely for the sake of talking and rarely has anything remotely important to say. Anyway, today he came up to me and said "Damn, Joe* is fucking annoying, man. He won't shut up!" I agreed and smiled at the irony of the situation, both surprised and interested in why he thought Joe was annoying. I would assume that someone as annoying at The Guy would find someone who is the opposite of himself to be annoying. I guess he isn’t aware of his annoyingness, which is interesting. And sad.

*Joe's name was changed to maintain his anonymity to the three people that read this.

4. Carson Daly is so unfunny it’s painful. But he did have a ridiculously hot Brit girl who has been in some really crappy movies, Claire Forlani, on his pathetic show tonight. So it was cool to filter out Daly’s voice and enjoy her hot British accent. And there was also some horrible band on. Do not listen to The Bravery. They suck.

5. I added my flickr account to the right of the screen.

6. I wore my newfound pants to work today and they rocked.

Hunt for the Missing Pants Update

2005-09-21T10:32:00.000-07:00

9.21.05
Status: Missing pants found at the bottom of my hamper. Such a relief, and such a shame I didn't check in the most obvious place.

PantsWatch '05

2005-09-20T14:25:00.000-07:00

9.20.05
Status of missing work pants: still missing. I'm perplexed.

My head: the last four days.

2005-09-20T00:05:00.000-07:00

1. I tried looking up the medical diagnosis of the little white balls of chunky mini-vomit by googling "white balls throat" and didn't find anything conclusive; just some info on tonsilitis, some gay porn and a few people asking "what the fuck are these nasty things in my throat?" One guy said they were "tonsil crypts", and an ex-girlfriend told me you get them when you drink beer. But I just think she was trying to get me to stop drinking. It didn't work.

2. I've gotten a couple job offers and the reality of the situation is a little frightening. I'm comforted by a sense of reassuring complacency while living in town; my entire existence here is my safety net. I have a place to live, great friends, decent job, my family, lots of places to stay if I have too many beers on a Saturday night. There's no real urgency. If I fail at something here in my hometown I have my net to catch me, but as soon as I leave I'll be in a new, huge city by myself working to pay for stuff I already have taken care of here, trying to make it as a rockstar with a philosophy background and a crappy job. If I fail there, however, I'll splatter on the ground with my blood, guts, and pride oozing on Sepulveda Boulevard because I have no net. But I guess that's what it means to be an adult.........right?

3. There's more but I'm tired. I'll write tomorrow.

Rotting Donkey Carcass

2005-09-14T11:24:00.000-07:00

1. So it has come to my attention by the lovely Alison that I have broken my solemn vow of blogging daily. It was just a little overly ambitious and even a bit quixotic. So here's my reworked solemn vow: I will write when I feel like it, which seems to be a couple times a week. That's right, no absolute consistency; utterly impulsive.

2. I can't find my work pants. Why is that a problem? BECAUSE THEY'RE MY PANTS. Where else would they be other than in my house? I don't go around sleeping in other people's houses and forgetfully leave my work pants on their driveway. I've checked everywhere and it seems that they're M.I.A. That's a bit disconcerting. Even worse, I'm now stuck with having to wear sub-par pants to work, which is horrible. If I'm going to be somewhere I don't want to be for over eight hours dealing with assholes and buttfaces, I at least want the lower half of my body to be comfortable.

3. I want to find out exactly what those nasty, rancid, vomit-inducing little white chunks of barf that get stuck in the back of your throat are. They make me uneasy.

4. In a relationship/friendship, how long does it take to shorten that person's name and comfortably call them by it? i.e., Megan->Meg, Conlan->Con, Leslie->Les, Ryan->Ry, etc.? Does it just happen? Or does there have to be a minimum time frame or does it revolve around how much personal information has been shared between the two? Interesting.

More Misanthropic Musings

2005-09-10T12:05:00.000-07:00

1. I think I'm going to call in drunk today. I'm not drunk, but if I stayed home instead of going to work I'd make sure I would be.

2. If I ring something out for a customer and that particular item is not in the system and that customer replies with "Oh well it must be free today! Hahaha!" and then stand there smugly thinking he/she came up with something clever and original, I will punch that person in the face. I hear that stupid shit every day and it makes me sick.

3. The new Death Cab for Cutie is really good. A more critical review will follow soon.

4. My thoughts exactly, Roscoe.

I told you this wasn't going to be important.

2005-09-08T00:35:00.000-07:00

1. I ID’d a woman whose last name was Looza today at work. I chuckled to myself. I could just hear Adam Sandler taunting her: “Hey there Mrs. Looza. Is that your Looza husband? I think I can see your Looza kids over there. Look at you guys! Your family is a bunch of Loozas!”

2. Jamie Cullum: “I’m an expert on Shakespeare and that’s a hell of a lot, but the world don’t need scholars as much as I thought.” –Twentysomething

3. Kanye West: laughable and hilarious, at best. Ridiculous and not well-spoken, on the other side of the spectrum. Kanye looks like an pouty, angry and nervous eight year-old, forced to give a speech in front of his 2nd grade class that he was practicing all night at his grandma's house the night before. Mike Meyers looks like he's about to vomit, and after he finishes the teleprompted message of "...the destruction of the spirit of the people of Southern Louisiana and Mississippi may end up being the most tragic loss of all," Kanye chimes in with his Peter Griffin-like brilliance in perfect monotone, "George Bush doesn't care about black people." At first I only read what was said, and was initially confused that he would actually say that on live TV. But after I actually saw the clip I was laughing, a lot. The whole exchange was just too damn cartoonish for it to be real. But lo and behold, both Kanye and his unbridled eloquence were for real.

