I Don't Really Trust a Sane Person ...

2011-10-28T19:33:00.000-07:00

Dear driver of the #2 bus to Madrona,

You should find my housemate, Sierra, and thank her. Thank her for driving me to Capitol Hill to see David Bazan at the last minute. Because, you see, Mr. Driver, if she hadn't, I would have had to come find you.

And you would not have wanted that.

Do you know why? Because you passed me. I was standing there, at the bus stop, on the curb, and you passed me withouth so much as a glance. You have one job. And you failed at it. And if by failing at your one job had you made me miss seeing David Bazan ... well, it would not have been pleasant, Mr. Driver of the #2 to Madrona. Not at all.

Yours Sincerely,

Brother Nothing

UPDATE (barely)

2011-08-28T18:12:00.000-07:00

OK.

SO.

I never did work at Domino's, but I did get paid to act in a film in Carlisle, PA, then I went to South Dakota for six weeks, worked on a farm, built a house, met some cool folks, got a job with Earthcorps in Seattle, left South Dakota, hung out in Chicago with a cousin I hadn't seen in 10 years, drove 14 hours to Harrisburg to give Juliette Brinks a hug, hung out there for a couple days, went home, saw Charles Brazell for the first time since Oxford, got on a plane, hung out in the Valley and San Fran with my fam, flew to Seattle, moved in with Kurt Heim, Meghan Hoover and Sierra Boone, started working at Earthcorps, and now it's Sunday and I'm blogging.

I'll have real stories later. But as per uje I probably won't post most of them.

TTFN.

The Short Happy Life of Gradswag

2011-05-20T08:37:00.000-07:00

Gradswag must end. Sorry folks. Sorry Dave Fox. But it's time.

I graduated from Messiah College a week ago tomorrow. Last Sunday I moved out of my little grey house in Grantham, Pennsylvania and back into my parents house in Annapolis, Maryland. Since then I've done little more than sleep and watch Twin Peaks on my laptop. My first couple of nights back, I slept around 13-14 hours. One night, I believe I slept for 13 hours and then took a nap that afternoon. Other than that, I've lain in bed watching David Lynch's quirky, surreal soap-opera-murder-mystery.

Yesterday (that's a whole four days after moving back home) I finished unpacking. Actually, that's not 100% true. I have a couple odds and ends left in the minivan. But I got all the big stuff out, so that's something.

I also rearranged my bedroom. Even sorted and alphabetized my whole book collection, with the help of my sister. That's no small task.

And I did apply for a job. Domino's. I applied for a pizza delivery job at Domino's. I have an interview this afternoon. Domino's does interviews. Who knew? Of course, I only plan on keeping this job for about 4-6 weeks, at which point I plan to GTFO.

I also (finally) started emailing farmers for WWOOFing this summer. Heard back from one in SD, so hopefully that will happen. Once I have enough gas money from Domino's, that is.

And I haven't been without social interaction either. Went to a rock show in Towson last night, I did. Saw a local band by the name of Pompeii Graffiti. Saw them way back in high school, then they broke up, then they got back together four years later and here I am, seeing them again. Rock me in circles.

The reason I'm blogging is this; this is the reason: I just finished watching yet another hysterical/thrilling episode of Twin Peaks while listening to my dad do yard work outside. He asked me to help him and I told him I would get to it on monday when I got back from Harrisburg (I'm going back to central PA for the weekend. Already). So, instead of mowing and raking, I went to my room, got back in bed, ate some granola and watched Twin Peaks.

That's where I am. In bed. And I feel gross. I've slept too much and I've listened to my old dad raking leaves by himself while I lay in bed watching TV. I felt moved to speak.

So I speak: I declare gradswag over. I declare real life starting.

GRADSWAG

2011-05-08T01:50:00.000-07:00

Writer's Block = reason for finishing memoir project five days past due.

Writing Streak = reason for finishing memoir project five days past due (rather than six).

Writing high = that adrenaline rush from finishing a project you're happy with/reason I'm not tired at 5am.

Once more tomorrow night for a paper comparing Buddhism and Confucianism? Unlikely. One out of two being half-assed? Eh. I've done worse.

Aaaaaaand GRADSWAG.

Politics. Gross.

2011-03-03T13:23:00.000-08:00

It was late 2001, early 2002 maybe, when my father retired. I don't quite remember if it was before or after 9/11 that my father announced that he was retiring early, but I remember us all being relieved.
My father worked in Washington, DC. He had my whole life and for a long time before that. He wasn't always in the capital, but for his entire adult life he had worked for the government in some place or another. By this time he was head of procurement for the White House. He wore a suit every day, he carried a brief-case, he made six figures, and he drove a Mercury because it was American and very nice without being pretentious. I loved this life. Going into his office as a child, getting private tours of the White House, seeing his old navy uniform. I loved it all.
I was very conservative as a child. My father is conservative, but at 64 he's got nothing on my right-winged, pre-tea-party, pre-teen self. In April of 2001 we were visiting family in California. By "family", I mean the old couple that unofficially adopted my father when he was stationed out west with the navy in the late '60s. During this trip I remember spouting out the ranks, in order, of army and navy officers and enlisted men. I knew then all by heart and would prove it to anyone who would listen. On the train-ride home (my dad is a train-freak, so we would travel cross-country on the rail rather than by plane), I told my mother that if I was 18 and we were at war, I would enlist in a heartbeat. My poor mother, the daughter of a major general, just nodded solemnly. Not proudly; solemnly, almost sadly, and it was the first clue that maybe I had things a bit off.

Five months later we were at war. Six years later I was 18 and we were still at war, yet I have not picked up a gun since I was 10 years old and shot empty cans with a .22 at bible camp.

I was surprised by my own reaction to 9/11. I was surprised at the fact that I was not surprised. Not at all. Not in the least. A few days later, while driving in the car, my father asked me how I felt about the whole thing. Ashamed to say, "Not much" I said I was scared, which just made me more ashamed because it was untrue and also embarrassing. But it would have been more embarrassing to get into a political discussion with my father at age 12. To say to him, a Washington executive, "We're a proud and powerful country; of course people are going to attack us. I'm confused as to why it doesn't happen more often" would have been terrifying. I was afraid of coming off as uncaring. I was not uncaring. I just thought it made sense, in the way that things make sense within a sick and twisted and violent world. At 12 years old I understood basic cause and effect and I understood the minuteness of our loss compared to what several other countries suffered on a regular basis. Subsequently, it makes sense that I was not surprised by my country's reaction. That does not mean I was not disgusted.

On September 12th, in Annapolis' The Capital Gazette, there ran a political cartoon. All there was to this cartoon was a picture of the United States with a speech bubble spelling out the word "Revenge!" in bold, angry letters. This is where things changed for me. On 9/11 I felt sadness; sadness for death, for violence, for loss. But no anger, no outrage. On 9/12 I felt anger. I felt rage. Most of all, I felt shame. The following Sunday, our pastor brought up this cartoon in his sermon. After a moment to let the weight of this message set in, he looked at us all and said, "No!". Not with anger, not with rage as I would have, but as a plea. He reminded us that we should forgive, that we should love, that we are called to be peace-makers, not war-mongers.

Peace-maker. That sounded alright to me.

The next week I did my own drawing, to support the attitude I thought we should all adopt. I drew four hands clasping each other, all different colors and all bearing a symbol from a different religion. I was 12 and prone to sappiness, but it got the point across. I gave this picture to my father so he could put it in his office. He received it gladly and then I knew it was ok. Peace and love was the way to go. I would shun my militaristic aspirations and become a hippie.

* * *

Over the next few years I would go through varying stages of political standing: theocentric peace-lover, apathetic teenager, human rights liberal activist, constitutional libertarian, moderate, apathetic college student (honestly, these last two are the same), state libertarian but communal socialist, anarchist (again, these last two are basically the same). Last November I voted for the first time (my 2008 absentee ballot was never sent. I would have voted Constitution Party because Ron Paul was backing Chuck Baldwin at the time). I voted Green. I'm all for the Green Party: they're like libertarians but less scary and they plant trees. But, to be honest, I only voted because I happened to be home that weekend. I didn't plan it. I looked the candidates up the night before. I doubt I'll vote this year, or even in the 2012 presidential. I'll probably be living in Washington state but will still be a Maryland resident and I've already had my share of absentee ballots going wrong.

I'm ok with this. I lean towards anarchism because it leaves room for a kind of localized communism. I just want to be free to care for the people and environment around me without getting hassled. In fact, my entire (and limited) political philosophy is structured around not getting hassled. I'm registered to vote just so those people with clipboards outside Giant won't yell at me. I voted Green because the candidates seemed laid-back. And if they're laid-back because they're high, it really doesn't matter to me. They're just politicians. As far as I'm concerned, politicians are just moving lips on the television. And I don't have cable, so who cares?

An American Wildman in England

2011-02-19T17:33:00.000-08:00

Forward

I was recently asked to write an article for Messiah College's The Bridge, which is a quarterly journal sent out to Messiah alumni. The article was supposed to be a book review concerning travel; it could either be on a book about travel, or an account of my own experiences with a book while traveling. I did both. Here's my review of Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild, a good fourteen years too late to be relevant, and my experiences reading it while traveling the UK with my sister Emily. It's not much, what with a ... maximum word count (shudder) ... but I had fun writing it, and maybe you can have fun reading it.

An American Wildman in England

I'm sitting on a boulder on the shore of Grasmere in the beauty of England's Lake District, reading “Into the Wild”, the story of Christopher McCandless. This story basically boils down to that postmodern dream of wander-lust where a young person sets off cross country with only the clothes on their back. Like many before him, McCandless did just this, but unlike famous predecessors, e.g. Jack Kerouac, he didn't write his own record. “Into the Wild” is authored by journalist and outdoorsman Jon Krakauer.

