bigwoodenhead

Hey. It's me again. I just killed another gypsy.

2010-09-08T17:20:00.008-04:00

Last night I dreamt that I beat a bunch of gypsies to death with a flashlight.

You may have seen my MagLight flashlight. It’s the kind that used to get cops suspended with bonus pay. That’s what I used to murder some gypsies.

But not ordinary fortune-telling gypsies. If you’re reading this, you probably know me and probably have seen Guy Ritchie’s Snatch (2000). That kind of gypsy. The Irish-Traveler, pikey kind of gypsy, except these had thick Jersey accents.

These were crinkle-cloth track suit wearing South Jersey Shore gypsies.

But non, peu importe. Let’s contextualize this dream with what I already knew to be true as the dream was beginning:

Several news agencies had (apparently) been reporting on scams perpetrated by large bands – is that what they move around in? Bands? Tribes? – of gypsies with a mind to steal items of paltry value – spoons, paper clips, book ends, toenail clippers, the like. They didn’t know the value of expensive electronic items, and instead went after the shiny stuff because “they were gypsies and didn’t know any better.” This is the world in which I was dreaming.

This was the milieu.

And this is how they operated:

A large-scale gypsy infiltration began with hundreds of teenage gypsies running amok in neighborhoods, breaking into houses, running around, wrecking up the place – but not stealing anything. They’d open up the windows, leave the doors unlocked. The purpose of the first wave was to leave vulnerabilities in a home’s defenses, to be later exploited by gypsy wave two.

Whereas the first wave consisted of hundreds of teenagers on your lawn, the second wave consisted of double-hundreds of concerned gypsy parents looking for their troubled children. A few would knock on your door and coerce you outside to chat and apologize for their children’s behavior. The rest of the double hundreds of gypsy parents would come in and out of your house through open doors, windows, garages. It would be impossible to keep track of how many came and went. Many would enter. A few would hide in your house and wait for things to calm down.

Again, nothing would be stolen. This was only recon.

Eventually, the second wave would move along and follow their children. Once everything calmed down and everyone in the house went back to bed, the hidden gypsies would come out to ransack all of your crap.

The third wave – only one or two gypsies – would return, to “find their sons or sisters or cousins because they’re gypsies and don’t know any better than to not sit around confused and lost in a stranger’s house.” So when the gypsies left, a few gaudy duffel bags full of your worthless crap left too.

But I outsmarted the gypsies. Or got lucky. It doesn’t matter. I’m the hero, and they made a big mistake: I don’t like to go to bed.

For protection, I had my flashlight ready to defend myself against an invasion of what dreammoods.com calls a metaphor for freedom. And freedom came invadin’.

The first hidden gypsy appeared from my closet, trying to sneak past me with some coat hangers and a belt buckle. I grabbed my flashlight and beat him savagely about the head. He died, skull all a-pulp. A second gypsy heard the commotion and I intercepted him in the doorway to my bedroom. I also beat him to death with my flashlight.

I piled the dead, mushy-headed gypsy corpses in my doorway as a barricade against other invading freedoms. After the murder wall was completed, I sat down on my bed and called 911.

A girl-sounding voice answered:

“911, what is your emergency?”

“I just beat a bunch of gypsies to death with a flashlight.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“…”

“…”

“You should probably send someone. Like the police or an ambulance or something.”

“Someone will come around when they get a chance.”

As the dispatcher was saying this, I heard floorboards creaking outside my room. Another freedom gypsy was sneaking in. I asked her to hold, set my phone on my bed, and ducked around the corner hidden from the doorway.

The gypsy was crouched low as he entered the room. In his hand was a tarnished and antiquated revolver. I brought the flashlight down on the gypsy’s head as a farmer would an ax while chopping wood. Imagine this: a thick slab of raw meat is resting on top of a large bed of corn flakes, and has been doused with a soup of ketchup and Worcestershire sauce. That’s what it was like, smashing this gypsy’s skull with a flashlight.

The cruchy, mushy, splattery sounds weren’t as loud as the gypsy’s screams, but the screams didn’t last as long as the wet schlops. I set the gypsy’s revolver on my desk and picked up the phone. The 911 operator was still on the line.

“Did you hear that?”

“Yes.”

“I just killed another one. There’s probably more.”

“Oh, okay.”

“He had a gun.”

“Okay. Well, we’ll send someone around in a little while.”