And on a lesser note, his new CD is halfway decent but he needs to write a song that doesn’t use a sample for God’s sake. I do jam out to “Touch the Sky” in my car but I only have the CD because of Jon Brion’s co-production, like Conlan.

4. This makes me laugh.

5. I have a really difficult time finding sunglasses that fit my head properly. This is either because a) my head is malformed, b) specifically, my ears are not aligned with each other, c) I’m too cheap to buy expensive glasses that could possibly fit my head because they’re designed to do so, or d) the only glasses that would fit my head are ugly, so I don’t buy them. My last pair were a little cockeyed but I liked the design, so I just tilted my head at times to counteract the unevenness.

I graduated from college and all I got was this lousy handshake.

2005-09-06T14:37:00.000-07:00

So there I was, a wide-eyed and eager twenty year old fresh out of a three year academic black hole at a junior college, deciding what to finally major in.

Architecture? Been there.
Music? Just got out of it.

I like to read and love to think. I'm halfway decent at writing and can prove my arguments--whatever they may be--reasonably well. I think history is interesting. So I put the pieces together, then a dim light bulb appeared over my noodle and "philosophy" came to mind. It seemed like a good choice since it fit my rational disposition and gave me an excuse to not pursue a real degree. I heard about philosophy classes being open to intelligent conversation and rational debate, and that they were taught by brilliant hippie Berekely grads who wore flip-flops to class and encouraged free thinking. I heard it didn't matter how ridiculous your argument was but how well you proved it.

So I enrolled in the Fresno State philosophy program with an emphasis in Religious Studies and convinced myself this would be a good thing.

Two years later I'm sitting on a wooden barstool at my parents' kitchen counter, sending resumes to any employer whose job description includes "good personality" and "go-getter". As much as I enjoyed analyzing The Critique of Pure Reason and discussing Aristotle's Ethics, I am now realizing Kant can't get me a damn job, contrary to all the people who consoled me by saying "well at least it's a degree, that's all that people really look for." Bullshit. Employers do in fact look for people with degrees, but degrees with specific skill sets and particular academic background. Do I like design and am I good at it? Yes I do and yes I am, but I don't have the piece of paper to prove it. Of course I thought about this prior to my enrollment of the philosophy program but I was eased by the romantic idea of an impractical degree finding me a lucrative, practical job.

I'm employable, but in the broad sense of the word. I have good people skills, I can write well, I'm organized, I haven't murdered anyone, blah blah, etc., but that pretty much only leaves room for jobs as a receptionist, customer service rep, or a retail push-button monkey. I've already worked at a retail store for two years and I'm not about to go much longer working in that terrifying hell; my perspective on humanity is already bleak enough as it is, I don't need another five years of misanthropic cynicism to bog me down.

So I suppose this post has come to the point of this: If you're an employer in Los Angeles and have a job opening for a creative, smart, sarcastic misanthrope with an astute knowledge of modern philosophy, call me. We'll talk.

My solemn vow..

2005-09-05T22:57:00.000-07:00

I will write one post a day. I don't guarantee it to be good, funny, relevant, clever, interesting, important, or even readable, but it will be words on the screen.

Gas

2005-09-05T12:26:00.000-07:00

I'm sadly aware that I am getting a gallon and a half of gas for five bucks, when back in the day--by which I mean earlier this year--the quick five dollar gas break could at least hold me over for a day and a half, maybe even two. Now that same five dollars will barely get me enough gas to go home and review my checking account to see how much money I just wasted by going home.

But the only thing more ridiculous than the hourly-inflating gas prices are the daily news reports of how ridiculous the gas prices are. I know how much I have to spend on gas and I'm not happy about it, but I don't need some toothless hillbilly from Madera screaming "I just can't believe how bad these prices are. I can't afford to do anything," as he struggles to pump gas because the camera crew is shoving a microphone in his face. And these pointless interviews are daily. Without fail, every time I've watched the news for the past three weeks there has been a rookie news reporter interviewing some poor schmuck at the gas pump, asking him his feelings on the increasing gas prices, as if his opinion meant anything. But everyone's opinion is the same: high gas prices are shitty. Nobody is going to say "High gas prices? I'M FOR 'EM."

So if I ever get asked about my feelings on high gas prices on television I'll just eff with them and respond with Mitch-like execution "I HAVE ALWAYS THOUGHT THAT KOALA BEARS ARE INCREDIBLY CUTE," finish pumping my gas, and drive away happily knowing that, like everyone else, my opinion on the matter doesn't mean shit.

2005-08-23T16:27:00.000-07:00

I have lots to write about, plenty of time to do it, but no will to get it started. I like writing, I just don't get why I can't make myself do anything other than listen to Mitch Hedberg and play guitar.

But I think I found the perfect word to describe my disease: abulia

Exactly.

2005-08-03T09:54:00.000-07:00

My Ode to Conlan

2005-08-02T10:28:00.000-07:00

It's actually not even an ode, but more like an informal appreciation of your astute wisdom and keen social insight. You are my rock.

Conlan, I salute you.

2005-02-15T14:45:00.000-08:00

Here I am, for now.