I knew McCandless' story years before I read Krakauer's book when I saw Sean Penn's film adaptation in 2007. What makes the book a special experience for me is not McCandless' story; I got that from the film. What makes the book special is the relationship between the writer and the man he's writing about, a man who he never even met.

A child of means, McCandless donated the entirety of his trust-fund upon graduating college. Leaving most of his worldly possessions, he ventured out alone to escape the bounds of his rich and dysfunctional family, to see if he was something more than a good student, good athlete and the son of bad parents. With the Alaskan wild as his finish-line, McCandless embarked on a trek that took him the better part of two years and all across America. At the end, he lived in the Alaskan wilderness on his own, with little survival experience, for several months before he starved to death and his body was found in September of 1992. In January 1993, Krakauer was hired to tell McCandless' story for the magazine Outside. The article garnered so much attention that Krakauer expanded it into a book, telling the whole story of McCandless' life and paralleling his adventure with others like it, including Krakauer's own near-death experience alone on Mount McKinley. This is what makes the book so good: it uses McCandless' story as an example of a universal desire, one which is validated by the lives of those whom Krakauer writes about.

Even sitting on a boulder I can resonate with this universal desire for adventure. I crossed an ocean to sit on a rock, read, resonate and feel. What I'm reading, I'm also doing. To a much lesser extent, but to an extent. I'm wandering, I'm young, I'm restless and scared to death of sitting still and being stuck by an average life. In a few days I will travel to Scotland and walk to the peak of Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in the UK. Paling in comparison to even some small American hills, it's still the biggest something of somewhere and I'll climb to the top. Like Krakauer and McCandless before me, I'll move and climb, I'll spend my time exerting a lot of energy and making no money for it, because I know if I don't, if I stop, mediocrity might catch up with me, and that would be a much more horrific death then starvation in Alaska or freezing on McKinley or tumbling off the top of the world's smallest biggest rock.

Yield

2011-01-20T23:09:00.000-08:00

"I wish I was the verb, "to trust" and never let you down."

"I swallow my words to keep from lying.

I swallow my face just to keep from biting.

I, I ...

I swallowed my breath and went deep. I was diving.

Diving.

I surfaced and all of my being was enlightened.

Now I'm ... I'm in hiding."

The Naked Dream

2010-12-26T20:03:00.000-08:00

You know those people that have incredibly interesting, deep and detailed lucid dreams? People that dream every night and remember everything that happened so that they can relate it to their real life and their psychology and the world and all fact physical and meta? I hate those people. They suck.

 I rarely remember my dreams. When I do, it's usually just snippets and I have no idea what they could mean. Usually, I don't care. I like the idea of our dream worlds being host to a whole nother life and whole nother version of ourselves. But I don't buy it. And honestly, I view dreams the same way I view art: the more we grasp them, control and articulate them, the less real they really are. 

 That being said, the dream I had last night wasn't that far out, but it was funny and I remember it very clearly. It was my first naked dream. Everyone talks about naked dreams, and I never had one till now. In these dreams, people show up to the big exam or their wedding or the corporate merger meeting totally nude. What did I do in my naked dream? I went to the library. 

 When I was younger, the library was my standard public place to use the bathroom. I would be walking around town, suddenly I would have to pee, so I'd duck into the library like any hobo would. I had a specific process to hide the fact that all I wanted was the bathroom, even though it was a public place and just using the bathroom was perfectly fine. I was young and paranoid. So, I'd browse around for a minute, shifting my anxious feet to ward off the pressure, mock interest in the new releases, pick one up, thumb through it, appear unimpressed, casually step into the bathroom, do my thing, repeat first part, then leave. 

 Sometimes I used the library for books, but rarely. I didn't read much as a child. Mostly I used it for peeing. 

 In this dream, I am not walking around town, but driving. Or, rather, I am in the passenger seat of a car. I think it's a station wagon. I don't remember exactly who is driving, but I know it's a girl and I think she is roughly my age, so it's not my mother. Thank goodness for that, because I'm butt naked. I don't know why, and I don't seem to care. I tell the lady-driver to pull up to the library; I can get dressed there. They let me use their bathroom all the time. 

 So I get out and walk into the library, holding a small pile of clothes over my crotch. Now this next part I remember very clearly, and I remember the feelings dream-me had. After walking into the library, I decide to fix my eyes on the bathroom door and keep them there until I reach it. If I do that, if I don't make eye contact with anyone, then I will be home-free. It's the same mindset I have when I'm about to pass someone I don't want to talk to: "If I don't look at them and if I walk swiftly, then as far as I'm concerned, they don't see me." And you feel slightly ashamed but also slightly energized because it's like a game: not only are you risking the odds of them catching your scheme, but the harder you try not to look at them, the more you want to. 

 So, I get all the way to the library bathroom, pile of clothes over my crotch and nothing over anything else, when my impulses get the better of me and I look over my shoulder at the circulation desk. Standing there is the librarian, looking right at me. And here's the thing: she does not look shocked, she does not look surprised or flustered or flabbergasted or anything you might expect a librarian to be when seeing a naked person in their library. She looks disappointed. She stands there, eyes narrowed, head slowly shaking. She does not offer an expression that says, "What the hell? There's a naked person in the library!" but one that says, "Oh, these young people and their nudity. Tut tut". 

 So, I get dressed and I walk out with another plan of social trickery to help me get away with being naked in public. My plan is to pick a book, walk right up to the librarian and check it out. I will appear utterly nonchalant, and it will throw her off so much that she won't mention the whole nude thing. Either that, or she won't recognize me with clothes on. 

 Unfortunately, I don't remember the book dream-me decided to check-out. I do remember being not so much nonchalant as awkwardly and uncharacteristically charming. Another weird impulse made me mimic the librarian's movements as she checked out the book. I laughed it off, explaining how i worked at a library myself and how I wasn't use to being on this side of the counter. Not looking amused, she gave me my book and I woke up. My plan had basically worked: she hadn't mentioned the fact that I was naked. She didn't call the police. She just glared at me disapprovingly. 

A couple of things about this dream bother me: who was the girl in the station-wagon? What book did I check out? Out of all the dreams I have, why is this the one that I remember well? But nothing bothers me more than this: why ... why ... did I not just get dressed in the car?

...

An Awkward Situation

2010-11-21T18:35:00.000-08:00

Or, Progress

The boy was not, exactly, reluctant to talk to the man, per se. One could, in a manner of speaking, say he was eager, perhaps. Yet, at the same time, he was rather terrified to do so, for various reasons. Reluctance was not, precisely, one of those reasons. For the most part he could not quite put his finger on what those reasons were, or rather what they were not. Some words went through his head: fear, shame ... just those two words for the most part, but over and over again. He tried to think of other words, but he could not, in so many words, think of many words.

He wouldn't call himself a shy person. But, on the other hand, if someone else called him a shy person, he wouldn't be confident in correcting them.

With a spark, or rather a sputter, of something reminiscent of revelation, he nearly laughed out loud as a new and near-perfect word came into his clouded consciousness — indecisive.

The boy could not decide what kind of person he was, he could not decide what kind of person he liked, he could not decide whether or not to talk to the beautiful man in front of him, or, more precisely, to tell this man that he couldn't decide whether or not he desired him, or any man for that matter, or anyone, ever, at all. Realizing his own abundance of indecision, and, better yet, deciding on being undecided, he then let himself decide that he was, probably, in a matter of speaking, most likely in some way attracted to men, if you want to call it that.

The man looked in his direction, the boy's stomach fluttered, he opened his mouth and uttered, without much conviction, yet not without any, something along the lines of, "ugh, erm ... hmm" then turned around and walked away in a manner that just nearly bordered on purposeful.

In any case, or at least in some case, this was, he supposed, some sort of progress, to some limited, yet not altogether unimportant, degree.

Postface

A few weeks ago in my fiction workshop we were told to start a story with either, "It was an awkward situation" or, "He was reluctant to talk to her". Obviously, I decided to go with the latter, yet not completely. So here is a story (if you can call it that) about indecision. It's not about homosexuality; that's just serving as a good example (and no, I don't think all homosexuals are confused, but, for one reason or another, many of them are at some point. But then, who isn't?).

Also, the use of "boy" and "man" is meant to convey how the subject views himself and how he views the object; this is not a tale of pederasty.

Fiction, #1

2010-09-27T16:25:00.001-07:00

So for the most part (or completely? I don't feel like checking my sources, even if my sources are myself) this blog has been dedicated to what can most closely be called "creative non-fiction". At least as far as published posts go. I have some saved drafts here that are music lyrics, free-form poetry, or fiction, but I haven't felt like finishing/refining any of them yet. So what you get here are my whimsical thoughts on this and that. But this is a blog, so you shouldn't be surprised. However, I am currently taking a fiction writing workshop to hone my skills in the completely made-up, and I think I shall start posting some of the exercises I've done. Below are some examples of my attempts at illustrating setting (now, be warned, the last piece is really more poetry than prose. Maybe. I'm really bad at poetry, but I like making prose poetic. I just went a little crazy on this one. Comments are encouraged) Enjoy.

* * *

This time combined with this weather always made him feel at home in his own skin, like nothing else could. It made him feel like the world was more impression than fact, more abstract than concrete, more idea than knowledge. He felt like Monet, with his broken eyes, with the world as his broken vision, his painting.

It was nearly midnight, with the city light and the moon trying their hardest to break through the thickest fog he’d seen in months, the layers of moisture just as easily seen as felt, blurring the line of black maples that flanked the creek behind his house. This aftermath of storm morphing the aftermath of his day into some sort of holy image, too pure to be seen correctly.