There were dead gypsies all over my floor. I fell down on my bed to wait for the police to arrive.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. I was surprised for three reasons. One: I didn’t think the police would show up so quickly. Two: my dad, who had apparently been here the whole time, answered the door to Three: and then there were two more gypsies. I didn’t see them. I just knew.

A female voice: “We’re looking for our sons. They’re probably lost in here because they’re gypsies and don’t know any better. “

My dad let them in.

Damnit. Vibrations of footsteps walking casually towards my room down the hall. Again.

The woman saw the pile of dead gypsies in my doorway and screamed. I cracked her once on top of her head with my flashlight. She crumpled onto the dead gypsy doormat spread across the liminality. From across the house I heard a gruff man-scream, followed by quick, pounding footsteps. He was running towards the woman’s scream. Towards me.

I was tired of waiting for gypsies to come get me so I could clumsily bludgeon them to death with a flashlight. I would meet this last gypsy in the hallway. I was ready for a fight with freedom.

An older, grey-bearded and bemulleted gypsy ran towards me. Roaring and rage and slobber and all of that. A single savage flashlight uppercut and the man collapsed into heap and rolled past me, landing on his back in the hallway, vacant-eyed, sputtering and gurgling.

I returned to my room, grabbed the pistol and my phone, and hopped over the mounding threshold and back into the hall with the wounded gypsy.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Hey, it’s me again.”

“Hey.”

“I killed another gypsy.”

“Wow. I really want to meet you.”

I raised the pistol and shot the dying gypsy man six times. Twice in the face.

“I just killed another.”

“I heard.”

“I shot him in the face. You better send someone.”

“Okay, we’ll be right there. I’m coming too. I can’t wait to meet you.”

“Okay, bye.”

Within seconds, the police arrived.

What followed was your standard “CSI: Misdemeanor Property Damage” garbage. An investigative headquarters with tarps and clamp lights was set up in my garage. Neighbors were interviewed. Evidence was collected.

There was one problem. No one seemed the least bit interested that I was walking around in the middle of the crime scene inside of which I had just murdered five people or that I was kind of distraught about the whole thing. I couldn’t even get anyone to arrest me. And I tried.

I finally found the dispatcher who wanted to meet me and I’m pretty sure it was that girl Sam from Garden State (2004). Not Natalie Portman. Her character.

Sam, the fictional character from a middle 2000s slice-of-real-but-awkward-life turned emergency dispatcher in my dreams, tells me a few interesting things. One: I had, likely due to duress, miscounted the number of gypsies I had shot and/or beaten to death with a flashlight. There were actually only four. Two: the elder gypsy man I had shot in the face was actually a notorious gypsy king, who was wanted in several states for organizing dozens of these large-scale pandemonious shit-steal-a-thons. Three: the gypsy queen was still wanted and at large. Four: investigators had finished interviewing my aunt, who was now leaving to go on a walk.

Nice. I don’t have an aunt. Well, I mean, I do, a few actually, but none of them were in this dream. Shut up. This is my world.

I run to the front door and look out to see who must be, narratively, because that’s how these things work, the gypsy queen escaping into the woods across the street from my house, not draped over a carpet of dead gypsies with wounds not inconsistent with standard peace-keeping protocols.

I imagine my plan was to chase her down and beat her to death with my flashlight, but I couldn’t because some jerk-off decided to text me at 4:30 in the fucking morning and wake me up.
This isn’t the kind of dream you can just go back to.

Eating my Food

2009-12-21T20:03:00.002-05:00

Because I forgot yesterday, here's two today.

2009-12-17T09:54:00.003-05:00

That guy hit your space circle!

2009-12-14T14:52:00.002-05:00

What your savior can do to you.

2009-12-11T08:49:00.002-05:00

Smear that somewhere else

2009-12-09T10:06:00.001-05:00

Don't Be Ashamed.

2009-12-07T14:58:00.001-05:00

Glarg and the Beautiful Flowers

2009-06-30T23:43:00.001-04:00

I get a text message from Katie around 2:00 am. She couldn't sleep, and asks if I would tell her a bed time story. It's pretty likely that she didn't actually want (or at least wasn't expecting) a story, but I am Brennan. So I did.

What follows is the story, as told through text message. “Glarg and the Beautiful Flowers” is something of a fairy tale or a fable or something. Probably more fable since it has the moral lesson. But it also has some magic in it too. Well, because I said so, this fits into a new genre that I will call “Fairy Fables.” Don't question it.

The entire story was made up as I went along and, aside from some polishing, appears exactly as was told. It took about two hours to tell. I'm guessing it will not take two hours to read. I'm pretty fond of the whole thing, meaning it's one of the few things that I'm actually not ashamed to be throwing out for everyone to see. I hope you hate it, because I hate you.

Glarg and the Beautiful Flowers

Glarg was a terribly ugly boy. So ugly, in fact, his parents tried to feed him to the crocodiles in the moat around the castle. A greedy crocodile swallowed him up but spat right back out, for he was so ugly, the crocodile's stomach wouldn't have it. The crocodile said “Why feed me this? It is so ugly I doubt I shall ever be hungry again!”

So Glarg's mother and father took him home, and, like all other nights, his father drank heavily and fixed things that weren't broken, and his mother cried and wept until she ran out of tears, and had to drink water so that she could cry more.

Glarg knew people didn't like him because he was so terribly ugly, so he tried to run away into the forest to live as a hermit, but the forest vomited him right back into the village, yelling “Return not, for if you do, we will see that you are lost and eaten by a bear!”

Glarg didn't go home, but wandered the streets and ate mud by night and hid himself in discarded boxes by day. Glarg was very sad. He said, weeping, “I know I am ugly. But if only I could make the world more beautiful, perhaps I would not have rats thrown at me.”

One night, Glarg was strolling through the castle gardens admiring the flowers. “These are so lovely,” he said, “but if only the morning glories were planted between the roses, and the petunias surrounded the violets, it would be so much more beautiful!” So he set to work, moving and replanting and reshaping. He became entranced, and worked all through the night. So long he worked he did not see the pink dawn rising.

Glarg stood to admire his work. As the sun rose, the colors of the new garden grew vibrant, and danced in the morning breeze. “Oh what beauty I have created!” he cried. But suddenly, Glarg heard voices rounding the corner, so he dove behind the nearest bush to hide. It was the queen!

She came through with her guards on her morning stroll through her gardens. She stopped, awed by the sudden beauty that surrounded her. She said “Who has made my garden so beautiful?” Glarg crawled from the bushed and knelt before the queen and, hiding his face, said “My name is Glarg, and I have made your garden beautiful.”

The queen demanded that Glarg stand before her, but he refused, saying “Please forgive me, but I am so ugly that I fear if I stand, all the garden will die for fear of my face.” The queen thought for a moment and said “Guards, bring Glarg the King's finest visor so that he may stand before me.” So they did, and Glarg covered his face, and stood before the queen.

Satisfied, she said “Glarg, you have brought such beauty that it shames even my royal blood.” And taking a sword from a guard, bade Glarg kneel before her, and there knighted him. “For this gift,” she said, “you are given status, and riches beyond imagination.” And in the years that followed, Glarg traveled the world, tending the gardens of the richest and finest people, amounting rank and fortunes beyond those of any king or queen. He made visors from the rarest, finest flowers in all the world to cover his face. Emperors knelt before Glarg, and gave him gifts of the finest clothes and servants and castles and livestock. Glarg scoffed at those he would once have died to be companions with, and threw rats at the poor.

But for all the treasures he had gained, there was still but one he had yet to possess: love. So Glarg announced that he sought a wife. The loveliest and richest women in all the world lined up to seek his love and fortunes. But all who saw his face were shocked: some ran screaming from his castle and joined nunneries, some fainted and never awoke. Some took to incessant catatonic babbling. Some died where they stood at the sight of Glarg's ugly face. Saddened, Glarg went to a wizard to seek help.

“Wizard,” he cried, “use your magic to erase my ugliness! I ask not for great beauty, but to simply not kill those who look upon me.”

The wizard looked at Glarg for a moment and said “Very well, but your beauty comes at the cost of all that you possess in this world. But be warned, for not only have you gained riches, but you have also become an asshole. Only one shall I erase.”

Without hesitation, Glarg screamed “Erase my face!”

So the wizard gave Glarg a single seed, and said “Under the darkness of a new moon, eat this seed, and when the sun rises, you will have beauty which none before have ever witnessed.”

Following the wizard's instructions, Glarg took to the fountain at the bottom of the castle steps, so that all would see his beauty at the rising of the sun. He ripped the flowered visor from his face, threw it down, and crushed it under his foot, saying “I shall have no further need of you!”

He ate the seed and when the morning came, he was the tallest, most beautiful bush of mysterious flowers the world had ever seen. His bugs were long and delicate as if made from gold, and his leaves were slender and glistened of silver. Beams of light shone down upon him, as if Heaven had no need to light anything else in all of creation.