The farther away any light or form were from his eyes, the hazier they became. The closer the light and form, the clearer. The closest form to his eyes was the cigarette he raised to his lips, the closest light the blaze that flared at each drag. Just as this was the only clarity in his impressionist world, it was the only fact in his life: his sin, his irreparable cancer, his failure to create, but inherent ability to destroy.

* * *

White: the presence of all color. In regards to: light.

Buzz, buzz, buzz, go the florescent fixtures guiding me through this pile of bullshit. But this is not just any bullshit, this is a cornucopia of the world’s finest, ten million dollar bullshit. I am, you could say, in the presence of all forms of bullshit. I am, I should say, in a modern art gallery.

Here we have Dadaist collage-ish crafty-work, at best the efforts of a fourth-grader with a decent eye for color and irony. There we have a video of some guy’s upside down mouth shaping the word “lip-sync” over and over to a tape-recording saying the same but, of course, out of sync with the video. In the next white-washed room, an enormous brass sculpture that looks like the remains of some giant dog having defecated all over the white-washed floor.

Buzz, buzz, buzz lights my way through each room, each level of the modern-art rainbow, but all I see is white. This is in regards to the light I carry with me: the fact that I’m not a pretentious moron who eats this garbage up like Grape Nuts.

* * *

White: the absence of all color. In regards to: pigment.

“What color is Silicon Valley?” He would ask me, so I would say, “Each block is a new town; Campbell, San Jose, Fremont, Cupertino. But each main street, and there are many, smells like Peet’s; like organic, fair-trade, shade-grown beans and the people that pay for it; The steal uni-body, the leather, the Tom’s shoes worn only enough to release the smell of fresh eco-rubber.

“And the voices, the Korean, the Persian, the Mexican, all supplying culture, neatly wrapped and served fresh in compostable take-away boxes. And there are white voices too, the innocent, intelligent, liberal voices, not the pompous voices of out East, but the friendly ones, like out of that Linklater film, disregarding the scene in the café, not the later one, but the one early on, you know the one I mean. Voices like that, they’re in Pete’s, on the many main streets, filtering from hybrid window to hybrid window on the highway, like a utopian chorus.

“But the smoothness of the place, of the 9-cell, of the touch-screen, of the adobe; even the sand is smooth, smooth as the faces. But, I’m sorry; you wanted to know the color?” And he would say, “You’ve told me.”

I Am NOT Living in the Woods

2010-06-09T19:09:00.000-07:00

I'm living with Valerian Curd. So we've got that out of the way.

It's really, really, time to start writing soon. I've been in a piss-poor attitude for a while and I think writing will be the only thing to change that. But I can't start just yet.

I have to go to California first.

California means family time, and I can't be writing during family time. Whatever time I'll have to myself will have to be spent reading, so that I keep sharp and sane, or writing the Grantham Community Garden Newsletter or emailing shareholders or sleeping or walking to Peet's.

I love Peet's. I forgot about it until this moment. I'm so happy.

So, once I get back, everything else will be done: finding a place to live, getting acclimated with my new job and Grantham-in-summer lifestyle, family time, tying up loose ends ... and then, finally, I can start my book.

And I'll be happier.

P.S. I hate how everyone calls California "cali". In general, I hate all unnecessary word-shortening. Language is abused enough on the internet, there's no need to bring that into oral communication. So, in protest, I'm going to start calling California "fornia" just to screw with people. It makes just as much sense as "cali". Both are equally absurd. That is all.

Projections, Reflections

2010-05-27T07:43:00.000-07:00

Now it has been a long time hasn't it? Well, there's good reason for that.
1) My horrible, useless, piece-of-crap laptop got stolen from my flat in Oxford. So for a long time I didn't have extended access to a computer.
2) I started traveling. I didn't stop for nearly two months. I went throughout Western Europe with my flatmate, Dave Fox, I traveled to Dublin and Cardiff, and then my sister flew in from the states and together we saw bits and pieces of England and Scotland. Then I came home. That's where I am right now. Grantham, Pennsylvania. I'll spend my summer here, working in ... now hold the phone. I had a third point ...
3) I have a writing project at the front of my brain. I haven't been able to jump into it (because I've been doing the things that I intend to write about) and when I have a big project on my mind, I find it very hard to write about anything else. Even little blogger updates. So there ya go. Yes, yes, this big writing project of mine is a memoir of my travels and time spend abroad. I intend for it to be a full-length book and I intend to write most of it this summer. Now what else am I doing this summer?

As I said before, living in Grantham, PA. I will be working in the Grantham Community Garden, growing vegetables. It's a part-time job, giving me time for other pursuits (writing) and the time spent in the sun, lifting, digging, pulling, whatnot, whathaveyou, will make sitting at my desk typing seem awfully nice.

So there's that. That's what's been happening. That's what's going to happen. Fuller detail of what happened will be the contents of aforementioned memoir. Fuller detail of what shall happen may be the contents of this blog (or perhaps a fancy little epilogue to the memoir).
Cheers,

P.S. I may or may not be living in the woods all summer. More on this later.

The Abundance of Beauty and the Scarcity of Its Analysis

2010-03-10T19:24:00.000-08:00

As far as my life at 3am goes in any case.

Thanks to this old monk's nurse, Jules Brinks, I found one more thing to do instead of write my Aesthetics essay.

Connections (continuity) OR, Being Human (existence)

2010-02-14T07:51:00.000-08:00

"Sometimes I get attached when I shouldn't. Sometimes my feelings don't match up with my circumstances. I don't react accordingly to my time and place. Maybe that means I'm human. Maybe that means I exist." - Brother Nothing

I've been reading a lot of existential fiction. It's mostly due to the fact that I'm taking a tutorial titled, "Existential Fiction".

I may be guilty of applying it to life.

For the past few months I've kept coming back to that one thing that Walker Percy said: how we as humans are something more than animals because we don't react accordingly to our environment. We're something strange; there's something queer about our behavior. There's something unique about our existence. More unique than other animals. Yes, even more unique than bats.

It's those moments when we are so out of line, acting so removed from our circumstances, that we feel this queer existence pulsating within us. It can hurt so much. Yet it can be so beautiful.

But still, sometimes I wish I was just an animal. Sometimes I wish I was only affected by my environment and not affected by this queer existence. Sometimes I'm a coward.

* * *

The other day I was walking to my friend's house and I passed a guy on the street selling books. He had a couple dozen of them laid out on the sidewalk beside him. It was nighttime, so he just sat there, huddled up against the cold. He quietly and distantly asked me if I wanted to buy a book. I almost passed him by without saying anything, like I do with so many people like him, but then I stopped to have a look. I appreciated that he had something to offer me; that he was providing a service for his money. Maybe that makes me a capitalist bastard. Or maybe I just like books.

"All of these are for sale?" I asked him.

"Yeah, I'm just trying to make some money. I need to get a place to stay."

The way he spoke was different than other people on the street. It wasn't a line; there was no pleading tone in his voice. He was just telling me his situation, for which he honestly seemed embarrassed. The others, they're too used to their situation to be embarrassed anymore. And besides, pride is bad for business. They need to be able to beg and plead.

This guy, he wasn't begging. He was offering a trade. But he knew he wasn't a businessman. He was a guy on the street trying to get enough money so he wouldn't freeze to death. His awareness of his situation was painful. He was quiet while I looked at the books. He didn't try to sell me on anything. That would have seemed too desperate. And if he appeared any more desperate it would have killed him.

He was a rookie.

I noticed one book called Can't be Arsed: 101 Things NOT to do Before You Die.

"So what's this, some sort of toilet book?"

"Yeah, I guess it is. Yeah, actually it's the perfect toilet book really. It's actually quite funny."

"Alright, let's see," I looked to see what I had in my wallet, "Will you take three pounds for it?"

"Yeah, sure." The way he shrugged when he said that again made me think he was unusually embarrassed for a hobo. It was like bartering or assigning a firm price to his goods would seem too desperate. He wanted to seem relaxed. He wanted to hold on to what was left of his normalcy.

"Alright, cheers" he said as I handed him the money, "Think of me next time you're on the toilet, yeah?"

"Will do." I laughed. I had just shared a joke with a hobo. It was totally refreshing and heartbreaking at the same time.

The next day as I sat on the toilet reading this book, I came across a section titled, "Have a meaningful conversation with a homeless person".

The unexpected continuity made me laugh. And, as promised, I thought about that guy on the street. I thought about how our brief conversation was so meaningful for me. It had made me think about how hard that situation is for someone new to it. And how far removed the ones who are used to it are. It's so hard to relate to them, and nearly impossible to have a real conversation with them. They're in another world. They can't reach you and you can't reach them. Not with one conversation. But this guy on the street reached me, because he's in between these two worlds.

Or maybe he's the best damn actor I've ever seen.

* * *

While reading Sartre's novel Nausea, I came across a line that goes "Antoine belongs to Nobody" with the intentional capitalization of "Nobody". Antoine is the main character going through an existential crisis. Antoine always irritated me because he wouldn't stop whining. Also, he had a very narrow-minded and pessimistic view of people and the world. You can't be that narrow-minded and think it will make me appreciate existentialism. It's rather counter-productive for the whole philosophy.

Now let me explain the significance of the word Nobody, with the intentional capitalization. This pseudonym of mine, Brother Nothing, is a fictional character that I've created. I've actually started working on a novel with him as the main character, though I haven't gotten very far. But Brother Nothing is only his title. His real name is Nobody. You can see a hint at that in my profile.

So, that fact combined with how much I dislike the character Antoine made me really appreciate that particular line in the book. I laughed out loud for quite some time. Sartre had made himself my bitch without even realizing it. At least, that's how I like to look at it.

If you hadn't guessed, I don't really like Sartre. I think he's a bit of an idiot.