Word of his beauty spread quickly, and people came from all over to admire Glarg. They brought with them the most productive hives so the bees could make the most delicious honey from the world's most beautiful flowers. The bees soon became protective of their flowers and stung any who came too close to Glarg. The people came to rejoice in the splendor of Glarg's beauty anyway, but kept safe distance so as not to disturb the bees.

Having been long distracted by the affection he received because of his beauty, Glarg remembered why he had asked the wizard for help. He shouted “Who here shall love me for, though I am poor, I am beautiful?” And the people shouted “We all love you! You are most beautiful, and your flowers give us the most delicious honey!”

This angered Glarg, who shouted to the people “Dote on me not, but rather love me!” But the people would not love him, and admired his beauty more and took more of his honey. Glarg felt violently angry, and was more lonely in that crowd than he ever had been before. So he pushed his roots through the ground and while the people were sleeping, wrapped them up and strangled them. Glarg drank up their affection and happiness, and become more beautiful than ever. He laughed and said “Ha! I have taken without asking from them as they have taken from me! It is I who now eat their honey!”

Rumors spread of an evil, vengeful, plant who drinks of those who come to admire his beauty and eat of his honey. There were no people left in the kingdom to admire him, and those from afar were to afraid to come see him. Glarg became lonelier than ever. His leave wilted, his flowers closed and fell to the ground, and soon Glarg shriveled and fell into dust and was carried away by the wind.

The End

The Year According to Brennan

2009-02-25T21:08:00.003-05:00

Feel free to insert your favorite theme park cliché into a statement about how _____ this past year has been. You'd probably be right.

You start off on the morning of February 24th, 2008, the day after International Fucking Awesome Day, getting dropped off in front of your apartment, shoes untied, pants falling down because your belt is wrapped around a wad held loosely in your hand, stuffed with the rest of the clothes you couldn't bother putting back on. There's a camera too, loaded with pictures of your friends wearing less than they should. Good awkward story to tell when someone else happens upon them a few months later. Try convincing them that there were no fluids exchanged among the lot. Gross but relevant. “No coffee?” Insignificant then, but it set the theme for the whole year.

This year started off with “Are you still talking to me?” I've heard it twice recently, so I'll be watching for that in the future. In the mean time I'll just keep laughing at the whole thing.

I set a goal for myself last year. It goes like this: Be honest and say what you're thinking. There needs to be an amendment to that: think about about the big picture before you drink a pint of whiskey to “balls up” so that you're better able to be honest and say what you're thinking. Fact: no amount of whiskey has ever made anyone do anything of value better.

Something else I've learned: when someone tells you that you're too good for them, they're right.

I feel like I've got this “saying what I mean” thing down well enough to set it semi-aside for another year-long practice/experiment. This isn't anything new, but the modification makes it worth noting. Have zero bullshit tolerance, - and here comes the new part – especially from people you care about. They're the ones who get you the worst. Example:
“Don't think for a second that you're better than me because of all of this.”
My answer, “I don't think I'm better than you, but I know I deserve better than what I'd get from you.”
Silence equals truth. Remember that. I know I will.

You can't blame a person for having their reasons for doing what they do. I'm no different. What you can blame people for is turning you into an instrument of their motives. What you shouldn't do is let them.

If you were sitting on my couch a year ago when I walked in my door and said you would tell me all the things I would do in the next year, I'd have been eager to hear. I would also ask what you were doing in my house without my permission. There were plenty of surprises - “Luke, I am your father” type surprises. Some pleasant. Most would get the Kif Kroaker from Futurama reaction. An exasperated “ughhhh” to express how predictably stupid I will still be.

I'd find out that I would go to London. Not The Annihilarium kind of shocking, but still something I never foresaw packing up and doing. I found something new in London; a place that felt like it had a place into which I fit. I couldn't point to any particular thing I saw there and be able to explain what it was that captured me. The city had a feeling, so did I about it. I made a cheesily-poetic personal gesture and convinced myself that I had left a piece of me behind. Not gone permanently, but a red circle on the map that would lead me back where I needed to go when I was ready. Lame, I know, but I love the place.

I met interesting people and saw interesting things. Such as Antoinette. She was real. But her name wasn't Antoinette. That's the name I wanted her to have because I never will know her real name. I didn't meet her in Paris, but London. She wasn't a prostitute either. She just kissed me in the middle of a crowd and ran away. Weeks of amusement from a single moment. To take life as is, or transform it into a story: there's the rub.

Another thing I did: taught a class. Confirmation is a good thing, especially when you've spent your entire adult life to date preparing for the rest of it on a chance that you might enjoy what you'll be doing. But it worked, I enjoyed it. I love my job. I know this much: teaching is for me. And against my tendencies, I did well with it. Or so my students claimed. Maybe that says something.

I have students. There's a thought.

I'm growing up.

I guess. Or at least I'm getting there. There's bills to pay and whatnot, all the stuff that everyone says will be part of growing up. Then there's the stuff that no one told you about that they probably should have. The real parts, the sex, the fact that you can work effectively with a hangover, making the choices to do or not do on your own. I stopped asking for permission a long time ago. But here's a thing that I've only recently realized: I'm accountable only to myself. One of the most liberating epiphanies of my entire life. About ten years ago, a friend gave me a mix tap with Baz Lurhmann's address to the class of '99. There was a line that said “the race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.”

I quoted it then because it sounded cool. I cite it now because I'm starting to understand.

I am growing up, I guess, and I still don't know where I'll be tomorrow. Don't really care, either. This isn't so much about being apathetic or waiting for fate to to show me a sign (though I do believe in signs). It's really about being okay with uncertainty. There's enough going on now that could be dangerous to ignore if I chose to look ahead instead. Ever seen someone fall down some stairs because they were so preoccupied looking at the person at the bottom that they didn't see the dog asleep at the top? I haven't, but I don't need to to understand.

That's not to say I don't plan at all. I just accept that there will be inevitable blind-sidings. Things work out, to whatever end. Can't deny that.

Going, doing. There's a plan for you. As often as I can, I pull the green duffel bag off the shelf and pack it as full as I can. Then I sling the Troop satchel over my shoulder and go. Everything I need can fit in those two bags.

Duffel: twenty socks, ten boxer shorts, five assorted t-shirts, five white t-shirts, three pairs of pants, two button-up shirts, a sweater, a hoody or two, board shorts, a shaving kit, and a towel. Read Douglas Adams. A towel is one of the most useful things a person can own. It is a pillow, a blanket, a cloak. It can keep you warm, block out the sun. A towel can be a handkerchief to carry crap in. It is also a towel.

Satchel: a phone, a camera, some batteries, a book or two, a blank notebook, a few pencils and a pencil sharpener, ID, passport, debit card, insurance cards (I'm not completely careless), some cash, and train tickets to who-gives-a-shit-where-because-that's-not-the-point. It's about getting there. Where? Fuck if I know.

I'll let you know where I am when I get there.

But don't hold your breath.

Home is whatever happens next. The plan is to be happy. If not knowing keeps me happy, then I'll just be ignorant. Besides, not all knowledge is truth, and truth is subjective. So is nonsense. In nonsense is truth.

Figures.

I'll let you know how I feel about money when I have kids.

I have some great friends and I know how to recognize them - they won't protest my forcing them to watch me eat string cheese for forty five minutes even though they have work in the morning. Friends complete me in the same way that not wearing clothes completes me. My friends are my nudity. They keep my head a few inches above my shoulders. When my head starts going places, there tends to be some kind of spectacle on a fucking unimaginable scale.

The longer I've been in this town (I'm on year eight now), the fewer of the long-timers there are around. I'm referring to the ones to whom I can admit when I am weak, lost, and completely out of my mind. The numbers that were already slim are dwindling fast and I'm left with fewer each year. The few left are far gone, both literally and figuratively. They're there, but not sitting around waiting for me to need them. Not that I expect them to. I just wait until I can't, and they scream their fucking heads off at me for forgetting myself.

Real compassion can make your throat bleed.

Practice this: just because you can be a lone wolf doesn't mean you should.

I've never been a realistic person; always caught up in dreams and imaginings and thinking I know how things ought to be. The thing is, I do know how things ought to be. The other thing is, so does everyone else. I don't want to be realistic. I've always seen the potential in people. Apparently I don't listen when they are telling me what is going on. I follow the hypothetical, not the fact. You can see how that is a problem.

I've been writing more. I still enjoy surveys. Checking my master survey document container database file tells me that I have 415 pages of survey written. I'm doing them less frequently now. They're fun, but they're a crutch. If ever I'm to convince myself that I could write a novel, I need to stop with the nonsense one-liners and get to something slightly more substantial.