* * *

Another title on my reading list for Existential Fiction is Albert Camus' The Outsider. Last week I saw two separate and very different references to this book within the same day. One was in the movie An Education, the other was in the British comedy show The Mighty Boosh. This tickled me. Again, continuity is a strange thing, and it keeps popping up in my life. For instance, at home my house is right next to the train tracks. Right now I'm spending a semester at Oxford and my apartment building is situated right next to the train tracks. That's just too weird for me. It's like God is afraid I'm going to get bored, so he throws these little jokes at me. What a goofball.

Caution! Cuidado! Prudence!

2009-12-31T17:30:00.000-08:00

Directly below are two new posts and farther below is the edited version of a previous post. These posts are titled "Turtle Sex", parts one, two and three. Put them together and you have my biggest assignment from Literary Non-Fiction, a class that I took this past semester. As a double-spaced Word document, it's 11 pages long. That being said, I have no idea why anyone would want to read this much on a blog. I sure wouldn't. However, I haven't posted in a while and was feeling lazy. Plus, I had intended to post more from that class, but everything else is unfinished or too personal or total crap.

So there it is if you want it. Go nuts.

Turtle Sex Part 3: Me vs. Everyone Else

2009-12-31T17:20:00.000-08:00

You should realize that through this whole argument I’ve been using pretty narrow definitions when talking about “truth” and “lies”. When I’ve been saying that good art lies to us, I’m really saying that it points to a kind of higher truth, the nature of how things should be. When I’ve just talked about truth however, I mean the nature of how things are. And, like anyone, I can only work from my own perspective. I don’t care how open-minded anyone thinks they are, they still only work from their own perspective. That’s just the nature of things. This is so much more than my views on a couple movies or cinematic themes or whatnot. This is an insight into my views on how things work, which may be very different from the views of many people. How I experience one film or one vision of animal procreation is bound to be different from the next person and our experiences tend to dictate our philosophies. I can only hope that my views make sense and are maybe a bit entertaining. If they offer any insight, well that’s more than I could ask for.

If there’s anything that I want anyone to get from this whole mess, it’s that the world is at least a bit off kilter. In my opinion it’s way off. What’s worse is that the human race seems to be settling in more and more as the days pass. We are settling into these strange and dangerous ways. We can see this from our actions, how we treat each other and yes, even from the movies that we make. But realizing this is a good place to start. Understanding that there is something wrong with our nature. Not the nature of the world, but the nature of us. Of people. Seeing that every last one of us is screwed up. And once we realize that we can do things to help ourselves. We can show each other how things should be and how different that is form how they are. We can create art that reveals this. We can lie.

We have a tendency to imitate what we see in art, so making art that shows a better way to live is a good step in the right direction if you ask me. But you don’t have to. You can ignore me. You can go to the cinema. Go into the woods. See turtle sex for yourself. Maybe you’ll see something beautiful. Maybe not. I have no way of knowing. Neither do you. Not yet. But unlike me, you can find out.

Turtle Sex Part 2: John Hughes vs. The Rational Mind

2009-12-31T17:18:00.000-08:00

Laura was obviously not ready to accept my theory. I was having a hard time communicating that the consequences of this theory were not as negative as they seemed. I didn’t think they were negative at all. I just thought they were interesting. But then, not everyone is as ok with being lied to as I am. Oh well. I guess that makes sense. People don’t want to admit that they are disillusioned. I like to recognize the disillusionment and then live with it. For them, ignorance is bliss. For me, knowledge is bliss but only when coupled with apathy. Such is the curse of philosophy.

I was trying to explain to my roommate Chris and our friend Laura that romantic comedies were more truthful than indie films. She did not like this idea because she likes indie films and thinks that romantic comedies are stupid. So do I. And so does Chris. What I was getting at was why we thought that. My theory is that romantic comedies are just life and that indie movies are more than life. Intellectuals don’t want to see life. They want something more. We’re a bunch of needy bastards to tell you the truth. Normal people are happy with the simplistic, glorified visions of their own crappy lives[1]. Intellectuals demand a higher art form. A representation of something better than how we are and how life is. That’s good art and that’s what intellectuals want. Let’s look at these two different art forms and see what we come up with.

The Romantic Comedy

In a Hughesian[2], teeny-boppin’, feel good flick we get a progression of events that makes absolutely no sense. Here’s our general formula[3]: boy meets girl, boy charms girl, boy does something awful, girl is mad at boy, boy makes some menial gesture of his affection that really doesn’t make up for his actions at all, girl forgives boy, they kiss, they live happily ever after (or so we are led to believe).

Ok, it’s not a perfect formula. But you get the idea. People are making decisions that, when you think about them logically, seem idiotic. She shouldn’t be with him. He’s an ass. He can do better. She’s a slut. It’s a messed up jumble of idiocy and hormonal irrationality. Just like life. So there we have it. A romantic comedy is just a bubble-gum gift-wrapped version of our own dumb behavior. It doesn’t give us a goal. No vision of something better. It just legitimizes how we choose to live. And that’s all normal people want: validation. The only cause for change that we get from romantic comedies is superficial. What to wear, what to drive, what words to use when you’re exploiting another person. It doesn’t give you cause to change who you are; it just shows you how to be better at what you’re already doing. And that is exactly why I hate them. They are hurting us. Because they show exactly how life is. Clearly and without modification. Just an honest representation. No strings attached. No message. No goals. Just the truth and nothing but the truth. So help us God.

Now, where do we go from here?

The Indie Film

Cinematic achievements only to be enjoyed by pretentious pricks or needy intellectuals (it’s a thin line friends, watch your step). Here we also get a general progression, though one that seems to make far too much sense. Here it is: boy meets girl[4], both are drawn in by the other’s personality (not good looks or charm, mind you, but genuine personality), something goes wrong involving emotional problems that are afflicting one or both of our lovers, causing one or both of them to freak out and hurt the other one, but they offer an honest, heartfelt apology and the other forgives them because they are so understanding and because they love them unconditionally. Seems too good to be true right? Well it is. Almost. I don’t want to make absolute statements, because those are dangerous and anyone (pretty much) that ever (practically) makes absolute statements is always (most likely) contradicted somewhere down the road (or so it seems). But these situations are rare. When people are sincere and make wise decisions. It is far too rare in life. But you know what is far too prevalent? The good girl choosing the jerk who sweat-talks her over the honest guy that just wants her to be happy. The artist losing his vision because of the hormones that some skank stirred up got in his way. People hurting each other because they realize their intentions were less than pure. People not caring enough to work through the hard times. This is why we need good art. It shows us something better. It gives us something to strive for. It shows us that there’s something better than how we are, whether or not we can achieve it, it’s still there and it’s still a worthy goal. Like in Plato’s cave, the ascent is worth it even if we never reach the world above. We can learn so much from the journey of trying to be better. That’s what we get from good art. From a depiction of how things are not and probably never will be. From a lie.

[1] Just to clarify, I’m not saying normal people have crappy lives because they’re normal. I’m saying everyone has a crappy life and normal people don’t have the need to go beyond that. Which, honestly, is a blessing in many ways.

[2] Of or pertaining to John Hughes. It’s real film lingo. Not at all made up.

[3] if you follow this to the tee, get beautiful people to play the leads, throw generic piano music and/or current pop songs over it and release it over the summer when hormones are raging and expectations are low, be prepared to make millions.

[4] The “boy meets girl” situation is unnecessary. Oftentimes with an indie film we are dealing with a pre-established relationship. For simplicities sake, I’ll use this formula anyway.

Two Things

2009-11-29T13:27:00.000-08:00

First of all I am starting to become annoyed with the fact that I'm rather numb to horrific circumstances. Or at least, when these circumstances are used as art. I like to think that I'm slightly less numb in real life, but I have little evidence to back that up. However, that's another issue altogether. Today's problem is literary.

I keep coming across situations in literature that would best be described as "intense" or "gruesome". Either prior to my reading of these scenes, or afterward, friends of mine might be discussing them with me, saying things like, "Oh man, you should really read that. It's so intense." or "Wow! can you believe that happened? That was so horrifying!". I must admit I have never been frightened by a book. I have been moved emotionally by a book, but never in this sense. I can read about chambers full of naked, half-dead babies or post-apocalyptic slave-trains or spikes going through a man's face or whatnot and go totally unphased. The things in literature that move me are interpersonal relationships. The sacrifices one person makes for another. Descriptions of feelings, the sadness in one character's face, heart-wrenching words full of passion. Scenes of violence and terror don't move me. And it pisses me off.

Here's why.

I get excited to read such stories when I see how moved friends of mine were at the story's intensity. Then I read them, and yes if they are well written I enjoy them, but I'm not nearly as moved as my friends were. But I want to be. I want to get to that precipice of appreciation where you are not only moved as a lover of art but as a human being. I feel left out of my own species because I'm so damn numb to this stuff.

Oh well.

This is titled "Two Things" because there were two totally unrelated things on my mind that I wanted to write about. But in writing about the first one, I've forgotten what the second one was. It's probably useless to mention this. I should probably just change the title. In fact, as I am writing this, I have yet to type the title. But I don't feel like thinking of a new one.

Oh well.

No Hair November

2009-11-15T12:33:00.000-08:00

I am clean shaven for the first time in about 2 years and 10 months. Yes, it's weird. Why did I do this you may ask? In a way this is me trying to get some fun out of "No Shave November". I usually don't shave. So a month celebrating facial hair by not shaving is no fun for me. I feel left out. So, I switched it around and have dedicated this month to celebrating bare-naked faces.
So, you may say, this is a new and exciting experience for me right? I should be loving the change and the freedom and the new found smoothness, right?

I freakin' hate it.

I can't wait for this month to be over. I can't imagine spending the winter like this. My chin is so cold and naked. I miss my natural protection from the elements. God gave us hair on our faces for a reason. Shaving it is unnatural. I like being able to look distinguished and rustic simultaneously. That's kind of my thing. Now I just look like a baby. A 6 foot, 2 inch baby. No one wants to see that ... ok, most people would want to see that, cus that's CRAZY AWESOME, but I certainly don't want to BE that. You know what one of my friends said to me the other day? "You look so wholesome." Wholesome? Come on ... that is not my thing. My thing is being wholesome while looking dangerously intellectual (whether or not that's the case, that's how I view myself, so please don't burst my bubble, jerk). I just want to be me again. And for that, I need a beard.

But, I'll stick it out. I made a resolution and if I give up now I'll just be letting myself down. So, I will face the next couple weeks, cold as my face is, naked as I feel. I'll face this challenge like a man (whilst looking like a baby).

That's right ... a GIANT BABY.

Ewoks Humping Al Roker

2009-11-09T12:23:00.001-08:00

If that's something you think you could get into, then this is the place for you.

This has made my day, if not my week, if not my life.

At times like these, I'm so glad I'm American and can be so easily amused.

Also, Al Roker terrifies me. So I'm glad that little person in the Ewok suit gave it to him.

Yeah Al Roker ... take it ... yeah...

The Beach

2009-10-08T06:10:00.000-07:00

by Steven Wright (Brother Nothing's favorite comedian)

Originally Published in Rolling Stone Magazine - Summer 1986

THIS IS A STORY ABOUT THE BEACH.

I, Phillip, a small boy of twelve, lay exhausted, not knowing if I was sleeping or if I was daydreaming that I was sleeping. Gently I rocked back in forth in my hammock, a hammock woven out of the eyelashes of 1000 deer. There was always a gentle breeze at the top of the 300-foot stainless-steel trees where my hammock was located. All the trees were stainless-steel in the Shiny National Forest. Some of the trees had been sawed down and cut into 60-foot lengths, then sold as flagpoles to people who lived in reality, many, many years away. I had never worked so hard in my life as in these past few hours. My clothes proved that I had labored, stained with confusion, compliments and criticism, all things that are not machine washable.

I was living on Water Island. A small island, sizewise. The island had no shore. All islands are above sea level, but this was ridiculous. The entire land mass was 200 feet above the ocean. All sand. Not one human had ever been near the water. And why the hell should they? You don't see fish trying to get on the roofs of buildings.

The year was a very long time ago. The island was ruled by a king. King Sammy. King Sammy lived in the Great Formica Castle, located at the bottom of Sand Valley. The king experienced temporary insanity every day. The Formica grew wild. There was much Formica left over after the castle was completed. The extra Formica would be sold to people who lived in reality, many, many years away. Nobody ever imagined that parts of King Sammy's castle would end up in kitchens.

The king was the king because he controlled gravity. That was the only reason he was king. Which was good enough when you think about it. If he didn't like you for any reason, he would snap his fingers and you would float higher and higher until he snapped them again and you would stay at that height forever or until he brought you back down again, maybe.

People were living at different heights all over the place. The people the king hated the most were very high up in the sky, sitting on stainless-steel chairs. The people who who lived in reality, many, many years away, would look into the sky and invent the word "star." They would also invent the word "shooting star," which was actually a person on a chair that the king was moving to another position.

The reason I lived in a hammock at 300 feet was I was a waiter at the castle, and one night, entranced by the beauty of the king's niece, I accidentally served soup on flat dishes. I smiled at the young girl, the king snapped his fingers, and I went up through a skylight and have been living at 300 feet ever since. I overtook Styrofoam Canyon.

To please King Sammy and again live on the ground was indeed my goal. I was notified of my chance to do this one day at about an hour before the beginning of time. A bird flew to my hammock delivering a small letter. An invitation to possible fate. It was from the king himself. It said, "Dear Phillip: As you know, this year I will be celebrating my birthday on August 11th. If you can arrange a unique festival I will again allow you to live on the ground or at least at eye level and maybe date my niece, Princess Sammintine. I know your great-great-grandfather invented socializing. That is why I'm giving you this chance. If not, I'm sure you will be reaching further heights. Sincerely, King Sammy."

Actually my great-great-grandfather was really a hermit and invented socializing just as a joke.

So here was my chance to redeem myself and live on the ground again. I decided I would go to sleep and dream about what to do. Often I would wave goodbye when I went to sleep. As a small boy I would sometimes sleep with my eyes open so all my dreams would take place in my room. It was raining. There was a great rainbow. Rainbows over Water Island were made of a light plastic.

I was standing on a cliff looking out into the great ocean. The ocean was called Land Ocean. Just then a herd of deer ran by. None of them had eyelashes.

The water was beautiful. The king loved water. Hmmm hmm. The king was very fond of water, to the point where he installed a pool that surrounded the entire castle. Other kings would later copy this idea.

King Sammy could not swim. People who were great swimmers were despised by the king and forced to live on twelve-foot chairs. My dream then switched to housekeeping, which startled me awake.

Yes, yes, the king loved water. If only Water Island had a shore.

I began to work. I got rid of the sand the only way I knew how, I vacuumed it. Night and day I vacuumed until the sand on Water Island got lower and lower, closer to the ocean. Inadvertently, I was inventing the beach.

It was the night of August 10th. I needed much help. So I hired hundreds of small children to help remove the sand. I gave them little plastic buckets and little plastic shovels. The children removed tons of sand. They worked very hard, although they thought they were playing.

Soon the land was level with the water. An unusually beautiful sight to see for the first time: the shore, the beach. I walked up and down this peaceful area trying to avoid the broken glass.

I wrote a letter to King Sammy. "Dear King Sammy: Meet me where I'm going to be. Sincerely, Phillip."

I then prepared the festival. I brought loads of food and ale packed in boxes that were built in the Styrofoam Canyon. I brought small, horizontal fireplaces that stood on little legs. I hired a group of minstrels who could only play music too loud.

Fate lessons of the past and present were now in session. Tradition was about to begin. King Sammy arrived at the beach with fifteen court jesters, his wife, Edna, Princess Sammintine, and several other men and women who were walking around at different heights. Some of them he really didn't like and made them arrive in their underwear. People in reality would do this willingly, many, many years away.

The minstrels began to play. The king danced with the waves. I danced with the shadow of the king, and the idea of Princess Sammintine kissed the back of my memory of the events that took place.

We drank until we almost drowned on land.

A seventy-two-year-old childhood friend of the king cut the plastic rainbows into circles and filled them with air to create colorful bouncing balls. As the king snapped his fingers to the music, people were flying up and down all over the beach. The children with plastic buckets were now heavily into the construction of little castles made of sand, so the king would feel at home.

The more the king drank, the more he liked the people, and the more he liked the people, the lower they were to the ground.

Soon people were actually lying down on little cotton flags all over the beach.

I invited a few of the great swimmers on twelve-foot chairs. The king ordered them to stay in their chairs unless someone was drowning. They wore bright orange shorts.

I had a waterproof pen. The ocean was very calm. The king wanted bigger waves. So I drew huge waves on the ocean. The ships didn't understand.

As the madness continued, I made my way over to Princess Sammintine. I asked her if she wanted a massage. She said, "Yes, but not physically." I said, "How do you like the beach?" She said, "Well, it's kind of sandy." I apologized for the beach's being sandy. Then I said, "Will you marry me?" She said, "No, you're boring, and besides I've seen fatter legs on a bird."

I smiled at Princess Sammintine and accidentally served clam chowder on flat dishes. The king snapped his fingers, and I went up 300 feet onto my hammock in the sky.

I lay there swinging in the breeze, knowing that a situation like that would never take place again.

Turtle Sex Part 1: Joel Schumacher vs. Horny Reptiles

2009-09-25T10:02:00.001-07:00

There we were, tramping through the brush, in search of our specimen. We were barely twenty yards into the woods when Daniel, our student guide, started making loud exclamations of joy. Daniel was a biology major that our professor had elected to lead our entry-level bio lab through the woods on an expedition. This expedition was about how to use radio transmitters to study wildlife. There was a transmitter attached to the back of a turtle somewhere in the woods behind campus. We carried with us some sort of radio gadget that picked up the signal from the transmitter. Now Daniel is one of those people that chose their field of study wisely. You can tell by how absurdly excited he gets about things in nature. At first I thought that he was just shouting because he had found the turtle. But it was more than that. He had found the turtle… in a bush… underneath another turtle… having turtle sex.

Needless to say, Daniel was ecstatic.

Now, I am not as avid a lover of nature or animal procreation as Daniel is. I can be just as interested in the occasional discovery channel special as the next guy, but I don’t giggle and squeal when I come upon wildlife love-making. That’s just crazy. But, I have to admit, the sight of those two little turtles doing it was a beautiful thing. In fact, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a while. But in order to explain why, I think I should explain why I hate the movie St. Elmo’s Fire.

St. Elmo’s Fire is a 1985 film by Joel Schumacher. It has some striking similarities to the John Hughes film, The Breakfast Club. Apart from them being made in the same year and sharing some of the same actors, the themes are very similar. The Breakfast Club shows how tragic high school is for a variety of stereotypes. St. Elmo’s Fire basically does the same thing but in the setting of life as a recent college grad. In The Breakfast Club we get the uptight jock Andy (played by Emilio Estevez), the snobby princess Claire (played by Molly Ringwald), the tough, snarky bad-guy Bender (played by Judd Nelson), the awkward nerd Brian (played by Anthony Michael Hall) and the weird, quiet, basket-case Allison (played by Ally Sheedy). All are put together for Saturday morning detention where they overcome their prejudices against each other in a matter of hours.