Substantial is a relative term, like truth and nonsense.

So now I'm trying to write about what pops into my head, what I notice. Things that irritate me, things I think are funny. They get posted on my blog, which makes me a little bit ashamed of myself. I'm still not convinced that people actually read them. It would make me happy to know that what I write is being read. It would probably make me comfortable to know that they weren't. I'll keep up with the surveys because I enjoy writing them and enjoy the reactions from the people who read them. I'll work on more stuff like this garbage you're reading now. Maybe something amazing will happen.

Maybe something already did.

I ate tofu for the first time and didn't admit it until much later.

I was mugged by the same pack of knife-wielding chavs I saw a mulleted, cock-diesel Scott running away from. Pay attention to the obvious signs more often. Lesson learned.

I lit fires just to watch them burn.

I indulged.

I explored.

I had fun.

I said things like “according to my head.”

I'm making the time to read for pleasure again. There's not a lot of time for reading when you're a literature student. If you don't study literature, you won't understand this. Even we don't, but it's true.

I read my third Haruki Murakami novel recently and I think I need to stop. I am always his protagonist. Not the strong me or the one with the commentary. The weak, confused me, the one that's scared of the unfortunate kind of isolation. His stories always take me to a very unpleasant place, but I keep reading them.

I'm still looking for that limit. I haven't found it yet. Murakami-san is just as likely to find it as anyone else. There's not telling what will happen when I get there.

I'm looking forward to it.

I'm still functioning, still surrounded by the orange cones. And that's not a bad thing. People start dieing when they stop changing. There's always going to be something wrong with this package (shut up), but there will always be more that's right with it. I'm happy with me. It's been one of the most difficult years of my life, but I'm still having a blast. I'm still happy.

Must be doing something right.

If you're male, you've taken this quiz.

2009-02-06T01:01:00.004-05:00

More than ten years ago now, my dad walked into my room, handed me a zig-zag folded stack of paper with the perforated, tear-off side strips - dot-matrix style - told me to read it and walked out. What was it?

Urinal quiz. I read it, learned it, and took the quiz. As with so many other father and son life-lesson moments, it was never mentioned again. This is the exact urinal worksheet/quiz I took when I was about 13:

http://members.tripod.com/~Phantomf1_Dave/urinal.html ,

except mine had little alphanumeric drawings that represented urinals. They looked something like this:

|---[1X]---[2A]---[3X]---[4X]---[5A]---|

The X's are occupied urinals. The A's are available. The "solution" to this one is tricky - it depends. Like so many real life urinal dilemmas, it requires reliance on gut instinct and some quick reasoning. Where are you coming from? Where do you have to go next? How soon do you have to be there? How important is it that you get there on time? Should you even be in the bathroom right now? Context, context, context.

According to the quiz, something like this should happen: if you urgently need to go, a long line of people are waiting, or you're in a rush, go for [1X] on the far right because it has some sort of buffer zone, usually the stall or a wall. Otherwise, the quiz tells you to fix your hair, blow your nose, or do whatever you can to occupy the time until either [1X] opens or [4X] becomes [4A].

Other things worth mentioning (and these are just common sense things that save you from looking weird and/or getting your face pounded into porcelain by a stranger): never look to either side unless there is no one around, never - while or while not using a urinal - talk to someone who is, and never, EVER say anything that sounds remotely like "Awww, you got me!" (true story) or "Hey, want to see something awesome?" (TV commercial). This is also a great time to go ahead and not use that weird looking Bluetooth headset you bought for your Blackberry (shut up) because 1.) you look weird - like a cheap cyborg dressed in a business suit. Those two things are great on their own but don't go together. 2.) You look like you're talking to yourself. See 1. 3.) Bluetooth headsets can only be seen from one side. Fill in the blank or reread this paragraph if you're confused.

Hate if you want. I'm just the messenger and you think I am interesting. I buy into this whole Urinal Theory to the extent that I want to respect the personal space of others, especially in public restrooms. There's only so close I'm comfortable with being to a stranger's open-air genitals and I'm confident the feeling is mutual on the other end (pun not intended but left intact because even I groaned when it struck me). I would use the far right [5A] regardless because I really don't give a shit about the grand scheme of this whole thing, which I'm guessing is "another method of going out of your way to not appear gay to other men." But having taken this quiz at an impressionable age, that moment of urinal reasoning does hit me.

Every time.

Smart-Assery Just Isn't Necessary (For This).