In St. Elmo’s Fire we again get Ally Sheedy, Emilio Estevez and Judd Nelson. Here, Sheedy is playing Leslie who’s dating Nelson’s character Alec. Estevez plays Kirby, a somewhat creepy, love-struck imbecile. We also have Kevin, the cynical writer (played by Andrew McCarthy), Billy, the irresponsible ex-frat boy (played by Rob Lowe), Jules, the rich brat (played by Demi Moore), and Wendy, the innocent nice girl (played by Mare Winningham). To contrast The Breakfast Club, St. Elmo’s Fire isn’t so much about stereotypical kinds of people as it is about stereotypical kinds of relationships and kinds of problems for a certain age group and, inevitably, stereotypical kinds of solutions.

The issues in this movie for the most part revolve around the relationships between our main characters: Leslie is dating Alec who cheats yet wants them to get married (which he thinks is the only thing that will make him stop cheating), Kevin is Alec’s best friend but is secretly in love with Leslie, Wendy is in love with Billy but Billy is too irresponsible, Jules tries to solve everyone’s problems though she has bigger problems than anyone (resulting in the climax of the film) and Kirby is more than a little obsessed over winning the affections of a doctor (Andie MacDowell) whom he went out on one date with a few years before hand.

Now my initial problem with St. Elmo’s Fire has to do with a separate similarity it shares with The Breakfast Club. That is that is ruins both Ally Sheedy and Emilio Estevez. In different degrees, admittedly, but both films leave me with a sour feeling for both actors, who, when I think about it, are more victims from these hazardous movies than I am. At the onset of each movie I love Sheedy’s character and I tolerate Estevez’s character. By the end, I am thoroughly disappointed with Sheedy’s character and nearly repulsed by Estevez’s.

I loved Ally Sheedy’s character Allison in The Breakfast Club. In my opinion she was the best character in the movie. She was obviously a bit eccentric but that’s ok. She was the only one in the group that hadn’t actually done something to be in detention. She just showed up. I think this shows us two things: one, unlike the other characters in the movie, she hasn’t done anything wrong and thus doesn’t need to change and two, she’s a total weirdo. I’m fine with total weirdos. I find them to be engaging individuals. What was great about Allison was that she was confident in who she was. The other characters were not. They were pretty insecure. But here’s the thing: insecurity is not a bad thing if you actually have character flaws that need to be adjusted. It’s the first step in realizing that there’s something wrong with you and leads you to correction. Now, all the other characters in the movie started out insecure and then changed. They didn’t change their characteristics, they just became secure in who they were and comfortable with each other. With the exception of Allison. The other characters never became comfortable with her personality which made her insecure of who she was, leading her to change her characteristics. I find this to be incredibly depressing. She was different from them because she was better, so she had to change. That was the only way for her to be part of the group. Claire gave her a make-over and she started talking like a normal person and pairs up with Andy the jock even though he has done nothing to win her affection besides take notice of her the second she’s changed her entire appearance.

In St. Elmo’s Fire, Sheedy’s character Leslie wasn’t quite as interesting, but she was still pretty lovable, even if it was just her eyes and her smile that drew me in. Her character was almost too normal, but she didn’t have any real flaws. In fact, like in The Breakfast Club, Sheedy’s character was the only one that didn’t really need to change. She was a good friend and loyal girlfriend and she was kind, intelligent and confident. Then when she finds out that Alec was cheating on her, she goes off and sleeps with his best friend Kevin, the writer. I have to admit, I liked that twist in the plot. These were my two favorite characters in the movie and I felt like it made up for Sheedy’s character in The Breakfast Club ending up with what I viewed as the worst character. But then, she and Kevin go off on a disgusting all night, love-making fest. By the time they’re doing it in the shower, I decide that this is over the top. Yet again, Sheedy’s character is abandoning her good traits just so she can be a common whore. Finally, when Alec comes to visit Kevin and Leslie steps out of Kevin’s bedroom wearing nothing but a bed-sheet to break it to Alec that she’s now screwing his best friend, I start to despise her. That is far too cruel, no matter how much of a jerk he is. She shouldn’t have to stoop to his level.

Now, I should quickly explain Emilio Estevez and why I find his characters to be so repulsive. In the Breakfast Club his character Andy gets our wonderful basket-case Allison to fall for him even though he's a completely idiotic jock with daddy issues. He does nothing to prove his merit. He just begins to notice that she’s pretty after she wears her hair back. His superficiality gets him exactly what he wants and exactly what he doesn’t deserve. In St. Elmo's Fire, he's a creepy stalker who gets this gorgeous doctor who's way out of his league to fall for him. Again, he does nothing worthwhile beyond obsess over this girl. In either case, he deserves no validation for his actions, but he gets it none the less.

I could go on and on about why I hate this movie. And I fully intend to. First of all, Kevin, the cynical writer, becomes an idiot once it's revealed that he's straight. You see everyone thought he was gay because he seemed to be obsessed with Alec, but in truth he was obsessed with Allison, Alec’s girlfriend. Now sure, at least he becomes an idiot over Ally Sheedy’s character, but still, it was better when he was gay. Or, I should say, it was better when he was being tortured over unrequited love, because I never bought the whole gay thing anyway. It was unrealistic. Intellectual cynics are always happy to be gay. They revel in society treating them as outcasts; that's good material. If he was gay he would have admitted it. But being in love with your best friend's girlfriend is also good material, but only because you have to keep it a secret. And besides, this movie is all about stereotypes. If he was gay, he would have had to be flamboyant (which he wasn’t), just like the only actually gay character in the movie (Jules’ neighbor, FWI).

Sleeping with Allison is not the only triumph for Kevin the writer. He also finally discovers the meaning of life (something he’s been toiling over for the entire movie) and has it published in a newspaper article. An article that is never explained to the audience or to other characters in the movie. Nothing about his triumph is revealed to us except that it happened. And we're supposed to be happy. Which means we're supposed to be superficial. Which is exactly what the writer has become, because he's not explaining to his friends what the meaning of life is, he's just showing off the fact that he got published in the paper. This is what being in love did to him.

At this point, the two best characters in this movie are ruined for me. I curse Joel Schumacher for wasting my time. But then I come to think that I may have something to learn from this upsetting debacle. Here’s what I realized:

By the end of the movie, my favorite things about it are the cheesy soundtrack, the cliché dialogue and the sad, yet humorous, fact that the characters and situations are nothing more than one-dimensional stereotypes. My favorite things about it are what should be the worst things about it and what seem to be the fake things about it. Then I realized that the reason I hate the characters and the plot is because they are just like real life. The intellectual cynic does become an idiot over a girl (I can attest to that). The fascinating basket-case does hook up with the idiot jock (I've seen it happen). The creepy sleaze-ball gets complete validation for his atrocious behavior (everyone has seen that happen). We make the best of us degrade themselves so that they can feel wanted. We sacrifice our best qualities for the attention of someone who’s done nothing to deserve it. I hate these movies because I hate life. Or rather, how people live life.

These movies are just showing me that life is depressing. If I wanted that, I could just watch the news. When I read or watch a story I either want a) to be utterly lied to (like in any Wes Anderson film) or b) to explore why life is depressing (Like in The Moviegoer). The Breakfast Club and St. Elmo's Fire are just showing me that people are stupid. I know that people are stupid. When I watch them I feel like I'm either being mocked (as if Schumacher is holding a mirror up to my face) or being treated like a disillusioned idiot.

Here's how turtle sex fits in to this whole mess. Turtle sex is an amazing thing to see because it's real life in nature. Nature doesn't need to lie to us because it makes sense, and not in a boring way. It's beautiful just the way it is. Human nature, however, makes no sense. It is anything but natural. Cause and effect does not explain our ridiculous behavior. To paraphrase Walker Percy, we are not creatures reacting to our environment. We are creatures doing inexplicably stupid shit that no one can account for. The beautiful things to see in human nature are when we create. When we lie. Creativity is lying and lying is us trying to right ourselves. Trying to make things make sense. Trying to make things natural. Trying to turn St. Elmo's Fire into turtle sex.

St. Elmo's Fire is just trying to turn St. Elmo's Fire into St. Elmo's Fire. Which is exactly why it sucks.

The Allusionist OR "Allusions, Michael! Tricks are what a whore does for money!"

2009-09-21T17:14:00.000-07:00

Everything here is an allusion. Does that mean it's not real? No ... it means it's not genuine ... and that I'm not creative.

"I don't really trust a sane person" ... this is a quote from Lyle Alzado, a football player and one of the first professional American athletes that confessed to using steroids. He died of a brain tumor.

"Stark raving sane" is a phrase I got from Tom Stoppard's play "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead". I love it more than you love your mother (I'm referring to the phrase, not the play, though I do love that too). Stoppard made a movie version starring Gary Oldman, Tim Roth and Richard Dreyfus. It's one of my all time favorites. Interesting note: I've seen the movie a few times, I've even seen a live performance, but I've still never read the book. Which I think is ok. A movie is a much better representation of a play than a book is.

"Profile in Absurdity" alludes to John F. Kennedy's book "Profiles in Courage". I'm perfectly ok being absurd rather than courageous ... I'm not sure if I'm ok with the fact that I value absurdity more than courage.

"Library of Babel" is a short story by Jorge Luis Borges. It's full of absurdities. Just like my blog archive. Unlike my blog archive, it's utterly beautiful.

"Heretics" is a book by G.K. Chesterton. I haven't read it, but it's supposed to be a precursor to "Orthodoxy". I'm sure I'll get around to it. I'm not so much alluding to the book as I am making a joke about anyone who would follow me being a heretic (See "Profile in Absurdity" [a.k.a. my profile] for clarification).

"Brother Nothing" ... ok, not much of an allusion ... "Brother" is a Pearl Jam song, so are "Nothing as it Seems" and "Nothingman". I'm a big Pearl Jam fan. But mostly I just like the two words, and I love the combination of them. And I like the religious aspect of referring to myself as "Brother". And the (seemingly) profound aspect of referring to myself as "Nothing". It makes me feel clever.

Finally, the title of this post alludes to the movie "The Illusionist" and to the TV show "Arrested Development" ... and the latter allusion may or may not allude to my real name.

*Edit: Realizing that I was ultimately just bashing myself with this post (though in the guise of pretension), I thought it would be fair to point out the one original part of my blog: the URL. "Flirtation with Rumination" is something I came up with myself ... and it's awesome, sooo ... props to me.

*Edit #2: It might seem like I'm actually being pretentious under the guise of modesty, because that's something that pretentious people do all the time. Well, I'm not. I know how pretentious people act. That's why I'm bashing myself under the guise of a pretentious person being pretentious under the guise of modesty. But of course, I'm unveiling myself by explaining this, making the guise of pretension pointless. Which would give you cause, more than anything, to believe that I really am pretentious. Well, maybe you're right (see, what I did there? ... yeah, I'm good).

Truly Spoken Non-Truths (Literary Non-Fiction Piece #3)

2009-09-20T19:26:00.000-07:00

I wanted to construct some character profiles of real people. Something true, but exaggerated and humorous. Caricatures, basically. I tried, but came to the realization that the only person I could truly caricature was myself. But I didn’t want to caricature myself. I wanted to caricature my roommates. So I asked them to do it themselves, which they did gladly.

Now, I should make a disclaimer: the things said here will probably have no meaning unless you already know the people saying them. Which, after all, is the nature of a caricature. Now, if you know these people, this will not only be humorous, but even insightful. I do believe that you can learn a lot about someone when they make fun of themselves.

I should make another disclaimer: These caricatures are presented in chronological order of when I did the interview. And as I went, I let people read the previous interviews, which is why there's a gradual decay in truthfulness and increase in humor. Everyone wanted to one-up the person before them. So the last one is probably the least truthful and at the same time, the best caricature.

I first asked them to describe themselves in a few sentences. I reassured them that I would not be using their real names, but that just spurred them to create pseudonyms for themselves. Which couldn't have made me happier.

Here's what they said:

Wolfgang Amadeus

“I’m somewhat laidback and sarcastic.”

“Ok … and?”
“And that’s all you’re getting.”

“Well …”

“Ok, so I guess I’m also resistant, non-cooperative, unlikable and an asshole… And I’m also fun-loving. And I’ve got a hot bod, which gets all the bitches … you could say I’ve got a ‘bell-hop personality’. This means I listen, and gather information that I can use later to my own advantage.”

Cyrus

“I’m adventuresome, flexible, punctual, sociable, outgoing and open to new ideas… I’m diabetic. I’m the middle child of four ... I’m a quiet extrovert. This means I thrive on social interaction but not overtly. I take more than I give I guess you could say… I’m also a bit of a low-key douchebag. This means I speak badly about other people, but not to their faces… I’m a few steps above a minimalist — I do just enough to get by, but get by pretty well… I’m not that passionate about a lot, but that lets me be really devoted to things I am passionate about.”

James Earl Jones

“Wolfgang doesn’t get the bitches, I do! I’m incredibly sarcastic and moderately offensive… I’m unassuming… Pretty much a walking stereotype: I have dreads, rolled up pants, flip-flops, I play protest songs on the guitar… I have a strong aversion to conflict, so I guess I consider myself a peace-maker ... or a pussy.”

Carlo Rossi

“I’m a structured anarchist. I believe that everything has its place, and my place is to be exuberant and melancholy, but in an exaggerated way… In the morning, I like to read the paper and drink my coffee because I like my mornings quiet… I detest Frisbees, loud noises and anything else that startles me… I’m passively optimistic and predictably disagreeable.”

Anthony Francois Pierre “The Hammer of God, no really” Dettweiler

“I get more bitches than Wolfgang and James Earl combined. What’s up? ... Malt liquor is the devil’s scepter ... that’s my favorite quote that I ever said… I smoke cigarettes because I’m too passive to kill myself. It’s the socially acceptable suicide… I really like acorns, ginkgo leaves and happy reunions (not mine, but I like to see them happen)… I hate shirts that say ‘Welcome to South Grantham’, even when my housemates wear them. I hate a lot of things, usually inexplicably and with fervor.”

* * *

After the brief profiles, I then asked my friends to tell me about one crazy thing they did that day. Here are the marvelous things they said, which, unlike their profiles, are completely true.

Wolfgang: "I bought a 'Prime Ministers of Canada" place-mat."

Cyrus: “I ate a whole block of cheese in the parking lot of Giant ... Yeah, I’m kind of gassy.”

James Earl: “I had a conversation with my fairly conservative father about how ridiculous Glen Beck is.”

Carlo: “I ran over the compost bucket with my car, whose name is Lola.”

Anthony Francois: “I bought a glider for a dollar at the dollar store. I was so excited that I put it together in the parking lot and launched it, but it only flew two feet and then broke upon impact. Cyrus said I should have waited till we got back to the house. I probably should have listened to him.”

* * *

Ironically, I also asked them to profile me, the person who refused to profile himself or others, but demands others to do just that. Here are some words that were thrown out:

“Asshole … obviously, I’m being sarcastic.”

“Indecisive.”

“A sighing mess … calculated … always looking for something.”

“Sagely quiet and always ready with the insightful word and witty comment but lately a rambling debacle, reminiscing about once great exploits and often alluding to the fall of the Roman Empire.”

“Philanthropic is the first thing that comes to mind ... I have no idea why ... also, finely sculpted, intricately managed, superbly maintained and elegantly trimmed facial hair."

Post in Courier

2009-09-16T15:53:00.000-07:00

For my Literary-Nonfiction class I had to read an article titled Tracking Down Typewriters by Matthew Solan. It can be found in this month's Poets and Writers, which isn't online, but may be at your library. In the article, Solan shares his obsession with finding out what typewriter a famous author used and then trying to acquire one just like it. It started with this picture:

Anne Sexton and her beige-colored Royal Quiet DeLuxe. This picture is beautiful enough to strike obsession in anyone. But this is Solan's love, not mine, and his description of how this picture sparked that love is better than anything I could come up with:

Sitting at her desk, she wore Laura Petrie-style pants and a crisp, white blouse. Her head was propped in her cupped hand, tghe customary cigarette balanced between her fingers. Her seductive half smile could take any man down. Beside her on the desk, between a coffee cup and an open book, was her typewriter. Her instrument.
Beautiful. But that was just the beginning. He goes on to describe his various searches for famous typewriters. Flannery O'Connor's Royal Standard, Faulkner's Underwood Universal, Hemingway's Royal Arrow, Jack Kerouac's Underwood Standard S, George Orwell's Remington No. 2. He's got a study full of these things. But it's the search that impresses me. He pores over photographs, looking for ones with the details he needs. He pesters unsespecting curators and librarians who might be housing these beauties, making them go out of their way to find him the details he needs to track down a replica.

He inspired me to do a search of my own ... though not nearly as obsessive or thorough ... in fact, when I found websites that had done my research for me, I got lazy. Eventually, I got more interested in the connections than antyhing else.

Here are a couple of them:

Helen Keller and L. Ron Hubbard used the same typewriter. An LC Smith 5. A deafblind woman and the science-fiction author and founder (author?) of Tom Cruise's wacky religion. Apparently this model attracts unique writers ... for better or for worse.

The sound of Nietzsche's typewriter was said to have helped his migraines. hmmm ... perhaps all that Excedrin I keep popping could be replaced by some old, glass keys?

Like guitars for rock stars, some typewriters have become the favorites of many authors.

The Olivetti Lettera 32 keeps popping up.

Cormac McCarthy, David Sedaris, Leonard Cohen, James Herriot, James Purdy, Phillip Roth (Sylvia Plath had a 22).

But Vonnegut* used a Smith-Corona, as well as several others. My source tells me Vonnegut used a Smith-Corona Courier. I can't find any information on this model ... I'm starting to think "Courier" may not refer to the model, but maybe the ribbons or something ... or maybe it's just another term for typewriter. After all, the courier font is based on typewriters. In any case, Smith-Corona is a popular brand, like Royal, Underwood, Remington and Olivetti. e.e. cummings used a Clipper, so does Tom Hanks (himself a collector). T.S. Eliot and Dorothy Parker both used a speedline black matte Sterling. There are many others, check the link if you don't believe me.

I think I may go for a Sterling myself.

Or how about a cute little Cougar portable? ... or what I like to call the "lunchbox typewriter".

Smith-Corona aside, I have to admit that a green Remington No. 3 is pretty cool looking.

But of course, both Jack Kerouac and Alfred Hitchcock used an Underwood portable. Those credentials are hard to beat.

The really early typewriters are someting to look at too. Like the noted painkiller itself, Nietzsche's Hanson Writing Ball. Or Tolkien's Hammond. Jeez, no wonder that thing's made by Hammond, it looks like it could produce church music.

Typewriters are cool, you can't deny it. If you want some real insight into them, read Solan's article. I especially like the ending. Me? I'm just musing and playing with Google. But I think I will get a typewriter soon. Curiosity killed the bank account.

*Vonnegut was the one to spur my recent mini-obsession. He was the first author I searched that actually came up with a result. A couple pictures of him with a typewriter, though not clear enought to tell what kind. So, I just googled what kind of typewriter he used and came up with the website that I linked.

Sunday Morning Revelations

2009-09-13T11:41:00.000-07:00

Today I caught the end of The Fellowship of the Ring on TNT. I've seen this movie more times than I can count, but for the first I had to stop and think about one scene that I've, until now, taken for granted.
It's the scene where Boromir jumps in to save Merry and Pippin from an on-coming, axe-wielding Uruk-Hai. He blocks the orc's axe blow, gives him a solid kick in the crotch, takes his axe away from him and and chops him in the back. A splendid progression of movie violence. Plus this is the first scene where Boromir starts to redeam himself, so it's got some emotion to it too. You're supposed to feel happy that Boromir is slaughtering this orc. A little cheering would not be innapropriate.