2009-02-02T19:49:00.004-05:00

Smart-ass commentary is part of what makes people care about the interesting and exciting things I say. Not this time.

There is nothing I can add to this conversation.

I love (hate) the news.

2009-01-27T23:41:00.002-05:00

I trusted the Bush administration more than I trust anything that shows up on the NBCs, Fox, ABC, CBS, CNN (ESPECIALLY CNN), and so on. It would probably be impossible to notice any difference between what is normally slapped on air than a if hypothetical panel of assholes came in to discuss whatever irrelevant thing the producers are saying is important.

For several years, I had the following attitude about getting information on current events: if it doesn't show up on the Daily Show, I don't need to know about it. Then Jon Stewart got a few Emmy awards and forgot that he was a comedian on a joke news show and got it in his head that he was a real reporter (I'm not wrong).

So my little attitude transformed into this: if it doesn't show up on the front page of Yahoo!, I don't need to know about it. And then, today, this happened:

If you can't read it, it says "Traveling to exotic places is thrilling until you catch one of these awful diseases."

Anyone else notice the convenient little story right below about the stimulus plan? Be a good citizen and don't do what I did with last year's stimulus check: took it to England and left it there. Actually, be a good citizen and show America how much you love her by not seeing other countries, because other countries give you diseases. American is safe. America is ready for a commitment. Oh, and of course you'll be sure to spend some money on American, too, if you really love her...

Okay, I'm going. This sausage I just cooked is giving me a headache.

We all know how I feel about numbered lists...

2008-11-17T22:02:00.001-05:00

...if you don't, describe in detail just how ashamed you feel.

Just something I thought I'd share. The first list I wrote myself. A while back, Amy told me I should write a book called God Loves Douchebags. This list started as a rough outline for chapter titles.

The Thirteen Commandments of Douchebaggery
1. You should be ashamed of yourself for not being as great as you think you are!
2. Simply wanting something gives you the right to have it!
3. Waiting is the number one way to fail!
4. Permission is for cowards!
5. Doing the right thing is just another weakness!
6. Helping others is great unless their success stands in the way of yours!
7. "Fuck _______, what about me?"
8. Your opinion is more important than anyone else's!
9. Demand respect from strangers!
10. There are several reasons why you are better than everyone else!
11. You owe it to yourself to tell the world how great your are!
12. Other people can be used to accomplish to your goals, and you shouldn't feel bad about it, because they are doing it to you!
13. And remember, compensate, compensate, compensate!

Progress since I first pounded out this list? None.

This second list is borrowed (and ever-so-slightly modified) from Ray Bennett's The Underachiever's Manifesto: The Guide to Accomplishing Little and Feeling Great. Excellent little (literally) book that is fun to read, ass-backwardsly inspiring, and likely to give you motion sickness from the reading. This book is seriously that small. These pretty much explain themselves.

The Ten Principles of Underachievement
1. Life's too short.
2. Control is an illusion.
3. Achievement leads to expectations.
4. Expectations lead to misery.
5. Great expectations lead to great misery.
6. The law of diminishing returns applies everywhere.
7. Perfect is the enemy of good.
8. The tallest blade of grass is the surest to be cut.
9. Accomplishment is in the eye of the beholder.
10. The 4 Percent Added-Value Principle. We are 96% identical to chimpanzees.

Again, from Bennett's The Underachiever's Manifesto. Purchase.

Thoughts?

The Future is Amazing(ly now)

2008-10-14T03:54:00.000-04:00

Did any of you ever watch the Ninja Turtles cartoon as a kid? Of course you did. Shut up. Who was the coolest character? That pink brain guy. I think his name was Brain or something.

But what made him awesome?

It was clearly his robo-walking pod legs. Even the most basic understanding of the simplest notions of human rights will tell you that robo-walking pod legs are something every person is entitled to. But technology, fate, and, ultimately, common sense have been symbols of oppression. Until now.

What does this mean for humanity? Couldn't give two shits. What does this mean for you? Not interested. But what does this mean for me?

Everything. Plain and simple. When you see some guy (me, obviously) strolling along under the power of some snazzy robo-walking pod legs, you can stop and think to yourself "Wow, I want to be and have everything that Brennan is and has. I especially want to be followed around by dancers." This is definitely the first step towards being supreme overlord of all the world. I mean, what kind of overlord would be taken seriously in the age of technology if s/he didn't have their own walking throne chair?

On a side note, my robo-walking pod legs will be decorated like this:

That was done with a sharpie. Look at more pictures here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/vodcars/1980507385/

On another side note, my advertisements have generated exactly $0.01 profit for me.

Blindness Would Probably Have Been a Better Film if it Had Stayed a Novel...

2008-10-06T18:14:00.000-04:00

Never mind that Blindness is easily the worst movie I have ever seen.

Let's first focus on the fact the film sets you up for an enormous visual disappointment. The first twenty minutes feature some of most creative examples of cinematography I've seen in recent years. At the end of those twenty minutes, we're treated to some pretty bland uses of the camera. It's almost as if César Charlone exhausted all of the great tricks none of his past directors would allow him to use twenty minutes into the film and was left performing at slightly above generic. The lighting and use of color aren't that bad, though nothing in their use separates "Blindness" from the scores of other mainstreamed, avant gardeish thinker's films.

Except Blindness isn't a mainstreamed, avant gardeish thinker's film. Let's look at the characters. First, Julianne Moore's Doctor's Wife. She is introduced as an aloof border-line avoidant personality disordered wife with a drinking problem who is emotionally separating herself from a distant husband. Literally overnight, the Doctor's Wife becomes sober, collected, and emotionally supportive of her newly blind husband.

The Doctor, played by Mark Ruffalo, has to constantly remind the audience that he is a doctor. Why? Because as a doctor, he is useless, and as a doctor, does nothing important during the film. His only acts as a doctor are to fail in diagnosing The First Blind Man's problem and later to announce that a wound in The Thief's leg will probably become infected. And, as a personal aside, this may have been a conscious choice on the part of the director or screenwriter to remind audiences of the doctor's role because, if Blindness is any indication, Ruffalo seems to have difficulty convincing anyone of anything.

I could go on about how the other characters have backgrounds that are irrelevant to the plot, such as The Woman with Dark Glasses who was supposedly a high-class call girl, or Danny Glover's Man with the Black Eye Patch had no real background or purpose in the film itself, but I won't. The acting, with the exception of Julianne Moore's performance, was more or less ineffective. Moore did the only truly convincing acting while the rest of the characters wandered about in a way that suggested zombies. The real issue is that screenwriter Don McKellar failed to adequately (or even ineptly) explore any of the many potential avenues for character development.

Another way that McKellar failed Blindness was in the absence of a significant plot. From memory, I can think of four events that had any real bearing on the progression of the narrative. I'm going to throw in what are traditionally called "spoilers," but, considering just how wretched this film actually is, I will call them "fresheners." So be thankful - fresheners ahead.

First, one, then many, people go blind. Secondly, the blind people are quarantined in a building that appears to have been built fifty years prior for no other purpose than doing a piss-poor job of quarantining people. Thirdly, the blind people escape the quarantine facility. I use "escape" loosely because the blind people went outside to discover that the guards just weren't there anymore. Finally, after some wandering and squatting, the party of the "good" blind people shack up in Mrs. and Mr. Doctor's house (if you haven't noticed, the characters don't have names. This just brings up another question - sure, the blind people can't see each other's faces, but what's stopping them from just introducing themselves and attaching names to voices? I'll leave that one up to you). Then, suddenly, The First Blind Man becomes The First Not Blind Anymore Man. For other excruciatingly long moments of the film between these “key” plot points, things just happened that had no significance whatsoever in progressing the narrative. These moments were meant to be emotionally charged, but nothing was ever made of those emotions. Characters rarely acted in a way that would suggest that they were, in any way, affected by any of the previous events, whether they were positive or negative experiences.

And I wouldn't dare try to say that perhaps the filmmakers were attempting a shot at imitating the chance-driven narratives of French New Wave films or the outlining the new psyche of a society facing a new social order imposed by catastrophe as seen in Italian Neorealist films. Okay, I take that back. I will dare say the filmmakers attempted this. I will also dare say that if this were the case, they completely botched the attempt.

Overall, what all this nonsense points to is the screenwriter doing a terrible job crafting a story. McKellar wasn't able to provide the documentary-style view of a difficult situation in the same way as the writers of Micheal Cimino's The Deer Hunter (1978). This film had an enormous potential to explore human drama, but it didn't. Sure, the film had the potential to explore how people would react in dire circumstances, but it didn't. Sure, the film had the opportunity to discuss how different women handle rape in their own way. But it didn't.

Blindness could have been a great film, but it wasn't.

This probably would have been a better film if it had stayed a novel.