But I was not happy. I was certainly not cheering. Here's what was going through my head, "Hold on a moment. An Uruk-Hai shouldn't have any balls!"

[You thought this was going to be about peace, or non-violence or somethng with an ounce of moral fiber, didn't you?. Well, I tricked ya. You want something worthwile and edifying, read Lines on Europa's blog about Inglorious Basterds. Good stuff. Here at IDRTASP, you just get dick jokes.]

Uruks are created out of mud and blood and sorcery. They have no need for reproductive organs. They have no need for gender. Also, the very purpose of their being created is for fighting, so them having reproductive organs makes even less sense. It would make them more vulnerable and less agile.

Any Tolkien scholar would tell you that the idea of the Uruk-Hai having any balls (in the literal sense that is) is ridiculous.

Now, I can understand Boromir kicking the orc in the crotch, not knowing it's a new breed created out of mud for the purpose of killing things. Plus it was the heat of battle and he wouldn't have time to think about whether or not his foe had any testicles. But what I don't get is the orc being affected by this attack ... because he shouldn't have any balls!

This really bothered me ... Peter Jackson should know better ... but maybe these revelations are only possible when you spend your Sunday mornings watching TV instead of going to Church.

Now, within the next couple of hours I need to write something up for Literary Non-Fiction ... preferably something not having to do with genitalia ... which would exclude any of my recent blog posts ...

This blog is becoming nothing more than commentary on my gradual degradation as a human being ... sad.

Greatness, Thy Name is Potty Humor

2009-09-11T18:53:00.000-07:00

I just found the purpose for my last, previously thought to be utterly purposeless, post. Because it has no title, under my "blog archive", for that post all it says is, "Just this morning... barely an hour ago ... I came ... "

Hopefully, somewhere out there, a pervert is laughing ... because of me ...

I knew I was meant for great things.

2009-09-11T07:31:00.000-07:00

Just this morning... barely an hour ago ... I came up with something I decided I had to write about.

It was very important.

I have no idea what it was.

I thought of it during my History lecture ... it had nothing to do with history.

Damnit.

The other night I came up with some of the best dialogue that's ever gone through my head. And I think up tons of dialogue. I usually think in dialogue.

I was in bed.

And too lazy to go write it down.

It's lost forever.

I'm hoping that writing about forgetting my ideas will make me remember them.

It's not working.

"Publish Post?"

I've said nothing significant. I'm not going to go into detail about memory and the consequences of this or that ... no anecdotes ... no philosophy ... no life lesson for writers about writing every little thought down in case you lose it forever ...

Just me whining ....

No reason to publish this.

None.

Habit (Literary Non-Fiction piece #1)

2009-09-11T07:13:00.001-07:00

Yet another case of me being thoroughly amused by life’s little quirks.

Habits are a weird thing. We’ve all had those moments when we are doing something due to force of habit and we don’t even realize it. Drumming our fingers, tapping our foot, clicking our tongue. But how often do our habits get so … habitual … that just the opposite happens? Meaning, we think we’re doing something that we’re not. Here is a fascinating phenomenon of the not-so-fascinating life.

I’m a whistler. And a hummer. I whistle, I hum, I even dum-de-dum from time to time. I don’t sing. I vocalize. And worst of all, I don’t realize I’m doing it till after I’ve started and then I usually stop. I just assume people don’t want to hear my vocalizing. Especially because it’s usually on the more non-descript, non-melodious, non-musical side of the musical spectrum. I don’t whistle songs that are stuck in my head. I don’t hum a melodic stream of notes. I produce notes at random. Notes that should have nothing to do with each other. I’m a free jazz whistler. And nobody likes free jazz. So when I realize that I’m producing my “saxophone falling down the stairs and onto the heads of a poor, unsuspecting litter of kittens” whistling, I almost immediately cease and desist. Almost immediately. I usually let it fizzle out in a quiet, embarrassed sort of way.

Now that you know what kind of whistler I am (which, incidentally, doesn’t make a difference to the phenomenon that I wish to describe) I can get back to describing the phenomenon at hand. One Sunday morning, I woke up, stumbled downstairs and into the kitchen, began cleaning out a bowl for my cereal and I realized that there was whistling going through my head. I stopped cleaning the bowl and stood listening for a second. Silence. “Good” I thought to myself (as opposed to thinking to other people. Oh, redundancy), “I must have stopped whistling.” I continue cleaning the bowl and move on to the spoon. Then with a whistle on his lips, my housemate Chris walks past the kitchen. “Morning buddy” he said and walked up stairs.

I stood aghast. And confused. And utterly fascinated.

I had no idea whether or not I had just been whistling. I had assumed I had been whistling due to the first phenomenon, that being the one where we do things without realizing it. I had no memory of whistling, no memory of myself realizing that I was whistling, no memory of making myself stop the whistling. This does not mean that I was not whistling, as we know due to the nature of our first phenomenon. But because of the presence of another whistler I began to doubt the first phenomenon being the answer to my mystery. I had discovered the possibility of a second phenomenon. What if I wasn’t whistling? What if the nature of the first has created the second? What if I assumed I was whistling due to these facts: 1) I heard whistling 2) I am a whistler and 3) there is a phenomenon which causes us to do things without realizing it. And then, what if it turns out that I was not, in fact, whistling? The introduction of another whistler into the scenario makes this not just a possibility, but a probability due to these facts: 1) I heard whistling 2) I have no memory of myself whistling and 3) there was another whistler in the vicinity just a moment after the initial whistling was heard. God, I was confused.

In all honesty, I think that it was Chris who was whistling all along. But that’s it; I think. I don’t know. And that is what astounds, frightens and fascinates me: that human habit can get to the point where you don’t know what’s what. But do you know the worst consequence of this phenomenon? It means that a fellow whistler could sneak up on me from behind, without even trying to conceal their habit. I could be dead. Strangled to death by a malevolent whistling madman at … any … given … moment.

Blogging on the Clock!

2009-09-10T06:05:00.000-07:00

Yes, I'm working right now. At the library. Blogging. Tut tut, looks like patron dollars going to waste.

Today's task: Circulation Review; Juvenile

Circ review is what we call the process of looking for lost books. We rarely find any of them. Which is a shame, because when doing circ review you tend to look at the titles more than you would when just shelf reading (the dull process of making sure books are in order; for this you look at the call number and move on. For circ review we get a fancy list with all the titles and call numbers on them). When you stop to read the title of the book you have more of a chance of gaining interest in it, especially because there's a low chance of the book actually being accessible to you. Oh, forbidden fruit of the library, you tempt me so. This desire is even greater when you're doing juvenile lit, as I was today. Children's books have wonderfully ridiculous titles.

Today's find: How Do You Make an Elephant Laugh? and 699 Other Zany Riddles.

By "find" of course I mean a title I came across that amused me. The actual book is as lost as Atlantis.

Why it matters: Now, admittedly this is a pretty basic title as far as kid's books go, but because I couldn't open up the book and find the answer to the title riddle, I decided to google it and satisfy my curiosity. All that came up is a rather promiscuous joke about making an elephant laugh and then cry. Here it is:

Used to be a man who owned a bar out in the middle of nowhere. Not too many people came to the bar, so he was trying to think of a good gimmick to get people to come. It so happened he was watching T.V. at the time and the parade for the circus was on. As the elephants went by he remembered reading somewhere that elephants don't laugh.
He went down to the circus and inquired about buying an elephant. It just so happen that there was an elderly elephant bull that the circus was planning to retire. After agreeing on a price, the man bought the elephant.
Back at the bar the man put a large jar on the bar with a sign reading: "Make the elephant laugh, $5.00 a shot, win $5,000."
Well, a lot of people thought they could make the elephant laugh, and soon the jar was almost full.
Then one night a man walked in and said to the bar owner, "I hear you will give any one who can make the elephant laugh $5,000."
"Yeah, he's out back"
After about five minutes tremendous, deep, thundering laughter could be heard coming from behind the bar. Every one in the bar raced back to see what was going on. When they got there the elephant was LAUGHING!!! The man could not believe his eyes. But, a bet was a bet after all and he paid the stranger who had made the elephant laugh.
A few weeks later and the elephant was still laughing. The bar owner could not stand it any more so he put a sign on the bar reading:
"Make the elephant cry, $5.00 a shot, win $5,000."
Again, a lot of people tried and tried, but they could not get the elephant to stop laughing. Finally the man who had gotten the elephant to laugh in the first place walked in. Upon seeing the sign, he inquired if anybody had had any luck in stopping the elephant from laughing. Seeings as no one had, he once more went back behind the bar to see the elephant.
In less than a minute a wail of grief cascaded over the bar. All the patrons ran out to see what was up. The elephant had huge tears running down its cheeks. Once again a bet was a bet and the bar owner paid the man. Before the man could leave, the bar owner asked how he had gotten the elephant to laugh and then to cry.
"Easy." said the man, "When I first went back there I told him my dick was bigger than his. And now I just proved it."

This is all I could find ... for a joke that's in a children's book. If there is another, more child-friendly, version of this floating around I'd like to hear it. I may just have to buy myself a copy of How Do You Make an Elephant Laugh? and 699 Other Zany Riddles, not just to satisfy my curiosity, but to assuage my fears. Also, if there's a version of this joke that's actually funny, I'd like to hear that too. This joke really is not funny. The irony of my experience is what amuses me.

Ok, there you go. That's all there is. That is what amused Brother Nothing today. Nothing else matters.

But stayed tuned for ...

Future topics:

-Why I'm best described as a consumer

-Things I've written in my literary non-fiction class

-More song lyrics

toodles ...